Words Uly Siregar Illustration Budhi Button

The blue button on the rice cooker popped and turned yellow. The rice was done. My oldest daughter, Luna, was asleep in her crib, not too far from me. The newborn twins were also asleep in their shared crib. It was one of those rare quiet days inside the house. I had only two hours before Jeff returned home, and I prayed that Luna and the twins would stay asleep for at least another good hour. Look, I love spending time with my daughters, but there are days when I need some time for myself. There was so much to do.

To be honest, there was nothing special about today; except I wanted to make it special for my husband. We had been eating take-out and frozen food for dinner, and after only three years of marriage, this little fact certainly gives the impression we no longer have the spark in our relationship. Three years isn’t a long time when it comes to marital age. We should still be all over each other the way newlyweds are. Somehow, I don’t feel that way anymore. Any romantic gesture is no longer on my list of things to do and expect in our relationship. I hate to admit it, but being a mother of three young children in the United States who cares for her children without the aid of a domestic helper really consumes me. Each day feels longer than the one before and at the end of it, I feel like a rotten lump of meat. At times, I feel so worn out by the idea of being touched by my husband that it just didn’t sit well with me. Even if it was a light touch. For me, a good night’s sleep was worth so much more than intimacy.

However, tonight, just this once, I wanted to change my routine. I planned a surprise for my husband: cooking his favorite meal for dinner, coupled with a delicious dessert and a beautifully wrapped gift. To add to the excitement, I was also going to wear a provocative black lacy undergarment. It had been years since I last put on something decent for my husband’s pleasure; because after giving birth to three children, I didn’t feel there was anything attractive about my body. Granted, my body hadn’t changed that much, but it was also struggling to get over the physical trauma of labor.

A while back, my husband said: “When will I get to play with the ladies?” He meant it to be a playful reference to my breasts, but I took it as an insult. My breasts are the source of food and nutrition for my children, and not some toys he could play with on a whim. Though, come to think of it, my children have received more than their fair share of both my body and soul.

The phone rang. I didn’t answer it right away, because I wasn’t in the mood to talk to marketers who were trying to sell me their products. What a waste of time. Then I checked the Called ID and recognized Jeff’s number.

“Hi, honey.”

“I may be home a little late,” said my husband. “It will take me an hour, at least. What do you want for dinner? I’ll pick something up on the way home.”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, not wanting to spoil the surprise. “I’ll just fix something from the freezer.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

Okay. I had an extra hour to finish making his favorite dinner — pepes ikan, steamed fish wrapped in banana leaves. My American husband loves Indonesian food, this dish especially, which I don’t make very often because it’s not an easy one to cook. It requires a good size freshwater fish; and not the fillet sort, either. A whole fish, bones and all. The dish takes about an hour to prepare, combining different types of spices in a mortar-and-pestle. I never use a food processor, just as my mother refused to use it, both of us believing it would only ruin the authentic flavor of our local spices. I would rather pound them by hand until they turned to a perfectly smooth paste.

Two hours went by and the fish was nowhere near ready to be put in the steamer. The banana leaves had yet to be taken out of its plastic wrapping on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. And just as I was about to reach for them, one of the twins began to wail.

“Oh, no, no, no …”

It usually takes one little cry to start a choir of wailing babies. I ran to the bedroom. “Please,” I said in a pleading tone. “Not now, Lily. Give me another hour. Have mercy on your poor mother.”

Of course, she had no idea what I was saying. The volume of her wailing rose significantly and it was as though she was trembling in anger. Her face turned red. She was supposed to be the more generous baby of the twins, but there were times like this when she wakes up feeling cranky.

“Are you all right, Lily? I’m here, my love,” I said softly, trying to calm her down. If my instincts are correct, I believe young children have a strong mental connection with their mothers. She would understand me even without really understanding what was coming out of my lips. “I still have so many things to do, Lily. Please, help me out here. Be good like your sisters,” I went on.

It took a total of 45 minutes before she finally succumbed and stopped crying. She ran her fingers up my nose and smiled. I kissed her on the cheek, then on the lips. It almost slipped my mind that the fish still needed to be cooked. Oh, how time flies!

“Shoot,” I muttered. “Let me put you in the bouncer. Look, Ally and Luna are here too. They’ll keep you company.”

But as soon as I lowered Lily into the bouncer, she began to cry again, which then turned into a scream. In my head were images of a failed main course dish and an empty plate of dessert. The dining table had not been set, cluttered with piles of mail and the kids’ toys and items. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious. My unwashed hair. My sagging body wrapped in a loose T-shirt, which covered a nursing bra and a pair of old panties underneath. It had been a while since I took the time to take care of my own body; and just as I tried to make an effort to seduce my husband … the children wouldn’t let me.

Tears streamed down my face. I sat on the floor. The twins had been crying all day, one after the other; and I was exhausted. Thankfully, my 2-year-old was a little less cranky today. But that didn’t help with my time management issues. Lily wanted all of me all the time, and I was not the type of parent who could leave her child crying alone for more than two minutes. So I went to her, again and again, until she stopped crying.

Finally, I put the fish in the steamer. It would be ready in 45 minutes. The rice was steaming and ready for consumption. These were the only two things I managed to get done. I didn’t wash my hair. I didn’t even shower. Because of that, I didn’t feel like slipping into the lacy undergarment. And the gift — oh the gift! — was wrapped, but now it seemed silly to give him a digital frame when his iPad could store so many more images in all shapes and forms.

I was desperate. And disappointed in myself.

Hours went by. No signs of Jeff coming home. The house was very quiet; the children were asleep, at last. My mind was a cluttered room full of thoughts and contradictions. How could I manage my marriage and my children effectively? Was it even possible? I love them so much, but … it’s taxing me. I didn’t feel as though I had more of myself to give either to my children or my husband. And the thought alone was enough to paralyze me. Then, at the strike of almost midnight, the front door was unlocked from the outside. Jeff was home.

“Sorry,” he said as soon as he walked inside the house. “I got caught in a dinner meeting with my new business partner. My phone died. I hope you hadn’t been waiting for me to have dinner.”

He didn’t even bother to look at the dinner table, and instead continued walking up the staircase toward the second floor of our house. “God, I’m so tired,” he sighed. “At least, the meeting went well.”

Then, his voice trailed down from the second floor: “Are you coming to bed soon? I’m going to shower and go straight to bed. Come to bed soon.”

I imagined him kicking off his shoes, slipping out of his socks, and leaving them scattered on the floor for me to pick up. He would undress, put on his favorite white T-shirt and underwear. Oh, wait, he said he was going to shower first. So he would grab a fresh towel from one of the drawers in the bureau and take a quick shower. Afterward, he would unwind with a cigarette, brush his teeth and tuck himself into bed.

I sat on a rocking chair with Lily sleeping soundly on my chest, trying hard to look sexy in my new skimpy nightgown. The food had been sitting on the table for hours, cold and bitter. Rising from the seat, I removed Lily off my chest and onto the bouncer delicately. Then I sat at the dining table and began to eat the fish quietly, in small bites. Each mouthful harder to swallow than the one before.

_________________

Uly Siregar is a former journalist and published short story writer who is currently serving as a faculty associate at Arizona State University.

We are looking for contemporary fiction between 1,500-2,000 words by established and new authors. Stories must be original and previously unpublished in English. The email for submitting stories is: shortstory@thejakartapost.com

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