by Halle Mosser Reasner
I added water to the last bit of detergent to extend its supply, a trick I learned when my husband first enlisted. At eighteen years old, with his monthly salary of $2,100, there wasn’t spare change for full bottles of shampoo, soap, or detergent. I worked then, but the few tips I earned from the locals at the diner hardly covered the gas needed to get there, let alone household necessities.
When our daughter, Olive, was born, we were only twenty-one. With an upcoming deployment and the closest family member three states away, spending money on childcare would leave even less income left over. I hated the idea of my family becoming a statistic. Government-employed families should not have to apply for government aid and SNAP benefits, but it became our reality when we made the bold decision – the terrifying decision – for me to stay home. That’s when I got good at watering down necessities. A standard procedure in our household.
I dumped the remaining bubbles into the washer. “Mom, can you help me with my math homework?” Olive called from the living room. Now twelve years old, schoolwork was becoming more involved, an area Dad was more skilled at – and patient. With Olive being older and back in school, I was grateful I was able to go back to work, but the unskilled labor as the receptionist at the dentist’s office was as boring as it was humiliating. But it was a job that ultimately eliminated the need to cut coupons and listlessly find something more to clean, a book to read, or another rerun to watch. And with the sickening text from my husband that I left unopened, the Soon, but not today, I was looking forward to tomorrow’s distraction and my co-workers’ company on my birthday. Out of habit – or maybe bitterness – I counted in my head the number of my birthdays he missed. This extension would make six. The not-so-surprise was the best 33rd birthday present.
“Coming!” I’d mastered hiding the crack in my voice every time I got trapped in my own emotions that were interrupted by yet another need in the household. I willed the washer to start, praying the last bit of watered-down chemicals would wash the grass stains off Olive’s clothes and the fluoride smell off of my scrubs.
My forced smile turned effortless when I saw Olive dangling her feet off one of the mismatched chairs set around the high-top table. An anxious tap, tap, tap from a teeth-marked pencil bounced off the table – her nervous habit of choice. During deployments, there was always a frequent need to replace number #2’s.
“Tonight is fractions.” Olive gave me an apologetic smile. “Your favorite!” I admired her ability to use sarcasm to create joy. I envied her resilience.
“Fractions, yeah? How about we practice by ordering pizza for dinner?” I offered and practiced a problem in my head. Of fifteen years of birthdays and missing six, in its most reduced form, he has missed ⅖’s of my birthdays. But in all of Olive’s twelve birthdays, he had been there for 100% of them. In its most reduced form, he’d been there 1/1. That’s what counts. I smirked at my unintentional pun.
Olive’s eyes lit up at the idea of a treat. With payday still a week away, I knew the budget was tight, but an $18.00 pizza might cushion the crushing news of telling my twelve-year-old that this deployment was extended.
“We’ll get half pepperoni,” Olive said.
“And half pineapple,” I added. “See? We’re doing fractions already.” She crinkled her nose in disgust. Whether that was at my feeble attempt to make fractions relatable, or the controversial pizza topping, I laughed. I found an expired coupon hanging on the fridge and hoped the discount would be honored. It was. I hit submit. I exited the browser, avoiding my text message threads, when a call from the office flashed on my screen.
“Is it Dad?” Olive chirped. Phone calls were few and far between with this combat deployment, but not impossible.
“No, babe, it’s my work,” I answered the phone. “Hello?” I headed to the living room, searching for the remote to turn down another news network reporting on yet another attack on the ships in the Red Sea. This time, it showed a sharp turn the ship had allegedly taken to avoid a Houthi attack. The newscaster returned to the screen, flipping to a press conference of the Secretary of Defense announcing a thirty-day extension. Thirty? I hardly considered that “soon.” I hit mute before Olive could hear the news.
“Hi!” My boss, owner of her own dental practice and impossible to hate, gave the cheeriest greeting on the other end of the line. “Happy birthday! How about you take tomorrow off? We have only a few appointments, so Liz can handle it–she could use the solo practice.” I held my breath. Liz was the younger front desk staff member whom I had been training. I bit my lip to avoid interjecting with my boss and disagreed that Liz could not handle the reception alone and did indeed need to continue training under me. “Enjoy your day with Olive, and I’ll see you on Thursday!” Dr. Williams hung up the phone. $14.50 an hour for an eight-hour day would mean I’d lose over $100.00 on my paycheck. I turned my phone over, silenced the notifications, and gave my full attention to Olive, not allowing it to deliver any more bad news.
“Does that mean I can stay home, too?” Olive comically raised her eyebrows up and down, trying to convince me of her plan.
“You heard that?” I smiled.
“Mom. She talks even louder than you.” Olive giggled.
I laughed louder for emphasis, only stopping when she rolled her eyes. A mental health day might be good for my daughter after the exhaustion that comes with being brave for months – especially with now having to ask her to channel that bravery for at least another 30 days. “Yes, I would love the company.”
After 20 minutes of fighting with fractions and seeking guidance from YouTube, the doorbell rescued us from multiplying fractions. “Pizza’s here!” Olive dropped her pencil, letting it roll onto the ground, and ran to the front door for the delivery. I hung behind, digging through my wallet for a few spare dollars to tip the driver. Trading the teenager money for pizza, I took it to the kitchen, working around Olive, who was using the counter as a ladder to reach the dishes in the cabinets.
“I have an idea, girly.” I opened the box, frowning at the few slices even on an extra-large pizza. “How about instead of eight slices, we make twelve slices?” I took the pizza wheel from the drawer and sliced the pizza into twelve slices. “So, if we each have two slices tonight,” I put two pepperoni slices on Olives’s plate and two pineapple slices on my own, “how many slices does that leave us with?” Olive sat on the counter, counting the remaining slices.
“Eight slices,” Olive answered.
“Correct. And the standard procedure is to reduce fractions to their simplest form. So, if we reduce eight slices from twelve, what does that leave us with?”
I watched Olive use her fingers to divide the fraction to its lowest common denominator.
“Two-thirds?” she answered, but with less confidence.
I smiled, confirming her correct answer. And lunch for tomorrow.
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Halle Mosser Reasner is a current secondary education instructor, writer, and Navy spouse located in Norfolk, Virginia. In addition to an English and African-American studies degrees, she holds an MFA from the Newport MFA at Salve Regina University in Newport, Rhode Island, and a Masters of Arts in Curriculum and Instruction from The College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. Her experience as a military spouse acts as fodder for her writing, using creative nonfiction to expose silenced issues within the military family community and conducting research with military colleges and service academies on incorporating Black studies materials into leadership curriculum.
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