A few hours into the drive I glance in my rearview mirror. Kira is sitting in the middle. She’s sleeping with her head resting on Kai’s balled up coat in his lap. Kai and Rory are both awake looking out their respective windows. They’re different, these two. So different that arguments are inevitable and frequent, but their love for each other is fierce. It’s Seamus’s ability to love that was passed down to his kids, and it resonates amongst all of their other personality traits.
As if sensing my eyes on him, Rory locks his gaze with mine in the small rectangle of reflective glass. He’s the most headstrong of the three, bold in both word and action, which is unnerving in a nine-year-old. I shouldn’t be intimidated by a child, but his stare is truthful and judgmental and searing. It’s the same look I wear most of the time, minus the truthful part. Seeing myself mirrored isn’t flattering, it’s unsettling.
“Are you taking us to Dad’s, Miranda?” Rory started calling me by my first name when I filed for divorce and moved to Seattle. It’s said with such disdain that all I hear is bitch instead.
My immediate reaction is to say no, to establish dominance, but then I remember that my life is a big pile of steaming shit, and I pause and answer his question with a question. Because the honest to God truth is, I’ve never had a conversation with my kids about anything. I don’t know them. I just live on the periphery, while others engage them. I think of the conversation as a game, I’m good at games, and we have hours to burn on this hell-forsaken highway. “Would you rather live with Seamus?”
“Yes,” the boys answer in unison. Kai’s yes is sad, like he knows his answer is vulnerable and unattainable. Rory’s yes sounds like fuck you and hell yes all rolled up into one.
“Why?” I ask. Three letters I know will prompt a verbal execution. They’ll skewer and roast me over an open pit. I never provoke criticism. I’m holding my breath. Waiting.
Kai answers first, “Because we miss him. And we love him.” It’s a gentle admission, his nature seeping out.
I look at him in the mirror. His head is dropped like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. He’s absently running his fingers through his sleeping sister’s hair. The words You don’t love me? are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t force them out. I already know he doesn’t. It’s not fair to ask and put him in the position to tell the truth…or lie. Both would make him feel awful because his tender heart rules him. I usually prey on vulnerability, but looking at my little Seamus, I can’t. Instead, I shift to Rory and ask again, “What about you, Rory? Why?”
The icy glare fixes on me again. And for a moment, I take pride in the fact that I already know he’s going to grow into a man that people back down from. “What Kai said. And we don’t like you.” Blunt, assertive, to the point. I want to turn around and high five him.
Until I remember, he’s talking about me.
Ouch. Forever I’ve been indifferent to these kids. They’re part of my life by lineage, a part that others manage for me. A part I keep at arm’s length and monitor progress like a long-term development project. At the end of which, adulthood, I can either claim my part in if the project is successful, or deny my part away if the project is a failure. Choosy, outcome-based responsibility…or lack thereof. It’s the way I conveniently monitor things in my life I’m not passionate about. Things I don’t have vested interest in. If I only dabble, it’s easier to wash my hands of it if the need arises, or take credit for it if that suits me better. Image is cultivated at a get-your-hands-dirty, do-the-work level, but it can also be enhanced by selective enrichment. It’s all about finesse. Rory doesn’t give a shit about finesse. I kind of like him and hate him for it right now. “What do you like?” I counter. I don’t want to talk about me anymore.
He shakes his head. “What do you care?” he grumbles.
“I like basketball,” Kai answers.
“You do?” I question. And then it dawns on me. “Seamus used to play basketball.”
“Dad used to take me to the park to play when we lived in our house. And at the apartment, there was a hoop outside where we played.”
“Huh,” is all I can say. I never knew.
Rory decides to join in. “I like Harry Potter.”
“The books or the movies?” I haven’t read or seen them, but no one in the free world escapes notice of them.
“Both.” His answer is short and clipped, but I can hear enthusiasm beneath his angry armor.
This seems to be passing the time, and I have to admit I like them both talking to me, so I continue with the questions, “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue,” Kai answers. God, he is a mini-Seamus, that was always his favorite color too.