Not Quite A mom

by Kirsten Sawyer

  “You Charla Tatham’s kid?”

  He was a stereotypical Victory cop, bursting out of his uniform because of too many hours spent eating Dunkin’ Donuts and not enough chasing criminals. In fairness, there weren’t a whole lot of criminals to chase in their town. He looked older, probably close to retirement, with graying hair and wrinkled eyes. He mopped at his sweaty brow with a dingy handkerchief. The other cop looked like he was probably a rookie. His uniform was starched to perfection and he kept looking to the other for approval.

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Tiffany replied, in her best ass-kissing voice, which was quite shaky at the moment. In her head she was saying, “Oh crap.”

  The older officer looked at his partner and nodded, then back at Tiffany, who was leaning the rusted bike against the side of the house.

  “We’ve got to talk to you. Can we go inside?” the young officer asked.

  Tiffany’s fear had morphed into outrage that her mother would treat her like this. She felt so stupid and childlike…and the fact that the policemen were being so nice to her only reinforced her belief that they felt sorry for her that her mother was such a lunatic as to call the police over because her grounded teenage daughter had ventured out from under their roof.

  “Sure,” Tiffany replied, red-faced from both the heart-pumping ride home and embarrassment.

  Tiffany untied her key from the drawstring waist of the pajama pants she hadn’t bothered to change out of to go to Laci’s and stuck it in the front door. She quickly opened it and walked in, followed by the officers.

  “Look, I know what this is,” Tiffany said, staring at them defiantly.

  Again the officers looked at each other. The fat one pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar—the house was stuffy.

  “This is about your mother,” the young officer said.

  “Just let me have it,” Tiffany said, deciding to roll over and take what she had coming…she had broken her punishment, even if it had been stupid to begin with.

  “We’re sorry to have to tell you that your mother and stepfather were involved in an automobile accident this afternoon. They were both killed.”

  The words hit Tiffany so hard she actually had to look down to be certain that the officer hadn’t drawn his weapon and shot her in the stomach. How could this be true? Thirty seconds earlier, she had been cursing her mother’s insanity, hoping that the police were at her house for some other reason than to bust her, and now all she wanted was to hear Charla screaming at her for sneaking out.

  “I snuck out—I’m grounded,” she said to the officers. She’d meant to speak it, but it came out in a whisper that made her throat ache as her eyes filled with tears.

  “That’s all right, dear,” the fat officer said and came toward her with his arm out.

  She knew this was a kind gesture, but his fat white arm, shiny with sweat, and the smell of his body odor made her turn away. He didn’t seem to take it as a personal offense, and simply patted her back instead.

  “We’re going to need to take you with us,” the young officer informed her. This was the first time he’d had to deliver bad news in the line of duty, and he was finding it more difficult than he had expected.

  “Where?” Tiffany asked, desperately wanting to stay in the house she’d been itching to escape from earlier that day.

  “Your mother had a will drawn up by Larry S. Platner. He has your guardian information.”

  Normally, Tiffany was a feisty teenager. This weekend wasn’t the first time she had been grounded, and the offenses ranged from her messy room to her “smart” mouth. Normally, she would have put up a fight that included four-letter words and door slamming. Right now, she didn’t have it in her. She just nodded her head and followed the two strangers out of her home. She then climbed into the backseat of their cruiser, where criminals sat, and stared out the window as they backed out of her driveway. As they drove down her street, Edison Way, she saw neighbors coming to their front windows to look out. It was uncommon to see a police car in their neighborhood, but she was sure that more than one of them wasn’t surprised to see her in the back of it. If only they knew…

  5

  Now, many hours later, Tiffany found herself climbing the front steps of Buck Platner’s house. As Buck held the door open for her, she assumed that his wife must be inside waiting for them because all the lights and the television set were on; instead, a golden bear of a dog greeted them.

  “This is Wildcat,” Buck explained, affectionately scratching the dog behind the ears.

  Tiffany gave the dog a polite “hello” pat, which he seemed to appreciate wholeheartedly, and then scanned the room she was standing in.

  Upon inspection, it couldn’t have been clearer (even to a fifteen-year-old girl) that Buck was single. The living room was a mess. The coffee table was littered with old newspapers, beer cans, and what looked like the remnants of a Hungry Man turkey dinner. The walls were bare, and the mantel was decorated with football keepsakes from Buck’s illustrious past.

  Although Tiffany had never actually met Buck Platner, her mother would point him out around town over the years as if he was some sort of a celebrity. She guessed he was a bit of a Victory celebrity—he had been the star of their high school football team. That alone was enough in this town, but on top of it, he had been recruited to play football on a full scholarship at a university in Arizona…maybe the University of Arizona, she couldn’t remember. After that, he had gone to law school. All of these accomplishments: sports, more sports, a college degree, and a graduate degree were enough to get a statue of yourself in the town square. Tiffany also remembered her mother boasting that her aunt Lizzie had gone to Buck’s senior prom with him. She could tell that her mother felt this connected her to the celebrity, even though she had never seen them exchange more than a simple hello if their paths happened to cross directly.

  Tiffany couldn’t help but notice with irony that her mother would have been overjoyed by an invitation into Buck Platner’s home, and now here Tiffany was.

  “Lemme find something for you to eat,” Buck said, quickly trying to gather as much trash from the cluttered coffee table as possible before ducking into a room off the living room. After a few minutes, he stuck his head back through the door. “Um, is there anything in particular that you like?”

  Tiffany tried to muster a smile at his gesture and headed into the kitchen to find something, although she wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. In the end, she settled for a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal. Buck’s kitchen looked like a child’s fantasy. Nothing green, lots of cans, and plenty of sugar. On a normal day, Tiffany could have gone crazy stuffing her face with junk food, but tonight she felt that the knot in her stomach was taking up any room that could have been used for food.

  Tiffany and Buck sat on the living room couch—a couch Tiffany noted was extremely ugly but exceptionally comfortable—watching TV in silence for most of the night. Finally, at almost midnight, Buck suggested that he show Tiffany to the guest room.

  Buck rose from the couch and led Tiffany down the hallway, where he opened the only door on the right. Inside was a perfectly comfortable guest room/home office combination. On one side of the room was a corner desk with computer gear and stacks of paper. On the other, a double bed with a plain black comforter. Like the living room, the only decorations were items that Buck had held on to from his football career.

  “Sorry it’s not much,” Buck offered.

  “No, it’s fine,” Tiffany said, realizing she should have been more polite but not having the energy.

  “The bathroom is down the hall. There’s only one, so you go ahead and use it first.” Buck motioned to the door at the end of the hall.

  Tiffany nodded and headed down the hall, nervous about what she might find. In her experience, men were not the nicest people to share bathrooms with…at least her stepfather, Chuck, was not. At home, the toilet seat was always up, with spots of pee along the rim. There were always globs of toothpaste
in the sink, and short, dark, curly hairs along the edge of the tub. With great trepidation, Tiffany pushed open the door and turned the light on. Immediately she let out a sigh of relief. The bathroom appeared to be the one place where Buck was extremely neat. The toilet seat was down, the lid closed, and both the sink and the floor were clean. On one side of the counter was a single blue toothbrush and an electric razor, on the other, a bar of white soap sitting in a plain white soap dish.

  It wasn’t until she was actually standing in front of the sink that Tiffany realized she didn’t have any of her own toiletries. She could see them sitting in the disgusting bathroom at home. She rinsed her face off, not even bothering to wait for the water to warm up, then dabbed it off with the black hand towel hanging on the bathroom wall.

  As she quietly stepped out of the bathroom, Tiffany found an anxious looking Buck waiting in the hall for her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked nervously.

  “Yeah. I just realized that I don’t have my toothbrush or anything with me.”

  “Oh,” he breathed a sigh of relief. “We can go over to your place tomorrow and get your belongings before we head to L.A.”

  “Right, to L.A.,” Tiffany replied oddly before opening the door to the guest room and walking in. She avoided making eye contact with Buck as she shut the door behind her, mumbling “good night” as she did. She didn’t look at him because she didn’t want him to see her cry, but once alone in the guest room, Tiffany lay down on the bed and sobbed silently into the pillow. She only stopped for a second, holding her breath, as Buck tapped on the door and instructed her to wake him if she needed anything during the night.

  Tiffany doubted she would be able to sleep at all, but much to her surprise her crying soon quieted into exhaustion, and before she knew it, it was morning. She woke up because she thought she heard the door to her room opening. Her mother, a chronic “morning person,” had a nasty habit of continually looking in on her all morning until she was finally awake. Tiffany opened her eyes expecting to see her mother’s face in the doorway. Instead the door was closed and it wasn’t her room. In an instant, the previous day’s event flooded back into her head and numbed her entire body. She decided to lie in bed as long as she could—no need to get a jump on the misery she knew lay ahead.

  Buck’s night had not been as restful. He’d spent most of it thinking about what he would say when he talked to Lizzie. For hours, he had the conversation over and over in his head; and then when he was able to doze off, he dreamed about messing it up and woke up in a cold sweat. His anxiety over the impending conversation was compounded by the fact that soon they would be face-to-face.

  At nine o’clock on the dot, Buck decided that it was a reasonable hour and picked up the phone beside his bed. Normally he would place a call like this from his office, but after sneaking a peak at Tiffany, he was relieved to find the teen sleeping peacefully. All his muscles tense with anticipation, he dialed the number from the yellow Post-it note, which was now crumpled beside the phone; busy signal. The letdown made his head spin for a second. Dejected, Buck headed to the kitchen to make coffee, pulling a pair of Arizona sweatpants over the boxers he normally wore around the house. Every fifteen minutes he hit the redial button on the phone and waited, paralyzed, hoping to hear ringing. For almost two hours, he only got beeping…and then suddenly, on his seventh attempt, it rang. The change of sound was enough to make his heart race as he lumbered back to his bedroom where his notes were laid out on the unmade bed.

  As the phone rang, Buck went over in his head what he had rehearsed all night. Unfortunately, as soon as Lizzie answered the phone, he lost his train of thought and nothing came out right. Instead of the connection he had envisioned, where he said, “Lizzie, this is Buck Platner,” and she said, “Oh, Buck, it’s been way too long,” he once again fumbled his way poorly into “professional lawyer” speak and screwed up the whole thing. Like an idiot, he pronounced Charla’s last name wrong, again, then Lizzie—Elizabeth now—seemed confused about the whole guardian thing, causing him to get impatient, and finally—the cherry on top—he agreed to send the guardianship papers to her on Monday rather than arranging to see her today with Tiffany. The whole thing could not have gone worse—he didn’t do his job right and he didn’t handle his grand reunion with Lizzie/Elizabeth well either.

  Things actually went even worse than Buck realized because Tiffany was standing silently in the hall outside his room the entire time, listening to the conversation. Although she heard only one side, she heard enough to know that her “Aunt Lizzie,” as her mom had always referred to her, wasn’t running to her rescue. In fact, from Buck’s end of the conversation, it didn’t sound as if she wanted anything to do with Tiffany at all. It was clear that the call didn’t go as Buck had intended, since upon setting the receiver down he quietly said “Shit” under his breath while shaking his head.

  6

  “Shit” I say as I set the phone back in its cradle. I quickly snatch it back up again and dial Dan’s cell phone number, pressing each digit as hard as I can and holding it down as if this will impart that this is an emergency and prompt him to answer the call. For the third time this morning, it goes straight to voice mail. I consider leaving a message, but what would I say?

  “Dan, my childhood best friend who I haven’t had anything to do with in the entire time we’ve been together has sent us an early wedding present!” That doesn’t really explain things. “Dan, great news! We aren’t even married yet and we already have a teenager!” That would be ridiculous. “Dan, apparently my friend Charla doesn’t update her will very often because she named ME as the guardian of her daughter!” The truth sounds just as absurd.

  “Oh, God,” I say as I set the phone down on the cradle and mindlessly return to the half-made peanut butter sandwich on the kitchen counter. I feel like vomiting, but I don’t know what else to do, so I complete the sandwich and stuff it in my face and then meticulously clean the entire kitchen, leaving no signs that the room has even been entered let alone used for food preparation and consumption. As I clean the knife, I consider taking my own life as an out but realize that it really isn’t feasible with a butter knife. This cannot be happening to me.

  I had a plan. Getting out of Victory was step number one, but it wasn’t the entire plan. During the four-hour drive from Victory to Los Angeles the summer before my freshman year, I laid it all out in my head. It included graduating in four years, pursuing a successful career in broadcasting, marrying an attorney (or a doctor), having first a daughter and then an adorable son. There isn’t any room in the plan for a fifteen-year-old girl at this time in my life and there isn’t a contingency for something like this.

  Still feeling like I’ve been socked in the chest, I wander around my apartment; my mind is racing around looking for an exit. As I pace, I straighten. I align the picture frames on my mantel, I confirm that my CDs are in alphabetical order, and I fluff the pillows on my Pottery Barn couch. I like things to be perfect. I thrive on perfection…that’s why I’m so good at my job as a fact checker on The Renee Foster Show!. Okay, I admit that putting my degree in journalism to use confirming what color underwear Jennifer Aniston wears (white) and how John Travolta orders a steak (rare) isn’t exactly what I’d planned on, but it includes a brief (sixty-second) on-air segment every single day (Monday–Friday), and being on air really is my dream. Plus it’s a whole lot closer to perfection than a fifteen-year-old Victory teenager under my guardianship. I look at the photo exactly centered on my mantel; it’s a shot of Dan and me at his parents’ house last Christmas. I love this picture because we look like the ideal couple—faces squished together, smiling broadly in front of his mother’s uniformly decorated tree.

  The first Christmas I spent with Dan’s family, I felt as if I’d died and gone to holiday heaven. Unlike the dusty, hot Victory Christmases I’d grown up with—the ones where my mother had brought the fake, color-not-found-in-nature-green tree in from the garage and
not bothered to remove all the cobwebs before hanging mismatched glass balls and plastic Baby Jesuses all over it and plopping a supermarket ham on our regular dinner table—the McCafferty family Christmas was like a postcard. From their long mahogany dining room table, you can see the twelve-foot Douglas fir, decorated with matching gold balls and red bows on one side, and the front yard covered in a flawless blanket of snow on the other. Their mouthwatering homemade dinner is served on Wedgwood china, and everyone gathers around a baby grand to sing carols after dessert. Like I said, Holiday Heaven.

  “Oh, God,” I moan to the perfect couple in the picture. I pick up the phone and dial Courtney’s cell phone. Debra Messing will have to understand—this is an emergency.

  “Hello!” Courtney booms into my phone and her voice is so upbeat it almost makes me feel better…almost. I can picture her sitting in Debra Messing’s backyard, surrounded by Hollywood’s elite and talking on her perfectly rhinestoned flip phone.

  Courtney is gorgeous. Way back when we first met, I was pretty sure that somebody like her would never want to be friends with a Victory girl like me. Courtney’s father is Bennett Cambridge, the head of the Watson Bros. movie studio, and her mother is Alana Russo Cambridge, a former movie star turned executive housewife. Executive housewife is a term Courtney penned for her mother, since she doesn’t actually do anything that a housewife does. She simply overseas the staff that does it in their Bel Air mansion, which is so big that it has its own bowling alley—which, Courtney often boasts, has two more lanes than the Spellings’.

  Courtney is the spitting image of her glamorous mother, and the two are featured in every single Hollywood mother-daughter photo shoot alongside duos like Blythe and Gwyneth and Goldie and Kate. She is tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. Her curly blonde hair is always just on the complimentary side of bed head and her brown eyes are so dark that they look almost black. You never know from one day to the next if she’ll be in a tailored Armani suit or a sari that she actually got in India while chasing down the “love of her life,” of which there have been quite a few.