Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (12 page)

Wynn leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I had a great time tonight.”

“I’m not feeling well,” I responded stiffly.

He sat up. “Are you okay? Do you want to pull over? Are you going to be sick?”

Was I? The thought of what had just happened made me feel sick with guilt. Combined with all the gin sloshing in my stomach and the motion of the SUV, barfing was an appealing idea. “No,” I said quietly, “I just need to get home.”

Twelve minutes later we pulled into my driveway. The digital clock on the dashboard read 7:27, still a reasonable arrival time. Todd pulled in beside us in my Forerunner and cut the engine. If I handled this right, there was no reason Sam needed to know anything was amiss.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called to my driver. I opened the door and exited the back seat. Wynn slid out behind me.

I turned to him. “I’ve got to get inside.”

“Okay.” He took a step toward me. “It just seems a shame to call it a night so early.”

Did he expect me to ask him in? To parade him past my teenage daughter and up to my bedroom? What kind of woman did he think I was? An alcoholic whore, obviously. I guess I had been sending him those signals. I took a step back.

“My daughter …,” I began with a nervous glance over my shoulder. Surely the sound of an enormous SUV idling in the driveway would bring Sam to the window? And what about the neighbors? It looked like I was being dropped off by P. Diddy’s entourage.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Wynn offered.

“No!” I said, taking an insistent step back. “I’m fine.”

But Wynn moved toward me and took my hand. “I’m flying to Nebraska tomorrow, so I won’t see you for a few days.”

“Nebraska?”

“I have to do a mall opening.”

“But I thought you didn’t want to go?” If Wynn was wondering how I knew this, he didn’t ask.

“I don’t, but we’ve committed. And then we’ve got some event in Wyoming.”

“Well, have fun.” I thought I saw the curtain move and felt a bubble of panic in my chest. If Sam saw Wynn here, she’d go crazy. And if she saw Wynn here holding her mother’s hand, she’d go on a psychotic killing spree. But Sam’s face never appeared and I chalked the swaying curtain up to my drunken loss of equilibrium. Still, I pulled my hand away. “I’ll see you when you get back,” I said, hurrying toward the house. “Thanks for the drinks.”

Now, just a couple of days later, I’m still reliving that evening. It’s a combination of drinker’s remorse and an aching, longing sort of remembrance. Lust, I think they call it. I vaguely remember the feeling from my early days with Trent. Of course, I’ve analyzed this yearning to relive, possibly even expand on, those kisses with Wynn, and have concluded that they’re a product of my intense loneliness and feelings of marital rejection. I must push these lecherous feelings to the back of my mind until they dissipate. And of course, I will never touch another drop of gin as long as I live.

With the Wynn Felker incident firmly behind me, I can focus on my daughter. Sam continues to be sullen and sulky, demonstrating that she needs my full attention. Parenthood is my top priority. Unfortunately, this stupid job continues to suck up far too many hours that would be better spent bonding with my child, but I’ve got to pay the mortgage. Outside of work, I will be one hundred percent attentive to Samantha. I’m not going to let Trent’s mid-life crisis affect her happiness and well-being.

Of course it’s normal to want to reminisce about that night with Wynn. It was a big, drunken mistake, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. I felt so alive and so young and so free—which is an entirely inappropriate way for someone to feel at my age and in my position. No, Sam comes first … always. There is no room in my life for gin and kissing.

Wynn’s email message was really sweet though. He wrote to me from Nebraska, just to tell me that he’d had a great time the other night and couldn’t wait to see me when he got back. For a split second I’d felt a surge of excitement, even possibility, but I quickly came to my senses. It was flattering to receive such a missive, and obviously good for my ego. I mean, how many women my age get asked out by a gorgeous twenty-something? But it doesn’t change the facts: 1) Wynn is too young for me. 2) He’s a teen heartthrob. 3) My daughter has an enormous crush on him. I could keep going, but those alone are enough.

If I’m being perfectly honest, it feels good to have evened the score with my ex and that curly-haired cow of his. While Trent continues to harass me via email about the spare bed and various kitchen appliances, I continue to ignore him. Tonight he’s taking Sam to a movie and wants to “speak to me in person.” Obviously, I’ll be working late so that I can avoid the confrontation. I love the thought of Trent stewing and stressing over my lack of availability. I can practically see his face turning red each time he checks his email and finds his messages unanswered.

What does he expect? That he can enjoy cocktails with Slutty McSlutterson while I fill a box with steak knives and measuring spoons and individually wrapped plates and coffee cups? That I’ll carry the double bed out of the spare room on my back, tie it onto my truck, and deliver it to his new bachelor pad? He probably wants me to go in and put clean sheets on it so that it’s all ready for him to screw his fat girlfriend on.

I feel my face getting hot with anger and I’m disappointed by my physical response. Why do Trent’s actions still affect me so much? I just got an email from a TV star who says he can’t wait to see me. Why do I still care about that paunchy cliché of a man I was married to for so freaking long? And I realize I’ve just answered my own question. I was married to Trent for sixteen years. If I stop caring about him a few weeks after he walks out on me, it’s as though our time together was all a lie. It wasn’t. We’ve got Sam to prove that. And I’ve still got this dull ache in my heart.

Trent

WHEN I PULL INTO THE DRIVEWAY,
the first thing I notice is that Lucy’s car isn’t there. “That bitch,” I mutter under my breath, as I turn off the Lexus’s engine. A lone light shines in the living room, and I suddenly realize how alone my daughter must feel. A small wave of guilt washes over me, but I push it away. Lucy should be feeling guilty, not me. She wanted to stay in the house and play happy families. She should be the one to step up and take responsibility.

I jog up the steps and try the door. It’s locked. The key is still on my ring, but I knock. I don’t want to barge in and scare the crap out of Sam. But when she hasn’t answered after several seconds, I fish for the key. I’m about to insert it in the lock when the door swings open.

“Hey,” my daughter says, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“Hi, my girl.” I step into the foyer and prepare to give her a kiss, but Sam is already digging in the closet for her coat. I survey the room. It’s basically unchanged since the day I left: still formal, pristine, professionally cleaned. Okay, so the house is showing no signs of neglect, but I look at my daughter. As she struggles into her hoodie, I notice the shadows under her eyes and a certain hollowness to her cheeks. Are these new, or did she always look like this? I feel bad that I can’t remember.

“So,” I say casually. “Your mom here?”

“No,” she mumbles, zipping into the ridiculous boots she insists on wearing.

I check my watch. “Shouldn’t she be home by now? It’s almost seven.”

Sam rights herself and looks at me. “You lived with her for, like, twenty years. You should know what time she gets home better than I do.”

“Watch the tone,” I say, asserting some parental control. I get that this has been hard on her, but it doesn’t give her the right to be rude. “Show some respect.”

Sam’s eyes narrow as she stares at me. I’m afraid she’s about to say something horrible, and frankly, I’m not sure what I’d do if she did. It’s a little hard to enforce punishment when your relationship consists of dinners at White Spot and the odd movie. But thankfully, she bites her tongue. “Let’s go,” she mumbles, brushing past me and out the door.

Forty minutes later we’re slouched in our seats in the darkened movie theater. Sam munches on popcorn, and I worry that it constitutes dinner. But I don’t ask. She’s obviously in a bad mood and I don’t want to set her off again. She’s probably getting her period or something. Instead, I take a sip of Coke and turn my thoughts to Lucy.

By now I’ve figured out that she’s trying to infuriate me. You don’t spend almost twenty years with a woman without getting into her psyche. Yeah, her avoidance is definitely a way of punishing me. It’s normal for her to be pissed, but it’s been nearly a month since I left. Lucy has to accept that I need some time to myself. If she thinks her childish behavior is going to make me come running home, she’s got another thing coming.

I glance at my daughter, her face highlighted by the movie light. She’s going to be okay. She’s strong and resilient, like her old man. There haven’t been any more drinking incidents, and she hasn’t dyed her hair green or gotten a tattoo. She’s obviously throwing her teen angst into her art. As long as her mother’s petty avoidance act doesn’t segue into neglecting Sam, she’ll come through this all right.

The movie was a stinker, but Sam seemed to like it. She is borderline animated on the drive home. Well, as animated as a premenstrual teen whose parents have just split up can be. “I’m looking forward to your art show on Saturday,” I say as we turn onto our street.

Sam clams up suddenly, shrugs. “Yeah,” she mumbles, staring out the window.

“Don’t be so modest,” I say, as we approach the house. “You’ve got real talent.”

“Whatevs,” she mutters.

I’m relieved to see the Forerunner in the driveway and a couple of lights burning in the house. The dashboard clock reads 9:18—pushing it, even for Lucy. As I put the car in park, Sam is already reaching for the door handle. She pauses, looks at me. “Are you coming in?”

She might as well have asked “Are you going to show up at my school tomorrow naked?” I realize she’s not in the mood for a scene between her mother and me, and frankly, neither am I. “No,” I say, letting the car idle. “I’ll see your mom at the art show.”

There is no hiding her relief. “Okay, bye.” She hurries off to the house.

As I watch my daughter fiddling with the front door, it suddenly swings open. I catch a glimpse of her mom as she ushers Sam inside, and I wave. It’s instinct, common courtesy, but Lucy ignores the gesture. The door slams and I feel the anger bubble up inside me.

“Fine,” I mutter, banging the car into reverse. “You want to play it that way then we’ll play it that way.” As I gun the car down our quiet, tree-lined street, I growl into the darkness. “See you Saturday, Lucy.”

Lucy

I AM ONCE AGAIN BURIED IN THE PROPS ROOM,
searching for microphones for the Central High talent show, when Camille bursts into the cataclysm. “You’ve got to come back to your desk.”

“Why?” I ask, my stomach lurching with panic. If Crofton House has called to tell me my daughter’s plastered again, I don’t know what I’ll do.

But Camille’s exuberance makes it evident that it’s not bad news. “Just come!”

I see the bouquet of flowers before I’m even in the room. Since it’s about the size of Jupiter, it’s hard to miss. In fact, a small crowd of women has gathered to gush over the lily, peony, and hydrangea extravaganza.

“That’s a two-hundred-dollar bouquet,” someone murmurs.

“I’ve never seen one that big.”

“I have on TV. I think it was at Anna Nicole Smith’s funeral.”

“Who’s it from?” Camille asks as I reach for the card. It has to be from Wynn. The size and expense of the arrangement screams Hollywood. And he did email again to say he’d be home in a few days and was looking forward to seeing me.

But there’s also a slim chance that the bouquet is from Trent. He’s stopped harassing me about the spare bed, and I wonder if this signals a change of heart. A floral arrangement this enormous might be saying: “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry I left you for that fat frizzy slut and now I’d really like to come home to you and our daughter.” Despite my anger toward my husband, I feel a small glimmer of hope that this is the case. I tear open the card.

I’ll be back in Vancouver Sunday. Can’t wait to see you.

Wynn

The swell of disappointment takes me aback. I’d expected the note to be from him, so why am I so chagrined? Did I really think Trent would come around that easily? That he’d suddenly realize the error of his ways and come home to the family fold? No, I didn’t. But I’m surprised how much I wanted it.

“Who’s it from?” Camille squeals.

“It’s anonymous,” I say coyly, smiling at the gaggle of women encircling me. With a groan, they disperse back to their offices, but Camille gives me a wink. It’s obvious she’s knows they’re from Cody Summers.

LATER THAT EVENING,
I drive home with the flowers in the back of my SUV. They significantly lower my visibility and force me to rely on my side-view mirrors. Thankfully, I arrive without incident.

“Oh my god,” Samantha says as I stagger through the doorway with the gigantic bouquet. “Where’d you get those?” She’s lounging on the couch, as usual, watching
Entertainment Tonight
. Obviously, I can’t tell her they’re from the teen heartthrob whose photos are wallpapering her bedroom. In fact, telling her they’re from any man could be upsetting. And if I say they’re from her father that would needlessly get her hopes up.

“They’re for you,” I say, pasting on a bright smile. “Just to say break a leg for the art show tomorrow—or whatever you say in art show circles.”

My daughter gets off the couch and approaches the floral monstrosity. She fingers a lily, sniffs a peony. My hand reaches to my back pocket, feels Wynn’s card safely tucked away. Sam looks at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “It’s huge,” she finally says.

“Well, tomorrow’s a big night for you,” I reply.

“Right,” she mutters, heading back to the couch and her television program. “Hope called for you.”

“So, that’s it?” I snap. “No thank you or anything?” Technically, I’m re-gifting this enormous bouquet to her, but she doesn’t know that. When did my only child become such a spoiled brat?