Second House from the Corner (2 page)

I'm in no mood to tackle the cleanup. Not right now. I need to get out of this house before I morph into screaming, raging, mean Mommy. The one who presses against my eyeballs begging to be set free.

The racket upstairs has escalated in the three minutes I've been gone. Rory is yelling at Two, Liv is still crying, and I hear something crash to the floor. I tuck my phone in my shirt pocket and head toward the litany of tears. My daily mantra, “All is well. The Universe supports me,” is on replay in my head
.

I hand Liv a stuffed bear and a teething toy to pacify her. That will buy me a few minutes of quiet as I face what's happening in the bathroom. When Two sees me at the doorway she looks like she is ready for another round of the sobs, but I cut her at the neck.

“Don't even start.”

I reach for her arm and stand her up in the tub.

“I'm the one who should be crying. Look at this mess,” I say.

The water has gone down the drain, but balls of conditioner still wiggle around the bottom of the tub. I stand them both up for a quick shower, hoping that the conditioner doesn't clog the drain. Then I'll have to hear it from Preston for adding another chore to his honey-please-do-it-over-the-weekend list.

“Rory, go check on Liv,” I say, rubbing a little lotion on his face and kissing his cheek. He tosses me his Mommy-don't-be-mad-at-us smile and then scampers out of the bathroom. I hear him open his drawer for his pajamas and then Liv's giggles when he climbs into her crib. Two children settled, one to go.

Twyla looks as guilty as a bank robber with a bag of money and a smoking gun. “Two, why would you do this?”

“I, I, I don't know,” and she drags out
know
in that whiny way that only a four-year-old can muster.

As I dry her off, my phone dings. I slide it from my pocket. It's Sam.

Be there in ten minutes.

I sigh. Smile. Feel like throwing my hands up in the air and doing a liturgical dance.

“What, Mommy?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because I love you.” I swat her bottom and send her on her way.

It's still a bit early for bedtime, so I bring them downstairs to clean up the tornado that is my living and dining room.

“Who's coming over?” Two cocks her head at me.

“Sam.”

“Where're you going?” Alarm rises in her voice.

“I have to run an errand.” I untangle her grubby hands from my leg and point. “Go clean up.”

“But I don't want you to go,” Rory comes over, now wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Please, Pudding Pops, clean up before Sam thinks we live in a pigsty.”

Our dining room is the official playroom, and I leave the kids with the task of tidying while I open the door for Sam.

“Thanks for coming.” I give her a light hug.

She removes her headphones and smiles her no problem, mouth full of adolescent braces grin. She's been coming over for more than a year and knows our routine well—a book each, brushing of teeth, prayers, and then bed—so without worry I move through the kitchen snatching up my escape weapons: keys, wallet, lip gloss, and ear buds for my cell.

“Be good.” I kiss each kid on the forehead and push them in the direction of Sam. Rory is happy on the floor, crashing two of his dump trucks into the coffee table, but Twyla follows me to the door. I can't shake this girl with a backwoods switch.

“Mommy, I want to come with you.”

“Next time, honey.” I try to pull the door closed but she won't budge. “Twyla, sweetie, please go find Sam.” This is how I speak to my children, soft and sweet. The angrier I am the lower my voice gets. Right now I am damn near whispering.

“You didn't give me a kiss.”

I kiss her lips.

“The other kiss, Mommy. The marry kiss.”

I kiss her long, holding her lips to mine. She calls it a marry kiss, because it's how Preston and I do it.

“You didn't give me a hug.”

My temperature is rising. Girl, please go on. I squeeze her shoulders while shoving her enough to close the door. I lock up and run, yes, run down my front steps to my SUV parked in the driveway. The humid air drapes my skin. I've been inside with the air conditioner on and forgot we were in the middle of a July heat wave.

Inside my SUV, sweat gathers under my arms, and my back burns against the leather seats. My car is in reverse when the familiar lump clogs the back of my throat. I'm not sure what to call the feeling or the vision, but I'm having it, again.

Me, riding away into the sinking sunset with only the clothes on my back. Driving for hours until the car runs out of gas. Then walking for miles until my feet give out. Then dropping down to my hands and knees and crawling until my skin is ripped from the bones and bloody. And then sitting, right where I am, tired, hot, thirsty, but with the taste of freedom.

I glance at the house before turning the corner and spy three little faces pushed against the front window, watching me.

You are a terrible mother for even thinking about leaving them, especially since you know what that's like.

*   *   *

I wave, blink away the picture of my other self, and curse the
damn voice
for always being up in my business and holding me awful and tight.

 

TWO

The Escape

The State of New Jersey has been smoldering for five straight days, with temperatures averaging in the high nineties and the heat index off the charts. As much as I love summer, I've had enough. The air conditioner is taking too long to cool me off. I floor the gas pedal hard on Liberty Avenue, cut through the supermarket parking lot, and merge onto Route 22. I don't know where I am going until the sight of the Wine and Spirits shop ahead on the left catches my eye and cools my skin like a pool of water. I haven't snuck a drink into a movie theater since I was in college, and that's when I decide that's exactly what I'm going to do.

The four-pack of merlot nips fit into my barrel-size purse beneath a pack of baby wipes and a forgotten tangerine. I'm bubbling with excitement until I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the silver-blue paint of my car. In my haste to get away, I've walked out of the house wearing ratty yoga pants and a two-pocket pullover, my hair snatched up in an untidy bun. My one pledge to myself was to never be one of those housewives who run around town looking like they are too busy to put on decent clothing. I've mumbled under my breath about these women, but tonight I am one of them. I laugh out loud at my own irony and fasten my seat belt.

*   *   *

I have no idea what's showing when I enter the theater, but just the smell of being close to my acting cohorts unbuttons me out of my mommy suit and connects me to my higher self. The me who tripped, and then fell head over heels in love with acting while watching the very first episode of
A Different World
. That late '80s sitcom was my rock, my sword, and my shield through my teenage years. If Hillman College had really existed, I would have gone there for my undergraduate degree. Every Thursday, I would tape the latest episode, then watch the show until I mastered every character's part and memorized the entire show. I was obsessed with imitating Whitley Gilbert, the southern belle with all of her daddy's money at her disposal. I drove Gran crazy because I made her sit and be my audience. This is what convinced her to come up with the money to send me to the acting camp at The New Freedom Theater on Broad Street the summer before my senior year.

I remember how I ran around asking my acting teacher, Ms. Diane, how to get an agent. I was ready to throw my wings in the sky and fly toward Hollywood, but she just looked me over and said, “Learn your craft first. Study acting. Don't just imitate what you see, feel it.”

*   *   *

It's not until I'm in line that I decide on a film about a woman, played by Nicole Kidman, who has an affair. It starts in eight minutes. Perfect timing. I shove my ticket into one of my breast pockets and head for the almighty concession stand. Nachos smothered in cheese and jujubes will make everything all better. With my goodies in hand and my mind two-stepping over what's stashed in my purse, I make a beeline to the theater. And then I hear my name called. It's Monday night. No one I know should be cracking at the seams but me.

I spin on my sneakers and see Monroe McKenzie, president of the Dames and Culture Club. Just my freaking luck. I plaster some remnants of something I hope says pleasant to see you and move in her direction. Monroe looks dazzling in a spring pink suit and over-the-top pumps. Her cherry-blond hair is pulled into a side bun, and her cheeks are round and plum. Under normal circumstances it would be great seeing Monroe. As an artist, Dames and Culture is the club that I've been wishing myself into with obsessive osmosis for the past two years, but they haven't even given me so much as a finger wave. Membership is restricted to women who have distinguished themselves in art, music, literature, philanthropy, or just enough wealth that none of the above matters. It's an invitation-only club and Monroe, with her perfectly painted red lips, can unlock the door with her key. I push my shoulders back and pretend that I am not standing in the middle of the movie theater dressed like the cleaning lady.

“Felicia Lyons, is that you?” her tiny eyes disappear altogether when she smiles. I touch my frizzy hair with my free hand as if to confirm it is still in a frazzled snatched back. My lips smack against each other in search of moisture. I could have at least remembered to put on some damn lip gloss before I got out of the car.

“Are you here alone? What's going on with your hair?” she grabs a loose strand and flips it back, grinning.

I shift my goodies to the side. “Yes, alone. Just catching a breather.”

“Well, I'm glad I ran into you. I have a favor to ask.”

I look at her.

“Rumor has it that you are a celebrated actress.”

I wouldn't exactly say “celebrated,” but the compliment remedies her flicking of my hair. White girls should really know better.

“As you may or may not know, the Dames' annual fund-raiser is in three weeks and I'm the chair. We call it the Afternoon of the Arts. We have our headliner. Are you familiar with Audra McDonald?”

“Am I?” My mouth gapes open.

“I figured you would be. Well, she's the headliner.” Monroe claps her hands. “It is such a coup to have her. I've been working with her manager for over two years to secure her.”

“That's amazing. I saw her on Broadway a few years ago and she's just awesome.”

“Tickets are practically sold out. Now we just need to fill in with our supporting cast. I've already contacted an opera singer, cellist, and a modern dance group. What's missing is a dramatic interpretation of some sort.”

“Are you asking me to perform?” My doe eyes widen, revealing too much glee, but Monroe continues on as if she hasn't noticed as she runs down the business.

“Proceeds will go to the underserved girls at Cross River High. We are trying to extend their library by two thousand square feet and put in a media center. What's the commercial you had running? Bounty?”

“Bounce fabric softener,” I say, letting it roll slowly off of my tongue. It's the one thing that people know about me because it ran during the Super Bowl. That was more than two years ago, and I haven't booked a job since. My agent doesn't even call regularly because I missed so many auditions after Liv was born. I'm still ten pounds over my headshot picture weight and can't remember the last time I had my mane colored and cut. But I'm about to work on some changes. Felicia Lyons is making a comeback.

“We need something funny, of course,” Monroe continues on, like she's reading a checklist from her clipboard. “Needs to resonate with the two hundred and fifty women in the audience, something to which we can all relate.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Great. I'll put your name on our nomination ballot and be in touch with more details.”

My face slips.

Monroe pats her lips. “Darling, the Dames vote on everything. But with your celebrated accomplishments, you shouldn't have a problem.”

“Sounds good.” I take a step back.

Monroe turns on her heels and gives me that toothpaste grin. “Ciao, darling, and be careful eating all of those nachos,” she says with a wink.

Not at all what I was expecting when I stormed out of my house today, and my mood improves a bit. The theater is half empty and I let my mind wander over the excitement of performing for the Dames. Perhaps this could be my ticket in. An incredible show could earn me the coveted purple and yellow pin. The pin I'd never take off. The pin that would finally elevate me to …

Girl, please, the Dames are not letting you in their posh little club. Not with your history
, the
damn voice
interrupts my happy thoughts, and as usual I hate her logic, reason, and timing.

I sink lower into my seat, dipping a salty nacho into the warm cheese and then shoving it into my mouth. My cell phone vibrates from inside of my purse and I see Preston's name flash across the screen. I send the call to voice mail.

The Dames will see right through this little facade you've created and see you as the fake that you are. You are a wannabe. Always have been and always will.
She cackles.

My knees knock against each other. This is why I liked my happy pills, because just one would have kept her demonic voice away. Just one would have let me enjoy this small moment of victory. Just one would have let the past be forgotten and forgiven and I would have been glad to feel the fake glee. My hand gropes the jujubes.

Nicole Kidman is bent over the sink with her lover's hand in her hair and I will myself to be lost in her story. My sleeve sops the raindrops from my chin and I swallow small sips straight from the bottle.