Cream of Mushroom Soup

Early spring 1990


It was evening. Time for dinner. Someone had to do something about dinner, but I couldn’t think. There was too much rushing through my mind. Dust in the corner on the floor. Must clean the floor. Can’t clean floor. Dinner. What about dinner? Does the baby need a diaper change? Where’s the baby? Did I forget about the baby?! She’s okay - right? Where were they? What had I done? Mom and dad. Mom and dad took my kids. Remember? But they’ll be here soon.

Dinner needs to be here. Plates. Silverware. Glasses. Napkins. What do we put on the plates? MEATBALLS! I scream at myself. It’s meatballs with rice. Something in the back of my head is mumbling tacos, mac& cheese, Hamburger Helper... The list goes on and on, but now I’m determined. It’s meatballs. No changes allowed.

I mush the meat into balls and drop them into the sizzling pan. Water is boiling for the rice. It’s been a struggle, picking the right pots, making sure they’re not dirty. The slightest speck of anything makes my skin crawl. But there are specks everywhere!

Shut it out! Meatballs. You’re making meatballs. For a moment I gasp in air because I’ve forgotten to breathe, then the bombshell hits. I reach for a can of soup. We’ve always got soup.

It’s not there. I can’t find any cream of mushroom soup! How am I supposed to make rice and meatballs without the soup?! I’m in a panic. The rice is done. The meatballs are made. I’ve even heated up a can of green beans. I was doing so well! The table is set. What will my husband think? I’m such an incompetent wife, I can’t even fix dinner!

Someone is at the front door. It’s mom and dad with the kids.

“Dad!” I cry out urgently. “I need a can of cream of mushroom soup!”

“It’s okay honey. Calm down.” says my dad. Mom’s holding my baby. My daughter’s fiercely independent brother is making his own way into the apartment. They’re here. I’ve failed. Any minute now my husband is going to come see what a raw deal he got when he married me!

“I need soup. Please dad! Take me to the store so I can get soup?”

Mom mom nods to my dad like she’s okay with staying there with the kids. I feel even worse. Look at the way I’m burdening them...

Dad quickly ushers me into the car. I can do this. I can walk into the store and buy a can of soup. Just one can. No big deal. Breathe. The kids are okay. Dinner will be fine. My husband still loves me, right? Dad’s taking me to the store.

He pulls up to the curb, easily thinking it will be a quick in and out sort of deal. With the same attitude I run inside. Wow. There’s so much stuff - colors and lights and people! I’d really like to see that movie . . . five cans for a dollar! . .I’ve got a dollar . . . Oh. That’s for the soup. Find the soup!

It’s a miracle I find the aisle. Good job girl! Grab one and go! Oh no . . . Campbells or the generic, or what about the store brand? Generic is cheapest. I need to be cheap. But Campbell’s tastes better . . . I’m squabbling with myself over a matter of pennies! I know it is completely senseless, but I can’t help it. Just grab a stinking can!

I grab a can, get half way down the row only to run back and grab the other brand. This is agonizing. Why can’t I just make a decision? It’s just a can of soup!

Next thing I know I’m back in my dad’s car, no soup in my hands. It was too much for me to handle. There were too many choices. Tears are streaming down my face. Dad is distressed. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. I can’t keep doing this to people. Tell him what to do! Tell him. Be fair. Fix this. Tell him.

“I can’t do it. I can’t decide.” I try to explain, “All I need is a can of cream of mushroom soup. I’ll give you the money. Please?”

Now he understands, at least for the moment. With a nod he steps out of the car. I’m so mortified I very desperately wish I could melt into the seat and simply disappear.

“One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand . . .” I begin counting. It’s my method for passing time when time seems unendurable. The amount of effort it requires to stay focused on the task is tremendous. On a regular basis I lose track of what number I am on and have to start over. It doesn’t matter. The counting is what matters. As long as I am counting I know the seconds are passing.

The security guard is going to come arrest me. I don’t think security guards can arrest people. Other customers seem to be staring as they walk in and out of the store. I stare at the dashboard, doing my best to be invisible. The waiting seems nothing less than eternal when finally, like a miracle dropped out of heaven, my dad pops back into the car.

Stern, and business like - the way he always is when he’s worried - he drives me back to the apartment. Our car is waiting in the parking space. My husband is home. Look at the circus he had to face upon coming home this time! Why was I such a failure to him when above all else, he was the one I wanted to please?

Defeated, I walk inside. Somehow my mom’s finished the meatballs and rice for me. My son’s in his high chair, ready to go. His sister is rocking contentedly in her swing. Once again, my husband acts like it’s no big deal. In fact, it’s great I was able to get so much of dinner done. Mom completely downplays her part. She and my dad clear out quickly.

“I’m so sorry honey . . .” I mumble.

“Sorry for what?” he replies softly, “Everything is okay.”

He’s right. For the moment everything is okay. Unfortunately, we both know all too well how it will not last.