The Underside of Joy

That day the mascara was a declaration, a stand taken against the tears; I would not cry. I would remain calm yet warm, articulate yet loving, and my lashes would be long and voluminous, according to the label.
    I looked in the mirror at my sorry attempt, my baggy clothes, my fake smile. Sad Sack o’ Beenes. Buying something new to wear would have helped, but I couldn’t justify spending money on myself when things were still so tight with the store. I slipped off the hair band holding my ponytail and tried fluffing my hair, trying to bring out my best asset, but it only looked unkempt. I tied it back into submission.
    I kissed the kids, hugging them each as long as I could without cluing them in that something was up. I’d felt it was best not to tell them anything until we knew exactly what was going to happen.
    ‘Where, exactly, are you going?’ Annie asked, clearly sensing something was up.
    ‘Oh, just a meeting,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours. You stay and help Nonna.’
    ‘Mama said she has a meeting too . . .’
    I tapped her nose. ‘Oh yeah? Well, long, boring meetings are an unfortunate necessity of adult life.’
    All the family members had offered, at different times, to go with me and sit in the waiting room. Even my mom said she’d hop on a plane. But this was something I needed to do on my own. The family was helping to save the store. I needed to save Annie and Zach – and myself.
    Still, the terror gnawed away at my insides as I walked down the linoleum corridors to Family Court Services Mediation. I found a seat in the front, towards the far wall. I scanned the room for Paige but didn’t see her. Maybe she wouldn’t show. Maybe there was a traffic accident holding her up, a delayed flight. The clerk at the window explained to a man in a cheap suit with two white stitches on the sleeve where the tag had been removed that since the restraining order was still in place, he would need a separate appointment with the mediator. He turned and walked out, not looking at anyone.
    I peered down at my notes. Emotionally stable. Calm. Loving. Assuring. Understanding, even.
    Maybe she wouldn’t show.
    ‘Capozzi versus Beene?’ the clerk called. I went to the window. ‘You’re supposed to check in,’ she said, handing me a paper.
    I filled it out. Under ‘relation to child’ I checked ‘stepmother.’ I’d never done that before, always filled my name out under ‘mother’ for swim lessons, pre-school registration, Annie’s soccer. But there it was in writing for the mediator, and Paige would check ‘mother’ and the checks and balances would be in her favour from the get-go.
    But not if she wasn’t even there. I held on, hoping, until I heard the door open behind us and saw her glide up to the window to sign her name under ‘mother’. Everyone watched her, probably wondering whose ex-wife she could possibly be, not seeing any suitable matches in the room. The men sat up a little straighter. Actually, the women did too. And me. I sat up straighter.
    She looked for a seat, then disappeared from my view. The more we waited, the more nervous I got. I studied my notes. It hit me somewhere between Talk about close relationship with kids and What our days are like that there was far too much at stake here. It couldn’t possibly all come down to a quick meeting with a stranger.
    The one mediator I’d had a good feeling about, who smiled warmly at the first couple she’d been assigned to, now came out and called our names. She had short grey hair and tanned skin, a flowing gauzy skirt and sandals. She looked up from her clipboard, took off her reading glasses, letting them hang by a silver and turquoise chain around her neck, and introduced herself.
    After we all took a seat in Janice Conner’s office, she said, ‘I’ve reviewed your file, and I must say, this is an unusual case. I want you to know that I am both a mother and a stepmother, and I can understand where you’re both coming from. I’d like you to each tell me what you think should happen, and why. Paige, you’re the petitioner, so let’s start with you.’ She smiled at Paige. ‘Why are we here?’
    Paige smiled back. ‘I want to start by apologizing to Ella.’ She turned to me. ‘You’ve been a good stepmother to my children, and I will always respect you for that. But many misunderstandings and missteps between Joe and I –’
    ‘Joe being the children’s deceased father?’ Janice Conner