2. Names on a Door

Names on a Door

M ara

I love beautiful things. They are food for my soul.

Flowers, sunlight sparkling on the water, sunset colors spinning moondust across the evening sky, a baby’s belly laugh, the feel of the wind in my hair, rain tapping on the roof and sliding down the window, the way the light changes immediately before the storm, lightning streaking across the sky, the sound of the waves, especially the sound of the waves.

It soothes me. The sound washes through me, then seeps out again, siphoning the pain out through my pores, opening my chest, and allowing me to draw the salty air into my lungs and breathe deeply .

To exhale.

I love the water, the sand, the tiny shells, the scattered stones, the treasure hunt for sea glass and driftwood, and the waves that kiss the shore.

It is the most beautiful of all the beautiful things that feed my soul.

I love beautiful things.

I desperately want to be beautiful too.

My sweet, beautiful girl needed leg braces. The toe-walking that had taken a back seat behind more pressing issues had started having a detrimental effect. Her feet were becoming misshapen, her posture altered, and her legs hurt from the constant tightness in her calf muscles. I was kicking myself for not getting on this a lot sooner.

Bex, my dearest friend for more years than I cared to count, drove us, both for emotional support and because I was a chickenshit who hated driving in the city. Normally, I would drive, but she had offered to help whenever she could, so I pushed back the guilt, and I took her up on it. Usually she waited outside, but not today, it was bitterly cold.

I was not accustomed to seeing her in this space. She looked quite comfortable in the lobby chair, her petite form curled up in a ball, her journal on her lap.

Bex had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen, like waves of watercolor blue spilling from the ink dot of her iris. She kept her hair short, in a sleek graduated bob that framed her pixie face, the silver that threaded through the black doing nothing to lessen her appeal. She had been a homebody for a long time, but that changed when Rhys and the twins came into her life.

She met Rhys about six months ago, and moved in with him right before Christmas, as in a few days before. It took her a little while to decide to take the risk with him, after losing her husband and grieving him as hard as she did, but once she decided, she wasted no time. She was blessed to have found happiness and love again. She became a mother, too, something she’d given up as a lost dream. I checked in with her often and she easily expressed her delight with all that was new in her life.

Olivia, however, was not delighted at all about the braces situation, and she held nothing back in expressing this. We were in the orthotics clinic at the hospital in Milltown. We had already met with the orthotist, had negotiated and compromised our way through the tears and refusals. Olivia’s headphones were back on, holding back her halo of light brown curls, and she immersed herself in her tunes, singing herself away from what was happening in the here and now.

The orthotist prepared to take the braces to do the shaping in the machine room. She swung the door half closed revealing the inside of the door that displayed at least a dozen magnetic name cards.

“I’ll stick my name up here to hold this room.” She slapped her name card on the outside of the door, “This will hold the room for us. Feel free to go grab a snack or a drink while you’re waiting. You can leave your things here, just close the door and no one will disturb it.”

I smiled my thanks, my gaze fixated on those name tags. All those names that had long ago been bestowed upon newborns by hopefully loving parents, in hope and in wonder of who their child would become, while they prayed and dreamed of future achievements and successes.

I wondered if those parents ever doubted that the life they created would warrant their name on a door. I wondered if those parents were proud of the existence of that name, the name that they had chosen, stuck on that door, and all that entailed. I wondered if those named absorbed the warmth of that pride, let it seep under their skin and sink deep into their guts so that it became a part of them, a part of them they were not even consciously aware of, but it buoyed them anyway?

An ache of longing twisted up like wool on a suspended spindle from my stomach.

Oh, God, how I wanted my name on a door!

I had made different choices, choices that I did not once regret, but still I grieved the possibilities I’d left behind. I didn’t want to change my choices, I wanted to change how I felt. I longed for the feeling of significance I imagined would come with the success of having my name on a door .

I reached a hand out to cover one of Olivia’s gently. She swatted me away. She wasn’t ready yet to make friends. I knew this because she turned to me and blatantly declared it to me with her death glare.

“We are not friends.”

“I’m always your friend, little bird. You can be angry, and I’ll still be your friend. I’m sorry though, I know this is hard for you.”

She gave me a look so filled with acid it could peel the paint off the walls. I waited a couple of beats and reached for her hand again. She turned her little palm and wrapped her fingers around mine.

Those little fingers wrapped around mine gave me pause to take a deep breath. My temper, which used to be a truly fearsome thing until I conquered it, had raised its ugly head again. I blamed my mother for it. I snorted to myself. Of course, I blamed my mother. I’m a cliche. Overweight, approaching middle age, unsatisfied with life, it must be my mother’s fault.

In all honesty, the woman was driving me more than the usual crazy. Olivia and I visited her the day before. Poor planning on my part to do that the day before a hospital visit. There was no telling which Bea Mills I would get: the fun-loving, sweet-natured grandmother, or the critical shrew speaking in sweet dulcet tones.

Yesterday, I got the shrew.

She called in the morning and asked me to come over with Olivia for a visit. She sounded upbeat. This gave me hope, though it never meant anything. She could be sad and down and turn on me, she could be upbeat and cheerful and turn on me.

If Olivia was there, she served as a buffer. I disgusted myself for even thinking about Olivia as a buffer, but truth was truth and visits were easier for me when Olivia was with me because my mother behaved better.

We arrived shortly after lunch. With the recent freezing temperatures, I hadn’t wanted to leave the house. The cheer of Christmas lights and greenery had all been stripped away, the winter sky reflected dull shades of white, and the landscape lay bleak and colorless.

I dressed for the visit, in part to cheer myself, in part to ward off advice about needing to work to keep my man. I wore my long, straight, heavy-knit, black skirt, with my new ankle boots Willa and I bought before Christmas. Willa, my thirteen years younger sister, was a beauty.

She wore her curly hair to her shoulders, and it served as a perfect frame for her exquisite face with its wide smiling mouth, pert nose, liberal dusting of freckles and fantastic eyes. Her iris, a blue so dark it was almost black, the backdrop to a multitude of striations so pale they appeared to be white, made her eyes look like the night sky streaked with lightning. Tall, curvy, legs for miles, she could wear anything, and lucky for me, she had an eye for what looked good on me as well .

She picked out the fitted fuchsia camisole that peeked out from under my black, boat-neck, hip-hugging sweater that she had also chosen, albeit several years ago.

I was happy with my look. I felt feminine, almost sophisticated. A little lengthening mascara and tinted lip gloss finished me off and I was good to go.

Olivia wore her typical uniform of track pants and t-shirt, Hogwarts hoodie, seamless socks, and her running shoes that she’d run into the ground but wouldn’t give up because they were ‘finally comfortable.’ Boots were an evil she avoided at any cost, to the point of risking frostbite. I kept her boots in the car in the winter in the event of an emergency, which is what it would take to get Olivia to put them on.

There was going to be hell to pay when the braces came in.

“Helloooo my love!” Bea greeted Olivia with enthusiasm. She opened her arms and Olivia walked straight in for her hug. “Give Gran-Gran a kiss!”

“I don’t like kisses.” Olivia stepped back.

“What do you mean you don’t like kisses?” Bea exclaimed as though this was new information.

It irritated me how she always received this piece of information with surprise.

“I don’t like kisses.” Olivia repeated .

“Well, I’ll remember that when you ask me for a kiss! See if I give you one!”

Irritation did not begin to describe how much this bothered me.

“If you don’t want to kiss someone, that’s your decision, Mom,” I replied. “It’s Olivia’s decision if she wants to kiss someone. She doesn’t have to kiss anybody and neither do you.”

I said this for Olivia’s benefit, to reinforce what I had taught her. In no way did I expect my mother to heed me. If there was any doubt, her tight-lipped smile assured me my words fell on fallow ground.

Olivia tiptoed over to her favorite chair in Bea’s living room and rooted around in her bag of happiness that she carted around with her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Olivia replied in her matter-of-fact manner, then reiterated, “I don’t like kisses.”

Thank God some things just went over her head and didn’t faze her at all. There wasn’t much that did not affect her, at least with these verbal manipulations, most went uncaught.

I followed my mother to the kitchen.

“Want a coffee, Mara?”

“Sure, Mom.”

She motioned toward the coffee maker that sat uncleaned since the morning .

“Set it up for us and I’ll be back in a moment,” she directed as she left the kitchen.

Of course, I thought uncharitably. I cleaned out the coffeemaker, started a fresh pot, and arranged the donuts Olivia and I bought on a plate.

“Livvy, come get your donut, little bird.”

I bought three Vanilla Dip donuts, Olivia’s favorite, so she could have two even if my mom decided that she wanted the same one. I put one on a plate, and she took it back to her chair.

“Gran-Gran bought you a treat! Come and see!” Bea bounced back into the kitchen with a large bag from Milltown Mall.

I took a deep breath. This rarely went well. Olivia was fussy about what she wore, and Bea took offense far too easily when she felt her efforts were not appreciated.

She pulled open the bag and took out a pair of soft leggings and patterned t-shirt. I released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Olivia would accept this.

“Thank you, Gran-Gran.”

“That’s not all!” She pulled a slightly larger pair of leggings out of the bag, along with a slightly larger size of the same t-shirt. There was not much of a difference in size between them. My mom was thin and petite.

“Gran-Gran is going to match with you! ”

Olivia liked this idea. In another year or two she would cringe, but for now it was all good.

“Mara, I was going to get one for you too…”

“Oh, that’s okay, mom…” I cut her off with a smile, warmed by the fact that she’d thought of me, not wanting her to feel bad that she didn’t buy me a set.

She continued doggedly, “...but I didn’t think they’d have your size.”

She looked at me expectantly, her bright blue eyes wide and guileless.

“That’s fine. You know I prefer to pick out my own clothes. It’s no problem.” I smiled as if I missed the barb while I attempted to fight off the heat threatening to rise in my cheeks.

“Olivia!” she exclaimed. “Let’s put our new outfits on!”

“No, thank you, Gran-Gran,” Olivia replied.

“No, thank you? Try it on for Gran-Gran!” She laughed, but I could hear the edge of indignation. To be thwarted twice in ten minutes was beyond her tolerance.

Olivia did not answer again, she would not see the point in repeating herself, and tiptoed back to her chair.

“She doesn’t like dressing and undressing unnecessarily, Mom. It’s not fun for her. ”

“Not everything has to be about her, Mara. You need to take a firmer tone with her. All these diagnoses these doctors hand out willy-nilly, I can’t understand it. Parents these days just don’t know how to keep their children in line.”

“Are you saying I’m one of those parents?” I could feel my blood pressure rising, with the accompanying redness in my face.

“No, no!” she assured me. “I’m just saying you could use some work on your tone to make her mind you.”

“You know, mom, navigating through the day is difficult enough for her, without me putting extra and unnecessary demands on her.”

“You spoil her.” She laughed. “Is the coffee ready?”

I brought her mug to her and set the platter of donuts on the table. She chose the same one as Olivia. I felt a flutter of unease. Olivia wandered back into the kitchen to retrieve her second donut.

“Here, little bird.” I slid it onto her plate.

“Oh, that’s my favorite too! What if Gran-Gran wants that one?”

Olivia froze in her tracks.

Bea continued. “We’ll play rock-paper-scissors for it.”

Bea turned to face Olivia, took her plate with her second donut out of her hands, and placed it on the table between them. She extended her hand to play rock, paper, scissors.

“No,” I interrupted. “That was bought for Olivia. You can have a different one, and in fact the rest were bought for you to keep. ”

“I don’t want the other ones,” she snapped, then cajoled, “Come, Olivia, let’s play rock-paper-scissors.”

Olivia held out her hand, a tiny faltering smile on her face.

I stood up, leaned across the table, lifted the plate, and gave it to Olivia.

“That’s yours, Olivia, go sit down, darling.”

Olivia took the plate, her eyes darting back and forth between her grandmother and myself. She shrugged uncomfortably but took the plate and went back to her chair, her iPad, and her headphones.

Bea sat back with a tight smile on her lips. I chose my own donut. I didn’t usually indulge, but there had to be something positive to come out of this visit, and it looked like this was going to be it.

Mm, the first bite was always the best.

“How’s your diet going?” she smiled, eyes wide and guileless once again. She was on fire today. Somebody pissed in her cornflakes for sure.

“I’m not on a diet.” I put the donut down on my plate.

“Oh.”

I let the silence drag out between us. It took effort not to fill the empty space with emptier chatter to distract and entertain her. She broke the silence.

“I remember when you were little I asked you for a kiss, and you said no,” she began. She was like a dog with a meaty bone, she could not let anything go. “I said ‘alright then, away you go and play.’ You came to me later and asked me for a kiss. I said no.” She chuckled at the memory. “Poor little thing. It broke your heart. You never said no to me again after that.”

I was completely dumbfounded but I tried not to let it show on my face. The fact that she thought that story painted her in a positive light was astounding. However, it was also incredibly enlightening.

“Different generations I guess,” I countered. “My generation believes in children owning their own bodies, which means no forced hugs and kisses.”

By that point I’d had enough abuse for one day, so I waited what I hoped was a respectable amount of time, made our excuses, and got up to leave. On my way out she handed me the rest of the donuts, packed back into the box they came in.

“No, no, Mom, we bought those for you.”

“No, I don’t like those ones,” she sniffed.

This was patently untrue; she ate all kinds of sweets.

She continued, “You take them. Give them to Zale and Olivia.”

I guess she had more than one point to make.

At home I ate another two donuts just to defy her, hated myself for it, hated my mother, lost patience with Olivia when she refused to wash her hands after going to the bathroom, and hated myself more .

I went to the bathroom and pressed my nails into my palms, searching for calm, reaching for balance, then returned to Olivia, my patience intact.

It wasn’t her fault I was in a pissy mood. It wasn’t her fault I was fat. It wasn’t her fault my mother was a bitch. It wasn’t her fault she hated the slimy feel of the soap.

Zale got home late and could probably read my mood from the driveway. Olivia was already settled in bed. I had reined it in long enough to sit with her to watch Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkhaban, the one with her favorite character, Sirius Black, for probably the forty-seventh time. I toasted her grilled cheese and sliced her some apples for dinner, helped her with her bath, and tucked her in, her kitty stretched out beside her. She wouldn’t know about the hospital visit until the morning. She didn’t like to know in advance when she had something to do that she deemed unpleasant.

I had too many feelings, none of them good, and I needed my husband. I needed to lose myself in him and I needed to drown the screaming in my own head, something that only happened for the minutes he was buried inside me.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He came through to the kitchen, his tie already pulled through his collar, and gave me a quick kiss, his heavy five o’clock shadow a delicious abrasion. “I’m just going to get changed. ”

“Hi, honey.” I tried to prolong the kiss by leaning into him, but he stepped away.

“I’ll be right back.”

Dinner was set out on the table by the time he returned from our bedroom, dressed in old sweats and a t-shirt that had seen better days. Those better days were from a vacation we had taken years ago, and that t-shirt was a happy reminder, so I didn’t care how threadbare it had gotten.

“Livvy okay today?”

“Yes, she was good.”

“You have a good day, baby?”

“I went to my mother’s, so, no.”

He looked up from his plate, suddenly wary. “What happened?”

“She asked me how my diet was going, said she would have bought me pants to match what she bought for her and Olivia, but they probably didn’t have my size,” his jaw tightened at this, “and tried to compete with Olivia over who got the last vanilla dip donut.”

At this he put down his fork and stopped eating.

“For fuck’s sake, really?” I nodded, he continued, “That lady is a piece of work.”

Time to change the subject. I hated calling his attention to my weight .

“How was your day, honey?”

“Busy! So, fucking busy. I’m short-staffed and two of my people are fairly new so they need a lot of assistance.”

Zale managed the small business banking sector for his region, and he had a team of people reporting to him that seemed to be forever undulating. He explained more of what was happening at work while we did the dishes together. He locked up the house, checked on Olivia, and finally, finally we slipped into bed.

I turned to him and pressed my lips to his. He gave me a hard, quick kiss and turned his face slightly away. I retreated to my side of the bed. I could feel the sting of tears, but I beat them back. This was not unusual anymore. When would I learn not to initiate?

Stupid, stupid me.

“I’m going to get some water, be back in a minute.”

I slid from our bed and headed to the kitchen, where I pressed my forehead hard into the granite countertop, clasped my hands behind my head, and breathed deeply and evenly. Too many feelings, none of them good, nowhere for them to go.

He was asleep by the time I returned. I only slept a few hours before my body woke me, demanding release. I took care of myself quietly, then cried myself back to sleep while he snored softly beside me .

After the day and night I’d had, it took everything in me to be able to support Olivia the way she needed me to the next morning. My bestest bestie Bex driving us helped a lot with that by relieving me of the stress of having to drive and freeing me to focus on soothing Olivia’s anxiety.

The orthotist returned with the braces, and we gently pressed through more tears, anger, and sensory overload, before we were finally able to head home. My baby was exhausted. Her face slack, eyes dull, headphones on but there was no more singing.

We met Bex in the lobby. Bex, the lifesaver, brought Olivia fortune cookies. These were exciting for her; she was enthralled by the paper messages tucked inside. She brightened immediately at the unexpected treat and passed us each a cookie then waited impatiently for us to open and read our fortunes.

“Mine is a quote from Brene Brown. It says, ‘Worthy now. Not if. Not when. We are worthy of love and belonging now. Right this minute. As is.’” I paused. “I like these modern fortune cookies.” This was one I wouldn’t mind keeping.

“Confucious must be out of wisdom,” Bex replied. “I got Oprah, she says, ‘Turn your wounds into wisdom.’ That’s a good one.”

Olivia read hers aloud, her mouth full of cookies. “‘The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage,’ Jack London.”

“All good ones,” Bex mused, handing her fortune over to Olivia .

That was the drill. We read our fortunes and then turned them over to Olivia who collected them in a cookie jar in her bedroom. She held her hand out for mine and I tried to commit it to memory before handing it over as well.

The drive home was quiet. Bex proved her wisdom further by driving through the McDonald’s drive-thru to pick up a milkshake for Olivia. She knew the things that helped Olivia wind down, and strong, pleasant, sensory input was one of those things.

Usually, I was better prepared. I had a lot on my mind with this psych appointment looming over me. I wished my doctor would just give me something to calm my anxiety so I could start to feel better. I should have been better prepared for today. I should have had treats lined up for Olivia. Thank goodness for Bex thinking ahead when I wasn’t thinking at all. I needed to pull myself together.

Bex dropped us off and we went inside, discarding our heavy jackets and boots at the door. Olivia put on Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkhaban, and I blended smoothies with fruit and spinach and orange juice, then gave her some space.

I took my smoothie into my sunroom to work while she decompressed. The screen remained black in front of me. I, too, was overwhelmed by the day. My girl, Dory, swam into my head.

Just keep swimming, Mara.

Zale came home late .

When we went to bed he leaned over and gave me a quick, hard, kiss.

He fell asleep quickly.

I pressed my nails into my thighs, and more than one tear escaped before sleep finally claimed me.