I decide to shave my legs. It’s been days, perhaps a week. There hasn’t seemed to be much point lately. As the pink razor cuts through the piglike bristles that have sprouted all over my shin, I think about Hope. Maybe I was too hard on her? It couldn’t be easy hearing that your husband is out flirting with women while you’re home quizzing your genius daughter on spelling words. I didn’t want to hurt her, but she’s living in a fantasy world. She sits at home sewing placemats and baking butter tarts while Mike runs around snorkeling and flirting and getting plastic surgery. And she has the nerve to judge my crumbling marriage? My pot-smoking daughter? On the other hand, Sarah-Louise didn’t fall off the rails during her parents’ marital crisis. God, maybe Hope’s really on to something?
Suddenly the bathroom door bursts open, startling me. I fumble the razor, causing it to slice cleanly across my ankle bone. I look down to find the wound has produced a surprising amount of blood. “Shit,” I say, dropping my foot in the water to rinse it away. As soon as I remove it, the torrent continues. Christ, could I have hit an artery? Then I look up at my daughter, and suddenly, bleeding to death is the last thing on my mind. Sam’s face is alight, animated … happy!
“Oh my god, Mom! Thank you so much!”
“What? What did I do?”
“I heard a car in the driveway, so I looked out and I was all like, ‘Who do we know that drives a Porsche,’ and then he got out and he has flowers and he’s at the door right now!”
It takes me only a second to process the information, but apparently that’s too long. In that minuscule span of time, Samantha has fluffed her hair in the mirror and hurried to answer the door.
“Sam! No! Wait!” I scream, jumping from the tub. Water pours off my body, soaking the bathmat and the floor, but I don’t pause to dry off. Grabbing the nearest towel, I wrap it around my nakedness and fly down the stairs.
From my vantage point on the stairwell, I watch my child open the door as if in slow motion. The bouquet of flowers is visible first, its expensive blooms almost concealing his face. But there’s no mistaking that it’s him. The battered leather jacket, the thick brown hair not covered by a ball cap this time. Sam jumps up and down girlishly for a moment before composing herself. “Hi Wynn,” she says.
“Hey,” he replies smoothly. “You must be Sam.”
“Yep!” she says, dissolving into a nervous giggle. “Umm … come in.”
He steps into the foyer. “So …” he begins, and I know I have mere nanoseconds to react.
“Wynn!” I scream, as I barrel down the staircase in my towel. I’m still soaked and blood pours from the severed ankle artery, but I can’t stop. If I don’t intercept their meeting, I’ll lose Sam forever.
“There you are,” he says, his handsome face relaying his confusion.
“Here I am,” I pant, skidding to a stop in front of them.
He points at my ankle. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”
“Mom!” Samantha says, mortified. Jesus Sam, I’m bleeding on the floor, not peeing.
“I’m fine.” My eyes bore into Wynn’s. “Thanks so much for popping by to cheer up my daughter. She’s always wanted to meet you, and she’s been going through a rough time lately.”
“Mom!” Sam cries louder. Apparently, revealing her troubles to Wynn Felker is more embarrassing than bleeding or peeing on the floor.
“What?” I turn to her. “Sorry.”
Wynn seems a little slow to catch on. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about what’s going on at work.”
“Right, sure, we can do that. But you brought Sam flowers! That’s so nice of you.”
I give him a deranged look that says, If you don’t hand those flowers to my daughter this instant, I will slash your throat with a Daisy razor.
A little nervously, he hands the bouquet over. “These are for you, Sam.”
She giggles again. “Thanks!”
“Don’t just stand there,” I say to her. “Go put them in water!”
“Okay …”
“And trim the stems on an angle. They’ll last longer. But don’t cut yourself.”
“Okay …” She reluctantly walks away.
When she’s safely out of earshot, I hiss, “What are you doing at my house?”
“I can’t believe Bruce fired you. He can’t do that.”
“He can and he did. That doesn’t mean you can show up here like this. My daughter is in a precarious state right now. If she thinks there’s something going on between her mom and Cody Summers, who knows what she’ll do.”
Wynn looks at me coyly. “Is there something going on between us?” His finger reaches out and just barely touches the corner of the towel I’m wearing. I gasp, blush, and become instantly aroused. It’s a small gesture, but given that I’m standing naked, mere inches away from one of the hottest men I’ve ever encountered, it’s a little intense. I’m a terrible mother. I step back. “There can’t be,” I say. “It’s way too complicated.”
He steps forward. “It doesn’t have to be.”
God he’s sexy. But I will not be swayed. It’s true that our drunken make-out session has been the sexual highlight of the last four years of my life (I refuse to give credit to my post-split fornication with Trent on the couch), and that a surge of primal, animal lust is making my groin tingle and my legs feel weak, but I am a mother first and foremost. I take a large, adamant step back. Unfortunately, I am unaware that approximately a liter of ankle blood has pooled behind me. I slip and fall unceremoniously on my ass.
Wynn reaches for me, but it’s too late. “Shit!” he says, thankfully not laughing. “Are you okay?”
The crash has brought Sam scurrying from the kitchen. “What happened?” she cries, the paring knife still in her hand. “Mom!” But there is no concern in her voice, only … disgust. “Your boob,” she finishes more quietly.
Instinctively, I reach for the towel and find that she’s right. In the tumble, my left boob has seen fit to pop out—or more accurately, flop out, given the state of my forty-year-old breasts. I suddenly wish Camille had bought me implants instead of a Botox treatment.
“Oh no!” I cry, quickly covering myself.
“God!” Sam says. “Gross!”
Wynn reaches a hand out to me. “Let me help you up.”
As I raise my hand to meet his, I’m convulsed by uncontrollable laughter. I’m hysterical, obviously, but suddenly it all seems so goddamn funny! I’m sitting on the floor in a pool of blood, wearing only a towel. My left boob has just fallen out in front of the Choice Hottie. My teenage daughter thinks I’m an embarrassment and disgusting and she’s probably right. I’ve lost my job, my best friend, and the only man who wants anything to do with me is known to the world as a seventeenyear-old boy! With Sam and Wynn watching me helplessly, I lean back on my elbows and laugh until the tears come.
Trent
“I NEVER SAID I’D CHOOSE ANNIKA OVER YOU,” Don Spencer is saying. His lithe runner’s frame reclines in his leather office chair. He seems to be taking this whole thing rather casually. “She came barging into my office crying that she didn’t think she could work with you anymore. I had to say something to calm her down.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my own chair as relief washes over me. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”
“Me too. And I’m sorry you don’t have enough sense not to sleep with a co-worker.”
I nod sheepishly. “It was a mistake. I can see that now.”
“Is it over between you two then?”
“I think so. I don’t know. She wants us to go to a relationship coach.”
“A relationship coach?” He sits up. “After you’ve been banging her for a month?”
I mirror his action and sit forward. “I know. She’s gotten way too serious. It’s scary.”
Don chuckles quietly. “I’m sorry Trent, but you’ve really dropped yourself in it this time.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, Annika’s very attractive,
but she’s always come across as a little … desperate, you know?”
No, I don’t know, asshole. Otherwise I never would have slept with her. But I nod and shrug.
“How’s Lucy doing with all this?”
“How do you think?” I say. “She’s pissed.”
“And Sam?”
I think about Lucy’s entreaty to Hope to keep our daughter’s pot-smoking, drop-out behavior quiet. But I suddenly realize I haven’t talked to anyone about our situation in months. My world has turned upside down, and I’m dealing with it utterly alone. Don’s my boss, so not exactly the ideal confidant, but what choice do I have?
“She’s had a hard time,” I say, horrified to feel a lump of emotion forming in my throat. “She’s angry and hurt and … she’s rebelling.”
“What’s she been doing?”
“She dropped out of her art show and …” My voice breaks. “She’s been drinking.”
“That’s a pretty normal reaction,” Don says knowingly. He has two sons, now in their twenties. “But kids are resilient. She’ll get over it.”
I realize that if I speak, I run the risk of bursting into tears. It’s weak and pathetic, but I can’t help it. Maybe I’m depressed?
Don stands and moves around the desk to pat my shoulder heartily. “Why don’t you take some vacation time and sort yourself out?”
I shrug, nod. Shit. A tear just leaked out of the corner of my eye.
“Your job is safe, okay?” Don says. He probably thinks I’m about to have a nervous breakdown or something. He might be right. “And maybe you and Annika should see this counselor?”
My head snaps up to look at him. “What? Why?”
He continues. “A professional should be able to make her see that this was just a roll in the hay that got blown out of proportion.”
He’s right. Why didn’t I think of that? I guess that’s why he’s the boss. “Thanks,” I croak, clearing my throat loudly as I stand.
Another hearty pat on the back. “Take a few days.” It’s a command now, not a suggestion. “You’ll get through this.”
I start to walk out of his office and then stop. “Thanks for understanding.” My voice cracks and I make some weird snorting noise—a repressed sob, I guess. I hurry away before I start crying like a baby.
Lucy
AFTER WYNN LEFT, I tried to ignore Sam’s excited phone calls to all her friends and acquaintances.
“Oh my god! Wynn Felker just came by to see me! … I don’t know—my mom told him about me so I guess he wanted to meet me. And he brought me flowers … That’s what older guys do when they meet a woman … Well, guys with class.”
I noticed that she didn’t mention the possibility that Wynn’s was a pity visit prompted by her mother’s telling him Sam had been having a hard time with the separation. She also left out my boob flashing and mini-meltdown.
But by Friday, the commotion caused by Wynn’s surprise visit has given way to an eerie sense of normalcy. I get dressed for work and send Sam off to school. When I’m alone, I change out of my work clothes and into a pair of track pants with an old cardigan, and begin my day of shuffling around the house aimlessly. This is my new normal, I guess: without love, without purpose, without employment. I’m in the middle of making a subpar pot of coffee when the phone rings.
“I’m outside your house,” Camille says excitedly. “Can I come in?”
Moments later, I usher her inside. She looks at my ensemble and quickly covers her expression of distaste with one of pity. “Oh hon,” she says, giving me a quick hug. But when she releases me, she brightens significantly. “You’ll never guess what happened at work yesterday!”
Obviously, I’m not really in the mood to hear work stories. Although I guess it’s not that obvious to Camille. “Let’s have coffee,” I offer, leading her to the kitchen.
She follows me, chatting animatedly. “Okay, so I’ve been totally swamped since you left. I worked fourteen hours yesterday and the day before, and I still wasn’t able to get everything for Cody’s keg party that goes awry.”
I fill two cups. “What did Bruce say?”
“He’s trying to hire someone, but the city isn’t exactly crawling with experienced props buyers. He called Miranda Ross, but she’s working on that sci fi series with the grandpa who’s an alien.”
“He should have been more flexible,” I retort. “But I’m sorry this is all falling on you.”
“Listen to this,” she says, positively gleefully. “So I’m in Bruce’s office telling him that it’s physically impossible for one person to provide all the props for a series like this when who should storm in?”
I already know, but she proceeds. “Ainsley, followed by Wynn Felker!”
“Really?” I say, feigning surprise that Wynn and the show’s producer, stout powerhouse Ainsley, had paid Bruce a visit. “What did they want?”
“Ainsley was all over Bruce. She went on and on about how this is a family show, so how can we, as a production, not support employees with families. Wynn just stood there, looking pissed off—and gorgeous, of course.”
“Really?” I can feel myself smiling. I can’t seem to help it.
“By the end of the conversation, Bruce was apologizing and promising that he was going to hire you back and get a junior buyer in so you can knock off early for Sam.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can think to say.
Camille looks at her watch. “He’ll be calling you any minute. I’d better get back on the road. Somehow, I don’t think Wynn and Ainsley would storm in to fight for my job.” She gives me a mischievous wink.
I walk her to the door and give her a big hug. “Thanks for coming by,” I say. “It’s really sweet of you.”
“I can’t wait until we’re working together again. I’ve totally missed you—and I don’t just mean you taking back half my workload.”
I force a tight smile. Unfortunately, my friend notices. “What?” she says. “Aren’t you happy to be coming back to work?”
“Of course!” I say. “I’m desperate to be working. It’s not like I can afford to lounge around here all day doing nothing.” I shrug. “I’m just tired and overwhelmed, that’s all.”
“Have you talked to Trent?”
I suddenly remember my promise to call him today. But I don’t necessarily have to abide by that, do I? I mean, he promised to love me until death did us part, so he’s not really in a position to judge. “Just briefly,” I said. Behind me, the phone rings.
Camille jumps. “That’ll be Bruce! You may as well ask for a raise while he’s begging you to come back.”
I shut the door and head for the phone. My blasé response to the impending conversation surprises me. Of course I want my job back. I need the money and the sense of purpose. And the thought of updating my résumé and starting the whole job hunt over again is wearying. But there’s also no denying that buying props for Cody Summers has become less and less stimulating. Cody himself has become infinitely more stimulating, but driving all over the lower mainland in search of his skateboards, Rubik’s Cubes, pool noodles, and remote-control dinosaurs all seems so meaningless.
So my voice is less than enthusiastic when I answer. “Hello?”
“Lucy, it’s me.”
“Trent?” I’m surprised and a little annoyed. First of all, I said I’d call him back. Of course, it’s entirely possible I wouldn’t have, but he didn’t know that. Second of all, he’s tying up the line so that Bruce is unable to offer me my uninspiring and pointless job back. “Why are you calling?”
“I need to talk to you.”
His voice breaks and it almost sounds like he’s crying. Trent’s never been overly emotional or sentimental, but I suppose Sam’s rejection has weakened him. “This isn’t a good time,” I reply coolly.
“Please,” he begs, and this time there’s no doubt. Trent is crying, and hard.
“What’s wrong?” I demand. Surprisingly, I feel annoyed by his unfettered display of emot
ion. I don’t have the energy to soothe him, to prop him up and help him cope with what he’s done. It’s no longer my role to play wife to him. That’s Petunia Pig’s job now.
“Everything’s wrong,” he sobs. “I miss Sam. I miss you. I miss you and Sam.”
It’s satisfying, I can’t deny it. But still, he’s tying up the line. “I can’t force Sam to see you, Trent. But I’m sure she’ll come around eventually.”
I hear him take a deep breath. “I thought maybe we could do something together, the three of us?”
“I don’t think Sam’s ready to meet your”—I stop myself from saying whore—“girlfriend. She’s still adjusting to our separation.”
“Not with her,” Trent says, “with you. The three of us, together again, like a family.”
It’s the trigger that stirs the emotion in me. My throat constricts as I’m gripped by a nostalgic longing for the way things were. If I could make the last month of our lives disappear, I would, but I can’t. We’ll never get back what we had. Sam and I will never look at Trent the same way again. “It’s too late,” I say softly.
“It’s not too late,” my husband insists. “I fucked up, I know that. But we can’t throw away eighteen years over one bad month.”
“One bad month?” I screech. “You brought your girlfriend to our daughter’s art show! You’ve driven Sam to booze and drugs! You’ve continually neglected us both, and now you think we can just go back to the way we were?”
“We’ll start fresh,” Trent pleads. “Lucy … please. I need you.”
“Really? I thought you needed time alone, to sort out your grown-up man stuff.”
My sarcasm usually trips the switch on his anger, but not this time. His voice is quiet, resigned, when he says, “I was wrong.”
His tone defuses my rage. There’s a long moment of silence as I try to think of what to say next. But what is there to say? I want to forgive him, I really do. I just don’t know if I can.
“It’s over between Annika and me,” he says, “in case you were wondering.”
“Not really.”
“She wants us to go to counseling, if you can believe it.”
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 15
