didn’t get her number. And I have no idea what blocking is or why we’re not a part of it.
Reluctant to tie up my phone, I’ve resisted calling home to check on Emily and Tom, but unable to stand the boredom one more second, I cave.
First, I call home. No answer.
I try to recall if my mom told me her plan for the day. Emily had a soccer game this morning, that I know because her uniform needed to be washed, but after that, the activities of my other two kids are a blank. My mom might have told me, but last night I was distracted. Molly and I needed to memorize her lines, and it was a lot of work. My mom and Emily and Tom were there, but I can’t remember if they talked about their day. If they did, I wasn’t paying attention.
I try Emily’s cell phone, and she answers on the fifth ring.
“Hey, baby, where are you?”
“We’re going to Sky Zone for Melissa’s birthday party. Didn’t Grandma tell you?”
I don’t think so, but she might have. Not wanting to incriminate myself, I say nothing, feeling bad for either not listening or not asking. But it doesn’t matter because, for the first time since we got back from Bo’s, Emily sounds happy, and I grab onto it. “That’s terrific. Melissa from your class?”
“My soccer team.”
How do I not know this? In Yucaipa I knew every classmate, every teammate, and most of the parents.
“And Tom is going with you?”
“Yep. Melissa’s parents are like super rich, so she invited the brothers and sisters too. They rented out the whole place, like the entire Sky Zone.”
“That’s wonderful. Did you get her a present?”
“Grandma,” Emily squeals in alarm, “we didn’t buy a present.”
“Crap,” I hear my mom say in the background.
“Em,” I say, trying to get her back on the phone.
My mom’s muffled voice says, “We’re already late. We’ll give her something at the next practice.”
“We can’t,” Emily cries. “I can’t not have a present. She’s going to open her gifts, and I’m just going to be sitting there.”
“Em,” I yell louder, hoping she’ll hear me. The other customers in the restaurant look over at my screech that Emily still doesn’t hear.
How could my mom not have realized that you need to bring a gift to a birthday party?
Because my mom never remembers things like that. My dad was the one who took care of the details of life—cooking, buying toilet paper, making sure I had gifts for birthday parties.
Emily’s sobs resonate through the line, and I want to grab Molly and run to her rescue, but there are way too many problems with that idea. First, I have no idea which Sky Zone they’re headed toward. Second, by the time I fight my way out of the downtown, the party will be over. Third, we’re waiting for a callback so Molly can finish her workday.
“We’re here,” I hear my mom say. “Emily, stop crying.”
Emily continues to sob.
“Em, come on, let’s go. Melissa won’t care that you don’t have a gift.”
More hysterics.
Minutes pass.
“Fine. Then we’re going home,” my mom says, clearly frustrated.
And that’s that. No Sky Zone, no birthday party.
“Mom, what’s wrwong?” Molly says, appearing in front of me, and I realize tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I wipe them away and click off the phone. “Nothing, baby.” I pull her onto my lap and bury my wet face into her soft hug, reining in my frustration and trying not to be angry with my mom, reminding myself that she’s doing the best she can. She didn’t sign up for this. Until a week ago, she was a part-time volunteer librarian, and now she’s a full-time babysitter.
My phone buzzes.
We’re needed back on the set.
23
T he black-haired pixie’s name is Beth, and she is the assistant director, Chris’s right-hand woman, but I’m thinking Hitler in drag or Medusa. She walks very fast as she leads us through the backstage area, and Molly needs to run to keep up. We turn a corner and race past a dozen people who
Reluctant to tie up my phone, I’ve resisted calling home to check on Emily and Tom, but unable to stand the boredom one more second, I cave.
First, I call home. No answer.
I try to recall if my mom told me her plan for the day. Emily had a soccer game this morning, that I know because her uniform needed to be washed, but after that, the activities of my other two kids are a blank. My mom might have told me, but last night I was distracted. Molly and I needed to memorize her lines, and it was a lot of work. My mom and Emily and Tom were there, but I can’t remember if they talked about their day. If they did, I wasn’t paying attention.
I try Emily’s cell phone, and she answers on the fifth ring.
“Hey, baby, where are you?”
“We’re going to Sky Zone for Melissa’s birthday party. Didn’t Grandma tell you?”
I don’t think so, but she might have. Not wanting to incriminate myself, I say nothing, feeling bad for either not listening or not asking. But it doesn’t matter because, for the first time since we got back from Bo’s, Emily sounds happy, and I grab onto it. “That’s terrific. Melissa from your class?”
“My soccer team.”
How do I not know this? In Yucaipa I knew every classmate, every teammate, and most of the parents.
“And Tom is going with you?”
“Yep. Melissa’s parents are like super rich, so she invited the brothers and sisters too. They rented out the whole place, like the entire Sky Zone.”
“That’s wonderful. Did you get her a present?”
“Grandma,” Emily squeals in alarm, “we didn’t buy a present.”
“Crap,” I hear my mom say in the background.
“Em,” I say, trying to get her back on the phone.
My mom’s muffled voice says, “We’re already late. We’ll give her something at the next practice.”
“We can’t,” Emily cries. “I can’t not have a present. She’s going to open her gifts, and I’m just going to be sitting there.”
“Em,” I yell louder, hoping she’ll hear me. The other customers in the restaurant look over at my screech that Emily still doesn’t hear.
How could my mom not have realized that you need to bring a gift to a birthday party?
Because my mom never remembers things like that. My dad was the one who took care of the details of life—cooking, buying toilet paper, making sure I had gifts for birthday parties.
Emily’s sobs resonate through the line, and I want to grab Molly and run to her rescue, but there are way too many problems with that idea. First, I have no idea which Sky Zone they’re headed toward. Second, by the time I fight my way out of the downtown, the party will be over. Third, we’re waiting for a callback so Molly can finish her workday.
“We’re here,” I hear my mom say. “Emily, stop crying.”
Emily continues to sob.
“Em, come on, let’s go. Melissa won’t care that you don’t have a gift.”
More hysterics.
Minutes pass.
“Fine. Then we’re going home,” my mom says, clearly frustrated.
And that’s that. No Sky Zone, no birthday party.
“Mom, what’s wrwong?” Molly says, appearing in front of me, and I realize tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I wipe them away and click off the phone. “Nothing, baby.” I pull her onto my lap and bury my wet face into her soft hug, reining in my frustration and trying not to be angry with my mom, reminding myself that she’s doing the best she can. She didn’t sign up for this. Until a week ago, she was a part-time volunteer librarian, and now she’s a full-time babysitter.
My phone buzzes.
We’re needed back on the set.
23
T he black-haired pixie’s name is Beth, and she is the assistant director, Chris’s right-hand woman, but I’m thinking Hitler in drag or Medusa. She walks very fast as she leads us through the backstage area, and Molly needs to run to keep up. We turn a corner and race past a dozen people who
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