The Burning Side(62)
Rachel stays for a cup of coffee, and I’m tempted to ask whether Cameron decided to get tested. But it isn’t my place. Such an awful part of being a mother when things having to do with my own children aren’t my place. Instead, we talk about our respective wedding dances. It’s another reason I didn’t want a wedding: my dad wouldn’t have been there to dance with me. But now at least I’ll get to dance with my son.
Rachel thanks me again for the coffee and alteration. She puts her mug in the dishwasher, turning it to align with the others. Then she’s off to meet Cameron at Hudson House for an early lunch, and I go to find Billy, who has given up on the book and turned on ESPN.
“Hey, you,” I say. “Should we get ready?”
He grins, puffing out his chest. He has not forgotten the leopard-print shirt.
* * *
An hour and a half later, the two of us take our seats in the center orchestra section of the Music Hall at Fair Park, holding hands atop the plush green armrest. Playbills rest on our laps as the house lights go down.
Stage lights rise like a jungle sun, the orchestra cues that familiar opening line, and giant animals of the Savannah begin to make their entrances from behind us. We turn to watch them parade down the aisles, and my jaw drops. I knew what was coming, but I wasn’t prepared for how grand and impressive it would be. When Billy spots Josie, he pats my arm excitedly. How many times we’ve done the excited parental arm pat when our kids have appeared on a stage or sports field over the years.
It’s not that I’m not proud of Josie. It’s just that she centers her whole life around this, and I worry. But I let that worry fade to the background as we applaud the costumes and sheer marvel of the human body, the human voice.
After the curtain, we go backstage as Jo removes her makeup. Her friends stop by the dressing room and enthusiastically approve of Billy’s shirt with things like, “Get it, Dr. Russo!” He undoes not one, but two top buttons.
Eventually, we squeeze Josie goodbye. She’s staying to steam her throat before the evening show. On the drive home, Billy turns on the soundtrack and asks which characters we would be.
“I’d like to be Sarabi, but realistically I’d probably be—”
We both say “Zazu” and laugh.
Billy says, “I’d want to be Mufasa, but I’m definitely not cool enough. Maybe Pumbaa?”
I laugh. “Or Rafiki?”
He considers. “I’ll take Rafiki.” He sings along with the soundtrack, grunting a few times like a jungle animal. I assume he’s being funny until I glance over and notice his discomfort.
“You all right?”
“Stomachache.”
But he still sings about the circle of life, remembering more lyrics than I do. I commit the moment to memory. I want to keep the mundane, the ugly, the off pitch, the whatever. I want all of it, all of him. He belts out some incorrect Zulu, and I smile.
When we get home, he goes to take a nap, and by the time I change out of my dress, he is snoring. The grandkids are in Argyle, and only April is here, flipping absently through my playbill when I return to the kitchen.
She glances up. “Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
I panic that she might have found the Greenwood Hills paperwork.
I make a plate of crackers, pear, and smoked Gouda, and we sit down at the table. She grabs a cracker and asks, “Will you tell me about the start of your marriage? It’s hard to believe it was ever bad, seeing you two come in singing ‘Hakuna Matata.’?”
Oh. I chuckle. This.
“Well.” I force myself to think back. “It was bad, and that’s God’s honest truth.”
It’s hard to trace how we got from A to B to C. Hard to remember the sincere desperation at the start now that it has passed. But this is important to April, so I try.
I tread carefully as I recount the harder memories that include her. Though whenever I hesitate, she says, “I want to know. Please.”
So I tell her about the surprise pregnancy, the day of our “union,” the ensuing fights and silences and feelings that life was over. It hurts to recount it all, but April is hanging on to every word. We had many heart-to-hearts at this same table during her teen years, and she has always been my hardest child to read. Looking down to pair a cracker with a slice of Gouda, she says, “But now you love him.”
“Now I do.” In the spirit of honesty, I add, “He still infuriates me sometimes. But yes”—warmth blooms in my chest—“I love him more than life.” This, I don’t tell her, hurts almost as much as when I didn’t.
She is quiet through a few more bites, so I ask, “Is everything moving along with everything?” I grimace at myself. I don’t know what questions to ask about the divorce.
“Not really.” She shrugs. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“It’s like Leo and I were different people when we got married. And we can’t go back to those people, but we also can’t move on from them.” She shakes her head. “I can’t explain it.”
I lay my hand on hers. “I understand.”
“Really?”
“Definitely.” It strikes me now what a disservice it was to hide our imperfections from our kids. We presented a false picture of our life. I say again, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this sooner.”