Seven Year Switch Part 4

She took a few steps in the direction of her house, then stopped and turned around. "Oh, wait," she said. Her hand was still on her forehead, as if she had a serious headache. She wasn't the only one. "First I have a couple of tiny calls to make, and then I'll be right back."

As soon as Cynthia was out of sight, I went into my kitchen to call Seth. There was no way around it. They might eventually knock my railings down, but all the karate kicks and power tools in the world couldn't change the fact that my daughter needed her father, and I had no choice but to let him back into our lives.

8.

WE WERE HEADING FORMEHICO. ALL FIFTEEN WOMEN AND three men gathered around the ancient kitchen, watching me unload my grocery bags, as if I were about to pull a rabbit out of my hat.

"Today," I said, "we'll be celebrating Cinco de Mayo."

"But it's only Tres de Mayo," Ethel said. She was wearing a wild salmon-colored sweat suit that worked well with her I ove Lucy hair. She'd drawn thick orange lips over her much thinner ones, and I couldn't stop looking at the places where she'd colored outside the lines.

"Close enough," T-s.h.i.+rt Tom said. Not that he could see it through the fingerprints on his gla.s.ses, but today's s.h.i.+rt read wish you were beer. I had to admit I kind of agreed with the sentiment. Maybe I should have tried to smuggle in some Dos Equis, to take the edge off while keeping the cla.s.s culturally accurate.

I took a quick peek at the doorway, then pulled my attention back to the group.

"Cinco de Mayo," I continued as I placed a measuring cup on the pitted counter, "celebrates the victory of the historic battle of 1863 between Mehico and France. The holiday is a symbol of Mexican pride and unity, and it includes lots of fun festivities."

I reached into a large plastic bag and pulled out a pinata.

"Oooh," the whole cla.s.s said in one big breath.

The pinata was a tricolored papier-mache donkey. To make up for the fact that I'd ordered it online from Oriental Trading, I told the group that the origin of the pinata dates back to centuries before the arrival of the first Spanish explorers on Mexican soil, and that Mexican Indians made pinatas from fragile earthenware jars painted to look like favorite G.o.ds.

It was a beautiful spring day. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the kitchen, but I couldn't seem to keep warm. I rubbed my hands together and took another quick glance at the empty doorway. As soon as Anastasia had left for school this morning, I'd jumped into the shower. For some ridiculous reason, I'd even shaved my legs and taken the time to slather on copious amounts of Vaseline Intensive Care.

I'd put on a white T-s.h.i.+rt and a gauzy navy skirt with an embroidered lace hem I'd bought on clearance two years ago at Anthropologie, not because I was dressing up, of course, but because my legs were too sticky for pants. I glanced down now and saw a big glob of lotion between two toes. I bent down and tried to rub it away.

They watched my every move. "Don't we look pretty today, honey," Ethel said when I finished rubbing. "New boyfriend?"

I could feel myself blush. I flipped my hair out from behind my ears and caught the scent of my Suave Tropical Coconut Shampoo.

"Authentic Mexican corn tortillas," I said, "are made with a specially treated corn flour called masa harina." I hadn't been able to get my hands on fresh masa, which needs to be used right away, but I'd found some dried masa at the third supermarket I tried.

Making tortillas from scratch turned out to be a lot harder than it sounded. We added water to the masa harina and made dough, then divided the dough into small b.a.l.l.s. I picked one up and flattened it with a rolling pin on a cutting board sprinkled with more masa. I peeled it off and tried to maneuver the paper-thin circle into one of the prehistoric skillets that had been heating on the stove.

The knuckles of both hands grazed the bottom of the skillet. "s.h.i.+t," I yelled, as I threw the tortilla-to-be up in the air.

Several women went into Florence Nightingale mode and circled around me.

"Are we in Italy now?" T-s.h.i.+rt Tom said. "Get it? Pizza?"

Good thing I'd brought store-bought tortillas for backup. The cla.s.s kicked into gear while I ran my hands under cold water.

One of the women sc.r.a.ped my aborted tortilla off the counter and started rolling out another masa ball. The others divided into groups. I'd found fresh asparagus on sale and steamed it last night, so one group cut it into one-inch pieces and added goat cheese and chopped cilantro. Another group shredded cooked chicken and mixed in black beans and tomato.

Ethel and her friends tore open the bags of Trader Joe's Lite Mexican Blend shredded cheese, and another woman snipped open the packets of Wholly Guacamole. The cla.s.s formed a long line and took turns spooning ingredients onto the tortillas. Then they moved on to the other frying pans, working quickly and efficiently, as if they'd been working together at a quesadilla factory most of their lives.

"I got one!" the woman attempting to make tortillas finally yelled. She flipped her masa-made tortilla onto a paper plate and held it up for everyone to see. The cla.s.s applauded, even though it was shaped like an amoeba and riddled with holes.

I turned off the water and blotted my hands carefully with scratchy brown paper towels. They might be good for the environment, but they sure were a b.i.t.c.h on your blisters. I opened the bag of a.s.sorted candy and started stuffing the pinata. The early eaters came over to help me. When we finished, I stood on a chair and hung the donkey from one of the dusty fluorescent lights in the middle of the room, trying to ignore my throbbing hands.

After everybody finished eating and we packed up the leftovers, we formed a circle around the pinata. Each of the students took a blindfolded turn whacking at the donkey with the handle of a broom, while everybody else jumped out of the way.

I wondered what the liability issues were for giving weapons to blindfolded seniors.

"Take this, you a.s.s," Ethel yelled when it was her turn.

Everybody cheered. A few of the women did the Macarena while Ethel whacked away.

Eventually we made it around the circle, pinata still intact.

"Your turn, Jill honey," a nice woman named Bev said.

I was an expert. Anastasia had had a pinata at all ten of her birthday parties, even when it was handmade and only the two of us. I felt for the donkey with the point of the broom handle, then traced my way up and down the length of its body until I found the soft spot.

I jabbed upward, merely grazing my target. I readjusted the angle of the broom handle. I remembered the first pinata I'd barely managed to hang by myself after Seth had taken off. With each pa.s.sing year, I'd become more proficient. I was strong. I was invincible.

I let out a roar and thrust upward as hard as I could. Hard candy rained down on my head, surprisingly painful.

"Whoa, baby," T-s.h.i.+rt Tom said. Somebody whistled. The cla.s.s broke into cheers and applause.

When I pulled off my blindfold, Seth was standing in the doorway.

Ethel reached for my broomstick, as if she were afraid I might ride off on it. "I knew it was a boyfriend," she whispered through her orange lips.

"SEE YOU NEXT WEEK," I called, in what I hoped was a peppy, optimistic voice.

"Where are we going next time?" T-s.h.i.+rt Tom asked, probably so he could choose a coordinating s.h.i.+rt.

"You'll have to wait and see-eee," I managed to say, though I could feel the words sticking in my throat.

Just about everyone stopped to bend down and grab a handful of candy on the way out the door. Too late, I remembered the paper lunch bags Anastasia had helped me paint in bright fiesta colors to use as candy bags.

A few of my students stopped to talk to Seth as they pa.s.sed him.

"Nice to meet you, honey," Bev said, even though she hadn't.

"You, too," Seth said.

Ethel fluffed her orange hair as she walked by. "Take good care of our Jill."

"She's a real catch, that one," T-s.h.i.+rt Tom said. One of his sidekicks nodded.

"Mmm," Seth said noncommittally.

When the last student was gone, I glanced in his direction, keeping my eyes just to the side of his face.

"Sit," I said.

Seth sat. He chose a place way down at the opposite end of the long rickety table, about as far away from me as he could possibly get, not counting Africa.

I took my time picking up the last of the candy. Finally, I stood up and actually looked at him. His hair was still long, but it had been recently cut. He was wearing dark dress pants and a white b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt with sage green pinstripes. And shoes, s.h.i.+ny leather ones that tied and everything.

I took a moment to blow on my blistering knuckles.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I looked at him. "A little late to be asking that, don't you think?"

He took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the table. "Okay, let's get it over with," he said. "Just say it. All of it. Get it all out."

"Right," I said. "You take off for seven years, I yell at you for seven seconds, and we're even."

He stared at me with flat eyes. "Then tell me what you want me to do. Whatever it is, I'll do it."

I wanted him to find a way to rewind the last seven years, to make it all go away. I wanted to wake up together on a lazy weekend morning in our old apartment, with the most beautiful little three-year-old in the world. I wanted to curl up in bed together and read the Sunday paper, while Anastasia colored all over the comics with her new fat crayons.

Seth was the official weekend breakfast cook, so eventually he'd get up and make pancakes on the secondhand griddle we'd found at a flea market. Not just any pancakes, but pancake works of art. For Anastasia, it might be pancake circles linked together to create Minnie Mouse ears, with sliced banana eyes and a frozen blueberry smile. Maybe a big pancake heart for me, covered in blueberry b.u.mps. Seth was endlessly creative, and the best part of breakfast was not knowing whether he'd come back with a family of pancake dinosaurs or a bouquet of pancake flowers.

"Good job, Daddy," Anastasia would say, and we'd all dig in. Eating breakfast in bed with a toddler was a messy proposition, but blueberry-stained sheets seemed a small price to pay for mornings like that.

What I wanted, what I really, really wanted, was for Seth to find the place and the time-the exact moment-right before he decided to leave us. Then I wanted him to make a different decision, so we could still be a family, and I wouldn't have to hate him for the rest of my natural life.

I looked down at the blisters on my knuckles. Anastasia was ten, and my hands were already starting to look old. I turned one hand over and found what I thought might be my life line. About halfway across my hand, it broke off completely. There was only a small, unbroken s.p.a.ce before a new line picked up, but I wasn't sure I had it in me to take the leap of faith to get there.

My eyes filled up. I looked up at the ceiling to keep the tears from spilling out. I wished Seth dead. Just for a second, and not enough to impale him on a broomstick like the a.s.s that he was, but with all my heart, my entire bruised and broken heart. It was the only solution I could think of. Short of widow-hood, there was simply no way to keep Seth out of my life and still be a good mother.

I blinked until the tears were gone.

I lowered my head and cleared my throat. "Okay," I said. "This is what I want you to do. I want you to visit your daughter. I want you to do it exactly when and where I tell you to, and I want you to be precisely on time. And if you ever miss a single visit or let her down in any way..."

I looked him right in the eyes, trying to see into his soul.

"...I promise you, Seth, I'll hunt you down. And this time I swear to G.o.d I'll kill you."

He looked at me for a long time.

"Got it," he finally said.

9.

"WOW," BILLY SAID. " NICE JOB." HE POINTED TO THEthat was centered in red at the top of the card. "What does that mean?"

I flipped the card over and held it so he could see. bicycle rentals it said in red in the exact same place.

I handed him the card. His hand brushed mine just before I let go, and I felt a little shock that must have been static electricity. My hair probably had little flyaway pieces sticking straight up, too. I smoothed it down with both hands, just in case.

Billy turned the card over again and traced his finger along the" Bicycle rentals," he said. "Cool. How do you p.r.o.nounce it?"

"Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru," I said.

"Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru," he repeated.

His racc.o.o.n eyes met mine, and I felt the same little electrical current charging the air between us. It was hard to tell whether I was actually attracted to him or whether that saying about a woman without a man being like a fish without a bicycle was just plain wrong. Maybe there's always a little jolt when female electricity comes in close proximity to male electricity that is even close to the same frequency. Did electricity have frequency? If the man already has a bicycle, does the woman get stuck with the fish? Did other people have these crazy, off-topic thoughts when they were supposed to be working?

"Re-n-ta-sa-i-ku-ru," Billy said again. "Am I saying it right?"

"Perfectly," I said.

"Come with me to j.a.pan," he said.

Apparently I wasn't the only person having crazy, rambling thoughts. I burst out laughing.

He shook his head. "Here we go again."

I totally lost it. I couldn't seem to stop laughing.

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you do this often?"

"Sorry," I said. "I'm really sorry. I never do this." I reached for a napkin and wiped my eyes. "I can't even remember the last time I really laughed."

"Well, that's too bad. It certainly becomes you."

"Thank you," I said, not because I necessarily believed him, but because it was the most professional way to respond to a compliment. I took a sip of my cappuccino.

He took a sip of his. It left a frothy mustache, as if he'd just signed for a Got Milk? commercial. When he wiped it off, I kind of missed it.

"What?" he said.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"Okay, back to j.a.pan. I think it's a perfectly reasonable idea for you to come with me. You know the culture, you speak j.a.panese...."

"Ha," I said. "'Good morning,' 'good afternoon,' and 'bicycle rental,' which by the way, I found on the Internet. Maybe five other words if I'm lucky. That's worth a plane ticket to Tokyo?"

I reached into my folder and placed the invoice on top of the box of business cards. "Okay," I said. "The business cards will be extremely important for establis.h.i.+ng your credentials in j.a.pan. Once we find the go-between, we'll have him double-check these just to be sure they're perfect."