Valley of the Moon. Melanie Gideon
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what if he is? What do I call him?”
“Then you call him Grandpa,” I said. “Or Grandfather. Or Mr. Lysander. Or George. Christ, Benno, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him what he wants to be called, but I don’t think it’ll be an issue. You won’t see him.”
My father had never missed his precious two weeks at the lake. He would not be missing them now.
I hated airports. They were liminal space. You floated around in them untethered between arrivals and departures. A certain slackness always descended upon me as soon as I walked through the airport doors.
“Are you scared?” I asked Benno.
“There’s nothing to be scared of, kid,” said Rhonda. “You’re going on an adventure.”
“I’m not scared,” he said.
“Look, babe. The days will be easy. It’s the nighttime that might be hard. That’s when you’ll probably feel homesick. But just make sure you—”
“Can we go up the escalator?” he interrupted me.
I stopped and crouched down. “Benno, do you need a hug?”
He blew a tiny spit bubble. “No, thank you.”
“Don’t do that, that’s gross.”
He sucked it in.
“Well, may I please have a hug?” I asked.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re busy? Busy doing what?”
“Leaving, Mama,” he sighed.
Abortion wouldn’t be legal in California for another three years, but even if it were, I never would have terminated the pregnancy. Perhaps given different circumstances I’d have chosen differently, but for this baby my choice was life. Of course I didn’t know he’d turn into Benno. My Benno. I just knew he needed to come into the world.
Everybody thought I was crazy. Not only was there no father in the picture, but the father was black. How much harder could I make it for myself—a single white mother with a mixed-race child?
He brought me such joy. I never knew I was capable of loving somebody the way I loved him. Purely, ragged-heartedly. I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it.
But my life with him in it was also ridiculously hard. I was a parent twenty-four hours a day. Every tantrum, every cry of hunger, every question was mine to soothe, to feed, and to answer. I had no spouse to hand him off to. No partner to help pay the bills. I could never just walk away. I was the sole person in charge of resolving every issue in my child’s life, from how to deal with bullies, to Is that rash serious? to He’s three years old and still not using a spoon properly—what’s wrong with him?
I wasn’t stupid. I’d known that raising a child on my own would be challenging. It was the isolation that blindsided me. The intractable, relentless truth was that I was alone. I could meet other mothers on the playground. We could talk bottle-feeding and solid foods, how to get rid of cradle cap, the best remedy for diaper rash. We could laugh, commiserate, watch each other’s babies while somebody ran to the bathroom. But at the end of the day, they went home to their husbands and I went home to an apartment that was dark until I turned on the lights.
When we got to the gate, I was panicked but doing my best to hide it. I’d never been separated from Benno for more than a night.
“You must be Benno,” said the stewardess when we checked in. “We’ve been waiting for you!” She picked up the phone, punched three numbers, and spoke softly into it. “Jill, Benno Lysander is here.” She hung up. “You are going to adore Jill. She’s a retired stewardess. She’s got all sorts of activities planned for you, young man. Crossword puzzles. Hangman. Coloring books. A trip to the cockpit to meet the captain, and if you’re very good, maybe you’ll get a pair of captain’s wings.”
Benno’s eyes gleamed. I was on the verge of tears.
“Stop it,” Rhonda whispered. “He’s happy. Don’t screw this up.” She pulled her camera out of her pocketbook. “Let’s get a Polaroid of the two of you before you go.”
Five minutes later Benno was gone.
We walked out of the airport silently. Rhonda waved the Polaroid back and forth, drying it. When we got to the car, she handed me the photo.
I’d forgotten to wash Benno’s face. His mouth was still rimmed with orange.
Later, back at our apartment, Rhonda poured me a shot of Jack. Then she looked at my face and poured me a double. “It’s only two weeks,” she said.
I pounded the whiskey in one swallow. “What was I thinking? He’s a baby.”
“He’s an old soul. He’s a forty-year-old in a five-year-old body. He’ll be fine. Give me that glass.”
I slid it across the table and she poured herself a splash.
“I forbid you to go in his room and sniff his clothes,” she said.
“I would never do that,” I said.
“Hmm.” She took a dainty sip of the whiskey.
Elegant was the word that best described Rhonda Washington. Long-necked, long-legged. An Oakland native, Rhonda had five siblings. All of them had R names: Rhonda, Rita, Raelee, Richie, Russell, and Rodney. Rhonda’s mother said it was easier that way. All she had to do was stick her head out the window and yell “Ruh” and all the kids would come running.
“Now, what’s your plan? You aren’t just going to sit around the house moping,” she said.
“I’ve got this week off, then I’m working double shifts all next week.” I waitressed at Seven Hills, an Irish pub in North Beach.
“So what are you going to do this week?”
“I’m going camping.”
“Camping?” said Rhonda. “Like, car camping? With a bathroom and showers?”
“No, middle-of-nowhere camping, with a flashlight and beef jerky.”
I’d given a lot of thought as to how I was going to spend my first week of freedom in five years. I let myself fantasize. What if I could do whatever I wanted, no matter the cost? Where would I go? How about Paris? No, too snooty. Australia, then; Aussies were supposed to be friendly. Oh, but I’d always dreamed of seeing the Great Wall. And what about the Greek islands? Stonehenge? The Taj Mahal? Pompeii? I pored through old National Geographics—I rarely let myself dream anymore. My list quickly grew to over fifty places.
In the end I decided on camping right near home. Yes, it was all I could afford, but I wasn’t settling; before I’d had Benno it had been my escape of choice. I’d been to Yosemite, Big Sur, and Carmel. Closer to home, I’d camped on Mount Tam, at Point Reyes, and in the Marin Headlands. If I was depressed, angry, or worried, I headed for the hills. If I didn’t get a regular dose of nature (a walk in Golden Gate Park didn’t count), I wasn’t right. I needed to get away from the city. Sit by myself under a tree for hours. Fall asleep to the sounds of an owl hooting rather than the heavy footfalls of my upstairs neighbors. I was competent in the wilderness. Nothing frightened me. I wanted to feel that part of myself again.
Rhonda tossed her head. “Okay, nature girl.”
“What? I am a nature girl.”
“Using Herbal Essence does not make you a nature girl, Lux. When’s the last time you went camping?”
“A few months before Benno was born.”
“Do you still remember how?”
“You don’t forget how to sleep in a tent, Rhonda.”
“This