Hunger

The too familiar rhythm sounds at my door, brass knocking against brass in a quick 1, 2, 3, 4, pause and 1 more, louder. I don’t need to peep through the hole to know who is on the other side. I can see her flawlessly arranged brown curls dangling over her shoulders, trendy silver filigree earrings, peach lipstick on her full lips, mascara-ed eyelashes fluttering over her brown eyes. She is gorgeous and always perfectly put together, despite that she has two young boys at home. She is what I am not: beautiful and a mother.

Flanna and her family had moved in three months ago. I had only had time to consider welcoming her before she was at my doorstep with fresh baked peanut butter cookies introducing herself and telling me all about her family. And since then she has been on my doorstep a couple of times a week, sometimes to borrow a cup of sugar, sometimes to share some exciting news, but most often to ask if I would watch her boys, Sam and Andrew.

I consider not opening the door, pretending I don’t hear her. I have never been very good at saying what I really feel. I had said yes to Flanna so many times, and had been happy to do so at first. But now her requests have become too frequent, and asked in a way as if I have nothing better to do. When she came just two days ago asking if I’d like to watch her kids, I so politely accepted with a wide smile, although I was seething inside as I avoided genuine words and something like hunger in her eyes, maybe even pity. But I made a decision when I closed the door. Next time, I would speak the words I really want to speak, the words I need to say--not the words she wants to hear. I have gone over in my head so many times the right words to say. Inside my door now I assure myself. I can say it; I can. I open the door smoothly and before I can even greet her, she hastily starts talking.

“Carrie! Hi! Would you like to…W-ow!” Flanna is staring at me now, as if she is trying to figure something out. I forget I have not properly gotten dressed today—one of the perks of my job at home—and think she must be horrified at my appearance: the baggy heather gray sweats, the yellow t-shirt with bleach stains, no make-up and my barely brushed short black hair. She slowly proceeds, but rather than a disparaging remark she slowly says, “You look great today!” She sounds unsure herself of the compliment.

I have never considered myself very attractive and the lack of compliments has only confirmed that to me. “Thanks,” I clip at her. I’m not going to let a flattering remark soften my resolve. “Did you need something?” I ask hurriedly and purse my lips together in a hard line.

“Oh, well…I thought maybe you might be bored and I was wondering if you wanted to watch Sam and Andrew?”, Flanna asks too cheerfully.

I suck a deep breath into my nose I hope she cannot see or hear, and I speak with resolution.

“Flanna, I happen to be busy. I have a job. I am not just sitting around at home doing nothing but wishing I could babysit your kids so that you can run off and get your nails done.”

“Oh!” Flanna gets out with a shocked look, her mouth still in the shape of an “o”, her brow scrunched. “I didn’t think….”she sputters. “I just thought….well, I thought you enjoyed my kids, and since you don’t have any...”

I stop her. “Flanna, I happen to enjoy many things, like reading, gardening, photography, yoga. I have plenty to fill my time without the extra sessions of charity babysitting.” It was cruel, and filled with lies even. The truth was I did enjoy time with her kids, and they enjoyed the time with me. When they were with me I knew I satisfied their starving appetite for attention; I shrunk at each unbroken request of “Look at me, Mommy!” that arrived over the fence from their yard beside ours. And what is more, since I had found out I could not have children five months ago, I had not taken time to enjoy myself. That is until this morning.

Overcome by the need to escape my powerlessness and my grief, I hastily grabbed the dusty, white linen copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy that had been sitting on my nightstand for these many months and sunk in my coffee colored leather couch to read. It was only a small thing, and I should have been working, but it felt good to love myself even just a little. I got to work after a few chapters, but if I felt the cloud of mourning coming, rather than descend into my emptiness I grabbed the book again and read until I felt plump with peace.

“Well, don’t you want kids? I mean, do you even like them?”, Flanna asks irritated and anxious.

The heat is rising in my face. And the words begin to slip out in anger and hurt before I can stop them.

“I can’t have kids, Flanna!” It comes out with permanence, louder than I intended. I had not shared that with anybody but my husband and parents, and I had not intended to share it now, with her. I guess I was hoping it would make her feel bad. But I don’t want her pity. I want to scrape from her ears those sour words and keep them secured to my tongue.

“I have to go,” I say with an urgency. I close the door firmly and spin around, only to discover an unfamiliar person framed before me in the simple black rectangular entry mirror. I edge closer, remembering what Flanna had said, that I looked great. Despite my hideous clothes, reflecting back is a face I had not seen there in many months. The skin that was insipid before, as if it had been starved for oxygen, now breathes color. And my dark hair cropped around my face accents the flush skin. It is the loveliest shade of pink I have ever seen!