by Erin Duffy
“Hi, Claire,” Owen said. He smiled when he said it, but he didn’t try and give me a kiss on the cheek or the awkward ass-out hug. He just smiled like we were mature adults who were capable of sharing a child and some pizza without the world crashing down around us, or without my breaking out a pair of scissors. That would’ve been all fine and good, if I didn’t know about Alaska, and the whales, and the Eskimos, and the girlfriend. Knowing all of that changed this whole night for me. How much was I supposed to take? I promised myself I wouldn’t say anything about it tonight. No matter what happened, under no circumstances was I going to ruin Bo’s birthday by fighting with Owen. He walked past me and placed the pizza he brought over on the table next to Bo’s highchair. Then he leaned down and gave him a big kiss on his cheek, and Bo reached up and grabbed his face in both of his little hands.
“Happy birthday, Bo. One year old today,” he said.
“What a difference a year makes,” I said.
Owen ignored me. “How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I knew the answer. He was finally getting that Alaskan vacation he’d been dreaming of and the fun-loving woman to accompany him on it. It seemed like a ridiculous question to ask. I’d bet he was feeling pretty good these days.
“I’m okay. The place looks great. You went all-out, huh?”
“I guess,” I replied. I was happy he noticed. I glanced over at Marcy, who was crouched down in front of Bo, and had to resist the urge to kick her over.
“What’s new?” he asked.
“Nothing much. I heard you’re going to see the whales. That’s nice. I’m glad you’re able to do that.” I wanted to keep my mouth shut, I really did, but I couldn’t.
I hated when I broke promises to myself.
“How did you know that?” he asked, more than a little surprised.
“Your girlfriend is an immature idiot with a big mouth, that’s how.”
“I told you I was going away next week,” Owen said.
“I thought you meant on a business trip, and you know it.”
“What’s the difference? Why does it matter? I told you I won’t be here, and I won’t be here. I don’t even know why we’re talking about this,” Owen argued, annoyed that he felt the need to defend himself, which I couldn’t care less about because he definitely needed to defend himself even though in my humble opinion this was completely indefensible.
“It matters, Owen! What if we needed you? What if something happened to Bo and we needed you and you’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean? Did you even think of that? Can you try and think about someone other than yourself for one freakin’ minute? Is it possible? Or have you actually become the most selfish person on the planet?”
“If, God forbid, Bo needed me, I’d get here. You know that.”
“Really? You’d leave your girlfriend in Alaska for us? Thank you. That’s touching.”
“This isn’t the time or the place to air your dirty laundry, Claire,” Marcy said, which was the first time she’d addressed me since she got here, and I much preferred she keep her mouth shut.
“It’s my house, Marcy. If this isn’t the place to air dirty laundry, then please tell me where that place might be.”
“You have guests,” she said.
“You’re the only guest, and you can show yourself out at any time.”
“Claire,” Antonia said as she scooped up Bo from his highchair. He smiled at her and she snuggled him close to her chest. “I’m going to take Bo upstairs. There’s no reason for him to be here.”
“You mean other than the fact that it’s his birthday?” Owen asked. “Don’t take him anywhere. Give him to me,” Owen ordered, reaching out his hands to take Bo off Antonia’s hip. Bo looked confused, but he adjusted quickly, and eyed Marcy curiously, probably because he wasn’t sure if he recognized her, and also because he’d never seen a person without eyebrows before.
“Okay, well, there’s no reason for me to be here. I’m going upstairs. Wait for me to eat the pizza,” Antonia said as she hurried upstairs to no doubt close her door, turn on the TV, and start making plans to return to Chicago.
“What do you care if I’m going to Alaska? You didn’t really want to go when I asked you!” Owen said.
“Bo is an infant!” I yelled, defending myself. “I told you I wanted to go. We agreed when Bo was a little older we’d go. What, you just subbed me out and subbed Dee Dee in? Was I just an interchangeable part in your life?”
“Of course not!” Owen yelled, as if the suggestion offended him. “But just because we got divorced doesn’t mean I’m never going to go away again, Claire. I want to travel still, and I want to do things, and yes, Dee Dee is going to come with me. I don’t know why this bothers you so much. You weren’t even the least bit excited about the trip when I mentioned it to you. All you wanted to do was stay home and nest and do laundry.”
“It’s called motherhood. And please, no one wants to do laundry! It just comes with the territory. You didn’t mind having clean boxers to take on all those business trips. Who did you think was washing them? Fairies?”
“It’s called giving up,” Owen said.
I gasped, and my quivering, delicate, fragile heart, the one that I’d carefully been piecing back together since March, broke all over again. He said it—the worst thing in the world anyone could ever have said to me. I gave up everything for him, and redefined myself in order to support him, and he just used my devotion as a weapon against me. “That is not fair. I didn’t give up. I just decided to pursue other things, namely being your wife. Remember that? You moved me here.”
“And once you were here you never wanted to leave!” Owen yelled.
“Are you honestly telling me that you cheated on me because I didn’t want to jump up to go save the fucking whales?” I screamed.
“Watch the whales, not save them. Watch the whales! It’s called a vacation!”
“How can you not see how messed up this is? Just when I think you can’t disappoint me more than you already have, you take your trampy girlfriend to Alaska, and prove yet again that you are the biggest asshole on earth!”
“Claire, Mackenzies don’t act like this,” Marcy interjected. “Dee Dee isn’t a tramp, and I really don’t like that language. She’s a perfectly lovely girl who I’ve known all her life. Owen and she made a beautiful couple when they dated, and her mother and I always hoped they’d reunite someday . . .”
Oh. No. She. Didn’t, I thought. Then, I spoke. “That’s why you never liked me? Because you’re friends with Dee Dee’s mom and you guys wanted to arrange their marriage? Are you serious? That’s it?”
“I always felt that Dee Dee and Owen should be together, yes. There was always a chance of reconciliation until he met you . . .”
“Mom!” Owen yelled. “That’s not true and don’t say that to her!” I appreciated his attempt to defend me, but it was too late. I didn’t need it. I was perfectly fine defending myself. I’d been doing it since March.
“Get out, you miserable old bat!” I screamed. “Get out!”
That was how I chose to do it.
My phone rang, and it was my mother calling to wish Bo a happy birthday, and I had worked too hard to put her mind at ease to ruin it all now because of stupid Dee Dee and her stupid Facebook and stupid Marcy and her stupid everything. I grabbed my cell off the counter and immediately changed my tone. “Hi, Mom!” I sang, so cheerful I barely recognized my own voice. “We are having the best time at Bo’s little party. I really wish you were here.”
“I do, too,” my mom said. “Are Owen and Marcy there?”
“Oh yeah, they’re both here. Owen brought in pizza and we have a little cake and we’re just going to have a nice casual dinner and open some presents. I’ll send you pictures of the house. It looks adorable. I even tied balloons to the lamppost.”
“Oh, it sounds lovely. I’ll call back tomorrow and we can talk more then. I don’t want to take yo
u away from the party. I’m happy you’re all having a nice time. I was a little worried with this being the first time you saw Owen since the actual divorce.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to worry about that. Owen and I are in a good place now. Marcy says hi! We love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone, and realized that Owen and Marcy were both looking at me like I was insane, which I probably was, and it didn’t bother me one bit.
I turned my attention back to Marcy, and to reality, and let the fake cheerful attitude disappear as quickly as it came. “Why are you still here?” I asked. “I said get out!”
Marcy froze, her mouth stretched into a stern, thin line, the lipstick feathering off her lips onto her dry, flaky skin. But she didn’t move, which confused me, because I thought my instructions were pretty clear, and I had repeated them twice now.
“You don’t get to come into this house and say that to me,” I informed her. “Not ever. You don’t get to defend her, you don’t get to tell me how you’re happy they’re back together, you don’t get to say anything to me except, ‘I’m sorry that my son betrayed you,’ which for the record, I’m still waiting for you to say. And you have the nerve to come here, and tell me what Mackenzies do? Are you kidding? Let me remind you, Marcy, that I’m not a Mackenzie. I’m a Stevens! So let me tell you what Mackenzies don’t do. They don’t honor their marriages, and they’re not honest with the people in their life they’re supposed to love the most. That’s what Mackenzies don’t do. Actually, I’d like to add one more thing to this list. They don’t celebrate Bo’s fucking birthday with him, either. Get out!” I screamed, for a moment stunned that I actually dropped an F bomb on a septuagenarian, even one who deserved that and oh so much more.
“I don’t owe you an apology! I haven’t done anything,” Marcy gasped, as if the mere concept of telling someone you’re sorry for their troubles was completely unheard of. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Marcy firmly believed that Owen could do no wrong, probably because if she admitted that, she’d maybe have to admit that she wasn’t the best mother on earth. Marcy was never going to let anyone tell her that she was anything less than perfect—certainly not me. It was completely infuriating, and even more unhealthy, and I decided right then and there that Bo didn’t need to ever be exposed to her brand of crazy ever again. He was going to have to deal with enough crazy from me. Bringing her into the mix was an unnecessary stressor for everyone.
“Exactly. You didn’t do anything. You’ve never done anything, and that’s exactly why Owen is the way he is, and why you are no longer welcome in this house.” I stormed over to the closet and threw open the door, forgetting for a second that the vacuum cleaner was jammed against it, and it fell with a thud when I grabbed Marcy’s purse. I shoved it in her hands. “From now on, if you want to see Bo, you go through Owen. I don’t ever want to see you again. Now, get out of this house!”
“Owen, are you going to let her talk to me like that?” Marcy asked.
“Why don’t you just calm down, Claire. We don’t have to do this now. We can talk about this later,” Owen offered. “I get that you’re upset. We can talk about it,” he said, as if talking about his cruise was going to make me feel better about it. Maybe he could post pictures on Instagram, or Snapchat, so that I could be downright elated.
“Why do we have to do this later? You’re here now. Why can’t we just do it now?”
“Because it’s your son’s birthday party, for starters,” Marcy reminded me. “Why don’t you think about what’s best for him?”
“Marcy, so help me God if you don’t get out of this house I’m going to physically remove you,” I threatened. I took a step toward her and clenched my fists at my sides. I didn’t own this house. But I lived in this house, and that meant I could decide who was welcome here and who wasn’t. Marcy wasn’t welcome here when Owen and I were married either, but I couldn’t do anything about it then. Now, I could. So at least I had that going for me.
“Stop,” Owen said. “Please, relax. Don’t do this on Bo’s birthday. You’ll regret it.”
“You want to talk to me about regret? Are you serious right now?” I squealed. “Don’t worry about my regrets. The more the merrier. I’m going to have a blog. It’s all working material!”
“You’re impossible to talk to when you’re like this. I don’t know why I even bother trying.” Owen sighed, because you know, it was frustrating dealing with your ex-wife after you blindsided her with an affair.
“You’re right, so let’s just stop talking. You can show yourselves out,” I said.
“Fine,” Owen said. He placed Bo in his jumper and turned to Marcy. “Let’s go, Mom.”
“You own this house. You don’t have to leave on your son’s birthday if you don’t want to, Owen.”
“Try me, Marcy. Just try me.” I stormed out of the kitchen, stepped over the vacuum cleaner, and held the front door open. “Marcy, it’s been lovely knowing you, but I honestly hope that you and I never lay eyes on each other again.”
“You know what, Claire? That’s it. I’m so damn sick of this!” Owen snapped.
“What are you going to do, Owen? Divorce me? Oops! Been there, done that already!”
“I’m not even going to try anymore!” he yelled. “If you want to be bitter, and angry, and miserable for the rest of your life, you go right ahead. We don’t have to be civil. We don’t have to be anything. I’ve been far more tolerant of your antics than I should’ve been, and any leg you once had to stand on is gone. I tried, but it’s clear you’re incapable of having any kind of normal interaction with me. You got what you wanted. We’re leaving. Let’s go, Mom.”
Owen reached out and escorted Marcy by her elbow out the front door. Neither one of them looked at me as they walked to their cars parked in the street. I slammed the door behind them and then kicked it for good measure. I wished I’d been wearing something other than a flip-flop. My foot throbbed.
“It’s all clear,” I called upstairs to Antonia after I’d closed the door behind them. I headed straight back to the kitchen where I’d left my wineglass. I glanced around at Owen’s beer, still unopened on the counter, and the ice cream cake, starting to melt and leak out the sides of the box, and could still smell the stench of Marcy’s perfume in the air. The balloons were still tied to Bo’s highchair. The pizza was still sitting in the box. Everything was exactly as it should be, except nothing was the way it should’ve been.
The doorbell rang, and for a second I feared it was Marcy, because if I had to lay eyes on her again I was fairly sure I was going to drop-kick her off the porch. The door opened a crack and Lissy called in a singsong, “Happy birthday, Bo! I’m sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I just threw Bo’s father and grandmother out of the house. No biggie.”
“I always miss the good stuff,” Lissy said as she closed the door behind her.
I reached over and removed Bo’s presents from under the table. I handed him one and watched as he banged on the box, and ran his hand over the paper, and laughed. I tried to think about how today was my little boy’s first birthday, and how even though it had been the worst year of my life, it had also been the best. I tried not to think about the fact that I’d just threatened his grandmother with physical violence, or that I just ruined my beautiful, innocent, cherubic son’s birthday party. Years from now, when I looked back on today, I had no doubt that I’d be embarrassed, and ashamed of my behavior. The only thing that kept me from being the absolute worst mom in the world was knowing that Bo was thankfully too young to remember it. It was also hugely unfortunate that I would never forget.
IT TOOK TWO weeks for me to finally stop seething over the fact that Owen and Marcy had ruined the memories of my little boy’s first birthday, and two weeks for me to stop hating myself for it, too. The emotional roller coaster I’d been on since March was old, and I didn’t know how much longer I could take the swings. One day I was happy, then I
was sad; I felt optimistic, then I felt depressed. I felt calm, then I felt rage. I couldn’t predict it and I couldn’t control it and it wasn’t healthy. I had to find a way to settle my nerves and my anger and my life before it ruined everything that I had left.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Fred said on a steamy early August morning. He arrived at my house with bagels, scallion cream cheese, and large coffees for both of us, which I gladly accepted. I didn’t know if you could call what we were doing going steady—we were probably too old for that—but I was pretty sure that we were going steady. We’d spent a lot of time together since we met and I’d grown to really love his company. We saw movies, and shared meals, and went for walks, and had real conversations with each other about anything you could imagine. I wasn’t sure what the turning point was for me—when Fred stopped just being a guy I was seeing and became someone I cared about—but there was one. It had seemed impossible to think that there would ever be a time when I had another man in my life, but I did, and he was sensitive and kind. He would never refuse to eat homemade pulled pork sandwiches because he’d already gone to Taco Bell. He just wasn’t the type.
Owen and I had barely spoken since the party. We traded text messages to discuss the logistics of picking Bo up or dropping him off, and that was it. Something about it wasn’t sitting right with me, but I wasn’t sure why, because it shouldn’t have mattered. Fine, my timing was less than perfect, but so what? I still didn’t think I was wrong to say what I said. I may have been wrong to throw him out of the house. I wasn’t sure what I thought about that one yet. I was still working on it.
It was painfully humid outside, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and flowers and mulch from the landscaping trucks that made their rounds through the neighborhood starting at about 8:00 A.M. No one here mowed their own lawns, which was odd to me. Back in Illinois, there was a riding lawn mower in every garage right next to the rake, the leaf blower, and the huge aluminum shovel used for clearing massive snowdrifts off of walkways in winter. The only person you paid to mow your lawn was your kid, and the going rate was around five dollars, barely enough to get a slice of pizza and a soda from the pizzeria in town. Things here were done differently, and I’d bet that if I threw open every garage door on the block, I wouldn’t find a single lawn mower. It was funny what I’d come to miss about home.
