Moving Back to Normal
By Sara Webb Quest
Argus Enterprises International, Inc
New Jersey***North Carolina
Moving Back to Normal © 2011. All rights reserved by Sara Webb Quest
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any informational storage retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-0-6155523-8-5
ISBN: 0-6155523-8-2
Book Cover designed by Dubya
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my mom Frances Hope Webb, the most unselfish person on earth: Your wisdom, careful readings, love, hope, and support inspires my creativity. It’s perfect that “Hope” is your real middle name since you’ve instilled a lifetime of it in me.
To my husband Jason Earnest Quest, who said he’d be happy living in the middle of a traffic stop with just our daughter, me, and a toilet! You say things “earnestly” indeed, and your traffic-stop comment and sense of humor are everywhere in this story.
To God: Thy will be done.
One
As we speak, my family’s packing-up a tent, some blankets, and a Porta Potty TO CAMP IN THE MIDDLE OF A ROTARY. You heard me. As in, an island in the dead center of a traffic circle. Some call it a roundabout, and even though I grew up calling it a rotary, the term roundabout, at this moment, seems more logical since this is the most “roundabout,” bizarre way a set of parents could possibly solve major family issues.
By the way, this is not just any rotary (roundabout, traffic circle, whatever): it’s the busiest one in town, complete with airport on one side, bank next to that, two restaurants, car dealership, and small stereo-equipment store. My parents brought their brilliant plan to us after Mom’s AA meeting the other night. I guess they figure all the logical ways of dealing with our problems never worked, so, hey, let’s turn to the illogical. After all, Dad is disabled and just can’t function without pain meds for one minute, Mom drinks liquor like it's her life blood, and Wiley – my five-year-old sister – is basically The Energizer Bunny on crack. We have kept our fed-up-with-each-other-ness semi-intact – since one of us is always giving it the old college try to work on our personal addictions. But for the record, I have the only healthy addiction. I work on mine by doing it as much as humanly possible – running while working up a sweat – the perfect "addiction." And my way of running away from our problems. It’s a sad truth I have to deal with everyone else's unhealthy attitudes. And when tempers flare, furniture gets dragged across the floor while nasty words flood the house. Supposedly this camp-out is their way of uniting us or whatever. Or maybe they figure angry words won’t stand a chance against all the traffic farts and airplane engines.
Here's the irony: they said “we’re going camping on an island.” I should have known in our case, it would be a bizarre-o version and not the tropical type. I just thank God it is summer and sorely pray we’ll be home by fall. Obviously my plans for junior year don’t include tent ghettos. My mom started going to AA meetings a month ago. I guess my parents are not all bad. They try. And my friends have liked them, calling them things like 'eccentric’ and 'adorable.’ Then again, my friends think dressing for Halloween like my father did is ‘adorable and eccentric’. The costume, of course, was homemade. I refuse to describe it, but in my mind, it was disgusting. Our own obscene version of the David statue. I’m apprehensive.
I was the only one in my close circle of friends and family who thought the costume was atypical. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. My friends also get a great tickle out of a parent who guzzles a glass of Chardonnay in five minutes then whirls around the room singing “party time” as the same-titled preschool song plays on TV (my mom).
Now try dealing with such parents every night when you want to hide under a rock or talk on a phone. They’re eccentric. But, in my opinion, not exactly quiet, normal or ‘adorable.’ And then there's our own little Energizer Bunny, Wiley, a five-year-old whose sole purpose in life seems to be to screech, laugh and play tricks on people every second she's awake (her tricks include putting liquid soap on toothbrushes, licking sleeves or jeans while we’re wearing them; and so the list goes). Wiley is an energy addict. Maybe the first legitimate one, ever. In Wiley's defense, I think her actions are the result of bat-loony parenting. So that's my eccentric blood. The Matters family: whackos.
As far as our parents' strangest action goes (camping in the middle of a rotary), our mom and dad did choose a lush venue. The rotary island where we’ll be is large, in the middle of so many businesses, with lots of trees. Tall trees. This means we can hide. I’m feeling major relief about this, since living as a bum would unquestionably affect my social life unless we’re hidden, and it sounds like we will be. Not that I have much of a life with all my lone running and a father who has gone down in history as the only dad in the neighborhood dressing like A Poop. But still – it just takes one major, loser move (slumming somewhere that’s just wrong, as in a rotary) – to turn a sixteen year old girl (me) into a lifelong loser in the world’s eyes. Only the Matters family would choose to live in extreme. I guess that’s where I got my extreme running addiction.
And only our family would choose to live by oxymoron: a vacation in the most stressful spot on Cape Cod. It only makes sense since we have always lived by oxymoron: a family of addicts not in denial? Enough said?
And what’s their reason for such a weird vacation?
“This rotary is in the middle of traffic – so it is in the middle of life,” Mom had begun.
“Yeah,” Dad agreed, giving us kids a giddy grin. “People rushing to work, then taking coffee, lunch, and bar breaks – all of ‘em laughing, struggling, living – airplanes above, going to and from other worlds. This world will be new and amazing. We’ll be forced to see how other people live stressful lives. We’ll get new ideas for dealing with our own.”
So I had to ask him, “So we’ll get new ideas by living like bums?”
But all he said was, “We have to start somewhere.”
(Whatever. You have to end somewhere too, and this is clearly it!)
In fact, since the family talk at our coffee/dinner table that night, I've gone from Scared (Is it legal? What if a drunk driver runs over us? What if we have to share camp with a bum? Or with an axe murderer?) – to Scarred. I understand now they have finally gone over-the-brink to insanity on all levels. So, I’m planning my own survival. I made this little check list. It is titled 'How to survive living on a rotary:'
1/ Physically – Jog and wash before dawn. This way no one will see you leave or return to Bumsville.
2/ Mentally – Find a job that includes hot shower benefits.
3/ Socially – Avoid any and all street lunatics (besides family).
***
We are in the tent now, well hidden amongst the rotary bushes (relief). I’m in my running clothes – the standard affair of white tee-shirt, running pants, water belt and sneaks. My dad has already taken his first “bath” in Long Lake. He’s convincing us kids (or trying to) that it’s an experience all of civilization should enjoy on a daily basis. Since he knows little Wiley, who is barking like a puppy, is clueless as to how inane our situation is, he’s really trying to convince me. He’s got his giddy, wide-eyed look.
“Reno, sweetie, after your run, take a nice dip in Long Lake. I tell you, your dad just did and it’s utterly invigorating.”
As he waggles his eyebrows, he also shivers violently.
“Dad,” I observe, “You’re cold.”
I’m pretty glad my mop of dark hair is hanging in front of half my mortified face. I hope no one we know saw him bathing in the buff. I shiver at the mere thought.
“Nonsense, Reno,” he says, grabbing the first thick blanket he can find.
Mom looks lovingly at us as she desperately searches our tent for soap and shampoo. Wiley is lying dead-dog fashion on her back, panting, obviously still a doggy. Her blue eyes look huge and happy, and her long, sandy-colored hair is splayed in all directions.
“Where is –,” Mom asks, half of her small body deep into the biggest suitcase.
“Penn,” says Dad. “I’ve told you twice now. Soap, shampoo, and toiletries are in the pocket of the suitcase.”
Mom pulls her head out and looks at him. “Sorry – but with you hollering and Wiley barking, I’m a tad overwhelmed.”
Sarcasm. Great. I know what comes next. It's not pretty.
Before they start to yell, I reach into my suitcase pocket, grab my own mini bath equipment, shove them into my running belt-bag, and shout, “Going for a run!”
As I open the flimsy, cloth door, two “okay – love you’s” and one “ruff-ruff” follow me out.
Once outside, the loudest noise I’ve ever heard greets me. I look above to see an airplane flying so low in the direction of the airport, I duck. Terrified, but still alive when it passes, I walk through the rotary garden, complete with path and flowers. There’s even a bench toward the rim, and it takes a moment to register what I see.
An old bum is sitting on the bench. The bum’s grey hair is shoulder length, jutting from an orange baseball hat. A bag (with a bottle inside) rests on the bum’s lap. The only semi-normal aspects are his orange sweatshirt and jeans.
Great. A neighbor.
“How are you?” asks the bum.
Walking fast, I pretend not to hear him. I’m not being snobby, just careful. I mean, there might be something besides vodka in that bag – like a knife.
***
By the time I arrive at Long Lake a half-hour later, my clothes are wet with sweat. Exhausted yet proud I’m keeping-up my daily sprint regardless of my new scummy life, I locate a private, water cove. Catching my breath, I strip. I can’t wait to feel cool water. Grabbing my soap and shampoo, I run in. As soon as my toes touch, icy water seizes me. Gasping, I say to air, “You’ve got to be kidding.” But what other options do I have?
So I muster up some serious courage and dive right in.
It takes well over five minutes for the ice water to feel “invigorating,” but it happens. A family of ducks are bathing with me on the border of the cove.
They have a natural body-warmth for this, I think enviously. It’s official. I’m living like an animal – and jealous of ducks. Which is perfect for the life of a Quack.
I suds my body and hair then rinse. The air is warm enough to dry me once I’m out. As I’m finishing dressing (thank heavens the sweat on my clothes dried), I hear voices, but they just belong to my mom and barking sister, who are evidently coming for their baths.
When Wiley sees me, she gets excited. “Ruff-ruff-ruff! Reno, HI! Ruff-ruff-ruff!”
It is a good thing there’s such an age difference between us, or I might think she was semi-retarded.
So I play along (since weirdness is not her fault). “Hi, Puppy,” I say, patting Wiley’s head. “Going for a swim?”
Wiley pants happily, nodding her head. “Yeah! Ruff-ruff!” Then she grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward the water.
“Wile,” I protest, “I’ve already had my bath. It’s your and Mom’s turn now.”
Mom’s in her skirted, Calvin Klein bathing suit, evidently not at all ready to go au natural. Smiling semi-brightly, she says “hey Reno” and then, to explain our Wiley’s actions, “She’s pretending to be a doggy since doggies love the outdoors.”
“Is that it,” I mumble, and as she opens her mouth to say something back, I start to jog back home, yelling, “Have a blast!”
She hollers “how was the bath,” sounding quite worried.
“Invigorating,” I shout back, only half meaning it and thinking you asked for this, Mom.
When I cross over to our rotary (God, how weird), the bum catches me off-guard.
“How are you?” the bum asks.
“Fine –,” I start to answer.
Then I look toward the greeting source and get my surprise. The bum sitting on the bench is not the one I anticipated. First off, “he” is definitely a “she,” and she’s focusing a crinkly-eyed smile adoringly at me.
“I have a daughter about your age, just a bit older” she announces. “Great kid, like you.”
While I’m wondering how she knows I’m a “great kid,” her sickly sweet breath reaches my nostrils. It smells like wine coolers and cough syrup. And even though I want to ask her why the hell she would choose this life over her perfect daughter, I can’t stand a drunk – not my mom when she is, and certainly not this stranger who’d leave her own kid. With a neutral nod, I jog for our tent on the other side.
My dad is no longer there, but he left a note saying:
Went for a walk and will be home soon. – Dad
Probably to cool off from the fight he and Mom got in.
Realizing this is no kind of life for me, I decide it’s time to find that job with benefits from my survival list. So I grab my mom’s laptop which she uses to tutor kids and I search the local job listings.
Two
On entering Cape Exercise, the local gym where I’ve decided to apply as a daycare worker, a guy who looks like Nate from the show Gossip Girl stares at me. His sandy brown bangs fall in front of one eye as he shuffles papers from the front desk. No matter how “Nate” looks, I’m on a mission.
“Hi,” I smile. “I’d like to apply for your daycare position.”
“Sure thing,” he says, reaching under his desk. “It’s a good position. Includes use of our gym and pool.”
Where there’s a pool, there’s a hot shower. I’m pleased. Sneaking a quick glimpse of his name tag, a smile escapes me. His name is Nathan.
He looks at me knowingly while handing me the application. “You’re gonna say I look like Nate from Gossip Girl. I hear that now and then.”
Even he sees the humor.
“Yes,” I admit, silently thanking the powers that be that my dark hair is behaving today.
Nathan is definitely a pretty boy, and while pretty boys are not my type (sense of humor is everything), they are the type to judge potential employees by appearances. Especially ones named Nathan who work the front desk of a gym.
He smiles wide-eyed and shrugs, saying “not my fault.”
Well, he does have a sense of humor.
Getting down to business, I take the application he hands me then I sit in a chair nearby. When I’m done filling it out, I take it back to Nate – uh, Nathan.
He says, “Betsy, the owner, will call you soon. I know she’s pretty desperate for help in the daycare, so you’ll get a call tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“Perfect,” I say – then have a thought. “If I do get the job, are relatives allowed free daycare?”
Specifically, Wiley, I’m thinking. A place where she can go to be with her healthy sister and play with other kids! A safe place that is not on a busy rotary next to an unstable bum.
“I believe the daycare worker can bring one relative, yes,” Nathan begins. “Is this for a cousin, sister?
“My five year old sister,” I answer, smile, then thank him and turn to go.
“Good luck,” he calls, “though I’m sure you won’t need it.”
Feeling hopeful, I turn back, give him a smile and a fingers-crossed sign.
I choose the airport side back to the tent, instead of the long, garden route since our neighborly bum rests there. Once inside, Dad is napping and Mom’s trying to tutor a student over the internet while Wiley shrieks and giggles at something. When I see a hand shape pressing into our tent from outside – and Wiley pressing back – I shriek too.
“WHAT THE–?” I shout.
Then we hear a third shriek coming from outside where the hand is.
“WHAT?” Wiley reiterates, but she’s laughing.
She will laugh all the way to her death, I fuss, hand-fumbling.
Dad is bolt upright at this point, grabbing a long, smooth stick, a treasure he found on his walk. Eyes wide, he tells us, “I will protect us. Don’t leave the tent.”
And seeing his weapon of choice, my fear is replaced with ridicule, then sarcasm. The stick is softer than a butter knife, and probably softer than butter.
“Dad, it’s a stick.” Enough said, I am now laughing alongside Wiley.
The comedy in the tent turns me brave. I move my stunned father aside and walk outside the tent, hearing three urgent “no, Reno’s” follow me out.
What I see would be really sweet if it wasn’t so bizarre. Our neighbor, the bum, is drunk as a skunk, poking Wiley’s hand (again, Wiley’s humor-before-death option comes through). Bum Neighbor is also smiling her crinkly smile, laughing, and guzzling from her paper bag.
At which point my tiny mother is suddenly in front of me, asking our neighbor, “Can I help you?”
***
After the bum had gone, we’re all sitting inside the tent, eating a deli dinner. Mom looks not so much worried as she does shocked-slash-dumbstruck. Casting an accusing eye over at Dad, she clearly gives him “this is your fault” signals. And now I know this whole grand scheme – living on a rotary island – was his idea. I think I’d already known this subconsciously, given he’s the weirder of the two, but still.
“Zeb,” Mom begins. She’s no longer chewing her sandwich.
Here we go, I prepare.
“When I asked that lady if I could help her, do you know what she did?”
Mom answers for him. “She laughed like a maniac.”
Glaring at Dad, she continues, “And then she told me no one could help her. Now it seems like she could help herself – go to the town shelter for instance? But no, no – she decides to stay here. What a neighbor! I watched her go to the other side of our little island – where she sleeps on a bench, Zeb! A bench! Honey, it’s not safe here.”
Finally, I think, someone agrees with me.
So my dad, looking every bit the cat who swallowed the bird, motions for us all to snuggle close to him. So we do, and, huddled and fearful, he starts a pep talk.
“So we have a bum for a neighbor. Look at it as a chance to experience a different culture. Isn’t that what we’re here for?” He pauses, to eye each of us.
My turn. “Dad, clearly YOU’RE here for that. Did it occur to you, for instance, Wiley and I are NOT?”
Wiley, who was actually starting to doze, snaps her eyes open at my Voice of Reason. But I feel sorry when I see she’s scared for what comes next.
“Reno, sometimes you need to look at other people’s lives and hard times to get a clear focus on your own,” our dad says.
His eyes are red, the eyes of a father sedated from pain killers. I don’t even bother to see how my mom reacts. I don’t have to because I can hear her reach into her very own paper bag to retrieve a small bottle of wine from a four-pack.
Assuming he’s talking about his and Mom’s “hard times” (who else could he mean right now), I say, “I don’t have problems.”
Then I add, “I take that back. I do have problems: you and Mom!”
I know they must suspect I’m right. But when Wiley shouts “Reno, stop yelling,” I feel terrible. This must be so confusing to her.
For Wiley’s sake, I know what I have to say to everyone. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just confused.”
Secretly glaring at Dad and Mom, I send “this is all both your faults” signals.
Mom, at this point, has had two small bottles of merlot, and is happy. “I’m sorry too, everyone. Reno, Wiley, I know this seems like a weird way for us to become happy, but your father is ultimately right. This situation does let us see other people’s problems besides our own. Think of our bum,” she giggles.
Medicated Dad, grateful, gains back his courage and speaks up – too loudly. “Yeah, how many people can say they have a friendly neighborhood bum? Bet they’re a dime a dozen. And she’s everything we could ask for in a bum.”
“Complete with bottle,” Mom and I mumble simultaneously.
Then she and I share as private a laugh a mom and daughter in a group can muster.
And Wiley, now asleep in her corner, has a peaceful smile on her face.
Thanks to me, of course.
***
The next morning it rains and summer rain is the best weather to run in. When I lived at the house, on mornings when drops pounded our roof, I’d hop out of bed and soon blast into my runner’s rain-world. Outside right now, the scent of wet pavement and plants fills my senses. But due to our current au natural state, I have to wait for Dad to go on his morning walk in order to dress semi-privately (in front of the female tribe members). When I’m finally able to run, a low-flying plane pierces the balmy air. I don’t duck this time because I’m getting used to the noises, being neighbors with traffic farts and all. Where our human neighbor’s concerned, I’ve decided she is unavoidable if I want to go anywhere without getting hit by a car. Her garden area is my only way to run or walk anywhere in peace.
But I almost feel sorry when I see her. By the look of the huge orange coat covering every part except her nose and eyes, rain is not the best weather to sit or sleep in.
As I pass, her eyes crinkle up. She says a muffled “Hi, there.”
Oh why not say hi? The safety of rain, I surmise. Tires can screech and sirens can sound, but drops soften the world.
“Hi,” I smile.
“Nice day to run,” she says, her eyebrows lifting.
At least we can agree on that little known fact.
“Yes,” I nod, and go.
***
When I arrive home, our dad has just walked from the town dump after dropping our waste products into garbage bags. He’s soaked from head to toe, as am I. He looks beat, as do I. While he attempts the recovery process by going behind a tree and getting into some dry duds, Mom gives me some news.
“Honey, Betsy from Cape Exercise wants you to come in to learn more about the job you applied for! Says she talked to a worker named Nathan who says you’d be a great help to them.”
Then she shouts “Go, Reno” and grabs her last bottle of wine to celebrate. While I’m telling Wiley how she can come to work with me, play with other kids, and take showers, Dad comes into the tent with us. He’s got that goofy, relaxed look like he has done his meds as usual.
Guess the celebration starts early today.
When I arrive at Cape Exercise, a fairly young, skinny woman with stringy blonde hair says a bright “hello.”
“Betsy?” I ask.
“You’ve got the right person,” she smiles. “And you must be Reno?”
“That’s me.”
“Nathan said you were very interested in the daycare position. I’m desperate for help, so if you’re still interested, I’d like to show you around, and tell you more about the job.”
“Great!” You’ve no idea how great, I think, hoping the desperation doesn’t show.
Betsy guides me to the cutest room I’ve ever seen, adjacent to the front desk. A painted mural of various storybook characters is on the wall with a door so low it looks like a cat could go through it, but is evidently meant for a child.
“Do we go in that way?” I ask. I have visions of the show Dirty Jobs and me struggling like a hippo in a worm hole.
“You can,” Betsy says, “but it’s easier to go through the adult door.”
Phew.
So we walk around a bend where there’s a long hallway and a lot of metal clanging and gym noises. To the left, is the adult door to the children’s room.
On entering, Nathan is reading a book to a small, curly-haired blonde girl on a red, faux-leather couch. He looks up and smiles at me. “Hey, Reno.”
“Hi, Nathan.”
Betsy is pleased. “You already know each other’s names so I don’t even have to introduce you.”
“What a cute room,” I say.
“Yeah, it is,” Betsy agrees. “And effectively basic.”
Pointing in indication, she says, “Near the adult door is the book shelf. Next to that is the movie player and children’s movies. Here, next to Nathan, is the table for kids to play at, plenty of toys and stuffed animals under that.”
“Very cozy room – perfect for kids,” I note. The floor even looks comfortable, with its bright rug and mixed-colored, braided rugs over that.
Wiley will love this.
As if reading my mind, Nathan says to the child, “Jasmine, Reno has a little sister you can play with.”
“What’s her name?” the child asks, and again, I’m pleased. She looks about Wiley’s age.
“Wiley,” I answer. “She’ll love playing with you.”
Eagerly, Jasmine glances around. “Where is she?”
“She’s at the – uh,” I almost say “tent” then correct myself. “She’s at home, but hopefully she’ll be here soon to play with you.”
“Okay,” she agrees then looks up at Nathan. “Let’s read a new book.”
Nathan smiles reluctantly at her. “Jasmine, we’ve already read nine. How about watching a movie?”
“Please-please-please can we read just one more?” Jasmine clasps her hands in prayer and stares up hopefully.
“Okay…” he says, his smile freezing while he turns helpless eyes on me.
Betsy laughs in sympathy. “It will be very nice to have a regular worker in our daycare.”
Nathan nods. “Absolutely.”
I smile. “Well, it will be very nice to have a healthy place to work.”
After Betsy tells me the necessary duties and precautions involved in watching children, she guides me to the part that counts: the benefits. She points to two separate weight rooms, one with a treadmill that I note to myself (should I want to run inside). Past these rooms, I smell chlorine and soap. Heading through a swinging door, steam from hot showers greets us. It’s the most heavenly bathroom I’ve seen, not only with hot showers (!), but with clean, white tiles, toilets, soaps and towels!
“This is beautiful!” I exclaim, realizing too late I voiced my obvious desperation out loud. Did I just call a bathroom – a place where sweaty bodies pee, poop, and wash – “beautiful?”
Betsy looks impressed. “It doesn’t take much to please you.”
Not nowadays, sadly. I giggle, not knowing how to respond. I mean, how can I tell Betsy her new worker is homeless? Not exactly an in-demand worker trait.
Betsy guides me to a doorway behind the shower stalls, which leads us into a large pool room. Warm, chlorine air wafts around us.
She jokes, “I hope this is as beautiful as our bathroom.”
Rarely do I blush, but am now. “Yes,” I giggle.