In-Laws

Waves are lapping playfully against the shore, and I can hear as much as feel the warm salty breeze. My hammock gently rocks. Contentment oozes from my pores. I want to stay here all day, all week, soaking in the sun. 

A sudden change in the cadence of the tide catches my attention. I leaned one ear upward, not daring to open a single freckled eye lid. That's not waves. It's more like pouring water... rain? Finally, I struggle to open my eyes. I'm plunged into darkness and abruptly realize I've been dreaming. It wasn't real. The waves, the breeze, and the sunshine were the work of my mind. But the water was real. What is that? 

Dragging myself out of bed and tripping over something unseen, I move toward the sound or the light switch, whichever I can reach first. I reach for the switch and stop; my hand falls to the door frame as I recognize the sound of the washing machine. I’d started a load of linens before going to bed and forgotten. The Deep Wash setting is not only slower but more noisy than the Normal cycle. 

I turn around, annoyed that I got this far before remembering. The small toes on my right foot find the corner of the bed in the dark. I don’t so much sit as roll into the bed, cursing and fighting the blankets. Closing my eyes I will the cozy beach vacation to revisit me. 

Whether minutes or hours pass I’m not sure. I refuse to look at the clock on principle. I should be sleeping. Before the splashing of my guest sheets had woken me my sleep had been so deep and lovely. Finally I sigh, exasperated and demand, “Alexa, play ocean sounds.” She launches into an ad for a premium app, eliciting an insult from me and making even more noise. I whisper-shout, “Alexa, play ocean sounds for one hour.” After an unsettlingly loud beep, she does. It’s too loud at first but then it settles down, as if she was saying, “See! I did what you asked.” 

As I listen to the waves roll in I try not to think about tomorrow. Not about how soon I have to wake up. Not about putting those sheets on the bed in the guest room. And certainly not about the guests who will be arriving to sleep in them. Thinking will lead to rehearsing, which will lead to wondering, and that always leads to tears. I try to imagine my eye lids are weighted down by heavy copper coins like Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol. My mind strays to ghosts and I violently shake the thoughts from my head. 

Starting over, I imagine my eyelids are very heavy. They’re covered in sand. My whole body is being covered in sand, and I’m sinking deeper into the mattress. 

***

I, I, when I was younger

I, I, should have known better

And I_I_I  can’t feel no remorse

And you don’t feel nothing back

Setting my alarm to come on with music seemed like a good idea, but in reality it is more startling than the regular old ring of a wind-up clock. I slap my phone, probably hitting the snooze but maybe turning it all the way off. I can never tell. Pulling the blankets higher over my shoulders, I flip away from the offensive device. 

I, I, when I was younger

I fling my arm out to hit the phone even faster this time without opening my eyes. 

Sitting up all at once, I look at the clock. It’s 10:15 and clearly I found the button that turns the alarm off because I should be putting dry sheets on the guest bed by now. I head toward the laundry wondering why my toe is throbbing. As I pull sheets from washer to dryer I remember kicking the bed last night. 

I won’t have time to wash my hair, but they probably expect me to look unkempt anyway. It’s fitting. They’ll look at their sad, disheveled, widowed daughter-in-law and whisper to each other, “Poor dear.” 

I haven’t seen them since the funeral. They practically begged me to pack the kids and move closer after Ben died. I rather snapped at them about not taking anything else away from our children and the conversation died. Like my husband. Dead. Gone. Done. 

It’s been two months and now they are coming to see how we are doing under the guise of helping sort through his things. I don’t really want help. I really want to do it myself in what I imagine will be bursts of energetic purging and slow, languid weeping. But when people offer to help you after your life falls apart, the reasonable thing to do is accept. 

 They’ve probably worked out some new angles for the fourteen-year-old “you live too far away” debate. The hints started long ago, but now they say it’s for our good. “Children really need family around. Here, it’s only you…”  Yes, unwashed hair will most likely delight them.

Once the dryer is going I shimmy into my jeans and an old t-shirt. Deciding to embrace the sad widow look, I flip my hair into a ponytail but don’t pull through the last time. Heading to the kitchen, I pick up loose items as I pass them. The kids are unsurprisingly sitting elbow-to-elbow on the love seat, eyes glued to the tv, slight smirks across their faces as Phineas and Ferb outsmart Candace once again. They don’t acknowledge me at first, but as I pass the entryway, Eli throws me a “Good morning, Mama” without shifting his gaze. 

I cleaned the kitchen yesterday out of sheer determination not to be judged for the things I can control today. It’s obvious the kids haven’t been in here so I grab a skillet and open the fridge. In ten minutes I’ve tightly wrapped tortillas stuffed with scrambled eggs and shredded cheese. We’d never call this a burrito, but we eat it several times a week. I call into the next room, “Egg tortillas. TV off. Tout suite.” Since their dad died, they respond a little more immediately, seeming to think if they don’t come when I call they might miss their chance. We’re all a little fragile still. 

We sit chewing in silence for a few minutes before the boys start imagining what animal’s egg is the largest and considering how many people could be fed with one of the biggest eggs on the planet. The discussion dissolves into laughter after, in the most middle-child way possible, Christopher asks, “What elephants laid eggs and the eggs are as big as… a basketball?”  Annie, not satisfied with this little-brother nonsense, asks Alexa which animal lays the biggest egg. Learning that it’s an ostrich isn’t enough for them, though. They ask how many people can eat scrambled ostrich eggs and Eli nearly falls out of his chair reacting to the answer. 

I’m hearing this whole exchange but my eyes are unseeing and my mind is elsewhere. I'm rehearsing what I imagine they'll say and how I will respond. It's a thing I always do. Usually the conversation takes a left turn I didn't expect and the rehearsal is useless in reality, but it makes me less nervous anyway. 

“Mama? MAMA…”

They're all looking at me. I shake my head and my brain catches up to my ears. Annie has asked what time her grandparents will get here. They're always prompt. Or early. I learned a long time ago to be prepared for them before the time they say. Even though they drive the whole way, they're prone to wake up at 3 A.M. and decide to leave rather than going back to sleep. 

“Around lunch time. Before two, definitely.” The clock on the stove says it’s already 11:37. 

While they clear the table I start making up the guest bed. Then I grab the vacuum to run over the floors. Even though I cleaned them yesterday it makes me feel better to see the lines forming across the carpet. Christopher’s shoulders droop as he puts the tv remote back down, realizing he’s lost his chance. He shuffles off to join his siblings in the playroom. I’m halfway down the hall when I hear the doorbell. I sigh and then put the vacuum away as the kids race to the hugs awaiting them on the other side of our front door. 

When the gifts and exclamations have passed between grandparents and grandchildren, I find myself standing alone in the living room with my mother-in-law. The tension is thick in my stomach. She asks how I’m doing. I shrug. “Making it.” 

Her eyes are watery when my father-in-law comes in from behind her. He stands between us, a little closer to her, and lifts his hand to squeeze my shoulder. They take a collective deep breath and glance at each other before looking up at me. I steel myself, remembering the arguments I’ve been rehearsing. 

The kids have always lived here. They have community.

The school year has already started. It would be hard to transfer right now. 

Additionally transition would complicate

My father-in-law clears his throat and I step out of my mind again. “We’ve been thinking about how overwhelmed and tired you must be handling everything on your own.”

Ugh. Here it is. I start to speak, but my mother-in-law reaches out and squeezes my hand. “We want to take you and the kids to the beach for the weekend. We thought it would be good to get away from home for a few days.” 

Finally, meeting their eyes, I am flooded with feelings that are quickly overflowing my body. I’m weeping and they’re both holding me in a hug. I’m struck by the fact that they are just as exhausted by grief as I am. The kids trickle in with a range of curious to concerned faces and are firmly absorbed into our tangle of arms. 

***

Papaw and Nana are helping the kids build the “biggest sand castle ever.” Wiggling my toes into the sand, I lean back in my chair. The sun’s rays are my blanket. The ocean breeze is my music. My eyelids flutter slowly, a curtain closing on the fresh joy playing out in front of me. And the waves lap playfully against the shore.