The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (37 page)

Sincerely,

Paige

Without rereading or overanalyzing, I stuck it in an
envelope and handed it directly to Leon.

Whether Carly believed the sentiment in that letter, I don’t
know. She never responded. I was left to ponder whether the missive actually
reached her through all the bureaucracy and security now surrounding her.
Perhaps her silence meant she’d never received it? Or maybe she had and she was
too emotional, too ashamed to make contact? Other times, I felt certain she’d
read it and it had only fueled her anger. I could almost feel her hating me
from her jail cell. But the gesture of reaching out to my former friend
provided me some solace. Besides, I had expended enough energy on Carly, Karen
and Javier. It was time to focus on me.

I needed to find a hobby—although
hobby
seemed a
rather lackluster term to define what I was looking for. What I craved was a
passion
—something
to expand my mind, broaden my horizons, and nourish my soul! It had to be something
that made me feel like I was living again, a part of the great big world
outside of my kitchen and SUV. Despite the chaos and turmoil of the last few
months, I had somehow managed to learn several hitherto undiscovered truths
about myself. I knew that I treasured my husband and children, but there was an
emptiness inside of me that needed to be filled (and not by some studly barista
or similar). My heart yearned for some type of creative outlet! While my
drawing undeniably sucked, I was not completely without artistic talent. I
needed something, something that was mine alone, completely separate from my
role as a wife and mother.

And then, one ordinary evening, I was making Spencer a pea
butter sandwich for his school lunch. (Yes,
pea
butter: a peanut butter
substitute derived from a moderately tasty form of peas. A child in Spencer’s
class had a severe allergy where she would go into anaphylactic shock if she so
much as smelled peanut butter on a classmate’s breath.) As I smeared the
brownish-green paste onto the bread, my eyes drifted to a vase of candy pink
tulips on the kitchen table. Outside the window, the summer sun was just
setting. Its final, deep orange light streamed into the room, illuminating the
vibrant blooms and their delicate crystal vase. It was so simple and yet so
beautiful. It stirred me somehow, and I dropped the knife. I felt an intense
desire to capture that image, to preserve it. It was really too bad that I
couldn’t paint or draw.

And in that moment, it struck me: photography! Oh my God!
Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I could do photography! I’d need a camera,
of course. Ours was cheap and outdated. And I’d need to take classes. No more
pointing and clicking for me! I would learn about real photography! I’d take
photos of the children, of the mountains, of the setting sun shining through
the window on a bouquet of tulips! I was going to do it!

And I did. I bought a second hand Pentax and signed up for
classes at a nearby college (the Wild Rose Arts Center was too risky). As my knowledge
of lighting, depth of field and aperture grew, I began to take some pretty
impressive photos. My specialty was extreme close ups: a leaf or a flower petal
cropped to show the intricate and delicate detail of the plant. The children
were another favored subject—or more accurately, their
parts
were:
Chloe’s cherry red lips, Spencer’s boyish hand clutching a daisy, the downy
back of my daughter’s neck… I loved taking photos, I really did. In fact, it
was a love that bordered on a
passion
. God! I had finally found it!

Paul supported my new hobby whole-heartedly. (I think he
realized how much trouble I could get myself into when I was bored.) He made it
home from work in a timely manner when I had a class. For my birthday, he gave
me a newer, more expensive and complicated Pentax. But it was the gift he
bought me for our thirteenth wedding anniversary that really blew me away.

It came in the form of a generic, rather syrupy greeting
card. “For the Woman I Love” the flowery script read, above the hazy image of a
yellow, dew-kissed rose.

“Thanks hon.” I leaned over to kiss him before I’d even
opened it. It was a little cheesy, a tad predictable, but it was still sweet of
him to remember. Besides, I wasn’t expecting anything significant. It was only
our thirteenth, after all.

“Look inside,” Paul said, and for the first time I noticed
his barely contained excitement.

Embossed on the pink parchment paper within was a schmaltzy
poem—something about me making his life complete and how he’d marry me all over
again. Beneath it, my husband had written:

Happy anniversary, Paige!

How would you like to photograph the
kids splashing in the Caribbean? A tropical sunset? Or maybe some Mayan ruins?

We leave in two weeks.

I love you,

Paul

I looked up at my husband and he was positively bursting.
“I’ve booked us ten days in Mexico, on the Mayan Riviera,” he gushed. “It’s a
five-star resort with a great kids’ club so we can have some time alone. There
are daily tours to Chichén Itzá and other historic sites—you know… if you want
to do some photography…”

“Oh my God!” I squealed and jumped into his arms. It was
beyond fantastic! We hadn’t gone on a beach vacation since before Spencer was
born, and after the year we’d endured, we really needed it! Paul and I could
decompress and spend some quality time together! The kids would have a grand
adventure and learn about another culture! We would reconnect as a couple, as a
family! It was going to be great!

And it was… pretty great. Except that we experienced some
turbulence on the flight down, and Chloe puked all over Paul’s left forearm and
leg. Spencer, usually such a fan of throw-up, diarrhea and the like, turned
alarmingly pale. “Are you okay?” I asked him.

“I don’t feel so good,” he responded weakly.

“Let’s go to the bathroom and wash your face.” While Paul
tended to Chloe and himself, I led my ghostly son down the aisle to the
lavatory. “I’ll come in with you,” I offered.

“No,” Spencer insisted. “I want to be by myself.”

“Let me help you, honey.”

“No, it’s too small in there. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not a baby!”

“I know, honey,” I said apologetically, as he stepped
inside. I heard the click of the sliding lock and the little green Vacant sign
turned to red, Occupied. I coached Spencer through the folding door. “Just splash
some water on your face, sweetie… and go to the bathroom if you need to. You’ll
be okay, big guy.” Several minutes later I heard the loud gush of the toilet
flushing. “Wash your hands, love!” I called.

“I’m coming out now!” Spencer called back. I heard the
jiggling of the lock but the rectangle beside it remained red.

“Spencer, come on out.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“When I move the lock, it goes dark in here.”

“I know. The lock’s connected to the light. Just slide the
lock over, and then quickly push on the door.”

“I can’t,” he wailed. “I don’t want to be trapped in a dark
bathroom!”

“You won’t be. It’ll be unlocked. I’ll come in and get you.”

“No! You won’t see me and you might trample me!”

Trample him? What was I, a herd of rhinoceroses? “Spencer,
calm down. I’ll just reach in and grab your arm, okay?”

“No! No! I don’t want to be alone in the dark.”

Paul approached, his left side completely soaked from
sponging off Chloe’s vomit with airplane water. “What’s going on?”

“He won’t unlock the door,” I cried. “He doesn’t want the
light to go off.”

“It’s okay, son,” Paul said, commandingly. “Daddy’s here.
Just slide the lock over and I’ll come in and get you.”

“You’re too big! I’ll be crushed!”

I left to check on our daughter while Paul tried, for
another twenty-five minutes, to cajole Spencer into unlocking the door.
Finally, as we were preparing for our descent, the crew stepped in. They lifted
up a small metal plate beneath the “locked” sign, then slid the latch
underneath to the side. The door opened and, pale and tear-stained, our son was
released. When we finally exited the plane, I was flooded with relief. I was so
happy that I was only mildly bothered by the disdainful looks the flight
attendants gave their most troublesome passengers as we filed past.

Despite its inauspicious beginnings, the rest of the trip
was wonderful. Of course, we each got hit with a case of Montezuma’s revenge—to
a greater or lesser degree. “Don’t eat your ice cubes,” Spencer would wisely
counsel the guests lounging by the pool. “That’s how you get Montezuma’s
revenge. I had it a couple days ago. I got it so bad it was like I was peeing
out of my butt.”

We visited the nearby ruins, me with my new camera in hand,
and reveled in the ancient history of the area. I also took a solo trip to a
local market where I shot the array of brilliantly colored fruits and
vegetables, the deep red chilies drying on racks, and the stacks of terracotta
pots and hand woven baskets. But most of the time, we just hung out… together.
Sometimes, the children went to the kids’ club for the day, leaving Paul and I
to swim, lounge, eat massive quantities, and sip frothy beverages. Other days,
the four of us spent the day in the pool, or at the beach, splashing and
frolicking, leaving only to lunch on hot dogs and French fries.

In the evenings, we put the kids to bed and sat out on the
balcony, enjoying a slushy margarita or a
n ice-cold cerveza
.
Paul and I talked about everything and nothing; the only untouchable subject
was that of Karen’s death and the ensuing madness. And it felt really good to
spend time with my husband again—as a friend,
and
as a lover. Since we’d
been in Mexico, our sex life had picked up dramatically. Oh, it wasn’t wild and
crazy (the children were just in the other room after all) but it was regular,
and loving and special.

On one such balmy evening, Paul and I stayed up late, having
imbibed a few more margaritas than was our norm. We were laughing hysterically
about something inane, falling toward each other in our frenzy, when suddenly,
Paul kissed me. It was a hard, passionate, tongue-thrusting kiss and it took me
by surprise.

“Whoa…” I said, when he finally pulled away.

“I’m so hot for you,” my husband growled, drunkenly. “You
look so beautiful… your tan… your hair… Let’s do it right here, right now.”

“On the balcony?” I tittered. “Are you crazy?”

“Everyone’s asleep,” Paul cajoled. “Come on. Crawl on over
here and sit on my lap. Even if someone’s awake, they won’t even notice.”

“Oh… I don’t know…” It was risky, potentially embarrassing…
and so exciting! I looked at my spouse, who was very handsome and tanned
himself, and I suddenly realized how lucky I was. I had two sweet, healthy
kids, a passion for photography, and a wonderful, caring husband with whom I
was about to have daring and hot balcony sex. God, I had it all, I really did!
Why had it taken so much drama for me to realize it?

“Come here gorgeous,” Paul said, pulling me by the hand. I
had no sooner plunked into his lap when:

“Mom! I peed the bed!”

“Oh no!” I whispered.

“Aw, Spencer,” Paul groaned, “you’re killing me, here.”

I stood up. “I’ll go change the sheets.”

“Naw, I’ll do it,” Paul offered, moving to the sliding glass
door. “You stay here and finish your drink.” He gave me a naughty wink. “I’ll
be right back.”

Leaning back in my lounge chair, I took a sip of my tart,
half-melted beverage and stared out at the darkened palms surrounding the
balcony. A small, self-satisfied smile curled my lips: air sickness,
Montezuma’s revenge, wet sheets… Yeah, I had it all, all right—and I couldn’t
have been happier.

The Journal of Mortifying Moments

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Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

My Parents are Sex Maniacs, a High
School Horror Story

Mom, Will This Chicken Give Me Man
Boobs?

Robyn Harding lives with her husband and two children in
Vancouver, BC. She writes fiction, nonfiction and screenplays.