Dating The Mrs. Smiths

“I would be grateful for that agent’s name and number,” I reminded her cheerfully.

“Oops. Right, sorry.” She’d just finished reciting the information I’d called for when she was interrupted by her husband again, this time because he couldn’t find his cell phone. “Oh, for… I can’t believe they let this disorganized man plan their budget at work! I’d better run, or he’s going to end up missing his flight. You know how husbands are.”

There was a sharp silence, followed by immediate apologies I was too slow to stem. “I am so, so… I shouldn’t have said that, Charlie. Honestly, I don’t know where my head is. The last thing you need is to be reminded… I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Lindsay. Tell Mark I said hi.” On the bright side, I told myself as I hung up, compared to that conversation, telling Rose about the move this afternoon would be a breeze.

Except that hours later, after spending an active day at the park and getting the kids tucked in for a short nap, calling my mother-in-law didn’t seem any easier. Why was this so hard? Because it’ll be real then. This chapter of your life will come to an end.

Then again, once it did, maybe I could move on. Maybe I’d reach a point where my emotions weren’t hovering so close to the surface, like bruises just under the skin, where tiny reminders weren’t around every corner, catching me off guard and evoking a fresh sense of loss. People assured me I’d adjust to the grief; mostly, to my extreme shame, I just wanted it gone. How terrible was it that sometimes I wished I could just forget the man who’d fathered my children and spent half his life with me?

Maybe my guilt was what made talking to his mother even more difficult.

But stalling wasn’t helping anyone. I sat on the sofa with the cordless phone, propping my feet on the coffee table and sinking down in the cushions. Then I made the call.

To say Rose was startled to hear from me would be an understatement. “Yoah stahting to worry me, Chahlie.”

I wondered absently if the kids would one day speak with Bostonian accents.

“So many calls in such a short time!” she exclaimed. “Oh, but you’re probably calling to say thank you.”

Belatedly, I recalled the sunshine-yellow blouse that had arrived yesterday. My own fault that it was too small and, if buttoned across my chest, would probably get me arrested. “Well, yes, thank you for the shirt, but—”

“You don’t like it?”

“Oh, no, it’s, um…bright. Very cheery. I was just going to say that I have an additional reason for calling.”

“Are you unwell? The children?”

When Tom had died, I’d felt I should be the one to tell her. The conversation was a blur to me, except for Dianne taking the phone when I couldn’t get through the words, but the sudden panic in Rose’s voice gave me a moment of déjà vu, a flicker of repressed memory.

“Everybody’s fine,” I rushed to assure her. “Actually, I have good news.”

“This is what you sound like when you’re happy?”

“Well. It’s the kind of news that’s good in the long run but chaotic in the short. The kids and I are moving. To Boston. Kazka is closing the warehouse and offices here and sending me up north.”

“Boston? Why, that’s fantastic! How soon will you be here? I have a friend with a granddaughter just Sara’s age, they’ll get along famously. And there are a couple of private schools we might still be able to get her in, even though the year’s started. Thank God you have plenty of time to put Ben on all the right waiting lists. You’ll just need to—”

“Whoa, slow down!” I hadn’t even told the kids yet, and she’d already yanked them out of the public school system? “I, uh, appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m still feeling a little overwhelmed by the impending move. Just getting there is going to be an ordeal.” I didn’t relish a road trip with toddlers and a German shepherd, but paying for airfare was out of the question. Besides, how else would I get our van to Boston?

“You didn’t breathe a word of this last time we spoke. Were you holding out until you had a definite buyer?”

I meant to tell her that this had all been rather sudden, but instead echoed, “Buyer?”

“When do you close?” she asked. “Did they meet your asking price? I hope you’re not letting yourself get taken advantage of with all kinds of silly demands like recarpeting the place or giving them your washer and dryer.”

I couldn’t imagine anyone actually wanting my laundry set, which dated back to the Paleozoic, but it was all too easy to picture new occupants demanding carpet untouched by kid, Kool-Aid or dog. Thoughts like that were rather cart before the horse, however. I needed people to come see the place before I started worrying about haggling over the contract.

“We haven’t sold the house quite yet.” Or put it on the market, if one wanted to get technical. “But I’m absolutely confident it won’t be a problem.”

“Oh.” Her dubious tone didn’t reflect my confidence, not that I blamed her. Mine was fake, anyway. “Well, I’m sure it will be all right, dear.”

It would be, eventually. After I’d told the kids and we’d all adjusted to the idea. “I’ll keep you updated on the specifics, but I should run now—wake the kids up and figure out what to do for dinner.”

“Goodness, if you let them sleep so late in the day, how on earth do you get them to bed at night?”

I sighed. “Talk to you soon, Rose.” Was it already too late to change my mind about the move?

CHAPTER 3

As I walked down the hall to get the kids, I heard murmurs and rustles from Ben’s room, along with the familiar annoyed cry as he realized he was waking up to a wet diaper. Even that tugged at my heart. I loved my kids so much and I just wanted to make the right decisions. Sometimes when I opened the door, where Sara and I had stenciled his name in animal-themed letters, I felt a jolt of happy anticipation at seeing him, snuggling him close. I knew that as they grew, snuggling opportunities became more rare.

Ben was standing in his crib, holding the cherrywood rails and bouncing slightly as he began chanting “Mmm-a, mmm-a.” Maybe I was finally pulling ahead of the oscillating fan in the “Are you my mother?” race.

Once I had Ben changed, I carried him into Sara’s room and sat on the edge of her twin bed, smiling at the way her dark hair was spread across the Barbie pillowcase. How odd that she could be so feminine and tiny and delicate, yet still look so much like her father. Ben had darker hair than mine, too, but he had my blue eyes, not Sara’s and Tom’s deep brown ones. I gently shook her shoulder. My daughter woke up in stages, and it usually took at least ten minutes before she was alert enough to do more than stare blankly into space and hug her floppy-eared pink-and-white elephant.

When she was more awake, I asked if they wanted to go talk on my bed. About half the time, I keep the baby gate latched in the hall to give Gretchen the back half of the house as refuge from Sara’s attempts to put lipstick on the dog or to make her the horsey in a game of cowgirl. Also, keeping the gate up meant that the children couldn’t breeze into my room whenever they wanted and destroy it in a matter of seconds, like a swarm of locusts dressed in OshKosh. The kids loved the rare treat of cuddling in the master suite on special occasions such as rainstorms, story time, or when I felt whimsical enough to let them jump on the bed for a few supervised minutes.

I’d already lumped the pillows into a mound against the rounded oak headboard, and a blue leather photo album sat on the nightstand. I was hoping visual aids would keep Sara in a positive mindset.

I hugged the kids close. “You like talking to Nonna Rose on the phone, right?”

Sara had enjoyed the Saturday call following the night of the pasta fire. Long-distance charges meant nothing when you were six, and she’d sung her entire repertoire of songs, from “Alice the Camel” all the way to “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” which is Ben’s favorite because he likes to clap along.

My daughter nodded, her face lighting up. “Can we call her again?”

“Even better, wouldn’t you like to see her in Boston?”

“You mean, visit Nonna?”

I wondered if she remembered the trips we’d taken when she was younger. We’d spent the Christmas before Ben was born in Boston but hadn’t been back since.

“More than just a visit, pumpkin. You know how Billy from across the street moved?” The house had promptly been bought by a couple eager to retire here before another Milwaukee winter set in. Would that God sent such retirees my way. “And Mommy explained how people go to new homes sometimes? We could get a house near Nonna.”

“No, thank you, Mommy. We don’t need a new house. I like this one.”

“But I need a new job, Sara-bear. There’s a place where I can go to work there. And lots of fun things for you to do.” I flipped open the photo album in my lap, holding it up so both kids could see the pictures of Rose’s house. “You remember? We had such a good time.”

“Will I get to stay in my class and see Mrs. Bennings every day? Will Callie still get to come over?”

“You won’t see them every day, but maybe we can visit sometimes. And you’ll have a new class, meet lots of new friends.”

Ben was sucking on the side of his hand, taking this with the nonchalance I had anticipated. Unfortunately, Sara was also reacting pretty much the way I’d expected. Her doe brown eyes grew large and her bottom lip quivered. She squeezed Ellie hard enough that I feared for the fuzzy pachyderm’s seams. I’d tried to make new sound exciting—Sara loved new books and new toys and new movies—but she wasn’t buying it.

She scrambled off the bed, her eyes welling with tears. “I don’t want to move. Don’t work anymore, stay home with us. Like you used to!”

The slurping sounds had stopped and Ben looked up with an anxious expression, as if he were trying to calculate where this fell on the uh-oh meter.