The Simple Life

by Tara Sivec

  The last thing I remember before my world goes black, is seeing Nicole leaning over me with her camera up to her face, clicking away at my amazing life that seems to have just gone to shit.

  Chapter 1

  Shitty Life

  Three Months Later

  My life is a dumpster fire.

  Everything around me has burned to the ground and it smells like rotting flesh. Actually, that’s probably me who smells like a corpse. I don’t think I’ve taken a shower in four days. I look down at my coffee-stained Gucci T-shirt and Banana Republic skinny jeans, and have a vague recollection of putting them on Tuesday morning. It’s now Saturday. Not only do I smell like a corpse from The Night of the Living Dead, I also look like one.

  Pushing open the door to the bathroom, with nothing but thoughts of a long, hot shower running through my mind, my feet stutter to a stop in the doorway and I let out a scream that would make Jamie Lee Curtis proud.

  Smacking my hand over my eyes before I see anything else that will give me nightmares for years to come, I let out a huff of annoyance.

  “Dad! What the hell are you doing, and why didn’t you lock the door?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m emptying my piss bag. Try knocking next time,” he grumbles.

  When I hear the toilet flush and the rustle of clothing, I count to ten before slowly spreading my fingers apart and chancing another glance into the room. I find my dad facing me with his arms crossed over his chest, his bare, white ass no longer on full display. Dropping my hand from my face, I try to suppress a full-body shudder when I think about what I just witnessed.

  “Stupid doctors making me take those damn pills that make me pee all the time,” he complains. “I’ve had to empty out this catheter four times so far this morning. It’s bad enough they had to saw my chest open like I’m some sort of Christmas tree; now they expect me to deal with a tube coming out of my pee hole that I constantly have to empty.”

  Welcome to hell, ladies and gentleman. Or as I like to call it, my childhood home in White Timber, Montana.

  When I got punched in the face by my boyfriend’s wife, it took all of seven-point-four seconds before that video of her fist connecting with my cheekbone, and me hitting the ground, to go viral. It took three days for Glitz to fire me, because having an “It Girl” who was accused of being a homewrecker wasn’t good for business. They also received a million phone calls and emails from Felicity that if they didn’t fire me, she would sue them for every penny they had, and own the magazine by the end of the week. If that wasn’t bad enough, they took my article I submitted for the rooftop bar, added the story of the jilted wife taking her revenge out on the woman who stole her man, titled it Hussy Homewrecker, and my now ex-friend Nicole nicely provided two full-color, glossy photos to go with the article. One of Felicity’s fist plowing into my face, and one of me passed out cold on the floor with my skirt up around my waist and my mouth wide open.

  At least I was wearing a really nice pair of black, lace La Perla underwear.

  I’ve never felt like a bigger fool in my entire life, wondering why in the hell I never put two-and-two together. But if the entire world didn’t know the identity of Felicity’s husband, how was I supposed to know? Felicity never went by any name other than Felicity Kennedy until that night on the roof, so it’s not like the name Stephen Goodwin rang any bells when I met him. And of course that lying, rat bastard left that part out of the “getting to know you” portion of our relationship.

  “My favorite color is red, my favorite food is beef bourguignon, and my favorite drink is whiskey straight up. Oh, and I’ve been married to the most famous New York City socialite for the last ten years, and if she finds out about you, she’ll probably slit your throat. Are you ready to order dessert?”

  I may or may not have drank two bottles of wine one night when I felt particularly sorry for myself, googled that stupid, grainy airport picture from six years ago, and printed it out. I studied it for hours with a magnifying glass app I downloaded to my phone, to prove to myself I wasn’t a complete idiot and couldn’t have known it was Stephen in that picture. I learned nothing after staring at it for five hours, aside from the fact that two bottles of wine will make me sing “Careless Whisper” by George Michael over and over at the top of my lungs while snot-crying, until my neighbor pounds on my door and tells me if I don’t shut up, he’s calling the cops. I woke up the next morning with my cheek pressed to that damn picture, and a fucking ink outline of what may or may not have been Stephen the Shit Master imprinted on my face, which took two days to wash off. Two days I also spent not making eye contact with my neighbor every time I left my apartment.

  For the next two and half months, I worked my ass off trying to find another job in the city with a different magazine, but it was useless. No one would hire the “hussy homewrecker.” Once my savings started disappearing right before my very eyes, I even applied at three pizza places to wait tables, and eight bars with open bartending and hostess positions. As soon as I walked in the door to apply for the jobs, they took one look at me and started laughing. When I say everyone in the city knew who I was, I mean everyone. Especially after the home wrecking article was picked up by the New York Times and the pictures of me were splashed across the front page.

  I couldn’t even walk to my favorite coffee shop a block from my apartment without some dickhole asking me if I learned how to dodge a punch yet, or if I still had that lacy pair of underwear and would mind giving them to him as a souvenir.

  That was the first time I ever had to use the pepper spray attached to my keychain since I moved to New York. In case you were wondering, they do still spray after twelve years of non-use, and if you accidentally spray yourself in the face first because you’re too creeped out to make sure the nozzle is pointing away from you when you press the button, you might almost die from choking on all the snot and tears that pour out of your face.

  With exactly fifty dollars left in my checking account, and not a stitch of furniture left in my adorable little apartment on the Upper East Side, because I had to sell it all to be able to afford the astronomical rent in that adorable apartment, I got a phone call that, at the time, I thought was lifesaving.

  My father called and asked me to come home because he needed my help.

  Which brings this happy little tale up to speed and the reason why I smell like death and walked in on my father emptying his “piss bag.” That phone call from him really was a lifesaver, because it got me out of a city that I needed a break from, but it took ten years off my life when I found out why my dad needed me to come home. He decided to tell me four days after the fact that he had to have an emergency triple bypass, and he needed a ride home from the hospital. The phone call went something like this:

  “Hi, Dad! Long time no talk. How’s it going?”

  “They cut my goddamn chest open, and they’re finally springing me from the hospital tomorrow. I need a ride. You busy?”

  “What? What do you mean they cut your chest open? What happened? Are you okay?”

  “This hospital food sucks. They give you pepper but they don’t give you salt. How’s a man supposed to eat hospital chicken and rice without salt? Are you busy tomorrow or not? I booked you a flight at eight in the morning.”

  “I-I-I’m not busy. But I’m gonna need a little more information than this.”

  “I gotta go. Nurse is here and says I need to get up and walk. My nurse is a guy. Isn’t that just the craziest shit you’ve ever heard? A guy nurse. I’m at Cedar Memorial. Room 801. Make it snappy when you land. I need a cheeseburger like nobody’s business.”

  To say my dad and I haven’t had the best relationship since I left for college is putting it mildly. He’s never once called me in the twelve years I’ve been gone. I’m always the one to reach out to him if I want to know if he’s still alive. I knew as soon as I saw his name flash across the screen of my phone that something was wrong; I just didn’t expect it to be t
his.

  I’ve been home for two weeks and I’ve done nothing but cook, clean, run errands, take my dad to the emergency room three times in the last week because of a bladder infection—hence the need for the current piss bag situation—and constantly argue with him about sitting his ass down and resting. I’m exhausted, I smell, and I’m stuck living in this tiny, crappy town where I swore I’d never live again after I left. But at least I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and, so far, my dad is the only person who knows what happened back in New York. Silver linings and all that shit.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you needed to go to the bathroom? I would have helped you,” I tell my dad as I move out of the bathroom doorway so he can pass, reaching for his arm to steady him and make sure he doesn’t fall.

  He shakes my hand right off and glares at me before shuffling down the hall and back out into the living room, where he’s been sleeping in a recliner since he got home from the hospital.

  “I don’t need help going to the damn bathroom. Stop nagging me,” he grumbles, making me wince when he flops down in his recliner so aggressively that I’m afraid his chest will rip wide open right in front of me.

  “I’ll stop nagging you when you stop being a stubborn ass. You’re supposed to be taking it easy and letting me help you when you need to get up and walk,” I remind him, grabbing a blanket off the couch and tucking it around his legs.

  He promptly yanks it off and flings it back over to the couch.

  “Are you going to be okay while I run to the pharmacy to get your new prescriptions?” I ask, picking up the blanket and refolding it since he’s clearly not going to use it.

  I grind my teeth together when my eyes catch the framed photo sitting on the end table next to the couch, which I’ve shoved into a drawer a million times since I got here. It keeps reappearing when I’m not looking. That picture is like herpes. You think it’s gone and you can finally live a normal life, and then bam! It shows up again to fuck with you.

  Most normal fathers have pictures of their daughters on their graduation day framed in their home, or a few cute school yearbook pictures from back in the day, or maybe a sweet candid picture of the two of them together when she was little on a family vacation. Not my father. There’s not one photo of me anywhere in the house, and there never has been. He’s never showcased any of the thousands of articles I wrote for Glitz over the years, or any of the awards I won while working for them, but he sure as shit figured out how to print off that damn picture of me getting punched in the face from the New York Times article, and put it in a damn frame in his living room.

  “I don’t know. It’s awful dangerous sitting in this recliner. What if it malfunctions when I pull the lever to put my legs up and it shoots me out the window, the glass nicks an artery, and I bleed out on the front lawn? What if I’m thirsty and don’t know how to get up and get my own damn glass of water, and die from thirst in the whole thirty minutes you’ll be gone? Maybe you should stay here and just stare at me to make sure I don’t die.”

  He’s my father and I love him. He’s my father and I love him.

  I’ve repeated this mantra in my head so much over the last two weeks that I can happily say I no longer roll my eyes when I think it.

  “Oh, while you’re out, you need to stop at the Hastings Farm. I got you a job interview,” he mentions casually, grabbing the remote from the arm of the recliner and turning on the television that immediately blares to life so loudly the closest neighbors four miles away can probably hear the Wheel of Fortune theme song.

  I snatch the remote out of his hand and mute the volume.

  “What do you mean you got me a job interview?”

  It’s not like I’m planning on living here forever. This is just a temporary setback. Once my dad is back on his feet, the dust settles in New York, and everyone moves on to another scandal that is sure to happen any day now, I fully plan on going back and starting over. I can’t stay here. The idea of me staying in White Timber for the rest of my life makes me want to laugh and throw up at the same time. I outgrew this town long before I moved away. I kept on growing the longer I stayed away. I’m not cut out for small-town life. I need the hustle and bustle of a big city. I need sirens blaring at two in the morning. I need traffic jams. I need to be able to walk to anything I might possibly need within a five-block radius at all hours of the night, and I need the comfort of being able to flip someone off when I’m crossing the street and they lay on their horn.

  The White Timber Walmart, the one and only major chain store within fifty miles, has more parking spots for people who ride their horses there than they do for people who drive cars. And if I flipped off someone while crossing the street in town, they’d get out of their car and give me a thirty-minute lecture about how young ladies should never behave so crassly.

  “You were really smart before you left for New York. That place knocked a few IQ points right out of your head, didn’t it?” my dad asks with a shake of his head.

  I’d argue with him, but I’m too busy being happy that he kind of, sort of paid me a compliment by saying I was smart. Compliments from my dad are few and far between.

  I’m so pathetic it’s not even funny.

  “A job interview is what someone goes to when they have no money,” he continues. “You put on some fancy clothes, lie to them about what your strengths and weaknesses are, kiss their ass, and then boom! You get hired and start making money.”

  I’m honestly surprised my grandparents didn’t name him Allen Sarcastic Shit Manning. It has a nice ring to it. Much more fitting than Allen Michael Manning.

  “I know what a job interview is, Dad. But I’m not planning on staying here forever. You know that, right?” I ask gently.

  “Of course I know that. I just figured you should stick around long enough to at least learn how to block a punch and avoid getting another black eye. Never know when another fist might come flying at your face again,” he replies with the first smile I’ve seen since I got here.

  He’s my father and I have to love him. He’s my father and I have to love him.

  “Besides, it’s just a temporary job,” he continues, leaning forward in his chair and grabbing the remote back out of my hand. “Just because I can’t drive for the next two months doesn’t mean you need to sit here all the time babysitting me. The Hastings are in a bind, and I told them you’d help out while you’re here.”

  I let out a long sigh when he aims the remote at the television, presses a button, and Pat Sajak loudly asks the contestant if they’d like to solve the puzzle.

  Honestly, I don’t know how much more of this I can handle day in and day out. All my dad does is watch The Gameshow Network, play slot machines on his laptop I got him for Christmas a few years ago, and bitch at me for hovering. I know the Hastings family, and their pumpkin farm is only a few miles down the road. My best friend from kindergarten to our senior year of high school, Ember Hastings, lived there, and I practically lived there right along with her I spent so much time on the farm. We’re not best friends any longer, but not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. We’re Facebook friends at best, at this point. Sometimes she’d like one of my pictures where I was attending an event. Sometimes I’d comment on a picture of her at her parent’s farm, telling her how many good memories I had there, and so on and so forth. I know she still lives close by, never feeling the need to leave White Timber like I did, and I’m suddenly excited about the prospect of being home, working at the farm for a few months, and maybe catching up with her. Nothing makes you realize how fake the friends you had in New York were like a crotch shot in a major newspaper.

  “I can’t believe Old Man Hastings still runs that place,” I muse, referring to Ember’s father.

  “He’s the same age as I am. I don’t know why all you kids felt the need to call him that when you were younger. It’s insulting to our entire generation,” Dad complains dramatically.

  “Because he was a mean old son of
a bitch. And you’re just a delight, so there’s no need to be insulted.” I give him a cheeky smile, and it suddenly occurs to me that maybe my middle name should have been Sarcastic Shit as well. “What do they need help with?” I ask tentatively.

  Sure, I wouldn’t mind getting out of the house and away from my dad for a few hours every day, as well as being able to make some of my own money so I don’t have to tuck my tail between my legs and feel like the biggest loser in the world every time I need to ask him for a few bucks to get toiletries and stuff like that. There’s really nothing more humiliating than asking your dad for twenty dollars because you need tampons and Midol. But the idea of shoveling horse shit all day, or something equally as disgusting, doesn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

  “I don’t know, something to do with house management. You know how big that farm has gotten over the years. They’re the biggest pumpkin farm in the state, and they’re always busy with something or other. They’ve got so many employees now I’ve lost count. The job is pretty much yours. You just need to go over there and meet with… the employees you’ll be supervising or some shit.” He shrugs, looking away from me and at the TV.

  Huh. House management. That’s pretty much what I do here anyway. I could get away from my dad and get paid for doing the same stuff I do here all day. Plus, I’ll have employees to manage. I do like telling people what to do. And since the farm is only a few miles down the road, if there’s an emergency with my dad, it wouldn’t take me any time at all to get back here to him.

  “All right, I’ll go. As long as you’re okay with it.”

  “I don’t know. This recliner is looking at me funny. Could shoot me out that window aaany minute now,” he mutters under his breath, never taking his eyes off the TV.