Shelter Us: A Novel (6 page)

And what of that? What if we’d just done what she wanted, allowed her to celebrate her son’s wedding in the way she wanted, to create for herself images she could rewind and view whenever nostalgia overcame her? Would it have been so awful? Would we have suffered so to dance among her friends at the club, to serve filet mignon and poached salmon, to pose with a tiered fondant cake? Would it have been so terrible for me to allow my father to walk me down the aisle, to say to him, “I forgive you for being the best you could be,” which was so far from good enough? Would we have saved ourselves from her thick disappointment?

Joan never asked our permission to enroll Izzy in Grandma & Me. When she told me she’d registered and paid, her tone dared me to refuse, and—believe me—I fantasized about telling her, “No way, José!” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t fault her for wanting to be near our children. It’s the last chance to visit the best part of her life—when a child wanted her lap, when her kisses healed. And it’s not her I’m doing it for; it’s my kids. I can’t deprive them of their one living grandmother.

As for me, it means one morning a week of solitude, of no one needing me to do or be anything for them. So I give Izzy five hugs and eleven kisses (per his instructions) and watch as he and Joan roll away in her spotless baby-blue Mercedes sedan. One more hurdle stands in the way of my morning alone: Oliver’s preschool drop-off.

Oliver and I arrive at his preschool before the other kids, part of my strategy for a smooth good-bye. Teacher Layla is alone in the cheery classroom, setting out a tub of Legos on a rainbow-colored rug. It is early enough for her to give him attention before the rest of the pre-K kids arrive. The walls are decorated with the children’s brightly painted self-portraits, and Layla has written the kids’ words under their paintings. (She was kind enough to prepare me before I read Oliver’s: “I am Oliver—Ella and Izzy’s brother.”) On the low tables in the center of the room, she has spread out an assortment of wooden puzzles. On a table in the corner are snacks: bananas cut in half, peels on; mini-bagels with cream cheese; green grapes safely sliced.

She greets us with a smile. “Hi, Oliver,” she says, clearing the remnants of sleep out of her voice.

“Hi, Layla,” I answer for him. Oliver looks at the rug. “Look, Oliver. Legos!” I cross the room toward the scattered squares and rectangles, willing Oliver to trail behind me, channeling my command telepathically:
You will sit here and play. You will be content. You will release me without a struggle
. We both grapple with separation anxiety.

He shuffles over to the rug. Layla picks up my cue and sits down
next to him and the Legos. She is wearing stretchy brown pants that show off her young body. White lint sticks to the knees, and by the end of the day there will also be paint, glue, and homemade play-dough on them. Then, I imagine, she’ll go home, nap, shower, and do whatever unburdened twenty-five-year-old women do. Meet friends at clubs. Drink beer and dance.

Oliver is happy to have the Legos and Layla to himself. He sits down on his knees, navy blue sweatpants cushioning the scabs from a fall off the jungle gym last week. He begins to sort the Legos by color. He makes eight piles. White, black, red, yellow, dark green, light green, brown, blue. I begin to relax, because once the sorting begins, Oliver will not focus on anything else until he is finished. After colors will come sizes. Two bumps, then four, six, and eight. Flat pieces, then thick. Narrow pieces, then wide. I also know that Layla will deal with the conflict that will come when another child wants to play Legos, wants to mix all these organized colors and shapes into a cacophony of design. Layla will protect Oliver’s universe, directing other kids to paints or blocks or dress-up clothes, because she gets Oliver. She will protect the ordered world he creates. It may well be the only order in the universe of preschool, and Layla, like most adults, responds to Oliver’s focus.

I crouch next to him. I watch his hands, the dimpled knuckles, the concentration of index finger and thumb picking up a square white brick and putting it next to a smaller, two-holed white one. I put my hand on the floor to keep my balance. I kiss his hair. He wriggles his neck, shoulders, and head to get away from my distracting touch.

“Bye, Mom,” he dismisses me, without looking up.

I lift myself up, look down at him. I’m worried that he won’t remember this hasty good-bye, that after the Lego spell is broken he’ll look for me, see that I’m gone, and feel deserted, bereft. I bend my knees again, my heels slipping out of their tan ballet slippers, and I place my face between Oliver and the Legos. I hold his soft cheeks in my hands. Our eyes lock—connection made. “Good-bye, Oliver. Have a great day. I love you.” I hold his face another moment, then I
lick my thumb and wipe at a smudge of strawberry jam in the crease of his mouth. He shrugs me away.

I stand up again, and my knees pop loudly enough that Layla turns toward the sound. I re-situate my feet in my shoes, walk toward the door that leads to the hallway, and tighten every muscle in my neck in the effort not to look back.

S
afely in my car
, doors locked, seat belt on, I can exhale. Oliver and Izzy are settled and cared for. I turn the ignition and feel the car come alive around my body. I open my window and catch a waft of damp ocean air carried over the cliffs this morning, a sporadic, unpredictable gift from the sea. Sometimes I forget the ocean is so close. I go days without seeing it. I set my cell phone in the cup holder in case anyone needs me. It rarely vibrates.

Ever since I’ve had these Monday mornings alone, I have spent them driving. Two hours roaming with no destination. It’s my little secret. You could diagnose it as a desire for escape. Or maybe just a desire for motion—to be heading somewhere other than where I am—because I always come back. I don’t plan a route. I take the path of least resistance: If a light turns red, I turn right. If a left-turn arrow appears, I turn left.

But today is different. Today I am compelled toward a destination. After that dream, I cannot get the woman and her baby out of my mind. Where did they sleep last night? Are they getting help? What are they doing right now? I drive away from school and twenty minutes later I can see the downtown skyline. The hulking convention center imposes itself center stage in my sightline.

Now what? Do I get off the freeway and look for them? I have no plan, just a bursting feeling in my heart, an inkling of potential. What if things were different? What if we helped strangers in need?
What would it feel like to unreservedly share our bounty? Is it wisdom or cowardice that decrees, “You can’t take homeless people into your home”? As I close in on the Grand Avenue exit, I have to choose if I’m going to look for them, or if I’m going to pass them by. If I am going to break convention, or succumb to it.

The freeway starts to slow. The downtown exit is clogged. Decision time.

I wimp out. I revert to my driving habit, just keep moving. I change into a faster lane and wander north, toward Burbank. I’m disappointed in myself, but not surprised. I’ve never been a rule breaker. Maybe I need a rebellious streak.

The green freeway sign overhead announces Griffith Park, and I remember the last time we took Oliver and Izzy for a carousel ride there: the calliope music, the delight on their faces, my cheek muscles sore from so much smiling.

The next green exit sign snuffs all that out. Forest Lawn Drive. The place they are buried, my daughter and my mother. I am ambushed. I don’t usually come this way.

When Ella died, my every instinct was to keep her close. How could she be so far away from the rest of us? I envied early pioneer families who buried their dead in nearby woods. But cities have always buried their dead on the outskirts. In LA, you have to consider rush-hour traffic to visit a grave.

I don’t want to be here now, but I can’t ignore them. I drive up to the cemetery entrance, its gaudy flourish and fountains. I don’t understand why they bother with these embellishments. Does anyone ever feel good here? They should decorate it with stripped cars, rusted metal and busted tires. It should be hideous. I open my window for a clearer view. There is no breeze, no clouds softening the sun.

When Oliver first asked me where Ella went after she died, I could not bear to say, “In a box in the ground.” I pretended to believe in heaven. I told him there was a special place in heaven for children. Set apart from the rest of the expansive sky, it was reserved for tender new arrivals. Nice teenagers who had died too soon acted like camp
counselors, taking care of the younger ones. This corner of heaven had everything a child could want: endless art supplies, toys, basketball hoops. Swings and slides and sandboxes. Unlimited cookies and cupcakes. Glistening red strawberries and watermelon. The sweet vegetables—carrots and corn—but no broccoli or brussels sprouts. There were skateboards and scooters and roller skates, and smooth sidewalks with no tree roots to interrupt a glide. Boogie boards and gentle waves that unfolded gracefully at the shore. Libraries filled with books with no due dates. The children played there until their parents came for them. When they did, they played together all day, every day. There were no cell phones or e-mails or meetings. They made up for lost time.

I can see all the way up the hill, to the tree that shades their graves, the grass dotted with fallen pink blooms. It is some comfort to think of my mother and my daughter together. I think of the things neither got to do. The songs my mother might have sung to her, the braids she might have plaited, the stories she might have spun.

I don’t know how long I’ve been idling at the entrance to the cemetery when the guard asks, “Are you coming in today, Mrs. Shaw?”

I shake my head. “Not today.” Time’s up.

I
arrive late
at Oliver’s school without remembering having gotten here. That always worries me. Layla is kind enough not to show her frustration. People let me get away with things.

Most people. Joan delivers Izzy home and promptly leaves. We fill the hours of the afternoon. Sidewalk chalk drawings, snack breaks, stubbed toes, toy car races, admonitions to take turns, and lots and lots of books. Oliver hands me
Fox in Socks
, and the boys try to repeat after me. In Izzy’s mouth, “socks on Knox and Knox in box” becomes “box box box box fox fox fox.” I trip up Oliver with “quick trick brick stack” and “quick trick chick stack.” In the home stretch, I dramatically run out of breath so I can hear them share a giggle fit, my most reliable anti-depressant.

For dinner I make us what’s in the pantry—pasta—and wonder if the homeless woman and baby are eating tonight. I empty the spaghetti into the colander, lean forward, close my eyes, and let the steam coat my face—my no-frills facial—and I say a silent prayer of gratitude for this box of pasta, the pot filled with clean water, the stove that made it boil, and the table we will sit at. I fill three bowls and announce, “Dinner.”

Robert calls to say good night to the boys; he won’t be home until late. I clear the dishes and corral them upstairs. In the bath they ask for more and more toys, until the water’s surface is packed with sea animals and pirate boats. My sleeves get soaked trying to wash all
their moving parts. I try to coax them out of the tub with smiles, then tricks, then threats, but it’s no use. It’s too warm and weightless in there. My mom used to let me play for a long time, saying, “Call me when you’re ready to wash your hair.” My favorite toy was my Fisher-Price boat. I would make the captain climb the spiral staircase and dive off the blue plastic diving board into the opaque, sudsy, warm ocean. Then I’d lie back, soak my hair, and let the water cover my ears so I could hear only the trickling of water escaping down the drain. Eventually I’d sing for my mother to come wash my hair. “Mom-my . . . Mom-my . . . Mom-my.” I sang extra loud when I heard her talking on the phone.

When she came in, the cool hallway air entered the warm bathroom with her. She poured yellow Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo in her hands and coated my long hair with lather. Before I let her wash it out, she had to admire my various bubbly hairstyles, from Princess Leia to George Washington. I don’t remember how she got me out of the tub. Maybe she just let me stay until the water got cold.

Thinking of her, I am reminded to appreciate the moment. I pause my agenda of getting my sons to bed and try to be right here. I sit on the closed toilet and watch them. Oliver’s body is more than halfway through the transformation from baby to child. Izzy’s toddler feet are still puffy as dinner rolls. After a few minutes, they notice me staring at them. My quiet watching causes them to enter some kind of trance and stand up. Without breaching the silence, I reach for their towels, help them step out, wrap their bodies, and keep them warm.

When they are naked, clean, and damp, the trance breaks and they burst out of my arms and run toward their room. Again the woman and her baby appear in my head, as though to taunt me:
You have so much. You have warm beds for your children. New pajamas. Clean sheets
. I read them one last book on Oliver’s bed.
Goodnight moon. Goodnight light and the red balloon
. I lift Izzy into his crib, kiss them both, and turn off the light. I sit in the rocker between the bed and the crib and wait for them to fall asleep. Soon I hear Izzy’s slow, deep breaths, an occasional rumble from his nose. Oliver lies
still, but I can tell from the absence of snores from his direction that he’s awake.

“Will you lie down next to me, Mommy?” he asks. I do. I take long, deep breaths, trying to model relaxation for him. I try to concentrate on sleepy thoughts, try to put the memory of the woman feeding pieces of Oliver’s sandwich to her child out of my mind. I curl around Oliver, remembering the place he used to fit between my chest and arm when, as an infant, he nursed in my bed.

I am hovering between waking and sleeping when Oliver’s soft voice opens my eyes. “Who puts the last bones away, Mommy?”

I think I must have dreamed the question. What does that even mean? I don’t know what to say, so I wait, hoping he’ll elaborate.