Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (28 page)

I stare at them, speechless.

“What do you think?” Ainsley prompts.

I open my mouth a couple of times, fishlike, before any words come. “I have a daughter,” is all I can say.

“Your daughter will love it!” Nick cries. “She’ll be a pivotal part of the show.”

“But not in an exploitative sort of way,” John adds.

“Right,” Nick says. “It will make her a star. Just look at those girls from
Laguna Beach
and
The Hills
. They’re full-fledged celebrities now.”

Ainsley says, “With the bank accounts to match.”

“She could segue this into an entertainment career,” Nick continues. “Or she could use the money to pay for college.”

“You’ll be compensated very well,” John advises.

“
Very
well,” Ainsley says, for emphasis.

There’s a beat as they all stare at me. Finally, I say, “And Wynnwants to do this?” “

Yes!”

“He loves the idea!”

“He said it was the perfect way to get Samantha on board with your relationship,” Ainsley crows. “And of course, to relaunch his career as a more mature actor.” “

I … I don’t know.”

“Trust me,” Nick says, “your daughter will love you for this.”

“She’s the reality TV generation,” Ainsley contributes.

“They all want their fifteen minutes.” This from John.

I nod vaguely. As disturbing as the thought is, I know they’re right. Sam would love this.

“So …?” Ainsley gives me an encouraging smile.

“What do you think?” Nick asks.

I can’t think. My mind is racing with abstract thoughts and images: Sam waving to the paparazzi, a little dog tucked under her arm; Wynn and me, holding hands while a seething Trent looks on; a camera crew in my kitchen, still strewn with plastic bags and spilled sugar …

I clear my throat before finally speaking. “I’ll need some time to process this. And I’ll need to talk to my family.”

Trent

MY CELL PHONE RINGS
moments after I’ve dropped Sam off at Crofton. She’d tried to weasel her way out of going, but we had a deal. I let her hide out on Friday, but today she’s got to face the music. Surprisingly, she was fairly compliant. As I reach for the phone, I have a feeling it’s good news. I’m right.

“We’d like to make you an offer of employment,” Noel Trimble says. “We’ll courier it over to you this afternoon.”

“Great!”

“I’m sure you’ve got other interviews and may be entertaining other offers, but we’d like to get your answer as soon as possible.”

“Absolutely.” I do have one interview this afternoon, but I’m not in a position to turn down a solid offer. The sooner I get this job situation sorted out, the sooner I can focus on moving back home.

I’m on a high for the next few hours. Everything is finally coming together—or back together, I should say. My career, my family, my sanity … I consider going to the gym downstairs, but decide against it. I don’t want to get all sweaty and have to shower again. Instead, I throw some stuff into boxes. Since my luck has definitely turned, I should be hearing from Lucy anytime now.

My interview at 1:00 goes well and they schedule me in for a second. When I get back to the apartment, Trimble’s offer arrives. It’s a couple grand more than I made at Shandling & Wilcox, so I decide to accept. I don’t have time to mess around with second and third interviews. I’ve got to get on with it.

At 3:30, I pick up Sam.

“We’re celebrating tonight,” I announce, pulling out of the parking lot.

“Mom’s letting us have the house?” she cries, her pretty face coming alive.

Way to knock the wind out of my sails, Sam. “I got a new job,” I say, looking over to watch her face fall. “But I have a feeling we’ll be hearing from your mother very soon.”

“We’d better,” she grumbles, my job news completely forgotten. “I don’t know why you didn’t just tell her to get out.”

“Your mom’s been through a lot.”

“So have we!”

It’s strange how Sam seems to have completely forgotten that I left her mom in the first place, that the only reason Lucy took up with Wynn Felker was that she was so hurt and angry about me and Annika. Ever since those photos were published, it’s as though it’s been poor, betrayed Sam and me against cruel, heartless Lucy. I’m thankful for this, I guess. I just wish Lucy had such a short memory.

I pull the car onto Granville Street and increase our speed. I take a deep breath then say, “I think it’s time to forgive your mom.”

Sam gives a derisive snort.

“Seriously,” I continue, “she misses you so much. She hasn’t seen you in a week and it’s killing her.”

“Well, maybe she should have thought about that before she embarrassed me in front of the whole entire world.”

“She screwed up, I know. But it’s time to start healing this family. I think we should go to counseling.”

“Counseling?” she shrieks. “You want me to tell some stranger how humiliated I am that my mom is b—” she stops herself from saying the word, “messing around with Cody Summers?”

“That’s over with,” I tell her. “She was feeling lonely and rejected by me and she reached out, I guess.”

“Couldn’t she have ‘reached out’ to someone her own age?” Sam cries. “Someone that my friends and I didn’t have a crush on?”

“Obviously, it was a bad choice.” I think about Annika, the epitome of bad choices. “Sometimes you’re lonely and you need someone to be with, and then someone’s just there, you know, and they may not be the right person, but you’re attracted to them, for whatever reason, and they’re attracted to you—”

“Dad! Gross!”

“Sorry. I’m just saying that grown-ups do stupid things sometimes, just like kids.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

We drive in silence for a while as I build the courage to make my next suggestion. “Why don’t we invite your mom to join us tonight? We could go for pizza or something?”

I expect Sam to blow her stack, but she doesn’t. She says nothing for several blocks, obviously considering the idea. Finally she says, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“I understand. But we’d be together. We could forget about all the crap that’s happened lately and just hang out.”

“So, we wouldn’t talk about Cody or that fat girl you were dating?”

This obsession with Annika’s weight really pisses me off. I mean, the chick’s a complete psycho, but she’s not fat … more like curvaceous. Lucy really needs to watch it or Sam’s going to end up with an eating disorder. But I guess now’s not the time to explain the distinction between voluptuous and obese. “Right,” I say. “Those topics would be completely off limits.”

My daughter is quiet for another long moment before she grumbles, “I guess we could invite her.”

I feel a swell of relief—or maybe it’s more like hope? This is a huge step toward getting our family back together. Yeah, it’s just pizza, but Lucy’s got to appreciate what I’m doing for her here. I reach over and squeeze Sam’s knee.

“Thanks,” I say. “You’re really going to make your mom happy here.”

She stares out the passenger window. “Whatevs.”

Lucy

I DRIVE HOME
from the studio in a daze. There is no way I can process what has just happened and keep the car on the road. It was too insane, too surreal! I’ve never been one of those people who coveted fame. In fact, I’ve always sneered at the pomp and pretense. And now I’m being offered a chance to step into the limelight, to become “a celebrity”—albeit along the lines of Richard Hatch and Verne Troyer.

The house is silent and empty as I let myself in, but I’m starting to get used to that. That’s not to say I don’t long for my daughter’s presence—I do. But now it’s more of a dull ache instead of a crippling stab of loneliness. I have to believe that her absence is only temporary. Automatically, I make my way to the kitchen. The mess of sugar and plastic bags remains, like some sort of tribute to my emotional breakdown. I didn’t have the fortitude to attack the mess this weekend. But for some reason, I now feel capable.

I begin by picking up the large plastic Toys “R” Us bag and stuffing it with smaller ones. There must be some place I can recycle these, though I have no idea where. As I stuff, I realize that the bags aren’t just a product of my career as a props buyer; they’re practically a metaphor of it: useless, empty, and wasteful. All that plastic will end up languishing in some landfill, leaching chemicals into the soil and clogging waterways long after we’re gone. When I’ve retrieved the sacks from the floor, I attempt to cram the enormous package into the cupboard, but it no longer fits. I’ll have to find another way to get rid of them. I can’t keep cramming them away until the cupboard bursts and I’m asphyxiated by a landslide of shopping bags.

Removing the broom, I start to sweep up the spilled sugar, lost in my thoughts. Based on the average life expectancy of the North American female, I am exactly halfway to the grave. For the first half of my existence I’d done everything right: worked hard (too hard probably, but I was committed); married well; bought a beautiful home; and doted on my child. And look what it’s got me. Nothing! Everything I wanted, or thought I wanted, is in jeopardy of vanishing.

I bend down and sweep the sugar into the dustpan. It takes some effort—the tiny granules seem determined to flee the bristles—but I work diligently. As I do, my mind picks up speed. I reflect on the day’s offer: my own reality TV show. Never in a million years could I have predicted this opportunity. It’s so weird, so bizarre! It’s also a chance to win back my daughter, make a lot of money, and build a new relationship with a sexy young guy. But do I want the dubious fame? The notoriety? And do I want to raise my daughter in a fishbowl?

Dumping the contents of the dustpan into the trash, I move to the counter. Leaning my elbows on the granite surface, I breathe slowly and deeply to calm my racing mind. A warm white light is filtering through the window, not sunshine exactly, but a welcome brightness in the otherwise gloomy day. I close my eyes for a moment. Behind my eyelids the light seeps in and I experience an unusual moment of clarity. It’s not an epiphany, exactly—that’s too strong a word. Perhaps
revelation
would be more appropriate. I suddenly realize that I have roughly forty more years on this planet, and how I spend them is entirely up to me.

I can choose to be the star of
Dating Cody
, or I can choose not. I can choose to start a new relationship with Wynn, or I can try to salvage what I had with Trent. Hell, I can choose to be completely on my own if I want. It’s an incredibly powerful feeling, the knowledge that my future is back in my own hands. Sure I’m faced with a plethora of options, but how I proceed is my decision alone.

I stand upright, my body reacting to this jolt of awareness. I’m going to do what’s right for me and fuck the rest of them! It might be selfish, but it’s a good kind of selfish. It’s suddenly so crystal clear. No longer will I exist in this state of anger and jealousy and self-pity! I’m moving forward! I know what I want for the next half of my life—and perhaps more importantly, what I don’t want.

At that moment, the phone rings. I lean across the counter and answer it.

“It’s me,” Trent says. “I thought you’d still be at work?”

“I came home early.”

“Okay … well, good. Sam and I are celebrating tonight. I got a new job.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” There’s a pause, probably intended for me to ask about the details of his new position. But the truth is, I don’t care. I guess this is a side effect of my newfound selfishness. Finally, Trent continues. “Yeah, so we’re going out for pizza and I suggested that maybe you could join us. It took some persuading, but Sam finally agreed that you can come.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“It wasn’t easy. She’s still upset with you, but I think she’s starting to come around.”

“Good. But I can’t go out for pizza tonight.”

I hear an incredulous snort. “What?”

“I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

“So you’re going to blow off dinner with your kid? You haven’t seen her in a week!”

“I know exactly how long it’s been,” I reply. “But tonight, I need to figure some stuff out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Trent mutters. “You’re a piece of work.”

I know what he was expecting. He was expecting me to thank him effusively for his peace-talk efforts and express eternal gratitude for including me in the invitation. Two days ago, I would have; two hours ago, I would have. But now, I know I need to spend the night alone. By tomorrow, everything will have changed.

“Could you two come to dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook.”

“I don’t know,” Trent grumbles. “Once I tell Sam that you’re blowing her off, she probably won’t want to come.”

“Don’t tell her that,” I say calmly, “because that’s not what I’m doing. I’m asking you to give me one night to myself, and tomorrow we’ll have a family dinner to discuss our future.”

There is a brief pause before Trent says, “Does that mean you’ve made a decision?”

I hesitate for just a second. “Yeah, I just need to think through a few details.”

“Okay then,” Trent says cheerfully. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

For some reason, this simple act of courtesy fills me with emotion. “Sure,” I croak through the lump in my throat, “bring a salad.”

Trent

IT TAKES ALL MY WILLPOWER
not to tell Sam how momentous this impending dinner is. I’m excited about it, for obvious reasons, but I play it cool. There’s enough pressure on her as it is, seeing her mom for the first time after all the shit that’s gone on. She doesn’t need to know that we’re all going to be moving back in together.

Sam’s quiet on the drive to the house, fiddling with the Saran Wrap on the spinach salad I made. I glance over at her and see the concern etched on her face. Poor kid. She’s been through so much in the past couple of months. I’m glad that her life is finally going to get back to normal. One day, we’ll look back on this crazy fucked-up blip in our lives and laugh.

I pull the car into the driveway and turn to my daughter. “You okay?”

She looks at me and shrugs. “I guess.”

“She’s your mom and she loves you,” I say, “more than anything in the world.” Sam nods and looks as though she might cry. “Give me that salad,” I say to ease the tension. “I wonder what’s for dinner?”