Spy Mom
Authors: Beth McMullen
For Mike
I know I'm not crazy. I know this because it said so in my file, which I stole out of Director Gray's office on a drunken dare from a guy who eventually disappeared in Somalia. Somewhat emotionally detached, the file said, and loose with the truth, yes, but in the eyes of the Agency, these were positive attributes. A red star at the top of the file corresponded to a note stuck to the inside cover.
Refer to Simon?
the note said. The question mark has always troubled me. They were never sure I could cut it.
So how to explain what I'm doing right now. Gardening? Searching for a lost contact lens? Seeing if there is a stranger crawling around under my shrubs waiting to sneak into my house and strangle me with a length of piano wire?
It is Tuesday morning, the San Francisco sun is shining and the fog is starting to recede back toward the ocean. It's as regular as any other morning except that on this morning rather than sitting at my kitchen table sipping a scalding cup of coffee, here I am in the backyard crawling around on my knees under the juniper trees, muttering to myself like one of the local shopping-cart pushing, bottle-collecting loonies.
“There is no evidence here,” I whisper. I am holding tightly to a brightly painted set of Matryoshka dolls, shaking them as if to make a point to my invisible audience. If I were really thinking, I would have picked up the cast-iron frying pan, still warm from this morning's pancakes. Cast iron is generally accepted to be a better choice of weapon than a bunch of Russian nesting dolls. I continue to crawl forward under the scrubby trees.
“There are no tracks, no shell casings, no cigarette butts or discarded coffee cups. You are simply having a paranoid attack that, most likely, a hit of caffeine will alleviate. Now get up and go back in the house.” Yet from my position here in the garden, I can't help but notice that the palm tree in my perfectly landscaped backyard is situated in just such a way as to allow direct spying in through my kitchen window. Someone with skills could even figure a way into the house from here. How could I not have noticed this?
My neighbor Tom, a British gentleman who always looks slightly past his “use by” date, watches me from his own backyard, a curious expression on his face.
“Problems with the trees, Lucy?” he asks as I crawl out, pulling twigs and needles from my unwashed hair.
“Yes. Well, no, actually. I thought I heard a cat.” Oh please. “It sounded like it was in trouble. Lost maybe?”
“No cats here,” Tom says. He looks left and then right with an exaggerated turn of his bald head. “None that I've seen anyway.”
“Well, thanks for checking. Gotta go. Left a child inside unattended. You know how that can end up.”
Tom stares at me blankly. I guess not. I start to pull the debris from my hair, trying not to look too particularly crazed on this fine morning. And then I see it, off to the side of the back stairs. Five years ago I would have known immediately the height, weight, eye color, and sexual orientation of the owner of this footprint. But today, I am not sure. Is it my husband's footprint, the washing machine repairman, the woman who comes to read the meter? I haven't a clue. But I have that sinking feeling it is not supposed to be here.
I head up the stairs throwing Tom a half-assed wave over my shoulder. I know he is still watching me and will continue to watch me until I disappear into the house. Sometimes I think everyone knows and that I should hang a neon sign outside my bedroom window that says:
YES, YOU ARE ALL RIGHT. THINGS ARE NOT AS THEY APPEAR TO BE
.
I have left Theo for one minute too long. Covered in applesauce, he's trying, with great enthusiasm, to bite the cat's tail. The cat is howling to be let go. Theo is howling in delight. And I swear that not ten minutes ago I heard someone crawling around under my house. But I am not crazy. My file said as much. Tomorrow, however, everything might change.
My name is Lucy Parks Hamilton and in addition to being paranoid, unshowered, emotionally detached, and a liar, I am also a stay-at-home mom. Ten years ago, I would have met the idea that I would be going on playdates and walking around with streaks of snot on my shoulder with absolute indignation. Nowadays it's possible for me to wear the same pair of jeans for seven days in a row and not get too worked up about it.
My son Theo is three. He attends Happy Times Preschool twice a week for three hours. During these long three hours, I could be doing things. I could be folding laundry or shopping for food or writing my autobiography. I could even get a haircut or wash the car. But no. I have to sit where I can see the bright yellow door of the Happy Times Preschool. And that happens to be by the windows at the third table to the left in the Java Luv, a small coffee shop across the street and about half a block away from the school. The folks at the Java Luv are all very pleasant and are in complete agreement with one another that I'm a little weird. Or perhaps a lot weird.
“Good morning, Lucy,” the barista, a guy named Leonard covered in spiderweb tattoos, greets me. “Read any good books lately?” He laughs because it's become something of a joke. I sit in the same seat at the same table and do nothing more than stare out the window. I never pull out a well-worn best seller or peck away on my laptop or socialize or pick my cuticles or anything. I just sit and watch that yellow door. So I guess they are right about me. Strange.
But I do have a purpose. I am here to make sure that no one goes into Theo's school who does not belong there. I want to know that my son is exactly where he is supposed to be until the moment I can retrieve him. Some people might say I have developed overprotective tendencies. They have not seen what I have seen.
When Theo and I are together, we spend a lot of time engaged in potty talk to varying degrees.
“Mommy, I have to pee. I have to pee NOW,” he'll shout at the top of his lungs.
“But honey, we went not ten minutes ago. Can we at least finish getting our groceries and go to the potty after that? Again?”
“I go right here,” he'll announce and squat down on the ground of whatever unfortunate store I've chosen to patronize on that day.
“Okay, let's go. Let's hurry!”
After a dozen such close calls, I discovered my son is simply a potty tourist, interested in visiting potties the world over. Let me tell you, it gets old pretty fast.
When we're at home and not crowded into the restroom du jour, we read Dr. Seuss.
The Cat in the Hat, Green Eggs and Ham, Horton Hears a Who
. Lately, in my head, everything is conducted in a pleasant ultra-violent singsongy Seussian.
Is there a door in that store?
A big door.
A big purple door.
Go through the big purple door in the big store and perhaps on the other side you will meet a s'more all covered in red gore.
And so on. My brain is atrophying. I can feel it. But I'm not entirely sure how to stop its slow slide into mush.
We sing. I can sing “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” in several different keys and octaves. Occasionally I'll throw out a verse in Urdu or Czech or Tagalog for practice. Yes, Theo looks at me funny, but I'm willing to bet I'm the only mom in the 'hood who can do so.
It turns out I am a fabulous multitasker, at least in my own mind. I can dress Theo with one hand and arrange playdates with the other. I can simultaneously shower, play cowboys and horses, tie shoes, and make scrambled eggs. Occasionally the shoes end up in the eggs. Or in my hair. But nobody's perfect, right?
