The librarian holds up a book and begins to read. The book is called Ann Can Fly. It tells the story of a girl who gets to fly with her father in his single-engine airplane. He is flying her to, of all places, her summer camp. Lucky girl.
The children listen thoughtfully—a twitch or a wiggle here or there, but the story is mesmerizing, and the librarian is an animated reader. She has everyone’s attention.
Everyone except Michael.
He is seated next to me, with his knobby knees up around his chest and his eyes on the floor. His upper body sways side to side. I know, because I’ve seen him do it before, that this helps him concentrate and block out any sensations that disturb him. His swaying is rhythmic, steady, and silent, but I note that his movements are getting wider and more dramatic. He doesn’t seem to realize that he is moving more and more rapidly as the story goes on.
I am not the only one to notice. Several of the other mothers, those in close proximity to me, turn to glare. Two of them lean toward each other and whisper, then look my way again. I can tell exactly what they’re thinking: What’s wrong with that child?
My mother is looking straight ahead at the librarian, Mitch on one side of her and Missy on the other. She has her arms around both of them, and they snuggle against her.
Michael’s swaying gets even more exaggerated; he almost reaches the floor with each shoulder as he moves his torso from left to right. It is distracting, I have to admit. I duck my head, feeling ashamed—not of Michael, but of myself. I am ashamed for wishing so desperately that my son could simply be ordinary.
One of the mothers leans toward me. “Please,” she whispers loudly. “Your boy’s swaying is distracting. It’s hard for the children to concentrate.” She gives me a long, pointed look. “I don’t really think he belongs here, do you?”
I stare at the woman, unable to answer. I find that I am blinking back tears.
Before I can say anything, my mother—still spry despite her fifty-odd years—slides on her bottom until she is between Michael and me on her left, and the other mothers and children on her right. She puts her arm around me and reaches her hand to gently ruffle Michael’s hair. “This child,” she whispers fiercely to the woman, “has as much right to hear the story as any other child. He and his mother belong here, the same as any other mother and child.” She glares around at the women. “The same as all of you and your children.” She raises her hand and points her index finger directly at them. “Don’t forget,” she says to the other mothers, “that all children are God’s children.”
My mother reaches into her pocket and hands her handkerchief to me. “Dry your eyes, beautiful girl,” she tells me. “These people are not worthy of your tears.”
Now, recalling that moment, I gaze appreciatively at my mother. I am grateful for this memory, for this understanding that in the other world, she is not only my advocate but my child’s as well.
And then I remember that in that world, she is no longer there. That she will never be there again.
I don’t want to think about it. I wrench my mind back to the current conversation. What were we talking about? Not children, because in this world I have no children.
Oh, yes. Now I remember. Companionship.
“I agree,” I say softly. “I can see that if one were married, companionship would be the most important part.”
She nods, studying the sweater in her lap. “It is,” she concurs. “You know, the other part . . . the physical part . . . that’s not always all it’s cracked up to be.”
Jeepers. She really is telling it all, isn’t she? “Do you mean . . . you and Dad . . .”
“Gracious, Kitty, that’s hardly something I’m going to discuss with my daughter.” She pulls yarn from her bag, and Aslan bats at it. “Get away, you.” She pushes his paw away, and he jumps down, heading for the kitchen, no doubt wondering if there is any food left in his bowl.
“But you’re all right, aren’t you?” I face her, my slippered feet on the floor. “You and Dad—everything is all right? You’re happy, aren’t you?” My voice becomes a hoarse whisper. “Please tell me you’re happy.”
She smiles. “Your father and I have been married for a good many years, and we are lucky that we still like to spend time together. We’re lucky that we know how to find common ground. Do I want to be with him all day long? Does he want to be with me all day long? Goodness, no. He has golf and reading; he has friends and plenty to do. And I have my knitting, my ladies’ club, my volunteer work at the hospital. In the evenings, we have each other. True companionship? Yes, we have that. But that doesn’t mean we need to spend every waking moment together. And that”—she pulls more yarn from her bag—“is how it ought to be.” She frowns. “You want a companion, yes. But you’d never want someone to be your whole world, Kitty.”
“No,” I say slowly. “No, even if one is married . . . there ought to be more. Not just your husband, not even just your children.” I blink a few times. “Family is important, it’s the most important thing. But it can’t be everything. If it is . . .” I look away, toward the front window. “If it is, when your family life doesn’t go as you expected it to . . . why then, you’re in for a huge disappointment. If that’s all you have.”
“Exactly.” My mother gently folds her handiwork and places it in her bag. “Why do you think I work with all those poor ailing children at the hospital?” she asks me. “Why do you think I’ve spent so much time there? Do you think I would have done that if things had gone differently? If you had not been an only child?”
I have never considered this before. She is of a generation in which married women in the workforce were a rarity—not that there are loads of mothers working outside their homes nowadays, but certainly more than when I was a child. That lifestyle was out of the question for my mother—indeed, for most women of that time. But as a mother of just one child—and a mother who had hoped for many more—what was she to do with all her time, once I was past infancy, once I was in school? She had more than enough time to spend on me; she lavished time on me. And yet I was a good kid, an easy kid. She always said so, they both said so. With just one easy kid, she would have had buckets of spare time. So she spent that time on other children, on babies who took the place of the babies she did not get to raise.
“In either case,” my mother says briskly, rising from her chair, “now that I know you’re perfectly all right, I’m going to call your father. He ought to be home by now, and he can come back down here and pick me up.”
After my mother leaves, I call Frieda to say I’m sorry. “It’s all right,” she says. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’m coming in,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to, Kitty. It’s slow.”