Our Volvo SUV awaits as we butter toast, shuffle plates of eggs. I hurriedly book a massage, text my oldest daughter’s violin tutor right before the shoot begins. What the photographer sees: an impeccably dressed Japanese woman surrounded by three children and a Caucasian husband. I have agonized over what to wear, how it will portray me: a simple, wide-leg wool camel pant with a white blouse.
As he has for days, a photographer lurks with his Canon. We never know when he will talk with us. It’s quite unnerving. Was it a mistake accepting Quad Cities Journal’s invitation to be part of their ‘Families’ series? His photos won’t be staged ones like Alexander and the royal family or the dour couple, husband with pitchfork, in front of their home. It will be part of a record of American families.
My husband Jake is talking with the children about a trip to Disney, how many years it takes to become a vet. He and our oldest son sport Polo shirts in shades of deep blue and teal. Our daughter reads a book her teacher recommended for the summer. Addicted to social media, I almost never read books. I scroll for news of plane crashes, missing children. I fear one of my beautiful children will go missing.
Their father claims to lie awake nights thinking of ways to protect them. Like everyone, he knows of horrific things happening to children. To women. Still, it’s a stretch for me to see Jake defend our family with whatever he brings to hand: a poker, baseball bat, knife—forging ahead with primal aggression. The zen-like, white blossom in a black, spherical vase centers our granite table.
My husband and I have told the children no electronic devices today at breakfast. Usually, my thumb would be hurriedly scrolling my phone. I am fighting a powerful urge that wants to reach for it, lifeless on the table. Do I have an obsession that disrupts my entire family? I could never forget my phone: Candy Crush, Nextdoor, FB. Aren’t I too old for this?
Nonetheless, I do what I have to do: social secretary keeping family members’ appointments straight; intuitive: always aware of any harbinger of bad events; chauffeur to soccer practices, recitals; someone to harangue when dinner’s late; someone to skip the shrink for because they already know it’s my fault.
Corey, two years older than our youngest, is frantically scrambling his scrambled eggs and using his fist to pound the base of his fork on the table. Not a good look. My facial expression signals for Jake, who is next to him, to intervene. He gently removes the fork and Corey immediately starts crying.
“What’s wrong Corey?” The boy cocks his head as if he can’t understand his father.
“I want to play Toca Boca World.” It’s time to negotiate.
“If you’re a good boy, you can play for as long as you want once we get in the car. How’s that?” This placates Corey, at least for now.
I often try to ignore my children. Is this normal? Why can’t I smother them with affection like other mothers? Are they only precious artifacts to me? Surveying my family interacting, thinking of my role as mediator, I contemplate our photos as natural illustrations of wabi sabi. Or they would be, if observers actually knew us. Yet I smile constantly, wanting the photographer to capture the ideal mother, knowing I’m not, knowing that such a being doesn’t exist.
Jake and I have not spoken since we were seated. Why speak when the photos won’t catch that?
Our youngest, Thad, cries, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” The restless child has given up on me.
High school sweethearts, Jake and I started a family when young. Our family members match except for Jake, a white island among us. Race matters: a truth that surfaced after our marriage. Lately, I’ve wondered if it adds to our recent struggles. Is that why we were chosen for this shoot: interracial professional family?
I have mostly deferred to Jake for handling the children, (let him give himself up for their sakes for once) but they grow louder. I always have my phone within hands’ reach. Though its ringer is silenced, I see a call come through as it vibrates. When I see who’s calling, I have to ignore our ban on devices. I jump up after hearing the news from my mother in that far-away land. A plate shatters on the immaculate tile floor. I am staggering, leaning against my chair shakily.
The photographer documents this. My face starts to crumble. The head of my family has died, dear sofu, grandfather who’s been more father to me than my own often absent one. Perhaps his strong sense of tradition would have moored our teetering family. Could it still?
I feel torn in too many directions as I notice my husband and children stop talking to focus on me. I fear ending the call. I end it but pretend I keep on speaking, as if I’ve gained total equilibrium.
Now I am the island among us, waiting to grieve, for the photographer to flee with his purloined photos, composing them on the shoji screen of his imagination.
He doesn’t know the news I’ve just received, but it isn’t important to his aesthetics. I notice he’s moved closer like any voyeur would after I took the phone call. Still, I think he hears his muse suggest the title: What the Mother Now Knows, though oblivious to its meaning.
Marc Frazier has published in over a hundred literary journals and received an Illinois Arts Council Award for poetry. He’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and two “best of the nets.” Marc publishes poetry, essays, flash fiction, book reviews, memoir, and photographs. His four poetry books are available on Amazon. Originally a Chicago-area, LGBTQ writer, he now resides in Fort Lauderdale. His latest book, If It Comes To That, won the Silver award for best published anthology by the Florida Writers Association. Links to a great deal of his published works appear on www.marcfrazierwrites.com.
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