There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Fred pushes him backward. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Hey man,” Danny says calmly but warningly. “It’s over. Walk away.”

  Before I even realize what’s going on, Fred takes a swing at Danny, who blocks it effortlessly, then punches Fred in the stomach.

  Fred goes down hard. I cover my mouth. “Jesus!”

  I start to bend down to help Fred up, but I stop myself. Fred doesn’t deserve my help. He never did. I turn to Danny and weakly ask, “Can you take me home now?”

  * * *

  A while later, Danny and I are parked in front of Seema’s house. “He’s an asshole,” Danny tells me for the fortieth time.

  “I know,” I agree sadly.

  After we left the restaurant, Danny asked me to go to the beach with him, but I said no. I can’t do this. Fred has me all screwed up about myself. I don’t feel worthy of Danny’s attention. I feel like if he got to know me for six years, he’d do the exact same thing to me that Fred did.

  The person who knew me best in the world eventually realized I wasn’t good enough. I can’t go through that pain again.

  “Thanks for the ride home,” I say to Danny.

  “Offer for the beach is still open,” he tells me, trying to sound upbeat.

  I shake my head. “No. But thanks.”

  Danny keeps his tone light and cheerful. “Movie? Picnic? A quick jaunt to Las Vegas, perhaps?”

  I laugh politely. “I really did like meeting you. I’m sorry it was the wrong time for me.”

  “Don’t say that. I’ll call you later this week. Then maybe it’ll be the right time.”

  “Okay,” I say to him, halfheartedly.

  I already know I’m not going to return his call.

  If he even does call. Which he probably won’t. If I were him, I wouldn’t call me.

  Danny leans over and kisses me good-bye. It’s a very nice kiss, but a lot sadder than our other kisses.

  “Last chance for Vegas,” he says.

  I laugh. “How are you single again?”

  He smiles as I get out of the car. I close the door and wave good-bye.

  Then I watch him drive away.

  I open my purse and look for my house key.

  And there, mocking me, is my silver chili pepper.

  I walk over to Seema’s big black trash can at the side of the house and throw it away.

  Forty-four

  Nicole

  That Monday morning, I wake up a little extra early and take the time to brush my teeth, throw on some nice clothes, and even put on a little perfume. I have to admit, I am a little excited to see Kevin for coffee.

  First, I wake up Malika and send her downstairs to breakfast.

  Then I begin the half hour dance routine that is waking up Megan.

  I walk into Megan’s room. She is completely under her covers. “Megan, wake up.”

  Megan throws off her blanket, rolls over, and looks at me through half-closed eyes. “I don’t feel very good. My stomach hurts.”

  “Please don’t do this to me this morning,” I beg her. “We’re already late. I put out your uniform.”

  “Nicole!” Malika yells from downstairs.

  “Ye-ah?” I yell back.

  “I had an accident with the milk!”

  God, can’t we have one morning where things go smoothly? I run downstairs to see Malika holding up a half gallon of milk in a one-gallon plastic milk jug. The other half gallon of milk is in her cereal bowl, on the table, and all over the floor. “Malika?” I sigh, my shoulders sinking. “I told you I’d do that for you.”

  “But I wanted to do it myself,” she explains.

  Then she bursts into tears. “Honey, don’t cry,” I say, giving her a hug with one hand as I grab a dish towel and begin cleaning with the other. “It’s just milk, it’ll be fine.”

  Two minutes later I have raced upstairs and back into Megan’s room.

  Megan’s eyes are shut tight, and she is grabbing her stomach. I feel her forehead, which is hot to the touch. “You’re burning up. How long has your stomach hurt?”

  “I don’t know,” Megan nearly whispers.

  “Well, think back,” I say, pressing down on her abdomen.

  She gives me a half shrug. “I guess since I woke up in the middle of the night. Ow.”

  “Okay, when I pull my hand up…” I say gently.

  “OW!!!!!” She yelps as I take my hand off of her stomach.

  Appendicitis.

  Fuck.

  I try to stay calm as I ask her, “Honey, why didn’t you tell me last night that your stomach was hurting?”

  She looks away from me, ashamed. “I don’t know. I figured I’d wait until Daddy got home.”

  I slowly and gently try to help her out of bed. I wrap her arm around my neck and shoulder and pull her up. “Okay, sweetie, I think I know what this is, but I need you to try and jump for me.”

  She looks dazed. “What?”

  “You need to stand up, and then try and jump as high as you can. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I stand Megan on the floor, then pull away from her. She is standing pretty well. Maybe I’m overreacting. “Okay, now I need you to jump.”

  She bends her legs, then tries to jump. Nothing—her feet don’t even leave the floor. “Ow! I’m sorry, it hurts too much.”

  “All right. Well, maybe we can try—”

  Megan then pukes all over me.

  * * *

  Five minutes later I am driving down the hill to Cedars-Sinai hospital, and on my headset, leaving a message on Jason’s cell. “Hey, it’s me,” I say as calmly as possible, even though I’m freaking out inside. “No need to panic, but I’m pretty sure Megan has appendicitis. I’ve called her pediatrician, and she’s meeting us at Cedars in the Emergency Room. I dropped Malika off at her friend Rachel’s. Rachel’s mom will bring her to school. I have all of the insurance cards and everything, but I need you to call me back as soon as you get this.”

  I hang up the phone.

  Damn it. They played an exhibition in New York last night, and play in Philadelphia this evening. God knows what city he’s in at this hour, much less which hotel.

  I call Jacquie’s phone. Of course I get her voice mail, too. “Hi, it’s Nic,” I say, once again trying to sound casual. “I just wanted you to know that everything’s fine, but that there’s a chance that Megan has appendicitis. But everything’s fine, don’t panic. I just wanted you to know that we’re meeting her doctor at the hospital now, and that everything’s fine, but to please call me back.”

  I leave her my cell phone number, and also suggest she call Jason.

  I hang up the phone and look in my rearview mirror at Megan in the backseat. “Are you okay back there?”

  “I’m fine,” Megan lies. “But can we not talk?”

  “Oh. Okay, fine,” I say.

  She’s not fine. She could die.

  Oh God, please don’t let her die. I will never complain about mornings or Italy or my lack of a job again. They mean nothing to me, I swear.

  I want to burst into tears but don’t want Megan to see me lose it. I don’t want to but my mind keeps picturing one of those awful tiny coffins.

  God, I can’t stand this. My whole life would be over. Jason would never get over it. I would never get over it. Please God—why can’t it be me back there?

  “Can I lie down?” Megan asks me weakly.

  “It’s safer to sit up,” I tell her. “Otherwise, the seat belt isn’t as effective.”

  I hear her say, “You’re driving carefully,” then lie down. Within seconds I hear her dry heaving into a small trash can I brought along. As I speed down Coldwater Canyon, I ask her, “Do you want me to pull over for a minute?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  My mind jumps to the future again, even though I can’t bear the thought: no college graduation, no wedding, no grandchildren. Spending the rest of my life not being in the company of this amazing woman
who I can’t wait to watch grow up.

  I realize tears are streaming down my face. I wipe them away quickly.

  Please God, whatever you do, please don’t take her away from me.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, we’re in the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai, and Jason is finally calling me back. I pick up my cell on the first ring. “She’s fine,” I say without preamble. “But can you come home?”

  “I thought you couldn’t have a cell phone on in the hospital,” Jason says, sounding shell-shocked.

  “Just not in the hallways,” I tell him. “Can you come home?”

  “I’m packed and will be out of here in five minutes,” Jason assures me. “Are they prepping her for surgery?”

  “Not yet. They’ve done like a million blood tests, and they’re gonna do a CAT scan. But I’ve had appendicitis, I know what it looks like.”

  “Okay,” Jason says, trying to sound clinical and rational (and failing miserably). “Can I talk to her?”

  I hand the phone to Megan. “Your father wants to talk to you.”

  Clearly in pain, Megan forces herself to sit up in her hospital bed. “Hey, Daddy.”

  I watch her listen to him for a minute and hope he’s saying something reassuring. “No, I’m fine,” Megan says through a pained breath. She listens to him more, then says, “No, I’m not scared. The doctor was here, and she says I’ll be fine. Plus Nic’s here, and she says they do stuff like this every day. It’s totally routine … I know.… I know.… Okay good.… I love you more.”

  Megan hands me the phone and flops back down. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I take my phone back. “Hello.”

  “How are you holding up?” Jason asks me.

  “I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth, knowing Megan is within earshot and not wanting her to know how worried I am. “Just want to keep things moving along.”

  “What can I do on my end?” Jason asks. “Do you want me to track Jacquie down?”

  “Already tracked her down.”

  “Through her cell?”

  “No. I left a message. When that didn’t work, I called Carolyn, my old friend from the paper, and got her to track down the governor. He’s in Albany. His team found Jacquie, I talked to her, and she’ll be on the next flight home.”

  “Wow,” Jason says, impressed. “What about Malika? Should I get someone to—”

  “Her dance class is at three-thirty, school is out at two-thirty-four. I’ve already talked to Seema. She’s on the girls’ emergency cards, so she’s going to leave work early, pick Malika up from school, take her there, and then, depending on where we are in the day, bring her here to see her sister or take her out to get the biggest ice cream sundae of her life.”

  “Do you need to call—”

  “Jason, I’m on it,” I assure him. Then I whine, “I love you, but just let me deal with the details like I do best, and get your butt home.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  “I am so glad you’re there,” Jason says to me, relief in his voice. “I’m just…” I hear Jason struggle to complete his sentence. My amazingly eloquent husband is at a loss for words. “I love you very much.”

  “I love you more,” I promise. “Come home.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  And he’s out.

  Forty-five

  Seema

  I walk into the hospital waiting room to see Nic slouched in a chair, staring into space. A flat-screen TV blares war coverage from CNN, as though the tone of the room weren’t somber enough.

  I sit down next to Nic. “Can I interest you in a full-fat venti mocha with real whipped cream and a pumpkin cream-cheese muffin?”

  Startled, Nic turns to me. “When did you get here?”

  “Just now,” I say, pulling a venti mocha out of the beige cardboard Starbucks holder and handing it to her. “I thought you could use some breakfast.”

  “I told you you didn’t have to come,” Nic says, taking her mocha from me.

  “Yes, you did,” I agree, as I open a brown paper bag to show her two muffins. “And you also sounded like you were going to have a brain aneurism over the phone. Do you want pumpkin cream cheese or blueberry? Because I can go either way.”

  “You eat them,” Nic says. “I don’t think I could keep anything down right now.”

  “I’ll take the blueberry, and we’ll save the other one for if you change your mind,” I tell her, pulling the blueberry muffin out of my bag. “So how’s it going in there?”

  “I have no idea,” Nic tells me as she pulls the white plastic top off of her paper cup. “It took them a few hours to determine for sure that it was appendicitis, but then everything moved at light speed. They had her prepped and in the O.R. within, like, fifteen minutes.”

  “How long has she been in?”

  Nic takes a big slurp of the whipped cream on top of her coffee. “Almost an hour since they wheeled her in and I had to leave her.” She pops the plastic top back onto her cup. “So how are things going with you?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask her.

  “I need a distraction,” Nic tells me. “Some other person’s problems for me to think about and solve. Have you heard from Scott?”

  “He sent me a text this morning saying he loved me. I texted him back the same thing. Other than that … we’re at an impasse.”

  “What do you want to have happen?” Nic asks me.

  I smile self-consciously and shrug. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be at an impasse.” I shake my head. “It just … it didn’t look like how I thought it would look, you know?”

  “Honey, it never does,” Nic tells me.

  She gives me a sympathetic smile, then nervously looks toward the double doors leading to the operating rooms.

  “She’s going to be fine,” I assure her. “I’ll bet the surgeon does five or six of these a week.”

  Nic stares down at a crumpled-up tissue in her hand. “The whole drive down I just kept thinking: why can’t it be me? She was lying down in my backseat, writhing in pain and trying so hard to act like nothing was wrong, and I just … wanted to feel all that pain instead.” Nic’s eyes get wet, but she stops herself from crying. “If anything ever happened to her, I don’t know what I’d do. I know I don’t have the right to love her so much, but I do.”

  “The right?” I ask. “What? Is there some law I don’t know about on how much you’re allowed to love a child?”

  “It’s an unspoken law,” she tells me. “You wouldn’t understand, because you’re not living it every day. I’m just the stepmother.”

  “My God, you’re hard on yourself,” I say, sipping my coffee.

  “Oh really? I guarantee you that whenever one of the nurses comes out to give me an update, she’ll take one look at me and assume I’m the stepmother. It happens almost every day.”

  I shake my head. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does,” Nic insists.

  “It might happen occasionally,” I concede. “But did it ever occur to you that that might just be because you’re blond and Megan’s—”

  “She’s mixed race,” Nic interrupts, defensively.

  “Honey, you’re talking to an Indian girl. Maybe people are just being ignorant.”

  “No. We live in Los Angeles. That’s not it,” Nic says dubiously.

  “Really?” I say to her dryly. “Let’s see … In the time I’ve lived here I have had very friendly people ask me in the most loving tone, ‘What the Hell are you anyway?’ I’ve had people just assume I am whatever they’re comfortable with, then make comments on my being everything from black to American Samoan to Hawaiian. And then there was my favorite question, ‘So, what are you? French?’ ”

  Nic knits her brows at me. “Why would they ask…”

  “He thought I was from the French West Indies, apparently.”

  Nic thinks back. “Was that the night you adopted a Caribbea
n accent?”

  “I thought he was cute, and I thought it was funny. And frankly, humor is the only way to get through such assumptions. My point is, no one is assuming you’re not her mother. You just have this massive insecurity chip on your shoulder because you’re not. And you really need to let that go.”

  Nic thinks about my statement for a few moments. “Fair enough,” she concedes. She takes a sip of coffee, still thinking. “But I’m still not her real mother.”

  “You know what? The minute this planet can agree on what a ‘real mother’ is, you let me know.”

  A black woman of about forty walks into the room wearing scrubs. “Mrs. Washington?”

  Nic jumps up. “Dr. Shaw, how is she?”

  Dr. Shaw gestures to a small private room off to the side of the room where we are sitting.

  “Can I see you in here for a minute?” she asks.

  Nic gives me an absolutely petrified look, then turns back to Dr. Shaw. “Of course.”

  Forty-six

  Nicole

  Terrified, and temporarily unable to breathe, I quickly head into the small room off to the side of the waiting room. Inside, I see two empty red plastic chairs, a clean, empty, blue table, and nothing else.

  This is the bad room. I’m sure of it. If everything had gone great, she’d be smiling and telling me how wonderfully it went.

  Dr. Shaw walks in behind me, then quietly closes the door behind her.

  I turn around to face her. “Oh God. How bad is it?”

  The doctor gives me a reassuring smile. “No, no. Megan’s absolutely fine. We’re just not legally allowed to discuss a patient’s medical history in the waiting room anymore.”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering how to breathe again. “So, how did it all go?”

  “The surgery is over, and everything went great. Your daughter’s just waking up now, and the nurses will call you when she’s in recovery, so you can be with her.”

  “Calling where? Calling me on my cell phone, the waiting room…”

  “I’m sorry. There’s a phone in the waiting room. Just give them a few minutes. They just need to hook her up to all of the monitors and make sure everything continues to go smoothly.”