The Weekenders

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Maggy nodded. “What time is it?”

  “It’s almost ten in the morning. You had kind of a rough night, kiddo.”

  Maggy turned her head and looked at the monitors and the IV pole and then back at her mother. “Is this the hospital? How did we get here?”

  “Baldwin Memorial. They sent a helicopter to pick us up on the island.”

  “I rode in a helicopter, and I didn’t even know it?”

  “You were pretty sick.” Riley squeezed her daughter’s hand. “You scared us, baby.”

  A tear trickled from Maggy’s eye, and Riley dabbed at it with a tissue. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I was so dumb. I didn’t mean that stuff I said.”

  “It’s okay. We both said some stuff we didn’t mean. Do you feel like telling me what happened last night? Why did you leave Annabelle’s?”

  “We had a fight.” Maggy turned her face to the wall. “She said Dad was a crook, and he stole money and the FBI was after him.”

  “Oh, honey.” Riley bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, wishing she could draw blood from Annabelle, and anybody who was ever, ever cruel to her child.

  “Then she said I was stupid and ugly and it was gross that I have to stick myself and test my blood and get shots. So I came home. I hate her.”

  “Is that why you ate candy and made yourself sick?”

  “Yes,” Maggy said, in the tiniest, barely audible voice possible. “I was mad at you and Annabelle, and I wanted to make you feel as bad as I feel. But I’m sorry now. I won’t do it again.”

  “You better not,” Riley said.

  “When can we go home?” Maggy asked plaintively.

  “Maybe today. Mimi called. Mr. Banks is missing you.”

  “No, I mean home to Raleigh. To our new house. The kids on Belle Isle are jerks.”

  “We’ll see,” Riley said. She kissed the tip of her finger and touched it to her child’s cheek. “Get some rest now.”

  59

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Parrish asked. They were on the ferry, bound for Southpoint, and then Raleigh.

  “I don’t want to, I have to,” Riley said. They were on a bench on the upper observation deck. Maggy sat nearby, with Mr. Banks clutched tightly in her arms. “My job starts tomorrow and Maggy’s school starts, too.”

  “You don’t need to stay in a hotel, for God’s sake. Just stay at our house until your new place is ready. I don’t mind staying in town for a week or so, in case you need something, and you and Maggy won’t be stuck in some dreary room where you can’t even cook.”

  “It’s not dreary. It’s a very nice all-suite hotel right across the street from Woodlawn, her new school, so Maggy can just walk there after dismissal. There’s a kitchenette so we can cook if we need to, but I don’t expect to have much time this first week, so we’ll probably do a lot of takeout. We’ll be fine,” Riley said.

  “You won’t let anybody help, will you?” Parrish said, shaking her head in exasperation.

  “This is our new normal. I love and appreciate you more than I can say, Parrish, but Maggy and I have to figure out how to do this by ourselves. It’s enough that you’re helping me get some of our stuff out of the storage unit and moved into the hotel, and sticking around to go to orientation with her tomorrow.”

  “It’s not enough, but since you won’t let me do anything else, what choice do I have? And let me just say—I think it’s super shitty that this boss of yours won’t even give you a couple hours to go to orientation with your kid at her new school.”

  “Yeah,” Riley said uneasily. “I guess you can’t expect a single twenty-six-year-old to get how important this is, but I kinda agree with you. I’m trying to be optimistic about everything, for Maggy’s sake, but I’m afraid this isn’t going to be the most family-friendly job I’ve ever had.”

  “And she’s a woman! There’s no excuse for that.”

  “I just have to educate her,” Riley said.

  Parrish took a sip from her water bottle. “Did you see who got on the ferry at the last minute?”

  Riley shot her an annoyed look. “You know I did.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No. The whole thing is impossible. If you’d seen Maggy that night, in her room, in a self-induced diabetic coma, lying in a puddle of her own vomit and urine, you’d understand. Now, can we please drop it?”

  “I’m not letting you off the hook that easily, Riles. I’m a mom too, you know, and I’ve raised a child. And no, David didn’t have a serious disease, but that’s not the issue. Kids that age are manipulative little bastards, and Maggy, bless her heart, is clever enough that she knows exactly how to push your buttons and how far to push you to get what she wants.”

  “I don’t think it’s unreasonable of her to expect the only parent she has to put her needs first,” Riley said. “That’s what parents do, and it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Parrish insisted. “Needs aren’t the same as wants. You give Maggy everything she needs—in spades. Attention, both physical and medical, affection, education, all of it. But she wants more. She wants to dictate how you live, who you love. That’s not fair. And it’s not good for her or you. Keep this up and she’ll end up a spoiled, self-involved brat and ten years from now you’ll be a lonely empty nester who wakes up one day to discover you forgot to have a life for yourself.”

  “Anything else, Dr. Freud?” Riley asked.

  “Yeah,” Parrish said, looking up. “I just saw him standing at the window up there in the pilothouse. If you’d seen the way he was looking down at you—the longing, the despair, all of it…”

  “It wouldn’t change anything,” Riley said. “What’s done is done.”

  * * *

  “Come on, Mags. Parrish is here. Let’s see how you look in the uniform,” Riley called. It was seven thirty Monday morning, Maggy had been in the bathroom for forty minutes, and Riley needed to leave for work.

  “No!”

  Riley looked at Parrish and shrugged.

  “I got this,” Parrish said. She pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Margaret Evelyn Griggs, get your tail out here. RIGHT THIS MINUTE.”

  The bathroom door opened a crack and light spilled out into the hotel room. “I am NOT wearing this,” Maggy announced, walking out. “I look like that girl from Harry Potter.”

  She stalked out of the bathroom, the hard soles of her saddle oxfords clattering on the tile floor. The sleeves of the boxy blue blazer stuck out from her narrow wrists by an inch, and the hem of the pleated skirt hit an unacceptable five inches short of her bony kneecaps.

  “I think you look nice,” Riley said. “Now, unroll the waistband of that kilt and pull up the knee socks.” She handed Maggy her backpack. “Your kit is in there, and I packed extra juice boxes and crackers and snacks. You’ll get a hot lunch in the cafeteria, but in case you don’t like it…”

  “Mom! I know all that. We’ve been over it, like, a million times.” Maggy sped toward the door.

  “You’ve got the number at the station, just in case, right?” Riley called. “And the key to the room? I should be back here no later than four.”

  Parrish followed Maggy out the door. “Does she remind you of Julie from The Love Boat in that getup?”

  “Don’t you dare tell her that,” Riley said. “I should be off the air at two. Call me and tell me how it went.”

  * * *

  Riley looked at herself in the full-length mirror of the communal dressing room at WDHM and recoiled in horror. “I am not wearing this,” she muttered.

  The sleeveless top was made of a clingy reptile-print fabric with a high stovepipe collar and a diagonal mesh-covered cutout across her breasts to her waist, which was accented by a three-inch-wide black leather belt. The skintight leggings were made of black pleather, and a shoebox on the counter held a pair of gold peep-toe suede booties with a four-inch acrylic stacked heel.

  Her ens
emble had been hanging in her cubicle at the station when she’d arrived—thirty minutes late. The commute from North Hills to Durham had taken much longer than she’d expected.

  Jacy, her producer, had made a big show of looking at the huge clock in the newsroom, and then back at Riley. “Your outfit is right there. A six, right? Our sponsor, Floozys, wants you to mention on air that viewers can go to our Web site and click the link to order it.”

  “Uh, I’m actually an eight,” Riley said. “Floozys? That’s really the name of the shop?”

  “Cute, right?” Jacy said. “Why don’t you get dressed and made up, then we’ll do a quick run-through on the set.”

  Riley did a slow turn in front of the mirror and wanted to weep. The combination of the too-small cinched belt and clingy fabric made her butt look huge, and she’d never been a fan of reptile prints. To make matters worse, the booties were nearly impossible to walk in. As she tottered out of the dressing room, she looked and felt like an overage stripper.

  The set had been built in the far corner of the cavernous studio, and featured a mod-looking neon-orange sofa and a cobalt-blue swivel “host’s chair.” The backdrop was a blown-up color photo of the Durham skyline.

  “Adorbs, right?” Jacy said, showing her where to sit.

  Riley collapsed into the chair, and Jacy handed her a sheaf of notes.

  “Okay, here’s today’s lineup. First, you’ll have Bob the Bugman from Triangle Pest Terminators. You’re gonna talk about powderpost beetles, Formosan termites, German cockroaches, and um…” She looked over Riley’s shoulder at the printout. “Oh yeah, voles.”

  “What’s a vole?” Riley asked.

  “Something disgusting,” Jacy said. “Like a guinea pig, I think, but they live in basements. Whatever. Bob’s an old pro at this. All you do is say that our community is, um, infested with pests. Just read what’s on the teleprompter.”

  “Got it,” Riley said.

  “This part is very important. Crucial. You mention the link on our Web site at the beginning of the spot and at the end for their viewers’ special coupon. It’s important, because if they don’t get a minimum number of clicks on that coupon, we don’t get paid.”

  “We get paid for clicks?”

  “Of course. Right? Next you’ve got Dr. Armand Amonghadang from Better You Cosmetic Surgery.”

  Riley studied the script. “How do you pronounce that name again? Can they give me a phonetic spelling on the teleprompter so I don’t mess it up?”

  Jacy rolled her eyes. “Ah. Mong. Ha. Dang. We usually just call him Dr. Dang. He’s pretty cool. You’ll lead in to him with this new study that shows young teens’ self-esteem can be radically improved with properly done breast augmentation. He’ll take it from there. His clinic is offering a back-to-school special. Again, you’ll promo the link on our Web site.”

  Riley scanned her notes. “Jacy, are you telling me I’m supposed to say it’s a good idea for young teens to have breast augmentation? That there’s an actual clinical study making that claim? Who did the study?”

  “Who cares?” Jacy studied Riley. “Your job is to make your viewers believe they need whatever you’re talking about. To make them want to shop where you shop and wear what you wear and do what you say. Right?”

  “I don’t know,” Riley said uneasily. “Pest-control coupons are one thing, but I’m not really comfortable advocating boob jobs for young girls. It seems unethical.”

  “How is that unethical? My mom got me a boob job when I was sixteen, and it was, like, life changing. So don’t judge, okay? Also? I don’t know if your agent mentioned it, but this is not Sixty Minutes here.”

  “But…”

  “Okay, the last spot is our community calendar thing. It’s National Honey Bee Awareness Day on the twentieth, so Seth, the bee guy, will demonstrate how you smoke a hive, and he’s bringing a bee helmet for you, too. This demographic loves it when the hosts participate. Then you’ll mention that you’ll be at the mall Thursday night, judging the North Carolina Beekeeper’s Association’s honey competition. And one lucky viewer who clicks the link on our Web site will get to have dinner with you before. Right?”

  “What? Bees? No, Jacy. I can’t wrangle bees. I’m terrified of stinging insects. Literally. I break out in hives.”

  “Hives! That’s adorbs, right? Use that in the intro. They didn’t tell me you were funny.” The producer checked her watch. “Okay, I need to go make some phone calls and then we’ve got a meeting with the sales staff—”

  “Jacy! Did you just hear what I said? I am not getting anywhere near bees. And while we’re on the subject, nobody said anything to me about an event on Thursday night. I can’t be at the mall. It’s back-to-school night at my daughter’s school.”

  Jacy stood with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed. “You know, Riley, we were a little, um, hesitant when your name came up in our talent search. But our focus groups showed us that our demographic wants a host with some maturity and a high believability factor. Plus, your people told us you were a pro. A real team player. So I don’t think it’s good for you to go all prima donna right off the bat on your first day, do you?”

  “This is not being a prima donna,” Riley said quietly. “I’m happy to interview the beekeeper, and he can smoke the hive all by himself while I stand well off-camera. But the Thursday night thing is not happening.”

  “You know you get paid a hundred bucks for a personal appearance, right?”

  “Still not happening,” Riley said. She turned and hobbled back to her cubicle to wait for her first guest to arrive.

  * * *

  It was nearly five o’clock by the time Riley made it back to the hotel. She found Maggy sitting on the pullout sofa in their suite, watching television. The room smelled like scorched microwave popcorn.

  “Hey, Mom,” Maggy said, not looking up.

  “Hi!” Riley had been giving herself a nonstop pep talk during the hour-and-a-half-long commute from Durham. So her first day hadn’t gone well. Okay, it was the worst first day ever. So she hated the job, and the pay was crap, and her boss was a nitwit, and her show was doomed to be a ratings bomb. She and Maggy had each other, and tomorrow would be better. It had to be better, because she really didn’t see how it could be worse.

  “How was your day?” Riley asked. “Do you like the new school?”

  “It’s okay.” Maggy shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

  “Are the teachers nice?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Do you have any homework?”

  Maggy aimed the remote at the television and turned up the volume. “Mom. I’m trying to watch this.”

  Riley took off her shoes and sank down onto the bed. She couldn’t ever remember feeling as tired and defeated as she did right now.

  “What would you like for dinner tonight?” she asked.

  “Pizza!”

  “Pizza and salad,” Riley said firmly. She reached across the bed, found the notebook with all the takeout menus of nearby restaurants, and placed her order.

  “Dinner by six,” Riley said, yawning. Then she promptly dozed off.

  By eight, they’d eaten, and Maggy had taken her insulin, and Riley started to pull out the sofabed.

  “Can I just sleep with you tonight?” Maggy asked, curling up on the side of the queen-size bed.

  “Sure,” Riley said, trying not to act surprised. She pulled down the covers and plumped the pillow next to hers. Maggy climbed in bed, and Riley clicked off the light.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “You never said how your day was.”

  “It was … okay.”

  “Was your new boss nice?”

  “She was okay.”

  “Do you have any homework?”

  Riley chuckled and gave her daughter’s fanny a whack. “Very cute.”

  “Seriously, Mom. Tell me the truth. I’m not a little kid.”

  “Umm, it really isn’t ve
ry okay. It kinda sucks. Nothing is like I thought it would be.”

  “Wow,” Maggy said. Riley felt her daughter’s slight frame mold up against her side, and her thin arm snaked around her waist. She felt Maggy’s warm breath on the back of her neck.

  “You know what?”

  “What?” Riley said.

  “My day wasn’t that hot either.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it? Maybe there’s something I can do to help.”

  “No,” Maggy said. “It’ll be okay.”

  60

  The Woodlawn School’s Sanford W. Mangrum Performing Arts Center was a far cry from the school auditorium at Edenton Elementary School, where Riley had spent her formative years.

  The biggest difference was that this space did not double as the school cafeteria, and thus did not carry the unforgettable scent of steam table chili-roni and soured milk. No. This space was a state-of-the-art masterpiece, with tiered stadium seating, plush upholstered seating, and surround-sound acoustics.

  The lights were already flickering as Riley hurried to her seat at back-to-school night, tardy again, because no matter what time of day she left the Durham studio she always got stuck in traffic on Interstate 40.

  She drew annoyed glares as she bumped knees and elbows trying to get to a mid-row vacant seat. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  The headmistress, Dr. Ksionzyk, was a pleasant, freckle-faced woman with a tangle of silver hair and just the slightest hint of an upstate New York accent. She gave a warm welcome to new and old parents of middle school students … and that was the last thing Riley was aware of, because she dozed off shortly after the lights were dimmed, awakening only when the parents applauded and the lights went back up, signaling a stampede of parents rushing to beat the fifteen-minute warning bell.

  Thankfully, Maggy had delivered a folder to her mother with explicit instructions for back-to-school night. Riley knew she was to report to room twelve at the Dunstan Building at 6:45 p.m. to meet Miss Barlow, Maggy’s homeroom teacher.

  She found the room and the desk with Maggy’s name masking-taped to it, but before she could sit, the teacher approached with barely concealed excitement. “You’re Riley from Raleigh! My gosh! What are you doing here?”