Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (22 page)

“Get out!” I say, pointing at the door. Despite my commanding tone, I think my hand is shaking a little.

“Oh, I’ll go,” she snaps, backing toward the exit. “But you have not heard the last of me.”

“That’s fine,” I grumble, “just stay away from my family!”

She stops and fixes me with this creepy, self-satisfied smile. “Deal,” she says in a really menacing tone. Then she turns and hurries out the door, nearly crashing into the pizza guy on his way up the walk.

Lucy

COUGAR ATTACK
! the headline reads. It’s one of those small, tabloid-style newspapers devoted to more superfluous news stories. I’d picked it up from one of those free newspaper boxes dotting the city like a teenager’s acne. The headline had grabbed me. I was really concerned that someone in the area had been attacked by a cougar. Not so.

Underneath the tantalizing headline is a photo of Wynn and me. My body is angled toward him, my shirt flapping open to reveal my lacy black bra. Wynn appears to be backing away from me, though I know this wasn’t the case. My eyes stare at the camera, my expression one of anger and confusion (well, as much anger and confusion as you can express when your forehead is frozen). Wynn’s eyes are on me, his features contorted in chagrin that the paparazzi have found us. Unfortunately, this chagrin is easily mistaken for fear, giving the impression that I’m attacking him and he’s frightened. Yes, I am the cougar; Wynn is my prey.

The rustling of multiple plastic bags alerts me to Camille’s approach. I toss the paper under my desk as she comes barreling into the office.

“Phew!” she says, dropping her purchases on the floor. “I’ve got everything for the bake-sale shoot. Are you going to be able to get the roller disco stuff?”

I start to answer but my face crumples with emotion. Camille hurries toward me and puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Without a word, I reach for the newspaper and hand it to her.

“Oh my god! Was someone attacked by a cougar?” Then she looks at the photo. “Shit,” she mutters.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” I cry, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. “She’s going to leave me and move in with Trent.”

“You’re her mother and she loves you,” Camille soothes.

“I’m on the front page of the paper attacking the boy she’s in love with!” I wail.

“Everyone knows the media always get these things wrong.”

“My tits are hanging out!” I cry.

“Listen,” Camille insists. “This is some little rinky-dink free newspaper. I’m sure no one’s even seen it.”

That’s when Wynn walks into my office. Under his arm I notice folded copies of the city’s two largest newspapers. He clears his throat nervously. “Could I talk to you for a sec?”

Camille gathers her shopping bags. “I’ll be in the props room.” With a pitying glance at me over her shoulder, she hurries away.

“I take it you’ve seen the photo?” Wynn says, closing the door behind him.

“I saw it,” I reply, trying to hold myself together. “Is it in
The Sun
and
The Province
too?”

“In the entertainment section. And my publicist has already had calls from
People, Us Weekly, In Touch
, and
Hello
.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“How do we stop this?” I ask pleadingly.

Wynn lets out a puff of breath between his lips. “We just have to ride it out. You know how these things go … You’re all over the tabloids one week; completely forgotten the next.”

I jump up. “I can’t just ride this out!” I screech. “I can’t be all over the tabloids. I have my daughter to think about.”

Wynn’s youthful face looks stressed. “You guys might want to get away for a while … So you’re not harassed …”

And then, like a jolt of electricity, the magnitude of the crisis hits me. What if Sam sees the photo before I’ve had a chance to explain? What if Ava Watkins runs into her and says something like, “Oh sweetie, I’m sorry to hear that your mother tried to rape your teenage crush.” What if the press is at Crofton House this very moment, asking Sam to comment on how she feels about her mother flashing her boobs at Cody Summers?

I grab my coat and purse. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll come with you,” Wynn stupidly offers.

“No,” I growl at him. “You will not come with me. You’ve done enough damage.”

Trent

“
SHE SAYS YOU GAVE HER CRABS,
” Don says.

“No!” I cry. “I didn’t!”

“She has a letter from a doctor.”

“Maybe she has crabs, but she didn’t get them from me!”

Don continues, “We need to sort this out, Trent. She’s threatening legal action against the firm.”

“So what are you saying?” I snap. “That you want me to resign?”

Don reclines slightly in his chair. “I could offer you a transfer to the Coquitlam office.”

I jump out of my seat. “
She’s
crazy and I’m being sent to work out in the boonies?”

“It’s not the boonies. It’ll take you forty-five minutes tops.”

“No,” I say, placing my hands on the desk and leaning across it. “I’m trying to reconnect with my family. Adding an hourand-a-half commute to my day is not going to help any.”

His response is cool. “Maybe you should have thought about your family before you started banging that psycho.”

“I made a mistake!” I boom. “I admit it. But would you rather keep a crazy bitch like Annika in the office than a solid, loyal employee like me?”

Don sits forward, a gesture that puts me back in my seat. “You don’t want this to go to court, Trent. She’s saying things … It’s not just the crabs.”

“I never asked her to spank me!” I shout, then lower my voice. “She’s making all that shit up.”

“She says you like to be peed on.”

“Oh my god!”

“And dress up in women’s lingerie.”

“I don’t!”

“I believe you, some won’t.”

Oh god. Annika will stop at nothing to destroy me. What’s next? Boiling Sam’s hamster? Thankfully, the hamster died over a year ago of natural causes, but I suddenly realize what I’m dealing with here. I clear my throat.

“I need some time to think.”

Don seems glad to get rid of me. “Sure. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You can give me your decision tomorrow.”

Outside, the spring sun is peeking through the buildings, warming the west side of the street. I cross Hastings and move onto the sunny side of Richards. It’s grown on me, this walking back and forth to work. I thought I’d miss my car, but now the thought of a forty-five-minute commute is distasteful. It’s bad for the environment, for starters. But if I’m being honest, I’ve got too many problems of my own to give a shit about global warming. It’s not the drive I dread so much, but the time investment. How am I going to ease my way back into Sam and Lucy’s good books when I’m spending an hour and a half stuck in traffic every day?

It’s not a definite plan at this stage, more of an overall strategy. Slowly but surely, I will infiltrate my daughter’s life again. I’ll start picking her up from school a couple of times a week, bringing her back to my apartment for a home-cooked meal. When I know she’s home alone, I’ll pack up dinner and take it over to her, something she loves, like lasagna or my chicken parmesan. “Leave a little for your mom,” I’ll say, so that when Lucy finally gets home from work, she can reheat one of my specialties. Eventually, I’ll stay a little longer, just to keep Sam company until her mom gets back. Lucy won’t have the heart to kick me out when she sees how close Sam and I have become. Sam will get back to her old self and start painting again, and Lucy will be so grateful to me that she’ll invite me back home. But how can I execute my strategy when I’m stuck out in Coquitlam, land of strip malls, dodgy pubs, and fast food outlets?

I’ll get another job, one that’s in the city. It shouldn’t be too hard: I’ve got the education, the experience, and the contacts— unless Annika has spread word through the industry that I’m a cross-dresser with crabs and a penchant for golden showers.

Almost unconsciously, I walk into the beer store two blocks before my building. My fridge is empty, and if ever I needed an after-work beer, it’s today. Sure, it’s only one-thirty, but I need to de-stress. I grab a case of Heineken. Given the fact that I could soon be unemployed, I should buy something domestic. But this isn’t the time to deprive myself. Walking to the cash register, I plunk the case on the counter.

The clerk, a skinny kid of about twenty, keeps his eyes glued to the open newspaper beside my beer case. “That all?” he asks, eyes affixed to the entertainment section.

“Yep.” As he punches in my purchase, I glance at the paper to see what had him so transfixed. It’s upside down, but there’s a large photo of some woman in her bra and some good-looking young guy. She’s got a nice rack. Then the words
Cody’s Way
pop out at me from the caption. That’s Lucy’s show! I grab the paper and turn it toward me.

That’s when I see that the woman with the nice rack is my wife, who appears about to eat that Cody Summers kid. I’m stunned. A sickening wave of rage and betrayal overtakes me.

“Twenty-two bucks,” the kid says.

I hand over the bills. “Can I take this?” I ask hoarsely, indicating the paper.

“I was reading it.”

“I’ll give you five bucks for it.” I toss a fiver on the counter.

“Okay,” he shrugs, handing over my change. “There’s a newspaper box right outside …” But I’m already leaving the store.

Somehow, I make it home before reading the article. I just can’t do it in public. My wife is banging some teenage actor. It’s sickening! How can she degrade herself like that? How can she degrade me like that? In the privacy of my apartment I devour the contents.

It’s a short blurb. The paper doesn’t even know who Lucy is, or the scope of her relationship with Wynn Felker (Cody Summers’s real name). She’s identified only as “a sexy soccer mom” caught outside Felker’s waterfront home. The kid is apparently twenty-seven, not seventeen, which at least makes it less illegal for her to be carrying on with him. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s disgusting. He’s still on some teenybopper TV show and millions of little girls are in love with him.

Jesus Christ! I’m immediately running out the door, car keys in hand. Sam can’t see this photograph. She’s one of the millions of little girls in love with that Cody kid. If she sees her mom sexually attacking him in the newspaper, who knows what she’ll do. “Damn you, Lucy,” I mutter as the elevator slowly lurches down to the parking garage.

Within moments I’m behind the wheel and racing toward Crofton House. Amidst my anger at Lucy and my fear for my daughter, one thing has become clear. I can’t take a job outside the city. My daughter needs me now more than ever.

Lucy

I WAIT IN THE HALL
as Principal Black disrupts tenth-grade history class to extract my daughter. “Your mother is here,” the large woman whispers, her tone pitying. I’m thankful for Principal Black’s kindness, but there’s something inherently judgmental in her rigid posture and cloying smile. If she saw that photo of me and Wynn, she’d probably feel it her duty to call Children’s Services and have Sam removed from my care.

My daughter spots me across the hall, her face contorted with worry. She rushes up to me. “What’s wrong? What happened? Is it Dad?”

“No honey, it’s nothing like that,” I assure her. But to maintain the urgency of the situation for Principal Black’s benefit, I say, “I just need to talk to you about some … urgent … family … stuff.”

When we’re outside the building, Sam says, “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”

“Don’t freak out.” I reach for her hand, give it a squeeze. A lump forms in my throat as I experience a flash of déjà vu. Sam is a little girl skipping beside me, holding my hand like I’m her favorite person in the world. Breathing in, I try to staunch the emotion threatening to overtake me. I look at my daughter and realize that, in about half an hour, she’s going to hate my guts.

We’re almost to the SUV when Trent pulls in. I hear the squeal of tires before I notice the Lexus speeding in to the parking lot.

“Christ,” I grumble, “this is a school zone.”

“Why is Dad here?” Sam cries as Trent flies out of the car. “Oh god. Did Grandma die?”

“Grandma’s fine,” I say as Trent jogs up to us.

He touches Sam’s shoulder. “How you holding up, kiddo?”

Sam shrieks, “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Let’s go home so we can talk.” I make a move toward the car, but no one follows me.

“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on!” my daughter cries.

Trent looks at me. “She hasn’t seen it yet?”

“Seen what yet?”

I turn to my husband. “Can you let me handle this, please?”

“Handle what?” Sam screams.

“You’d better tell her,” Trent insists, “before she finds out on her own.”

I don’t like his holier-than-thou tone. He probably thinks that my being caught in a compromising position with Wynn Felker somehow erases his dalliance with his porcine coworker. But now is not the time to take offense. My daughter looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Well honey,” I say cheerfully, “you know that I work with Wynn Felker.”

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah?”

“We’ve become sort of friends lately, and sometimes, people get the wrong idea when two adults are friends.”

“Be straight with her, Lucy,” Trent says.

“Will you stay out of this?” I shriek. “You obviously have no idea how to handle new relationships and children.”

“New relationships?” Sam says weakly.

“Nice one,” Trent grumbles.

I’d like to kick him in the nuts right about now, but obviously that wouldn’t help Sam. “No, no,” I say, trying to backpedal, “Wynn and I are just friends, but there’s a photograph … You know how the media always spin things to make a better story.”

Sam says, “A photograph of you and Wynn Felker?”

“I’d been to his house to talk about some work stuff,” I say lamely. “And when I left, a photographer jumped out of the bushes and took a picture.”

“Oh,” Sam says, skeptical but accepting. But Trent just can’t keep his big fat nose out of it.