Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (26 page)

We’re silent as we get out of the car and ride up the elevator to the seventh floor. As soon as we’ve entered the apartment, Sam storms to the couch and flops down. She flicks on the TV.

Christ, I need a beer. I grab a Heineken and drink half of it before I’m fortified to face what’s ahead. Walking back into the living room, I stand in front of my daughter. “We need to talk.”

“I’m trying to watch this,” she snipes. I look at the TV. It’s a rerun of
The Golden Girls
. I turn off the set and take a seat beside her.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to live with me,” I begin. “I do. I love having you here, but the place is too small.”

“Let’s get a bigger place,” she says.

“Well …” I don’t want to worry her, but decide she’s old enough to handle the truth. “I quit my job today.”

“What? Why?”

“It was just time to move on,” I lie. “I’ll find something new, but it could take a week or two. So I can’t be shelling out for a new apartment right now.”

Sam is silent for a moment, staring at the carpet. “I can’t go back to Mom,” she says softly.

“I know you’re angry with her, but you deserve to have a proper house and a proper bedroom. You can’t sleep on a hidea-bed for the next three years.”

Her face suddenly brightens. “Why don’t we move back into the house?”

“Our house?”

“Why should Mom live there all by herself? We can go back to the house and she can move in here.” Her voice turns angry. “Then she can have Cody over and they can—”

I cut her off. “Don’t go there, Sam.”

“Sorry. But can we move back in, Dad? Please?”

She looks at me, so hopeful and expectant, and I realize that I haven’t seen that spark, that light in her eyes in ages. Maybe she’s right? We bought that house when Sam was born and she should be raised there. It’s stupid for Lucy to live there all alone while we’re crammed into this little apartment.

And then I think about telling Lucy she needs to move out, evicting my wife from the house she has always loved and cared for and taken such pride in. It will crush her. It will break her heart. But we have to do what’s best for Sam.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say. Sam jumps up and hugs me.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

I close my eyes and savor my daughter’s closeness. She was so angry and so far away from me, and now she’s back. Moving us into the house is the right thing to do. If it’s made her this happy, how can it be wrong? Sam releases me and I take another swig of beer. I decide to ignore the sick feeling burning in the pit of my stomach.

Lucy

IT
’
S BEEN THREE DAYS
since the initial photo scandal with Wynn, two days since I was asked “not to come into the office for a while,” and three days since I’ve seen my daughter.

Frankly, the state of my job is the last thing on my mind. My obsession has become reconnecting with my only child. I’ve tried calling her—every day since she went to stay at Trent’s apartment. She’s still refusing to see me or even talk to me. Her anger and betrayal is justified, to a degree, but how long can she keep this up? Does she plan to shut me out of her life forever?

The thought sends a wave of desolation through me so intense that tears spring to my eyes. I fall back on Sam’s bed and allow myself to cry for a few minutes. But I don’t seem to have the energy for a full-blown meltdown. Instead I lie on my side, staring at my daughter’s artwork on the walls. She had such talent, such promise. And now, thanks to her parents’ selfish and irresponsible behavior, it’s been destroyed.

Wynn’s pictures are gone, of course. When—if—Sam finally does forgive me and come back home, she’s not going to want to see Cody Summers smiling down at her. I ripped them off the wall with great pleasure, crumpling and tearing them into pieces. I know it’s not his fault that all this happened, but I can’t deny that it felt good to destroy his handsome face.

As I lie there, staring at a Georgia O’Keeffe-ish floral my daughter did in pastels, I suddenly become aware of the silence enveloping me. The house, once my home, my pride, suddenly feels so cavernous and empty. I realize I am completely and utterly alone in the world. Who do I have that cares if I live or die? Not my husband. Not my daughter. I can’t even reach out to my friends. I’m sure most of them think I’m some kind of pedophile. Even Camille, the one who’s seen me through so much, seems to have cooled toward me.

Of course, Wynn has called a few times from New Mexico. The press was at the airport to see him off, but so far they haven’t bothered him at the trailer park. When he’s not suggesting a liaison in The Dominican Republic, he’s offering to write to Sam “to explain.”

“To explain what?” I’d asked him.

“To explain that I’m not Cody Summers. I’m not some silly high school kid whose life is made up of basketball games and school dances. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man with very real, very adult feelings for a sexy, vital woman.”

“Thanks,” I said, “that’s not going to help.”

I take a deep breath and focus on the one bright spot on the horizon. Trent has agreed to meet with me this afternoon. Frankly, I’ve been surprised at his reluctance to come see me. Every time I’ve suggested we get together to talk, he’s made an excuse: “I don’t want to leave Sam alone” or “I need some time to think.” I guess his previous attempts at reconciliation meant nothing. I’ll admit they were all pretty half-assed. There was that kiss in Sam’s bedroom, of course, but it was just a spontaneous response to our heated fight.

The sound of the phone ringing shakes me from my reverie. It’s probably just Wynn again, wanting to tell me how sexy and wise I am. Leisurely, I make my way to my bedroom and the bedside telephone.

“Hello?”

“Lucy … it’s Hope.”

For a moment, my heart soars. It’s Hope: my friend, my confidante, my source of support for so many years. I feel a huge welling of love and gratitude toward her for reaching out to me. It’s big of her to make the first move. She’s always had such a good heart.

“Hey,” I reply, through the lump of emotion in my throat.

Hope continues. “I know our friendship has basically been destroyed, but there’s something I felt you should know.”

In that one sentence, I remember her judgment of my marriage, her betrayal of my confidence, and her holier-thanthou attitude. “Okay,” I reply coolly.

“Sarah-Louise brought home a
People
magazine last night.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically. I feel like adding something like “At least that shows she’s remotely human,” but decide against it.

“Well, I discourage her from reading such trash. It’s mind-numbing pap and promotes body-image issues—especially in young girls.”

“And I suppose you think I got Sam a subscription for Christmas. If you called to insult my parenting abilities, I’m not in the mood.”

“I called because you’re in it.”

“In what—
People
?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Hope says. “There’s a photo of you throwing yourself at Wynn Felker.”

“It was taken out of context,” I snap. “I was talking to him about work stuff and I’d spilled juice on my shirt.”

“Far be it from me to judge what you do with your life,” Hope snips. “I just thought I’d warn you.”

“Well, thanks.”

There’s a pause. “We were friends for a lot of years, Lucy, and I still care … about you and about Sam.”

“Sam knows,” I say softly. “She’s gone to live with Trent.”

“Oh no,” Hope says, her tone gentle. Her sympathy proves my undoing and more tears pour from my eyes. There’s a longer pause as I try to compose myself. My friend fills the silence. “This will all die down eventually.”

“Mm hmm,” I snivel.

“And Sam must think it’s at least a little cool to have her picture in such a big magazine. I know Sarah-Louise was impressed.”

“What?” I cry. “Sam’s picture is in there?”

“Yeah …”

“Oh my god, I’ve got to go.” I should thank Hope for telling me about the photo spread, for still caring enough about me to protect my daughter. But I hang up without a word. I’ve got to get my hands on that magazine.

There’s a corner store two and a half blocks from my house. Throwing on a baseball hat and sunglasses just in case, I take off. I run the entire way, well, almost the entire way. A marked lack of cardio conditioning has me wheezing and panting through a terrible stitch after a block and a half. But within minutes I’m pulling the magazine off the shelf and hurrying home with it.

Alone in my kitchen, I stare at the cover. Thankfully, a beloved movie star pregnant at forty-five is occupying most of the front page. In the top corner is a photo of Wynn sporting his black eye. The caption reads:

WYNN FELKER

Love Triangle!

It’s awful and humiliating, but I can’t help but be relieved that they haven’t spun this into a one-sided assault by a pathetic, middle-aged stalker. Hurriedly, I flip to the story on page eighty-two.

THE TEEN STAR AND THE OLDER WOMAN

Below it is the revealing photo of Wynn and me in front of his house. Fuck. My pulse pounds in my ears as I start to read.

Squeaky clean teen star Wynn Felker is the object of a million young girls’ fantasies. But it turns out that the actor, 27, who’s played mischievous teen Cody Summers on the WB hit
Cody’s Way
for three seasons, is interested in more mature women. The star has become involved with props buyer Lucy Vaughn, 40, much to the chagrin of teen girls everywhere—and her own husband and daughter.

I think I might throw up. Or possibly pass out. Gripping the counter for support, I flip the page. There’s the photo of Sam in one of those little boxes. The subtitle reads: The Daughter. There’s another shot of me in my SUV, head down, looking guilty and sheepish, and one of Trent in his Lexus. His scowling face is barely recognizable as he races past the photographer. Oh great! And there’s Wynn jumping off the stepladder with his yellow paint can—just in case our relationship didn’t look sick enough already.

That’s it! I can’t look at it for another second. With my arm I violently swipe the magazine off the counter, knocking the sugar bowl off with it. The porcelain bowl cracks as it hits the hardwood, sending sugar all over the floor.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!” I scream, rage enveloping me. I want to throw the coffee maker, the toaster, and the dish rack holding my solitary bowl and spoon from last night’s dinner of yogurt and granola. But something keeps me from trashing my belongings. Perhaps it’s my looming unemployment and potential inability to replace them. Instead, I hurl a couple of bills tucked into their wicker file onto the pile of sugar, which is hardly satisfying.

Taking a deep breath, I know what has to be done. I have to make my daughter and my husband forgive me. When Trent comes this afternoon, I will beg him to let me see Sam. She won’t be ready, but I need my daughter. I can’t spend another day away from her, alone in this house with her hating me. I can’t do it. Trent has got to understand.

But first I’ve got to clean up this mess. I gingerly step through the sugar and open the broom closet. Approximately four thousand plastic bags pour out on top of me. It’s like a sort of punctuation mark on this scene of chaos and disorder. And it is, frankly, more than I can take. I collapse into the pile of plastic and sugar and let the sobs overtake me.

Trent

“
I CAN
’
T GO TO SCHOOL TODAY!
” Sam wails. “Everyone will be laughing at me.”

“No one will even have seen it,” I try.

“Everyone reads
People
!” She shakes the magazine at me. “Jordan is the one who told me my picture was in there!”

“I thought you sort of wanted that,” I say with an encouraging smile. “You’re famous now.”

“It’s my yearbook picture from last year!” she sobs. “I still have my braces on! I look like a knob!”

“You look beautiful.”

“Easy for you to say. Your picture is all blurry because you’re racing by in your cool car.”

I lean over and look at the picture again. The car looks gorgeous and I don’t look too bad—sort of dangerous and pissed off, understandably.

“I’m embarrassed by this too,” I say, “but there’s nothing we can do now. And at least it’s just a small picture of you.”

“True,” she says, staring at the layout. “It looks especially small next to the double-page shot of my mom boning Cody Summers.”

“
Boning
is a banned word, remember?”

“Humping him then.”

I point a stern finger at her. “Also banned. Now,” I say, getting back on point, “I’ll let you stay home today, but you have to go to school on Monday. Understood?”

She gives a resigned shrug. “Whatevs.”

I look at my watch. “I’ve got a job interview in half an hour, and then I’m going to see your mother.”

Sam perks up a bit. “And you’re going to tell her to get out of the house and let us move back in there, right?”

Even the sound of it makes me feel nauseated. Can I really tell Lucy to get out after all she’s been through? I dumped her, humiliated her, and now she’s being publicly vilified for those photographs of her and that Cody kid. How much more can she take? But I’ve got to do what’s best for Sam. And I can’t forget that if Lucy wasn’t fooling around with some teen-heartthrob cheeseball actor, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

“I’ll tell her,” I say.

THE JOB INTERVIEW
went pretty well. I’d met Noel Trimble before at a golf tournament and he remembered me. The position his firm is offering is too junior, but he said he’d talk to the “powers that be.” “We don’t like to let an analyst with a proven track record get away,” he said, which makes me think that an offer might be forthcoming. Thankfully, I wasn’t too distracted by the impending conversation with Lucy to give a good interview. Even more thankfully, he didn’t say anything like, “I hear you like to wear women’s underwear and have crabs.”

And now I’m in front of Lucy’s house—
our
house. There’s a knot in my stomach as I sit in the car, preparing myself for our conversation. It’s going to be bad, almost as bad as when I told her I was leaving. But she has only herself to blame. As I stare at the house, I suddenly have this overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. Less than two months ago, this was a happy home. Okay,
happy
might be a bit of a stretch, but we were peaceful then, and cohesive. And now … Christ, who would have thought we’d end up in such a fucking mess?