They’re always in a weird mood when I pick them up—grouchy and hypercritical. On the drive home they always seem to need to find fault with me for a million little things. It’s as if they’ve swallowed some kind of toxic substance and they have to vomit up all this bile before they can be okay again.”
Tim tells Claire about what it was like with Joan, and over the year since he’s been on his own with Ursula. “I can handle the laundry and the cooking and my job at the college and all that,” he says. “The part that gets to me is no matter what I do, I can’t be a mother for my little girl. And she never stops wanting one.”
A couple months back, he says, Joan called Ursula at seven o’clock on a Sunday night—the first time they’d heard from her in half a year. Since then, Ursula won’t go anyplace on a Sunday night, even though that’s when they show free movies at the library. She and Tim used to go every week and walk over to Friendly’s for ice creams afterward.
“Now they could be giving away Barbies down at Wal-Mart and it wouldn’t matter, if it was a Sunday night,” he tells Claire. “Ursula would have to stay in that chair of hers next to the phone. ‘I think this is the night, for sure, Dad,’ she says. ‘Any minute now she’s going to call.’ Only she doesn’t. Usually I just let Ursula stay there in the chair until she falls asleep. Then I carry her up to bed and she doesn’t talk about Joan again until the next Sunday.”
L ong after Claire and Tim have finished their omelettes they’re still sitting in the restaurant. She’s surprised to hear herself telling him about that last terrible winter of her marriage, when she seemed to have lost the ability to sleep. She might lie down for a couple of hours in the bed she shared with Sam, listening to him snoring at the far end, and sometimes she’d cry in this soundless way she had. Sometimes he’d wake up complaining that her crying was making the mattress shake. “Take the boohooing someplace else would you babe?” he’d tell her. “If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be no good on the job tomorrow.”
So she’d get up. She might do a load of laundry or bake bread. She alphabetized the spices and polished the silverware. Sometimes she’d creep into her children’s rooms and sit there on the floor sorting Legos into bins according to colors or lining up Pete’s Matchbox cars on the shelf.
Three o’clock, maybe four, she’d feel bone-weary, but she knew if she went back to bed with Sam, it would start all over again: She’d reach for him. He’d push her away. She’d cry. The bed would shake. He’d tell her to take it someplace else. So this time she’d go lie down in one of her children’s narrow single beds, under Pete’s He-Man quilt or Sally’s with the ballerinas. Then finally she could sleep.
Years later, when Sam decided to fight for custody, this was one of the things he told in court as evidence that she’s an unfit mother. “I never had any evidence that she, you know, touched them inappropriately,” he told the Marital Master. “But you have to wonder. The state she was in, there was no telling.”
There on the stand, in the same blue blazer he wore on their wedding day, Sam recounted the story of the time she had stood in the bathroom holding a pair of scissors to one of her braids. “What can I say?” he told the judge, shaking his head regretfully. “She was hysterical.”
“And what did she do then, Sam?” his lawyer had asked him. A woman .
“She said she was going to cut off her hair if I didn’t talk to her,” he answered. “It was very frightening to the children, but I tried to put their minds at ease. I told them, ‘Mommy was just having one of those days.’ ”
“I have primary custody of the children now,” Claire tells Tim. She also explains that she has never got over the feeling that was left with her from the experience of going to court, that she is always
Tim tells Claire about what it was like with Joan, and over the year since he’s been on his own with Ursula. “I can handle the laundry and the cooking and my job at the college and all that,” he says. “The part that gets to me is no matter what I do, I can’t be a mother for my little girl. And she never stops wanting one.”
A couple months back, he says, Joan called Ursula at seven o’clock on a Sunday night—the first time they’d heard from her in half a year. Since then, Ursula won’t go anyplace on a Sunday night, even though that’s when they show free movies at the library. She and Tim used to go every week and walk over to Friendly’s for ice creams afterward.
“Now they could be giving away Barbies down at Wal-Mart and it wouldn’t matter, if it was a Sunday night,” he tells Claire. “Ursula would have to stay in that chair of hers next to the phone. ‘I think this is the night, for sure, Dad,’ she says. ‘Any minute now she’s going to call.’ Only she doesn’t. Usually I just let Ursula stay there in the chair until she falls asleep. Then I carry her up to bed and she doesn’t talk about Joan again until the next Sunday.”
L ong after Claire and Tim have finished their omelettes they’re still sitting in the restaurant. She’s surprised to hear herself telling him about that last terrible winter of her marriage, when she seemed to have lost the ability to sleep. She might lie down for a couple of hours in the bed she shared with Sam, listening to him snoring at the far end, and sometimes she’d cry in this soundless way she had. Sometimes he’d wake up complaining that her crying was making the mattress shake. “Take the boohooing someplace else would you babe?” he’d tell her. “If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be no good on the job tomorrow.”
So she’d get up. She might do a load of laundry or bake bread. She alphabetized the spices and polished the silverware. Sometimes she’d creep into her children’s rooms and sit there on the floor sorting Legos into bins according to colors or lining up Pete’s Matchbox cars on the shelf.
Three o’clock, maybe four, she’d feel bone-weary, but she knew if she went back to bed with Sam, it would start all over again: She’d reach for him. He’d push her away. She’d cry. The bed would shake. He’d tell her to take it someplace else. So this time she’d go lie down in one of her children’s narrow single beds, under Pete’s He-Man quilt or Sally’s with the ballerinas. Then finally she could sleep.
Years later, when Sam decided to fight for custody, this was one of the things he told in court as evidence that she’s an unfit mother. “I never had any evidence that she, you know, touched them inappropriately,” he told the Marital Master. “But you have to wonder. The state she was in, there was no telling.”
There on the stand, in the same blue blazer he wore on their wedding day, Sam recounted the story of the time she had stood in the bathroom holding a pair of scissors to one of her braids. “What can I say?” he told the judge, shaking his head regretfully. “She was hysterical.”
“And what did she do then, Sam?” his lawyer had asked him. A woman .
“She said she was going to cut off her hair if I didn’t talk to her,” he answered. “It was very frightening to the children, but I tried to put their minds at ease. I told them, ‘Mommy was just having one of those days.’ ”
“I have primary custody of the children now,” Claire tells Tim. She also explains that she has never got over the feeling that was left with her from the experience of going to court, that she is always
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