Did I look bored? I must have. I did zone out for a few seconds. Her voice has that quality, polite and pleasant but also bland.
“And now we’re experimenting with entire neighborhoods that are custom-built and adjusted to the needs of the residents. The logical extension of that is the SmartHome technology, which you will be testing. If you’re interested, of course.”
I chance a sideways glance at my husband, who is listening raptly, and I just know it. My heart sinks, and my stomach knots. He’s already decided. There won’t be any talking him out of it from this point on.
But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.
CHAPTER TWO
The tablet beeps with another reminder. The episode of Taryn’s favorite interactive cartoon has ended. Would I like to play another? In other words, technology is reminding me, in its usual passive-aggressive way, what a terrible and neglectful parent I am. I tap No, and as I set the tablet down on the counter, I find myself wincing, already bracing myself for what I know is coming. And she doesn’t make me wait. I hear the high-pitched whine from upstairs with to-the-second precision. Right now my daughter is stabbing her chubby fingers into the screen, frustrated when it doesn’t yield to her demand. Until finally I hear the usual war cry of “Mommy!”
“Coming,” I say, too softly for her to hear. I guess it’s meant for me, not her. As I start up the stairs, I throw a longing glance over my shoulder at the tablet, sitting peacefully on the kitchen counter where I left it, its screen dark. I could buy myself another twenty-two minutes of peace right now, play another episode. What happened to my best intentions? I won’t have a child raised by screens. I did not go through all the anguish and trouble, the crushing depression, empty hopes, to plunk my precious baby in front of an iPad so I can have an extra quarter of an hour of me time.
Taryn is sitting in her crib, glaring at me, frustration written plain on her round face. “Another,” she says petulantly before I’m even in the door. “Now.”
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say on autopilot. She looks from me to the screen that’s holding her favorite characters captive, frozen in midmotion at my mercy.
“Another,” she repeats. Changing her strategy in that endearingly unsubtle way only a three-year-old can manage, she gives me a beseeching smile. “Please, Mommy. Just one more?”
“It’s time to eat breakfast,” I say, and reach to pick her up. She wiggles away. “And then it’s time to go to day care. Don’t you want to play with all your friends?”
She responds with a pout. When I reach into the crib and pick her up, she lets out a high-pitched scream right into my ear.
“Taryn,” I mutter, wondering once again if I’m talking to me or to her. “Calm down. You love day care, remember? And besides, you have to go.”
“Why?” She wiggles and kicks and flails her arms. I barely flinch away as her open palm hits me in the eye.
“Because,” I snap. Ignoring her protests, I carry her downstairs, all the while dodging furious kicks and tiny fists, wondering if we’re both going to go tumbling down the stairs. For someone so small, she’s surprisingly heavy, like that little chubby body has bones made of lead. Finally, I manage to install her in her high chair. The microwave beeps, alerting me that her oatmeal is ready. Just as I turn to get it, she stops screeching and lets out a long, angry huff.
“You’re home,” she says, suddenly calm. “I stay home too.”
I freeze, the bowl of oatmeal burning my hand. It’s not what she just said; it’s how she said it. With a meanness that’s almost shocking, coming from someone so small and adorable. She is cute as a button, and even at this early age, it already makes a difference. She’s a natural leader, her teacher at day care tells me. The other children just want to follow her in everything she does.
And frankly, why can’t she stay at home? What do I tell her? The same thing I told Scott and the teachers? That it’s time she learns to socialize? That I need time to focus on housework and my own projects? That’s a crock of shit. The truth is that I just need a break from my own child. Every self-help book would say it’s perfectly normal, that I’m a modern woman who deserves time for myself, et cetera. But it never occurred to me that Taryn might ever pick up on that. To be honest, I didn’t think she was smart enough. Yet.
“Eat your breakfast,” I say sharply, and set the plastic bowl in front of her with a clack. My fingertips are burning. Steam rises from the bowl in thick billows. The oatmeal is not the temperature I preset the microwave to. It’s piping hot.
With alarm, I reach out to take the bowl but she’s already grabbed her spoon and scooped an oversize glob of oatmeal. Taryn, I start to say. Too late. She raises it to her mouth, her gaze on my face, and I have time to see the hint of a malicious glimmer in her eyes as she stuffs the boiling-hot oatmeal into her mouth.
The oatmeal goes flying all over the counter, her chin, and her shirt, followed by a wail I’m sure they can hear down the street. As I pick her up, making soothing sounds, my thoughts are in a jumble. Now she’s going to think I did it on purpose gives way to Now everyone is going to think I did it on purpose to They’re going to think I’m a bad mother. I’m not sure what bothers me most.
Once Taryn has been soothed and cleaned up, she becomes placid and docile, as if she’d already spent all her angry energy. There’s still a reddish spot on her upper lip that I can’t look at without my heart clenching. But she lets me dress her, pack up her things, and take her to day care, all without a word of objection. I’m in a fog the whole time, and by the time I park my car in the garage and go into the house, I’m so exhausted it’s hard to believe I still have the whole day ahead of me. So many blissful hours of quiet. I should be happy but I’m just listless.
“Run a bath,” I say to the tablet. With pleasure, Cecelia, chimes the alert. Upstairs, I can hear the hum of water. Relieved, I kick off my shoes and set off in search of my book. I read paperback books, which Scott doesn’t cease to make fun of. Once upon a time—before everything went wrong—I was a freelance graphic designer who settled into a career of making covers for ebooks. I made quite a good living off it too. I was good at it, and it was easy and reasonably lucrative—even considering Scott made more than enough money for the both of us. But I liked the work, I liked keeping busy. I liked making beautiful things. I was just branching out into branding and websites when the renovations of our old house began, and I abandoned the idea. And then, after the whole nightmare happened, the ebook covers fell by the wayside too. Now my own website, which used to have hundreds of hits a day, has been reduced to one static page with the brief message that says it all: coversbycece.com is undergoing reconstruction—check back here for more news.
But even when ebooks were my bread and butter, I never could quite get in on the trend. I gave it a try but I missed the weight and texture of paper and the distraction-free experience a good old-fashioned paperback provides. You can’t click over to Facebook or Twitter like you do when you’re reading on a tablet or phone. And you don’t have hundreds of other books at your disposal, available at the tap of a fingertip. I always thought that somehow cheapens the experience.