Trent looks at me and then puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Let’s get you off to bed,” he says to her, steering her weaving form out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
I try to gain control over my emotions while he’s out of the room. I don’t need him to know how alone I feel, how defeated and lost. Who would want such a pathetic, emotional wreck of a woman back? It’s no wonder he left me, really. I’m a terrible mother and I was probably a terrible wife too. And now my husband is gone, my daughter’s a teenage alcoholic, and it’s all my fault.
Of course, this train of thought makes it significantly harder to calm down. When Trent returns to the kitchen I’m still weeping. As he approaches, I grab a paper towel and hold it to my face.
“She’ll be fine,” he says. “In the morning, she’s going to be so hungover that she won’t drink again for years.”
I snuffle a response into the paper towel.
Trent moves toward me, his voice soft. “This isn’t your fault, you know. If you want to blame me, I understand. I guess I could have handled this better … with Sam and everything.”
My face remains buried in the paper towel, but I manage to shake my head. I don’t want to blame Trent for this. I don’t want to be angry at him anymore. I want us to join together as a team, to discuss how our daughter has fallen in with a bad crowd, how getting drunk at school is really just a rite of passage, and how we’ll all laugh about this one day. For the first time, I raise my face and meet my husband’s eyes. Instead of the pity or disgust that could be there, I see only tenderness.
Uh-oh.
Trent
IT WAS PROBABLY A BAD IDEA. It’s just that she looked so sad and alone, and I guess I was still a bit worked up because I had that date planned with Annika, and … it just happened. I’d only meant to comfort her, so I gave her a hug. And then she was playing with my hair, which she knows perfectly well turns me on, so obviously, she wanted it. Then the next thing you know we were going at it on the living room sofa. It was pretty fantastic, I have to say. If we’d been having sex like that all along, I never would have left.
I ended up staying over, which I’m afraid may have sent the wrong message. Lucy looked kind of disappointed when I left for the hotel that afternoon. But one good fuck on the couch doesn’t erase three years of living separate lives. There’s no way she could think we were getting back together already. And on the bright side, the sex did make us stop fighting long enough to deal with Sam’s drinking, so … I guess it wasn’t that big of a mistake. As long as Lucy understands that we’ve still got a lot of problems we need to work on before I can think about coming home. I’m sure she gets that, right?
Annika walks by with a coffee cup in her hand and doesn’t even glance into my office. Does that mean she’s mad at me for bailing on our Friday plans? Surely she understands that a drunken teenage daughter constitutes an emergency situation. Although, how can I expect her to understand? She’s only thirty-two.
Swallowing the remnants of my coffee, I decide to follow her into the kitchen to make sure. Ugh! It’s ice cold, but I need an excuse to enter the coffee room. I can’t chase after her like some love-struck kid.
Annika is making herself a cup of some kind of herbal tea when I approach. “Hey,” I say casually, going to the coffee pot.
“Oh, hi Trent,” she responds cheerfully. She doesn’t sound pissed, so I decide to continue.
“How was your weekend?”
“Great. I went snowboarding on Saturday. It was amazing.”
“Awesome,” I say, as if I actually find snowboarding amazing as well. The truth is, I’ve never snowboarded, and rarely even ski anymore. I hurt my hip getting off the chairlift a few years back and it still bothers me in the cold. Plus, at my age, a snowboard getup would be laughable.
“How’s your daughter?” Annika asks, tossing her tea bag in the trash.
“Oh … yeah, she’s fine. She went home for lunch with one of her girlfriends and they decided to have a couple of highballs. It was just stupid. She’s not a bad kid.”
“Of course not,” Annika says. “I remember drinking half a bottle of rye one lunch hour in tenth grade. And look how well I turned out!”
This is a perfect opportunity for me to say something suggestive, like, “Yeah, you turned out great” or “I love the way you turned out,” but I hesitate too long and the moment’s gone.
“Actually,”Annika admits, “I had a few too many on Saturday night. My girlfriend and I went to check out this new club. It’s called Mania. Have you heard of it?”
“No,” I mumble, stirring cream into my coffee. I suddenly feel like some mid-life crisis Michael Caine character. What am I doing? Why am I chasing after a hot young thing who spends her weekends snowboarding and clubbing when I have a perfectly good, age-appropriate wife at home? A wife with whom I had incredible sex not three days ago! Am I really such a cliché?
“It was wild,” Annika continues. “But I paid for it on Sunday.”
I give a small laugh and prepare to slink back to my office. But before I’ve gone far she says, “So, how about a rain check for last Friday?”
I stop. “Sounds good,” I say. And suddenly, I’m eighteen again.
Lucy
THE BOTOX FINALLY KICKED IN THIS MORNING. I’m grateful I still had the ability to frown over the weekend so that I could show Sam my extreme disapproval over her lunchtime cocktail party. Trent and I were very calm and collected when we talked to her about her behavior the next morning. I’m glad we didn’t end up bickering and pointing fingers. I guess having sex helped us reconnect.
I hadn’t expected it to happen, but I was upset and he comforted me. One thing led to another and we ended up having sex on the living room sofa. It was really spontaneous and quite risky. Of course, we knew we wouldn’t be discovered since the only other person in the house was in an alcohol induced coma, but we hadn’t done it outside of our bedroom for years. It was pretty incredible, I must say. Not that we don’t still have issues to work out, but I think it was a step in the right direction.
So whether it’s the Botox, the highlights, or the hot sex, I feel really confident today. I spent a little longer on my hair and makeup this morning, and evidently, it’s paid off. Even Tanya, the nearly mute receptionist, says “You look nice today” when I walk past her.
Camille is more verbose. “Why, Eliza Doolittle!” she cries when I walk into our shared space. “Don’t you look fantastic— if I do say so myself.”
“Thanks,” I say, giving my hair a little flip as I deposit my purse under the desk. “I had a pretty great weekend.”
“You did?” Camille looks shocked. “I thought Sam getting drunk at school on Friday would have set a bad tone.”
“Shhhhh!” I look around to make sure no one heard. “Well, of course that part was bad, but we dealt with it really well. Trent came over—”
Bruce pops his head into the room. “Script meeting starting now, ladies. Let’s go.”
With notepads and pens in hand, we follow him to the boardroom at the end of the hall. Kev, the director, a twentyeight-year-old weenie who considers himself the next Woody Allen, is already there, eager to dictate his vision to the various departments.
Each week the scripts get less and less inspiring. Our overage teenager seems to find himself in more predictable predicaments as the show progresses. This week he’s got to pretend he has a twin brother so that the girl he likes doesn’t think he’s a complete idiot. Of course, she ultimately finds out there’s only one Cody—and that’s just the way she likes it. If I wasn’t in such a good mood about the positive direction my marriage is headed, I might gag.
Bruce is rattling off the props that Cody and his fake twin will need this episode when the door suddenly opens.
“Wynn!” Kev says, jumping to attention as the star of our show enters.
“I need to talk to you,” Wynn says, with no regard for the twelve other people in the room.
“Right
… okay. Take a break everyone.”
I watch Wynn Felker as he stands in the doorway, waiting for the director to hurriedly gather his scripts. He’s an extremely good-looking guy, but he’s too good-looking really, almost pretty. I prefer a more masculine type, like Trent. I look down at my notes and doodle my husband’s name. It’s juvenile, I know, but he’s on my mind. Trent has always been my type, physically. He’s aged over the years, of course, but I’m not one to complain about a bit of a belly. It’s not like I’m perfect … though at the moment, I would have to say I’m pretty damn good.
“Sorry to interrupt your meeting,” Wynn says as the director hustles over to join him. There is a general outpouring of obsequiousness.
“No problem at all!”
“Oh please! I’m sure your needs are more urgent.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
I roll my eyes just as Wynn looks at me. Oh shit. But surprisingly, I see a hint of humor in his gaze. He reaches for one of the pastries sitting on a tray in the middle of the table. “You don’t mind, do you?” He’s saying this directly to me. Obviously, he thinks I’m the person responsible for the pastries instead of Tanya.
“Go ahead,” I say coolly. It’s not that I’m above arranging the morning pastry delivery, but it would be nice if he ever paid attention to what anyone else’s job was.
Wynn reaches for a Danish then lifts his gaze to me. Our eyes connect for a moment, and I feel the burning of attraction between us. But that’s stupid. Wynn is Choice Hottie after all, and while I’m feeling rather attractive at the moment, I’m not going to kid myself. Hurriedly, I drop my eyes to the notepad in front of me. I must have got it wrong.
Casually, I look up and our eyes meet again. Oh god, what is with that intense staring? I can’t help but blush as I quickly look away. I glance back. In response, Wynn chuckles and, turning on his heel, leaves the room. Oh, I get it. This must be something he does to women who get too full of themselves. Well, he certainly brought me down a peg or two. I suddenly feel exceedingly plain and frumpy.
Camille leans over. “So, tell me about this great weekend you had.”
Her words return me to my former glory. “Well, this thing with Sam … it really allowed Trent and me to reconnect.”
“Reconnect how?”
The disapproving tone of her voice and the look in her eye keep me from admitting that we reconnected on the living room sofa. “We just came together as parents and … it felt really good.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah … that’s it. And of course …,” I lower my voice, “the Botox kicked in. I should have done this years ago! Even when I’m feeling really angry and unhappy, you can’t tell!”
“I know. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“What about lip injections? Have you ever done those?”
The director barges back into the room. “Sorry about that, everyone. Okay … where were we?”
Trent
ANNIKA AND I SET A DATE FOR THURSDAY NIGHT. She suggested George, this trendy Yaletown place. I wish we were sticking with Plan A—celebrity spotting at the hotel bar—but I felt awkward suggesting it. Besides, I’ve gotta move out of there soon. Lucy’s car needs new tires and hotel living costs a fortune. I’ve become addicted to my minibar Grolsch and Toblerone, and that alone is costing me over twelve bucks a night.
So with my beer and chocolate bar on the bedside table, I call some apartment listings. There are two that would work—both in Yaletown. Yes, moving into that neighborhood will feed into the mid-life crisis cliché, but I don’t give a shit. It’s time I stopped caring about what looks good to everyone else and started caring about what feels right for me. I played that game long enough. This is my time.
I set up appointments to view the apartments tomorrow, and then decide to grab a burger. That’s another reason I’ve got to get my own place. I need to start eating better—especially if Annika’s going to see me in the buff. Christ, even the thought of it makes me nervous. But the rumbling in my stomach makes me think of Sam. I wonder what Lucy’s been feeding her? I’ve always done most of the cooking. It’s not that Lucy can’t cook, but she always says she’s too tired. Or she doesn’t get home until eight o’clock and it’s too late by then.
I throw on my coat and head downstairs. It’s raining, of course; it’s February. But I decide to walk to my favorite burger joint. It’s only a few blocks away on Davie Street. Lucy and I used to eat there all the time after a night out on the town. Suddenly, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket.
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
It’s like she knew I was thinking about her. “Hey Luce. What’s up?”
“Uh … not much. What are you doing?”
“Going to grab a bite to eat.”
“Oh. I was just going to make something for Sam and me. Maybe … enchiladas?”
Lucy knows I love her enchiladas, and it’s pretty clear this is an invitation. But I can’t go there. “Good. How is she?”
“Well, that’s why I called … to let you know that she’s fine. She’s kind of quiet and grumpy still, but that’s nothing new.”
“She’ll come around. It’s bound to take her a while to get used to this.”
“Yeah … and we’re still in agreement that it’s best not to ground her?”
“I think so. Things are hard enough for her right now.”
There’s a pause on Lucy’s end. Then: “It would cheer her up to see you. I could make enchiladas tomorrow night instead. You could come over for dinner …?”
I sigh heavily before answering. “Tomorrow’s not good. I’ve got a couple of appointments … to look at apartments.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah …” “Some other time then …”
“Sure. I’ll call her. Maybe take her out for a burger.”
“That’s a lot of red meat, Trent. Don’t forget what your doctor said.”
And there’s that tone, that mothering, condescending, holier-than-thou tone. I’m talking about bonding with our daughter, and she brings up my fucking cholesterol.
“I gotta go. Tell Sam I’ll call her tomorrow.” I hear Lucy start to say something, but I hang up.
Lucy
“I INVITED HIM TO DINNER, AND HE SAID NO!” I wail into the phone.
“I told you, he’s going to need some time,” Hope says patiently. “Just like it says in chapter four.”
“What?”
“Chapter four in Until He Comes Home. Haven’t you been reading it?”
“Uh … I haven’t gotten that far.”
“It’s all about the elastic band effect. Like, how our men are connected to us by an elastic band, and if you let them pull away, eventually they’ll snap back. But if you try to pull them back before they’re ready, they’ll continue to stretch the band until it breaks.”
“Oh.”
“Read it, Lucy. It makes so much sense. It’s exactly what I did with Mike and now our marriage is stronger than ever.”
“Right. Okay.”
Hope continues. “And how’s Sam? No more hitting the bottle?”
“No,” I snap, defensive for some reason. Perhaps that reason is that Hope’s daughter, Sarah-Louise, is annoyingly perfect. She’s an excellent student, a talented trombonist, and never gets drunk at school—or anywhere else for that matter. Sarah-Louise seems poised to follow in the footsteps of Hillary Rodham Clinton, or some other highly intelligent, extremely successful, if slightly drab, female. In contrast, Samantha seems poised to follow in the footsteps of Courtney Love.
“Trent and I talked to her and she’s learned her lesson. She won’t do it again,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.
“See?” Hope says. “You’re still parenting as a team. In chapter eight, I think it is, Dr. Ladner talks all about maintaining parental unity as a way to bring you back together.”
“I’ve got to go,” I say, pulling my Forerunner into the parking lot. “I’m back at the
office.”
“Okay, hon. Let me know when you and Sam can come over for dinner again.”
“Will do.” I hang up, and hop out of the truck. Hurrying to open the hatchback, I remove an enormous red-foam lobster costume. Cody has been “tricked” into being the mascot for Central High’s basketball team, The Lobsters. It’s so ridiculous. What kind of school would name their basketball team The Lobsters? And how can Wynn Felker, a grown man, allow himself to be dressed up in such a stupid costume and follow such a stupid plotline?
I struggle through the doorway, down the narrow halls, and into the props room. Just as I dump the cumbersome costume, my boss, Bruce, appears in the doorway.
“Oh good, you’re back. We need Wynn to try the costume on right away. Bring it to wardrobe.”
“A little help here please …” I retort, as Bruce starts to walk off. Would it kill the guy to offer to carry the lobster to wardrobe? I’m already sweaty and disheveled from lugging the fucking thing in here. Okay, and maybe I’m a little crabby since my husband had hot sex with me on the living room sofa five days ago, and now he won’t even come for dinner when I’m making his favorite dish.
“Right,” Bruce says, realizing it’s probably best to help me without comment. “Sorry.”
I hold one Styrofoam claw as we maneuver our way to wardrobe. Technically, I would have thought a costume would be wardrobe’s responsibility, but apparently it falls under props. When we arrive, Wynn is waiting there. As usual, he’s surrounded by a number of sycophants whose only job seems to be to make sure he’s exceedingly happy every minute of the day.
“Here it is,” Bruce says, placing the costume before our illustrious star. “Why don’t you try it on?”
Obediently, Wynn steps into the foam lobster. Kelly from wardrobe and a couple of Wynn’s assistants begin to pull the costume up around him. They’re fiddling with the snaps around his waist when he says, “I don’t know about this …”
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 5
