Agency

In Which Berenice Makes an Expensive Decision

on the same evening, but at home

She'd had to remove herself from the house before things escalated.

In the last year, her two small girls had clambered into a power position in their parent/child dynamic, and she, a grown woman, had no idea how to get back on top. It was frustrating and terrifying in the same amounts.

Tonight's showdown had been about chocolate hearts. Both girls had come home from school with bags full of paper valentines and heart-shaped chocolates. Berenice had asked them to, please, leave the candy until after dinner. It was a direct plea for cooperation, which true to form, had gone unheeded by Noemi (6) and Lucille (4).

Supper was ready, and she'd been calling for them without response. When she couldn't find them in their room, or hers, or anywhere on the main floor, she'd had a moment of panic. Her mind jumped to stories of children being stolen from their own homes — taken through bedroom windows or straight out an unlocked front door. Of course, those stories invariably turned out to be trumped up. If the child was missing at all, it was usually the less sinister case of an estranged parent desperate to have their child back — a situation that wouldn't apply in their case since she and Bertrand were still, on paper at least, together. Even if the girls rarely saw him. Still, her heart had jumped into her throat when she couldn't find her children at once.

Then she remembered — the basement renovation had just been completed. There was a whole new floor of their tiny Cabbagetown house now to hide in. They'd spent a mint digging it out and revitalizing the foundation so that the ceilings were tall and airy as a main floor. The new guest bedroom was perfectly cozy in soothing gray and white tones. A white bedspread with chic green palm fronds across it. Double dressers for guests' comfort and a large cedar chest of extra down duvets in case of chilly weather.

Beside the new bedroom, there was the bathroom — larger even than the one the whole family used upstairs. In working out the plans with the interior architect she'd hired last fall, she'd made the bold choice to cut the size of the laundry room down and make the bathroom truly grand — a luxurious oasis. A large, modern, egg-shaped bath stood in the middle of the generous space. Waterfall taps gleaming. The walk-in shower was walled with large dark slate tiles, surrounded by custom cut glass. The heated floors ensured one would never think they were in the same cold, damp basement this had started as.

Berry had objected to the expense of all this, of course. He always did. He couldn't understand, he said, why they should pay so much to outfit a part of the house they'd never used before and would only be appreciated by house guests they never had. He was in favour of turning the unfinished basement into a games room. If it had been up to him, he'd have thrown a pool table, sectional couch, a big screen tv and a beer fridge down there and called it a 'family room.'

Fortunately, she'd ignored his discomfort. The more he'd protested, the bigger her plans grew. Reluctance? Swiss fittings. Annoyance? Complexion flattering wall sconces. Peevish sulks? Towel warmers. Empty threats to lock the credit card and freeze the joint account? A pine sauna room.

What Berry didn't understand is how these transformations fed her soul. She'd undertaken the project like it was a third child. One that didn't talk back or reject her authority. In the midst of a renovation project, she felt invigorated and excited. And sure of herself. A state which she rarely felt outside of this.

So, when she'd found the girls hidden inside her beautiful, never used bathtub with their shoes still on, piggishly making their way through their candy bags... Well. She could admit, now that she was sitting out in the backyard exhaling the smoke of a Gauloise into the dark, late winter evening, she'd reacted badly.

As always, it had started with a rush of blood to her cheeks. She felt inhabited by her own angry french mother in these moments. She'd shouted, "I told you NOT to touch the chocolate until after supper. Why do you insist on ignoring me?"

With that, she'd reached into the tub and made to grab the bag away from Noemi, the eldest. Noemi, a miniature angry french woman in her own right, tried to grab the bag back and fiercely screamed, "NO!"

This resulted in a moment of physical struggle, mother pulling one side of the paper bag, child pulling the other, both red in the face and outraged at the other's insolence.

"Let it go, Noemi. Or I swear..."

Noemi stomped her small mary jane shod foot against the smooth porcelain tub and glared at her mother.

"Stop it, you'll crack the tub," Berenice warned.

Noemi looked her directly in the eye, lifted her foot, waited a challenging moment and brought it down hard again on the tub's curved basin.

"Noemi, I'm warning you. Let go of the bag and get upstairs. Neither of you are having supper until you've apologized."

Lucille, to her credit, sat crouched at the far end of the tub, looking on with surprise. Noemi was her hero, but even she could see this was a dangerous game. Maman wasn't messing. She looked ready to explode. Her sister raised her foot again and waited to stomp the tub again.

"Noemi!" squeaked Lucille, "Give maman the bag."

The big sister narrowed her eyes at the small one and brought her foot down one more time, hard as she possibly could.

They all heard it. A splintering crack and a wicked ping. All eyes went to where Noemi's foot had come down again. A large white chip of porcelain had come right out of the bath's smooth surface, ricocheted upward and struck the nearby standing mirror, which also now had a crack snaking up through the middle of it.

The shock! Berenice's hands let go of her side of the bag and flew to her mouth in horror. Noemi, (still pulling with all her might on the other side) fell backward where, fortunately, Lucille was there to cushion her fall. If not for Lucille, Berenice was sure they'd all be sitting in ER right now, Noemi's small blond head matted with blood and the terrible job ahead of explaining what had happened in a way that didn't make her sound like the world's most awful mother.

Thankfully, she had been spared that humiliating outcome this evening.

In the end, Berenice had hollered "Go to your room!" at both her girls, then turned and stormed up the stairs, into the kitchen, past the ready plates of healthy, balanced food that nobody would now eat, and out into the dark of the backyard.

From her perch on the rotting wooden steps, she gazed out at the scrubby length of thawing grass and muddy garden that had seemed like such a win when she and Berry bought this house ten years ago. A backyard in the city, they'd thought. How fantastic. How wonderful for our future children to have somewhere safe to play.

She strained to see it again through those happy, hopeful eyes. Through the eyes of a woman who still believed she might turn out to be a much better mother than her own. She sighed and stubbed her Gauloise into the muddy spot at her feet.

Tomorrow, she thought, she would contact an exterior landscaper. Have them come in and give her a quote for a complete backyard renovation. Everything old dug up and tossed out. Something new, expensive and luxurious in its place.