Kiss Mommy Goodbye Page 17

“It’s my book! She can’t read it!”

  Sharon reached over and grabbed the book. “No!” Adam screamed, and started twisting Sharon’s fingers, trying to pry them away from the book. “Get your hands off my book!”

  “Adam—”

  “She can’t touch it!”

  “Let’s not get silly—”

  “She can’t touch it!” He started pushing at Sharon’s shoulders.

  “Adam, she’ll fall!” Donna heard her voice rising.

  “I want her to fall. I want her to get off you. I want my book!”

  “You haven’t looked at that book in two years!”

  “I want to look at it now.”

  “Of course.”

  “I want it!” He pushed hard on Sharon’s chest. Sharon, reasonably quiet up to this point, started to scream.

  “You’re going to get it!” Donna yelled, standing up abruptly, hearing the book fall to the floor, feeling Sharon wiggle out of her arms, seeing her two children tumble to the floor on top of each other, kicking and screeching all the while. When Donna heard a knock on the door some five minutes later, all three were nursing their assorted wounds and crying.

  “Who is it?” Donna asked, walking slowly toward the front door.

  “Terry Randolph,” the woman called from the other side. Donna immediately opened the door. Terry Randolph and her young son Bobby jumped inside, out of the rain. Adam came running over. “I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?” the woman asked, noticing Donna’s troubled expression and teary eyes.

  “Rainy Saturday Blues,” Donna answered.

  “Exactly why I came over,” Terry Randolph said cheerfully, showing a mouthful of teeth.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee—?”

  “Oh, no, no,” the woman said. “We’re not staying. I guess I could have just phoned but Bobby’s so rangy being cooped up all day, so I thought a little rain wouldn’t hurt us. It’s only two houses away, after all.”

  What did this woman want?

  “We were just sitting around telling stories and stuff,” Terry Randolph continued, “and suddenly Bobby piped up how he’d like to have Adam come on over and play—”

  Oh, no, Donna thought. Not this weekend.

  “Oh, can I, Mom?” Adam chirped enthusiastically.

  “We thought he could play and have supper and then sleep over. Weatherman says it’s going to rain all day tomorrow too.”

  “Oh boy! Oh boy! Can I, Mom?”

  “Sweetie,” Donna said, trying to collect her thoughts, thinking about her perfect weekend, possibly her last weekend with her children, seeing it vanish into the torrent outside and Terry Randolph’s overbite. “Honey, I thought that we could—”

  “I want to go! I want to go! Please.” His eyes were beginning to cloud over.

  Give it up, she said to herself, feeling a mild panic building inside her.

  “Please—”

  She swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down. This wasn’t the end, she told herself. Don’t get silly about this. Her voice was barely audible. “All right.” she said.

  “Wonderful,” Terry Randolph squealed, looking as delighted as the two four-year-olds.

  “I’ll go get my pajamas,” Adam yelled.

  “I’ll come with you,” Donna volunteered, following quickly down the hall after her young son. When she got to the door of his small room, he already had his pajamas in his hand. “Don’t forget your toothbrush,” she said.

  “It’s in the bathroom,” he answered, trying to get past her.

  “Adam, are you sure you want to go? I mean, we could tell stories. I could tell you the story about a little boy named Roger and a little girl named Bethanny and one day they went to the zoo to see the giraffes—”

  “I want to go to Bobby’s,” he wailed, interrupting her.

  Donna straightened her shoulders. “Okay, okay. You go to Bobby’s.” But don’t you dare be a good boy, she wanted to call after him. You be rotten, you hear me? You be a rotten kid! Then maybe she’ll send you home.

  After the door had closed behind them, Donna gathered her daughter into her lap again and picked up the discarded and long-forgotten book on farmyard animals. “Well, it looks like it’s just you and me, kiddo,” she said.

  Sharon brought her hand gently across her mother’s cheek, her enormous eyes locked into Donna’s. Then she sank back against Donna, refinding the painful nerve in Donna’s leg and pressing down hard against it. Donna shifted her daughter once again to a more comfortable position. Once again, the child immediately shifted back.

  The judge looked tired, as if he had been wrestling all weekend with Solomon’s ghost. Would he suggest slicing her children in two? she wondered as the court was instructed to stand and then sit down again. Donna felt her knees shake with each successive motion. Oh God, please, please, she muttered silently. Her attorney covered her hands with his own. The judge spoke almost immediately.

  “In the case of Cressy versus Cressy, I have given both the divorce and custody suits very careful consideration. I have reviewed the evidence in each instance and have reached my conclusions. As to the divorce action initiated by Mr. Victor Cressy against his wife, Donna Cressy, I find in favor of Victor Cressy. Divorce is granted on the grounds of Mrs. Cressy’s admitted adultery.”

  Donna felt her heart beginning to sink despite her prior acknowledgement that Victor would most assuredly win this part of the suit. Still, just hearing the words, “I find in favour of Victor Cressy,” made her feel vaguely sick, forced her to keep her eyes lowered and sightless, staring very hard at nothing at all.

  “As to the custody suit,” the judge continued, “this was not by any means as clear-cut an action. The court heard evidence for three days which was largely intended to support Mr. Cressy’s contention that his wife is an unstable woman and hence, an unfit mother. Mrs. Cressy, herself, made no attempt to deny either her affair with Dr. Mel Segal or her often, shall we say, peculiar behavior.” Donna held her breath. “But I find that while the evidence suggests a deeply unhappy woman, it does not support Mr. Cressy’s contention that his wife is unbalanced or, in any way, unfit.” Donna raised her eyes to meet the judge’s. He continued to speak. “While it is obvious to the Court that both parents love their children, the Court feels that due both in part to their tender ages and to the fact that Mrs. Cressy would be staying home to look after them while Mr. Cressy would have to employ full-time outside help, that it is in the best interests of these children that they continue to live with their mother.” Donna felt her eyes welling up with tears. “I, therefore, grant custody of Adam and Sharon Cressy to their mother, Donna Cressy.”

  Donna didn’t hear the rest. The judge was talking about Victor’s visitation rights, she knew. She had no problem with that. Victor could see his children whenever he liked. As often as he liked. My God, she had won.

  She felt Victor looking at her even as she thought his name. Silently, he compelled her to look over in his direction. She turned and stared into hard, cold eyes. As much as I once loved you, they seemed to be saying, I hate you now. She thought of his earlier admonition—“I promise you,” he had said, “that even if you win, you’ll lose”—and shuddered.

  What would you do to me if we don’t work out? she had asked him on their wedding day. Donna felt a cold blade scissor through her insides as she recalled his answer. “I’d obliterate you,” he had said simply. Donna turned quickly away from his gaze, but when she was looking back at him seconds later, he was still staring at her. And smiling.

  PART TWO

  THE PRESENT

  FIFTEEN

  “Okay, kids, let’s get a move on. Daddy’s here.”

  Donna walked back toward Victor, who stood in the small hallway in possibly the most relaxed stance Donna had seen him assume since their divorce five months earlier. He was dressed all in white, which, combined with his dark tan and black hair, made him look better than she ever remembered. And yet, there was no longer any che
mical reaction between them. When Donna looked into the deep blue mystery of his eyes, she felt only relief. Let someone else figure out what goes on in there, she thought, then wondered briefly if there was someone else.

  “Sharon’s on the potty,” Donna explained with a smile. “Adam’s watching her.” She had begun to notice, with relief, that she no longer felt her stomach begin to churn every time Victor either phoned or showed up at her door. “Would you like a cold drink or something? It’s pretty hot out there.”

  “The radio said it’s the hottest April sixteenth in forty-four years,” Victor said matter-of-factly, following Donna into the kitchen. “Ginger ale will be great.”

  Donna opened the fridge, took out a large bottle of ginger ale and placed it on the counter, deftly closing the fridge door with her foot. It was a very small kitchen, at least half the size of the one she had had when she lived with Victor, and yet it felt much larger. So much more breathing space, she thought, pulling a glass out of the cupboard and pouring him a drink.

  The first time Victor had walked through the house, he had said little. Almost nothing. He had satisfied himself, Donna supposed, that she did not have his children living in squalor, and for whatever his reasons, he had saved whatever negative impressions she knew he must be feeling for himself.

  The house was certainly small, Donna had to admit. Just the bare essentials—a combination living-dining area, three tiny bedrooms, the master bedroom distinguishable from the other two only by virtue of eighteen extra inches, one bathroom and the minute kitchen in which they were now standing. It always felt so much smaller whenever Victor stood in it. It’s really not as little as it looks, she wanted to tell him every time he came over, but had initially restrained herself and now no longer felt the same necessity. Victor obviously was beginning to feel more comfortable with their situation. With her.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the glass, noticing a few drops of spilled liquid on the floor close by his feet. Victor said nothing about their presence, but she noticed him deliberately step around the increasingly prominent wet spots as they were about to leave the room.

  “I thought I wiped it all up,” she said, wishing she didn’t still feel the need always to explain herself to Victor. Certainly, Mel never made her feel that way.

  “Wiped what up?” Victor asked.

  “Adam spilled some apple juice,” she explained, her voice trailing off as they reached the living room.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  He was lying, Donna knew, appreciating the effort he was making. He’d come a long way in the last few months.

  “I’ll go see how Sharon’s coming along.” Donna motioned for Victor to make himself comfortable in the cheap wicker furniture the house had come complete with, and walked down the narrow hallway to the bathroom where Sharon sat, knees touching her chin, on the miniature white plastic toilet. Adam was now sitting on the real toilet, looking very much the little gentleman, even with his shorts pulled down around his ankles.

  “Now, they’re both busy,” she said, coming back into the living room.

  “No hurry,” Victor said, sipping slowly on his ginger ale, trying his best to look comfortable. Donna sat in the chair across from him and tried not to stare. He was definitely a complicated man, she thought, going over the last five months quickly in her mind. He always made things so difficult for everyone—especially himself. In the beginning, in the months immediately following their divorce, she had thought this would be their pattern for eternity. But in the last few months, he had begun to mellow. Where, at first, he scowled, then he frowned, he now smiled. Or tried to. Where, before, he criticized, now he kept quiet. Perhaps in future months, there might be room for a compliment. Where once was stony silence, now there was polite, even warm, conversation. Perhaps, Donna reasoned, time had calmed him. Perhaps, once he had seen that Donna had no intention of denying him access to his children whenever he expressed his need or desire, he relaxed. Perhaps their divorce had freed him too. The last few years with her, Donna acknowledged, could not have been very pleasant for anyone, especially a man like Victor.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly.

  Caught off guard, Donna blurted out the truth. “Us,” she said, then quickly added. “The last few months.”

  He put his now empty glass on the rounded, heavily fingerprinted glass end table beside his chair. “It’s starting to ease up a bit, isn’t it?” he asked. She nodded. “I feel it,” he continued. “I’m not so uptight about the whole thing anymore, I guess.” She looked down.

  “I’m glad.”

  “I fought it, I tell you,” he went on, looking back up at Donna. “I really wanted to stay a mean bastard.”

  Donna laughed. “I’m glad you decided not to.”

  “Well, there comes a point when you’ve got to start taking your own advice. You were always telling me I had great theories but that I never followed through on any of them myself. And I thought about it—you see, I actually did think a lot about some of the things you said—and I decided you were right. There was no point sitting around pouting about what was past, what had already been decided. The point was learning to live with it.” He paused, looking directly into her eyes. “I still don’t like what’s happened to all our lives. But I have to accept the fact that it has happened. I have to live with it.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” she ventured, somewhat shyly.

  He smiled. “Oh, sure. A few people—nothing serious.” He paused. “I take it everything is still going great with you and Mel. Did you catch that? I actually said his name without gagging.”

  They both laughed. “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  He looked around the mostly orange and white room. He had never liked the color orange, Donna remembered. “Do you think you’ll eventually get married?” he asked. It was a hard question to ask, she recognized, knowing he wouldn’t, couldn’t look back in her direction until she had answered him.

  Her voice was soft. “Probably,” she said honestly. “Mel has asked me several times. I just haven’t felt ready.”

  “You like your independence,” he said, standing up and moving around.

  “Well, the lease on this house still has seven months to go. Maybe after that—”

  They were both starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “What’s his little girl like?” he asked, shifting the conversation just enough. not to be too obvious about the fact he was shifting the conversation.

  “Annie? She’s great. Wonderful. I really like her a lot. She’s crazy about the kids. It’s her birthday tomorrow, as a matter of fact. She’ll be eight years old—Mel’s having a big party for her. She even invited Adam and Sharon—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You should have told me—”

  “No, don’t be silly. Weekends are your time with them. Annie understands that. Besides, I don’t think she’d really appreciate having them underfoot all afternoon. I think she was just being polite.”

  Victor smiled. “I can’t imagine ever having been eight years old.”

  “I don’t think you ever were,” she joked, hoping as the words left her mouth that he would recognize them as such. He laughed.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Victor offered suddenly. “What time’s the party?”

  “It starts at two. I guess it’ll go till about five. Mel’s having a magician.”

  “Oh, the kids would love that! I’ll bring them over around four o’clock. How’s that?”

  Donna could scarcely hide her surprise. “That would be wonderful,” she said, obviously delighted, then added, “but it’s not necessary.”

  “I know it’s not,” he said. “Subject closed.”

  “Adam!” Donna called, not wishing to jeopardize a good thing by prolonging its discussion. “What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m wiping Sharon’s tushy,” the small voice yelled back.

  “Oh, dear, I better check this
out.” Donna excused herself and went back toward the bathroom. “Hey, good boy!” she said seeing both her children standing in front of their respective white seats, clothes all properly in place. “You got your pants pulled up all by yourself. Terrific.”

  Sharon put her arms around Donna’s neck, and Donna hugged her little girl tightly against her body. “Mmm, you’re delicious.”

  The little girl laughed. “See? I pooped,” she said proudly, pointing toward the small white bowl.

  “Fantastic.”

  “It looks like the number nine, Mommy,” Adam said, also pointing inside the potty. Donna started to laugh. “Next time,” Adam asked with great excitement, “can she make a number four?”

  “Number Four. Number Four,” Sharon laughed, clapping, as Donna adjusted her daughter’s sundress, emptied the potty into the toilet and flushed.

  Donna walked with the children back into the hallway where Victor now stood waiting. Adam ran into his father’s arms. “Sharon made a number nine! Next time, she’ll make a number four. Four is my favorite number. Yay!”

  Donna handed Victor the bag she had packed with the children’s clothes. “There’s some Pampers in there if you need them for Sharon.”

  “No Pamper,” Sharon insisted.

  “She hasn’t had an accident in three days,” Donna continued.

  “Terrific,” Victor said, then looked over at Adam. “Quite a switch.”

  Donna smiled. “Going anywhere special with them?”

  “I thought we might drive over to Lion Country Safari, but it’s so hot, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll just go to the beach. We’ll play it by ear.”

  Donna walked them to the door. “Have a good time with Daddy, sweeties,” she said, kneeling down.

  “I want to see the lions,” Adam squealed, about to run outside.

  “Kiss Mommy goodbye,” Victor admonished.

  “Bye,” the young boy said, kissing her quickly on the cheek, then running eagerly outside toward his father’s car.

  Donna looked at her daughter, at twenty-two months a chubby little porcelain doll with huge piercing blue eyes that looked right through you, like a little witch about to cast a spell. Eyes that seemed to see everything, absorb all there was to absorb. Aware. So aware. “You be a good girl with Daddy, and have a good time.”