If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now (33 page)

“Does it have to mean something?”

I just snorted and waited.

She gazed absently at a glass of water on the nightstand then shook her head like she needed to clear it. “It feels so good,”
she said finally. “Us all being together. I just want to let it happen, let everything else go, just be with him and the kids.
Is that bad?” Her voice was almost pleading.

“Of course not. I think it’s great.”

“I don’t think I’m being stupid. I mean, I told him we have to see a marriage counselor, make some changes, figure out what
went wrong so it won’t happen again.”

“Good for you.”

She hugged the book she was holding to her chest. “I’m going to do what you said, Rickie. Move on and try again, even if I
can’t forgive what he did. That can work, I think.”

“You love him,” I said. “He loves you. That’s what matters.”

“I do love him.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But I’m not sure I’ll ever trust him again.” I didn’t know what to say
to that. She probably wouldn’t. Melanie dropped the book into the bag and looked around. “I’m so scared I’ll end up back here,
even sadder than before.”

“You won’t,” I said firmly. “But I’ll miss you, Mel. It’s going to be a lot lonelier here without you.”

“I only live fifteen minutes away,” she said. “And our kids go to the same school. And I was over here all the time even before
I moved in. And we’ll always have the committee meetings.”

I snorted. “Great.”

“Speaking of which, Maria and Carol Lynn are going to be so mad at me. I’m doing exactly what they told me not to do.”

“Yeah, well, I think you have a better chance of being happy than they ever will.”

“I hope you’re right. About my being happy, I mean—not about them
not
being happy.” She scanned the rest of the room. “I’m not going to take everything here home yet. That feels like bad luck.
Just a few things for now, and I’ll gradually move everything else back. Over time. If things work out.” She picked up her
bag by the handles. “Oh, but wait—do you need the room? I mean, Noah could move in here. You want me to clean it out for him?”

“Eventually,” I said. “But since he doesn’t even make it through the night in his own
bed
, there’s probably no rush moving him to his own room.”

“Just let me know.” She gave a little final bob of her head and took a deep breath. “So that’s that, then.”

We walked back downstairs together, and a little while later she drove home with her family.

“Still think it’s a bad idea?” I asked my mother after they left.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said. “I worry about Melanie. She goes through life expecting people to be as good as she is,
and when they’re not, she takes it hard.”

“No one’s as good as she is.”

My mother nudged my arm. “You’re pretty close.”

I drew back in surprise. “Me? I’m the Anti-Melanie. I’m the opposite of her. She’s nice, I’m rude.”

Mom just smiled a little. “You’re not as different as you think.”

I shook my head. “You’re just trying to mess with my mind.”

“Maybe.” She laughed and walked away.

Debbie Golden picked up Noah and Joshua at school on Thursday afternoon and Noah played at their house until I came to get
him right before dinnertime.

“They did great,” Debbie told me as she let me into their small, slightly shabby, and very cozy West Los Angeles house. “Oh,
I hope it’s okay—they’ve been playing computer games almost the whole time. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” I said. “They could have dropped acid and I’d be fine with it so long as they were having fun together.”

“We usually save the LSD for the second playdate,” she said.

Noah and Joshua came floating down the stairs, happily chattering away to each other about some game. Then Noah spotted me
and dashed frantically back up the stairs, away from me, shouting, “It’s too soon, it’s too soon!”

“He definitely had fun,” I said to Debbie. I corralled him in Joshua’s bedroom and threatened him with an early bedtime if
he didn’t come with me that minute.

As we were leaving, Debbie said, “Oh, and good luck at the game!” before closing the front door.

“What game?” Noah asked me as we walked down the gravel path to the car.

“Your T-ball game, remember?”

“We’re playing a
game
?” The coach had told them like five times the week before but apparently it hadn’t sunk in. “Against another team?”

“That’s kind of the point of the league.” I looked down at him. His face was white with terror. I took his hand and squeezed
it. “It’ll be fine, Noey,” I said.

He didn’t answer, just shook his head and stayed silent for the rest of our drive home.

Andrew sent an e-mail on Friday to all the parents on the team, suggesting they make sure their kids ate a good breakfast
the next morning and requesting that parents “limit all comments at the game to positive ones and leave the coaching to me.”

Early Saturday morning, I told Noah to stop watching cartoons and put on his baseball uniform. He instantly curled up into
a ball and said, “I can’t go. I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick.”

He forced a cough. “See? And my throat hurts and my head.”

I sat down on the sofa next to him. “I know it’s scary to have to play a real game—”

“That’s not
it.
You think I’m faking but I’m not. I’m really, really sick.”

“You’re really, really not. And you’re really, really going to this game.”

“You’re so mean,” he said. “You don’t even care that I’m sick.”

I sighed. “Just go get into your uniform, Noah.”

He rolled slowly off the sofa and onto his feet like he could barely move and then slouched his way across the floor, hunching
up his shoulders and choking out a few more theatrical coughs along the way. “I’m going to die of my sickness out there,”
he said over his shoulder, “and it will be all your fault because you’re the meanest worst mother in the whole world.” He
fake-coughed again as he left the room.

My mother looked up from her desk in the corner of the room, where she’d been quietly working, and said, “What was that all
about?”

I flopped back onto the sofa cushions, already exhausted. “His first T-ball game’s today. He’s pretending to be sick and he’s
mad at me for not buying it.”

“He doesn’t want to go?”

“He’s scared. It’s a lot of pressure and sports are hard for him. And I swear I’m sympathetic to that—but then he starts taking
it out on me, like it’s all my fault. It drives me crazy.”

“That’s kind of how it works with mothers.” She swiveled her chair around to face me. “Kids get scared or they make mistakes
and get angry at themselves, and you’re there, you’re
always
there, so they take it out on you because you’re the only one it’s safe to take it out on.” She leaned forward a little.
“Kids need to know that there’s someone there who won’t ever go away or leave them, no matter how horribly they behave. So
you give that to your kid.”

There was a pause. Then I said slowly, “You think I do that to you. What Noah does to me.”

“You’re older,” she said. “It comes out a little differently…”

“I don’t take things out on you,” I said. Then, with less certainty: “Do I?”

“Yeah, sometimes. But it’s okay.” She gave a wry half smile. “Most of the time, anyway.” She got up from her chair and came
over to me. She was still wearing her nightgown and bathrobe. She wasn’t much of a morning person and, if she didn’t have
a morning meeting, often didn’t get dressed until almost noon. “What you’ve done over the last few years hasn’t been easy.
And you never take anything out on Noah.”

“Just on you?”

“It’s the far better choice.”

“It’s not how it feels,” I said. “I mean, I feel like I’m genuinely angry when I’m angry, not like I’m working something out.”

She smiled that half smile again. “And Noah has probably convinced himself he’s really sick right now.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he has.” I thought for a moment. “So if I take everything out on you—and I’m not saying I do, but just for
the sake of argument—and Noah takes everything out on me, where does that leave you? Who do you get to beat up on?”

“Oh, I probably tormented my own mother when she was alive. In fact, I know I did.” She laughed. “And your father’s always
good for a little verbal abuse when I’m feeling close to the edge.”

“He doesn’t even notice when you yell at him.”

“That’s what makes him so good for it.” We were both silent for a moment. “Can I come with you?” Mom asked suddenly. “To Noah’s
game?”

“It’s not going to be much fun. He really isn’t very good at it and you know how stressed he gets.”

“That’s why I want to go. I figure you could use a little support.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I could.”

“I’ll go get dressed.” As she passed by, she gently squeezed my shoulder.

I didn’t even flinch.

W
hen I walked Noah over to join the rest of his team, Andrew came toward us. “Oh, hi,” he said. It was the first time I’d actually
seen him in person since Casino Night. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry about canceling last Sunday.”

“No worries,” I said, trying to match his casual tone even though my heart was thudding. “You go out of town?”

“No,” he said with an almost violent shake of his head. “Just dealing with stuff here.”

What did that mean? There were too many kids and parents around to have a real conversation. I squatted down in front of Noah,
who was still clutching my hand hard like he wouldn’t ever let go. “Listen, guy, don’t worry about anything, okay? Just have
fun.”

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice shrill with anxiety. “Playing ball when I’m sick is not
fun
.”

“Is he okay?” Andrew asked.

“No,” Noah said. “I’m not. I’m really sick but she’s making me play.”

“He’s not sick.” I stood up and tried to let go of his hand, but he was holding on so tightly I literally had to pry his fingers
off, one by one. “He’s fine. Good luck with the game, Noah. Don’t worry too much, okay? You’ll do fine.” I started to move
away.

“Hey, Rickie,” Andrew said and I stopped and turned to look at him, but whatever else he was going to say was lost because
one of the obnoxious dads came bearing down on him at that moment, angrily spitting out the words, “Did you know the umpire
has a nephew on the other team? What kind of bullshit league is this?” and I fled.

My mother was saving me a seat at the top of the bleachers.

“I just want him not to mess up completely,” I said as I sank down on the bench next to her. “I don’t need him to hit a home
run. Just for him not to embarrass himself. That’s not asking too much, is it?”

“It’ll be fine,” she said and patted my leg reassuringly, but then I saw that she was jiggling her own ankle nervously.

The jerky father came over to where his friend was standing on the grass, hands rammed into his pockets, just a couple of
feet away from where Mom and I were sitting. “It’s bullshit,” he told his friend. “He won’t do a thing about it. Bad enough
we have a crap team, but we had to have a crap coach to go with it.”

His friend offered up a few four-letter words that seemed to imply agreement, and then the game started.

Our team won the coin toss and was up at bat first. Noah was fairly far back in the lineup, but our team kept getting hits
and he kept moving up. I was hoping they’d get three outs before he came to bat, but he came forward out from the bench under
the worst possible conditions: the bases were loaded and his team had two outs.

“Shit,” I said. “Too much pressure.”

I wasn’t the only one who found the situation worrisome. “This kid will blow it for the whole team,” one of the evil dads
muttered to the other.

“Did you hear that?” my mother said, half rising in her seat to give them a horrified look which they didn’t even notice.
“I mean, did you
hear
that?”

“Those guys are always saying stuff like that.” I watched Noah step up to the tee, dragging his bat in the dirt, his shoulders
slumped, his whole body anticipating disaster.
Please
, I thought at him.
Please hit the ball hard enough to get you to first base. Please, little friend. Just do that.

The telepathy reception must have been lousy there: Noah swung too quickly and too carelessly. The bat hit the tee and the
ball dribbled off it and onto the ground.

“Foul!” the umpire cried. “Strike one.”

One of the dads groaned. Mom glared at him but he didn’t notice.

Andrew darted forward, adjusted Noah’s bat on his shoulder, whispered something in his ear, then clapped him on the shoulder.
As he stepped back, he looked up into the bleachers. Our eyes met. He raised his hands so I could see his crossed fingers.
I showed him mine. We both turned our attention back to Noah.

He opened his eyes wide, sighed so deeply you could actually see his chest heave, and swung. He hit the ball but with an upward
motion that sent it straight up. It fell back down about a foot away from the tee.

The umpire called another foul.

“One more and he’s out,” said one of the dads. “So much for our loaded bases. Hey, Jordan!” he called to his kid, who was
on third base. “Whatever this kid does, run for home fast
as you can, okay? Don’t wait for him to get a hit.” The kid nodded.

Andrew was whispering to Noah again and helping him adjust his grip on the bat.

“I can’t look,” I said and shut my eyes.

I could feel my mother’s disappointed sigh even before I heard the other team cheer. “Fuck,” I said. I opened my eyes. Andrew
had his arm around Noah’s shoulders and was walking him away from home plate while the rest of their team came out from the
bench. The other team ran in from the outfield.

Andrew looked as crushed as I felt. In the middle of all my disappointment, that gave me a tiny bit of pleasure. Someone else,
someone who wasn’t my parents or my sister, cared how Noah did and hurt because he did.

I didn’t get a chance to enjoy that tiny bit of pleasure: I immediately overheard one of the dads saying to the other, “This
is exactly what I was talking about. We could have had three more runs if the coach had put that kid at the top of the lineup.
The guy doesn’t know how to deal with these lousy players.”