Part 34: Susan

Susan went through the motions all afternoon - talking to the other moms about television, food, shopping, husbands and children; playing her part in the drama of Becca’s short-lived first relationship, born and died within the confines of the party, so that by the ride home she hated Dylan C. and might like Jake instead; driving Ashley home, waiting to see her little hand wave from the front window so she would know she was inside safely before pulling away; bringing Becca to the store to pick out a treat to console her, or avoid the accusation that she hadn’t consoled her enough - she seemed fine now, but the emotions would probably burst out around bedtime; and barely thinking at all about the questions that had been so pressing yesterday, or the stupidly entertaining band she had spent the night reading about.

So by the time she got home and Becca had fled to her room, clutching her new makeup bag (she didn’t wear makeup, but all the girls at school had them), she felt she had earned some time doing what she wanted to do. But Xander Cross and Our Beautiful Misery no longer held the same fascination, now that the computer was actually in front of her. Maybe it was best to just let it be a one-time thing. You can’t recreate the past. The voice of some character in some novel - but which one?

No, the more pressing question was - why was the computer free? Where was James? Was he sulking in his room?

Were her duties still not done for the day? Fine, one more thing. She hadn’t started anything else yet, anyway - the computer was off - so maybe she was still in Mom mode. And then after she had dealt with James, after they had had whatever fight they needed to have, then she could do whatever she wanted. And by then, hopefully she would know what that was.

She went upstairs, hearing music blaring from Becca’s room. She still played her music out loud, God bless her, so Susan actually knew what she liked: harmless, meaningless bubblegum pop. This was Britttni, some song that was ostensibly about partying all night long. But Becca didn’t know a single word. She could sing along, but only based on sound; isolate her voice and all the meaning was lost.

The door to James’s room was ajar. A strange word, ajar. When had she learned it? And from where? There had been a time when she didn’t know what it meant for something to be ajar, an intermediary period when she thought it was related to jars - but when had the uncertainty been cleared up?

Hesistantly, Susan pushed open the door to her son’s room. How long it had been since she had even seen the inside of this room, a room in her own house? A symbol of James himself, perhaps - so close, but inaccessible. She was unsurprised to find the room empty, but balked at seeing the laundry in the basket, the bed made, the carpet maybe even vacuumed?

Her first reaction was a sense of vindication. Here it was, proof that young people could develop into responsible adults without compulsion, without convoluted systems. James had gotten tired of messiness, so he had cleaned, as a baby thrown into water will swim. It was instinct: make order out of chaos. (But wasn’t it instinct, also, to turn order back to chaos? To do what she had watched Becca do this afternoon and stomp on sand castles?)

Then, she was hit by a sudden fear, a panic, a certainty: James had committed suicide. It would be just like him to clean his room as a last act, in lieu of leaving a note - so much so that she almost felt like he had done it before. It was a sardonic condemnation of her, of all of them, for telling him to clean his room. She could hear him sneering at her, “Well, at least my room’s clean, right, Mom?” 

He had been struggling with something, and she had told him to clean his room. He had been contemplating this final, horrible act that very morning, and she had asked him about Tom Sawyer. And then left him alone. She should have stayed; of course she should have stayed. That was why she felt so guilty earlier: her unconscious mind had picked up on the clues that she had missed, had wanted to miss.

This was the day that would define the rest of her life. She would never be anything but the mother of a teenager who had committed suicide. The questions that remained were: how? where? She had to be the one to find him. She owed him that, at least. Surely he must be hanging from a beam in the garage, or floating face down in the pool . . .

Gatsby: that was who had tried to recreate the past! Recalled by the image of the pool - what inappropriate timing - though of course, it could also be the garage . . .

Oh, but David! He had been home the whole time, hadn’t he? James wouldn’t have done something like that with his father home! That wasn’t his style - he would wait until he was alone. So he might still be saved. She felt her son rise back out of the grave and return to his usual habits and haunts. He was out skateboarding; he was at Sean’s. Of course.

Still, she couldn’t go read about Our Beautiful Misery when James was missing. It was almost a relief. She had to just sit and wait patiently for him to come home. And she wouldn’t call his cell phone - but why? Because she didn’t want him to know how worried she had been; or because he would think she was calling about his room being clean; or because what if he didn’t answer, then the panic could start back up again for no good reason; or because actually talking to him would destroy this idea of him she had now as the greatest son in the world, a kid who would come home at a reasonable hour just because he didn’t want his mother to worry; or because waiting was her penance?

Susan returned to the living room, taking care to leave James’s door ajar. When he came home, she would pretend she hadn’t seen it. Instead, she would treat him better from now on, be more patient with his outbursts, but not because of that. He couldn’t think it was because he had cleaned his room, he couldn’t think it was because of anything. It had to be unconditional.

Because, after all, teenage life was a constant torrent of passions. When she said she remembered it, she was lying. What she remembered were the facts - the names, the places - but the way it had all felt at the time, the importance of it all - that was gone, utterly gone. But she had experienced it once. That had to mean something. And from time to time she still could catch little glimpses, peripherally - that was what last night’s shameful endeavor had been, hadn’t it?

If her life were a story, she would meet Xander Cross and have an affair with him, it occurred to her, straightening the couch cushions absentmindedly.

Was that what this was about? Was she bored with her marriage?

After all, she had forgotten that David existed for a while there. When had she last thought about him? Had she talked about him with the other moms at Becca’s party? Almost definitely, but what had she said? Oh, he’s at home, working on some project, keeps him busy, you know? Oh, you know David, always tinkering with something? Men, they’re all the same, am I right? All nauseating, but possible. And all could be said without ever thinking about David, the actual, flesh-and-blood husband in her basement.

A door slammed. David? No, it had to be James - home, alive, indignant. Those were his stomping footsteps coming up from the basement. All Susan’s conclusions evaporated in the face of his looming presence. She would be kinder to him, sure, but did that mean greeting him or leaving him alone? Were his noises a cry for attention or an expression of anger, like honking your horn in traffic, with no expectation of a response? Leaving him alone this morning had, after all, led to a clean bedroom, not a life-redefining tragedy. And if she did greet him, what to say? It was all so much easier with Becca - it just happened - she didn’t have to try so hard.

It would all depend, she decided, if he had his headphones in or not; if he passed by her on his way to the computer or his bedroom, or went around the other way.

But she should be busy. Frantically, she unfolded the blanket that lived on the couch, so she could be refolding it when he came in. An image of motherhood, of domesticity - to comfort him, perhaps, in the tempest of his life - or for him to resent, that was up to him.

The door from the basement was shut, not slammed. Meaning what? James appeared in a glimpse, as Susan looked up from the blanket she was folding for the third time, and he half-smiled at her before he bounded up the stairs. A sad smile; an innocent smile. She suddenly remembered how he had looked at five years old, on some occasion when he had smiled so he didn’t cry, when she had forced him to endure something he didn’t want to do - one of the tiny tragedies of parenting. It wasn’t his first day of kindergarten - that had been lost - but the phrase communicated the idea better than the truth would. But he had done it, whatever it was, and it had made him stronger. Or had it? He had survived it, that was all she could say for sure, just like he would survive whatever experience he was going through now. 

Unless he didn’t. A pale reverberation of her earlier fear returned, like the aftershock of an earthquake, and she upbraided herself for not following him upstairs like a Good Mother would have.

Was this to be her life now? Perpetually living in fear that her son would kill himself, and pre-emptively blaming herself?

No, she would try. She had to try. Even though she had already tried, and she had failed, she would try again. She patted the blanket, folded a little less neatly than it had been before she intervened, and went upstairs. Becca’s music was still on, but much more softly. Turned down for James’s sake? On her own? Another victory for her parenting style if so. She knocked gently on James’s door, now shut. She would wait for him to respond; she wouldn’t be one of those parents who barged in.

But he was stubborn - he didn’t respond right away. Or he had his headphones in and didn’t hear her. Or a bit of both. So she knocked again, trying to achieve the perfect balance between kindness and volume.

“What?” he said. Not angry, exactly, but definitely in the throes of emotion.

“Can I come in?”

“It’s a free country.”

She turned the handle and pushed open the door to see her son laying on his perfectly-made bed, staring at the ceiling, no headphones. More than anything else, he looked tired. No, that word wasn’t strong enough - he looked exhausted, drained. Beaten down by experience. There was something about his pose that suggested a corpse, a casket, an untimely funeral - strangers showering her with unwanted sympathy, too effusive (for themselves, not her) - and strengthened her resolve to engage.

And in the brief interval of time before she had to begin speaking, Susan realized why she had recalled that day when he was five: on both occasions, his face was pale and flushed, signifying that recently, privately he had been crying.