Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  “I missed you Ms. Ross,” she tells me.

  “I missed you too kiddo.” I scoop her up in my arms.

  At five, the kid weighs less than I did at three. Rachel is a tiny little thing, adorable cute. And she lives life with a fervency that some may attribute to ADHD and too much sugary breakfast cereal, but I like to think she’s just an energetic kid.

  “Ms. Ross, you’re my favorite,” Rachel whispers. “I like Ms. Beck too.” Beck is my aide Ronnie’s last name. “But, you’re the bestest.”

  “Thank you.” I blush. “That’s very nice of you.”

  I don’t reciprocate the compliment. If you tell a kid they’re your favorite, they do not keep that quiet. So, instead, I set down the little bundle of energy, ruffle her hair and tell her to go put her stuff in her cubby.

  “You’re great with them.” I look up to see Tommy’s mother, Mrs. Thurman beaming at me.

  “Oh thanks. But you parents are the ones who really have to be great with them. You know, I get to give them back at the end of the day.”

  “I wish.” She chuckles and looks over at Tommy who is huddled together with several of the other boys talking animatedly.

  “Oh!” I remember. “Hold on a sec. I have $20 for you.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Thurman raises one of her immaculately shaped eyebrows. No waxing mishaps for her.

  “Yes. Someone stole my debit card and, when I ran into your husband at CVS, he loaned me a twenty.”

  She smiles. “He wouldn’t do that. He probably gave it to you. My husband is a giver.”

  “That’s true. I insisted. So here.” I hand the woman a $20 bill leftover from my Chinese food change. My $100 stash is dwindling—fast—but, at least, I’ll get my replacement card and, more importantly, the stolen funds any day now.”

  “You know, Shayla,” the woman says, her eyes full of kindness. “You really are a wonderful teacher. In some ways, you can be silly or get discombobulated and lord knows you’re a loveable klutz. But, you make these kids better people and they love you. My Tommy can’t shut up about you.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  After a weekend of feeling like a totally incompetent idiot, it’s nice to know that at least someone thinks nice things about me. I go through the rest of the day with a smile on my face—even when Todd Barto accidentally dumps purple Kool-Aide all over my white T-shirt.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My mother and Eleanor Wilks are wearing almost identical outfits—elegant black dresses with a single strand of pearls around their necks and delicate, dangling earrings. The only discernible difference is that my mother wears her hair down while Mrs. Wilks has pulled hers up in an up-do.

  The six of us—Mr. and Mrs. Wilks, my parents, Dunkin and I—are at my folks’ place for dinner. My mother had been delighted when I called to set it up.

  “Well, now, this boy must really like you if we’re at the stage where your parents are meeting his parents,” she’d pointed out.

  “Or he’s secretly a sadist,” I quipped.

  “Don’t be silly. Do they have any dietary restrictions?”

  I’m not sure. I’d asked Dunkin. He wasn’t sure. He’d asked his parents. We went back and forth a few times and my mother finally decided on serving salmon for dinner with roasted red potatoes and asparagus. Now, the night has arrived. The Wilks bring a bottle of Merlot.

  “Why, hello,” my mother greets them. “I’m Vanity Ross and this is my husband, Mitchell. Welcome to our home.”

  “My, my, isn’t this lovely?” Mrs. Wilks says, as if surprised to find that I grew up here and not in a tenement, that I was raised by an elegant matriarch such as herself and not, as might have been expected, by wolves.

  “Well, thank you. Can my husband take your coats?” Mom asks.

  And that’s when the matching dresses are revealed. My mother seems quite taken with Dunkin’s mother. I know, because when she pulls me into the kitchen later, on the pretense of helping serve the meal, she tells me that she is “quite taken” with Dunkin’s mother—her words, not mine.

  As for me, I do my best to appear inconspicuous, talking little and picking at my food rather than inhaling it as usual. For once, neither mother seems overly-interested in criticizing me. Instead, the women are bonding over their shared love of Europe, their passion for art and architecture, and the many foibles of parenting.

  “I raised twin boys and a girl all while trying to make it appear effortless,” my mother says. “But, God, was it work!”

  “Oh twins. I can’t even imagine what a handful that must’ve been. Dunkin and Marlene were more than enough for me,” Mrs. Wilks laughs. She’s charming. Is it possible that, underneath her impenetrable armor, there exists a likeable, personable woman? Maybe this is the version she presented to her beloved Bethany, Dunkin’s ex-wife.

  “You’re so lucky to have a lesbian daughter,” my mother says. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Shayla to pieces and your son is absolutely divine; but, I’d have loved to have a homosexual in the family. It’s so chic.”

  Not offended in the least, Mrs. Wilks laughs and says, “Why, I suppose it is. Although, of the two of us, you’ll be the one more likely to end up with grandbabies.”

  “Oh, I have my boys for that.”

  The two women prattle on about whether they would feel the same way toward adopted grandchildren as they would toward real grandchildren while the rest of us stare on agape, dumbfounded at the unexpected turn of events. They like each other.

  Unfortunately, my dad chimes in and says, “Who knows? Maybe, these two crazy kids will give us all grandchildren.”

  The air in the room suddenly deflates like a punctured balloon as Dunkin’s mother looks at me as if suddenly aware that I am part of this Vanity Ross package, that I—not her dear, sweet Bethany—am the object of her son’s affection.

  “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Wilks says.

  “Mitchell, you’re embarrassing the kids,” my mother adds.

  I look at Dunkin who seems unfazed. My cheeks are bright crimson whereas he is decidedly unperturbed. It’s not fair. The rest of the night goes relatively smoothly although, after the subject of Dunkin and my fictitious grandchildren, there’s a noticeable downshift in energy and, at one point, when I mention something about work, Mrs. Wilks says that it’s a good thing I’m only a teacher because, if I had a more important job, it might be difficult to make the choice between children and a career.

  When Dunkin leaves to drive his parents back to his place, I stay behind to help my parents clean up.

  “So…?” I let my implied question hang in the air.

  “She was… nice. And he’s really a very unobtrusive, but very agreeable man.”

  “Nice?”

  “I don’t much like anyone who doesn’t like you.”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She doesn’t like me.”

  “The woman’s a bitch,” Dad says, overhearing us. “And I can’t believe they passed on dessert. Who wants cake and ice cream?”

  And, to my amazement, Mom actually joins Dad and me for dessert!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I have a terrible headache, which I’ve had all day, every day since Dunkin’s parents came to town. Thankfully, they’re leaving today and I don’t have to see them again this trip. Instead, I have the good fortune of spending time not only with my mother but with Tiffany and April as well. In case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. I’m positively dreading this day.

  Apparently, earlier this week, my dad and my brothers decided to go golfing at the country club and, because none of us ladies golf, they decided that we should come along and play tennis while they’re out on the links and then the seven of us should have lunch together afterwards. It’s not lost on
me that, since Dunkin is taking his parents to the airport, I am the only unpaired member of the group.

  For years, this was my fate at family gatherings and being alone today feels all too familiar. I wish Dunkin could be here.

  “Stop scrunching your forehead,” my mother demands as she inspects her racquet. Apparently, the moratorium on Shayla insults has been lifted—either that or she’s decided that she’s the only one permitted to put me down.

  “I have a headache,” I complain. “It feels like my skull is about to explode.”

  “I have some pills in my purse. Take two and you’ll be better in no time.”

  Usually, I resist taking medication, but I don’t argue. My cranium is so full of pressure that there’s a sensation in my head as if it were going to pop off of my body. The notion of sprinting after a tennis ball feeling like I do makes me compliant. I go into my mother’s purse, root around for a pill vial, and take two without bothering to look at the label.

  “I’ll sit out the first game,” I announce. “Give the headache time to dissipate.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” my mother chides. “We’re playing doubles and you’re on my team.”

  I am grateful that my friend Liza taught me to play the sport awhile back, when I was trying to expand my interests by swearing off men and learning new things. I try to recall what she taught me. I’m sure I’ll still be an embarrassment, but maybe not as bad as I’d have been without my impromptu Beginners Tennis 101 lesson. The four of us start off volleying easily, warming up our arms, running around after balls. Sure, I can get to the ball and get it over the net, but I am anything but graceful. I grunt and groan and sweat and my face turns red as I play. Tiffany and April are clearly practiced at the game, not so good as to be impossible to beat, but good enough that they make hitting the ball appear effortless. I, on the other hand, look like I’m trying. For the record, this simple distinction is what makes Tiffany, April and my mother Country Club material whereas I… Well, let’s just say I’m not and leave it at that.

  “Let’s begin,” Mom suggests. “I think we’re all sufficiently warmed up.”

  Begin? What the hell were we doing all this time? I look at her inquisitively and she responds that she wants to play an actual match. Mom has the first serve and aggressively hits the ball to Tiffany who lobs it back to me. I make contact with my racquet, sending an easy shot to April who bandies the ball back-and-forth with my mother spiritedly until Mom delivers a fierce backhand shot that Tiffany can’t return.

  At this point, I start to feel woozy.

  “I’m tired,” I declare. “I feel so tired.”

  “Are you okay, dear?” Mom asks. “You don’t look well. Is it the headache?”

  I start mumbling something unintelligible, my brain refusing to make sense of my words. I am dizzy, walking funny, delirious. Before I can stoop down or sit down or catch myself, my body becomes a lead weight and hurtles itself downward toward the ground. I remember nothing else after that so what I will describe next was gleaned from the secondhand testimony which I later gathered from my mother and the girls. Apparently, I lay on the ground in a fetal position for a while, while they tried unsuccessfully to rouse me. Then, I began flailing and thrashing about wildly. Finally, after a few minutes, I passed out completely and no amount of prodding or poking would rouse me.

  Somehow, when my mom went to her purse to get her cell phone to call the paramedics, she happened first on her bottle of Xanax and realized what must’ve happen. Instead of taking two of the Tylenol, as she’d suggested, I’d taken two of her powerful sleeping pills.

  The Country Club staff was incredibly discreet about the situation, as they always are about such things. For example, the year Muffy Von Vanderhaussen or whatever her name is ran streaking through the grotto, drunk and screaming obscenities, they calmly wrapped her in a towel and sent her home with her husband to sleep it off and no one would have been the wiser since the staff kept it very hush-hush. The only reason anyone found out about it was because Muffy’s best frenemy Bitsy—I couldn’t make these names up if I tried—witnessed the event and made sure Muffy’s nude exploit became well-known. But, the Country Club employees kept it, and the extremely naked Muffy, under wraps.

  Anyway, thankfully, April, Tiffany, Mom, and I were the only ones on the courts that morning and the club’s tennis pro hauled me into the back of a golf cart where April and Tiffany sat on either side of me, propping me up, and Mom went to get the guys off of the golf course. Our lunch plans foiled, they drove me back to my parents’ house, dragged me upstairs to bed and I awoke eight hours later, dazed and confused.

  I’ve been drugged and taken against my will. I now officially know what a victim of kidnapping must go through although, to be fair, I awake in a plush bed surrounded by pillows and smelling of lavender and my mom feels so guilty about inadvertently getting me stoned that she fixes me a late dinner, serves it to me in bed, and keeps me company while I eat. I’d planned to meet Dunkin after he dropped his parents off at the airport, but instead call him to say I’d gotten sick at the country club and am spending the night with my parents, curled up with chicken soup and my mother’s love.

  “Sounds really nice,” Dunkin says. “I mean, I’m sorry that you’re sick, but it’s nice that your mom is there to take care of you.”

  Sure, I think. But she kinda caused this with her blanket direction to take two pills. I hope, if I ever have to take care of her, I’m more careful and pay more attention to detail than she does when it comes to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The doctor won’t let me go into the room with her so I wait out in the lobby while they prod and poke at my mother’s breasts. I want to be strong. I want not to worry, but I can’t help it. I picture my fearless, impeccable mother lying half-naked on a table and cringe. She must be feeling so helpless. I try not to think about it, opting instead to turn my attention to the ancient People Magazine in the doctor’s waiting room. It’s no use. I can’t turn off my brain. I love my mom. I need her—critical and difficult as she can be. She has to be okay.

  After the doctor finishes, I go back into the room with my mother, now dressed. We sit together—her shivering and somehow diminished looking, me wide-eyed and panic stricken.

  “Okay, Mrs. Ross, Ms. Ross. Thank you both for coming in today. We were able to remove the suspicious tissue and we’re going to run some tests to see if there is some malignancy.”

  “You mean cancer?” My voice is shaky.

  “Yes. But, not to worry. Worst case scenario, there is something there but modern treatment options are remarkable and we caught this early. Or it may be nothing, just some excess tissue. The truth is, we don’t know yet.”

  “When will you know?” I ask.

  “Next week. I’ll call you either way.”

  I thank him. My mother says nothing, has said nothing the entire time we’ve been in Dr. Edelmire’s office. As we walk out, my arm around her waist, she keeps her eyes downcast. She must be terrified.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask her as we head toward my car.

  “You really want to know?”

  I nod.

  “I don’t care much for your shoes.”

  And, inexplicably, I am grateful that my ugly shoes are diverting my mother from thinking about her own mortality.

  A week later, Mom calls me to tell me that they found no abnormal cells. “I’m fine! My boobs are fine.”

  “Of course they are,” I say breathing a sigh of relief. “There was never any doubt.”

  “I think…” she says, “I won’t have them done. They’re really quite marvelous tits for a woman my age.”

  “Sure, Mom. Yeah. I know Dad likes them.” I make a mental note to call my dad and let him know that Mom is fine. Even though I haven’t told him about her cancer scare, I�
��ll just let him know she’s okay.

  “Yeah, well, he’s going to have to keep his hands off until the soreness goes away. They’re still a bit tender if you can believe it and your father is quite the breast man—”

  I cut her off. “I am not listening to you tell me about your sex life with my father.”

  “We’re all adults, Shayla. I would think you’d be glad to know that, even at our age, your father and I –”

  “I’m hanging up, Mom.”

  “Okay. Suit yourself. But, honey…”

  I brace myself. “Yeah. What is it?”

  “Thanks for your support.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say. And, knowing my relationship with my mother, I am pretty sure that, after today, neither of us will.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Brice is manic. I pick up my phone and he is mid-sentence already, his frenzied chatter unintelligible to me. He is also, I suspect, quite drunk. I miss all of what he says until the very last part “So Robin and I had sex. Besides, I never learned Swahili anyway.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, still groggy from sleep. It is 1 a.m. and he’s woken me up with his phone call. “Slow down. I can barely hear you. Are you telling me that you slept with your ex-boyfriend tonight?”