Hear Me Roar Page 11

  A pad of paper, a pen, and my daily planner lay directly in front of me. Four markers fanned around a marked-up, color-coded wall calendar. The quiet drone of the dryer buzzed in the background.

  “Twenty minutes, girls,” I called. “Then it’s bedtime.”

  No response came, but I let it go. They were playing in their bedroom, breaking the quiet with occasional shrieks. My legs ached from a long day—five houses cleaned, and I’d mowed the backyard just before twilight. My tracker reported 20,000 steps.

  Not bad.

  Self-care, I thought. Surely that number feels as good as self-care.

  Fat chance of Janine agreeing.

  I uncapped a red pen and stared at the blank sheet of paper for several seconds, then wrote at the top.

  Four Week Self-Care Plan

  Four weeks. Doable, for sure. I drew four even columns, labeled each with a number, and sketched notch marks for days of the week. Janine’s guidance from a phone call that afternoon ran through my mind.

  “One self-care thing per day,” she’d reminded me. “At least twenty minutes. Then one thing per week, at least an hour long, that takes you away from your house, girls, and job. Cleaning or organizing or exercising don’t count unless the exercise brings deep joy, relaxation, and fulfillment. I suggest starting to date again, but take it with baby steps if you want.”

  Talk about the opposite of self-care.

  I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and tapped into my inner Bitsy. The woman who led the Health and Happiness Society every week. Organized. Powerful. Confident. Certain.

  Hear me roar, I thought.

  “Okay. Self-care. This will be the easiest twenty minutes of my life.”

  Just to be sure, I wrote down Janine’s criteria on top of the calendar.

  Fixed a crooked marker.

  Cleared my throat.

  Completed an uneven line.

  “Easy,” I murmured.

  Ideas whirred through my mind, but nothing that met Janine’s criteria of fulfilling, relaxing, or joyful.

  Thirty seconds passed.

  My pen tapped on the edge of the table. I bit my bottom lip, then diagrammed a new chart for each day of the week. It remained blank.

  As blank as my suddenly empty mind.

  “Self-care,” I said to the quiet room. “Self. Care.”

  What did Lexie do for herself? Food. No, she used to. Now she … my thought trailed off. I didn’t even know. What kind of leader was I? My mind spiraled to a mental map of the next Health and Happiness Society meeting. I started a separate list for that.

  “Focus,” I muttered, jerking my hand away from the list. “Focus, focus. What do I enjoy?”

  Cleaning.

  Doesn’t count, Janine said in my mind. I scowled. Megan lifted weights as part of her self-care routine, probably. And lived in the mountains. I shook my head. No. Weights didn’t bring me deep joy or fulfillment. After cleaning all day, they just made my body ache. And mountains? No thanks. Too many bugs.

  Exercise, right?

  Maybe. The feeling it evoked in my chest was heavy, not happy. I pushed that aside. I’d still exercise, it just wouldn’t count.

  Organizing.

  My eyes trailed around my house. There was no room for improvement here—I already had everything separated, boxed, and stacked to colored, alphabetical perfection.

  “For goodness sakes,” I muttered, then flipped to a new page and wrote Brainstorming Ideas across the top. Underneath, I wrote the first thing that came to mind.

  Finishing PTO assignments.

  I rolled my eyes. Definitely not self-care. I liked the moment the assignments were done, not doing them.

  “Deep joy and fulfillment,” I murmured. What did anyone do for that kind of thing? I flipped the pen around, then wrote, Read a romance novel.

  No, those just made me angry.

  I scratched it off with a scribble.

  Shopping.

  Urgh. No. Spending money I feared I didn’t have only led to steep guilt. A minute passed after I scratched that one off, turning it into a black cloud. I rested my chin in my hands with a sigh.

  Another minute passed.

  Then two.

  Then six.

  I lowered my forehead to the table with a frustrated exhale. Eight minutes left of the twenty I’d set aside—and this certainly wasn’t self-care. Had it really come to this? I didn’t even know what I liked to do anymore? My mind wandered back to before Mom’s cancer diagnosis. What had I done then? Surely I hadn’t always been cleaning, organizing, and raising kids.

  But I couldn’t remember a time free of responsibility…

  Maybe movies?

  The mental block seemed to unravel then. At the top of the paper, I wrote, Watch television at night when the girls are down. No folding clothes or vacuuming while it’s on.

  There was some appeal in the mindlessness of television, but I didn’t even know what shows were good, or whether I could just sit and watch something. Time seemed so … wasted that way.

  Get a massage, came next, although I put that in the next column under Hour-Away Ideas. Mira could watch the girls. That seemed easy enough to set up. Daniel and I had gotten a couple’s massage on our honeymoon. He had definitely flirted with his masseuse.

  Shoving that aside, I pressed on.

  Go to the grocery store.

  Try on new make-up?

  I cringed. My stubby eyelashes and I had never been friends. My few attempts at eyeliner had never gone well. Lip gloss was my go-to, and even that had bad days.

  Buy a new pair of walking shoes.

  New plates for the kitchen.

  My hand paused halfway across the line. Did that count as self-care? New plates would delight me. On that note, I spun onto the next idea.

  Take an online class.

  I loved learning. Most of the time I was too exhausted to fall into classes, though. Still, it was something worth exploring. There had to be free online courses somewhere. Before I knew what I was thinking, I had already written the next one out.

  Sign up for online dating.

  My eyes widened, and I gave a low screech.

  Was that even in my head? The last thing I had time or inclination for was dating. When? While scrubbing toilets in rich people’s houses? A niggling thought arose from the flurry of others that surrounded it.

  Are you too busy?

  Yes, I mentally snapped and sent it spiraling back into the depths while I scribbled out the suggestion. No. No online dating. Been there. Done that. Not going back. With a sigh, I jotted a few more ideas out.

  Try a new restaurant.

  Eat by myself.

  Go to a chick flick.

  Get a pedicure.

  Girls’ night out. (Whatever that is.)

  The timer rang, releasing me from the twenty minutes. Wasn’t exactly self-care, but at least I was figuring out how to do it. I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders slumping. At the very least, that was over with.

  My phone rang as I stood to finish getting the girls ready for bed, and I answered it without looking.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, sweetheart.”

  “Oh. Hey, Dad.”

  “Girls are all right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Great. I wanted to call about Daniel. I got your email about the meeting and the official court date.”

  “Good.”

  “I want you to do something for me.”

  “All right.”

  “Start keeping notes.”

  “Notes?”

  “Yeah. Do you have a spare calendar?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Take notes on it about his activity. Write down when he picks the girls up, when he’s supposed to pick the girls up, things they say about him, things he says. When he’s late? Note it. When he cancels? Note it. We can use that in negotiations. In fact, just having it can change the trajectory of the case.”
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br />   I chewed on my lip for a second, a little startled by how quickly my excitement escalated. Do something? Prove that Daniel wasn’t ready for this? Yes, yes I would.

  “I can definitely do that. Thanks.”

  “Great.”

  A moment of silence swelled between us. Once we finished talking business, it always did.

  “Listen, I have kind of a weird question,” I said.

  “Hit me.”

  “What did I used to do for fun when I was a kid?”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah. What hobbies did I enjoy?”

  The line fell quiet for a damning amount of time. It wasn’t any lack of Dad’s involvement in my life that created the silence. It had to be my utter lack of hobbies.

  “You know,” he drawled, “the only thing I can remember is that you seemed to love taking care of your siblings. Especially when Mom was sick. You took the whole house under your wing and kept it running in tip-top shape even though you were only twelve or thirteen.”

  “That’s not really a hobby.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t. I can’t remember any sports.”

  Mom had pulled me out of organized sports when my competitive streak had almost turned violent. We’d tried out several instruments—piano, violin, flute—but had to stop all of them because of money issues. Taking care of a seven-person family, even on a lawyer’s salary, hadn’t been easy. Not after medical bills, then funeral costs.

  “What did Mom do?” I asked.

  I almost didn’t voice the question. Any mention of Mom often sent Dad into a spiral that either wound into reminiscing sweetness or intractable quiet.

  “She loved her television shows. I think Delta Burke was one of her favorites. There was one with Dolly Parton, maybe? Can’t remember. But she’d watch faithfully every week.”

  “Television?”

  I had no memories of Mom watching television. Only vacuuming, dusting, cleaning out the fridge, rearranging the pantry. She wore a decorative apron and a wide smile. A clean kitchen always cheered her. The smell of honey-baked ham and mashed potatoes made me think of her.

  “Yeah,” he said, as if warming up to the memory. “And ice cream. Remember that?”

  “That’s not happening,” I muttered under my breath, but before he could catch it, I added, “Yeah, I do. She loved homemade ice cream before she went to bed.”

  “Not really a hobby, although it was great ice cream.”

  “Did she paint or draw or anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “No clubs or friends?”

  “A few friends, but she mostly met up with them over playdates with you kids.”

  My heart sank. Mom really had been all in with mothering. I couldn’t recall a single thing she did outside her mom world.

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “Sorry I’m not much help.”

  “No, this was helpful. How have you been, anyway?”

  “Busy, but good.”

  We passed the conversation in a few more minutes of small talk before Lizzy screamed bloody murder.

  “Sorry, Dad. Gotta go. Time for the girls’ bed.”

  “Have them call me tomorrow, will you? I miss them.”

  “Yes, of course. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  With a sense of relief, I hung up the phone, set aside the notebook, put away the pen, locked the doors, and turned off the lights. After shepherding the girls into bed, I lay down and tapped out a quick email to Janine.

  To: Janine Morgan

  From: Bitsy Walker

  Subject: Self-Care Day 1

  Janine,

  I attempted to organize a self-care routine but had a hard time conjuring up any ideas. Not joy inducing, but it was a necessary twenty-minute break from my normal routine.

  I’ll try again tomorrow,

  BW

  With a defeated sigh, I flopped onto my stomach, punched my pillow, and fell into a restless sleep.

  New THHS Check-In Conversation Opened in WonderFriendApp

  Opened by: BITSY

  Bitsy: Just a reminder that the meeting is tomorrow evening at 7:00 p.m. New green smoothie recipe provided—Megan and Lexie, please have it ready when the call starts. Check your email for article research on soy and its possible link to breast cancer.

  Megan: Already reading—fascinating.

  Bitsy: And scary.

  Lexie: Tell me that soy is only in soy milk.

  Mira: What IS soy?

  Bitsy: It’s in everything. Consult the article, Mira, it’s very eye-opening. I’ll see all of you tomorrow.

  Lexie: Not my favorite brownies. Please NOT them.

  Bitsy: Yep.

  Megan: Just searched it. Soybean oil. Sorry, Lexie. It’s literally in everything.

  Lexie: NOOOOOOO!!

  Rachelle: Good to have you back, Bits. Everything okay?

  Conversation CLOSED by BITSY

  “Lexie, I told you that you would regret buying a gas station taco.”

  “I regret nothing. Mira, tell Megan to stop judging me.”

  “She’s not judging you, honey. She’s just right. She usually is.”

  “It’s judgment!”

  Rachelle and Mira milled in my front room while I put the finishing touches on the batch of smoothies. Megan and Lexie bantered from the screen of Rachelle’s new laptop, which was decorated with a mixture of cupcake and skull-and-crossbones stickers.

  Lana and Lizzy played in their bedroom, popping out every now and then in a rush of light pink tulle or the flash of a Nerf gun. The musical sound of the blender pulsing my kale-spinach-apple-banana-coconut water smoothie into perfection took the edge off my tension.

  After rinsing out the blender, wiping up a few stray spots of smoothie, and setting the greens back into the fridge, I slid the drinks onto a half cookie sheet and left the kitchen behind.

  “Lexie, your bowels are going to hate you tonight,” I said as I handed a smoothie to Rachelle. “These smoothies will fix you right up.”

  She mock-glared at me, then held up a cup half-filled with a green liquid.

  “Already on it, sister.”

  “Well done.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Megan said.

  “You could only be so lucky.”

  “It’s not so bad, this one.” Lexie peered into her cup. “Although, by itself, coconut water was nasty.”

  “Agreed,” Rachelle said.

  After more than two years, Lexie still didn’t trust my health drinks to be sweet enough. Then again, for Lexie, very few things were sweet enough. Megan sat cross-legged in a pair of workout pants and what appeared to be new tennis shoes. Sweat ringed her neckline and shirt. No doubt she’d just gone for a run. How I envied her freedom to just … work out. No children. No dinner to fix.

  Just exercise.

  “Good recipe, Bits,” Megan said. “Perfect post-workout drink.”

  Rachelle lounged on my couch, tapping something into her phone. Mira sat on the other side of the couch, her bright red shirt matching her eyeshadow.

  Nothing concerning at this meeting, so far.

  Fear over being with the Health and Happiness Society after my binge and purge had been gnawing at me. Would they see my secret written on my face? I’m a fraud. I struggle with weakness and food issues all the time and don’t want you to know. Mira said nothing and gave no indication of my lapse.

  Lexie hadn’t left.

  Megan hadn’t called me out.

  Rachelle hadn’t pulled her eyes off her phone.

  Perhaps I’d be safe tonight.

  “So,” I said, settling on the edge of the couch, smoothie in hand. “How did the week of no calorie counting go, Lexie?”

  Megan’s jaw dropped. “Whoa. We’re starting out there.”

  “You don’t even sound mad,” Lexie said.

  “I’m not mad. “ I forced an ounce of levity into my voice. “Do what feels best for you. I will continue to calorie count because I could
use the extra accountability. My clients keep leaving goodies out for me to eat after cleaning their houses.”

  Lexie straightened. “Sounds like I’m in the wrong profession. My week went just fine. No terrible binges, no really, really bad decisions—”

  “Except for the gas station taco,” Megan said.

  Lexie rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. That wasn’t my greatest moment. But to be fair, I didn’t know it was a gas station taco until Bradley told me, and it’s his fault. He was in charge of dinner. Still, it tasted pretty good.”

  “No stress about your classes?” I asked.

  She snorted. “There’s always stress with college classes. And it’s finals, so there’s that.”

  “Did you buy your favorite brownie to deal with the stress?”

  Since you aren’t holding yourself responsible through calorie counting? I silently added.

  “Nope.” Lexie spread her hands. “And here I am. Before you today, a new woman. A woman who will forevermore swear off gas station tacos. And thus it was said.”

  Megan snickered.

  “Megan?” I asked. Surely, she’d have something to report.

  “Made it to 175 on my deadlift.” She held a fist in the air. “Girl power. Food was fine. Nothing exciting. Had a party on Sunday with the rest of the staff at work but kept the food under control and enjoyed a few little treats. Like frozen hot chocolate. Mmm-mmm.”

  My lips pressed together as I forced an approving tone. “Well done!”

  Seriously? They could just … keep it under control? I slurped on my smoothie.

  “Rachelle?” I asked.

  She growled something at her phone.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Mira asked.

  “Week was fine,” Rachelle muttered. “Stressed about a cake.”

  Leaving Rachelle to her grumpiness, I turned to Mira. “Any updates from you, Mira? How did the week of maintenance go?”

  She shrugged. “Fine. I didn’t crave food any more or less than I usually do. It was nice not to be so glued to my calorie notebook, actually. I think I got more sewing done.”

  “Any Pepsi cheat days?”

  “No. I just had one Diet Pepsi every morning.”

  “No plain Pepsi?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s … great! I’m so proud of you for your control and courage.”

  The words almost choked me, but I covered it with a smile. Fine words from me, I thought.