Happily Ever After? (10 page)

All our plans are set for Medjugorje and I’m uncharacteristically calm about the flight. Normally I depend on a glass of wine
to help me survive even the quick trip to Chicago. Now I’m flying across the world and I’m actually looking forward to it.
I am on a mission and I’m too focused on my father to feel nervous about flying. If there is a God, He has to be looking out
for us. This flight can’t possibly be doomed.

I bought five tickets, one each for me, Dad, Mom, Pete, and my sister Teresa, who begged to come along. I agreed to let her
come, if only because I’ll need someone to help me carry Dad’s wheelchair up Apparition Hill, where the visions of Mary are
said to take place. It was too late to hook up with a group, but I found a driver as well as a guide, a priest, actually,
who does nothing but help Americans make the pilgrimage to Medjugorje. I booked us rooms in the Anamaria, one of the two bigger
hotels in the area. I’d wanted to rent a bungalow but the bungalow village is already full of Spanish peacekeeping forces.
We’re leaving two weeks from yesterday. Total
cost of trip: $29,487, which includes plane fare, rooms, guides, and gas (3.80 kuna per liter. I don’t know what a kuna is.
Nor do I know what a liter is. I never learned the metric system. Is it a gallon? A cup?).

’Til next time,

V

It’s raining. I think I’m getting the flu. I want to go back to bed.

But I think I’ll go shopping instead. I know I should be a bit more high-minded about this newfound wealth, but I’ve got to
be honest: I LOVE BEING RICH! I can buy any damn thing I want and it won’t even make a dent in my bank account. I bought myself
the diamond ring Roger would never have bought me, a flawless two-carat rock. The truth is, I’d discouraged Roger from buying
me an engagement ring. He’d made it clear that he thought they were pointless symbols of materialism and female bondage, and
I pretended to agree with him. So we opted for matching mopeds and skipped the ring altogether. A year after our marriage
his mother guilted him into buying me a diamond ring, but it was one of those optical illusion deals: a teeny semiprecious
stone surrounded by a bunch of microscopic diamond chips and bevels. If you look really close, you can see the inscription
inside the stone: your husband is a cheap asswipe.

I think I’m going to hire a personal trainer, the same woman who transformed Katie Couric’s body. She charges $7,500 a week,
but she’ll probably want more since she’ll have to camp out here in the hinterlands for a few months while she turns my blobbified
body into a lean, mean, gorgeous machine. I read somewhere that this trainer—who goes by the name High Voltage—will want me
to give up sugar, flour, and salt. I don’t know if I’m ready for that! Especially not sugar. Or flour. Maybe salt. Maybe not.

I’m sick of my stupid washing machine. It’s the lowend model Roger had insisted we buy because he didn’t want to shell out
the extra $200 for the better brand. The big problem is that it can’t handle towels or blankets. Try to wash a beach towel
and the dang thing starts buzzing in the middle of the spin cycle and you have to stand there lifting and lowering the door
like a ninny until the water drains. So today I’m going to buy me the best washing machine I can find, and maybe a new dryer,
too, just for the hell of it.

’Til next time,

V

Boyfriend, boyfriend, I’ve got a boyfriend (to be sung to the tune of “Baby, Baby, Stick Your Head in Gravy”).

Michael called me again, just to check in. He said he missed me. He said he saw a dress that would go perfect with my coloring,
and almost bought it for me but wasn’t sure what size I wore (as if I would ever tell him?!?!). I told him about the trip
to Medjugorje and he asked, only half-kiddingly, if I might like to have police protection. When I got home from picking Pete
up, I found a gift bag on the porch. Inside, a book called
The Visions of the Children: The Apparitions of the Blessed Mother at Medjugorje.
Inside the bag I also found a pair of warm, nubby socks with a note attached: “You’ll need these to keep those pretty tootsies
warm on the hike up the hill.”

What a guy.

Lynette invited Pete over to her house after school to make paper bag puppets. Much to her astonishment, I invited Hunter
to our house instead, for an afternoon of crafts. I’d gone to Borders to buy a book of easy projects, then stopped at the
Hobby Lobby for $203 worth of supplies. I cringed when the cashier told me my total, then I remembered: Hey, I’m rich. I can
afford this. I bought everything Roger always insisted we didn’t need: glue guns, a paper crimper, laminating machine, a dozen
rubber stamps and ink pads in every color, unfinished wooden thingamajigs, fabric paints, glitter, markers, modeling clay
you can bake in the oven, mosaic kits, fake flower garlands, candy molds, Styrofoam topiary shapes, two big bags of assorted
buttons, and
pipe cleaners—which, someone has apparently decided, must now be called chenille craft sticks.

So I told Lynette to send Hunter over. We made bird feeders, chocolate suckers, apple votive holders, and gumdrop sculptures.
I wish I could have seen Lynette’s face when Hunter walked in with his handmade bounty.

I spent the rest of the day preparing for the trip to Medjugorje and I’m starting to get nervous. I don’t know how I’m going
to navigate our family through this foreign land for two weeks. We don’t speak Croatian. What if our guide doesn’t show up?
What if our driver is a drunken lunatic? What if another war breaks out? What if Teresa and I can’t carry the wheelchair up
the hill?

We’ll need waterproof jackets in the event it rains while we’re climbing Mt. Podbrdo (Apparition Hill), and we’ll need sturdy
shoes to make it up the rocky terrain. It takes ten to fifteen minutes to get up the hill, but I suspect it takes longer when
you’re dragging up a wheelchair. We’ll also need to pack flashlights, because there’s no street lighting in parts of Medjugorje.

’Til next time,

V

Roger has crossed the line this time.

At 2:56
P.M.
I got a call from the secretary at Pete’s
camp. “Mrs. Tisdale, this is Roberta Burns,” she started.

“Is Pete okay?”

“Well, he’s fine, but we have a
situation.
”

“What is it?” My mind flooded with possibilities. Had he pooped in his pants? Had he whacked another kid with a stick?

“Your husband is standing here now. He says he’s here to pick up Peter.”

Good God. “Please, Roberta, don’t let him take Pete anywhere. He has no right to take my son.”

“He insists that he is well within his rights. And the camp has no power to stop him.”

I told her to hang up and that I’d call right back on my cell phone. “Keep Pete in his room. I’ll be there in four minutes,”
I said as I ran to my Jeep.

“I don’t know that I can do that,” Roberta whispered. “Mr. Tisdale insists he has the right to take Peter home with him.”

“He doesn’t have custody. I do.”

“I don’t understand. You’re divorced?”

“Yes. We’re divorced.”

“But our records indicate that you’re married. It says right here. Camper resides with both parents at—”

“Forget that,” I interrupted. “I never updated Pete’s files. My mistake. I’ve been busy.”

“I see.” The two words projected volumes about my negligence, my disorganization, my incompetence. How could anyone blame
me for failing to fill out yet
another form? I was floundering in a flood of notices. Every day Pete’s backpack was stuffed with fliers. There were fliers
about Family Camping Day. International Festival Day. Science Exploration Day. Camper Appreciation Day. Field trip permission
slips. Permission slip so camp may post child’s artwork. Permission slip so child may use the Internet. Permission slip so
child may be photographed for camp Web page. Canned food drive. The electric fans for the hot poor people drive. Jump-Rope-a-Thon
for Multiple Sclerosis. Penny drive for United Way. Fund-raising appeals for new playground equipment, new gardens, new carpeting
in the cafeteria.

It never ended!

I had to get through to the camp director. “Let me talk to Mr. Enright, please.”

“He’s on another line.”

“Oh come on, Roberta. He’s right next door. This is an emergency. Get him off the other line.”

“Yes, of course.”

“This is Mr. Enright,” the camp director intoned, sounding uncannily like Al Gore. “Can I help you?” He acted as if he was
unaware of the crisis that was now unfolding two feet outside his office.

“Look. My husband is standing at Roberta’s desk right now. He’s demanding to pick up my son, Mr. Enright. You can’t let him
take him. My husband is unstable. He doesn’t have custody.”

“I understand, Mrs. Tisdale.”

“It’s not Mrs. Tisdale. It’s Ms. Ryan. We’re divorced. Please. Listen to me. You can’t let Roger take my son.”

“He says he’s well within his rights.”

“He’s wrong. And let me make myself clear. If my husband leaves that building with my son, you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands
that’ll make your head spin.”

“I understand. I do.” I heard the principal call out to Roberta. “I’m going to get security over here now. Your son is safe
here. We’ll keep him upstairs with his teacher. They’ll keep the doors locked. They know the drill. This isn’t the first time
we’ve been caught in a custody crossfire.”

Custody crossfire? The phrase made me sick. Pete was trapped between rocks and rubber bullets like some bewildered American
tourist on the Gaza Strip. We were just another rancorous divorced couple wreaking havoc in our kid’s life.

As I sped through the stop sign at Atkins and Long, I saw police car lights spinning behind me. I decided to let the cop trail
me into the parking lot. I pulled up to the curb in front of the school, hopped out of the Jeep, and rushed to the police
car. “I know I was speeding. I’m sorry. You can give me a ticket later. I’m not a fugitive. I’m just a mother. Please. You’ve
got to help me. My husband is trying to kidnap my son!”

The officer, a kindly-looking man who must have been nearing retirement, looked sincerely concerned. “Don’t worry about the
ticket, darlin’.” He had his
hand on his gun. He brought his radio to his mouth and called for backup. This was working out splendidly.

The office was packed with bodies: Robert, Mr. Enright, Roger, the burly lifeguard and the deaf one-armed custodian, both
of whom double as the camp’s unofficial security guards. The small office reeked of sweat and potpourri and Charlie (Roberta’s
favorite perfume, apparently). Roger was wearing the same getup he’d worn to my house the other day, with one new addition,
a black beret. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Surfer Girl was there too.

Roger sneered at me. “You can’t keep him from me.” He cocked his head toward the police officer. “What’s with Officer Friday?”

“It’s Officer Navansky,” the cop said. “And you’re not going anywhere until you can prove custodial rights over your child.”

The dismissal bell chimed and the main corridor to the exit was teeming with kids hobbling under the weight of their backpacks.
They gawked at the windows. I heard one say, “That’s Pete Tisdale’s mom.”

I could hear a distant chorus of sirens grow louder as they neared the camp. Soon we were joined by two more officers, a pimply
kid with a bad haircut and a fetching blond who looked so good in her uniform that she must have custom-tailored the pants,
a fact that didn’t escape Roger’s attention, even in the midst of the
crisis. I watched him eye her ass. Surfer Girl saw it too and elbowed him sharply.

“We have a situation here,” Officer Navansky began.

“There’s no situation. I’m here to see my son. That’s not a crime, is it?”

“Well, sir, it is if you don’t have custody of the child.”

“He doesn’t, Officer,” I cut in. “I have sole temporary custody.”

“Roger has as much right to be with his son as you do!” Surfer Girl blurted out.

“Who’s this?” Officer Navansky asked Roger.

“Not that I’m required to tell you, but the young lady is my friend.”

Surfer Girl scowled at Roger. “I’m his girlfriend, Officer.”

The cop shot me a sympathetic look. “I’m going to have to insist that the young lady wait outside.”

She tightened her grip on Roger’s arm. “I’d like to stay with my boyfriend, please. He needs the moral support.”

The cop put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, miss. There’s enough tempers flaring in this room as it is. Please wait outside.”

She released her grip and reluctantly skulked out. Officer Navansky guided her with a hand on her back and closed the door
behind her.

“Mr. Tisdale, is it true that your wife has sole custody of your son?”

“Temporary custody.” Roger flicked an imaginary lintball off his sleeve.

“Temporary or not, is it true, sir?” Navansky pressed. “You might as well be honest, sir. One phone call and I can find out
for myself.”

“Yes. It’s true.” He stared at me acidly. I stared back.

“Then I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourself and your friend there from the premises.” Officer Navansky reached for
Roger’s elbow. He jerked back and flailed an arm. The other cops put their hands on their guns and moved in toward Roger.
Officer Navansky withdrew his hands. “You can go of your own accord, sir, or we can help you. It’s your choice.”

Roger straightened his beret and shot me another corrosive stare. “Keep your hands off me. I’m going.”

“You can give me that ticket now if you want to,” I told Officer Navansky, aware of the guile in my suggestion. I knew he
wouldn’t ticket me.

“No, no, just forget about it.” He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “My own daughter has the same problem with her ex.
That creep left her for a younger gal and now he thinks he has the right to see his kid whenever he pleases. Let me tell you,
I would have killed the son of a bitch myself if I didn’t think I’d lose my pension.”