I spend the next morning in a haze of uncertainty. I don’t know if I really lost my job or if Rae was just letting off steam. Either way, I stay home. If she didn’t mean it, let her sweat it out. If she did, I have little desire to step onto the premises and give her a chance to reinforce her decision in front of God and everyone. Yes, I have fantasized about such a confrontation, but when such an opportunity is real enough to taste, only the bitter is guaranteed, never the sweet.
I consider calling Sadie to ask her about my rights and whatever else someone who manages people would know, but I’m afraid she will coordinate another intervention. I’m not up for too much honesty right now. Besides, my cupboards aren’t stocked.
My stomach aches because this is what it knows to do on command to warrant a day off. In grade school I missed a couple days a month due to mysterious stomach pains. Excuses to stay home were necessary because it was the only time I could have my mom to myself. I wonder if she ever knew.
There is that urge to call home. This round I cannot claim there is not enough time. In fact, I cannot think of any of the usual excuses that surface to prevent me from a gesture of need.
I arrange the couch and surrounding area with all that I require for this effort. My blanket, a cup of coffee, my slippers, a glass of water, a toaster pastry, and Elmo.
I position my finger to autodial 1. I programmed that as my “in case of emergency” number, which is funny, because if something did happen, my folks could not do much from several thousand miles away. But here I am, in what I consider a crisis if not an emergency, and it feels good to know they are only one digit away from me, here on my couch, in this place of sagebrush and bull snakes and magnificent sunrises. One of which fills my living room window. I watch for a few minutes and then press down.
I imagine Mom with her loose ponytail and Land’s End long-sleeved shirt, and Dad with his big feet encased in Timberlands, rushing around as they clean up after breakfast and organize last details for the volunteers coming in the afternoon. They each have a list of people to call taped to their phone. Not a day goes by that they are not expressing their passion and conviction to someone at the city, county, state, and federal levels. Mom’s theory was that as soon as a decision maker asks his or her secretary to not put their calls through, they are on that person’s radar. Just where they want to be.
“Schmidt?” My mom’s voice is stronger than I remember. We have spoken only a few times in recent months. Once I started submitting my résumé, I was reluctant to talk with her. She, like Rae, would know something was up.
“It’s me, Mom. Mari.”
“Hey, you! Ted, it’s Mari!” She calls out to my dad excitedly, even though she clearly was anxiously awaiting a call from Carl Schmidt, county commissioner.
I can hear her place the cell phone in the cradle and the familiar echo of shelter sounds as she switches me to speaker phone mode.
“Hey, if it isn’t our princess of the South. How are you, dear?” Dad’s voice, in contrast to Mom’s, sounds pale and tired. His exuberance is heartfelt but only surface level in energy. My own heart beats quickly as my spirit remembers how often stress was a part of our daily experience. Money was tight. There was always a battle to be fought. Conflict between several of the children was imminent. And always there was no time for rest.
I tap together the heels of my slippers and am glad to be home. Right here.
“We’re so glad you called. You know we are well into preparations for Resurrection Week. Wish you were here.”
Sure. Getting free labor is always good.
“Knowing you two, you have it all under control. It’s only disguised as chaos.”
“How long since you last visited?” My dad laughs, implying only that I must have forgotten that the underlying current at the shelter was always chaos. But the answer to that question replaces my fake stomachache with a full-fledged ulcer.
“How are the plans going?” This upcoming week is second only to the Thanksgiving Festival in the shelter’s annual cycle of fund-raising. Resurrection Week follows Easter and is a full seven days of celebrations and efforts to involve the community with the shelter and vice versa. Several open houses and tours kick off the week. Then the kids sign up to do chores and errands for area residents or for businesses. The event has grown so big that there is not one politician associated with children’s services, foster care, or social services who does not make an appearance. Usually they wait for the street fair on the last day so they get the most publicity for their small effort. But there are a few who personally care about the work and help lead tours and arrange interviews from the site to raise awareness and hopefully money. For them and the shelter.
As they share, in tandem, the plans for next month’s party, I do feel excited about their ideas. Only a bit of me acknowledges that I did get this part of their genes. They ask about the Golden Golden Gala, and I play up the success without mentioning Beau…Rae…
Me.
Fah so la ti do.
“I visited one of the resorts this week. Majestic Vista. You should check out their website. It’s incredible. And they host several charity functions each year.” I introduce the topic with a service slant, hoping this will soften what I am telling them. They knew when I moved thousands of miles away that I was determined to end up in a world other than the one I grew up in. But when I landed a “temporary” spot with Golden Horizons, they had been so proud.
“That sounds really nice, dear. Sure does.” They give me their reassurances. “But I’ll bet after that big successful anniversary party, they won’t want to let you leave the retirement home.”
The very blatant segue to the obvious point of my call comes and goes. It’s one thing to disappoint them with a well-paid position that has benefits and perks. It’s quite another to tell them I got booted out of a low-paying, no perks, “doing it for the ministry” kind of career.
“Oh, hey. You’ll never guess who our latest boomerang is.” Mom peals with absolute Christmas-morning delight.
While suburban parents use this term to refer to their grown children who return home for a rent-free existence, “boomerang” is my parents’ term of endearment for those kids who go through the shelter and later return to help in some way. Many times it is for Resurrection Week, but occasionally it is someone who returns to assist on a regular basis. Even though my inability to return lowers their percentage of these boomerangs, they unofficially have the best record among shelters in town.
“Thalia?” I say this name after ten years of not. She was my nemesis in the house, but I liked that she played a motherly role with the other kids. It meant that I did not have to.
“Oh, wouldn’t you love that!” Dad, at least, remembers the rivalry.
“Marcus is here.”
My heart stops. Another name I have not spoken in years. Not since I left Washington, D.C., with a vehement commitment to break all ties to anyone and anything relevant to my childhood. The biggest break was not with my parents or the tree-lined street I knew as my only home. It was with Marcus.
I can hear on the phone that Dad is calling upstairs for him. By “he’s here,” they mean right there.
“Please no, please no,” I whisper.
“What dear?”
I forgot about the magnification of speaker phone. “Oh…I said Elmo. He’s getting fussy.”
“I miss that crazy kitten. Actually, he’s gettin’ to be an old man by now.”
Yet another indication of how much time has passed confronts me. I hear Dad say he cannot find Marcus and how disappointed he’ll be to miss my call.
“Mom, I have to go. Um…good luck with the plans, and I’ll let you know if I make any big career moves.”
Liar.
“Dad thinks Marcus might be down in the kitchen prepping lunch. Can you hold on? It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“I really need to go.”
Mom doesn’t know all that upsets me, but she senses I’m not up for talking to Marcus. She makes an excuse for me. “Honey, Mari is a busy woman, like her mother, and she needs to get back to work. She’ll catch him next time.”
“Thanks, Mom. Love you.”
She chuckles with understanding. “I love you too. Don’t be any stranger.”
Our usual sign-off feels good. But when I hang up the phone, I feel very alone. I go where I rarely go…to my old photo album. It was a project for high school and one I bemoaned endlessly. But this cheap, three-ring binder was one of the few possessions I brought with me to college in Arizona.
My fingers know which page to turn to by feel. The edge of this photo page has a slight indentation from so many visits.
I close my eyes and open them. Close again…flip to the page…then open. My eyes go straight for Marcus’ face. He was one of the only guys at the shelter who had to shave. In this shot he has a five o’clock shadow that serves to contrast with his bright smile. At age thirteen, Marcus had come to the shelter very hardened, yet he was one of the first to embrace everything about his new home. By the time he reached high school, the social worker’s reports reflected that he was a serious student and a very well-adjusted individual. A real success story.
In this photo, his Cubs baseball cap is angled to the side; the tip is hitting my big hair as I lean my head toward his shoulder. Our arms are linked, and we have on matching Cubs sweatshirts. I didn’t give a dang for baseball, but Marcus was from Chicago, and he was passionate about this tie to home. When your mother forgets your name because she is high, and your father forgets your birthday because he wasn’t around for your birth, a baseball team can serve as a substitute for family. This version comes with posters, emblem-covered attire, and statistics that are good to pour over and memorize. That way, if anyone asks about your childhood, you can distract them with fascinating facts about your home team. It’s the oldest trick in the book of denial.
Elmo resituates himself, placing a paw onto the page. With my finger, I retrace the face of the only boy to ever capture the attention of my heart.
Until recently, that is.