Left Neglected

Chapter 2





Mom, can I have a piece?” asks Lucy.

“Sure, honey, what piece do you want?”

“Can I have your eyes?”

“You can have one.”

I pull my left eyeball out of the socket. It feels a little like a deviled egg, but warmer. Lucy snatches it from my hand and skips away, bouncing it on the ground like a Super Ball as she goes.

“Be careful with it; I need that back!”

I am sitting at the kitchen table, staring with my one eye at the hundreds of numbers on my Excel spreadsheet. I click the cursor onto an empty cell and input more data. As I’m typing, my eye is lured to something just above and beyond my focus on the laptop screen. My father, dressed in his full fireman’s uniform, is sitting in the chair opposite me.

“Hi, Sarah.”

“Jeez, Dad, you scared me to death.”

“I need you to give me your appendix.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“Sarah, don’t talk back. I need it.”

“No one needs their appendix, Dad. You didn’t need a new one.”

“Then why did it kill me?”

I look down at my computer. A PowerPoint presentation slide appears on the screen. I read it.


Reasons Why Your Father’s Appendix Ruptured



• He had a bad stomachache for two days and did nothing about it but drink a little Pepto-Bismol and some whiskey.





• He shrugged off the intense nausea and gave no consideration to his low fever.





• You were away at college, your mother was in her bedroom, and he didn’t call the station or 911.





• It became inflamed and infected with poison.





• Like any living thing that is disregarded for too long, it eventually couldn’t take it anymore and did whatever had to be done to get his attention.





I look up at my father. He’s still waiting for an answer.

“Because you ignored what you were feeling.”

“I may be dead, but I’m still your father. Give me your appendix.”

“It has no purpose. You’re better off without it.”

“Exactly.”

He stares at me unflinching, transmitting his intention into my consciousness like a radio signal through my one eye.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,” I say.

“We’re all worried about you, Sarah.”

“I’m fine. I just have to finish this report.”

I look down at the screen, and the numbers are gone.

“Shit!”

I look up, and my father is gone.

“Shit!”

Charlie runs into the kitchen.

“You said ‘shit’!” he announces, delighted to be telling on me, even if he’s only telling on me to me.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say, keeping my one eye glued to the computer screen, frantically searching for some way to retrieve all that data. I have to finish this report.

“That’s a swear word.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say, clicking everything clickable.

I don’t look up at him and wish he would take the hint. He never does.

“Mom, you know how I’m not good at listening?”

“Yes. You drive me crazy.”

“Can I have your ears?”

“You can have one.”

“I want both.”

“One.”

“Both, I want both!”

“Fine!”

I twist my ears off my head and throw them like a pair of dice across the table. Charlie fastens them over his own like earphones and cocks his head as if he’s trying to listen for something off in the distance. He smiles, satisfied. I try to hear it, too, but then remember that I have no ears. He says something and runs away.

“Hey, my earrings!”

But he’s already out of sight. I return to my computer screen. At least he’s gone, and I can be sure to concentrate now in quiet.

The front door opens. Bob is standing on the other side of the table, a blend of sadness and disgust absorbing into his eyes as he looks at me. He says something.

“I can’t hear you, honey. I gave Charlie my ears.”

He says something again.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He drops his messenger bag and kneels down next to me. He flips my computer screen shut and grabs me by the shoulders, almost hurting me.

He yells at me. I still can’t hear him, but I know he’s yelling from the urgency in his eyes and the blue veins popping in his neck. He yells what he’s trying to tell me in slow motion so I can read his lips.

“Way up?”

I look up at the ceiling.

“I don’t get it.”

He yells it again and again, shaking my shoulders.

“Wake up?”

“Yes!” he yells and stops shaking me.

“I am awake.”

“No, you’re not.”





M O N D A Y


Welmont is an affluent suburb of Boston complete with tree-lined streets, landscaped yards, a bike trail that winds throughout the town, a private country club and golf course, a center populated with boutique clothing shops, day spas, and a Gap, and schools that everyone brags about, the best in the state. Bob and I chose this town because of its proximity to Boston, where we both work, and because of the successful life it promises. If there is a house left in Welmont worth under half a million dollars, some savvy contractor is ready to buy it, tear it down, and build something three times its current size and value. Most everyone in town drives a luxury car, vacations in the Caribbean, belongs to the country club, and owns a second home on the Cape or in the mountains north of Boston. Ours is in Vermont.

Bob and I were fresh out of Harvard Business School and pregnant with Charlie when we moved here. Saddled with $200,000 in student loans and nothing saved, affording Welmont and all that goes with it was a daunting stretch. But we both landed ambitious jobs and had unshakable confidence in our earning potentials. Eight years later, we are in every way keeping up with the Welmont Joneses.

Welmont Elementary School is just about three miles and ten minutes from our house on Pilgrim Lane. Stopped at a traffic light, I glance up at the rearview mirror. Sitting in the middle, Charlie is playing something on his Nintendo DS. Lucy is staring out the window as she mumbles along to some Hannah Montana song on her iPod. And facing backward in his bucket car seat, Linus is sucking on his nukie and watching Elmo’s World through the mirror that Bob strapped to the car’s backseat headrest; the video is playing behind him on the DVD player that came standard with my Acura SUV. No one is crying or complaining or asking me for anything. Ah, the miracle of modern technology!

I am still annoyed at Bob. I have a European staffing meeting at eight o’clock. It’s for an important client, and I’m stressed about it, and on top of this, now I’m worried about getting there on time because it’s Monday, my day to drive the kids to school and day care. When I told this to Bob, he looked at his watch and said, Don’t worry, you’ll make it. I wasn’t looking for a Zen outlook.

Charlie and Lucy are enrolled in the school’s Before the Bell program, which runs from 7:15 to 8:20 every day in the gym. This is where the kids with parents who need to get to work before 9:00 hang out under the supervision of a teacher until the school day officially begins at 8:30. At only five dollars a day per kid, Before the Bell is truly an economical godsend.

When Charlie first began kindergarten, I was surprised to see only a few of the kids in Charlie’s class in Before the Bell. I had assumed that all the parents in town would need this service. I then guessed that most of the kids had live-in nannies. Some do, but it turns out that most of the kids in Welmont have mothers who have opted out of the workforce and are stay-at-home moms—all women with college, even graduate, degrees. Never in a million years would I have guessed this. I can’t imagine opting out, wasting all that education and training. I love my children and know they’re important, but so is my career and the life that career affords us.

Parked in the school lot, I grab their two backpacks, which I swear weigh more than they do, get out, and open the back door like a chauffeur. Who am I kidding? Not like a chauffeur. I am a chauffeur. No one moves.

“Come on, let’s go!”

Still tethered to their electronic devices and without a molecule of urgency, Charlie and Lucy file out of the car and start heading like a couple of snails for the front of the school.

I press behind them, leaving Linus in the car with the engine and Elmo running.

I know someone from 60 Minutes or Dateline NBC would have a bone to pick with me about doing this, and I half expect Chris Hansen to ambush me from behind a parked Volvo any day now. I’ve already rehearsed my side of the argument in my head. First of all, his bucket car seat, the car seat all babies are required to ride in under the age of one, weighs a ridiculous nineteen pounds. Add in Linus, who weighs almost as much as the car seat and the poor ergonomic design of the handle, and it’s physically unmanageable to carry him anywhere. I would love to have a conversation with the exceptionally strong and obviously childless man who designed these things. Linus is content and watching Elmo. Why disturb him? Welmont is a safe town. I’ll be only a few seconds.

It’s an unseasonably warm morning for the first week of November. Just yesterday, Charlie and Lucy wore fleece hats and mittens outside, but today, it’s already fifty, and they almost don’t even need their coats. Undoubtedly because of the weather, the school playground is packed and wild with kids, which is not typical in the mornings. This catches Charlie’s attention, and just before we reach the double doors, he bolts.

“Charlie! Get back here!”

My admonishment doesn’t even break his stride. He’s heading straight for the monkey bars and doesn’t look back. I scoop up Lucy in my left arm and run after him.

“I don’t have time for this,” I tell Lucy, my cooperative little ally.

By the time I reach the monkey bars, the only sign of Charlie is his coat, which lies rumpled on a pile of woodchips. I grab it with the hand already holding two backpacks and scan the playground.

“Charlie!”

It doesn’t take me long to spot him. He’s sitting at the very top of the jungle gym.

“Charlie, down, right now!”

He doesn’t appear to hear me, but the nearby mothers do. Dressed in designer sweats, tee-shirts and jeans, tennis shoes and clogs, these mothers appear to have all the time in the world to hang out at the school playground in the morning. I feel the judgment in their stares and imagine the range of what they must be thinking.

He only wants to play outside on this gorgeous morning like the rest of the kids.

Would it kill her to let him play for a few minutes?

See how he never listens to her? She has no control over her kids.

“Charlie, please come down and come with me. I have to get to work.”

He doesn’t budge.

“Okay, that’s one!”

He roars like a lion at a group of kids looking up at him from the bottom.

“Two!”

He’s not moving.

“Three!”

Nothing. I want to kill him. I look down at my three-inch Cole Haan heels and wonder for an insane moment if I could climb in them. Then I look down at my Cartier watch. It’s 7:30. Enough of this.

“Charlie, now, or no video games for a week!”

That does it. He stands, turns, and faces out, but instead of reaching down with his feet for the next bar level, he bends his knees and launches himself into the air. A few of the other mothers and I gasp. In that split second, I imagine broken legs and a severed spinal column. But he pops up from the ground, smiling. Thank God he’s made of rubber. The boys who witnessed this death-defying stunt cheer with admiration. The girls playing nearby don’t seem to notice him at all. The mothers continue watching to see how I’ll handle the rest of this drama.

Knowing he’s still a flight risk, I put Lucy down and grab Charlie by the hand.

“Ow, too tight!”

“Too bad.”

He pulls on my arm as hard as he can, leaning away from me, trying to get away, like an excited Doberman on a leash. My hand is now sweaty, and he’s beginning to slip out. I squeeze tighter. He pulls harder.

“Hold my hand, too,” whines Lucy.

“I can’t, honey, come on.”

“I want to hold hands!” she shrieks, not moving, balancing on the edge of a tantrum. I think fast.

“Hold Charlie’s.”

Charlie licks the entire palm of his free hand and offers it to her.

“Gross!” Lucy squeals.

“Fine, here.”

I slide the two backpacks and Charlie’s coat to my elbow, and with a kid in each hand, I drag us into Welmont Elementary.

The gym is overheated and set with the usual cast of characters. The girls are sitting against the wall, reading, socializing, or just sitting and watching the boys, who are playing basketball and running all over the place. As soon as I let go of his hand, Charlie takes off. I don’t have the will to holler after him for a proper good-bye.

“Have a good day, my Lucy Goose.”

“Bye, Mommy.”

I kiss her on her beautiful head and dump the backpacks onto the pile of book bags on the floor. There are no mothers or fathers lingering around in here. I don’t know the other drop-off parents. I know some of the kids’ names and might know which parent belongs to which kid. Like that woman is Hilary’s mom. Most are flying in and flying out, no time for small talk. Without knowing much about any of them, I relate to these parents completely.

The only parent I know at Before the Bell by name is Heidi, Ben’s mom, who is on her way out as well. Always in scrubs and purple Crocs, Heidi is some kind of nurse. I know her name because Ben and Charlie are friends, because she sometimes drops Charlie home after soccer, and because she has an approachable energy and a sincere smile that has many times in the last year communicated a world of empathy.

I have kids, too. I know.

I have a job, too. I know.

I’m running late, too. I know.

I know.

“How are you?” Heidi asks as we make our way down the hallway.

“Good, you?”

“Good. I haven’t seen you with Linus in a while. He must be getting so big.”

“Oh my God, Linus!”

Without offering any explanation, I sprint away from Heidi down the hall, out of the school, and down the front steps to my running car, which, thank God, is still there. I can hear poor Linus wailing before I even touch the door.

Bunny is on the floor, and the DVD is sitting idle on the menu screen, but my mother’s ears and heart know his cry isn’t about a stuffed lovie or a red Muppet. Once the video ended and Linus came out of its magical trance, he must’ve realized he was trapped and alone in the car. Abandoned. The number one primal fear for any baby his age is abandonment. His red face and hairline are soaked with tears.

“Linus, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

I unbuckle him as fast as I can while he screams. I pick him up, hug him, and rub his back. He smears a gob of snot onto the collar of my shirt.

“Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

It’s not working. In fact, the intensity and volume of his sobs are escalating. He’s not willing to forgive me so easily, and I don’t blame him one bit. But if I can’t console him, I might as well get him to day care. I pin his distraught body back into the car seat, place Bunny on his lap, hit Play on the DVD player, and drive while he screams murder to Sunny Horizons.

I hand a still-heaving Linus, Bunny, and diaper bag over to one of the day care assistant teachers, a kind young Brazilian woman new to Sunny Horizons.

“Linus, shhh, you’re okay. Linus, please, honey, you’re okay,” I say, trying one last time to convince him. I hate to leave him like this.

“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Nickerson. It’s better if you just go.”

Back in the car, I exhale. Finally, I’m on my way to work. The clock on the dash reads 7:50. I’m going to be late. Again. Clenching my teeth and the steering wheel, I pull out of Sunny Horizons and start rummaging through my bag for my phone.

My bag is embarrassingly huge. Depending on where I am and whom I’m with, it functions as a briefcase, a pocketbook, a diaper bag, or a backpack. Wherever I am and whomever I’m with, I feel like a Sherpa carrying this thing. As I grope around for the phone, I touch my laptop, crayons, pens, my wallet, lipstick, keys, Goldfish crackers, a juice box, business cards, tampons, a diaper, receipts, Band-Aids, a Handi Wipes container, a calculator, and folders stuffed with papers. I do not touch my phone. I upend the bag, dumping the contents onto the passenger seat, and look for it.

Where the heck is it? I have about five minutes to find it. I’m aware that my eyes are spending significantly more time on my passenger seat and floor than on the road. The guy gunning past me on the right is flipping me off. And talking on his phone.

I suddenly see it, but it’s in my mind’s eye. On the kitchen table. Crap, crap, crap! I’m on the Mass Pike, about twenty minutes from work. I think for a second about where I could get off and find a pay phone. But then I think, Do pay phones even exist anymore? I can’t remember the last time I saw one anywhere. Maybe I could stop in a CVS or a Starbucks. Some nice person there would probably lend me their phone. For a minute. Sarah, your meeting is for the next hour. Just get there.

As I race like a NASCAR driver on crack, I try crystallizing my notes for this meeting in my head, but I’m having trouble concentrating. I can’t think. It isn’t until I pull into the Prudential garage that I realize my thoughts are competing with Linus’s video.

Elmo wants to learn more about families.