| View Blog
|
|
|
|
| Bussing Tables (part 9) |
Elli was first to be spit from the accordion jaws of the school bus with her sisters trailing behind like well co-ordinating accessories. They looked up to her, and not just because she was the tallest of the three. She was the one who promoted unity among the trio while allowing for individuality. Where Elli had a gold-gilded tenacity, her sisters cast for themselves bronze medals for their persistence. Mathis and Olivia were not as convinced as Elli that they could do all things, but that didn't prevent them from trying their hand at everything from Fine Arts to aggressive contact sports. Olivia looked good posing on the grassy, open fields of soccer and on the basketball court's foul-line, but found her true self within the fragile confines of her delicate frame. Painting and ballet suited her well. She kept a narrow brush dipped in the soft azure and tender, pink-on-white of this pair ever since the move, as if saying she didn't have to prove anything to the male gender anymore. She was the youngest of the three. She was the one he chose to violate.
I would rather have kept the two older girls in the light; not sharing with them the darkness that Olivia shared with me one painful morning in May, but everyone became part of the inquisition that was unleashed by authorities right there at our dining room table. The same spot that, seven days prior, had been the solid oak gradient connecting five little hearts to the acreage of a mother's love. A landscape of fine-bone china, polished silver, and Waterford crystal embellished the plane of our simple farmhouse table the way that love can make any plain thing exotic. Sitting in our chairs, we passed thick platters and exchanged sterling memories. I remember feeling such a strong bond, such a heavy pride resting in my heart as my eyes scanned the scenery of sparkling smiles. I could not have fathomed this same lean wood, a week later, would be the linear intersection for a perpendicular stream of tears.
Elli and Mathis were counseled for a mere eight sessions to learn how to deal with their anger and shattered little hearts. It was all the insurance allowed. Olivia was still seeing the therapist weekly, with my attendance monthly. I tried to avoid treating her any different than the other children who, to the best of repeated inquiry's knowledge, had not been victim to their father's illness, but was sometimes unsuccessful. The way that a mother lioness favors and guards a lame cub; my grip was a little tighter, my hugs lingered a bit more on my injured one. This day was one of those times.
It was their first day back to school. Summer had died when August's last sun descended and was swallowed in a horizon of ripened apples and new school supplies.The timed roar of bussing signaled fall's arrival, taking with it summer's perfume of bugspray and sunscreen. Early September always smelled like plastic and sharpened pencils, Elmer's glue and pink erasers. Until, like life for some people, it reaches its middle and the novelty is gone. The edges are cracked from overuse and all that remains of once fresh supplies are chewed graphite stubs, crusty, half-gone bottles and stabbed, grey ovals. I had hoped to spare them all of this abuse-caused cynicism, but my Olivia was already marred. Already had a weak spot at eight.
The driver gave a soldier's salute to the three giggling girls and pulled the mouth of the marigold bus back into its pursed seal. When they spotted my position on the front porch swing, their gait accelerated to a light sprint and they charged towards me in tandem. But my eyes were on Olivia. My heart ached at the thought of her being teased or pushed around on the playground today. Maybe her teacher yelled at her for twirlling her hair; a habit she recently acquired. I caught the galloping group in a wide hug, with Liv in the middle to receive most of the tackle.
"Running from the law?" I teased "Or do you just like me that much?"
"MOM" they shouted in unison.
"Have a good time in second grade?" I queried. They answered with violent nods.
"Mother," Elli always called me that, "can we have our presents now?"
"Yeah, mom, can we, can we?" the other two petitioned.
"Ah, yes, your presents," I fumbled, realizing I had forgotten about this ritual in my new-found obsession with the rabbit hole. It was a tradition I started last year when the girls entered first grade. Milo, the eldest boy, had been slighted of this customary giving during his elementary years and, by the time it was implemented, was no longer lured by its charms. They were only small gifts, anyway. At sixteen years old, he didn't care about the practical "presents" disguised in wrapping paper and ribbon; things like colorful shoe laces and tubes of sparkled toothpaste. But I had nothing this year to give to the beckoning crowd. I would have to improvise, and stall, until I thought of something adequate, but inexpensive enough.
"Girls, let's get in the house, first. You know how it goes, you tell me all about your day over cups of tea, and THEN you get your presents." I noticed six small eyeballs rolling as we got up from the swing. "Hey, it's a small price to pay, no?" I persuaded, "Besides, I think you're really gonna like what I got you. It's something different this time."
"Mom," Mathis said in her scratchy little voice, "the presents, do they have wheels?"
"No, honey" I gulped "nothing with wheels. Get your book bag Maths, little dreamer you, and meet me at the kitchen table."
|
|
Posted by paperlily on 2008-08-06 15:06:09 | Rating: | Views: 154
|
|
| |
|
|
Email This to a Friend 
