To begin with, the train was four hours late. It wasn’t too terribly bad for me; I enjoyed a relaxed walk around downtown Schenectady, stopped by a local shop and had a nice long visit with the owners (whom I knew from years of such train travel), I explored a more hardcore city neighborhood and dropped in on a West Indies grocery (in search of some mango pickle) where I passed almost another hour chatting with new friends and learning the similarities and differences between Indian and West Indies cuisine, among other things. I watched the C130s flying in and out of the nearby airfield, their immense bodies and thundering engines shocking me at each pass… All in all I took it well in stride, but admittedly as I waited on the platform in those final minutes, the wait was becoming too much. It must have been much worse to have suffered it on the train, so I waited in sympathy for my weary traveler.
They were the very last two passengers to disembark, and as they approached I hardly recognized the pair; Fareed at this point has a head of nearly all-white hair, and our son hardly looks a tiny boy anymore. Of course I knew this intellectually, but somehow his height shocked me – in fact his whole appearance shocked me. Handsome with a fresh haircut and oxford shirt, he seemed so much older. We didn’t kiss, we didn’t even fully hug (I’d harbored a tiny fear he might be newly reserved in our reunion and so had also readied myself for this too), but nonetheless he laughed at my mouth, agape, my speechless reception. And there we were. The three of us, together, again. I reminded myself to keep the recent unpleasant exchanges with my ex altogether apart from this experience. I’d done this many times before – but this time, on the heels of an emotionally charged round of FB messages, it felt different to me. Several recent ‘pep’ talks from friends cautioning me to keep my ex at an emotional distance helped me to stay aware. I’d been such a sucker for so many years, this time might I keep my dignity and not allow him to hurt me or push my buttons? I would give it my very best. Having the distraction of my beloved son helped, and as we got into the car and drove home in the dark, there was no lack of things to catch up on, and conversation was easy and stress-free.
I made us the nicest dinner I could in as little time as possible, and before too long we had dug into some fresh sweet corn and home-made tandoori chicken, plus a little wine, thanks to my recent houseguest Ken (whom I’d dropped off on my way to pick up the guys). After supper Fareed put a string on my garage-sale-find-of-a-guitar, and then the three of us settled on the couch to watch a little something together. Things felt easy and good, and our son was truly happy, happy, happy to be seated in between his mother and father, no matter what it was we happened to be doing. Fareed explained that he’d recently been on a Bill Hicks kick, and that he really wanted to share the comedian’s stuff with me. He explained it was a bit racy, but that the cat was deep, that he had a message. Our child is no stranger to profanity, and he himself knows full well it’s not appropriate for him to use in everyday life, so it’s not a huge deal. Good thing too; this bit was loaded. In many ways. We all enjoyed it, but before the video was done Elihu told us he’d had enough and was very tired. So we went off to get ready for bed.
Again, all was well, all was peaceful and relaxed. I hadn’t realized it, but Fareed was planning on reading a bit to Elihu, and so he joined us on the big bed to read a short story. I don’t even remember what it was I’d said – granted, in the wake of the vulgarity and off-color routine we’d spent the last half hour watching, my mind may have been off in the wrong direction – but I made some passing attempt at a joke; I’m sure it was stupid (I don’t remember what it was that I said) and suddenly Elihu started to cry. Fareed got angry at me – very angry. His tone shifted in an instant, and he virtually spat at me, telling me that I’d been inappropriate and to shut up. I was floored. Now imagine, I think we’re all kinda still horsing around, that stuff is light and going nicely – so both the eruption of tears and my ex’s venom were a complete surprise. Boom! And there it was. All of a sudden I was the bad guy – the one who’d gone too far. ?? I tried to stay myself, and I did. If it were anyone else they probably would have told Fareed to go and get the fuck out of the room – that that sort of reaction was far beyond what the situation required, it being in of itself inappropriate and inflammatory. But then there was lil man, between us, crying. I had to suck it up. “I think I’m just really tired”, my self-aware boy offered. Fareed shot me a look of such hate and rage that I knew Elihu’s comment meant nothing. Christ, this surely sucked. I rolled over and took half an Ambien as Elihu’s father continued reading. I needed to get the hell out of this situation, and my adrenaline was pumping. I prayed the drug would do its thing quickly. I believe it did, because I don’t remember the end of the story, but I remember seeing Fareed get up and leave. I asked him to turn out the light, which he did before closing the door.
Elihu roused when his father left and began talking. By this time I was very drowsy, so it took some effort to stay with him, but clearly, he needed to talk. When I’d thought our conversation over, he’d pick it up again. On it went like this for another fifteen minutes or so as my son emptied his heart to me as he hadn’t in a long time. “Mommy, it wasn’t what you said. I was just really tired. That’s all.” “Okay, sweetie. You don’t have to say that, but thanks.” We lay there for a minute in the dark. I knew there was more coming, so I said nothing and waited.
“I think I’m beginning to get it” he said. “I think it’s because I’m older. Because I understand it in a different way now.” I didn’t have to ask him what he meant. I just let him talk. “Do you know how many times I cried in the back of the Sprinter?” he asked. He tried to explain that even though he was part of that other family, he couldn’t shake the knowledge that he really wasn’t – and that it wasn’t his own mother sitting there with his father. “I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like if that was my real family in that car” he added. “Oh but sweetie, they are your real family too.” He paused. I knew what he had meant. “You mean if it had been me and daddy, and maybe another child of ours?” I asked. “Yeah.” He paused again, then asked me “How come you and daddy don’t get along like other divorced parents? Like other people who aren’t married anymore?” He’s asked me this before, and I always point out that we do get along – I cite our enjoyable dinners, our light conversation. “But you’re not together in your heart” he answered. I knew what he meant, and I could be polite and agreeable all day long but this would never change. Again, I apologized, told him how badly I felt about all of this – how I’d have chosen otherwise if I could have. Maybe this wasn’t the time, but again I reminded him that we would never have known about chickens, about birds, about life in the country had none of this happened. Yeah, this time that argument didn’t matter much to him. Eilhu was stuck in a great meditation on the ‘what might have beens’, and I could do nothing to prevent it. I explained that the reason his mother and father weren’t perhaps as comfortable together as other ‘ex couples’ might be related to the order in which things happened. I said that most people conclude a relationship, take some time to heal and regroup, and then start a new one. And then they start their new family. Not always, but mostly. “I think I just got that this summer” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s because I’m getting older. But I just got that in a way I hadn’t gotten it before.” Man. I’d always had a hunch – doesn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion either – that one day, perhaps in his mid teens maybe, he’d look back on things with a fresh perspective. One day he would get it. I had no idea that day would come so soon.
My ex had recently accused me of bad parenting, and his eruption at me seemed his way of confirming this idea for himself. As if he needed to stay his ground. See here? You’re doing it right now! appeared to be the subtext. (A larger population might find both of us guilty of bad parenting for the Bill Hicks thing alone!) Earlier, I’d heard him scold Elihu for biting his spoon when he ate. I had hated the intensity with which he’d done so, but again, he’s Elihu’s father, he has a right to express things he feels are important. “So what’s going on with the spoon?” I asked as we backed off the heavy stuff. “I kind of have a tick” he began. I’d suspected something like this (he and I both have anxiety issues – he mitigates anxiety by releasing it in some repetitive sort of behavior, something which migrates as it’s identified). “I kinda want to bite the spoon to get rid of the feeling.” Yeah. I got it. “Ok, so you’re aware. That’s good.” We were quiet again. In my head I replayed the scolding his dad had given him. Me, I didn’t dig that moment of parenting. I shook it off and reminded myself that at least my son was finally home. “But you did have a really good summer, right?” I asked him, wanting to end on something of a positive note. I knew he had – in fact it was one of his best summers ever, but I could hear he was getting tired. He didn’t have much left. “Yeah, I did.” As I turned on my side to get ready to sleep, Elihu put his arm around me. I’d thought he might have wanted some space, so I had left him alone. I smoothed my hand over his head and told him I loved him. “You wanna go sleep with daddy tonight?” I offered, trying to make a demonstration of fairness. “No, I want to stay here with you.” My heart melted, and I was washed over with relief.
Things were changing all around me in my life and nothing seemed predictable anymore, but none of that mattered because my son was back. The epicenter of my life, my heart – my entire world – was right there in my arms. Finally, after one very long summer, my son had returned home.
The evening before, Zac, Stephanie and their three girls came by for an impromptu visit just as Ken and I were finishing up with supper.
Middle girl Bailey piles Elihu’s stuffed birds on her daddy’s lap.
Stanley the frog is always good entertainment.
Zac, always himself building, repairing or figuring something out, looks over Ace’s bird sculpture. (He once identified an old model T wheel on the other sculpture that sits a few feet away and outside of this shot.)
Kind of a crappy picture – but I had to share… Check out the way the whole family piles in the truck’s front seat. So redneck (in the awesome sense of the word!). Love it.
A quick goodbye selfie of me and my new ‘old’ friend, Ken, just as I dropped him off to go and pick up dad and son.
In Schenectady I found my new Indian food mecca… Closest thing to Devon Street I’ve seen outside of Chicago. Love the crazy assortment of goods, from pots and pans to produce and plenty of Bollywood* videos and CDs.
Saw a few vegetables that were new to me.
My new friend and store owner Ramesh shows me a kind of string bean I’d never seen before.
Now this is what I’m talkin about…
Spent a good half hour chatting with Mattie, the gal in the middle. Her sister in law, on the left, gave me some good pointers on making my own garam masala. It’s a spice mixture that’s a lot like American barbecue in that it involves different spices depending on the region the recipe comes from.
Look at lil man… how short his jeans have become in seven weeks!
Closest thing to a family photo we’re gonna get.
Another bad pic – but the vibe is there. Elihu was laughing and laughing.
The kid mighta slept all day if I hadn’t woken him up. Still on a summer schedule, but we’ll get that turned around in a week or so. For now it’s all about making that emotional shift that always takes a few days after daddy time is done.
Post Script: Much as I try to edit my posts, errors always slip past – usually little nothings, but in this case I’d substituted the phonetic match for “Bollywood” with “Baliwood”… I can just see it; grand song and dance numbers with shadow puppets… or epic scenes with hundreds of beautiful Balinese women from Indonesia adorned with those huge gold headpieces, making eerie side-to-side eye movements and waving their surreal finger extensions in the air… Hmm, maybe I’m onto something here….
A rare second Post Script (the very first, I believe!). I won’t of course publish the initial email I received from my ex in response to this post, but I will post my reply:
3 thoughts on “Returned Home”
And yet, all I want to do is to fold into you and be there for you and show you the love, tenderness, kindness and consideration that you deserve – and nothing. You seem stuck in this static-state of the “Fareed Thing” when you should simply take a deep breath and let go of him because, sister, he has gotten over YOU a long time ago. I don’t know the man and have no feelings one way or the other about him personally. But let me state that you allowed him to do the things he’s done and this is the fallout. Stuff happens. But I will make the bold statement, once again, that when you truly LOVE someone and she is your WIFE, you don’t go making babies with other women. Period. No excuses or “Yeah, but….” You stay in your lane and play your goddamn position. If any man treats my daughter like that, he and I are gonna go for a drive and have us a little heart-to-heart. Goodfellas style.
The “hate” and disdain you perceive that he has for you shouldn’t come as a surprise after all these years.There are no news flashes to share. That train was coming down the tracks years and years ago and even though he was sounding the horn as loudly as he could, leaning out the window shouting and waving his arms and flashing his lights, you never thought the train would hit you. You continued to straddle the tracks and face the other direction with your fingers in your ears. Since the “marriage” ended, you seemed to have developed this Stockholm Syndrome of sorts and you cannot break this fixation with Fareed Haque, still referring to him, years later, as “My husband” for example. He is NOT your husband. The last day I was there, the day you were going to pick up Fareed and Elihu at the train station, you were furiously cleaning, cooking and carrying on as if preparing for some big date. Got dressed really nice (great dress, btw, set off that amazing skin right propa like) and you seemed nervous because FAREED was coming. “I better wash the chicken shit off the stairs, Fareed will flip out if he sees this!” You know what? You discard and mistreat a woman, leaving her AND YOUR SON in “poverty,” you don’t get to have an opinion about what happens in and around her home because your ass should be at Motel 6 eating take out, not enjoying a gourmet home-cooked meal, imperiously sitting all up in her space like you run shit. One last bell to answer, one less egg to fry, as the song goes. “I want to set a positive example for Elihu” you stated. You want to teach him a GREAT lesson? Show him that when you do dirt to a woman, you lose your privileges. Period. Teach him that when a man does dirt to a woman, he doesn’t haughtily darken her door, then have the temerity to talk shit and berate her in HER OWN HOME. Time to go, hope you have cab fare, Sport. You don’t have to be mean to Fareed, for Elihu’s sake; I get that. But man, grow some balls and move on from this cat already.
Elizabeth, you are a special person and a sweet, beautiful, kind, sexy and talented woman that I just absolutely adore. You’re a loving, engaged and AMAZING mother to a special child who will leave an indelible print on this Earth and in the lives of all people who have and will have the privilege of meeting him. I wish I will have that opportunity someday.
The moment when I kissed your cheek, forehead, then the other cheek was a moment I won’t for get because in that moment I FELT you. Then I get the figurative stiff-arm and I just don’t UNDERSTAND that, but it is what it is.
If you’re lost and you look, you will find me – time after time.
Ken, I agree with everything that you wrote here. A husband isn’t supposed to be out making babies with other women. As a husband myself (married almost 22 years), I can’t help but be offended by the way that her ex-husband acted, and the way that he seems to have absolutely no sense of concience. He seems to be completely unaware that he ever did anything that could be considered wrong. You are right that he does not deserve any of the consideration and respect that is being lavished on him.
Elizabeth, I don’t know if you go back and read comments on previous posts like this, but I hope that you will read Ken’s comments. As I said on another reply, he sounds like a cool guy, and has a very perceptive mind. He seems to have quite a clear understanding of the whole situation. I can see that you have taken the high road in not trying to influence your son’s perspective on his father, and that is noble. A great many of other ex-wives, in similar cases, try to turn kids against their fathers (and vice versa), and you are right in allowing your son to think for himself. In time, he will have a pretty clear understanding of the inequities in the whole situation. He probably understands already, but probably doesn’t want to discuss it directly yet.
Elizabeth, you are too good for all the garbage that your ex has dumped on you, and he doesn’t deserve the time of day. It’s good that you are doing what you can to keep the peace, but please don’t let him dump on you any more. You have kept your dignity and integrity in all this, but it does sound like you give him too much “VIP treatment”, so that when you make an innocent joke which didn’t go across well, your ex overstepped his bounds and humiliated you. And in your own home, too! That guy needs to learn that you deserve respect, and he owes you two decades of back payments on the respect that he has failed to give.
Best wishes for everything.