Family Affair (22 page)

“This is Heather, everyone,” he says, as he presents the woman I saw on his football field—the woman I may or may not have felt threatened by, but I told myself,
Don’t be silly, Layla. Your husband loves you. He’s not interested in other women. Especially not younger blond women. With great bodies. Bodies that I could never have even if I went to the gym seven days a week. For twelve hours a day
. Yet here she stands before me. At my event.

“Hello, Heather,” says Bill.

Brett’s watching me to gauge my reaction, but I won’t look his way. His eyes are burning a hole in my forehead, but I keep this frightening fake smile on my face and look everywhere but at him. So of course he has the nerve to rub it in.

“You remember Heather, right?” he asks me.

“I do,” I say. “Nice to see you again. And what a surprise.”

“Heather loves corn,” he replies.

“Don’t we all,” Bill adds.

Heather looks between us and gives a nervous laugh. “I forgot another corn thing I love,” she says to Brett. We’re all waiting with bated breath. “Corn Pops!”

Tee-hee! She loves Corn Pops! What the fuck is going on?
Am I really standing here with my husband, his family, and his date? What am I supposed to do, grab the nearest scarecrow and pretend that he’s
my
date? Laugh with him and whisper jokes while running my hands through his straw hair?

The maize maze is definitively my stomping ground. I rack my brain to think if there could be anything more disrespectful than what Brett is doing at this very moment. I contemplate setting the whole place on fire, right then and there, and wonder if it would explode in a rain of popcorn. But then I realize that a) this isn’t a cartoon—this is my life, and b) in this life, I’m not an arsonist.

“I think we’re going to be uneven,” Scott says, as Heather’s presence makes us a group of seven. I’m already feeling uneven.

Then Trish walks up with Kimmy, a girl she’s been seeing but has yet to bring around the family. It’s a big move for Trish—and not because she’s afraid of what we’ll think of her. It’s because Trish is super-picky, and doesn’t just bring anyone around. This must mean she really likes her.

Kimmy’s a pretty girl with wavy, light brown hair, which has been fashioned with two skinny front braids tied back to make a sort-of headband. The result is a sweet hippie hairstyle that suits her. She has crystal-blue eyes and a slightly crooked smile that looks like she’s permanently in on the joke.

“Trish brought a friend, too,” Ginny points out.

“Hey, everyone, this is Kimmy,” Trish says. “Try not to be too embarrassing.”

“Same goes for me,” Brett suggests.

“Yes, the same goes for you, Brett,” Trish says. “It was mostly
directed at you
. Try not to be a complete bonehead.”

“No, I meant the same goes for me in terms of everyone else,” Brett says.

“I know what you meant, douche,” Trish says, and I imagine a high five with Trish but don’t actually go for it. “This is Heather,” Brett says.

Trish offers up a hello, but then there’s silence. Bill senses the general awkwardness and tension, so he claps his hands together and rubs like he’s warming them over a fire.

“So how should we divide teams?” he asks.

“I’ll swap with Mom, and Kimmy can be on our team,” Trish says. “Obviously.”

We divide up and head out.

I don’t know what pisses me off more: the fact that this seems to be the first time Brett is enjoying himself at the corn maze in years, or the fact that I am so miserable. Either way, the day
sucks. My senses are heightened, and everything I see, taste, hear, touch, or smell is tainted by Heather. I see a sign for the maze that says
Where getting lost means finding fun
, and I wish that Brett and his date had gotten lost on the way here, because their mere presence has hidden fun completely.

I end up “getting lost” myself, sneaking out of the maze and into the petting zoo, where I feed the goats and llamas and cry for about forty-five minutes. I thought being around the animals would make me feel better, but every goat I look in the eye seems to know my pain. They look sad, and I feel sad and somehow exposed. I pass a desolate pumpkin patch on my way back and think I catch Brett and Heather out of the corner of my eye but can’t bring myself to check. Have they snuck out, too? Are they in this pumpkin patch sharing a romantic moment?

I’m ill. This day is making me physically ill. I pass a scarecrow and consider stripping it of its clothing so I can put it on and spy. This is when I know it’s time to leave. When things turn farcical, I draw the line. I look around, trying to find someone to let them know I’m leaving so the family won’t think I’m lost, at least in the literal sense.

The first person I happen upon is Bill—who seems flustered in his own right.

“Well, I can’t find Ginny,” he says.

“Way to keep track of your team,” I tease, but when I realize he’s actually concerned, I tell him I’ll help find her.

We spend the next hour looking for his wife, and as time goes on, Bill gets more and more upset—though I’m not sure what he’s so frightened of. Finally, we find Ginny taking a tour of the grounds with Girl Scout troop 64. I notice a sadness in Bill’s eyes as he reunites with her, a sense of relief yet still soaked in angst.

“Good-bye, Daisy!” she says, as she waves to her new friends. “Nice talking with you, Maddie!”

That situation resolved, I tell Bill and Ginny to say good-bye to
everyone else for me. Then I take off, but I’m momentarily distracted from my own misery by whatever is going on with Bill and Ginny.

To say the day didn’t go as planned would be a gross understatement. All I
can
say is that I don’t ever want to eat corn, see corn, or hear about corn again for as long as I live.

And Brett is an asshole.

• • •

The next day at work I’m still seething. Is this how it’s going to be? Is he actually dating
already?
Is Tee-hee Heather the Corn Popper the reason he wanted to leave? I have a million questions, and I go from being angry to sad to furious to bitter, back to sad, to miserable, and then pretty much stay at miserable.

“I don’t know what he was thinking bringing her, but he’s obviously acting out,” Trish suggests. “He was looking for a reaction, and I think under the circumstances you handled yourself well.”

We’re waiting for Leo, a shar-pei that we’ve photographed before. Leo gets his portrait done every three months to update his profile on Dogbook. For the uninitiated, Dogbook is like Facebook, but for dogs. It’s an online community where dogs can post pictures, have friends, and let their friends know what’s going on in their lives. Leo has a doggie parent with
way
too much free time on her hands, if you couldn’t guess, but we at TLC don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Unless he’s posing for a horse dentistry ad.

The doorbell rings, and in walk Leo and Donna Solowitz, a New York transplant who at thirty-four is fresh off her second divorce and likes to announce that all she took was four million dollars, the Maserati, and Leo. Apparently she was married to a man of excessive wealth, since she deems that a bargain.

“Hi, girls,” she clucks. “Leo had steak tartare on the patio at
Clafoutis, so could ya just check his teeth to make sure he doesn’t have bits of meat in them? Thanks.”

I look at Trish and give her a knowing smile. Trish doesn’t like it when someone asks you to do something and then thanks you in advance before you’ve accepted.

“C’mere, Leo,” I say. “Let me see those choppers.”

I pull Leo’s skin away from his teeth and marvel at how much of it there is. He has the cutest rows of saggy skin—they make you want to pull and stretch them, not to the point of pain but just enough to see how much there really is. Leo has regular dental cleanings, so his teeth are in fine order, and when I take a peek inside his mouth there’s no tartare—or even tartar—to be found.

Donna plops herself on the couch and lets out a sigh. “You would not believe the men I’m dating,” she says. “Trish, you’re better off with women. Layla, don’t ever get divorced.”

“I’m separated,” I say, although I wish I didn’t.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” she says. “But really—what was your husband? A teacher or accountant or something?”

“A football coach,” I say. “College. Division Three.”

“Exactly,” she says. “There’s no cha-ching goin’ on there. He’s doin’ you a favor. Now you can find a guy who’s got some substance.”

I might not have loved football, but I liked that Brett was a coach. I loved it. I loved watching him connect with the team and knowing that he was doing what he loved. And why am I thinking of him in past tense, like he’s dead? He’s still a coach.

I hate this. And I don’t want to continue this conversation with Donna Solowitz at all, so I change the subject. “What would you like for Leo’s photo today?”

“I’ll tell ya—and you’re not gonna believe it,” Donna replies.

“We will,” Trish answers.

“Leo is in love with a Maltese named Princess Madison,” she explains. “They met on Dogbook and they are in love, love,
love.”

“Have they met in person?” I ask, as I try not to wince picturing the size discrepancy between a shar-pei and a Maltese, and hoping they haven’t.

“No,” Donna says. “Not yet. But they will. Princess Maddie Boo lives in Chicago, so we’re going to take a trip soon.”

“Wow,” I let slip.

“Her mom and I exchanged phone numbers, and we talk on the phone all the time,” Donna goes on. “We became instant best friends. We’re thinking of starting a line of couture dog collars together called Leo Loves Madison. Leo, of course, gets first billing.”

“Of course,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Trish says, and I suck in breath, because here it comes. “I want to get this straight. You didn’t know this woman at all. You both made online profiles for your dogs. They became ‘friends’—”

“They fell in love,” Donna interrupts.

“Right,” Trish says. “They fell in love. Over the Internet. And now you are flying to Chicago to let them meet in person.”

“And to talk about our company,” Donna reminds her.

“Got it,” Trish says. “Just wanted to make sure I was understanding the situation fully.”

“What can I say?” Donna shrugs. “It’s love.”

“That is just fantastic,” Trish says. “Now, does Leo prefer the mouse, or is he more into using the keyboard?”

Donna, not picking up on the joke, launches into her plan. Then my cell phone rings. I see Brooke’s name on the caller ID and excuse myself to answer.

She opens with, “I’ve figured out what my problem is.”

“I’m intrigued,” I say.

“I’ve been interviewing with women. Women are jealous bitches. All of them.”

“That does indeed sound like a problem.”

“Well, problem solved. I interviewed with a dude today. A hot dude. And guess what?”

“You got the job?” I ask.

“No, I got laid.”

“And then you got the job?”

“Nice,” she says. Then, “Yes, I got the job.”

“That’s great,” I tell her. “Congrats!”

“I didn’t get laid,” she tosses out. “I was kidding about that part. But I will. I could see him undressing me with his eyes. And I wasn’t wearing any underwear.”

“Well, I’m very happy for you. And him. But I’m at work right now, and I do need to get back to it.”

“Fine.” Brooke sighs. “Abandon me. It’s only fair. I’m abandoning you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The job’s in Vancouver,” she says casually.

“What?”

“I know. Crazy, right? He’s a producer, and he’s about to do a movie in some rural town in Vancouver and he needs an on-set assistant. How freakin’ fun!”

“Wow,” I say, a bit stunned, separation anxiety kicking in. “That sounds incredible. But how long are you gone for?”

“Months! Until the movie wraps,” she says. “Oh my God, that was so fun to say. I’ve always wanted to say my album ‘dropped,’ but a movie wrapping is a close second. I am so cool. You now have a very cool friend.”

“Lucky me,” I say. “But seriously, I have to go. I’ll call you later, Captain Hollywood.”

“You won’t be hearing from me for a bit. Seriously, Layla,” Brooke warns. “I hear cell phone service is really spotty where I’m going. Isn’t that exciting?”

I conjure up the image of her tromping in her Prada shoes through Hicksville, British Columbia, someplace with one Motel
6, where Mom’s Greasy Spoon is the best dining option open nightly until seven p.m., and fight back a snort. I’m sure I’ll hear from her two seconds after she gets off the plane, and she’ll be screaming bloody murder.

We hang up and I go back to Donna and Trish. Donna is talking. Trish does not look at all amused.

“So I was wondering if you have a green screen. Princess Madison just changed her profile picture, and she’s holding up a sign that says
I love Leo
. Well, she’s sitting next to it. It’s placed in front of her, or to the side, somewhere you can see—you get it. Anyway, if you had a green screen we could CGI a street sign that reads
Madison Avenue—you
know, from New York, my old home and Maddie’s actual namesake. We’ll have Leo holding up a sign that says
I love …
and pointing up at the sign.”

“Wow,” Trish says.

“Hmm,”
I add. “We don’t have a green screen, but you could probably do that in Photoshop. I’m just thinking of the best way to get Leo to look like he’s pointing.”

“You’re so good,” Trish whispers, as she walks past me and over to the kitchen. “You have the patience of Job.”

“I don’t have Photoshop, and anyway, I don’t know how to do all that stuff,” Donna whines. “If I pay you extra, will you do it?”

I look at Trish. She isn’t smiling.

I smile at Donna. What else do I have to do these days?

• • •

Actually, I do have something on my plate.

I don’t consider myself a builder, per se. Per anything, really. So when Trish tells me that PETCO finally called and gave us the specs for the prototype we need to build for them, as well as how much we’ll need to invest to get the TLC Paw Prints pet photo booth up and running, I’m a little leery, to say the least. Not because I’m not willing to try, but because situations like these often find me trying my hardest, messing up majorly, then calling
in a professional. I’m just not that handy. So my hesitation at the project is not me being lazy or unwilling, it’s the fact that a) I don’t want to push all the work off onto Trish, and b) I see myself eventually going on eBay and buying an existing photo booth.