Never a Pirate

I couldn’t remember when he stopped leaving the porch light on for me, but he wasn’t even leaving the mudroom light on anymore. With the street light out front, and some nights the moon, I guess it didn’t really matter. When I came home that night, I tripped on Margo’s hot pink rain boots, and my hip hit the corner of the console table. “Fuck,” I said, pushing two fingers into my hip to pop the bubble of pain, but it never worked.

My keys clattered in the glass bowl as I kicked my heels off. They fell to the top of the pile I had been telling myself I’d organize tomorrow for the last three days. One more tomorrow wouldn’t hurt. In the kitchen, I drank a full mason jar of water, standing at the sink, massaging my hip, looking out to the side yard. Our pear tree was getting tall. It was the year it was supposed to start producing. We had planted it when Margo was born six years before. Well, Charlie planted it. After thirty-six hours of labor and level-two tearing, I wouldn’t be getting out of bed much for a few days. That girl came into this world hard and fast and hadn’t mellowed since. She was excited to see the bright fruit that year. She called it, “the fruit that matches my blanket,” as her whole nursery had been pear themed. It just sort of stuck, and it was fitting for Margo. Sweet, with a little sour.

I refilled my glass and took it upstairs with me. Margo’s door still had a crocheted latch-blocker my mom had made. It was a lamb whose arms, or rather front legs, unproportionally wrapped around either knob, and the head was turned sideways, looking into the room, watching over Margo. Because she was all grown up, Margo would take it off and try to hide it, telling us she needed her privacy. We weren’t overly concerned, there wasn’t a lock on the door and all her furniture was nailed to the walls. If we asked her what she was doing with her privacy, she responded with, “That’s on a need-to-know basis, Mom.” I thought she learned that at school from her friend Sandee. Sandee was a cute kid, but sassy. Must’ve been why they liked each other. We would always find the lamb in her underwear drawer, or under the pile of stuffed animals in her pink, castle tent. It was nice to have it on the door at night so when I came home late I could check on her without worrying about the latch clicking. With the hardwood floors, everything echoed.

I set my glass on the edge of the banister on the upstairs landing, and tiptoed over to Margo’s room, slowly pushing the door open. The moonlight came in through her window, and covered her perfectly in a peaceful glow of little girl dreams. I was thankful for clear nights like that one. When it was overcast, she was more of a lump under a blanket, and some nights I’d mistake her little bum for her head. Her breathing was slow and deep, and her mouth was parted just a touch. She slept so relaxed, unlike I did. My jaw hurt morning after morning from clenching my teeth so tight. Not to mention the headaches that brought on. But Margo was under no stress. At least nothing more serious than what she wanted to do for her seventh birthday coming up. Most recent ideas had included the aquatic park, a princess costume party, or a King Kong movie marathon with all twelve adaptations, including the two Japanese ones. She had been insisting her friends would love it, but we would probably end up at the aquatic park.

I sat on the edge of her bed and brushed some fallen hairs out of her face. She whined in her sleep, rubbing her nose with a paw, then rolled from her side to her back. Without opening her eyes, she mumbled to me, “Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do you think King Kong will come to my party?”

I smiled, brushing her hair back from the other side this time. A film of sweat stuck the hair to her cheek, so I pulled her blankets down to her waist and tucked them under her. Or maybe it was drool. “Maybe, honey. Should we send him an invite?”

Her eyes were still closed. “No, the mail doesn’t go to the jungle.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I guess you’re right. I’ll ask Daddy if he knows how to get a hold of Kong.”

“King Kong,” she said with sleepy authority. “He’s a king.”

With that, she rolled to her stomach, and I gently pulled her up to her side. I had learned the hard way what craning a neck could do to stomach sleepers. I knew she wouldn’t remember our chat in the morning. About once a week she and I had conversations after 10pm while she was fully asleep. The doctor said she might outgrow it, but even if she didn’t, it wasn’t anything abnormal. Plenty of kids and adults alike talked in their sleep. She reached out, pulling Teddy in habitually. I kissed her head and left, making sure the lamb rested on the door frame.

I grabbed my mason jar from the banister and shuffled down the hall, dragging my feet with me. The TV was on in our room, muted. The blue lights flickered over the bed and the body that was my sleeping husband. The ever-moving light that coated him was chaotic, not nearly as peaceful as Margo’s moonlight. The drool sliding from the corner of his mouth pooled on his pillow.

I popped the clasp of my slacks open, letting my stomach slump. When it was relaxed, it reminded me of my first trimester. The density of it, of the expanding factory inside of me, ever-churning to sustain a life, was simply wonderful. My stomach never fully bounced back. At least it was moldable and could be contained by a metal hook and bar and some fabric. I couldn’t always see my own underwear looking down over my stomach, but considering the amount of stitching I had done postpartum, I tried not to care too much.

Charlie rolled over as he felt the mattress dip. I reached over him and felt around for the remote, which was half under his pillow, and had its own small pool of drool over the volume controls. The room was dark without the TV. The dark was heavy, but I always liked a dense comforter. Charlie’s breath was warm on my cheek. I could tell he had made mac and cheese with hotdogs for their dinner - Margo’s favorite.

He rolled closer, throwing an arm across my chest. “Hi, baby.”

“I didn’t realize I woke you,” I said, turning to look at him. His eyes were closed, and I saw Margo’s nose on his face. She had always looked most like him, but I thought that meant maybe she would act like me.

“I didn’t either.” He smiled a sloppy smile, then buried part of his face into the pillow. I touched my forehead to his.

“Hey, Char?” I said.

“What’s up, honeybunch?” His voice came through the pillow.

“Do you mind leaving the mudroom light on for me? I hit my hip.” I rolled to face him and his hand was on my ass. He pulled me closer to him and wrapped a leg over mine.

“Oh, sorry, baby.” He lifted his head and slurped some drool from the corner of his mouth. His hair was going every which way, so I smoothed it back for him. As he bunched the comforter under his head, he mumbled, “Maybe you should come home when the sun is still up. At least in the summer, don’t you think?”

Again. “Babe, you know I can’t always do that.”

“Just sayin,” he said, “Would be nice.”

I rolled away from him and took his arm off of me, putting it back on his side. He sniffed and cleared his throat, falling asleep like he hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t wrong, about me working late a lot. But what he failed to realize was that PR was a demanding job. It was more than press releases and interview scheduling. Anytime Phoebe was caught stumbling from a bar by the paparazzi, I had to swoop in to do damage control, and she loved her nights out. The Phoebe Briggs brand was finally going international. It ran in all the magazines. I had been on the phone all night with paparazzi buying photos before they sold them to magazines or click-bait websites. If they knew you called to do damage control, the prices at least tripled. Back when I had first started, I couldn’t buy a sloppy photo of Phoebe for less than $1,500 a pop. When I had started pretending to be an e-magazine, The People’s Press, I was able to get them sometimes for $250.

Phoebe and I had a deal. Every photo I got back was an extra hundred on my paycheck for the period. The most I’ve ever bought back in a two-week period was twelve. Charlie and I had gone into Portland that weekend and spent the night at The Hoxton. We ate at Tope, having rooftop tacos and splurged on a room. The floor to ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline and Oldtown Chinatown. My favorite view had always been a Portland bridge, and even though I could only see the towers of the Hawthorne, knowing it was there was enough.

We had candle-lit sex in our hotel room, floating on champagne and hand-fed each other chocolate covered bananas while we watched the Hawthorne rise to let ships by. It was the last vacation we took before Margo arrived. Although I could never really know for sure, I think that night was the reason Margo existed at all.

Sometimes I wanted to yell at Charlie. I wanted to tell him how mad he made me. How mad I was that he got to spend the afternoons with Margo out in the yard playing catch or going to the park. I drove her to school every morning. But I had to wake her up, and get her dressed, and make sure she brushed her teeth. On the days she really didn’t want to go to school, getting her in the car was a screaming match that made me think her teachers would call home telling us Margo was sick with strep. I wasn’t her favorite. I was a breadwinner, but never a pirate, or a princess locked up in a tower needing to be saved by the gallant Margo the Magnificent. Children didn’t understand why you worked late. Charlie hardly understood it, or at least never bothered to try.

“We don’t need these bonuses,” he’d say. “It doesn’t matter what we have, it matters that we’re healthy and happy.” It was condescending as hell. To be healthy you need health insurance. And in this god forsaken country you need a job for health insurance. To be happy, we need toys and games and books and school supplies and shoes that fit. It’s all money.

I didn’t want to think about all of this anymore. In my nightstand, I pulled out an orange bottle that rattled with tiny, anti-anxiety meds. Technically, Clonidine was a heart medication, but it had a calming effect. It was what they gave to fearful flyers to take at the gate. Most nights I couldn’t sleep without it. Anxious, or more so angry, thoughts ran through my head about how unfair things were every time my head hit the pillow until my heart slowed and eventually my eyes fluttered shut.