Left Neglected Part 13

"You look like Minnie Pearl."

"I do not."

The price tag is even dangling over the side of the brim.

"Fine. You look crazy."

"I have one just like this I wear to my Red Hat events."

She takes the hat off her head and twists it around in her lap, admiring it from every angle. She then smells the fake flowers, returns it to her head, c.o.c.ks it to the side, and smiles at me as if to say, What about now? Yup, it's a hat made for a crazy lady.

"You really didn't get anything else?"

She gives me an apologetic shrug instead of an answer and holds up the other two options-a brown leather cowboy hat and a neon-pink ski hat.

"I felt rushed. It's always chilly in here, so I thought the fleece hat would be good, and Bob has some country music CDs in the car, so I thought you might like that style."

I wonder what could possibly have been her reasoning behind the Minnie Pearl. Because she thought I might be just like her? I'm too afraid of that answer to ask.

"I'll take the pink one."

Minus the fluorescent highlighter color, I'll at least feel like me in a fleece ski hat. Bob and I both love to ski. Bob's family owned a condo in North conway, New Hamps.h.i.+re, and they used to spend every weekend from December to April on the slopes of Att.i.tash and Cranmore. His happiest childhood memories are of racing his older brothers down a mountain. I, on the other hand, grew up on Cape Cod where the biggest hills are sand dunes, and we never vacationed over the bridge. I didn't discover skiing until I went to Middlebury College in Vermont, where it's practically part of the core curriculum.

My first day on skis was a painful, frozen, and exhausting lesson in humiliation, and the only reason I mustered up the courage to endure another day of pure torture was because I'd purchased a weekend ticket and wanted to get my money's worth. I had no real expectation of improving, never mind enjoying it. But on that second day, a miracle happened. Somehow my clumsy limbs knew where to go and when to go there, and down I went-on my skis and not on my bottom. And I've loved skiing ever since.

Bob and I bought our house in Cortland, Vermont, the year after we bought our house in Welmont. The additional mortgage payment has kept us from being able to afford a bigger house with an additional bedroom in Welmont, which we need if we ever hope to hire a live-in nanny, but it's been well worth the sacrifice. During the winter months, when we go from house to car to office and back again, and the air inside all of those places is overheated, recycled, and contaminated with flu virus, skiing on the weekends means two full days of breathing fresh, healthy mountain air. And during those winter months, when we go from house to car to work and back again, we sit. We sit in traffic, sit at our desks, sit through meetings, and sit on the couches with our laptops on our laps. We sit every waking hour of the day until we're too mentally exhausted to sit for one more second.

When we go to Vermont, we slide our feet into boots, pop our boots into bindings, and ski. We slalom through moguls, carve through late-afternoon icy patches, and swoosh at exhilarating speeds down black diamond trails. We bend and flex and stretch until we're physically exhausted. But unlike the exhaustion we normally experience from sitting all day, this exhaustion is strangely energizing.

And there's something magical about the combination of mountain air and physical exercise that interrupts that endlessly looping and insistent voice inside my head that normally chatters on and on about all the things I need to do. Even though it's completely irrelevant now, I can still hear the nagging list that was playing in my head just before the accident.

You need to call Harvard before noon, you need to start year-end performance reviews, you need to finalize the B-school training program for science a.s.sociates, you need to call the landscaper, you need to email the London office, you need to return the overdue library books, you need to return the pants that don't fit Charlie to the Gap, you need to pick up formula for Linus, you need to pick up the dry cleaning, you need to pick up dinner, you need to make a dentist appointment for Lucy about her tooth, you need to make a dermatologist appointment for you about that mole, you need to go to the bank, you need to pay the bills, don't forget to call Harvard before noon, email the London office . . .

By my second or third run down the mountain, that constantly jabbering voice in my head would be rendered speechless, and a peaceful grat.i.tude would fill the s.p.a.ce where all that one-sided, bossy conversation had been. Even when the slopes are crowded with other skiers, and even if Bob and I talk while we ride the chairlift, skiing down to the base is a glorious experience in focused silence. No laundry list in my head, no TV, no radio, no phone, no email. Just the hush of the mountain. Hush. I wish I could bottle it, take it back with me to Welmont, and sip from it many, many times a day.

My mother hands me the hat. I try to put it on, but the opening keeps flopping shut, and I can't get it around my head.

"It doesn't fit."

"Here, let me help," says my mother.

She stretches the opening and slides the hat onto my head. It's soft and snug against my skin, and I have to admit, it feels good.

"There. You look great," she says, beaming, like she's just solved my biggest problem. "And Lucy will love that it's pink."

It's strange to hear my mother knowing my kids. She knows that Lucy is crazy for pink. Of course, discovering that Lucy loves the color pink takes about as much time and sensitivity as it does to notice that I'm bald. But still. My mother knows Lucy. My daughter. Her granddaughter.

"Yeah, she will. Thanks, it's perfect."

I touch the hat on my head and close my eyes. I imagine the end of a full day of skiing, sitting on the living room floor in front of a roaring fire with Bob, thawing under thick fleece blankets, eating hot chili and drinking frosty mugs of Harpoon. Sometimes we play backgammon or cribbage, and sometimes we go to bed early. Sometimes we make love right there on the fleece blankets in front of the fire. I smile as I remember the last time. But I stay in the glow of that warm and fuzzy memory for only a second because now I'm busy flipping back the pages, trying to remember how long ago that frolic took place.

G.o.d, I don't think we've seen that fireplace in three years. Can it really be that long ago? It seems like every time we consider making the trip, a million little excuses collude to keep us from packing up the car and heading north-work, travel, pregnancy, Charlie's karate lessons on Sat.u.r.days in the winter, T-ball games in the spring, various projects around the house, Lucy's ear infections, we're too busy, we're too tired. And now this.

I clench my teeth and resolve to eat, drink, and be merry with Bob in front of that fireplace after a long day of skiing this winter. No excuses. The chatter in my head begins reciting a new kind of laundry list. You need to get better, you need to get out of here, you need to go home, you need to go back to work, you need to go to Vermont, you need to get better, you need to get out of here, you need to go home, you need to go back to work . . .

As I become almost hypnotized by this inner mandate, I become increasingly aware of another voice in my head. The voice is a whisper, honest and scared. I recognize it. It is my voice repeating over and over the nagging question that I've been refusing to answer ever since I watched Ellen, ever since I saw Richard and Jessica.

What happens if I don't get better?

I ask my mother to tell me about her trip to the mall, hoping her prattle will drown out the voice. She happily launches into the story of her outing.

What happens if I don't get better?

For a whisper, it is remarkably difficult to ignore.

"MOMMY!" YELLS LUCY, BOUNDING IN ahead of everyone else.

"Come over to this side," says my mother.

"Come on up," I say, patting the s.p.a.ce of bed next to me.

Lucy climbs up over the rail and onto my lap. She's wearing her winter coat over her Little Mermaid nightgown, her sneakers with the heels that light up with the impact of each step, and her pink fleece hat. I give her a huge hug, and she squeezes me tight, her small hands wrapped around the back of my neck, her face pressed against my chest. I exhale a blissful "Mmm," the same sound I make when I smell bread baking or I've just eaten a sinful piece of chocolate. Her hug is that scrumptious. Then she sits back, just a few inches from my face, and studies me. Her eyes light up.

"We match, Mommy!" she says, delighted by my pink ski hat, just as my mother predicted.

"We're so fas.h.i.+onable," I say.

"Hey, babe," says Bob.

The rest of them file in. They're all wearing hats-a Red Sox cap on Bob, a navy blue bomber on Charlie, an ivory knitted skullcap on Linus, who is asleep in his bucket car seat, and of course, my mother, the Mad Hatter. Such a brilliant idea. Now the kids won't pay any special attention to my head. I toss Bob a grateful smile.

"Where's all your hair?" Lucy asks, concerned and puzzled.

So much for that theory.

"I had to get a really short haircut," I say.

"Why come?"

"Because it was too long."

"Oh. I liked it too long."

"Me, too. It'll grow back," I a.s.sure her.

I wonder when the left will "grow back" and wish that I had a similar level of confidence in its return.

"Is this where you live now?" she asks, still puzzled and concerned.

"No, sweetie, I live at home with you guys. I'm just staying here for a little while for a special program, to learn some new things. It's like school."

"Cuz you banged your head in the car?"

I look up at Bob. I don't know how much detail he's shared with them. He nods.

"Yes. Hey, who painted your pretty nails?"

"Abby," she says, now admiring her pink fingers. "She did my toes, too. Wanna see?"

"Sure."

I look to Charlie as Lucy starts undoing her laces, bracing myself for the more sophisticated cross-examination I a.s.sume is coming. He'd normally see straight through the gaping holes in my political candidate answers to Lucy's flimsy interview and sink his teeth into the interrogation. He'd tear apart my lame haircut story like a hungry pit bull with a juicy steak. But instead, he's standing in front of Bob and staring at the floor. He won't look at me.

"Hey, Charlie," I say.

"Hi, Mom," he says, arms folded, still looking down.

"How's school?"

"Good."

"What's new?"

"Nothin'."

"Come here," I say, extending my arm, inviting him in.

He shuffles forward a couple of measured steps and stops at a distance from me that can just barely be considered "here." I pull him into me and, because he's still looking down, I kiss the top of his blue hat.

"Charlie, look at me."

He does what he's told. His eyes are round and innocent, worried and defiant, framed by those thick, black lashes. It's so unfair that Lucy didn't get his eyelashes.

"Sweetie, Mommy's fine. Don't worry, okay?"

He blinks, but the worried defiance hanging in his gaze doesn't budge an inch. I'm selling a lie, and he's not buying it. Some child expert once said or I read somewhere that parents should never lie to their kids. I've never heard of anything so ridiculous. This so-called expert clearly doesn't have an inquisitive child like Charlie. Come to think of it, this "expert" probably doesn't have any children at all. There are days when I've had to dodge, fib, and outright lie a dozen times before breakfast. What are weapons of ma.s.s destruction? What are you and Dad fighting about? Where do babies come from? What is this [holding a tampon]? The truth is often too scary, too complicated, too . . . adult for kids.

And lies are often the best parenting tool I've got. I have eyes on the back of my head. Your face will freeze like that. This won't hurt. Spider-Man loves broccoli. Here, this [spray bottle full of water] will kill the monsters in your closet. In a minute.

Then there are those white lies that encourage and protect what is wondrous and magical for kids. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, Disney princesses, Harry Potter. I don't want to know the parent who tells a seven-year-old there are no such things.

The truth is, there is no Santa Claus, there are no wizards, parents pay cash for baby teeth, and pixie dust is store-bought glitter. There are people in this world who hate Americans and are this minute plotting ways to kill us all, and I insert that tampon into my v.a.g.i.n.a to absorb blood when I have my period. The cold, hard truth for kids needs to be wrapped in a warm and silky soft blanket of lies. Or in this case, in a hot-pink fleece ski hat.

"Honestly, Charlie, I'm fine."

"See?" says Lucy, pointing her toes in the air like a ballerina. Her toenails are painted a rebellious metallic blue.

"They're lovely," I say, lying. "Where's Linus?"

"He's on the floor next to me," says Bob.

"Can you lift him so I can see him?"

I wait and nothing happens.

"Bob, can you lift him up?"

"I did," he says quietly.

His face registers my Neglect.

"Lucy Goose, will you hop down for a sec?" I ask.

She crawls down to the foot of the bed, which is good enough, and Bob places the bucket car seat on the bed next to me. Linus is sound asleep, breathing long, deep breaths, the nipple of his nukie propped against the roof of his open mouth such that it is kept dangling in position, ready for sucking. Thank G.o.d he's figured out how to do this.

I love how his cheeks, which are like plump, ripe, delicious peaches begging to be pinched during the day, sag well below his jawline when he sleeps. I love his clenched hands, the dimples he has instead of knuckles, the creases of his chubby wrists. I love the sound of his breathing. G.o.d, I could watch this show all night.

"I want to hold him," I say.

"You don't want to wake him," Bob warns.

"I know, you're right. I miss holding him," I say.

"Mommy, I want to sit with you," says Lucy.

"Okay," I say.

Bob removes Linus, and Lucy resumes her spot on my lap.

"Will you read to me?" she asks.

"Sure, sweetie. I miss reading to you at bedtime."

Bob came prepared with bedtime books and hands me a Junie B. Jones, Lucy's latest favorite series.

I open to the first page of the first chapter.

"'Chapter One, Confusing Stuff.'"

Huh. The t.i.tle couldn't be more accurate. This page makes no sense whatsoever. B stands for I just years old. When you get to go to last summer Mother took and rolled me grown-up word for signed made me go. I keep going over the page like a rock climber stuck on a precipice, looking for the next foothold, not finding one.

"Come on, Mommy. 'My name is Junie B. Jones. The B stands for Beatrice, but I don't like Beatrice. I just like B and that's all.'"

The Junie B. Jones books all begin the same way. Lucy and I've both memorized it. I know the words that should be on this page, but I don't see them. I see B stands for I just years old. I try to think of what else I've read since my accident. The hospital meal menus and the CNN scroll. I haven't had a problem with either. Then again, the menus have seemed rather limited, and the scroll appears one word at a time, from the bottom right. I look up at Bob, and he sees me realizing for the first time that I can't really read.

"Charlie? Oh my G.o.d, where's Charlie?" I ask, transferring my panic, imagining that he's left the room and is wandering the hospital.

"Relax, he's right here," says Bob. "Charlie, come back over."