Odd Mom Out

“School can be hard, Mom. I don’t get everything, and it’s not a big deal to get tutored. Lots of people I know do.”

“Like . . . Jemma?”

She nods, unaware that she’s just revealed her hand. “Jemma and Paige and maybe even Devanne, although Devanne’s pretty smart. She does really well in most subjects.”

“Eva, there’s no shame in being bright.”

“I know.” But from her swift shrug, I don’t think she knows, and I don’t think she believes it. “Oh.” Eva reaches into her backpack, pulls out a big brown envelope stuffed with papers, and pushes it across the table. “You’ve got to read these and send some back signed tomorrow.”

More paperwork to fill out. Tons of paperwork. Yuck. Sometimes I feel as though school is more work for the parents than it is for the kids. “So what’s your essay about?”

“It’s the usual back-to-school getting-to-know-you stuff.” She flips her carefully organized binder open to the first page, where she has a bright orange, pink, purple, and lime green assignment calendar, and reads aloud her notes. “Five-paragraph minimum. Introductory paragraph. Paragraph about each member of the family—” She breaks off, looks at me. “Guess I’ll have to write about my sperm donor father.”

Ah. I know where she’s going with this, but I don’t rise to the bait. “Tell her we have a small family, or write about why we moved to Washington so we could be closer to Grandma and Grandpa.”

“So I shouldn’t tell her that I don’t have a father?”

“You could tell her whatever you want to tell her. It’s your essay.”

“It’s okay then to tell her my mom ordered sperm off the Internet and had it sent to a clinic in New York where they used a cat catheter to transfer the sperm into your—”

“Eva.”

She looks at me innocently. “What?”

When Eva was a baby, I dreamed of all the warm, wonderful mother-daughter things we’d do together. Shopping, reading books together, going to the movies, having lunch, trips to the theater to see good plays and the annual holiday ballet, The Nutcracker.

I never thought about these sparky little mother-daughter talks where daughter makes snide comments to mom. I should have. I specialized in snarky with my mom.

And it hits me all over again that it’s true what they always said, about payback being a bitch.

Which means I’m going to be suffering for a long, long time.

“What, Mom?” she repeats, a little less cocky than before.

“Do you want to write about sperm donors and sperm banks for your fourth-grade essay? Is that what you want to read out loud to the class?”

I don’t even wait for her to answer. “If so, then go right ahead. Educate your classmates. Mention that most women who do this are like me, professional women with the resources to support a family. Mention that the adoption rules are more restrictive for single women than for gay couples. Mention that using a sperm donor is faster, and cheaper, than adoption as well. And while you’re at it, mention that, yes, I short-circuited the traditional method of procreation, but I wasn’t going to wait for Mr. Right. I don’t believe in Mr. Right. I believe in you.

“And that,” I conclude, standing, “should give you at least five paragraphs.”

Eva stares up at me, eyes wide and, I hope, suitably impressed. “Okay,” she says with a little cough. “I will.”

“Good. And then we’ll go to Grandma’s when your essay’s done.”

I head back to the studio via the garage, and as I pass my truck, I spot my bike parked in the far corner, covered with an old paint-splattered dropcloth.

My bike.

It’s been so long since I rode it. So long since I’ve even looked at it.

I open the second garage door bay and let the light stream in. There aren’t any cobwebs in the garage, I keep it too clean for that, but there is a neglected feel in that half of the garage. Nothing’s there but the bike, and that’s hidden.

On an impulse, I strip away the dropcloth and let it fall to the ground. Dust puffs, and the sun catches the particles.

I stand back and admire my bike. It’s a big black muscle bike, far from ladylike, and when I sit on it I feel strong, female, powerful.

In the sunlight, I can see fingerprints on the chrome and more smudges on the black-painted gas tank. Using the hem of my cotton T-shirt, I buff the fingerprints out of the chrome and paint.

Still wiping off smudges, I swing my leg over the seat and sit down. I put my hands on the handlebars. It feels good just to be sitting on the bike again.

Eva appears around the garage door. “Allie’s looking for you.”

“Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking out my bike.”

“You’re not going to go for a ride, are you?”

“No.” But with my feet on the ground, I stand straight, balance the bike, feeling the weight of it, the heaviness and size. It’s like a very old friend.

Eva frowns. “Why are you on it?”

I pretend to shift gears, remember how when first learning to ride the Honda YZ80, I shifted gears too fast and ended up doing a ridiculous wheelie. Got thrown, and while I didn’t break any bones, my pride took a beating.

The guys I was with at the time laughed their asses off.

It made me even more determined to learn to ride, and ride well.

The first bike I bought was an outlaw. It’d been stripped and pieced together. It was ugly. I loved it.

Eva clasps her hands behind her back. “I’m not going to write about the whole sperm bank thing. Okay?”

I carefully buff the cap on my gas tank. “I know you miss not having a dad. I’m sorry. It’s hard on you.”

She shrugs. “It’s not that hard.”

I climb off the bike. “You’ve always wanted one.”

“And I used to want a Barbie Dream Castle, but I survived without one.”

Just when I want to throw in the towel, Eva surprises me, making me remember why I love our family.

Smiling, I reach for the paint-splattered cloth to cover the bike. Eva bends over, takes a corner of the dropcloth, and helps me settle it over the bike, hiding it once again.

“It’s a nice bike, Mom,” she says awkwardly as the fabric flutters from her fingers.

“Thanks.”

“Maybe you should ride it again. You know, since you like that sort of thing.”

Chapter Eight

Every member of the Z Design team looks at me agog when I appear Thursday morning in the studio in a pretty summer dress and heels.

“Going to church?” Chris asks, grinning.

“Or a funeral?” Robert quips.

Allie makes a face at all of them. “I think she looks very nice.” But even she is curious. “But where are you going? It can’t be business if you’re wearing . . . peach.”

“It’s not peach,” I say disdainfully as they all fight fits of giggles. “It’s apricot, and Eva picked it out for me to wear to this morning’s brunch.”

“Brunch . . . now?” Allie repeats.

Chris flexes his muscles beneath a too snug knit shirt. “I thought brunch was a weekend thing.”

“For country club folk,” Robert adds.

I roll my eyes. They’re worse than little kids. “It’s a school fund-raiser.”

“Because Points Elementary doesn’t have enough of those,” Susan, our office manager, sings as she peels off her thin sweater and settles her purse in a desk drawer. She’s only just arrived, she never comes until she’s dropped off her kids at their various schools and preschool, and her middle son attends Points, too.

“I’m glad you all approve.” I lean over my computer, check e-mail, make sure nothing’s come up in the last half hour, then straighten up. “Okay, I’m off. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

“Toodles,” Robert calls as I head to the door, and again they’re all in gales of laughter

. Their support is tremendous.

The Belosi home isn’t on the lake, but on a huge chunk of land smack in the middle of Clyde Hill with an unbelievable view of the lake and the Seattle skyline. It’s one of my favorite views, as high on the hill you can see the entire length of the Olympic mountain range. I’ve always found it breathtaking, the city with its skyscrapers and famous Space Needle centered in front of the Olympics’ snow-capped peaks and ragged edges.

As I pull through the impressive wrought-iron gates, a valet attendant takes my car and I’m ushered up the stone front steps and into the “villa,” as the Belosi family and friends refer to their home.

It does have the makings of a villa, but—and this may be my own snobbery—villas belong in Italy, overlooking Portofino, or nestled along the banks of Lake Como, not in the rugged Pacific Northwest.

However, the Belosi villa entry is probably grander than the classic Italian villa, with marble covering every exposed surface—pillars and columns, stairs and floor—with enormous tiered chandeliers everywhere, never mind the gilt-framed mirrors at the top of the stairs and another on the front wall behind the round table with its opulent arrangement of flowers.

Music tinkles from one of the great rooms to the right of the entry, and I see a uniformed waiter passing flutes of champagne and goblets of mimosas.

I take a mimosa, try not to think about all the work piled on my desk, and try to remember my goal—to meet more moms and to find women I have things in common with.

Glancing around, I see everyone is already in groups, and the loud voices and laughter boom from every direction.

I need to find someone who is standing on her own. Someone approachable. Someone hopefully friendly.