Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (16 page)

“But to a teenager, the long hours at work must seem like a choice, like she’s choosing work over her daughter.”

“Until I left, Sam was a happy, well-adjusted kid.”

“You can’t put this all on you,” Annika says, giving my knee a sympathetic squeeze. “If Lucy’s going to be the primary parent, she needs to compensate for your absence. And she obviously hasn’t done that.”

“And you’re a parenting expert now, are you?” I snap.

“I’m a child of divorce,” she says sagely.

Flopping back onto the couch cushions, I stare at the game. I don’t know who’s winning. I’m not even sure who’s playing. And I’m definitely not sure why I’m feeling so defensive of Lucy. Annika’s probably right: Lucy should have cut back her hours after I left—even temporarily. If she’d spent some time helping Sam deal with our split, none of this would have happened.

But even as I say it, I know it’s bullshit. It was me who walked out. It was me who was screwing Annika when I should have been spending time with my daughter, showing her that, just because things didn’t work out with her mother and me, I still love her more than anything. Maybe Lucy let Sam down too, but this is on me. No matter what Annika says, I know that.

Annika looks at me, reads the chagrin on my face. She leans on me. “Don’t worry. When we have kids, we’ll do things a lot differently.”

The anger builds quickly, rising to a crescendo in mere seconds. I jump up. “What?” I bellow.

“What?” Annika says, looking a little frightened.

“Are you suggesting I write my daughter off? That it’s too late for her, so I should just start over?”

“N-no.”

I stab a finger toward her for emphasis. “Because I will never give up on Sam. That girl means more to me than anything … than anyone.”

“I understand,” Annika says, her tone placating. She stands up and leads me back to the couch. “Of course you love Sam and want to help her. I do too. I’m just saying that maybe we’d do things a little differently—”

I’m off the couch again. “We are not going to have kids!” I boom. “We barely know each other.”

“Of course we know each other.” She actually sounds annoyed now. “We’ve been friends for over a year.”

“Co-workers,” I say, “not friends. Besides,” I add, my voice venomous, “I’ve had a vasectomy. I couldn’t have more kids even if I wanted them.”

Her face crumples and I almost feel guilty. But I quickly snap out of it. “I think you’ve been expecting more from me than I’m able to give,” I say. “I’m not looking for a new relationship, Annika. I’m not even sure my relationship with Lucy is over.”

“Oh my god!” Annika shrieks. She is instantly off the couch and charging at me. “You’re not looking for a new relationship? Well, what the hell do you call this? We fuck practically every night. We furnished your apartment together. You took me to your kid’s art show—”

“That was a mistake,” I interrupt her. “I was angry at Lucy and trying to teach her a lesson.”

“For a year you’ve been stringing me along, making me think we’d have a future together if only your wife was out of the picture. So now she’s out of the picture and you tell me you don’t want a relationship with me?”

“I didn’t mean to string you along. I was attracted to you. I
am
attracted to you. That doesn’t mean I want you buying stuffed dogs for my daughter and decorating my apartment and planning how we’re going to raise our kids together!”

Annika just glares at me. Her chest is rising and falling with the heat of her anger. If this were a movie, she’d slap me across the face and then I’d throw her over the Karlstad and screw her brains out. It’s an appealing possibility, but somehow I think it would be a mistake.

“You fucking asshole,” she finally says, marching toward the door. She struggles into her coat and boots. “You don’t give a shit about me at all.”

A small part of me thinks it would be wise to let her storm out under that misconception, but old habits die hard. “Of course I give a shit about you,” I plead. “You’ve been great, really. I’m just under a lot of pressure with Sam and everything. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

“Well you did,” Annika snivels, retrieving the plastic bag and its canine contents. “You made me feel like a fool and an idiot and … a whore.”

She’s full-fledged crying now, and I feel like crap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … Look, just forget what I said. I was venting and—”

She cuts me off. “Goodbye Trent.” In a rustle of plastic shopping bags, she’s gone.

Lucy

I
’
VE MANAGED TO AVOID
the office completely today. It would be too awkward seeing Wynn after our disastrous coffee date. All that “So sorry to hear about your booze-guzzling daughter and philandering husband,
Mrs. Vaughn
.” Plus, it’s St. Patrick’s Day and everyone’s wearing green and pretending they’re half Irish and talking about getting drunk. It’s annoying.

Thankfully, Cody’s summer job at a dude ranch has required I spend the entire day at a farm supply store in Cloverdale. By 2:50 p.m. I’ve spent two thousand dollars on feed buckets, rope, and horse tack. With my purchases safely stowed in the back of my truck, I head to Crofton House School.

As I fly down the freeway, I dial my cell phone. It rings on the other end and I pray for voice mail. This is not going to be an easy conversation. Bruce is a reasonable man, but he’s a props master first and foremost. He hired me to work my ass off during filming and to rest on hiatus. It would never occur to him that a props buyer would allow her personal life to interfere.

But I meant what I said to Sam. I’m going to cut back on my hours, whether Bruce likes it or not. Of course, it’s completely realistic that he might fire me, but I would rather be an unemployed single mother collecting welfare than a neglectful, worka—Bruce answers.

“Hi,” I say, chipperly. “It’s Lucy.”

“How’s it going out there?” he asks.

“Great! I’ve got everything for the dude ranch shoot.”

“Good work. You coming in now?”

My voice wavers a little, but I plunge ahead. “No, I’m going to pick up my daughter from school.”

There’s a silence on the other end that I feel compelled to fill. “She’s been having a difficult time lately—with her dad and me splitting up. I told her I’d talk to you about cutting back on my hours.”

“What do you mean by ‘cutting back’?”

“Well,” I say, mustering all my courage, “I’d like to finish at three every day so I can pick her up from school.”

There’s a noise on the other end—possibly laughter. “Why don’t you come in so we can talk about this in person?”

“I can’t. I’m going to pick her up right now.”

“Lucy, you can’t just spring this on me. We’re in a time crunch because Wynn’s taking some time off in a few weeks. His family’s coming in from Arizona.”

“New Mexico,” I correct him.

“Wherever. You need to come in.”

“I can’t, Bruce,” I say, defiantly taking the Willingdon exit. This is the fastest route to my daughter’s school and tangibly marks my intention. “I told Sam I’d be there and I can’t let her down.”

“But it’s fine to let me down—to let the whole production down?”

He’s angry now, and I sense I could be on the verge of getting fired. “I’ll be in early tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Quickly, I hang up and turn off the ringer.

Despite my best efforts, I’m still fifteen minutes late to pick up Sam. I fly into the parking lot and slam the vehicle into a space. Jesus, I’m all worked up. I take a deep, calming breath before jumping out of the car. I just hope Sam doesn’t think I’ve forgotten to pick her up. I picture my daughter riding the bus, staring forlornly out the window at the afternoon traffic. “I guess my mom isn’t going to change after all,” she’d mumble to herself. When she arrived home, she’d let herself into the cold, cavernous house. “I’ll make myself a snack,” she’d say, “or maybe I’ll just have some crank or blow.”

I’m about to dial her cell phone when I see her standing with a group of girls at the corner of the playing field. “Sam!” I call, relief making my voice jubilant. “I’m here!” My daughter’s posture changes slightly, but she doesn’t exactly run toward me. She and her friends watch me as I traverse the soggy field. Their teenage inspection makes me feel self-conscious.

“Hi girls,” I say as I approach.

“Hi Mrs. Vaughn.” It’s Carolyn, a pretty Korean girl who somehow manages to make her conservative school uniform look slutty.

“Hey, Mrs. Vaughn.” Oh good, Sam’s drinking buddy Jordan is here.

“Hi there.” This comes from a pale blond girl I’ve not seen before. “I’m Tara.”

“Hi Tara. I’m Sam’s mom.” I turn to my daughter. “Sorry I’m late.”

She shrugs. “I forgot you were even picking me up.”

“Well I am … from now on.”

“Whatevs,” she says. Then, addressing her friends: “Text ya later.”

“Bye,” I say. “Nice meeting you, Tara.”

“You too.”

Sam is already making her way across the soggy field and I hurry to catch up.

“How was your day?”

“Good,” she replies indifferently.

“Tara seems nice. Is she in your grade?”

“Yeah, she just transferred here. She got kicked out of public school but her dad knows the dean of Crofton.”

I look at her to see if she’s just pushing my buttons. It’s hard to tell, but I’d have to assume yes. Crofton House is not the type of school to pick up delinquents from the public system. But it would be antagonistic to call her on it.

“What should we do now?” I say instead. “I’m off all afternoon. We could go shopping or to the art gallery?”

“Aren’t you going to get fired?” Sam mumbles as we approach the parking lot.

“No,” I say as convincingly as I can. “I told Bruce that I need to rework my schedule so that I can be available for you. He understands.”

Sam makes a sort of snorting noise, but the subject is dropped. We get into the vehicle and I back carefully out of the parking lot.

“So,” I say, as we turn onto bustling Forty-first Avenue. “Where to?”

“Home,” she mumbles, staring out the window.

“Okay. Do you have a lot of homework to get to?”

“Not really. I just don’t feel like traipsing around the mall holding my mommy’s hand.”

She’s being a rude brat, but what else is new? I decide to let it slide. “Fine. Home it is.”

Fifteen silent minutes later, we pull into our driveway. When the car stops, Sam hops out and heads for the door.

“You’re welcome!” I call after her.

“I said thanks,” she grouches. “You just didn’t hear me.”

Inside, I find myself alone in the kitchen, Sam having declined my offer of popcorn and a movie. “I’m tired,” she’d said, trudging up the stairs. I decide to sort through the day’s props purchases. This way, though I’m not officially working, I’ll be slightly less behind when I arrive tomorrow. When I’ve unloaded the back of my SUV, the living room floor is a sea of plastic bags. I extract the halters, the feed buckets, the ropes, and the kilogram bags of oats, removing tags and preparing them for use. Then I grab the enormous armload of plastic bags and stuff them in the broom closet. It takes some effort to get the door closed again, but I manage. With that complete, I decide to check my voice messages.

Under different circumstances, having messages from three men would be flattering. Unfortunately, one wants to berate me, another wants to coerce me into going for dinner with him when it’s simply not possible, and the third wants to fire me.

Trent’s message was significantly calmer than the one he left yesterday, though. In fact, he sounded almost apologetic. I listen again.

“Hi Lucy, it’s me. I just wanted to say that I hope things are okay with you and Sam. I’m probably the last person either of you wants to see, but please tell her that I care about her— about you both. When Sam’s ready to talk … or if you want to talk, give me a call.” There is a pause before he hangs up, almost as if he wanted to say more then decided against it.

I can’t deny that his plaintive tone tugs at my heartstrings. But as usual, Trent’s timing is all wrong. It was only yesterday that I had an epiphany about our relationship: it’s over and there’s no going back. So why do I want so badly to call him? Why do I crave the sound of his voice telling me everything will be all right? Force of habit, I guess. For almost half my life I’ve been turning to him for support. And now, when I need it most, I can’t.

To counterbalance the nostalgia, I replay Wynn’s message too.

“Hey Lucy, it’s me. You ran out so quickly after our coffee yesterday that we didn’t get to plan dinner. I’d really like to take you out to thank you for your advice and … well, I’d really like to take you out. If you’re in the office, come find me on set. Or else call me, okay? … It’s Wynn Felker by the way.”

When the message ends I realize I’m smiling like an idiot— or more like an adolescent girl who just got asked out on a date by a teen heartthrob. I can’t go, obviously. My life’s a mess and Wynn would only complicate things further. But he really is sweet—and hot of course. And his persistence is a great salve to my battered ego. But I can’t go out with him. Can I?

I realize my messages are still playing when I hear Bruce’s voice. “I think you need to get in here and talk to me face to face. You can’t just spring something like this on me over the phone. When one of my props buyers informs me she’s going to be working half-days, that impacts the productivity of my department and that could screw up the whole shooting schedule.”

“Half-days,” I snort under my breath as I delete the message. Only in the TV industry would working seven hours be considered a half-day. But I can’t deny that it was unprofessional of me not to mention this before. Of course, before I didn’t know that my daughter was teetering on the brink of becoming a teenage alcoholic/drug addict/slut. I need to make Bruce understand my situation. And I need to do it in person.

Once again, I find myself hovering outside my daughter’s locked bedroom door. “Knock, knock,” I call over the sounds of Good Charlotte or one of those sound-alike bands.

The door swings open and Sam faces me with a sullen glare. “How’s the homework coming?” I chirp. I’m just making conversation, but my daughter seems to take it as some sort of assault on her work ethic.