Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (27 page)

I can’t delay it any longer. Hopping out of the car, I move purposefully toward the door. I’m a man on a mission: to do the right thing for my daughter. The door swings open before I can knock, and Lucy is standing there, eyes red, nose shining. Every instinct in my body wants to wrap her in my arms and comfort her. But I can’t. She’s humiliated me and she’s humiliated our daughter. I can’t let her think all is forgiven … not yet.

“Have you seen it?” she says, her voice hoarse.

I nod and step into the foyer.

“How’s Sam?”

“How do you think?”

“Oh god,” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

Despite my intention to make her suffer, I hear myself saying, “I know.”

She looks up at me, her eyes shining. “You know this has all been blown out of proportion,” she says. “Nothing happened between me and Wynn. Well, we kissed but that’s it.”

The admission should bring me relief, I guess, but instead I feel a surge of jealousy. “You shouldn’t have even done that,” I growl, moving into the living room. “You know how Sam feels about that kid.”

She doesn’t try to defend herself as she follows behind me. I can tell she feels completely defeated. The news I’m about to deliver is going to kill her. The thought prompts a sickening twinge in my stomach. As I pass by the kitchen, I notice that the floor is covered in either sugar or salt and about four million plastic bags. The
People
magazine is flung in one corner. I pause. “What happened here?” In response, Lucy cries a bit harder.

I go sit at the dining table and motion for her to join me. “Take a seat,” I say, my tone formal. If I treat this as a business situation, I just might be able to get through it. I’ve had to fire people before, twice actually. It wasn’t pleasant or easy, but I did it. But I’ve never had to kick someone out of their house. Or to tell them that their only child refuses to live with them anymore.

Before I can speak, Lucy says, “I have to see Sam.”

“You can’t. She’s still really pissed.”

“I know,” she wails. “I understand that. But I have to see her, Trent. She’s my baby and the thought that she hates me … Oh god!” She clutches at her chest. “I can’t breathe.”

“Calm down,” I say firmly. The last thing I need is for her to hyperventilate or have a panic attack or something. “Take some deep breaths. It’s going to be okay.”

I wait while she struggles to compose herself. It could be dramatics, but I don’t think so. Lucy doesn’t play games like that. Missing Sam is truly robbing her of her breath. Eventually, she seems to relax a bit.

“You okay?”

She nods in response, though she’s still crying.

“Okay,” I continue. “Here’s the deal. Sam wants to move back into the house.”

Lucy’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, sending a pang of guilt through me. The blow will be all the more cruel for the hope I’ve just inspired. It quickly fades as she notices my expression.

“What are you saying, Trent?”

“The apartment is too small, it’s too far from school … She deserves to have a proper home, Lucy.”

“What are you saying?” she demands again, more forcefully this time. But I don’t need to elaborate. She’s obviously figured it out as she suddenly cries, “Oh, Jesus,”and drops her head into her hands.

“Look,” I begin, touching her arm awkwardly, “it’s only temporary. Sam will come around and forgive you. She just needs some time. And I know how much you love this house. I don’t want you to feel like you’ve been evicted.”

Lucy looks up then, her eyes wide with panic. She opens her mouth to speak but no sound comes. She gasps for breath— rapid, shallow, unfulfilling breaths that do nothing to inflate her lungs. Her hands fly to her chest, her throat. Oh shit, here we go. I knew this would be too much for her.

“It’s okay, Lucy,” I say soothingly. “It’s okay.”

Obviously, it’s not okay. She tries to stand but staggers back, clutching the table for support. It’s a full-blown anxiety attack. She had one once before when Sam was about six. Lucy’s parents had just divorced and then Sam broke her wrist on the monkey bars at school. I remember Lucy’s panicked call telling me to meet her at the hospital. She was completely losing it, much like now. I’d told her to sit down and breathe into a paper bag.

“Sit down,” I command. “I’ll get a paper bag.”

Rushing to the kitchen, I rummage through the cupboards, trying not to slip on the mess of plastic and salt coating the floor. Eventually I find a paper wine sack and hurry back to my wife. She holds it to her face and breathes deeply. Within a few seconds, she has calmed down.

There is a long, awkward silence, finally broken by Lucy. “You can’t kick me out of my home,” she says, staring blindly at the table. “I love this house. I’ve put so much of myself into it.”

“I’m just trying to do what’s best for Sam.”

She looks up. “I want what’s best for her too. I want her to come home and live with me.”

“Well, she wants to live with me right now,” I retort. “And she wants to live here.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Go out and rent a bachelor suite? Move into my car?”

“You could live in my apartment,” I suggest.

“What?” She jumps up. “The love nest where you screwed that fat cow? Forget it!”

I stand too. “That’s over with. You need to let it go.”

“Then you need to let this thing with me and Wynn go.”

“I’m trying to,” I roar, “but every time I turn around, there’s a photo of you attacking him in a magazine!”

“I wasn’t attacking him!” she shrieks.

“Right,” I grumble. “You were talking to him and you spilled juice on your shirt.”

“Right,” she responds, somewhat hesitantly.

There’s a long silence as we each collect our thoughts. I don’t know where the conversation goes from here. Obviously, Lucy’s not going to obediently pack up her life and move to Yaletown. And did I really expect her to? She’s got too much fire to go easily. But I can’t keep Sam cooped up in that apartment, sleeping on the Karlstad. It was fine for weekend visits, but it’s not a proper home for a teenage girl.

“I have an idea,” I say. Lucy looks at me, hands on her hips. “Let’s sit down and talk about this calmly.”

When we’re once again seated at the table, I begin. “Sam wants to live in this house and she wants to live with me. You want to live in this house and you want to live with Sam. I want to live in this house and I want to live with both of you.”

“What are you suggesting?” Lucy says, eyes narrowed.

“Let me move back in too.”

She snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. I don’t have to move back into our bed—”

“Damn right!” she interrupts.

“But I could stay in the spare room. That way, Sam will have to come back to live with you. She’ll have nowhere else to go.”

Lucy looks about to respond, but she stops. After a moment she says, “What if she ran away or something?”

“She wouldn’t. She’s wanted us back together all along.”

“What about what I want? Am I supposed to forget everything you’ve done and go back to pretending we’re the perfect couple? I’m not Hope, you know.”

“I know babe, and I’d never expect you to forget everything that’s happened. But face it: we’re better together than we are apart. We’ve both tried it on with other people, and it’s been a complete disaster.”

She gives an agreeable shrug. I push on.

“Yeah, there’s a lot to forgive, but I’m willing to forget all this Wynn Felker crap.” I wave my hand toward the magazine on the kitchen floor. “And we could go to counseling, as a family,” I suggest. “It’s not too late for us, Lucy.”

“I don’t know.”

“We owe it to our daughter to give this a shot.”

Lucy sighs. “I need to think …”

“I know it’s a big step, but it would be the best thing for Sam. And I think, deep down, you know it would be the best thing for us too.”

My wife is silent, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. I stand. “I’ll give you some time. I won’t say anything to Sam yet, but she’s going to ask about moving back home.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, obviously lost in her own thoughts.

I head to the front door and Lucy follows me. When we arrive, I turn to face her. “I hope you’ll give our family another chance.”

Her eyes well with tears, but she stays mute.

“There’s just one more thing,” I say. “I’ve left Shandling & Wilcox. I can’t work around Annika anymore.” It’s not a complete lie, and Lucy gives a slight nod of approval. “So, obviously,” I continue, “I’d expect you to do the same.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You want me to quit my job?”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Think about it from my perspective … from Sam’s.”

“I will,” she says, reaching past me to open the door. “I’ll think about it.”

Lucy

THE CALL CAME IN ON FRIDAY EVENING.
“We’d like you to come to the set on Monday,” Ainsley’s assistant said.

“Sure,” I’d replied, my lack of enthusiasm evident. On the other hand, if they fired me, it would at least take one decision off my plate.

“The media has moved on,” the woman continued, “so no need to bring security.”

Like I was going to.

The rest of the weekend I spent contemplating my future. I was desperate to be with my daughter again, but was I willing to take her father back in order to do it? Obviously, I could never trust him again. But could I forgive him? I wasn’t sure. And did he really deserve my forgiveness? Wasn’t he sort of blackmailing me into letting him move home, using Sam as a pawn to get what he wanted? Or did he really just want to bring our family back together? Maybe he’d really changed and my resistance was the only thing keeping us from being happy again?

Wynn called on Saturday night. “Hey babe,” he said, as if we were a couple.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Sorry hon. Did Ainsley call you?”

“Her assistant did. Did you beg them to give me my job back?”

“No,” he insisted. “But they did call me to talk about you. I think you’re going to be very excited.”

“I doubt it,” I grumbled. “Buying props hasn’t excited me for a couple of years now.”

“What if they don’t want you to buy props?” Wynn said leadingly. “What if they have something else in mind for you?”

Something else? Like what? I could probably work in wardrobe or set decoration, but neither possibility exactly thrilled me.

“I’ll let Ainsley tell you,” he said. “I’ll be coming home in a few days. They’ve given me the all clear.”

“Great.”

“So I’ll see you when I get back.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I can’t see you. I’m trying to rebuild my relationship with Sam. That’s all I have time for.”

“Wait until you talk to Ainsley,” he said chipperly. “I think we can figure out a way to make this work—for you, for me, and for Sam.”

Part of me wanted him to elaborate, but a larger part, the part that hadn’t slept more than three hours a night for almost a week and held the future of her entire family in her hands, just wanted to get off the phone. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up.

Now it’s Monday. I’m seated in the boardroom across from Ainsley and two men I’ve not seen before. The taller one, in his mid-fifties, is an executive producer called John something. The shorter and younger of the two is a network exec named Nick. The three of them sit across from me, broad smiles stiffening their cheeks.

“Do you want some coffee?” Ainsley asks, smile firmly in place.

“No thanks.”

“Or a latte or something? Craft Services bought a latte machine.”

“I’m fine,” I reply.

“Okay,” Ainsley says, glancing at her cohorts, “let’s get right to the point. Do you still like your job as a props buyer?”

I open my mouth to lie and say, “Absolutely! I love it. Please take me back.” But the words don’t come. I decide to be honest and let fate take its course. “I’ve lost all inspiration for it,” I admit. “It feels completely meaningless and consumerist and … bad for the environment. I’m sick of driving all over the place, polluting the air looking for skateboards and plastic frogs and robotic dinosaurs. I’d like to do something more meaningful.”

To my surprise, my answer seems to fill Ainsley with glee. She places a meaty hand on John’s forearm before she continues. “I agree with you, Lucy. I think you should do something more meaningful.”

I start to stand, assuming I have just been let go.

“Please, stay,” the Nick guy says. “We’d like to talk to you about another opportunity with our network.”

Obediently, I sit. Ainsley speaks. “When we first found out about your relationship with Wynn, we were upset.”

“I wouldn’t call it a relationship,” I start, but Ainsley isn’t finished.

“We were worried about what it would do to his reputation as a teen heartthrob.”

I nod, feeling a bit queasy.

John, the producer, jumps in. “But Wynn isn’t Cody. He’s actually twenty-seven years old. He’s just been labeled by America as a kid.”

“So your relationship with him isn’t as creepy as everyone thinks,” Nick adds. “In fact, it’s completely appropriate.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Assuming your marriage is over,”Ainsley adds. “Is it? Over?”

I’m not sure how to answer. And I’m not sure it’s any of her business. I shrug.

“Okay,” John says, “we think it’s time to show the world the real Cody … the real Wynn.”

Nick elaborates. “It’s time for Cody to hang up his skateboard and come out as Wynn Felker, the adult.”

“Great,” I say, “what does this have to do with me?”

Their eyes dart back and forth between one another. It seems they can barely contain their excitement. Ainsley is the first to speak. “What we’re proposing is a reality show.”

“
Dating Cody
,” Nick announces, running his hand through the air to indicate each word of the title.

John says, “It will be a look into Wynn’s life as a man and his relationship with an older woman.”

“Not that you’re that much older,” Nick adds quickly. “The public just thinks you are because they consider him a teen.”

“But this will show that he’s not a teen.” Ainsley smiles. “It will be his debut as a grown-up in a grown-up relationship.”