The grace of crows, p.19
The Grace of Crows, page 19
“Here we go again.” Brian rolled his eyes. “I’m just a terrible person because I like to surf, and when I get home, I actually want to relax.”
Saylor shook her head in frustration. If Brian’s mother was there, she’d be nodding in agreement with her son, clucking away about how much the poor dear worked and how much he deserved his time off, with the unsaid notion that Saylor didn’t work nearly as hard as he did. Saylor eyed the door, making sure it was properly shut before she continued. “Brian, have you even noticed your own kids lately?”
“Yeah, they’re teenagers.” He shrugged. “They want to be left alone.”
“Don’t you see that Brooke’s not eating enough? That she’s looking bone-thin? And we can’t ignore Devin’s obsessive-compulsive stuff anymore. It’s getting worse.”
“Brooke is naturally skinny, you know that, and Devin is just the genius type who has his own idiosyncrasies.” Brian flipped his book open again.
A rush of anger heated Saylor’s cheeks. “Do not.” She sat up and stared at him. “And I mean it: Do not put your head in that book right now.”
“So, what are you saying?” Brian scrunched his face as if he were in pain. “You want to send our kids to a so-called professional who’ll stick some label on them?”
“Not all therapists are like that—”
“But don’t you think that once a kid gets pigeonholed it can actually create problems, or at least make any so-called problems worse—problems they’d probably outgrow without someone having to overanalyze them, make them think they’ve got issues when they don’t?”
“Are you saying you’re afraid that if a professional thinks that Brooke may be heading towards an eating disorder that it will make her have one if she doesn’t already? That if Devin is diagnosed with OCD, then it will make his symptoms worse?” Saylor dug her fingernails into her rash, the itch too intense to ignore. What was Brian so afraid of? And now that she thought about it, why had it taken her so damn long to voice her concerns?
“All I’m saying is they’re teenagers.” Brian spoke in a slow, calm voice—the kind of voice that put Saylor’s teeth on edge. “They’re going to have problems. It comes with the territory. They’ll get through their stuff, if we give them the space to do it.”
Saylor shook her head. “I wish you would face reality and stop that I’m-so-mellow-surfer-dude kind of thinking that makes you act like everything’s fine—when it clearly isn’t.”
“Have you ever stopped to think,” Brian said, “that it is fine?”
“You’re wrong. If Brooke loses any more weight, she might become anorexic. Plus, my poor Uncle Silvio, who suffered from horrible OCD, didn’t get any help when he was younger—and look what happened to him.”
“Like I said; it’s all a phase. Brooke will be fine. And Devin isn’t anything like your uncle. You know that.” An inpatient sneer escaped his lips, a sneer that made Saylor’s eyes water. “I can’t believe you’d compare your son to him.”
“You didn’t even know him.” Saylor felt her throat close up. If only Brian understood that just because someone suffered mentally, didn’t mean that person was in any way less than. In fact, it oftentimes meant they were even braver than the average person. It took a lot to carry on with life, regardless—even more so when fighting an invisible battle. “He happened to be my favorite relative—”
“How can you say that? The man killed himself for God’s sake.”
“Just because he had problems, didn’t mean that he wasn’t a good person, Brian.” She pushed down the quilt, hoping to ease the pressing heat of what she knew was her upset mixed with the hormonal fluctuations of perimenopause. “I just learned from my mom how twisted my superstitious Grandmother Rosa was with him. She convinced herself that he was possessed as a kid because of his nervous tics—and thought that if she stuffed him with enough food, then whatever demons were possessing him would leave.”
“I don’t believe that.” Brian cocked his head and laughed. “You must be exaggerating.”
“I’m not. You can ask my mom. She also said that my grandmother hated my dad as if he were the devil himself.”
“Your mom’s probably remembering wrong.”
Saylor grabbed her robe, quickly wrapping it around herself.
“Where you going?”
“Nowhere.” She got up, tightened her robe’s sash and yanked the quilt off their bed.
“Saylor, what are you doing?” Brian stared at her as if she were insane and for some reason, it made her feel more powerful than she had in weeks.
“I’m getting rid of this old thing. I can’t sleep another night with this on my bed. My Grandmother Rosa made it, and it’s time to get rid of it.”
He shook his head. “I thought you liked the fact that your grandmother had made it.”
“Did you not hear what I said about what a horrible mother she was? Oh...that’s right, you don’t believe it.” Saylor began to fold the quilt, not sure what to do with it. Even the thrift store wouldn’t take it due to the stains from years of midnight snacks, morning coffee spills, and pet mishaps. She pushed it under the bed, figuring that she’d throw it away sometime next week when Brian was back at work.
“It’s a family heirloom,” Brian said, taking on his mother’s annoyingly cloying tone. “You should at least store it in a box for Brooke. Maybe she’d want it for her own home one day.”
“I doubt that very much.” How could he not remember that Brooke eschewed anything she deemed as too old timey? “Besides, I don’t want our kids to be wrapped up in my family history.”
“You do realize...” Brian cleared his throat. “That you sound pretty superstitious yourself.”
“Maybe I do. But I don’t want to have any more reminders—”
Brian scowled. “It’s wasteful to throw it away.”
“I never said that I was going to throw it away.” Had she blurted out her thoughts without knowing it? “What made you say that?” She stood, hands on hips.
“I know you better than you think I do.”
Now he was sounding way too much like her mother. “Then you should know that I need a change,” she said. “You have to stop making such a big deal out of this.” She sighed, wishing he’d listen. “Please.”
“Can’t we just put it back on for tonight?” Brian hugged his arms around his body as if he were playacting. “I’m cold.”
She could tell he was lying, knew that he ran hot. Why, she thought, did he even care about the damn quilt? Was it only to irk her? And if so, what good would that do him? “I’ll go get some extra blankets from the hall closet.”
“Why are you being so stubborn?” He frowned. “Just put it back on.”
She had to stop herself from screaming that no, she wasn’t going to put the ratty quilt back on their bed. Then realizing they had completely gotten off track about Devin and Brooke, she paused. Straightening her back, she looked straight at him. “We can’t ignore our children’s problems anymore.”
Brian yawned. “You’re just tired. Everything will seem better in the morning.”
She knelt, pulling the quilt from under the bed. “I’ll be back with the extra blankets.”
“You aren’t actually going to throw it out.” He made it sound like a command rather than a question.
Saylor pressed her lips together; she didn’t owe him an answer—or any further explanation. The quilt was a relic from her family—not his. A burden of memory that affected her—and not him. “I’m going to make myself some tea.” Without a word more, she tromped downstairs with the quilt. Quietly, she opened the front door and slipped outside. She gritted her teeth. The cold cement against her bare feet made her shiver, but she continued on. Heart racing, she lifted the trash bin’s lid and placed the quilt under as many trash bags as she could reach. She then stood in the dark, slapping her hands together in self-congratulations.
Back upstairs, she slid under the covers. Brian was already asleep. Curled up on the edge of the bed, she wondered if Brian was right about labeling the kids. Would Devin and Brooke buy into having something “wrong” with them and act out even more? Could the wrong therapist make them worse? And if she didn’t get either of them professional help, what would happen then? Could Brooke become anorexic? Would Devin’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies worsen to the degree that he’d become like Uncle Silvio?
Her mind would not shut down. And when she finally did doze off, she fully awakened within an hour. She bit her lip. She’d be slogging through the day tomorrow as if she were wading chest deep through sludge. The more she fretted about it, the more sleep eluded her.
She watched the rise and fall of Brian’s chest. How had their lives become so marred? Remembering how they had met, she mused at how much happier their younger selves had been. She was living in Santa Monica, working in an art gallery for minimum wage, and in her free time, painting acrylic landscapes in colors and combinations that pleased her: cobalt blue for earth, emerald green skies, pyrrole orange mountains. She and Lucy were waiting in line for a movie at Third Street Mall, and she noticed how the guy standing in front of them had that solid kind of physique that made her feel safe and reassured. Of course, Lucy noticed her noticing him.
In a too-loud voice, Lucy jabbed Saylor in the side, saying, “Looks like you sure could hang a tool belt on that one!”
He turned around with a friendly eyebrow raise and smiled. With his dark brown eyes and rugged good looks, his face was amazingly close to what she had envisioned from behind.
“You must have heard me, sorry.” Lucy laughed, grabbing her wallet. She handed him the card where Saylor worked—Lucy always kept a stash of Saylor’s business cards in case she wanted to fix her up with whatever attractive guy she predicted would be a “good fit.” Lucy grinned. “You have to call her; you two are just too cute not to be together.”
Saylor felt like stuffing a sock in Lucy’s mouth. “I’m sorry about her—”
“Don’t be,” he said, his smile even wider. “The funny thing is—I am a carpenter.”
He had called her the very next day and they went out to dinner at a popular seafood restaurant packed with tourists. After only ten minutes of talking with this stranger again, Saylor felt disappointed that he lived all the way north in Dune Beach—and that he was only in town for a couple more days. He had made the trip to visit his favorite cousin whose wife had just given birth to twin baby girls. “How strange it is,” he had said, “I didn’t even feel like going to the movies last night, but I wanted to give them some space.” He tilted his head and grinned. “But I’m sure glad that I did.”
The restaurant was so noisy, Saylor wasn’t sure if she had heard him right and since she didn’t want to assume anything, she said the only thing she could think of: “So you’re glad you saw the movie you did?”
He winked at her, “Yes...and you?”
After some time, it became their inside joke to ask each other if they were glad about picking the movie that they had, a joke that endured after all these years, a joke that reminded them how grateful they were for finding each other.
Saylor closed her eyes and pressed her palms over her lids. Neither of them had uttered it for a long time now. As Brian’s slow breathing of perfect sleep continued, she couldn’t help but wonder what her life would have been like if she had never met him. What would his life have been like? And how in the world had the seemingly simple outside of their lives become so increasingly difficult to live with from within? Here she was, a housewife in a solid marriage with two kids living an ordinary existence in a typical—if rather messy—tract home. She rolled onto her stomach, blaming herself. If she had been able to control her fear, she’d be able to enjoy the everyday comforts of life. If she was happier, then Brian’s stuff wouldn’t bother her so much, and her children wouldn’t have the problems they had. That’s what upset her the most: Devin and Brooke. It wasn’t fair to them. Whether they ever heard her talk about her anxiety or not, they still had to grow up with a mother who was constantly worried, always stressed. It had to have affected them. There was no way it hadn’t.
She couldn’t stay in bed any longer. She had to do something. Anything that could elicit change. She tiptoed to the bathroom and shut the door. She turned on the light and seized her scissors. Maybe if she chopped off her hair—gave herself a radical new look. Maybe external change could somehow bring about an internal shift. But she placed the scissors on the counter. “Real change takes time,” she whispered. She nodded at her reflection, Lenny’s words at the café coming back to her: “Everyone you see has pain, of course. But it’s what you do with it that counts.”
Sunday morning’s sky was what Saylor thought of as heavenly blue. She turned on the album Wavelength by Van Morrison, fed Neptune, and cleaned house while Devin and Brooke slept in. Brian, in his navy-blue robe and white-socked feet, drank coffee behind the newspaper (which he still subscribed to, even though he read the bulk of his news online). After her night of guilt-ridden ruminations and waking up from a string of dreams she couldn’t remember, she sat in bed, tired and stiff, stared out the window and told herself that it wasn’t too late. Since she now understood what had sparked her irrational fears, she should be able to control them.
Today would be the start: she would be both the person Lenny had sensed she could be—and the person she hoped to be, the one who could become stronger because of her fear. And with this, she’d become a better role model, and her kids would have a better chance for happiness. It was possible.
At nine-thirty, she tapped on Devin and Brooke’s doors, reminding them about their brunch at Ocean Dunes Hotel. Saylor smiled, thinking of the many celebratory meals they had enjoyed there and how they used to take the hotel’s trail down to the beach, exploring tide pools and collecting pieces of broken abalone and empty hermit crab shells. Despite her anxiety, they were a good family—and continually feeling guilty about her challenges wouldn’t help Devin and Brooke get over theirs.
“Come on, guys I don’t want to be late,” she yelled from the kitchen, pouring another cup of coffee.
No one responded. Brian folded the front page he was reading and picked up the business section.
Saylor set her cup on the table. “Aren’t you even going to try and help me?
He peered over the top of the paper, placid irritation on his face, an increasingly common expression of his that she had grown to detest. In fact, she had learned over the years that the more composed his face was, the more animosity brewed beneath. “I’m fine with just having a bowl of cereal here,” he said.
“But you agreed it would be a good idea when I made reservations—and you know I wanted to try and get us to do at least one thing together—”
“We did: we all went to my parents for Thanksgiving.”
“You know very well that I meant just us as a family.”
His gaze was back on the paper. “That was family.”
“You’re not listening.”
In baggy jeans and jet-black shirt pulled over to expose a bony shoulder, Brooke slumped into the room. She headed straight for the coffee pot. “I don’t want to go,” she said. “I’m not hungry for a big buffet. I’d rather spend the money on clothes.”
“But I already made reservations, and you already agreed that if I gave you fifty dollars to go shopping—”
“Like fifty bucks is so much money.” Brooke rolled her eyes. “It hardly even buys a shirt.”
Saylor looked at Brian who didn’t look back—and who didn’t say anything either, ignoring Brooke’s rudeness as usual. Saylor turned her attention back to her daughter. “As a matter of fact, fifty bucks is a lot of money, Brooke.”
“Maybe for the work-clothes look you’ve got going on.”
“Very funny,” Saylor replied, looking down at her olive-green slacks and white rolled-up sleeved blouse. She had purposely dressed in what she had thought was a nice outfit for going to brunch. She pressed her lips together. I will remain cheerful, she told herself. Even if it kills me.
She heard Devin shuffle down the hallway and could tell by the long pauses that he was obsessing about something. When he finally entered the kitchen, she noticed how red his eyes were and wondered how much sleep he had gotten, if any. With his disheveled head of greasy curls, Devin sat at the kitchen table, his grungy sweat pants and T-shirt giving off the unwashed stink of weeks-long wear. Saylor turned, guilty how disgusted she was by her own son’s odor. How could someone who was so afraid of germs not bother to shower for days on end? How could he walk around in such grimy clothes without smelling himself?
Brooke pinched her nose. “Gross, Devin. Have you ever heard of the soap and water concept—I mean, beyond the perimeters of your wrists?”
“I’ve been studying,” he said, sounding unaffected. “Something that you should think of doing from time to time yourself.”
“You are just so weird,” Brooke said. She slinked into the adjoining living room and plopped on the couch next to Brian, reaching for the comics.
Saylor stood mute, her bare feet sticking to the floor. It was only morning and the day had already gone sour. “Do you still want to go to brunch, Devin?” She finally found her voice and hoped it sounded half as chipper as she intended.
“I guess,” he answered, shrugging. “But only if everyone else does.”
“I know I do,” Saylor said. She looked over at Brian and Brooke’s oblivious newspaper-in-face postures, and pleaded, “Come on you guys. Remember how good their waffles are?” Brian grunted something back that she couldn’t make out, and Brooke merely turned the comics to the back page. Saylor continued, “Remember how beautiful their view is?”
