Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [3]
Then she squinted up at me and scowled, and I could tell that she wanted to tell me to mind my own stinking business, but she simply shrugged and said,“Yeah, well, they know better than that.”
“But how can you be so—”
“Look, lady, are you from children’s services or something?” She stood up now. Narrowing her eyes, she twisted the lid on her bottle of fingernail polish, then stuffed it into the back pocket of her low-cut and tight-fitting jeans as she peered at me accusingly.
“No, I’m just a neighbor who—”
“Then, butt out? She glanced over at her children, who I felt were playing precariously close to the street just then. “Avery! Warren!” she screeched. “You two get over here right this minute!” Then tossing an angry look my way, she grabbed her children by their scrawny little arms and yanked them, crying and complaining, back into the apartment just below mine.
As I trudged back upstairs, I felt as much like a spoiler as a busybody.
And I had to ask myself, just who am I to tell another mother how to raise her children?
But I suppose I relate to this arrogant young mom in some ways. I remember when I thought I knew it all too, back when I was about her age or slightly older. After all, I’d taught kindergarten for five years before I decided to take time off to start our own family. I felt certain I knew everything there was to know about raising good kids, and what I didn’t know I figured I could easily learn from one of the many parenting books that were already beginning to stack up on my bedside table. Naturally, Geoffrey, pleasantly distracted with his still fledgling law practice, wholeheartedly agreed with me on this. After all, we were intelligent and educated people. We were Christians. How hard could raising children be?
And certainly we’d fare better than our parents. Geoffrey’s biological father had been an abusive alcoholic, abandoning his wife and child while Geoffrey was quite young. Not that Geoffrey ever spoke about this era of his life. What little I knew about it had been learned from his grandmother. And even she rarely spoke of such things. “Some stones are better left unturned,” was her polite way of changing the subject. To be honest, I didn’t really care back then. I suppose I thought what we didn’t know would never hurt us. And I wasn’t particularly proud of my own family, although my parents had managed to keep their marriage intact until I was grown. I later discovered this was mostly “for the sake of the children and church friends,” but by the time the last of us left the nest, my dad, tired of the charade and experiencing what I’m sure must’ve been a midlife crisis, called it quits. My mother, a very religious and somewhat oblivious woman, still tries to act as if this never happened. I suppose it helped her case that my dad died shortly thereafter. I think she considers herself more of a widow than anything. But we don’t talk about that. I suppose both Geoffrey and I come from a long line of denial. We were both experts at concealing anything that made us uncomfortable. As a result we displayed this lovely veneer of comfort and ease while underneath it all we were slowly dying.
Wouldn’t Dr. Abrams be proud of me, I think as I jot down these profound thoughts and observations. I am making real progress. Then the phone rings, and I come completely unglued. It must be Jacob, I think as I strain to listen for the second ring so I can hopefully locate where it is coming from. Like most things in my life, the phone is not where it should be at the moment. I finally realize that the cordless receiver is in my bedroom. I had it with me last night, just hoping my son would call.
I trip over a running shoe that’s in the doorway as I dive onto the bed and grab for the phone. I’m sure my heart rate and blood pressure have risen again.
“Hello?” I say breathlessly, hearing the desperation in my own voice. How I long to hear the voice of my son, to be reassured, once again, that he is still alive.