Blind Acorn Page 2

  I’ve never made New Year’s resolutions, never saw the point. If something needs to be done, why not do it now? Who decided that we should wait until January first to start? But I sat on the couch by myself and thought, I should try some new habits if I’m not happy with the old ones. I was more and more dissatisfied with myself and my life lately, so I resolved:

  To determine why I was unhappy and do something about it.

  To get myself in better physical condition, on my schedule, not Dylan’s.

  To stop thinking that I could —and should —control everything.

  With this vague list in mind, I went to the basement and dusted off the treadmill that we’d bought a few years ago but rarely used. I plugged it in, and it worked, a good sign I thought. I decided to make it my go-to activity when I needed time alone. Or when I was upset. Or frustrated. No schedule; my life would determine when I used it. That should address my second resolution. The other two were harder to quantify and I decided to think about them when I was on the treadmill. Two birds, one stone…

  Footsteps on the floor above me were light and quick and I knew that Lucy was up. I climbed the stairs back to the warm kitchen and smiled to myself when I saw her. Pajamas with cupcakes and ice cream cones on them, blond hair going off in every direction, sleepy eyes and her quiet yawn all made me want to cuddle her like I did when she was tiny, but she wouldn’t stand for that anymore. I settled for, “Hey, Luce,” with a smile.

  “I thought we were having breakfast this morning. You know, like, together. All of us.”

  “Me, too. I’m just waiting for everyone to get up. What do you think? Should we make enough noise that they have no choice? Want to help me wake them up?”

  She rolled her eyes at me and walked out of the room. “I’ll be back later,” she said.

  Before I could adjust to being alone again, I heard Mitch in the bathroom above. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the eggs, browsing for veggies and cheese for an omelet. Happy New Year, I told myself as I chopped a red pepper, popping a small piece into my mouth.

  Five

  My work was interesting, and I loved doing it, loved the people. The program I ran served nutritious meals daily at prescribed times and places, to a specific population. Our participants were largely older adults, many with medical issues, most indigent.

  Some spare space in a church basement had been converted into office space for me and we also served meals there. It was a bare bones operation, and I’d been involved with it since college.

  Our mandate wasn’t as simple as it might have sounded. Strict guidelines regarding what was considered nutritious, and a limited budget with which to work, challenged us. There was no money for adding olives to salads. There was no money for second servings. There was no money for generous cuts of meat or parmesan cheese to garnish spaghetti.

  The meals we served always included a salad, a soup, an entrée with starch and vegetable, a dessert, and coffee. And milk. And bread. Every meal. And we were to do this on a shockingly small budget. But we did it.

  In order to maintain our funding, we had to submit menus to a nutritionist for approval and collect evaluations from consumers. We were expected to provide a cost breakdown for every meal served. Numbers, always more numbers. Numbers of people we expected and numbers we actually served. For each of our twelve locations. And reports about what we did with any leftovers—if there were any leftovers. And what we did for people who arrived after everything was served.

  Our budget provided inadequate staff hours with which to do this, and that was a deliberate omission, intended to make us recruit volunteers from among the service population. The idea was that people will feel better about accepting this kind of help if they feel that they’ve contributed. And, while we could not accept money from them (and few had any to offer), we needed to rely on them to help. Some set chairs at long rows of tables. Some helped in the kitchen. Some counted and kept records. And some poor souls were unable to do more than get themselves into the room and eat.

  Most who could were happy to help, though some had personal requirements that dictated how they helped. The woman who didn’t want her hair disturbed by a hairnet had to do something other than serve food. The man who hadn’t been known to remove his coat in at least two years carried such a body odor that he wasn’t allowed near any food but his own, he helped set up tables and chairs. And then there was Rona.

  Rona was that woman who had to be in charge. She did the counting and coordinated everything else, stepping into any job when necessary. She was a great asset, but one that came with a cost. She barked orders and was never, ever satisfied with anything. People were never on time and the weather didn’t cooperate. And the rules were all wrong, made no sense. No one moved quickly enough for her. She stopped just short of pushing others out of the way in order to do everything herself.

  Fortunately for everyone else, Rona couldn’t be in more than one place at a time and her efforts were concentrated on our site in the basement of the church where I worked every day. We’d been serving lunch there daily for more than a year and no one could recall a day when Rona hadn’t been there. And in charge. And in a mood.

  We were oil and water, Rona and I. If I asked her to do something, she had to do something else first. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I’d ask her to do something that I planned to do myself, anyway. I’m not sure why I did this because I knew she took pleasure in defying me.

  If I asked for a count for the day, she’d give me a range of possibilities. If I tried, once again, to explain that we needed to report numbers in order to get money for future meals, she’d grumble about the importance of counting versus the importance of eating. Whatever I said, she’d shake her head and “tsk.” The woman could ruin even the best of my moods. But she showed up every day. I could count on her to be there. Unhappy, but there.

  Six

  It was late afternoon a few days after Valentine’s Day and I was heading home, hoping that the work was finished and there was a pleasant evening ahead for me. Dinner was already in the slow cooker, so the house would smell like someone had been cooking when I arrived. Lucy would be out late with a study group and there would only be three of us eating. I didn’t think we’d have anything to argue about and expected peace and quiet. And it began that way.

  Dylan was in the driveway shooting baskets when I pulled up. He walked to the side and gave me room to get the car into the garage before resuming the slow thump, thump, thump of the basketball. We waved at each other and I grabbed the bag of groceries from the back seat and went into the house. Watching him from the window, I found myself smiling at the man he was becoming. Broad shouldered and perpetually tan, he looked older than his seventeen years. The hairs on his arms shone golden in the late afternoon light. Doesn’t he ever get cold? I thought. There was a casual confidence about him as he moved toward the basket for each shot. And, with good reason, as he made most of them. Like those baskets, life seemed to come easily to Dylan. He was, indeed, his father’s son. They were both tall and loose limbed, each supremely comfortable in his own skin.

  Dylan had been the kindest child I’d ever known. He seemed not to have that mean streak that so many kids thankfully outgrow. He had a real soft spot for anyone disadvantaged by anything —size, ill health, age, numbers, abilities. He was the kind of sweet that made me proud, but also made me worry for him. And then he turned into a teenager, full of himself and a little arrogant, at least around his family.

  When I heard Mitch’s car in the driveway, I turned back to the kitchen and started to set the table for dinner. They walked through the door together and were already deep in conversation about some athlete whose name I’d heard but about whom I knew nothing. I didn’t interject myself in the conversation because I didn’t care to know anything more about it. Neither of them seemed to notice that I was present, anyway, and both left the room and headed upstairs.
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  “Hello,” I called after them. “Dinner is almost ready.” Dylan was the first one to come downstairs and he sat at the table.

  “I’ll need the car Thursday night,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The car was, in actuality, my car. So, that was irritating. I didn’t like it when he made these demands, as if he was entitled to do that. I hoped I sounded suitably annoyed when I said, “First of all, is that the way you ask for something?”

  He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes, giving me his best here-goes-Mom-again response. Then he stretched his legs under the table and crossed his arms as he said, “Are you going to do this every time we have this conversation? Boring, Mom.”

  I gave him what was meant to be a scathing look. I knew I had succeeded because I saw him wither, sliding lower in his chair. Then he sat up a little straighter, but I was gratified to think that I still had it. “Secondly, I plan to be out Thursday night and I’ll be needing my car myself,” I explained. I thought that was the end of the conversation but, apparently, it was just the beginning. By the time Mitch came down, we were in a somewhat heated discussion.

  Dinner on the table, we sat and began to serve ourselves. Mitch, being his helpful self, asked me, “Where do you need to be and at what time? Maybe we can work out some kind of carpool arrangement for the two of you. Dyl says he doesn’t need to leave here until seven thirty. Where will you be at seven thirty?”

  Slowly and quietly, I put the serving spoon on the table. “This is how you want to do this?” I asked him. “Not, ‘gee, Dylan, Mom needs her car then and you shouldn’t make plans without talking to her first. Maybe I can help you?’ You’d rather try to fix my schedule to accommodate Dylan. Don’t put yourself out on my account now.” And, with that, I rose and left the table. Left the room. Left the house. Got in my car and left the neighborhood, having no idea where I was heading. As long as it was away from the two of them. The treadmill would have to wait until later.

  I soon realized that I was headed back toward work. Yikes! How pathetic can I be? Don’t I have anywhere else to go? Of course, I had other places to go. But anger distracted me, and, on autopilot, I defaulted to the route I took to work in the morning. In the middle of that route, I drove down a long, car-lined street of tenement houses. Two- and three-family houses stood close together. Some, I noticed, had garages in the back, but most did not. Hence the cars parked along the street. Sidewalks ran along both sides, sometimes cement and sometimes sand. The area reminded me of the neighborhood I lived in as a girl. Solid, blue-collar families.

  Some of the houses were in good repair and had proud little gardens and tiny plots of grass before them. Others were not so lucky. Faded paint peeled and the structures themselves seemed to list to one side or the other. A few had religious statues prominently displayed in front yards. A couple had beware-of-dog signs hanging from fences along the front of the property. A different sign caught my eye and, coincidentally, a parking spot was open right beside it. I pulled my car into the space and read the sign. For Rent, it said and there was a hand-written phone number under it.

  I looked up at the house, not knowing which apartment might be available and I began to fantasize about having my own space in the world. A place that was just mine. In it, I wouldn’t have to argue with anyone because there would be no one else. I would eat what I wanted to eat and do what I wanted to do. I wouldn’t have to watch someone else’s television programs. Would only have myself to clean up after. I could walk around in whatever clothes I wanted —or none at all. I could wash dishes at midnight —or not at all. I could leave the windows open. I could listen to music that I liked all the time. It was then that I realized that I had never in my life had my own space like that. Never. Was it selfish to wish for it? While I knew it was not practical, not possible, I couldn’t deny the appeal of the idea.

  But the thought that such a place might exist in the world was calming and within a few minutes I did a U-turn in the middle of that road and headed home. There was a treadmill calling my name.

  Seven

  Gina called and asked if we could meet for lunch on Friday. I’d been looking forward to it all week.

  “Hey!” she said as she rose from her chair to hug me. “It’s been way too long! You look the same, though, so I guess it’s not crazy unreasonable. How are you?”

  “Great,” I smiled. “I’m doing great. How about you?”

  We spent the next ten minutes or so catching up on details, with superficial comments about kids, husbands, jobs, and sipping iced tea. After we ordered, we sat back and began to relax. The work was done, now we could just talk.

  I don’t know how the conversation turned there, although many would say that there are no accidents, but I soon heard myself telling her about my fantasy of renting an apartment. I guess I had to tell someone and there’s no one more tolerant of me and my tangled thinking than Gina.

  “Sometimes,” I told her, “I just want to scream. I get so tired of the unending demands, you know? I love my family, of course, but I need them to leave me alone once in a while. Find their own things, figure out the answers, do things without me as witness. It takes so much of my energy that I have none left for myself. And I need some; I need to collect myself and regain my contentment. Does that make any sense at all?”

  She leaned back in silence, just watching me as I finished. I couldn’t guess what she was thinking. Finally, she exhaled loudly and said, “I think you should do it.” Then she picked up her glass and took a long drink. Nodding, she put the glass down and repeated, “I think you should do it.”

  I laughed a little nervously. “What do you mean ‘do it?’ You think I should get an apartment? That’s crazy! It was just a little fantasy, you know? Just letting my mind run. You know how I do that.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I know how you do that, but maybe this is the time you should act on what you’re thinking. What’s the harm? What could go wrong with you having a little time and space of your own?”

  What could go wrong indeed. “Well, to begin with, how on earth would I explain to Mitch that I’m getting my own apartment? ‘Nothing personal, honey, but I’m getting my own place. No, I’m not moving out of here. I’m not leaving you. But, no, you aren’t coming with me. In fact, I don’t think I’ll tell you where it is. You’re not invited.’ That should go well, don’t you think? And, besides, I can’t afford it. And another thing —why do I even need it? It was just a daydream; I don’t need my own place!”

  I laughed again, with less nervousness and more conviction. I didn’t need to be nervous about what would never happen.

  Gina shrugged. “Okay, Trin,” she said. “I’m convinced. But I’m not sure that you are. It was just a thought. Sometimes a person needs to do something that appears to be selfish just to regroup and pull it together. I just thought maybe this was your time.”

  I was sure that Gina was wrong. It would add even more stress to my life, and I didn’t need that.

  Eight

  When I got home that afternoon, I thought I’d tell Mitch about my conversation with Gina. It might be a good way to explain just how upset I was about the disagreement with Dylan and his response to it. In truth, I expected Dylan to act like a teenage boy. There were lessons in these things for both children and parents. But I’d hoped for more from Mitch. I’d hoped he’d back me up, share my irritation with teenage antics. I’d expected him to come down those stairs and land firmly on my side of the argument. I did not want him to mediate. I did not want to be handled.

  As I replayed it in my mind, I again felt my anger growing. I shouldn’t, I understood, talk to Mitch in that frame of mind. It would be better to wait until later. Maybe after dinner. I was sure the kids wouldn’t linger so we’d have some time alone.

  As expected, the kids vanished along with the food and Mitch and I were left to clean up. We carried everything to the kitchen counters in
silence and I thought it might be a good time to try to talk to him. I was debating the best opening line when his phone rang. He took the call, rolling his eyes in my direction and turning from the plates that he’d been rinsing. I could tell from his voice and from the clench of his jaw that it wasn’t a pleasant conversation, and he shrugged his shoulders before moving off into the den. By the time he came out forty-five minutes later, I’d finished the dinner clean up and sat in front of the television, not really watching it.

  “I need to make a couple more calls,” he explained from the doorway. “Might take a while.” And he was gone again. Mitch was an architect and a very good one. He shared a practice with two partners and the work often overflowed to his off hours. I’m not sure when he finished; I was downstairs on the treadmill.

  I had showered and was reading in the bedroom when I heard the television turn off and his footsteps coming up the stairs. He glanced at me and shook his head as he walked into the room. “I should have known,” he said, still shaking his head, “that this project was going to consume so much time and energy. Everything that could go wrong from the start has gone wrong.” With a heavy sigh he reached for his tablet and began to read something.

  I thought I should give him a little time and space to separate from the work thing, so I waited a while and continued to wonder about the best way to begin. Before long, I felt the weight of the tablet, and the hand that had been holding it, come to rest against my arm. I didn’t need to listen for his soft, regular breath to know that he was asleep. Although I was disappointed to have lost the opportunity to talk to him, I had to admit that I liked the hand resting on my arm. How could I find this both disconcerting and comforting?