“Nice to meet you.” Annika sticks out her fat hand and I force myself to touch it, briefly.
“I’m Lucy, Trent’s wife. But you probably already know that.”
Annika looks nervously to Trent, who is now peering around the room.
“Have you seen Sam’s pieces?” he asks, not having the balls to actually look at me.
“Not yet,” I say. “So Annika, do you like all young people’s art, or just my daughter’s?”
“I love checking out the art of teenagers,” she says, sounding like a Miss America contestant. “It’s a real window into the soul of the next generation.”
I can’t suppress a snort of vicious laughter. Hope steps in. “Where is Sarah-Lou? I’m dying to see Sam’s stuff.”
“Did Sam come in with you?” the cowardly lion asks, eyes looking everywhere but at me.
“She came in early to help set up.” I turn to Annika again. “Tell me, how long have you been dating my husband? Was it before he left me, or just after?”
“We’re not dating,” Trent cries. “She’s a work friend.”
“I saw you, asshole,” I growl, leaning menacingly toward him. “At Chill.”
“Shit.”
Hope tries once more to intervene. “We’re all here for Sam, remember? You can talk about this later.”
“That’s right,” Trent says, sidestepping away from me. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“Right. You’re so concerned about your daughter’s feelings that you brought a date to her art show,” I spit. “I nominate you father of the year.”
“Oh, here we go!” Trent says. “The queen of sarcasm reigns again.”
“That’s rich, coming from the king of insensitivity—make that the emperor!”
Trent lowers his voice. “Maybe if you’d responded to any of my messages, we could have talked about this before.”
“Talked about what? That you’re dating Miss Piggy a month after you deserted us?”
Annika steps up. “Watch it, you scrawny bitch.”
Hope turns to Trent. “You’re going to let her talk to the mother of your child that way?”
“She called her Miss Piggy!”
I step back. “If the size ten–wide shoe fits …”
“You’re right, Trent,” Annika snarls, “she’s a total monster.”
“Oh you just wait, porky! You think you’re happy now, but soon he’ll be telling you he needs to sort out his grown-up man stuff.”
“That is crossing the line!” Annika cries. “You definitely have an eating disorder or something.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Trent barks at me.
Sarah-Louise walks up to her mother. “Samantha’s not in the art show,” she says calmly.
“What?” Trent and I whirl on her.
“I couldn’t find her paintings, so I asked the teacher. She said Sam pulled out two weeks ago.”
“Oh my god,” I say softly, the anger seeping out of me like a leaky balloon. It’s quickly replaced by a feeling of utter, inconsolable sadness.
Hope puts her arm around me. “It’s okay. She’ll be okay.”
“But where is she?” I cry. “I need to see her.”
Trent is already dialing his cell phone. He listens for a minute then says, “Voice mail.”
I sag a little into Hope’s shoulder. “Let’s get you home,” she says. “She’ll turn up sooner or later.”
Trent
“I’M COMING WITH YOU,” Annika insists as I speed toward her apartment.
“No, you’re not,” I grumble. “You’ve done enough.”
She misses the sarcasm completely. “But I want to be there to support you. It must be scary not knowing where your daughter is, or what she’s been doing for the last two weeks when you thought she was working on her art projects.”
She is so not helping. “Lucy and I need to handle this on our own. I’m taking you home.”
“Fine.” She settles back in her seat in a pout. “I just wish you’d let me start participating in this family.”
What the fuck is she talking about? We went on our first date just two weeks ago. We’ve had sex precisely nine times—okay, nine and a half times if you want to count that first disaster. Yeah, we’ve worked together for a year and we’ve been flirting heavily for much of that, but that doesn’t make her a part of my family! I’d set her straight, but I don’t have the energy to get into it. I’ve got to get over to the house and deal with my daughter.
I pull up in front of Annika’s Fairview apartment building, leave the car in drive. She steps onto the curb then pokes her head back into the car. “Call me when you’ve found Sam. I’m really worried about her.”
“Right.” I’m inching the car forward before she’s even finished talking.
Seventeen minutes later, I’m at Lucy’s door. Using my key, I let myself inside.
“Sam?” My wife comes rushing toward me, her tear-streaked face hopeful. “Oh.” Her expression crumples with disappointment.
“Has she called?”
Hope appears behind Lucy. “No, we haven’t heard from her.”
“Did you check her room?” I’m already heading for the stairs, passing a floral arrangement fit for Sinatra’s funeral. Normally, I’d make a crack like “Who died?” but under the circumstances, it seems inappropriate.
Hope says, “Good idea. Maybe she left a note?”
“Oh god!” Lucy cries, taking a nose dive off the deep end. “What if she …”
I stop on the staircase. “Don’t be ridiculous. But she obviously knows that we’re aware she dropped out of the art show by now. Maybe she left a note to explain.”
As I continue up the stairs, Lucy calls, “Check for drugs while you’re there!”
Ten minutes later I return to the kitchen. Hope is making tea. Lucy is sniffling at the table. “No note, no drugs. But I see she’s still obsessed with that Cody Summers kid.”
“He’s not a kid,” Lucy snaps. “He’s twenty-seven.”
“Even more reason she shouldn’t be obsessed with him,” I bark.
Hope interjects. “Sarah-Lou has a crush on him too. It’s harmless.”
I take a seat next to Lucy. I’m tempted to take her hand and comfort her, but after the events of this evening, I’m not sure she’d welcome it. She stares at the table, blows her nose. “She’ll be okay,” I say.
Lucy looks up at me, her eyes red and puffy. “What if she’s not?” she says. “What if we’ve hurt her so badly that she’s off drinking herself into oblivion? What if she’s taking ecstasy or snorting coke or whatever kids do these days? What if she just wants the pain to stop?”
I know she’s being melodramatic, but I’m suddenly overcome with guilt. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, my voice quivering with emotion. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
Lucy starts to bawl. “Yes, you are,” she cries. Her voice holds no anger, only regret. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”
The kettle whistles and Hope hurries to the stove. “Do you want tea, Trent?” she asks coldly.
“Yes. No.” I look at Lucy. “Is there any beer in the fridge?” She shakes her head. I call to Hope. “Okay, I’ll have tea.”
And that’s when Sam walks into the room. She stands there sullen and defiant, in a pair of skin-tight jeans and a tiny T-shirt. She’s a little pale, her eyes are a bit red, but she doesn’t appear to be drunk or high on coke. Lucy rushes toward her and embraces her. “Thank god you’re okay,” she cries, kissing her hair. Sam stands stock-still, not reciprocating, but not pulling away either. I approach, wait for my turn.
“We were so worried,” I say, wrapping my arms around my little girl. “Don’t ever do that to us again.”
Sam pulls away. “Don’t ever do what again?” she snaps. “Not show up? Not be where I’m supposed to be?”
Lucy and I stare at her, unsure how to respond. I’m suddenly wishing I’d bought a book on dealing with kids during a marriage breakup. Is it okay for her to be r
ude and surly toward us? I mean, she’s right, after all. We—and by we I mostly mean Lucy—have been really unavailable lately. But does that give her the right to torture us this way?
No, it doesn’t. We are still her parents. We still feed her and clothe her and pay for the private school Lucy insists she attend. When she was a baby, we changed her diapers and got up with her three times a night until she was five. We deserve some respect, goddammit. “That’s right, missy,” I say, asserting my parental authority. “You’re fifteen. You don’t get to call the shots.”
“Trent!” Lucy snaps, having obviously decided to go the permissive, guilt-riddled parent route. “She’s upset.”
“I get that,” I snap back. “It doesn’t mean she has the right to disappear and worry us half to death. Where were you?”
“At my friend Randy’s house.”
“Randy? Never heard of her.”
“Randy’s a he,” Sam says defiantly. “He’s a friend from school.”
“You go to an all-girls’ school!” I roar.
“Yeah,” she bites back, “he’s my friend’s brother.” She plays with one of the long gold chains around her neck. “He’s got his own apartment and sometimes we hang out there.”
“How old is this Randy?” Lucy manages to say.
Sam shrugs. “Nineteen.”
“And there was a group of you there?” My wife’s voice is hopeful.
My daughter looks me directly in the eye. “No, just me and Randy.”
The kid is so transparent. She’s obviously trying to push my buttons. Unfortunately, it’s working. I can feel my blood starting to boil and heat fills my face. I can’t blow up and lose it on Sam now. The split has been difficult on her, and exploding in anger isn’t going to help our bond.
“It’s no big deal.” Sam shrugs. She seems to find watching me struggle to contain my rage slightly amusing.
Suddenly, Lucy grabs Sam’s chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You’re high!”
“Oh my god!” This from Hope, who’s been busying herself with tea in the kitchen.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice. I thought she looked tired and pale, but upon further inspection, her pupils are enormous. “What are you on?” Lucy demands. “Junk? Smack? Blow?”
Sam lets out a snort of laughter. “Mom, do you even know what those are?”
“Enlighten us, cool drug user,” I snap. “What did you take?”
“Calm down! I smoked a little crystal and then had unprotected sex with Randy and his best friend. It’s no big deal.”
“Oh my god!” Lucy shrieks.
“What!” I boom.
“Oh lord,” Hope says, and I really wish she’d leave.
Sam giggles maliciously. “I’m kidding,” she says. “I just smoked some pot.”
“You’re sick!” I jab my finger at her. “Don’t you ever do anything like that to us again.”
At least Lucy and I are on the same wavelength about Hope’s presence. Lucy turns to her. “Thanks so much for being here, but I think our family needs to be alone right now.”
“Are you sure?” Hope says, looking from Lucy to me to Sam.
“I’m sure,” my wife says. “But thanks and … please, let’s just keep this quiet.”
Even in the throes of a crisis, Lucy’s worried about her precious reputation. It’s shallow and superficial, but to be perfectly honest, I’m kind of glad she said something. I don’t exactly want it advertised that my fifteen-year-old daughter has been getting stoned at some guy’s apartment.
Hope gives Lucy a hug. “You’ll be okay,” she says. “You’ll get through this.”
“I know. Thanks.”
My wife and I stand silently, waiting for Hope to exit. Sam walks to the fridge, peers inside. When I hear the front door close, I say, “Shut that fridge and get over here.”
With much eye-rolling, Samantha does as she’s told. “What?” she says, hands on hips.
“What?” Lucy cries. “How can you ask us that?”
I roar, “You dropped out of the art show! You’re stoned! You’re dressed like a slut and you’re hanging out with some nineteen-year-old pothead!” I guess the litany of Sam’s transgressions is too much for Lucy. She drops her face into her hands and sobs. “Look what you’ve done to your mother,” I growl.
As soon as the words are out, I realize my mistake. My daughter’s eyes narrow and I know what’s coming next. “Look what I’ve done to her? What about you? Jordan called me. She said you brought some sexy date to my art show.”
Lucy’s head snaps up. “Sexy?” she snorts. “More like chunky.”
“She’s a friend from work who likes …” But my voice breaks. Finally, I finish lamely, “Young people’s art.” My wife and daughter scoff in unison.
“Okay,” I fess up. “I’ve been dating Annika. It’s still casual and it was stupid to bring her, but I’m the adult here: you’re the kid. You have no right to question my actions.”
“Oh, sorry … Joseph Stalin.”
“Honey,” Lucy comes to my aid, “he’s not as bad as Joseph Stalin.”
Gee, thanks for the ringing endorsement, Lucy, but I focus on the situation at hand. “No more smoking pot and no more seeing this Randy character.”
“Who’s going to stop me?” Sam looks at Lucy. “You’re too busy working.” Then she turns on me. “And you’re too busy fucking your new girlfriend.”
Lucy gasps. “Sam, please …”
I could smack her right now, I really could. And maybe that’s what she needs, some old-fashioned corporal punishment. On the other hand, who knows what the girl is capable of? She’d probably call some child abuse hotline and have me put away for beating her. I struggle to find a response, but no words are coming. Thankfully, Lucy steps up.
“I know we’ve handled our split badly, but we’re still your parents and we still love you more than anything in the world.”
For the first time, Sam looks like my daughter again. She takes a ragged breath and her eyes shine with unshed tears. But when she speaks, her voice is cold. “I’m going to bed.”
I step forward. “Not so fast, young lady.”
“Let her go,” Lucy says, resignedly. I look at her, surprised. When Sam was drunk on gin, Lucy had been the one insisting we try to reason with her. Now that she’s smoked a little weed, Lucy seems to think she’s too compromised for rational conversation. I’d disagree, but I suddenly don’t have the energy. A wave of sheer, utter exhaustion engulfs me. As I look at Lucy, I can see she feels the same.
Sam leaves the room, and suddenly the house is eerily quiet. My wife moves to the sectional sofa and sinks into it, defeated. I stand stupidly in the middle of the kitchen for a moment then notice the teapot on the counter where Hope left it. “Tea?” I ask.
Lucy shakes her head. “I’d like you to leave now.”
I move to the couch, sit facing her. “We need to talk about this. Samantha is obviously messed up and we need to deal with it.”
My wife looks up and our eyes meet. “I’ll never, ever forgive you for this,” she says softly.
“This isn’t my fault …” I start, but there is such finality, such resolve in her eyes and in her words, that I stop. Lucy stands up.
“Lock the door on your way out.” And I am left alone in what was once my living room.
Lucy
SURPRISINGLY, I FELL INTO A DEEP, DREAMLESS SLEEP. But as the morning sunlight seeps through my sheer curtains, I wake to the sobering realization that my life is a shambles. I lie there, the pale spring sun warming my face, and allow myself to reflect. It would be easy to blame this all on Trent, but obviously, I went wrong somewhere.
I had been so careful. I’d married a good man by all assessable criteria. He had a degree and a career and excellent hygiene. He made me laugh when we were first together, and the sex was playful and exciting. I had truly loved him, and in turn, he’d loved me. So what the hell happened?
When I was pregnant with Sam
I’d taken my prenatal vitamins and stayed away from caffeine. Okay, I’d had a small glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve, but surely that couldn’t cause all this? I’d nurtured Samantha’s artistic talents, paid for dance classes and piano lessons and the best private school in the city. And I had loved her, unconditionally. I still did! But now she’d turned against me.
No, this is my husband’s fault, the fucking bastard. Make that my “soon to be ex-husband.” As soon as the thought is formed, my anger is replaced by a feeling of loss. For the first time, I realize that my marriage is irretrievably broken, my relationship with Trent beyond repair. No apology could make me accept his selfish behavior. No amount of time will let me forget the heartache he’s caused. And no self-help book could persuade me to forgive what he’s done to our family.
I dab at a tear seeping out of my eye with the corner of the sheet. I have lost my husband. It hurts, but I can accept it. What I can’t accept is losing my daughter. That is simply not an option.
Wrapping my robe around me, I pad to Samantha’s bedroom. Before I fell asleep last night, I’d already decided my parenting strategy. As opposed to Trent’s bluster and threats, I’m going to show her how much I love her. I’m going to open up and reconnect with her. She needs to know that I love her, even if she is smoking pot or having crystal meth orgies (she was only kidding, thank god, but I’d still love her). I knock gently, then try the door. It’s locked. “Sam honey,” I call through the thick wood. “Open up.”
There is no response. “Sam?” I knock again. “It’s almost ten. Time to wake up.” Still, there is no sound from within. I knock again, harder this time. “Sam?” Panic makes my voice shrill. What if she’s not there? What if she sneaked out the window to go do drugs with old Randy? What if she’s taken an overdose of smack or crank or whatever and she’s in a coma? Or worse! I pound the door with my fist. “Sam! Sam!”
It swings open to reveal my daughter, disheveled and still half asleep. “God!” she grumbles. “Stop yelling.” I follow her inside as she flops back into bed. She curls up with her pillow, her back to me. I perch on the side of the bed, hesitantly patting her leg under the comforter. “How are you feeling?”
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 11
