Designer Super Mom
"Oh, for heaven's sake Miranda,
just put them on.” She was
talking to herself again. “It's not like you never wore pants
before."
Miranda slipped into her first pair of
jeans. If not for the super sale, she wouldn’t have bought them. Their designer
fabric yielded better support than peddle pushers for her varicose veins. The sturdy
material would be added protection from jagged objects at the factory. But if Ben was alive, he
might not approve of the snug fit.
"No more thinking, just keep moving," she reminded herself for the
fifth time since getting out of bed. On the staircase the pliable jeans
massaged her legs with each descending step until she reached the living room.
Once there, she fumbled through her
purse.
Lisa lounged on the couch watching TV.
“Mom, I never saw you wearing jeans before.” Gloria Vanderbilt's signature
sprawled in white embroidering across the pocket of Miranda's pink jeans.
“I got black ones for work so stains
won't show.” She ran her palms down the sides of her thighs. “And I might not have
to wear support hose with these.”
“They're great. They make you
look... different.” Lisa gave Miranda another once-over. “You know, you should
date.”
Miranda chortled. “Who wants a woman with five kids?” Then she answered herself. “Someone who needs someone to take
care of them.”
“Aren’t you lonely?”
Had Lisa overheard that phone
conversation the other night? Miranda didn't regret having said, "No thank
you, I’m too busy with the children" to the older man across the street,
when he called. But Miranda decided
Lisa's interest in the subject was leading towards permission to date herself.
“I have you kids and Grandma. That's
all I need." She took a deep breath and another swipe on the new material. "And a better
job.”
Grandma's voice wafted from the
dining room. “Does that mean I can go to Bingo tonight? I thought you were
going out.” Ah, Lisa had listened in on Miranda’s conversation, and told
Grandma.
Miranda called back into the next
room. “Just this morning.”
“Where you goin' all dressed up?”
asked Lisa.
Grandma's voice shot back: “Your
mother's gettin' her GED.”
Miranda threw up her hands. “I
didn't want anyone to know. It's embarrassing.”
Lisa sat up. “You're gettin' your
diploma? Wow. That's great Mom. I won't say nothin'.”
“It's ridiculous. I've been out of
school for too long. And if the company needs me to work overtime on Saturdays,
I'll miss some classes.” Miranda slid out the registration form from her purse.
“You'll do great, Mom.“ Lisa reached
over and switched the channel.
Miranda silently read her name typed
at the top of the paper: Miranda Lisa Holmes. She creased the document again
and tucked it back inside. "Lisa, I better go so I'm not late. Please help
out while I‘m gone.”
Zipping her coat, Miranda called again
to Grandma. “The kids are getting dressed upstairs. I’m leaving.”
Miranda trudged downstairs wearing
powder blue jeans and pulling on a jacket. She found Grandma at the dining room
table sewing a dress. Miranda said, “I missed too many classes. I don't think I
can pass.”
Grandma spoke above the whirr of her
machine. “Either way, it'll be all right.”
Light shuffling of feet and the
bathroom door‘s whistling hardware drifted down to the first floor. Raspy
pitches of morning voices echoed in diminutive tones.
“Maybe this is a waste of time. I
should call the factory back and tell them I can come in.” Miranda paced the
worn strip of wall-to-wall carpeting through the living and dining rooms, each
time halting in the kitchen in front of the phone.
The whirring stopped and Grandma
called, “The kids'll be down soon.”
Miranda turned from the kitchen.
Once the children came down, they’d complicate her leaving with their questions.
The voices upstairs began arguing in staccato.
“Only a few hours. Then it’ll all be over,” Grandma urged.
Miranda
tip-toed out the front door before the shuffling became thuds that landed,
embodied, in the living room.
“Where's Mommy?” asked Ben,
barreling into the dining room.
Grandma leaned forward and used the
table to pry herself up from the chair. “She'll be back before lunchtime.”
“Is she workin'?”
Lisa sashayed up to Ben. Their
youngest brother, Peter, straggled behind her. She said, “I heard Mom talkin'
last night with Grandma about takin' her GED test today.”
“What kinda test?" Ben’s eyes
froze open at Grandma. "Like Daddy's when he got sick?” Lisa's smug smile
of secret confidence pulled back in horror.
“No," Grandma said. "She's
takin' a written test like you take in school so's she can get her high school
diploma. She didn't want you to know in case she doesn't pass.”
Lisa clapped. “We'll have to make a
cake.”
Ben bobbed up and down. “Yeah? Is it
Mommy‘s birthday, too?”
“Nah, it's like when I graduated
from sixth grade. Only it means she's graduating from twelfth grade, takin' that
test,” Lisa explained.
“Are we havin' another graduation
party?” Donna asked. She and Ralph had also crowded into the dining room.
Grandma grinned as Lisa took charge.
“Yeah, Mom deserves it. I'll make the cake. You help the boys decorate and make
a sign.”
“Your mother's home. Lower that TV,”
called Grandma, peeking through the sun porch curtains. “I can't tell if she's
happy or what. Just keep quiet now.”
Lisa hid in the kitchen, Donna slid
the sign under the couch. The three boys scooted back from the TV, off the
strip of foot-worn carpeting, bowls of dry cereal in their laps.
The front door opened.
Grandma asked, “Do you have to go
back?”
Miranda dropped her handbag as if
she could no longer carry its weight. She slouched her way into the living
room. “No. They'll send it to me.” She flopped her hand onto the banister of
the stairs' railing and put one foot on the bottom step.
“The diploma?” Grandma asked.
Miranda bowed her head. “It's just a
general education certificate.” Over her shoulder to Grandma, she added, “I
only passed by a few points.”
Donna slid out the sign and
squealed, waving the poster board. “Congratulations, Mommy.”
Lisa yelled from the kitchen, “Is she here?”
Lisa yelled from the kitchen, “Is she here?”
Grandma forced her body from the
love seat and yelled, “Yeah, bring it into the dining room.” She guided Miranda
away from the stairs. The boys abandoned the TV and their cereal bowls.
Droopy crepe paper dangled from the
china cabinet and server in the dining room. It had also been fed through slats
of the armed, wooden chair that Grandma directed Miranda into. Donna propped
the motley lettered sign on a shelf near Miranda’s head.
The party lasted as long as the cake
and the children's attention. Once the sugar hit their veins, they swarmed
outside to play.
As Grandma cleared the table, she
bent over and studied quiet, smiling Miranda. Embraced by over-stretched
streamers, smudges of cake kisses decorated her cheeks. “Only by a few
points," she repeated. "You didn't need to make such a fuss.”
