Soccer Mom – By Amy Corbin
I am soccer mom – I am. I’m one of those people you look at and say, “Must be nice.” I have a mini-van, two kids, a nice house, and I take good vacations. I make home-made dinners, get expensive haircuts, and volunteer at the school. I take my children to lots of activities, work part-time, and keep my house clean. People who know me would say I’m organized, full of energy, and very lucky.
What they wouldn’t tell you is I have a secret that keeps me up at night. My seemingly perfect life is muddied with betrayal and deception. Adultery is no stranger to married life, but my affair is not physical, and it is not the love of a man that I pine for.
That’s right; soccer mom is in love with a chick. Who would’ve guessed it? Certainly not the other moms on the PTA; I’m still not even really sure how it happened.
I met Christine at one of those play dates that suburban moms go to. She’s beautiful, tall and slim with long striking red hair and full lips. She’s the kind of woman that people stop and look at – men and women. She always looks great, with make-up, without make-up, in jeans, and in sweats. When Christine laughs I feel happy and when she hugs me (always when I first see her and when we part), I feel a rush of warmth. Sometimes when she is talking, just talking, I get the shivers. I could never see her again and only talk to her on the phone and still love her. Her voice is filled with just the right combination of sweetness and tenderness. There’s something about Christine that is ethereal. She floats into rooms and brushes the side of your face with her voice. I don’t actually think I’m gay, I think it’s just Christine. Maybe she has this effect on everyone. What makes her even lovelier is she doesn’t know how magical she is.
Since I’ve met Christine there’s not been a day that’s gone by that I’ve not thought of her. I’m not saying I think about her all day long, but there are certain times of the day when I always think of her. In the shower, driving alone in my car, and in the middle of the night – these times are Christine’s. I think about her hair, her laugh, and her smiling eyes. When I think of her I feel elated, I get warm all over and a smile comes across my face. But always after I feel guilty and I know my thoughts are not right.
This is really bad, but for the last two months, when John and I have made love I’ve thought about Christine. Sadly, our sex life has never been better. When we’re in bed, I close my eyes and I imagine her hands touching me and her lips kissing mine. They say that fantasizing is perfectly healthy and natural, but the pit in my stomach tells me that there’s nothing healthy about my desires.
I know I’m obsessed with Christine, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to keep busy and not think about her, but the more I try not to the more I do. We talk on the phone every day, and this small act is enough to make me get out of bed each morning with a smile.
But this last Monday there was no smiling. I tried throughout the day to reach Christine and there was no answer. I left her a few messages and she did not return my calls. I barely slept on Monday night. Tuesday I thought she’d call for sure, but my phone didn’t ring all morning. I started to think there was something wrong with my phone; so I called myself from my cell. Of course, my phone worked fine–she just wasn’t calling. In the afternoon I called and left another message.
“Hey Chris, it’s Ali calling. I’m starting to get a little worried about you. Give me a call, okay?”
By Tuesday night I was really starting to worry.
“It’s been two days since I’ve spoken to Christine,” I say to John.
“That doesn’t seem like very long.”
“I usually talk to her every day.”
“Maybe she’s just been busy,” says John.
“Too busy to talk on the phone? C’mon, what could make her that busy? What?” I shout as I slam the receiver on the counter.
“Calm down, Ali. You’re going to break another phone. People get busy.”
John doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know Christine; she always calls back. I’m not sure why I bothered going to bed on Tuesday; I might have slept an hour in total. Wednesday morning I decide that as soon as I get the kids to school I’m going to Christine’s. The thought of seeing her excites me and the 20 minute drive feels like an hour. When I arrive at Christine’s house I can see her van in the driveway. She’s home! I bang on her front door but there’s no answer. Where is she?
I decide to walk around back and peek in her kitchen window from the deck. She’s there sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading. Her back is to me but I see her hand reach up and put her hair behind her ear. I love when she does this. I feel mesmerized just watching her doing an everyday activity. Her husband must cry each day when he leaves her.
When she gets up to get more coffee I see her face. Oh no! Christine, what has happened? Her face is black and blue on one side and her eyes are all puffy from crying. I duck down low so she doesn’t see me spying on her. My eyes well up and I bite down hard on my lip to keep myself from making a sound. Christine had mentioned Dan’s temper and did say he’d been physical, but she always talked like it was something in their past. I feel sick and sad, but mostly I feel so angry. How could he hurt Christine? How could he strike that beautiful face? The rage that I feel inside is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. How dare he! How dare he hurt Christine!
I decide then and there, I’m going to Dan’s work to face him. He will not hurt Christine again. Dan works downtown at Burns, Welch, and Fry. You’d think a bunch lawyers could come up with a better name for their practice, but I guess they all want their name in lights. The traffic downtown is something awful and I catch myself getting impatient and even swearing. I’m not a swearer. I’m not. I just don’t see any use for it, but here I am in my van swearing like a truck driver at all these idiots on the road.
When I turn down Church Street I’m a little taken aback to see Dan coming out of his office building with his gym bag. My plan was to confront him at his office with many of his fellow workers around. I figured this way I wouldn’t get slugged too. Now I’m really not sure what I’m going to do, but when Dan steps off the curb I speed up and I keep on accelerating.
My foot is as heavy as a sandbag and will not move from the gas pedal. When I hit Dan it feels odd; not like when you run over a dead skunk or ground hog, but more like smacking into the garage or hitting the guardrail on the highway-sturdy. I can honestly say I didn’t really think I hit him. But when I look in my rear view mirror and see him lying there, his pin-striped suit all bloodied, I know I did. And I smile. I smile just like I do when my daughter gets a goal-deeply proud inside yet on the outside just a subtle grin.