Stepping by Nancy Thayer Read Free Book Online Page A

still seemed heavy, not relaxed, so (saying to myself sternly, You’re the adult; she’s the child!) I said, “I’m very sorry I fix things you don’t like, Cathy. Why don’t you and Caroline help me shop for the groceries from now on? You can tell me what you do like.”
    Cathy stared me in the eye. “Okay,” she said grudgingly, not giving an inch. She didn’t smile. “I want my daddy, not your food,” her stony face seemed to say.
    But Caroline, sitting up in her bed across from Cathy, suddenly volunteered, “Oh, Cathy is always picky about food, even at home. Mother says she’s an exasperating child, and Gram says she’ll never get a husband.”
    I felt as encouraged as if my sternest professor had just interrupted mypresentation to say, “ Very good point, Mrs. Campbell.” I smiled. I relaxed.
    “Well, I was a picky eater when I was young, too,” I said. I sat down—on the far end—of Cathy’s bed. “I never used to eat pineapple, but I love it now. But I don’t think I’ll ever love sweet potatoes.”
    “ I’ll never love spinach!” Caroline said, wriggling her nose and entire body with enthusiastic hate.
    “And I’ll never love onions!” Cathy piped up.
    It seemed I had hit on a favorite topic. We sat for almost an hour that night, the two little girls and I, discussing gleefully turnips and coconut and cod liver oil, and other things that we would never love. I was secretly pleased that neither girl named me.
    Charlie had to come in and break it up and insist that the girls go to sleep. I was glad. They had been getting silly — “ I’ll never love poop with mustard!”—but I hadn’t known at that time that sometimes with little kids you have to stop silliness as quickly and firmly as letting down a garage door. For a while, wanting to please, not knowing how to escape, I had been their captive. But as I left the room I was content. At least, I thought, at least we’re all friends now. At least there won’t be any more of this sneaky fighting.
    I had a lot to learn.

Two
    October third in Helsinki, Finland, and two rather remarkable things have happened. First, it snowed here today. Not heavily enough to cover the still green grass, but enough, with the wind, to make walking the children to the Park Auntie’s very uncomfortable. I felt guilty leaving them there, especially since Lucy has a cold, but they were so glad to be outside, running around, getting dirty, that I had to let them stay. It was best for the children in all ways, I decided: they need to be outside, and I love—thrive on—this short time alone in the apartment. Sometimes I write letters or scribble in these little children’s workbooks which I found at the grocery store, sometimes I do housework, always I do laundry in the tiny machine in the bathroom and hang it to dry on our two-foot-square balcony or on the cords strung above our tub. And always I think, think, think. When Charlie and Adam and Lucy are here, I shut part of my mind off and act like a good wife and mother. Only when I’m alone do I open that secret door and let my fantasies and desires clash and clatter with my reason.
    The second remarkable thing that happened today is that I received a long-distance phone call. The overseas operator had an accent, and I kept misunderstanding, kept saying, “No, no, Dr. Campbell is not here now,” before I realized with a jolt that the call was for me.
    “Zelda?” It was Stephen’s voice coming as clear as if he were in the next room instead of thousands of miles away. “Zelda? Is that you? Is Charlie there? Can you talk?”
    “Yes, yes ,” I cried when I managed to get my breath back. “I mean, yes, it’s me; no, Charlie’s not here; yes, I can talk. Why are you calling? Is something wrong?” And I suddenly had a vision of our beautiful old farmhouse, now rented to a visiting mathematician, in flames.
    “No, no, everything’s all right. Everything’s fine. I just miss you. I miss you