Best Day Ever. Kaira Rouda Sturdivant
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be so wonderful if the universe leaves me some croissants today. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. I need Mia to relax and back off on the questioning. Perhaps baked goods will help. I’ll suggest she eat a croissant or two rather than saving them all for breakfast. There’s something to be said for instant gratification every once in a while. And then if she’s happy, she’ll turn my music back on.
I can’t stop myself. I reach for the radio, punch some buttons; this whining country music is all I can tune in. This will please Mia as she is a country music fan. I had my fill of it when I lived in Nashville, thank you very much. Right about now I’m wondering why I discontinued the Sirius radio subscription in the Flex, a bad move when it comes to the middle of nowhere. Now I’m at the mercy of whatever station comes into range unless Mia switches back to my lovingly made playlist. A shame, really.
The country singer is the only one making a sound. The silence between us is thudding in my head. I didn’t want today to be like this. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to apologize. The road is clear ahead, and I haven’t had to pass anyone for miles.
“Hey, Mia. I’m sorry,” I say. “That was my fault. I’ll fix it, pay off the card as soon as we get to the cottage. Claudia will be able to use it this afternoon, pick up the groceries. All’s well. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy the music. Everything is going to be fine.”
Mia has pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She looks over at me with squinted eyes, probably a defense against the bright sunlight. She is staring at me like you would a spider making a web at your doorway, with both amazement and fear.
“What?” I say, not liking the look in her eyes. She usually gazes at me with such confidence, such love. Something has shattered that; someone or something has changed her opinion of me, I realize. How did this happen and when? I knew things were going to change, had to change as a matter of fact. I have a plan to handle it, of course.
Right at this moment I wonder what Mia sees in me. Does she still see the sophisticated older man of the world she pledged to love, honor and obey a decade ago? Does she still feel my experienced touch, does she remember everything I taught her about sex, about love? Does she still appreciate my encyclopedic knowledge of fine food and wine, does she dream of traveling with me to the exotic places I tell her I’ve visited? It’s too bad we didn’t make time to travel a bit, but the boys came along so quickly and, well, her place was in the home. I am no longer sure what she is thinking when she looks at me, not at all. But more than what she sees in me, it’s what I see in her that I do not appreciate. I shake my head. This was supposed to be the best day, and it’s deteriorating, decaying like the memories of childhood. You still have a sense of what it was like to be a kid, but the feeling of jumping into a swimming pool on a carefree summer day has faded. And you can never get that back.
Mia pulls her sunglasses back down and covers the squint. She folds her arms across her chest and says, “We’re almost to the bakery. Do you have money for croissants?”
The bakery is closed. Croissants sold out. Even from far away, I can tell Mia is fuming, her hands in fists on her hips, but as she turns back toward the car she forces a smile on her face. She’ll get over it, I remind myself. After I suffer through half an hour of hick country music for the remainder of the drive to the cottage, we’ll be back to being cordial again as we drive through the gates of Lakeside. She is happy there. Once we have arrived, she’ll forgive me for our late start. As we unpack, I will play some jazz, a far superior song structure than this simplistic insult to music blaring through the car radio at present. All will be well once we arrive. Marriage: it’s a give-and-take. One day, I get my way, the next, I do something nice for my wife. It’s how it goes. I reach deep into my patience well and find it’s almost dry. Almost.
It’s never ideal when I run totally dry, trust me. Plenty of people in my past found that out the hard way. But I’m more mature now, I don’t let myself get that depleted. I know how to soothe myself, I know what, and who, I need. And I usually get what I want. I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.
The good news with the detour to this strip mall in the town of Port Clinton is that I am at last getting to stretch my legs. When I finally parked the car and we climbed out, I realized my back was seizing up on me. I ignore this old-man type of physical pain, just as I ignore cashiers and parking lot attendants. They are all a bother, beneath my wasting a breath or thought on.
The fresh air feels good, crisp and clean. Although you can’t see the lake from here, you can feel the water’s presence like you do when it’s about to rain. There’s just something in the air that’s thicker, moist and heavy, like a humidifier on a dry winter’s night. There are cars towing boat trailers parked near us. Bumper stickers proudly proclaim the town as the Walleye Capital of the World, although I read they lost that distinction lately. Life: it’s transitory. And in life, there are always winners and losers. It’s nice to be a winner.
“How about getting some ice cream, honey?” I say as Mia returns with a frown on her face. She wanted to make certain the bakery was closed by walking across the parking lot, even though we could plainly see from here that nobody was inside and there were chairs on the tables. I guess she likes torturing herself, pressing her nose against the front window of the darkened shop, like a puppy hoping to get adopted at the shelter. Just like most of those puppies, the odds weren’t in her favor. She lost.
“We missed them by fifteen minutes. They close at 11:30,” she says. I don’t correct her and point out that it’s actually already noon. “I don’t feel like ice cream right now.”
“Not even Toft’s?” It’s a famous ice cream parlor from Ohio’s oldest dairy. I smile thinking about the bright blue Toft’s sign, the ridiculous sculpture of a cow wearing sunglasses inside a white wooden pen in the parking lot, the smell of vanilla beans and strawberries when you step inside the door. We have spent many an afternoon on the outside patio with the boys, ice cream dripping onto the round blue tables while they tried to lick every drop before it melted. My mouth is watering just thinking about a scoop of Java Chip. In a bowl, not a cone. With bowls, you’re always in control.
“Not even Toft’s. Besides, dairy is bad for you, you know that. It’s mucus. Perfect for baby cows but that’s all,” Mia says, opening the door to the Flex. If the car hadn’t been between us, I know she would have shot a glance at my belly. I hate that. “I would like a salad or something, though. Do you think the restaurants are open in Lakeside?”
Our eyes meet across the top of the Flex. She looks small, and no longer as angry. I feel like a large disappointment. I hate that feeling. She is waiting for an answer. I am preparing for country music mush through the speakers as my penance.
“Yes, I checked. Everything is open. We can eat in Lakeside,” I say with gusto. I’m suddenly very hungry, and I hope food will fix the hollow feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sort of craving Sloopy’s pepperoni pizza about now.” I open the car door and slide back behind the steering wheel.
“Pizza is a terrible choice, Paul.” Mia clicks her seat belt into place. I see her look at my stomach as she adds, “Processed meat, dairy—well, whatever. It’s your life.”
“They have salads, too,” I say. I know I sound defensive. I just can’t have her ruin my favorite pizza joint, too. I give her the freedom to eat as she pleases, so I deserve the same respect, don’t I? She gets to eat and do whatever she wants all day long, and all I ask for is just that: respect. “You are ruining food for me.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says. She thinks it’s funny. She finds another of her favorite country music stations and turns the sound up. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch the button to start the playlist, our playlist with the Police’s “Every Breath You Take” up next. That is the music we should