“Fine,” she mumbles into her pillow.
“That was pretty nasty last night.”
No response.
“I think your father and I have some growing up to do.”
An affirmative snort.
“But you’ve been acting pretty childishly too, Sam. I know you probably think drinking and doing drugs is really grownup, but it’s not. It’s irresponsible and immature.”
Silence.
I sit for a moment, patting her leg and looking around her room. Wynn Felker’s handsome, boyish face smiles down at me from his multiple poses on her walls. There he is in a striped T-shirt, his hair blow-dried to perfection. He’s jumping off a ladder in the next one, wearing overalls and holding a can of yellow paint. And in this poster, he’s in a leather jacket, his hair short and spiky. He smolders in the photo next to it, his chin resting on his bare shoulder.
“Maybe we should paint your room?” I blurt. “That would be a fun project we could do together.”
Sam turns back, pulling the comforter from her face with a swift movement of her arm. “What do you want, Mom? I’m tired.”
“I want to talk,” I say, as a lump of emotion forms in my throat. “I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world, and I don’t want us drifting apart.”
“Fine,” she growls. “I love you too. Now can I get some sleep?”
“No,” I say. “We need to communicate, Sam. I’m worried about you. Tell me why you dropped out of the art show.”
She sighs dramatically. “I don’t know. I just didn’t feel inspired anymore. I’m bored with art, okay? It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. You’re so talented.”
“Right, like I’m going to be the next Picasso. Get real, Mom.”
“I am real. There’s so much you could do with an art career. Besides, it’s always been such a great outlet for you. You can’t just drop it because things have been a little rough at home.” Sam snorts again and rolls onto her side.
“I’m going to work less,”I say. “I’m going to talk to Bruce and see if we can set some more realistic hours. Maybe they can hire a junior buyer to pick up some of the slack.”
“Right.” It’s obvious she doesn’t believe me.
“Listen to me, Sam. You are way more important to me than that stupid job.” At that precise moment, from somewhere downstairs the theme song to Cody’s Way starts to play. It’s my BlackBerry. I pointedly ignore it. “And your father’s moved into his apartment now. We’ll get you a room set up there so you can spend more time with him.”
“Him and his hot babe.”
“Sweetie,” I admonish, “she’s not that hot. She’s just young and has curly hair. If you saw her you’d probably think she was quite fat.”
Sam sits up. “Your phone is still ringing. Will you please just go answer it?”
“Honey, we’re talking.”
“I don’t want to talk now, Mom!” she shrieks. “I want to sleep. We can talk later, okay?”
It has been rather torturous letting the phone go unanswered. “Okay,” I acquiesce, hurrying out of her room, “but we’re definitely talking when you wake up.”
I charge down the stairs only to have the ringing cease the minute I hit the floor. “Shit,” I mutter, heading to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. But before I’ve even reached the sink, Cody’s theme, “Be True to Yourself,” is playing again from the confines of my purse. I hurry to answer it.
“Hey Lucy,” a male voice says brightly. “It’s me.”
Me? Who is me? I briefly run through the list of male callers who defy introduction: Trent, Bruce, my brother perhaps … But it’s none of them. I glance at the monstrous bouquet perched near the front door. It’s got to be Wynn Felker.
I’m about to say “Hi Wynn,” but I stop. What if it’s not him? What if it’s Trent disguising his voice? Not that Trent would disguise his voice, I suppose, but maybe he just sounds a lot different now that he’s having sex with some overweight whore? It could be someone else entirely—Trent’s brother-in-law Seamus, or Hope’s Mike. I can’t risk exposing our relationship with a “Hi Wynn”—not that we have any sort of relationship. It was just a bit of kissing. Still, I don’t want to end up in the tabloids: Elderly Single Mother of Drug Addict Romancing Teen Heartthrob.
Finally, I say, “Hi there.”
“It’s Wynn,” he says. “I’m back.”
“How was your trip?”
“Long. Boring. Nebraska sucks.”
“It can’t be that bad!” I say with a girlish titter. It comes out completely flirtatious and I suddenly realize my cheeks are hot and my heart is racing. It’s disgusting to be flirting with a guy mere seconds after you’ve stared at his posters plastering your daughter’s bedroom wall—especially the one where he’s jumping off the ladder in his overalls. I’ve got to get a grip.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I say coolly. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Glad you liked them,” he replies, then, “I want to see you. I have something exciting to tell you.”
I start to decline. My focus has to be on my daughter now. But she did request some time to sleep. And it would be more courteous to explain to Wynn, in person, that our drinking and necking session was a big mistake that cannot be repeated. “How about a quick coffee?” I hear myself suggesting.
THANKFULLY, WYNN JOINS ME at my neighborhood coffee shop and doesn’t insist we meet in some obscure location in the suburbs. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no denying his star quality. As he approaches, a few heads turn, but given that the clientele is largely retired couples in their sixties, no one makes a scene.
“Hi,” he says, kissing both my cheeks. It’s sweet and sort of European and highly unexpected. “You look great.”
“So do you,” I say. He’s unshaven and uncombed, but he still does look great. I suppose it’s impossible to look anything but with those features.
“Can I get you a coffee?”
“Please,” I say. “I’ll have an Americano.”
I watch him surreptitiously as he walks to the counter and orders. God, he’s hot. The whiskers and ball cap detract from the prettiness, making him almost rugged. It’s hard to believe that the man before me is the same cheesy actor featured in Sam’s poster collection. Unbidden, the image of Cody jumping off the stepladder with his can of yellow paint flashes in my mind. I shake it off. I’m here to talk to Wynn Felker, the adult, not his precocious teenage doppelgänger.
When he’s returned with our coffees, I immediately say, “What’s your big news?” It may be abrupt, but I’m a little nervous. Last time I saw Wynn I was drunk on gin and chewing on his tongue most of the time.
“I called my mom!” he says gleefully. “And my brother. I’m flying them out to Vancouver.”
“That’s great,” I say, truly pleased.
“I thought about what you said, about how your family is your family, even if they’re not perfect. And I just thought: why am I letting my managers keep me from seeing my own brother? It’s stupid … stupider than a lobster mascot.”
I burst into laughter. “You’re right.”
“So what if Dennis is a bit of a stoner. He’s my big brother and I love him.”
“That’s so great.” I’m tempted to reach for his hand in a show of support, but it might send the wrong signals. Despite my enthusiasm for Wynn’s familial reunion, I can’t forget that I’m here to end things with him. Hands on my coffee cup, I say, “They must be so happy.”
“They are.” Wynn reaches for my hand, obviously having no such qualms. I’m surprised by the physical reaction his touch invokes, but I keep my cool. “And so am I. And I’ve got you to thank for this.”
“Oh … no …” I look down shyly. “You’d have had the same revelation on your own … eventually.”
“Yeah, but it could have taken years! I want to thank you,” he says. “Can I take you for dinner one night?
”
Now is the time to tell him that our make-out session in the Kingsway Inn was an anomaly. I am not the kind of woman who normally drinks five gin and tonics and sucks the face off her much younger co-worker. In contrast, I am a devoted if slightly overwrought mother who was feeling lonely and neglected and made a serious error in judgment. “The other night …” I begin, but I’m interrupted by a sudden presence at Wynn’s side. A teenage girl in head-to-toe yoga clothes has approached without our noticing.
“Oh my god!” she squeals. “Cody Summers! I mean, Wynn Felker. I love you, like, I love your show.” She glances over at me then. “Oh … Hi Mrs. Vaughn.”
I snatch my hand from Wynn’s. “Uh … hi Jessica,” I stammer upon recognizing the interloper. She’s grown since I last saw her, but there’s no denying that the gawky teen in Lululemon garb is Jessica Watkins from Samantha’s former dance class. “How have you been?”
“I’m okay, Mrs. Vaughn. How are you?”
I wish she’d quit saying “Mrs. Vaughn.” Given that I’m sitting here with Wynn Felker, she may as well be calling me “Grandma Moses.” “I’m fine, thanks. Are you still dancing?”
“No,” she says. “I’m too busy with school and I’m really getting into yoga.”
“Well, good for you,” I say dismissively, but Jessica misses the intonation. She turns to Wynn.
“So, what’s going to happen when Cody graduates high school? My friends and I hope that you do a show called Cody’s Way: The College Years.”
“Maybe,” Wynn says, “but I don’t think I want to play Cody Summers for the rest of my life.”
“Yeah, but you have to do a college show!” Jessica squeals. “Pleeeeeze?”
Suddenly, Ava Watkins’s angular frame appears and drapes a lithe arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Shit! It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be here, too. Just because my daughter would never consider going for coffee with me, I shouldn’t assume that’s the case with everyone. Ava and Jessica are even wearing matching yoga outfits. They’ve obviously just been to a mother-daughter-bonding Ashtanga class.
“Who have you found over here?” Ava says, eyeing Wynn.
“It’s Cody Summers!”Jessica says excitedly, then less so, “And Mrs. Vaughn.”
Ava gapes at me for the quickest of seconds before composing herself. “Hi Lucy.”
“Hi Ava.”
“Sorry to interrupt your … uh …”
“Meeting,” I jump in. “I work on Cody’s—Wynn’s show. We were just having a quick meeting.”
“Oh, you TV types,” Ava laughs. “Always working, even on a Sunday morning when most of us are having family time.”
Jessica says, “Could I have your autograph, Cody?” She giggles. “I mean Wynn!”
“Sure,” Wynn says, patting his jacket pockets. “Does anyone have a pen?”
“I’ll get one from the barista,” Jessica says, rushing off.
Ava watches her lanky daughter skip to the counter then places a bony hand on my shoulder. “I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about everything.”
“Thanks,” I reply awkwardly.
“It was bad enough when Trent left you, but then all the troubles with Sam.” She mimes drinking from a bottle and then makes a “drunk face”: eyes rolling, tongue lolling. “And then this latest fiasco with the art show,” she finishes, pityingly.
I can’t look at Wynn—if, in fact, he’s still sitting across from me. He’s probably left, mortified by this mother/daughter assault. And he’s undoubtedly wondering why he ever asked me out, a woman who obviously drove her husband away and turned her daughter into a teenage alcoholic. But I can’t think about that now. I’m too busy devising ways to kill Hope for betraying my confidence.
“If you need anything,” Ava is saying, “feel free to call. Robert and I are both here for you.”
Jessica returns with a pen and a paper napkin. “Okay,” she squeals, placing them in front of Wynn. “Could you write: To Jessica, Love from Wynn Felker, aka Cody Summers?”
“Sure,” Wynn says, scribbling on the napkin. He hands it to her. “There you go.”
Jessica looks at the paper, kisses it. “Thank you!”
Ava smiles. “We’ll let you get back to your meeting.” Then she adds quietly, “You call me if you need me, okay?”
“Right,” I grumble. Then I watch mother and daughter exit the coffee shop hand in hand.
Trent
IT MUST BE NICE TO BE LUCY. Okay, maybe not nice, but I wish I had someone to blame this whole mess on. I’m sure she’s cursing me up and down, bad-mouthing me to our daughter and the entire neighborhood. By now, she’s probably called a lawyer and is planning to take me for everything I’m worth. Not to mention that she’ll obviously go for full custody of Sam. And once she tells the judge I brought Annika to Sam’s art show, she’ll undoubtedly get it. I still don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.
Not that Annika’s presence at Crofton House was the catalyst for Sam’s problems. She dropped out of the art show two weeks ago. But clearly it did nothing to heal our family. And it provided a perfect scapegoat for Lucy, or as she would probably say, scape-pig. God, she’s nasty. Obviously, she’s not going to love Annika, but all the Porky Pig stuff was really going too far. Annika’s right, Lucy’s probably got an eating disorder or something. I just hope it doesn’t rub off on Sam. She’s got enough problems.
I look at the clock on the DVD player: 12:45, and still no word from Lucy or Sam. I left them both messages this morning, but I’m not going to harass them. They want space, I’ll give them some space. They just have to remember that I’m still a part of this family and therefore need to be kept in the loop.
I turn my attention back to the hockey game, making a concerted effort to forget about the women in my life. It doesn’t work. Lucy can’t keep blowing me off like this. I know she’s pissed, but we have things to discuss. Sam might need drug counseling, or at least some sort of counseling. And Lucy and I could probably use some professional help sorting through our problems, too.
At that moment the intercom rings. It’s Annika. It has to be Annika, since she’s the only person who even knows where I live right now. I fully intend to give my new address to Lucy and have Sam come spend the weekend, but it’s a little hard to do when they won’t even return my freakin’ calls. I reach for the phone and buzz Annika up without even saying hello.
Moments later, she knocks on the door. I haul myself off the couch and let her in.
“I really should get a key,” she says, hurrying inside with several shopping bags. I shut the door and she turns to me. “How are you?” She kisses my lips before I can answer.
“I’m waiting to hear from Lucy and Sam,” I grumble, making my way back to the Karlstad three-seater.
“They still haven’t called?” Annika says, taking her load to the small round dining table. The bags crinkle as she withdraws her purchases, nearly muting her voice. Unfortunately, the bags aren’t quite loud enough. “I can’t believe you were married to that monster for so long. I mean, she’s obviously extremely unhappy with herself. You can see that just looking at her. She’s got body dysmorphic disorder for sure. But I can’t believe she’s trying to shut you out of your own daughter’s life. Samantha obviously needs her father right now.”
“Mmm,” I mumble, staring at the hockey game.
“Trent,” Annika says, blocking the TV. She’s holding a large, plush dog. “He’s a Shar Pei. Isn’t he cute?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug.
“He’s for Sam,”Annika continues, “to cheer her up. I thought maybe we could take her for dinner tonight and give it to her. What do you think?”
I think my daughter is fifteen, not three. I also think having dinner with Annika and me could send Sam off on a crystal meth–fueled orgy for real. But I don’t bother saying any of this. Explaining to Annika why her idea is stupid—make that ludicrous—seems too exhausting. “I still haven’t heard from
her,” I say.
“We’ll just wait then,” she says, returning the stuffed dog to its bag. She flops on the couch beside me. “We could have sex,” she says, playing with my belt, “to take your mind off things?”
I move her hand away. “I’m not in the mood,” I say, eyes on the TV.
“Okay.” She snuggles up beside me, her curly head resting on my shoulder. “I’ll just keep you company.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Really … Why don’t you go enjoy your day? I’m just going to watch the game.”
Annika sits up and looks at me. “I’m not going to leave you alone at a time like this.” She kisses my forehead, a strangely maternal gesture. “I’m here for you, babe.”
She settles back in beside me and we stare at the TV. My mind’s not on it, but it beats rehashing the events of last night. Apparently, Annika disagrees. “Your ex-wife is such a critical person that I’m sure Sam feels constantly judged. It’s no wonder she dropped out of the art show.”
Without any forethought, I hear myself defending Lucy. “She’s actually a really good mom.”
“Honey, her hands-off parenting style is asking for trouble.”
I sit forward. “She doesn’t have a hands-off parenting style. Yeah, she works too much, but it’s not like she doesn’t care about Sam.”
“But to a teenager, the long hours at work must seem like a choice, like she’s choosing work over her daughter.”
“Until I left, Sam was a happy, well-adjusted kid.”
“You can’t put this all on you,” Annika says, giving my knee a sympathetic squeeze. “If Lucy’s going to be the primary parent, she needs to compensate for your absence. And she obviously hasn’t done that.”
“And you’re a parenting expert now, are you?” I snap.
“I’m a child of divorce,” she says sagely.
Flopping back onto the couch cushions, I stare at the game. I don’t know who’s winning. I’m not even sure who’s playing. And I’m definitely not sure why I’m feeling so defensive of Lucy. Annika’s probably right: Lucy should have cut back her hours after I left—even temporarily. If she’d spent some time helping Sam deal with our split, none of this would have happened.
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 12
