“Hiya, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Rory says in a flawless British accent. He discovered Harry Potter movies and Dr. Who a month ago. His obsession with all things British was instantaneous. The accent was adopted immediately, and he hasn’t deviated from it for weeks. It’s gone from a quasi-Australian/British confused hybrid to sounding like a Sherlock Holmes doppelganger in an impressively short amount of time. I find myself forgetting my little boy is indeed not Benedict Cumberbatch when I listen to him.
Mrs. L smiles at me approvingly. “You’ve done well with this lot, Seamus. Strong personalities each and every one.” She doesn’t have children, but the way she looks at them makes me feel like that was a choice made by the fickle hand of fate, not by her and her husband.
“Thank you.” I smile inwardly at the compliment. I can’t get much right lately, but my kids are my pride and joy, and I love and encourage their individuality. That’s something their mom and I have differing views on. She’s cookie-cutter. I’m not.
“Bye, everyone. See you at lunchtime. Sandwiches are on me today, Seamus.”
Normally I would fight her, turning down the kind gesture because my pride wouldn’t let me accept the charity. But I don’t have any food in the house with the exception of a half empty can of sour cream and onion Pringles and a warm bottle of Sunny D, and I need to save the sandwich money for our trip to the grocery store later this afternoon. Money doesn’t go as far as it once did. Instead, I swallow my pride; it goes down uncomfortably and rebelliously like a golf ball-sized lump of bull-headedness, as I say, “Thank you. We’ll see you around noon.” And just as she steps out onto the W…E mat my thoughts drift back to the image of apartments one and two, their drawn curtains, and I’m speaking before I formulate the questions fully in my mind. I usually think everything through before it escapes my mouth. I choose my words with care because years of counseling teenagers has taught me it’s best not to always say the first thing that comes to mind. “Who lives in the apartments downstairs? Families? Kids? Married? Single?” My cheeks warm at the last word I uttered, and I immediately lock down the flow, because that probably sounded desperate and needy. I’m not desperate and needy. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever date again. The divorce crushed me. My heart may never know trust, the type of trust required to allow love in a second time in my lifetime. Remember what I said before about bitterness? Bitter is practically my middle name. In fact, I may just start going by Bitter instead of Seamus, kind of like Prince or Beyonce. A single, purposeful name. I’ll just be Bitter.
Her smile is markedly presumptuous; she read single as a match-making plea, instead of an innocent question based solely on my children’s social life, not mine. “Two single women. Faith in two is a free spirited, young lady. She’s energetic and such a kind soul. And Hope in one is a…a…” she’s struggling for the right word, “bit reclusive. Older than you and she doesn’t come out much. She’s quiet as a church mouse, though, you’ll never know she’s there.”
I’m still stuck on their names, Faith and Hope, which are no longer names. Instead, they’re concepts that have been foreign to me in past months. Concepts that tucked their tails between their legs and beat feet when bitterness swept in like a hurricane leveling everything in its path.
When I don’t acknowledge her assessment, Mrs. L waves politely and heads down the stairs. “Bye, Seamus,” she calls back.
“Bye,” I answer dumbly, roused from my unintentional rudeness.
There are exactly two beats of silence before Kai shuts the front door and announces, “Let’s unpack.”
I nod in agreement with the mini responsible adult standing before me. “Let’s unpack.”
That evening after dinner, I leave Kai in charge for two minutes and walk next door to Mrs. L’s for the tea she offered earlier. She opens the door a crack and peeks out before she sees me and swings the door open. The scent drifting out is unmistakable.
“Hey, Mrs. L, I was wondering if I could take you up on that cup of tea? Maybe just put it in a mug and I’ll brew it at home. I don’t want to leave the kids.” I’m standing outside on her doormat so I can still see my front door and window.
“Certainly,” she says. “Hold this and I’ll grab you a cup.”
Before I know it, she’s handed me the joint in her hand and is walking away toward the kitchen. “Shit,” I mutter, trying to figure out where to hide the contraband. I step inside, so I’m not in plain sight of a passerby. Mr. Lipokowski is stretched out on their couch watching the local news. He looks very relaxed; I guess this is how they unwind. To each their own, I think to myself.
She returns less than a minute later and trades me the joint for a cup of tea.
“Thanks, Mrs. L.”
“Anytime, Seamus. Have a good one.” She flashes me a peace sign before she shuts the door.
The housewarming mango
present
“Bloody hell, who’s eaten all the Lucky Charms?”
“Language, Rory,” I remind him. In my head, I’m repeating, Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.