Deanna Upended

The last time Deanna held a baby, she thought she was having an aneurysm. The pain in her head had been so severe, that she stumbled to the couch like a deer that had been shot with poor aim. She lowered the baby to the cushions to take her head in her hands instead, and she collapsed, incapacitated. Then the toddler waddled in looking for a snack. Before long, all three of them had joined together in a chorus of screaming distress. When the mother finally got home, Deanna couldn’t tell who was responsible for which fluids dripping into the cracks of the leather seats and onto the floor. As the mother called an ambulance, Deanna tried to mime that she’d have everything cleaned. 

The doctors, at least, were thorough in their examinations resulting in a comprehensive diagnosis. Perimenopause. Or possibly stress. Perhaps both at once. And also maybe a tumor, but the results for that one eventually came back negative. 

She had been caretaking for five different families at the time and all of them dropped her after the incident. Deanna lost all sources of income, felt as if she was being mummified regularly, and had no idea what to do next. 

At least she didn’t have a tumor. 

The one thing everyone could agree on was that Deanna needed to change her situation. She’d have to forgo working in childcare not only for reasons of safety but also to reduce her chance of dancing with death prematurely. She was only forty-four years old. Were sticky fingers, chunky legs, and finger painting truly causing that much stress?

“I don’t get it,” Deanna said into the phone while she picked at the pink calluses on her fingers. 

“We used to work 50 hours a week cleaning up poop and pulverized animal crackers for spit, that’s what’s to get,” Deanna heard her former coworker’s voice gain some heat just like the flat, rectangle pressed against her face. “And now you work more than that and often give your time for free!”

Sasha had been Deanna’s co-teacher when they worked at Granny Smith Daycare. The place presented “lifted pinky” on the outside, but was “watered-down soap” on the inside. Together, they’d committed to enduring their suffering as a team while other teachers cycled through the center’s doors like Tour de France competitors. 

Sasha was the only one who still kept in touch after Deanna was forced to cycle out herself. 

“I just can’t— I don’t know,” Deanna faltered. “Do something else. There’s nothing else for me.”

“Well, you certainly can’t take care of children anymore,” Sasha said. “It’s too risky. I’m sorry.”

Deanna choked a little on her inhale. 

“Nobody’s sure when the episodes will stop,” she said. “Or if they’ll stop.”

“Well, I guess you’ve manifested an early retirement,” Sasha barked. 

Before Deanna could fully understand the words, Sasha added, “I didn’t mean it like that, De. That, that came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t.”

Sasha sighed. “You didn’t cause this to happen. It’s not your fault. The world doesn’t work like that.”

“What if it does?”

“Look, no one has any right to judge you.”

“Everyone has a right to judge me,” Deanna said, her voice low, unsure if she wanted Sasha to hear her or not.

After Deanna hung up, she cried remembering how she blew apart her life years ago and how hard it had been to pick up the pieces. How she’s still picking up the pieces even now. 

***

Grocery day was always Monday morning. During her caregiving years, Deanna realized that a Monday morning was as close to bliss in Grocery Store Land as one might find. She would stroll the empty aisles, writing songs in her head, while the store got restocked, like a mother dressing a sleeping baby. 

But Monday mornings no longer were a moment of respite during her tantrum-filled weeks. They had become the uncomfortable persistence of silence that follows a rager. Deanna desperately wanted some noise. 

On a wildly percussive Saturday afternoon in the store, she went about her shopping. The atmosphere was outrageously chaotic, but it was the babies that broke her. So many children, strapped to every available carrier, and they all tore through her memories, breaking her wishbones.  

She grabbed at her chest, looking for an anchor but her mind pulled forth a voice instead. 

“It’s amazing what you do,” it said. “Caring for these kids like you really give a damn.”

“I do give a damn,” Deanna laughed. “I love them.”

“I’m not convinced anyone can truly love a child that isn’t theirs,” said the voice. 

“How can you say that when your wife is the one who opened the center,” Deanna replied. “She loves the kids.”

“She loves her business. The kids are simply the cutest dollar signs you’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such a cynic! Better watch out, Matthew, or you’ll freeze from the inside out.”

“Like one of your songs, Deanna? I need to stay on your good side then because I think you’re the only one who could thaw me if that happens.”

Deanna had begun to cry in the middle of the grocery store with the end of the story playing out in her head. After all these years, thinking about the day she was very publicly fired from Granny Smith still dropped her stomach like a bungee jump. 

That was also the last day she’d ever see Matthew. 

“Ma’am? Oh my god, ma’am?” said a new voice. “Are you okay?”

Deanna blinked through her tears to see a woman with earrings the size of sippy cups gazing at her with concern. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m fine—“

“Oh no, you absolutely are not,” the woman said.

“Excuse me?”

“The last time I broke down at a grocery store was when I found out my mama had died,” the woman explained. “Then some stranger called my wife, put me in a cab, and promised to put all my groceries back. It's now my duty to help every person I see struggling at a grocery store. So, what happened and how can I help?”

Deanna watched the graying hair of the woman tangle itself in her avant-garde earrings creating knots that would make a sailor vomit.

“I lost my job,” she finally said. 

“I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“No, it's okay,” Deanna hiccuped. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Can I call someone for you? Get you a ride somewhere?”

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to pay for my things and go.”

“If you need some money—”

“Absolutely not,” Deanna shouted, throwing tears from her face. 

Both women made their way through the checkout and out to the parking lot. Embarrassment left Deanna with hot plates for cheeks and she wished the woman would leave her but instead, the woman stood beside the car and idled.

“What line of work were you in?”

“I was a caregiver. Childcare,” Deanna replied. 

“God’s work. Can I ask what happened?”

“I’m sick, I guess. Too sick to be alone with kids anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

There was a pause between them. As it grew more pregnant, Deanna was surprised that it didn’t feel uncomfortable despite its bloatedness. 

“You know any children’s songs?” the woman broke the silence. 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you too sick to sing them?”

“Oh!” Deanna gave a genuine laugh. “I think I'll be well and truly dead when that day comes.”

Deanna winces at her own inappropriateness but continued, “I’m still making up my own songs. I can’t help it.”

“I run a booth at the farmer’s market every week and I have a small band that puts on kid-friendly shows. We sing songs, dance around and stuff, you know? I’m always looking for new talent to join us.”

“That sounds amazing,” Deanna began, “but I have these migraine spells, episodes. They happen randomly and can leave me pretty useless. I’m kind of unreliable.”

“So is half the band. Listen, we cover for each other all the time.”

“It’s different for me,” Deanna said. “I don’t think I’m meant to work with children anymore. I messed up too much. I can’t join your group.”

The woman sighed. Her paisley shirt showed a button missing right at her navel. 

“Well, if you change your mind,” she said, as she dug out a business card and handed it over, “give me a call.”

Deanna watched her walk away across the lot before she turned back around and yelled,

“By the way, I’m Perla!”

As soon as Deanna got in her car, her vision split into a million pieces. She pulled a shake n’ break ice pack from her glove compartment and pressed it to the back of her neck like it was life itself. 

***

Wednesday evenings at the farmer’s market had the potential to be good. Maybe not quite Monday-morning-grocery-shopping good, but definitely better than Saturday-afternoon-sobbing-in-aisle-four bad. 

The microphone had been set at the front of their tent and the crowd was growing. Deanna stood off to the side with butterflies flitting between her stomach and her fingertips as she tuned her guitar. 

Children’s songs, she thought, other than self-sabotaging violence, my head is only full of children’s songs. 

“You ready?” Perla gave Deanna a gentle nod. “You can walk off at any time, for any reason.”

“I’m ready.”

Perla took the stage and Deanna could see her talking animatedly to the crowd. Buggies and strollers and toddlers on rusted robot legs filled her vision with movement and color. She hoped it wouldn’t be enough to trigger an episode. She crossed her toes in her shoes. Then she heard her cue.

“I hope you’re ready to wiggle out there! Say hello to The Pink Ladies!”

Deanna watched herself in her mind’s eye stand in front of the kids and begin singing. How many songs had she sung for her kids over the years? It felt impossible to count. But singing like this felt different. She could leave at any time. She could give what she had, and nothing more.

At the end of their set, Deanna sat by the side of the tent, breathless, and waiting for her brain to revolt. She wasn’t sure she deserved redemption but even if she collapsed here and now, she felt free.

“Excuse me?”

Deanna looked up, startled. 

“I don’t want to disturb you, but I’m wondering, if we've met before?”

Deanna looked at the young woman.

Deanna couldn’t possibly know her. She looked half her age and like she exclusively shopped at the farmer’s market rather than a chain store. 

“I’m here with my son,” the woman continued, “and I heard you singing. You have such unique songs.”

“Thank you,” said Deanna, blushing. “I write them myself.”

“I had a teacher growing up that sang some of those songs to us.”

“Oh?”

“I still remember some of them after all these years.”

Deanna was silent. 

“I sing them to my son, at bedtime. He was the only kid out there that knew them. He loved it.”

There was no more voice that Deanna could spare. 

“Are you Miss Deanna?”

Deanna gasped.