Say Never

by Thomas, Janis

  If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under from the one Cera shoots at me. Still, she yanks open her door and steps to the pavement without further protest.

  Since I don’t think my arms can bear Tebow’s weight a moment longer, I pull the stroller from the trunk and strap him in. (After Bloomingdale’s I considered fortifying the straps with handcuffs, but the Department of Child Services might take issue with that.) I push the stroller to the reception desk, with Cera following at a snail’s pace, a scowl etched into her features.

  The Pelican Point Mothers ‘n More Rehabilitation Center is a modern one-story building with lots of windows to let in the bright Southern California sunshine. The lobby is done in neutral tones with mediocre landscape paintings on the walls and beige couches forming a semi-circle around a faux fireplace, above which is mounted a flat screen TV. Thanksgiving decorations abound, a couple of gourds here, a stuffed-animal turkey there, some pilgrim hats sitting in a row on the mantel surrounded by autumn leaves.

  The clerk instructs me to sign in, then gives me directions to Caroline’s room. We head down a long hall, weaving through the throngs of health care workers and patients. Some of the patients are in wheelchairs and some are mobile, some practically bursting with pregnancy, others possibly just finished giving birth. All are closely monitored by aids.

  As we near Room 8, my pace slows to match Cera’s. It’s possible I want to see my sister-in-law less than Cera does.

  Danny thinks I don’t like his wife because she’s my polar opposite, i.e. nurturing, caring, motherly, family-oriented, great cook, sweet, nice, blah blah blah. And yes, that drives me nuts about her. Who wouldn’t hate someone who comes across as totally perfect? But the truth is, the reason I can’t stand Caroline is walking beside me at this moment. Not Cera herself, but what she represents.

  I didn’t even know there was a Cera until my brother’s family came to visit me in New York. Caroline, the coward, didn’t have the balls to tell me herself. She bought two tickets to The Lion King for herself and McKenna and sent Danny and me out for some ‘sibling bonding.’ My brother drank a bit more than usual, so instead of simply dropping the bomb about having a step-daughter, he unloaded the whole sordid tale.

  Caroline was waiting tables, putting herself through grad school at Cal State Fullerton when she met Mr. Perfect-Trust-Fund-Going-Places-Guy Richard Peters. He was visiting Surf City for Spring Break and happened into her restaurant. He ordered a slippery nipple and she asked him where he wanted it, on the table or under it. And that was it. He had to have her. When she accidentally got pregnant (yeah, right), he married her, to the absolute horror of his family, the Seattle Peters—whatever that means.

  The marriage lasted three months. Caroline had signed a prenup, so after the quickie divorce she was dropped back into her life of starving student. Only now, she didn’t have a job and she didn’t have a school. She knew she couldn’t afford to care for her daughter and she knew Richard could, so she’d waived all of her rights, returned to Southern California and went on with her life, almost as if the whole pregnancy-shotgun wedding thing hadn’t happened.

  I’m no stranger to drive-by marriages. They happen, I know that. And I realize that I look at my sister-in-law from the perspective of an abandoned child, so automatically she loses points for abandoning her own. In my rational mind, I understand that she was young and stupid and when she gave Cera up, she thought she was doing what was best for the girl. (Just as I’m certain, deep down, in some twisted way, Melanie thought she was doing what was best for Danny and me.) And from what I understand, as soon as Caroline got back on her feet, she began trying to forge a relationship with her daughter.

  What bugs the ever-loving shit out of me is that Caroline pretends to be this perfect mom. She looks down on anyone who doesn’t breast feed or uses non-biodegradable wipes or can’t put together a frog costume for their child’s play. She shakes her head with mock inconceivability when talking about women who don’t want kids, even though she didn’t want her own. She feeds on the reverence of her peers who worship her as Mother of the Year, even though her oldest child is growing up without her.

  Danny claims she’s trying to make up for her sins. Duh. Why else would she keep having kids? (And don’t think I don’t know that my brother has a whole ‘Mommy’ thing going on—saving Caroline was an opportunity to save Melanie posthumously. Gross, I know.) He tells me, repeatedly, that Caroline really is the loving, compassionate, maternal woman she appears to be.

  I’m not buying it. Which is just one of the reasons she hates me.

  At the door to Room 8, I stop and take a deep breath. Cera stands beside me staring sullenly at her feet. Tebow flings his arm out from the stroller, reaching for Cera’s hand. She jerks her head in his direction, looks down at him with a mixture of contempt and confusion. A moment later, her expression softens and she takes his hand and gives it a playful shake, causing him to squeal with delight. I feel an unfamiliar tingle in my throat and my eyes suddenly mist over.

  It must be the hormones, I tell myself. Impending menopause has my estrogen levels all screwed up.

  I force myself to get a grip. I don’t want any chinks in my armor when facing my nemesis—uh—sister-in-law. I push open the door and ease the stroller past the threshold.

  A full-sized bed is situated on the far side of the private room, a few feet from the window. Sitting on top of the bed, one leg in traction, the other extended atop the sheets, is Caroline. She turns toward us. Her features strain at the sight of me, then relax at the sight of Tebow and Cera. I’m appalled that even in this rehab facility, with one leg suspended, and wearing a faded hospital gown, she still looks like the freaking Madonna. Her golden hair spills around her shoulders, awash with sunlight, and her skin has that rosy pallor that is espoused in pregnancy but is rarely an actuality. Her stomach is a basketball beneath her gown, and her hands rest lovingly upon it.

  Possibly for the first time in my life, something stirs in my belly at the sight of a pregnant woman. I immediately squelch the sensation. Hormones again. Or too much caffeine. Yeah, that’s it. Too much caffeine. Or too much tequila last night. Or…oh, fuck.

  “Hi!” she exclaims, pulling her hands from her abdomen and reaching out to the kids. “Come here, come here!” She purposely avoids my eyes, silently telling me I’m not included in her invitation.

  I push Tebow over to the bed and as soon as he sees Caroline he starts hollering, “Mommy, Mommy!”

  “Hello, Meg,” Caroline says dully.

  “Caroline.”

  I give her a once over, noting the slight bruising on her left temple and the hint of black and blue running across her clavicle. I know I should say something like, ‘I hope you’re feeling better,’ or ‘How are you doing?’ but there’s nothing I want to say other than, ‘I wish I’d given you those bruises,’ and that wouldn’t be appropriate in front of the kids. (See? I’m learning.)

  “Do you think you can manage to get Tebow out of his straps so I can give him a hug?”

  I look down at my nephew. He’s jostling with such fervor he’s going to topple over, stroller and all. I bend at the knee and reach for his buckles.

  “Hello, Cera.” Caroline’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued. “How are you? Wow, you got tall!”

  “It happens,” Cera mumbles. She hasn’t budged from her spot by the door.

  “Do you want to come over here? You know, so I can get a closer look? I don’t have my contacts in.”

  As far as I know, Caroline doesn’t wear contacts. It sounds like a ‘mother-manipulation’ to me, but then, what do I know about it? As Cera reluctantly approaches, I pull Tebow from the stroller and lift him to the side of the bed. Caroline immediately seizes him, but instead of giving him a hug, she starts to inspect every inch of his body.

  “What the f—what the heck are you doing, Caroline?” I know what she’s doing, which is why I’m pissed.

  “Just checking him over.”

>   “You saw him last night. I imagine he got the same inspection then. What did you think was going to happen between then and now?”

  “In your care? Anything.”

  For a split second, I wonder if Danny told her about Bloomingdale’s, then quickly reject the notion. After all, I’m still drawing breath.

  “He’s fine,” I say, my jaw clenched. “Leave him be.”

  “I’ll leave him be when I’m good and ready to,” Caroline snipes. “I don’t know what you’re playing at here, Meg. Childcare is not your purview. And I know you’ll take that as an insult, like you take everything that isn’t glowing praise, but it’s not. It’s just the truth.”

  “Eat me.” I say this under my breath so as not to corrupt the little darlings. And for the record, ‘eat me’ is tame compared to what I’m thinking.

  “Personally, I’m surprised you’ve even deigned to leave your wonderful Big Apple for our Podunk town.”

  “Well, you know, we make sacrifices for family,” I say with a casual shrug.

  “Since when do you make sacrifices for family?” she retorts and I contemplate whether or not to add a fat lip to her list of injuries.

  “I think you need more medication.”

  She gives me a sardonic smile then pulls Tebow in for a side-hug, careful not to let him smash her belly. Next, she reaches out to her daughter, but Cera merely stares at her hand and makes no move to connect. Finally, Caroline gives up and drops her hand back to her stomach.

  “I’m sorry about your grandma, Cera. Danny told me. I know you were close with her.”

  Cera shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “Thanks so much.” The sarcasm in Cera’s tone makes my sister-in-law flinch, although she tries to cover it.

  “I’m sorry I’m stuck in here.” A quick glance at me. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’m sure it totally sucks,” Cera says, bored.

  “Language, honey. I doubt your dad would want you to talk like that.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s not here, is he?”

  A sudden feeling of uneasiness comes over me and I take a few steps away from the dysfunctional family reunion. This whole scene makes me think of Melanie, and my skin grows hot at her memory.

  My mother left when I was four and I never saw her alive again. But now, as I watch Cera recoil from Caroline’s advances, I wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t died, if I’d been reunited with her. What would I have said if I’d had the chance? Probably fuck you. But after that, would I have gotten past my anger and resentment towards her? Would I have allowed myself to love her again?

  In this moment, I feel the urge to yell at Cera to throw her arms around her mom and hold on tight, to forgive and forget and save herself a lifetime of bitterness.

  Before I can open my mouth, my phone rings. Ah, saved by the cell. I quickly withdraw it from my purse and see that Damien is calling.

  “Sorry. I have to take this.” Cera gives me a pleading look, as if I’m her ally, which I’m not. I back out of the room just as my nephew puts his chubby hand on Caroline’s basketball belly.

  “Bapper!” I hear him say as I step into the hall.

  “Yes, honey. Baby. He or she will be here soon—” The door closes on Caroline’s words.

  Out in the hall, I take a deep swallow of air before answering my phone.

  “Your timing is perfect,” I say. “I love you.”

  “If that’s true, then you better get yourself on a flight back home. If you don’t have a job, you can’t have an assistant.”

  “What are you talking about, Damien?”

  “Have you checked your email lately? Have you gotten any of my texts? Twitter? Facebook fan page?” My assistant sounds petulant and concerned at the same time.

  “Honestly, D,” I say. “I understand why moms feel so isolated! I haven’t been online in days. I haven’t had time! But I loaded my TweetDeck for two weeks, so I’m good there.”

  “Well, look, I understand you’re very busy playing mommy and all, but you should know that the Humpinator has taken his plan to the next level. He started a rumor online, anonymously, of course, that you are considering jumping ship. Your fans and followers are up in arms.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Yes, of course it is,” he says, trying to soothe me, at which he is usually very good. “But you know how fans turn, dearest. I’ve been doing my best at damage control, but it doesn’t help that you haven’t checked in with a random Facebook update. And Gordon, the wanker, he’s been having some secret powwows with Barry. All very hush hush. Something about trying something new next week.”

  “What? Please don’t tell me he’s considering giving Barry the show.”

  “All right. I won’t tell you. I just don’t understand what’s going on, Meg.”

  I count to ten to still my pounding heart. “Okay, look, Damien, the truth is, I am meeting with a station out here.”

  Damien sucks in a breath. “What?”

  “Strictly for bargaining leverage, I swear. I know Barry makes more than me, and it’s not fair. Our show is as much about me as it is about that doofus. If Gordon knows I have an offer elsewhere, he’ll up the ante on my new contract.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he says quietly.

  “Because I would never take it, no matter what they offered. You know me, D. I couldn’t live out here in LaLaLand!”

  “You’re right, of course. I know you wouldn’t abandon me. And it’s a good plan. But how did Barry find out? This is a man who still listens to Culture Club.”

  “I don’t know. I kept it all on the down low. I only contacted KTOC through my personal email and they never called the station, only my cell phone.”

  “All right, well, look, I’ll do my best to contain things here, but you might want to get some spontaneous tweets out there and update the Facebook fan page. Let your fans know about your little family drama, get their sympathy.”

  “Yeah, I will. But I’ve got to do something about next week. I can’t let him get away with this! He’s making my fans believe I defected.”

  “Don’t use that word with him, Meg. Knowing Barry, he’ll think you’re talking about a bowel movement.”

  “I don’t intend to talk to Barry. I’m calling fucking Gordon.”

  A nurse wearing pink scrubs pushes a very pregnant woman in a wheelchair. As they pass, the nurse frowns disapprovingly while the pregnant woman gives me a thumbs up.

  “I know what the show means to you, Meg. Isn’t there any way you can come home now?”

  I rub my forehead, take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I think of my brother, and my niece and nephew and my step-niece, or whatever the hell Cera is to me. I think about Bloomingdale’s and McKenna’s tears when I called her fat and Danny’s assessment of my limitations. I think about my ulterior motive for coming out here, which was to gain validation for my childless lifestyle and to cement the fact that I do not want kids—which, at this moment, is a certainty, never going to have them. But all of those things make little difference now. The bottom line is I made a commitment, and now I have to stick to it. I’ll find a way to save the Barry and Meg Show, I know I will. But I also have to stay.

  “I can’t right now, Damien.”

  He is quiet for a long moment. “All right. Just tell me what you want me to do. I’m here for you, Meg.”

  “I know, Damien. And I thank God for that.”

  * * *

  When I return to Room 8, Tebow is still sitting on the bed next to Caroline playing with her plastic bed pan, which I assume she hasn’t used yet. Cera is nowhere to be seen. I look around and notice the closed bathroom door. Caroline has a protective arm around Tebow, but she is focused on the view outside the window. I take a few steps toward her and she turns to me, her expression wistful. I swallow a snarky comment before it gets to my lips. Caroline
returns her attention to the view.

  “She hates me.”

  I shrug. “She’s eleven.”

  “She has every right to hate me.”

  “You’re such a martyr, Caroline,” I say, then I mimic her words. “‘She has every right to hate me.’ God.”

  “But she does!”

  “Well, yeah, of course she does. You screwed up. But, you know. She’ll grow out of it. When she gets older, she won’t hate you anymore.”

  “Says the sage of parental wisdom.”

  “Fu—to heck with you. I’m trying to be supportive. When it comes to you that’s not easy for me, so give me a break.”

  She gives a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, okay. Did you hate Melanie?”

  “Oh, yes,” I admit.

  “Do you still hate her?’

  I smirk. “Oh, yes. Why do you think I’m in therapy?”

  “I thought it was because you tried to beat up a guest on your show.” It’s Caroline’s turn to smirk.

  “That, too. But mostly because I still hate my mother. But then, Melanie and I never had a chance to reconcile. She went and died. You’re here. You and Cera have time.”

  Caroline turns and looks at me and I meet her eyes. For a long moment, we stare at each other. Perhaps for the first time in our relationship, neither one of us looks angry or hostile or spiteful. I’ll take it as a step in the right direction.

  We both hear the toilet flush, followed by the sound of the faucet, and we instantly break eye contact. The bathroom door opens, and Cera emerges. She lingers by the bathroom, drying her hands on a paper towel.

  “So, Sunday’s your birthday, huh?” Caroline’s enthusiasm is forced, her smile more of a hope than an honest expression. “I remember the day I had you. It was raining, but as soon as you were born, the sun came out.”

  Cera frowns at her feet and Caroline abruptly shifts topic. “I understand there’s going to be cake. And from the Muffin Top, no less.”

  “Whatevs.”

  “It’s a great bakery, Cera. The owner was on that cake challenge show. She’s really good.”

  Cera shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I’m turning twelve, not twenty-one. I don’t really need a cake.”