Hot Flash (13 page)

Did I mention that my mother doesn’t drive? She has a driver to take her to all the places she needs to go to keep up her public image. Nathaniel has worked for her for years. He seemed really old when she first hired him around the time I was twenty. I kept worrying he’d have a stroke or something while toodling her on her jaunts around town. Twenty years later, he looks totally unchanged; just as old and decrepit as back then, but not a day older, either. I’ve long since decided he is either an Immortal or his appearance is extremely deceptive, because he certainly is very spry. I once saw him lift a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound suitcase full of lead weights that my mother kept referring to as party supplies as if it were as light as a poker chip.

That evening, Stephen was seated in the front with Nathaniel, chatting about Dumas, while Mom and I sat in back. Mom’s face appeared pinched and a little pale. It was a no-brainer that she was worried about this particular ceremony.

“Maybe you could call and say you caught Stephen’s stomach bug and can’t attend?”

“No, dear. That wouldn’t be right. It’s my duty to be there to accept your father’s award. Besides, it’ll serve those vultures right. They don’t believe I have the balls to show up.”

My mother had said the word
balls?
And not in reference to tennis? My, oh, my, the world was changing. I wasn’t sure I could deal with this new, strong mother who was emerging. It totally altered my world-view. “Why don’t you send me or Stephen up to get it, then?”

“That would be cowardly. No one can say that Zelda Morgan has ever been afraid to face the music. I promised your father and I keep my word.” She smiled and squeezed my hand. “Knowing there are at least two friendly and loving faces in the audience will get me through it.”

“I’m incredibly proud of you.”

Again she smiled, reminding me of the
Mona Lisa
smile that Stephen had so recently reproduced.

Within a few minutes, Mom’s Town Car pulled up at the country club.

I’d like to be able to say I had suspicions about my mother’s motives, but that wasn’t the case. As we entered the country club ballroom, I was more concerned about my mother and her reactions than I was observant.

She led us to a table near the front of the room, where her once-dear friend, Gail Brooks, was seated beside a middle-aged, and particularly unprepossessing and unattractive man. Gail and Mom did the air kiss thing, so maybe she wasn’t one of the vultures? Mom didn’t seem self-conscious as she introduced us to Gail’s son, Jeffy Brooks.

“Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand as I was taught before I’d reached kindergarten. He was even less attractive up close than he was from a distance, with a receding hairline, stomach paunch, and wearing what I suspected might have been a 1980s leisure suit.

As Jeffy stood to greet us, Mom quickly slipped into his chair, knocking him out of the way with a not-too-graceful hip butt. “Why don’t you young people find a place to sit at the back of the room? I’ll sit up here with Gail because it’ll be easier to make it to the stage when they announce William’s award.”

I looked at Mom. She stared back with a firm jaw.

I glanced at Jeffy, then back at her again.

Calculation lit her eyes.

I knew I should have locked myself in the bathroom rather than answer the door to her. My interfering matchmaker of a mother had done it to me again.

And there was no way to get out of it this time, because Jeffy was smiling at me as if I was a nearly naked woman jumping out of the cake at a bachelor party.

ARRRRGGGGHHHH.

“And then Jeffy told me all about his Beanie Baby collection. Even Stephen thought that was extremely peculiar and nixed my idea of introducing him to Stormy.”

There’s something about sharing life’s foibles with my best gal pals that makes everything more right with my world. I feel more captivating, like my life has substance, after talking events over with them. And vice versa, of course.

Let’s face it. I’m a forty-flipping-year-old divorcée whose life is boringly filled with bills to pay, worries about my kid, a job that no longer floats my boat, and tales of increasingly awful dates. Like me, do you ever fight an urge to stand up and yell, “When does it get better?”

Our weekly cocktail night allows the four of us to feel amusing, as if our life is interesting to someone other than our mothers, and gives each of us a reason to get up the next morning and keep on keeping on. That night we’d chosen a fern bar close to Susan’s home. I know. Fern bars are so 1980s, but there’s something comforting about all that plastic greenery.

I took another sip of my cocktail, this time a deliciously biting vodka sour, which I know is no longer trendy, but considering my level of ripeness, I feel perfectly justified saying, “Screw trendy.”

MaryEllen turned to Connie. “Have you heard anything more from Mike?”

“He called once. I didn’t answer. He hasn’t called since.” She sounded sad and it broke my heart for her.

“That’s great news. Maybe he won’t try to steal you blind.” I touched her hand, wanting to comfort her. “You did good.”

“I know I did the right thing, but I’m so effing tired of being alone, of everyone in my life leaving me. If it weren’t for you guys, I wouldn’t have anyone.”

“We’re not going to leave you, Connie,” said Susan.

“We love and adore you. I love and adore all of you.” After a round of toasting each other, Connie still didn’t appear to be feeling any better.

“You guys are great, but I want sex. I want intimacy. Mike may not stick around, but when he’s in my life, I get both in spades.”

“But is it worth the cost?” I asked tentatively. It wasn’t my place to argue with her, yet she needed someone to help her clarify the situation.

“Maybe it is. Maybe that’s the only way I can have both.” She pushed back her chair. “You’ll excuse me. I have to go. Errands to run, that kind of thing.”

What errands could she need to do at this time of night? I got up to go after her, but Susan stopped me, saying, “No. I’ll talk with her.”

The rest of us left shortly afterward, and I don’t know about the others, but I was feeling somewhat philosophical. Maybe Connie was right. Maybe you have to be prepared to pay in order to find happiness and decide how much it’s worth to have your needs met.

When I got home, Stephen was sprawled out on the sofa mainlining Brady Bunch reruns. Since he is an only child, he longs for the chaos and social dynamics of a huge family. I feel vaguely guilty for not providing one, but am self-aware enough to know I’d go insane in a family like that.

“You’re not painting?”

He grinned. “I finished. Want to see it?”

“I’d love to.”

As we entered his bedroom, I noticed he’d turned the easels around to face the door. I stopped in my tracks. My kid did this? This brilliant, perceptive, gorgeous painting of a woman so like
Mona Lisa?

I was proud, right down to my painted toenails, but I couldn’t figure out how his father and I had somehow merged to create such a talented and, dammit, perfect human being as Stephen.

“You don’t like it,” he said, due to my extended silence.

I’m not usually quiet for so long, but his talent was overwhelming. “No. I don’t like it. I love it. I’m awed by it. I’m … I’m struck silent.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say (Yes, it’s on record, I said the right thing for once in my life!) and he positively glowed.

“Are you entering it in an art show?”

“Mr. Wesley wants me to, but I’m not sure yet.”

“He saw it?”

“He came over when I finished.”

Great. Wesley had been here tonight and racked up new ammunition to sling my way about being an absent parent. I wanted to ask if Mr. Butt-In-Ski fixed anything else while he was here, but didn’t want to piss off my kid.

I studied Stephen’s rendering of Mona and wondered if she, too, worried about her mothering skills or if they came naturally to her. Something about the lines around her eyes told me she’d understand. “If you enter the painting in a contest, it’s a sure winner.”

“Could be.”

He stared at his work, distracted, and appeared to be battling with some inner demons. I’m intimately familiar with inner demons, so I didn’t push.

“This weekend I have to go visit your grandfather, but otherwise I don’t have plans. Want to do something just the two of us?”

“I’m kinda busy and waiting to hear back from a friend about a project we’re doing together. Plus Saturday is Stormy’s night.”

“Sorry. I forgot he’d switched nights this week.”

“She called and asked me to remind you. That reminds me. I almost forgot. You had a couple of phone calls.”

He pulled a pad of paper from his nightstand.

“Jeffy Brooks called. When I offered to take a message for you, he asked if I wanted to come see his Beanies.”

“I hope you told him no!”

“I told him my mother didn’t allow me to date older men.”

It took me a second—okay, a full minute—before I realized that was a joke. He was expecting me to rise to his bait and ask about his inner woman. So I didn’t. See? I’m learning. “Ha ha hah,” I laughed. “Who was the other message from?”

“Le Dickhead.”

“Stephen, I’d prefer it if you don’t talk like that.”

“I don’t talk like that unless it’s appropriate. Mom, even you have to admit
dickhead
is an understatement.”

I nodded agreement.
Le Dickhead
was Stephen’s endearment for the Asshole Professor. I should have listened to my son. “What did he want?”

“Something about his new girlfriend having your skillet.” He consulted his notes. “Barbaretta loves your skillet and doesn’t know it’s yours. It’ll take a few days to pry it loose from her. Call next week to arrange a time to reclaim custody.”

“What a dickhead.” I couldn’t believe he’d given
my
skillet to his bimbette. My neck muscles tensed. Blood rushed to my face. Fury coursed through my arteries. My hands fisted.
Calm down, calm down
, I told myself, not wanting to go postal in front of my son. Besides, I needed to save the fury, bottle it up, so I could unleash it on the Asshole.

“You said
dickhead
.” Stephen tossed the pad on his bed.

Once I controlled my spiraling anger, I managed to calmly, very calmly, placidly, in fact, remark, “I really want my skillet back. Why does this have to be so hard? Do you know any thugs or Mafia types?”

“No thugs.” Stephen laughed. “Tom’s parents are in a custody battle, too—but over Tom and his little brother. At least you and Stormy didn’t do that to me.”

“I’m glad you appreciate that fact.” I moved in for the kiss, but he dodged it. That’s the problem with kids: they quickly catch on to your tricks.

“Don’t get mushy on me,
Maman.”

Perhaps our relationship wasn’t too bad? Maybe it was normal to have moments of intimacy mixed with days of noncommunication? I’m not sure, but I embrace every morsel of intimacy he tosses my way and suspect I always will. My son. My world. The ganache on top of the 2,310 identical petit fours of my life.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dear Jill,

The advice I’m about to share with you wasn’t covered in your survey, but I’m a proponent of paying it forward, and feel it’s my obligation to share the secret of a happy marriage with you. I hope you’ll share this advice with other young women down the line.

On my wedding day, over fifty years ago, my mother-in-law sat me down before the ceremony to have a little chat about the birds and the bees—or so I thought.

What she told me has since been the theme of several best-selling books and numerous romantic comedy movies. Yes, I’m talking about manipulating the man you love.

Whether it involves husband training along the lines of a dog manual, using sexuality and answering the door in the nude to make your man obey your bidding, or whatever new spin on this age-old standby, the bottom line remains the same.

The way my mother-in-law explained it to me is that it’s a woman’s job to make the decisions. It’s also her responsibility to make her husband believe he is the one making the decisions.