Baking a new pie
present
I traded in my two-seater, me, convertible for a massive, them, SUV. I got choked up when I handed the keys over to the salesman. If my identity is a pie, it was sliced and a generous portion was served to the smarmy salesman, complete with whipped cream on top. And goddamn sprinkles. I discovered I don’t like sharing my pie, especially with whipped cream and sprinkles. Because once it’s gone, it’s gone. And then I have to bake a new pie. A new me. Sonofabitch. Nothing scares me more than change, evolution. I feel it coming. I thought I was somewhat ready. I’m not. It’s paralyzing. I’ve just been placed on a small piece of glass and slid under a microscope for the world, and me, to analyze. I already don’t like what I see. I’m looking away.
I packed up the kids and a few suitcases of our clothes, and we said goodbye to Loren’s estate this morning. The rest of our things will be shipped when I find someplace permanent to live. Surprisingly, leaving wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be, given this whole change-is-a-motherfucker thing. Maybe it’s the new meds the doctor put me on a few days ago. Loren hugged us all, which was an uncharacteristic, considerate gesture. I think he was so giddy to return to his former state of bachelorhood that the hugs were more celebratory than civil. I was torn seeing his arms wrapped around Kira. Half of my black heart smiled, the other half wept. It’s probably the one and only time it will ever happen. Could have been…should have been…right…wrong…it’s all goddamn bittersweet.
We’ve been on the road for three hours. We’ve stopped twice for emergency bathroom breaks and once for food. This trip is going to be the death of me. I don’t do well on road trips. I prefer the seemingly instant gratification of flight over the drudgery of confinement in a car where eighty miles per hour feels like slow motion.
At five o’clock I tap out, exhausted, and exit for the gleaming Marriott sign. I’ve never been so grateful for a bed and fluffy pillow.
I sleep in one bed, the kids share the other. I ask Kira if she wants to share mine. The offer feels forced and foreign, and I’m sure that’s how she deciphers it. They’re much more perceptive than I once gave them credit for. She opts to sleep in between her brothers. I don’t blame her. They’re a little pack of wolves who protect their own. I’m an outsider.
The next morning everyone wakes rested and ready for California. Showers for us all are followed by a big breakfast. It’s my attempt to plump them up and keep them satisfied for more than two hours before hunger puts the brakes on geographical progress. We all order pecan pancakes. I’m not one who puts much stock in things happening for a reason, or divine intervention, but I can’t help but feel like our eating my favorite food in harmony is a coincidental, symbolic step in the right direction. I feel like one of their pack instead of an outsider.
A few hours into the drive I glance in my rearview mirror. Kira is sitting in the middle. She’s sleeping with her head resting on Kai’s balled up coat in his lap. Kai and Rory are both awake looking out their respective windows. They’re different, these two. So different that arguments are inevitable and frequent, but their love for each other is fierce. It’s Seamus’s ability to love that was passed down to his kids, and it resonates amongst all of their other personality traits.
As if sensing my eyes on him, Rory locks his gaze with mine in the small rectangle of reflective glass. He’s the most headstrong of the three, bold in both word and action, which is unnerving in a nine-year-old. I shouldn’t be intimidated by a child, but his stare is truthful and judgmental and searing. It’s the same look I wear most of the time, minus the truthful part. Seeing myself mirrored isn’t flattering, it’s unsettling.
“Are you taking us to Dad’s, Miranda?” Rory started calling me by my first name when I filed for divorce and moved to Seattle. It’s said with such disdain that all I hear is bitch instead.
My immediate reaction is to say no, to establish dominance, but then I remember that my life is a big pile of steaming shit, and I pause and answer his question with a question. Because the honest to God truth is, I’ve never had a conversation with my kids about anything. I don’t know them. I just live on the periphery, while others engage them. I think of the conversation as a game, I’m good at games, and we have hours to burn on this hell-forsaken highway. “Would you rather live with Seamus?”
“Yes,” the boys answer in unison. Kai’s yes is sad, like he knows his answer is vulnerable and unattainable. Rory’s yes sounds like fuck you and hell yes all rolled up into one.
“Why?” I ask. Three letters I know will prompt a verbal execution. They’ll skewer and roast me over an open pit. I never provoke criticism. I’m holding my breath. Waiting.
Kai answers first, “Because we miss him. And we love him.” It’s a gentle admission, his nature seeping out.
I look at him in the mirror. His head is dropped like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. He’s absently running his fingers through his sleeping sister’s hair. The words You don’t love me? are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t force them out. I already know he doesn’t. It’s not fair to ask and put him in the position to tell the truth…or lie. Both would make him feel awful because his tender heart rules him. I usually prey on vulnerability, but looking at my little Seamus, I can’t. Instead, I shift to Rory and ask again, “What about you, Rory? Why?”
The icy glare fixes on me again. And for a moment, I take pride in the fact that I already know he’s going to grow into a man that people back down from. “What Kai said. And we don’t like you.” Blunt, assertive, to the point. I want to turn around and high five him.
Until I remember, he’s talking about me.
Ouch. Forever I’ve been indifferent to these kids. They’re part of my life by lineage, a part that others manage for me. A part I keep at arm’s length and monitor progress like a long-term development project. At the end of which, adulthood, I can either claim my part in if the project is successful, or deny my part away if the project is a failure. Choosy, outcome-based responsibility…or lack thereof. It’s the way I conveniently monitor things in my life I’m not passionate about. Things I don’t have vested interest in. If I only dabble, it’s easier to wash my hands of it if the need arises, or take credit for it if that suits me better. Image is cultivated at a get-your-hands-dirty, do-the-work level, but it can also be enhanced by selective enrichment. It’s all about finesse. Rory doesn’t give a shit about finesse. I kind of like him and hate him for it right now. “What do you like?” I counter. I don’t want to talk about me anymore.
He shakes his head. “What do you care?” he grumbles.
“I like basketball,” Kai answers.
“You do?” I question. And then it dawns on me. “Seamus used to play basketball.”
“Dad used to take me to the park to play when we lived in our house. And at the apartment, there was a hoop outside where we played.”
“Huh,” is all I can say. I never knew.
Rory decides to join in. “I like Harry Potter.”
“The books or the movies?” I haven’t read or seen them, but no one in the free world escapes notice of them.
“Both.” His answer is short and clipped, but I can hear enthusiasm beneath his angry armor.
This seems to be passing the time, and I have to admit I like them both talking to me, so I continue with the questions, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Kai answers. God, he is a mini-Seamus, that was always his favorite color too.
“Red,” Rory answers. Fiery, just like him, that fits. I like red too.
“What’s yours?” Kai’s question catches me off guard. Something as simple as a child showing interest in me brings a lump to my throat. Not many people I’ve ever encountered in my life have shown genuine interest in me, except my grandmother and Seamus. People in the corporate world did, but it was either subordinates kissing ass to get ahead or superiors expecting performance. Neither of those were personal. This is. My first inclination is to say red like Rory, but I stumble on the thought. “I don’t know. It depends, I guess.”
“Why would it depend? You should just have one. When you close your eyes and think about your favorite color, what do you see?”
I can’t close my eyes, of course, because I’m driving, but I stop thinking about everything else and I focus on the question, and the color that comes to mind first is the shade of the hydrangea bushes my grandmother planted on either side of her porch steps. She tended to those plants with such care and devotion. “Periwinkle.”
“You just made that up,” Rory challenges. “I’ve never even heard of periwinkle.”
“It’s a light shade of purplish blue. My grandmother had hydrangea plants that color.” Sharing this information with them just turned scary. I don’t talk about her out loud. Ever.
“Where does she live?” Kai asks. “Can we meet her?”
The words threaten to pummel me. I don’t want to answer. I suddenly feel like I’m not the one in charge of the conversation. I’m always the one in charge of every conversation. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
Rory doesn’t wait for me to answer his brother’s questions before he fires one of his own. “What’s her name, Miranda?” He can sense my unease, and he’s just poked it with a stick to see what it riles up.
I want my words to sound authoritative and threatening to put him in his place. “Kira. Her name was Kira.” They don’t. They sound sentimental. So sentimental that I may as well just roll over, admit defeat, and let him beat me with the stick he was poking me with seconds ago.
“I’m sorry,” Kai says in a comforting manner.
And confusion sets in because A) I don’t know why he’s apologizing, and B) I hear all of the times Seamus needlessly apologized to me while we were together in an attempt to smooth things over. He wasn’t a pushover; he was the bigger person.
“What are you sorry for?” I should let it go, but it seems that pushing my boundaries is what today is made of.
“That she died.” It’s the same comforting voice.
Followed by the same confusion. “How did you know that?” I ask softly. I don’t want him to answer.
“Because you said, ‘Her name was Kira.’ If she was alive, you would’ve said, ‘Her name is Kira.’” His explanation is soft, like he’s sad to have to say it. Sad it will make me sad. And for the first time I’m ashamed that I’m his mother, that he’s related to me. Not from my standpoint, but from his. He deserves better.
The tears begin to trail down my cheeks for so many different reasons. I wipe them away. More replace them.
“I’m sorry,” he echoes, but this time, he caps it off with, “Mom.” And my heart blows apart. He hasn’t called me Mom since before they moved to Seattle. And before that, Mom was just a compulsory title that lacked conviction. Maybe I’m hearing things that aren’t there, but what I heard just now was acceptance. A sweet, little boy accepting a mean, evil woman.
For the next few hours I tell Kai, Rory, and a freshly awake Kira about my grandmother and me: how she raised me after my mom died, where we lived, about our dog, and our house, and my school, and our neighbors. I share it all. They’re good listeners. They ask lots of questions. And with each question my memory expands and my filter shrinks and by the time we approach Seamus’s neighborhood I feel different. Lighter, like I’ve unburdened myself and given a little piece of me to my kids. The good pieces that existed before my grandmother was stolen from me and the world went dark. The part that astonishes me is that they wanted it and didn’t throw it back in my face.
My kids are much better at being human than I am.
I planned on driving to the hotel we stayed at prior. I already made a reservation, but for some reason, my car drives to Seamus’s apartment instead. I feel like I owe it to the kids to let them see him tonight. Sonofabitch, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m thinking these meds are some serious mind-altering shit. Or maybe it’s the kids. Or sharing my grandmother freely with them, unencumbered by the crushing guilt that’s usually anchored to her memory.
Seamus doesn’t know we’re coming. He doesn’t know I’m moving back. He doesn’t know his life is about to change for the better.
When we knock on the door of his apartment at nine o’clock, Seamus answers. I didn’t know shock was an emotion capable of looking so happy, but it does on him. His eyes go directly to the kids, and he gathers them up in a hug they’ve already initiated. They’re clinging to him before his arms make contact.
I can’t take my eyes off his face. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the past few hours immersed in nostalgia and sentimentality, but it’s as though I’ve gone back in time. Way back. I’m waiting for his eyes to meet mine. I’m waiting for him to say something sweet. I’m waiting for him to kiss me.
I would give anything to kiss him.
Anything.
But that can’t happen because he’s a saint.
And I’m a bitch.
And everyone knows it.
Including me.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds hopeful, something I learned a long time ago not to give Miranda because she uses it like a weapon. She can impale me with my own hope.
No one answers. Instead, the kids all look at Miranda like she alone holds the magical answer, which makes sense because she always wields the power.
“I moved back to California.” The words make sense, but they don’t give anything away.
Hope surges again. “What does that mean?” I want to yell, Just tell me I get my kids back! But I wait.
“Loren and I split up.” She would’ve said, I left Loren, if that were the case because she loves to gloat, which means he kicked her out.
I want to point my finger and laugh so fucking loud in her face, but I don’t want my kids to see that sort vengeful display. I need to talk to her alone, because if she’s teasing me with my kids and doesn’t intend to share custody, or preferably give me full custody, I’m going to go mental on her. “Hey, why don’t you guys grab your bags from the car and you can spend tonight in your room,” I tell my kids. I don’t give a shit if she had other plans tonight. You don’t dangle the carrot and expect me not to grab it with both hands.
My kids are out the door and down the stairs before she has a chance to revoke my offer.
I don’t have much time before they come back up, so I go back to what I originally wanted to shout, but I ask it quietly instead, “Just tell me I get my kids back?” A lack of volume doesn’t downgrade ferocity. I’m showing all my cards. I don’t have one up my sleeve, which is how you should always play with Miranda, but I don’t have time for a test of wills or a pissing contest. I want my kids back!
I hear a car door slam, and she looks back out into the parking lot and then back to me. “Can we talk after they go to bed?”
Talking after they go to bed would require Miranda staying here, which I am not all right with, but if it means there’s a chance I get my kids back I’ll do anything. I step back from the doorway so she can step in. “Fine. We’ll talk after they go to bed.”
When she sits down on the old couch, she looks out of place. She’s shiny and fake perched atop comfy and real.
The kids lug up their suitcases, and I help them get to their room. We talk for a while, and even though I saw them only a week ago, there’s no shortage of conversation. When Rory and Kira both start yawning we hunt for their pajamas and toothbrushes, and they all get ready for bed. After I hug and kiss them goodnight and close the door behind me, I step out into the hallway and my happiness is put in a chokehold. Miranda is still sitting on the couch just where she was almost two hours ago. There’s a bottle of wine in her hand. She must’ve brought it with her or went to the liquor store while I was with my kids. It’s half full. And there’s no glass in sight, she’s drinking straight from the bottle. She watches me walk into the room and pats the cushion next to her. “Sit.” She’s not drunk. She could always hold her alcohol better than me.
I sit on the other end of the couch leaving maximum space between us.
“You’re not using your cane,” she says it like she’s surprised.
I nod. “I’m having a good day. When I’m having a good day, sometimes I don’t always use it when I’m home. It makes me feel free. The numbness is gone for now, and the pain only amps up when I overdo it.” And then I shut up because I’m oversharing. She doesn’t care, oversharing only gives her ammunition that she’ll stockpile until she needs it.
She extends the bottle toward me. “Have some, Seamus.”
“No.” Denying her feels so damn good, even something small and inconsequential.
She retracts it and takes a long swig, unoffended. “More for me.”
Bitterness floods in when I realize I’m sitting here forced to engage her. That’s when I rise and walk to the kitchen where I take a shot of tequila, followed by another, and I return after I pluck two beers from the fridge—both for me.
“Remember when we first started dating, how you used to write me love letters?” She’s talking to me, but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes stare out across the room, glazed with the image of her memories.
I’m not going to talk about that. My mind says it before my mouth does, “I’m not going to talk about that.”
She drops her head back against the couch cushion and rolls it until she’s looking at me. The alcohol is starting to soften her purpose, and when I look closer, I see age encroaching on her features. Lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes that I’d never seen before. “Why not?”
I down several big gulps of beer before I answer, “There’s no point. We need to talk about my kids.”
She shifts in her spot and sits sideways bending her knees and pulling her feet up next to her. “I was leading to our kids. It all began with a love letter.” She’s not being snotty like I would expect, she’s talking reasonably, truthfully, which scares me a little.
“And it all ended with a hate letter, divorce papers.” I take another drink and then tip the neck of my bottle in her direction. “Oh, and you fucking someone else because he wasn’t broken. Let’s not forget that.”
She swallows back some more red. It seems we’re trading drinks and words. “I was wrong. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” She’s still scaring me with her levelheadedness.
“You sure as hell have.” I can feel the muscles in my neck tighten when I say it. I want to hurl the word abortion at her. My insides are shaking with rage. I’ll save it for a time after we negotiate custody.
She blinks a few times, probably trying to ward off shock, but doesn’t respond.
I turn my head and look at her, really look at her, and I’m disgusted. How can a woman be so ugly on the inside? I don’t know what else to say because everything running through my mind are curse words and insults and condemnation, none of which will change anything. I shake my head, and my lips move without my command. “What the fuck, Miranda?”
The tears start rolling; it’s a silent, unnerving, trail of emotion. She never cries. Miranda’s always been stoic and unfeeling. “I’m sorry.”
I blast her with my anger. It’s a biting whisper, “Sorry doesn’t change anything.” I hate arguing quietly, not that I’m a yeller, but it would give me an outlet for this fury. Subduing this exchange downgrades its intensity and feels like it skews things in her favor.
She shakes her head. “Don’t you think I fucking know that, Seamus?”
I’m stunned. I don’t believe her, and I have to laugh. “No. No, I don’t think you do.”
“I’m taking depression medication,” she says to illustrate her point.
I shrug. “You fucking devastated me, Miranda. Annihilated me. You don’t get my sympathy.” I pause. “And you sure as hell don’t deserve my empathy.” I pause again and then continue with the verbal blitzkrieg, because I can’t hold this in any longer, “Fuck you and every single one of your piss poor choices.”
She’s still crying and was taking the assault on the chin until that last insult. She sniffs and wipes her running nose with the back of her hand. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”
I can’t listen to her for one more second. I stand. “You need to get out. Go home. Wherever that is.”
“I can’t drive,” she counters.
I know that. “Call a cab. My kids stay here where they belong.” I don’t wait for her to argue. I walk to my room, and I grab my pillow and blanket, and I lie down on the floor in front of the kids’ room and sleep just in case she tries to get crafty and sneak them out before I wake up. I know I’m paranoid, but I just got them back. There’s no way in hell I’m losing them again.