by Lian Dolan
But I was never more grateful for the lesson of silence then on the way home from Ignatius. The fifteen-minute drive felt like fifteen hours. Aiden and I did not exchange a single word. I did my best to breathe out the dark energy; he stared out the window, barely breathing at all.
Both Tina and Candy had texted me with the same “How’d it go?” message. I wasn’t ready to answer that question yet. I turned the phone off. I could hear my mother’s soothing voice, “Let it go. Breathe out and let it go.”
She had a point.
When we arrived back at our house, the “For Sale” sign was being hammered into the front yard in advance of the weekend open house by a couple of guys on Rita’s team. “Tasteful typeface and classy colors!” Rita had promised. I’m sure the neighbors would appreciate the art direction. I turned off the ignition and sat for a second. So did Aiden.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Aiden challenged me when we finally got out of the Audi.
I can’t remember a time when I’d ever had less to say, except maybe when Merritt told me about Roshelle Simms. Or when the accountant had told me about the money. I couldn’t possibly comprehend what had just happened, so I certainly had nothing constructive to say about it. I simply stated the obvious.
“I guess you really don’t want to go to Ignatius. I thought you did. We’ll figure something out.”
Aiden’s face registered surprise, as if he’d expected me to rip into him upon our arrival home. And certainly, if he’d behaved like that in front of Merritt, there would have been serious consequences: yelling, accusations of letting down the family name, no computer or cell phone for a week. But in the last few months, I’d lost all sense of how to measure the importance of events. Was blowing the Ignatius interview less important or more to Aiden’s life than having to sell his house? Who knew? I wouldn’t know for decades the impact of Merritt’s death on our lives, so I certainly wasn’t going to jump to conclusions now. “Let’s just order pizza so we don’t mess up Emilia’s clean kitchen.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I messed up. Are you mad at me?” That was the most emotionally complex thought Aiden had uttered all afternoon. I got an acknowledgement, apology and acceptance of responsibility.
“No,” I said truthfully. Saddened, disappointed, scared, but not mad. “No, I’m not mad. We’ll figure it all out.”
“Okay.” The One-Word Wonder was back.
I knew we’d have to return to this conversation someday, like in a month when we got the rejection letter from Ignatius and the reality of the awful interview would sink in for Aiden.
In the meantime, I changed the subject. “Hey, can you take a look at a PowerPoint for me? It’s Dr. O’Neill’s, and he wants to make sure it’s cool enough for your class. Ten minutes while we wait for the pizza. Would you mind?”
A smile from the kid!
“Sure.”
Three hours and one mushroom and sausage pizza later, Aiden and I had transformed Patrick’s studious PowerPoint presentation about the Trojan War into a multimedia spectacular. The original was, as Aiden’s said, “lame.” Our version, with music, animation and moving graphic sequences was, as he said, “cool.”
We added in the action, mystery, romance and intrigue that Patrick had left out. And a few actions photos of Patrick on site that I’d found on Facebook, to please the female teachers and mothers who attended.
“E-mail it to your boss, Mom. Now.” Aiden was convinced I would get a huge promotion based on our soundtrack choices alone, from Green Day to The Weepies. I’d had just enough wine to think that he might be right.
I hit “Send.”
“Time for bed. Big weekend.”
“Yup.”
I meant selling the house. Aiden meant the water polo tournament.
As I watched Aiden drag his sleepy body up to bed, I made a decision. I would talk to Billy Owens, Esquire. He was an Ignatius alum, and he would make it right. Plus, after knowing about the money and the affair and saying nothing, he owed me one, and he knew it.
There is no better place to avoid your life than at a youth water polo tournament. In between the constant whistles, the over-enthusiastic crowds and the roar of the reverberating aquatics center, I literally could not hear myself think. (Which was perfect, considering what I was trying to avoid thinking about.) So what that hundreds of looky-loos were traipsing though my dream house, commenting on how sad it was that I had to sell? So what that my kid had blown his only chance at happiness and would undoubtedly begin experimenting with marijuana soon? So what that I had to cancel my gym membership, move to a cheaper hair salon and sell the R. Kenton Nelson oil painting of the Colorado Street Bridge that Merritt had given me for our tenth anniversary—just to pay the second half of the Millington tuition?
I had plenty of sunscreen, a $12 floppy hat from Target and a Diet Coke. Life was good.
I was seated on a hot, reflective aluminum bench at the Mecca of Water Sports: the Mission Viejo Natatorium. The Orange County town of Mission Viejo turned out more Olympic swimmers and more Olympic water polo players than any hamlet in the country. It was a chlorine-fueled factory, where the local kids were genetically gifted and simply bigger, stronger and faster than other mere landlubbers. There was no way Pasadena was going to win, despite the fact that we were tied 1-1 in the first quarter. Soon, MV would open up the score and crush us like they always did.
I pretended to watch the game, our second of the day, sitting alone to avoid conversation with my fellow parents. I had no desire to keep up with the chatter: playing-time issues; the effectiveness of fitness training; the must-win situation at the 4 o’clock game to advance when we lost this one. Usually I feigned interest in these topics to play my part, but today I had no patience.
These were nice people—the Gambles, the Barneses, the Keegans, the Villanuevas. Parents who had paid their money and wanted to see the highly qualified coach, a former UCLA and US National team player, shape their children into polo-playing machines. I could see that they only wanted the best for their kids, but some of them had out-of-whack expectations.
Aiden had some talent, some drive, but probably not the size to be the “impact player” that the other parents talked about endlessly. I’d never harbored the delusion that he’d be attending USC on a Division 1 water polo scholarship, unlike many of the parents who crowded the stands that day in Water Polo Mecca.
After that interview at Ignatius, I did not harbor any delusions at all.
Then my Blackberry signaled a text. It was 1 o’clock—the open house had started. Tina, acting as my eyes, ears and security guard, was checking in with a first report. Packed. Line to get in when doors opened. Did you see pic in LA Times today?
Yes, I’d seen the full-page ad in the real estate section, touting the house, my house, as “the perfect home in which to raise a family and create memories. “A rare opportunity to own a piece of Pasadena history at an attractive price.”
And a big piece of my history at an attractive price.
I turned back to the game just as Aiden pump-faked with the ball, then let a bounce shot rip from about seven meters out. Goal! Goal! Goal!
I went wild. I may not understand the constant whistles that signals fouls, or the “five meter” call, no matter how many games I watched, but I loved seeing Aiden’s face when he scored. Pasadena up 2 to 1 at the end of the second quarter. Unbelievable.
Another ping. Emilia is in kitchen serving coffee and cookies. Nice touch. Does she come with house?
Aiden came out of the game to rest. I gave him a thumbs up for the goal. He ignored me. I should have known better. When he was playing soccer at age 6, he’d come off the field seeking my approval. Now he just listened to the coach, the guy who went to the Olympics, not his mother, who didn’t know the first thing about water polo.
Ping. Many gay couples. Did you promise martinis?
Ping. Made walk-through. Everything OK. No media if you know what I mean. Juan the painter is her
e with Emilia. Is something going on?
Ping. Spotted: Neutron Mel and Hubby. She is Very Overdressed in Calvin Klein suit. He is in golf wear. Hasn’t she seen your house a million times?
Yes, yes she has. Could she actually be there to look at it, as in buy, my dream house? Melanie and her husband lived in a perfectly lovely place in the lower Arroyo, a classic California ranch with a view of the bridge and a grove of eucalyptus trees. Please don’t let me have to sell my house to Melanie. That would be too humiliating.
Ahhh! A giant air horn signaled the end of the quarter and I nearly fell off the bench. I frantically typed to Tina: Tell me how long she is in there.
“Great shot by Aiden! They are going to love him at Ignatius next year!” Chip Barnes bellowed from several rows below. I gave another stupid thumbs up to avoid crying. At six feet already, Chip’s son Randy was an “impact player,” and rumor had it he was being “highly recruited” by schools all over the area, including Ignatius. At least that’s what Marika Villanueva claimed at practice the other night, adding in a dismissive tone, “It’s a good thing he can play, because he can’t add.”
“Thanks, Chip. I think we’ve got a chance today!” I returned, as much to be social as to keep my mind off Neutron Mel going through my medicine cabinets. At least I’d hidden all the sleeping pills, as Candy had suggested.
“He’s going to do great things next year,” Chip shouted for all to hear. Since Merritt’s death, I’d noticed that the fathers on the team had rallied around Aiden, giving him extra attention after the game, taking the time to tell him how well he played even if he hadn’t. It was very sweet.
Ping. Mel still in there. Gay couple out front examining plantings. Heard them say they love the roses and the kitchen. These guys look like the real thing. Driving Range Rover. Gays are so good for property values.
Ahhh! The air horn signaled the start of the next quarter, and the Pasadena crowd stood and chanted, in an effort to whip our team into a frenzy. I applied more sunscreen and hoped that Melanie hated the wallpaper in the guest bathroom and the Gays loved the rosemary hedge and the French lavender beds. Maybe I should have planted the tulip bulbs; they were just so expensive. Aiden was back in the game and swimming hard. It was nice to see him work.
Ping: Mel not out yet. Maybe she is trying to hire Emilia away from you. Heard she fired another nanny. Gay couple calling friends to come over and see the place. Rita circling for the kill.
Yes. Let’s go, Pasadena! Let’s go, Gays!
Ping. OMG. News Slut is HERE. You were right. She is still wearing skinny jeans. So sad. I’m going in.
My head started to swim. The game seemed to move in slow motion. I threw myself into the action, cheering wildly for every pass, block and stop as the third quarter ended and the final six minutes of the game began. The other parents turned to look at me, surprised at my newfound enthusiasm. At one point, I even yelled at the ref, which was a huge stress reliever and an absolute no-no in the Parents’ Code of Conduct. When Randy Barnes rifled a shot past the Mission Viejo goalie to put the team up 3 to 1, I leapt to my feet and cheered like we’d just landed a man on the moon.
I decided: If Pasadena wins this game, the Gays will buy my house.
Cheers erupted again from our crowd. Randy Barnes scored again with the clock ticking down the final seconds. We’d slayed the dragons. Pasadena beat Mission Viejo in their home pool! What an upset! I climbed down to hug Chip Barnes, and there were tears in my eyes.
Ping. News Slut broke down in the living room and never even made it upstairs.
As the celebration continued around me, I read the text in disbelief. Was it grief? Or did she finally understand that Merritt’s “other life” with a wife and a son and a home was very real?
And exactly the life she had pictured for herself.
Just then I heard a familiar voice call, “Mom!” I looked down at my son, in his Speedo and cap, surrounded by his joyous teammates. Aiden gave me a thumbs up, then pointed to the sky. Our eyes met; mine filled with tears.
My phone rang at 8:30 Saturday night. I muted the volume on the TV in my suite at the Courtyard Marriott. Back in the day (like two months ago), I would have booked myself in the nearby Ritz-Carlton, but nowadays, the free breakfast buffet was a big selling point.
The hardest-working real estate agent in Pasadena, Rita the Armenian, was on the line for the fifth time in three hours. She was at a raging wedding at the Glendale Westin, but that didn’t stop my girl from making her deals. She had the other agents fax the offers to main desk at the hotel to review in between the ceremony and the reception. Then she faxed them to me at the Courtyard Marriott. I’m sure the 19-year-old at the desk thought I was quite a wheeler-dealer.
“It’s fantastic. We have two really great offers. See, I told you. The right price makes all the difference!”
“Take the Gays,” I replied.
“But the other offer from Melanie is a little stronger. It’s $69,995 more and a quicker close.”
It’s rare in life that you really get to answer the question, How much is my dignity worth? Here was my opportunity. Not having to see Melanie, or any other Pasadena family that bore any resemblance to mine, in my house was worth $69,995. Easy.
“I’ll take the other offer,” I replied. Over the last few hours of phone calls and faxes, I’d become very fond of Greg and Tony, who said in a personal letter to me that the house “sang” to them. How could I not appreciate that sentiment? And maybe they could become my new friends when I ended up in a tiny one-bedroom condo, home-schooling my son. “You can counter, but I don’t really care. I want Greg and Tony to have the house. I’ll make up your commission on the difference.”
“If that is your decision, that is your decision. And you know what, I didn’t like the way that Melanie tried to hire Emilia at the open house. Very tacky. Okay, I’ll let you know in the morning. I have to go dance.”
Yeah, me too. I knew the reality of moving would hit me soon enough. But at that moment, I felt nothing but elation. So I did a little a dance right there in room 447, by the light of the soundless TV.
CHAPTER 12
The Fairchild Performing Arts Center was packed, a standing-room audience hanging on Dr. Patrick O’Neill’s every word. He came to life in front of an audience, his intensity turning theatrical, as he entertained the students, teachers and carpool moms with the drama of the Trojan War, the archaeological audacity of Schliemann and his own humble passion that led him to a lifetime of discovery.
Sure, the amped-up PowerPoint and the blue jeans and linen blazer ensemble helped the overall quality of the presentation. But when Patrick spoke about the great battle between Achilles and Patrokolas and their ambiguity at being “heroic,” it was like he’d witnessed the scene in person. When he described Schliemann’s determination to find Troy, despite his rogue background and lack of formal training, he made everyone in the room want to take up bootlegging or archaeology late in life. And when he waxed on about his own personal epic journey, with Homer as his constant companion as he moved from city to city as a boy, well, every woman in the room wanted to comfort him. Judging from the reaction of the students, teachers and mothers, Patrick could have been holding up a cardboard diorama and wearing a hospital gown and I’m pretty sure the effect would have been the same.
I scanned the back row, finding the familiar faces of friends and frenemies who had chaperoned their middle school students to hear Patrick’s Word-Write lecture. Tina and Candy were riveted, as if Nubby Sweater was lecturing about the Real Housewives of Ancient Troy. Cissy Montague looked lovely and slightly confused by all the big words. Jan Gamble was actually taking notes. Even Neutron Melanie had put aside her Blackberry to give full attention to the speaker, a first. I noticed that she and her henchman Jennifer Braham were starting to dress alike, which was good news for the shoulder-pad manufacturers of America.
As Patrick was answering questions from the animated audience of sixth, seventh and
eighth graders, Word-Write Chair and Dentist of the Doomed, Dr. Natasha, caught my eye. She bowed her head, making the international “palms together, head bow” gesture to show she was forever in my debt. In her eyes, he was a rock star and I was his Penny Lane.
I’ll take that rep, I thought.
Just then, Patrick began his wrap-up from the stage, “Thank you, students, for your attention. It’s a great pleasure for me to stand in front of you and share my work. Someday, I hope you find something that you love doing as much as I love archaeology. I spend my days with my hands in the dirt, uncovering, literally and figuratively, our past. And in doing so, I glimpse into our future by working with some of the most talented students from all over the world. It’s humbling. Maybe in the future, one of those students will be you.”
Did I just hear a collective sigh from the seventh-grade room moms?
Patrick continued, “And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention one Millington student who really helped me with my presentation. Aiden Fairchild, are you here? Can you stand up, please?”
Aiden, seated about eight rows from the front, awkwardly rose, looking like his head might explode with embarrassment and pride. The other kids applauded.
My heart melted.
“Fantastic job, Aiden. You should be a film director. And thanks to Helen Fairchild, my very talented research assistant,” Patrick sought me out in the back of the room and made eye contact. The eyes of every mother in the room turned to me as well. “Thanks, Helen.”
Now my head was about to explode with embarrassment and pride.
“If you have any other questions, I’ll be here for a few minutes. Otherwise, study hard, challenge yourselves and find something you love to do.”
After the lecture, while Patrick was mobbed by slouching, shy teens wondering how they, too, could spend a life digging up clues, I stood off in the corner, receiving my share of kudos. Team Yoga Pants from the Word-Write committee rushed to my side with praise and admiration. The Chess Club moms nodded their heads and patted my arm. Even the teachers made the effort to come over and tell me how impressed they were by Patrick and by Aiden.
