by Jane Porter
“Right.”
I eye the small bay shrimp clinging to my fork. I dread even bringing this up. It upsets me so much every time I think about it. “We do have a small glitch.”
Patti’s brows furrow. “How small?”
I take a deep breath. “Enatai is using our theme for their auction, too.”
“What?”
The women at the table next to us glance our way, and Patti drops her voice and leans toward me to whisper furiously, “We had our theme set for over a year. Since before last year’s auction. They didn’t even have a theme till this summer!”
“They claim they didn’t know.”
“Bullshit.” Patti tosses down her napkin. “We should talk to them—”
“I’ve tried. They’ve already printed their save the date cards.”
“So?”
The waitress stops to refill our iced tea, and I reach for a packet of sweetener, tear off the corner, and sprinkle some into my glass, waiting to continue until she leaves. “I’ve taken this all the way to their school principal and got my hand slapped by our principal. We’ve been told to gracefully accept defeat and come up with a new theme. Fast.”
“Unbelievable,” Patti groans.
“I know.”
“So when are we going to tell everyone?”
“Soon. We have to print our own save the date cards in a month’s time.”
“We’ll discuss this at the meeting next week.”
“Where are we going to meet?”
“Let’s do it at your house.” Patti pushes away her plate, her salad virtually untouched. “It’s perfect for entertaining, and it’s always a thrill for the new moms to go there. You earn instant rock star status, and the new moms feel like princesses.”
The bill arrives, and Patti and I both pull out our wallets. I snatch the bill away. “I’ve got it,” I say. “It’s my turn.”
“You always say that,” she answers with a laugh.
“I want to treat you.”
“But you don’t need to treat me. It’s fun just seeing you. You don’t have to pay for everything.”
I slide my card into the black leather folder and hand it to the waitress. “I don’t.”
As the waitress walks away, we talk about the kids’ fall sports schedule. My two older girls both play soccer. Patti has three kids, two boys with a girl in the middle. Her oldest son is an amazing athlete, plays quarterback and wide receiver for the Bellevue Wolverine program, while her younger son is playing football for the first time this year.
I prop my elbows on the table. “Ray’s only six. Isn’t that too young?”
“They don’t do a lot of hitting at this age. Mostly drills, running, teaching them fundamentals.”
“And he likes it?”
“Hell week was rough, but he’s doing better. They’ve had two games already and won both. The coach says Ray’s another natural, just like his big brother.”
“Mrs. Young,” the waitress interrupts, reappearing at our table with the black leather folder, “I’m afraid there’s a problem with your card. It was declined.”
I stiffen, mortified. “That’s impossible.” My voice rises as heat surges to my cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with this card. I use it all the time.”
She shifts her weight uncomfortably. “We can take another form of payment. Rondi’s here, and she says a check is fine, another credit card—”
“I’ve got it,” Patti says. “Here.” She hands the waitress her card, a black Platinum card.
The waitress hurries away and, utterly humiliated, I look at Patti. “This is ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with this card. This is my signature card. It’s the card I use for everything. It has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit and there’s no problem with it. There’s never been a problem with it.”
“It’s probably just early fraud prevention warning,” she answers soothingly. “It happens to me all the time.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I mumble, my face burning.
Patti puts a hand on my arm, squeezes. “It happens to everyone. Don’t take it to heart.”
I glance up at her, grateful, but duck my head as soon as I see the waitress return. I just want to escape and call the credit card company. I’d call here and prove to everyone my credit is fine, but it’s too personal. The last thing I want is for anyone to know I had a card declined.
Lunch paid for, Patti and I exit together. We say good-bye on the street, and as Patti walks one way, I go the other, heading for the parking lot near the park my children used to call “the castle park” because of the castlelike play structure in one corner. As I walk, I dial my credit card company’s toll-free customer number.
I tersely explain my situation to the credit card’s rep once he’s on the line. “I was just now turned down for a forty-eight-dollar purchase, and I want to know why.”
“I need to first establish whom I’m speaking with. May I have the last four digits of your Social Security number?”
Suppressing my impatience, I rattle off the numbers.
“And your date of birth?”
I don’t want to lose my temper, I really don’t, but I’m growing hotter and angrier by the second. But I give that information, too.
“And your mother’s maiden name?” he continues.
I’m so embarrassed, just so embarrassed. “Meshinsky. M-e-s-h-i-n-s-k-y.”
“Yes, Mrs. Young, how can I help you?”
At last. I feel a margin of relief. “I was just declined for a small purchase, and I want to know why, and then I want this sorted out—”
“Mrs. Young, your account is over its limit.”
A wave of heat hits me. “Over limit?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I grow warmer still. “How?” I choke, knowing Nathan never, ever missed a payment—for anything. He’s timeliness personified, something I’ve faulted him for when it came to social events (I hate being the first to arrive for anything) but value when it comes to our finances.
“You’re nearly eight thousand dollars over your limit and you’re two months behind on payments. Your card has been frozen, ma’am.”
Chapter Six
Standing next to my car in the parking lot adjacent to Bellevue’s downtown park, I hit speed dial 2 for Nathan. I’m immediately dumped into his voice mail, and I leave him a hasty, panicked message. “My Platinum Visa was declined today at 520 Bar and Grill. In front of Patti Wickham. Rondi was there, too. Apparently the waitress said I could write a check, but it was mortifying. Patti paid for lunch, but I was supposed to be treating. Call me.”
I hang up. My heart’s still racing. My blue mood returns, weighing heavy on me.
Why do I always feel like I’m one step from disaster?
Still standing there, I check my messages, and while listening to the second one, I spot Lucy Wellsley driving by on 1st Street. She looks so little inside her big black Suburban, her light blond hair almost white against the glossy black exterior. She’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes, but her lips are pressed down, her mouth small and tight.
Impulsively, I go through my contacts and dial Lucy’s cell number.
“Hey, it’s Taylor,” I say when she answers. “I just saw you drive by.”
“Where are you, the park?”
“The park’s parking lot. What are you doing? I wondered if you wanted to grab coffee or an ice tea.”
“Oh, Taylor, that’s so nice of you, but I’m supposed to meet with my attorney this afternoon and I’m already late. I’m lost and can’t seem to find his office.”
“Is he a good lawyer?”
“I hope so.” She draws a shaky breath. “I can’t lose my kids.”
“You can’t. You’re a great mom.”
I hear her exhale in a whoosh. “Thank you.”
Guilt weighs even more heavily on me. I have not been a good friend. I haven’t been as supportive as I should have been. “Use me as a character witness if you need one.
And if this lawyer doesn’t seem like he’s the right one, let me know. Maybe Nathan and I can do some research, find someone else.”
She’s silent so long that I think the call’s been dropped, and then I hear a sniffle and realize she’s crying. “Why are you being so nice?”
She means, why am I being so nice now, because Labor Day weekend I wasn’t nice and we both know it. Maybe it’s my lunch humiliation, but I take a quick tender breath. “Mistakes happen. You know?”
“Thank you, Taylor.” She’s crying harder.
I feel worse. “Lucy, please don’t. Please.”
She can hardly talk through her tears. “I better go.”
“Okay. Good luck, Lucy.”
“Thank you, Taylor.” She hangs up in the middle of a sob.
Standing in the parking lot in front of the park, I feel a thousand years old.
A lump fills my throat as I do nothing but stand there. I see the fountain and the gleam of sculpture and seniors sitting on the benches beneath big green leafy trees, and my self-loathing grows.
Do you think I like being this way?
Do you think I want to be wound so tight? Worrying all the time? Projecting ahead to see every crisis before it happens? Monitoring every nuance around me so I’m ready to leap the moment something breaks free?
I hate being this way.
I hate my need for control, I hate my fears. I hate the flood of cortisol, the way my heart starts racing and tension roils through me, building until I feel as if I’m either going to kill someone or explode.
Only Nathan and the girls know I can get really sad. I’d never let anyone else know. It’d be too damaging all the way around.
Glancing at my watch, I see I have an hour and a half before Annika picks up Tori from preschool and takes her home. Brooke and Jemma will arrive on the bus forty minutes after that.
I don’t want to go home, though. I don’t want to be alone in that huge house of ours. I love the house, but sometimes I feel lost there when no one else is home.
I fish out my keys from my purse and spot the gift card for the massage that the girls gave me for Mother’s Day. I’ve been carrying the card in my purse to remind me to use it before it expires, and suddenly right now seems like the perfect time. I’m stressed out of my mind. Depressed, too. I want to eat. Eating comforts me, but I know I can’t eat. I don’t want to be fat. But I didn’t eat a lot of lunch.
Just get the massage, I tell myself. You’ll feel better and will be calmer for tonight.
That’s right. Tonight is Back-to-School Night, and who knows when Nathan will be home. He hasn’t called yet to say whether he’s arriving home tonight or tomorrow.
I call the spa. They could get me in at two for an hour Swedish massage. Perfect. I take the appointment.
The massage is heavenly. Not too much pressure, nor is the touch too light.
During the first half hour while I lie facedown on the table, I breathe slowly and deeply to a measured count of one, two, three. I’m so relaxed that I’m nearly asleep when the masseuse’s quiet voice says, “Okay, Mrs. Young, you can turn over now.”
The sheet above me lifts discreetly, and groggily I flip onto my back and the masseuse drapes the sheet back over me.
She continues working her magic, and again I nearly drift to sleep. Twenty-five minutes later, I leave a $20 tip and float out of the day spa. I feel so good right now, so calm and relaxed. This is how I want to feel tonight: calm, relaxed, confident.
Back home, I greet my girls, say hello to Annika, whom I unfortunately need to remind that Brooke and Jemma should be doing their homework before they turn on the TV, and grab the pile of mail off the hall table.
I carry the mail upstairs to my desk. Magazines, bulletins, bills. Most of the bills have Nathan’s name on them, but my credit cards have my name. I open the credit card statement that arrived in today’s mail. It’s not my Platinum Visa. It’s my Platinum American Express.
The statement is long, two and a half pages. Chewing my lip, I glance to the top to see how much we owe.
Fifteen thousand.
My God.
I sink into the chair at my desk and flatten the statement pages. This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. How could I have spent this much? Fifteen thousand in one month?
Again?
Three months ago, Nathan—who never loses his cool—lost it with me. I’m lucky, too, I know it. I have the best husband in the world, and I hate to upset him, I really do, and I work so hard to be the good wife, but I’ve got these . . . things . . . that keep me from being the perfect wife.
My impulsive spending.
And my compulsive dieting.
Most people don’t know about my inability to budget and my obsession with my weight, and I try to hide both from the girls. Nathan knows, of course. After all, he handles the finances and sleeps with me, so he knows the things I’d never want others to know.
And I promised him, I promised I wouldn’t lose control again. I thought I’d been better, thought I’d watched the expenses, but obviously I forgot just how many purchases I’d made in August.
I do this, and I’m not sure how, but I forget the money I spend, and looking at the statement, I see that some of it is on me: hair, $300; skin care, $1,000; dermatologist, $1,000; shoes, $1,500; swimsuit and new yoga outfits, $500; personal trainer, $1,000 (and I didn’t show up for half but was billed anyway); pedicure and manicure, $100; dinner with the girls, $200 with tip.
The other $10,000? Five thousand on back-to-school clothes for the girls at Nordstrom’s. Ballet lessons. Tap shoes. Lunch at Red Robin. Dinner at California Pizza Kitchen. Birthday party at Build-a-Bear.
Airline tickets for our March trip to Disneyland. Flowers for a friend’s birthday. Catered lunch for another friend’s birthday.
Gas for the car, Amazon book purchases, groceries, wine, household stuff from Crate & Barrel, more household stuff from Pottery Barn, Starbucks gift card, Kodak Gallery online photo store, cute nothings from Kit’s Cottage, and oh, jewelry to accessorize a new outfit.
Nathan’s going to kill me.
I put my head down on my desk and cry. And then when I’m done crying, I go downstairs and rummage through the cabinets, looking for anything chewy, gooey, and sweet. I’m on my fourth Double Stuf Oreo when the phone rings.
I pick up the cordless handset off the counter. It’s Nathan’s cell.
I should answer. But I don’t. Instead, the phone rings three more times before switching to voice mail.
I’m eating my sixth Oreo when I realize what I’m doing. Disgusted, I spit the rest of the Oreo in the sink’s garbage disposal and turn on the faucet, washing down what’s left of the cookie.
I have to get a grip. I can’t eat my way out of this.
I pick up the phone and check messages. The first is from the housecleaner. She can’t make it in to work tomorrow. The second is for a playdate for Brooke. Nathan’s message is the third one. He’s not going to be able to fly out until tomorrow, and he promises to call the credit card company tonight, but I’m not to use the card anymore until everything’s sorted out.
I can’t use my Visa, and I’m afraid to use my American Express. That means I have no more plastic. It’s an odd thought, an uncomfortable one, as I never carry cash. I’ve gotten used to using my credit cards for everything.
Annika wanders into the kitchen while I’m standing there. I tell her Nathan won’t be home until tomorrow and I need her to sit tonight. She says she already has something planned. I then promise her twice her hourly wage if she stays late so I can attend Back-to-School Night. Annika wants to be paid cash tonight, then. I agree.
Back-to-School Night ends up being anticlimactic. I deliver my speech without note cards, getting laughs where I intended to get laughs, and then I’m done and handing the microphone over to the vice principal.
I note the applause as I walk off the stage, but it doesn’t really sink in. I’m supposed to be a good speaker. I’m supposed to be
helpful, interesting, entertaining. I’m just doing what was expected of me.
I visit Miss Johnson’s classroom first and then, in the three-minute break, hurry to Mrs. Osborne’s, but instead of trying to push to Jemma’s desk in the front, I stand in the back. Mrs. Osborne sent me an e-mail earlier in the week saying she’d moved Jemma up to the front to try to help her “focus.” From the back of the room, I stare at Jemma’s empty desk, only half listening as Mrs. Osborne covers the curriculum highlights for the coming year.
They’ll be reading three novels, plus units on short stories, poetry, and nonfiction essays. They’re doing advanced math that was once taught at the junior high level and science involving microscopes and writing carefully researched and annotated papers.
As I listen to the curriculum, my mood sinks lower. Jemma won’t possibly be able to accomplish half of the above without tremendous parental support. Thank God Brooke is still in second grade. It’ll be a nightmare once Brooke and Jemma both need help with essays and reports.
How do other parents do it? How do they manage the soccer practices and Saturday games, music lessons and dance lessons, along with hours of homework? I have Annika because I can’t be in three places at once, and sometimes all three girls have to be someplace at the same time. If not the dance studio, then at tutoring; if not at tutoring, then at the soccer field; if not at soccer, then at piano.
Growing up, we didn’t run around like this. We couldn’t afford a life like this. The only music lessons I ever had were the ones I got in school. In fourth through sixth grades, all children were assigned an instrument, which the school supplied along with the teacher. We had orchestra practice on Tuesdays and Fridays, and then twice a year we performed for our parents. Although orchestra was mandatory, I actually loved the violin. I practiced every single day, just the way we were instructed. Most of the kids didn’t. They never progressed. I ended up playing quite well by the time I reached high school. Unfortunately, I stopped playing the violin around the same time I discovered cheerleading.
As if Mrs. Osborne can read my mind, she segues into the fifth-grade music program. “As you may have already heard from your child, fifth grade is the year all students learn to play an instrument.” She pauses as the parents begin to talk among themselves, waits for them to quiet. “Our music teachers will ask for your child’s preference, but you should know, they do some aptitude testing, too. There’s no point in a tiny girl playing the bass if her arms won’t reach around the instrument, or a boy playing the tuba if he can’t blow enough air into the mouthpiece. Instrument assignments happen the end of this month. More information will be coming.”
