Everyday Stranger

The Smallest Hand

And suddenly the sun was out all glorious weekend.

And it still is.

Melissa and Jeff are in their bedroom, fleecy nightclothes on and bed head prominent. Mr. Y is off picking up some bagels for breakfast, a sign that although I tried to think ahead for everything on this trip, it didn't exactly pan out that way. The air is warm, the kids' bags are far from packed and it looks like a curry house exploded in our kitchen, remnants from our take-away curry dinner last night.

Mr. Y and I showed up at his Mum's house on Saturday afternoon to pick up his kids. I hadn't ever been to their house before, and to say I was nervous was an understatement to the levels that the U.N. would have called me on. We pulled up to the absolute definition of an English nice suburban home and go into the backyard. There, grandparents and grandchildren are engaged in the age old tradition of playing football (soccer) in the back yard. The kids look up, surprised and wary, not sure what to make of me, even though they had been notified of my existence by their father on Wednesday.

The house was unsettling-there were knick-knacks of 40+ years of memories on the surfaces. This was the place that Mr. Y grew up and that his ex-wife had stayed at countless times. And the presence of memories was unmistakeable-there was a wedding photo of the two of them, prominently displayed in the living room. It was one I hadn't seen before, and they look so young and happy. Mr. Y looks like another man-he is almost boyish looking, up to mischief. He is far too thin for me. I want to take that photo and age him to the gorgeous man I know he is, but at the same time, I want to keep that gorgeous man to myself, to not share him in the photo.

I'm mental.

Melissa is more unsure about me than Jeff. To 7 year-old-Jeff, I am another person to talk to. One that likes dogs, computer games, and tv. To Melissa, I am a new territory. I am someone whose presence may force issues of loyalty in an already turbulent situation. I am someone that she knows but doesn't know in a place that she knows but doesn't know, and with a father that she loves and misses very much.

We leave the house, and the kids are clingy. They speak to each other only in Swedish, but address us only in English. When I look at Melissa, especially, I see so much of her mother in her. When I look at Jeff, there's so much of his father. Between the two of them, I yearn for acceptance as a friend, and I hope that we can have that.

Jeff is cool. He has a sarcastic humor that makes me laugh. When you ask him if he wants something, he has picked up from somewhere: "No thank you, but thanks very much for asking." Melissa has enormous eyes that are very sensitive, and she is entering that adolescent time that has such tumult in it. It makes me want to hug her, but I know better than to do that now.

We go for pizza and there is one on either of his arms, constantly. I walk behind them, the sidewalk only being so big, feeling my weirdness creep up. Is it because of me that they are so clingy? Am I causing them distress? The lunch is awkward, the kids perhaps a bit unhappy that they have to sit by me in the end, but seeing as it's a circular table, it's not like there was any choice. The kids do talk to me, and interact with me, I just wonder what I can do to make it more comfortable for all of us.

When we get back to the flat, they take up their room (it's Lloyd's room, but he is out of town right now) with comfort. We get ready for the one thing that they requested they must do: we watch the Eurovision Song Contest. We have printed scorecards and everything. It's all eyes on the tv until 11:30 pm.

For those not familiar with the Eurovision Song Contest....you're fortunate. Eurovision is the facilitator that gave us Abba in 1974, and they haven't given us anything memorable since. Each EU country gets to submit a singing act, all of them in the cheesy range that makes your toes curl up and your hair crinkle. Some acts are so embarassing that it makes you want to curl up and die for the performers.

And most of the European countries (England being one of the few exceptions) seem to love it.

The kids watch the show, and Mr. Y and I drink wine on the balcony. He thinks the kids like me, only they are worried about their loyalties, an issue I know all too well myself (as does Mr. Y). We both know what it's like to be torn between parents, between hearts, between homes. We both know that small acts now will get remembered in therapy sessions for the rest of our lives.

We re-join the kids for the voting results of the contest, the kids are hoarse with excitement, Eurovision is driving me crazy, and by the time the Ukraine is announced the winners I have a headache the size of Mt. St. Helens.

The next morning it is decided that we shall go to a water park, and ride the water rides, swim, etc. I am filled with dread at this-I have to be honest, I am not an amusement park kind of person. I don't like rides so much, I don't like queues, and there is something in me that despairs of looking ridiculous-I already look that way, I don't need any help. But, dressed in swimsuits and carrying four towels, I join them in the water park fun in Basingstoke.

And you know what?

I had big fun.

Jeff and I wound up spending masses of time together-not a strong swimmer, he clung to my back tightly in the "Roaring River" and laughed with me down the water slides. Melissa enjoyed herself too, and although her clinginess of her father didn't dissipate, she at least agreed to ride one ride with me.

After that, we went shopping to buy them some things. Melissa and I went into one of those ghastly pre-teen stores, where I helped her pick out an outfit. I was cautious there-I didn't want to encourage something racy or tough, since I didn't want to be seen as a bad influence. I sat with her in the dressing room, wanting to be supportive, eager to help out. In the end, she picked a nice pair of striped trousers and a T-shirt out, and Mr. Y was happy.

Then we went to see "Van Helsing", which was at their request. Once again, it was a battle to sit by their Dad. And once again, Melissa held on to his hand the entire time, sometimes both hands. And once again, I wondered if I was making things worse, increasing their insecurities, hoping that they felt that they could always have their father and access to their father.

I was worried about this, it eating me up inside, when I felt a small hand on my arm.

"Helen?" came a soft voice. I looked over at Jeff.

"Are you ok honey?" I asked, sliding my arm around him as vampires swooped around the screen.

He leaned into my arm. "I'm scared, but don't tell Melissa or Daddy." he whispered.

"No problem." I whispered back. "How about you hold my hand when you feel scared?"

He nodded. He took my hand. It continued on and off throughout the film.

We talk and take bets about who will die first in order to make it less scary. The violent climax of the movie begins, and I feel a small hand on my shoulder now.

"Helen?" Jeff whispers. "Is it ok if I sit on your lap?"

"Absolutely." I reply, and pat my lap. Jeff slides on, a warm solid bundle, smelling of Baskin-Robbins, chlorine, and that perfect young child smell. I hold onto him for the rest of the movie.

I know this isn't what being a stepmother is. I know that it's more than that. I know it's battles. I know it's heartache. I know it's being there for a crisis and I know it's being the outside party. I know it's being there for the bad and the good, but that moment, when a little person needed me to feel comfortable...

...that's the first moment that I thought that I could do this.

And I still feel that way.

-H.

Posted by Everydaystranger at May 17, 2004 09:26 AM | TrackBack