So Much More(5)

“Hey, Mrs. L. It’s good to see you. Come on in.”

She walks in and immediately takes my hand in both of hers. It’s a motherly, friendly gesture. She does it every time I see her, which is most every day since I survive on her deli sandwiches during the week for lunch. “I see you’re getting settled in, Seamus. Anything you need?”

I glance around absently, not really looking for anything in particular. “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”

She pats the top of my hand with hers which draws my attention back and my eyes land on her Janis Joplin tie-dye t-shirt. She wears tie-dye every day in some fashion or another: shirts, pants, skirts, shorts, scarves. You name it, she owns it in tie-dye. She’s a hardcore hippie. I don’t think she’s changed her wardrobe, or her lifestyle, since the sixties. Some would call her dated, I call her authentic. She is who she is and she owns it. And I love that about her. Authenticity is rare. Either people don’t know who they are, or they’re afraid to share themselves with the world—I myself fall into both of those categories: I don’t know, and I’m afraid. I wasn’t this way before. And I’m not happy about it. Life has beat me down. I fought for a long time, but after the divorce I woke up one day and couldn’t remember the man I used to be, only that time and circumstances have changed me. I need to find me again.

“Stop by our apartment tonight and I’ll brew you a cup of my herbal tea. It helps calm the nerves.” She winks and smiles warmly, and I wonder for a moment what type of herbs are in her tea.

“Okay,” I answer.

“Just pop in the deli if you have any questions about the move-in or your apartment.” She looks at my daughter and says, “And you come down later and I’ll give you some pickles, Kira.”

Kira’s ears perk up at the mention of her name and pickles in the same sentence. Pickles are her favorite thing, followed closely by television and cats. “Five slices?” she asks excitedly.

Mrs. L nods. “Five pickle slices for the five-year-old.”

Kira stands on the couch and throws her hands up in the air over her head in an act of jubilant celebration, the remote and Pickles the cat still clutched in her hands. “Yay!”

“Well hello, boys.” Mrs. L’s greeting pulls me back to the front door where Kai walks in carrying a box with Rory trailing closely behind.

“Hello, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Kai says politely.

“Hiya, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Rory says in a flawless British accent. He discovered Harry Potter movies and Dr. Who a month ago. His obsession with all things British was instantaneous. The accent was adopted immediately, and he hasn’t deviated from it for weeks. It’s gone from a quasi-Australian/British confused hybrid to sounding like a Sherlock Holmes doppelganger in an impressively short amount of time. I find myself forgetting my little boy is indeed not Benedict Cumberbatch when I listen to him.

Mrs. L smiles at me approvingly. “You’ve done well with this lot, Seamus. Strong personalities each and every one.” She doesn’t have children, but the way she looks at them makes me feel like that was a choice made by the fickle hand of fate, not by her and her husband.

“Thank you.” I smile inwardly at the compliment. I can’t get much right lately, but my kids are my pride and joy, and I love and encourage their individuality. That’s something their mom and I have differing views on. She’s cookie-cutter. I’m not.

“Bye, everyone. See you at lunchtime. Sandwiches are on me today, Seamus.”

Normally I would fight her, turning down the kind gesture because my pride wouldn’t let me accept the charity. But I don’t have any food in the house with the exception of a half empty can of sour cream and onion Pringles and a warm bottle of Sunny D, and I need to save the sandwich money for our trip to the grocery store later this afternoon. Money doesn’t go as far as it once did. Instead, I swallow my pride; it goes down uncomfortably and rebelliously like a golf ball-sized lump of bull-headedness, as I say, “Thank you. We’ll see you around noon.” And just as she steps out onto the W…E mat my thoughts drift back to the image of apartments one and two, their drawn curtains, and I’m speaking before I formulate the questions fully in my mind. I usually think everything through before it escapes my mouth. I choose my words with care because years of counseling teenagers has taught me it’s best not to always say the first thing that comes to mind. “Who lives in the apartments downstairs? Families? Kids? Married? Single?” My cheeks warm at the last word I uttered, and I immediately lock down the flow, because that probably sounded desperate and needy. I’m not desperate and needy. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever date again. The divorce crushed me. My heart may never know trust, the type of trust required to allow love in a second time in my lifetime. Remember what I said before about bitterness? Bitter is practically my middle name. In fact, I may just start going by Bitter instead of Seamus, kind of like Prince or Beyonce. A single, purposeful name. I’ll just be Bitter.

Her smile is markedly presumptuous; she read single as a match-making plea, instead of an innocent question based solely on my children’s social life, not mine. “Two single women. Faith in two is a free spirited, young lady. She’s energetic and such a kind soul. And Hope in one is a…a…” she’s struggling for the right word, “bit reclusive. Older than you and she doesn’t come out much. She’s quiet as a church mouse, though, you’ll never know she’s there.”