Not Ready for Mom Jeans (45 page)

Jake took Sara to day-care this morning, to give me a few extra minutes to languish in the shower and perfect my makeup. The house was silent and cold as I pulled on my black leather boots and wrapped my comforter around my shoulders, trying to calm my nerves. I took a deep breath, stood up, shrugged off the comforter, grabbed my bag, slipped on my coat and gloves, and walked out the door.

I stopped and grabbed a gingerbread latte on my way over to the country club. I hoped the caffeine and sugar would somehow numb part of my brain and allow me to coast through the day without too much stress.

No such luck.

I walked into the club, and as I waited in the reception area for the event manager to appear and do a quick run-through of the event I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Ready?” Julie said behind me.

“What are you doing here so early? The event doesn’t start for hours!”

“Thought you might need some help. Or at least a drinking buddy if you need some liquid courage.”

“I might take you up on that,” I said.

“Clare, ready to do the walk-through?” Olivia, the club manager, appeared next to me.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

An hour later, Elise arrived. I didn’t recognize her until she was almost right in front of me. She wore a gorgeous buttery leather skirt and cashmere cowl-neck sweater. But on her head she had a huge hat, society lady at the Kentucky Derby style.

“Elise! I almost didn’t see you! You look great,” I said as I leaned forward to hug her. I turned to Julie, who was salivating to my right, “This is my friend Julie.”

“Nice to meet you.” Elise shook Julie’s hand.

Julie shook her hand, eyes wide. “Beautiful hat,” Julie croaked out.

“Thanks,” Elise said.

“Is your speech ready?” I asked her.

“Think so. I have a surprise at the end,” she said.

“What is it?”

“A surprise.” She winked at me.

Soon, nearly every local celebrity packed the garden room of the country club, sipping glasses of wine and munching on the passed hors d’oeuvres. Reese and my mom arrived and I rushed over to hug them while Julie flirted with the bar staff.

“You guys look amazing,” I said.

“Let’s talk about amazing,” Reese said, and gestured around the room with her hand. “I think everyone here has been in
Chicago
magazine at least twice.”

“Except for us,” my mom said, and smiled. “Clare, I’m so proud of you. You’ve done such a great job. I can’t believe how many reporters are here,” she said as she surveyed the room.

“Thanks. Sometimes it helps to have a blog,” I said, and smiled. I’d posted information on my blog about the fundraiser, including a link for readers to donate. I stressed about it for a long time, not wanting my readers to think I was pandering for money, but it’s not like I was pocketing the cash for a new laptop or something.

Apparently, the URL got passed around to a few local press members, and with that coupled with my connections at
The Daily Tribune,
I had myself a nice little fundraiser.

“Hey, Mama.” Julie appeared and hugged my mom. “Reese, dear, no kids equals a glass of wine. Shall we?”

“We totally shall,” Reese said, and followed Julie over to the bar.

“Oh God,” my mom said.

“What?”

She pointed over my right shoulder. I turned around and saw Marianne. “I told you she was coming,” I whispered. “And there’s Natalie behind her with—” I stopped.

“Ash Leigh,” my mom finished.

Christ.

“Hello,” I said tightly as they walked over. I told Natalie like seven thousand times this wasn’t an event to which she could bring her kid.

“I know you said no kids, Clare, but I just couldn’t leave her today.” Natalie smiled sweetly at me.

I started to have flashbacks to my wedding reception when my cousin Yvonne brought her bratty three-year-old.

“Lovely to see you, Marianne!” my mom said. “And Natalie, you look beautiful as always.”

“Clare, your directions were very vague,” Marianne said, and frowned at me.

“Are we having any normal food at this lunch?” Natalie asked, and wrinkled her nose.

“You should probably go check on everything,” my mom said, and gave me a little push. “And I need to run to the bathroom. Please excuse me.”

We both made clean getaways while Marianne, Natalie, and Ash Leigh sequestered themselves to a couch and glared at everyone.

After a few drinks, everyone took their places at the tables, which looked incredible. Pink linens and pink and white rose centerpieces glimmered with the flickering of tea candles. I sat down in between Julie and my mom.

I overheard Julie ask Natalie, “So, my coworker, who just had a baby, said you can’t really understand child abuse until you have one of your own. Is that true?”

Natalie glowered at her.

“I mean, does having a kid yourself kinda make you understand those whole baby microwaving incidents?” Julie continued, and pointed to Ash Leigh. I caught Julie’s eye and she smirked at me.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natalie said, and adjusted Ash Leigh on her lap.

Elise and I made eye contact across the room and she nodded at me. She stood up and walked over to the podium. She put on her reading glasses, cleared her throat, and adjusted the microphone.

“First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to our luncheon and thank each and every one of you for coming to support this worthy cause. We’ve all been touched by breast cancer in some way, maybe through a friend, a relative, a neighbor, or maybe even ourselves.” My mom smiled at me. “As we know, advances are happening each day, and the hope for a cure increases with every treatment we uncover. But new advances and exceptional medicine requires exceptional resources, which is why your generosity is so important and makes such a difference. So, thank you for truly making an impact and raising money for this important issue.” She paused as people lightly applauded.

“But raising money is only one part of the impact we can have. We need to put ourselves, as leaders in this community, out in society and show how important this issue is to us as women. As some of you know, my mother passed away from breast cancer a few years ago. So, this issue is near and dear to my heart. I thought long and hard about how I could outwardly show my support for breast cancer survivors and remind people to support this cause. And I came up with this.” Elise paused and looked around the room for effect. She reached up and lifted her enormous hat off her head. A collective gasp went around the room as everyone saw Elise’s blond hair cropped short to her head, Mia Farrow style. Gone were the signature highlighted blond locks.

“I cut my hair and donated it to an organization which makes wigs for cancer patients. I encourage each and every one of you to do the same. With your hair, your resources, or your time. My point is not to shock anyone. My point is we each have something to give.” She paused again and ran her left hand through her short hair. “In closing, I think it’s appropriate to paraphrase the message from my favorite holiday movie,
It’s a Wonderful Life
. In the movie, the angel Clarence remarks how each person’s life touches so many others. I think we can all learn a little from Clarence, and remember the importance of making a difference in the lives of others. Thank you.” Elise took her glasses off and set them down on the podium. She stood, her hat in hand, note cards in the other, and smiled at the crowd.

Chairs wobbled as people stood up. The press ran up and snapped pictures, their flashes going off like Christmas lights exploding. I looked over and saw tears streaming down Reese’s flushed face.

My mom put her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “She’s really something, isn’t she?” I nodded.

“She fucking rules,” Julie said to Marianne, who looked startled by her cursing.

After Elise sat down, the room was still buzzing. During the fashion show, throughout lunch, all anyone spoke about was Elise and her hair.

After people started to leave, I raced over to Elise and grabbed her arm.

“Amazing surprise!” I said.

“Thanks, thought you might like it,” she said, and picked up her wine and sipped it.

“I can just see it now. The headline will read: ‘Elise Stansfield: Breast Cancer Hero.’ ”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get carried away.”

“Seriously, you were amazing,” I said.

“Elise, can I get a moment for a few quotes for my article?” a reporter from
The Daily Tribune
asked her.

“Your public awaits,” I whispered to Elise as I walked back to my table.

As I sat down and watched the reporters fawn all over Elise, snapping pictures and shouting out questions, I realized something:

It doesn’t have to be black or white.

Work or stay home. Give up one or the other.

Because as I looked down at the luncheon program with coffee cup stains in front of me, I realized it was all a shade of gray. One part personal and one part professional.

Dovetailing together.

In an amazing way.

Rumor has it
The Tribune
is doing a huge spread on our event, with multiple pictures and quotes from Elise. There’s already a link on the Web site to a few of their pictures. I’m betting it’s only a matter of time before Elise is crowned the new queen of the city.

And with my fabulous day, a newly planted little seed began to grow in my brain. An idea watered by the knowledge that I can make things happen, not just let things happen to me. And that my professional and personal lives can play in the sandbox together.

I’m going to find my own path; I’m just not sure what that will be yet.

Monday, December 22

Still on a high from the fundraiser, I didn’t mind it snowed overnight and my car was covered in an inch-thick layer of ice and snow. As I opened the front door to leave, Jake called, “Betcha wish you had my ice scraper now, huh?”

I rolled my eyes and closed the door behind me while balancing Sara on my hip. “Your dad’s insane,” I told her. She grinned at me underneath her woolen hat, tied around her chin.

I placed Sara in her car seat in the back and got into the driver’s side. I turned the car on to let it warm up before I started scraping the ice. I saw Jake walk outside to his car and I rolled down my window a little.

“I want to see if this thing is actually as awesome as you say,” I said to him.

“Trust me, it is,” he said confidently. He reached for the door handle and gave it a good swift yank.

Nothing. It was frozen.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered.

He tried again. Nothing.

“Motherfucker,” he said under his breath. He reached for the handle again and violently jerked it.

In one swift, clean move, the handle ripped off the side of the car into his hand. He stood there, stunned, holding his car door handle. I sat silently and watched him walk around the other side of the car, open the passenger door, and throw the handle into the backseat. He leaned over and grabbed the Ice Scraper to Which All Others Cannot Compare. He shrugged at me as he walked up to the windshield. He smiled and pointed to the ice scraper.

I flashed him a thumbs-up sign.

He tugged at one of the windshield wipers, trying to lift it up to scrape underneath it. But it was frozen, too. He wiggled it a little, trying to dislodge it from the glass, and guess what? Yep. It came off in his hand.

He threw it down on the driveway and roared.

So, let’s recap:

Driver’s side handle: in the backseat.

Windshield wiper: on the driveway.

The climax of the entire incident was when he put the scraper to the car window and the entire scraper immediately dissolved and disintegrated into about twelve pieces.

His back was to me when the scraper met its demise. He didn’t even turn around as he walked back into the house, defeated and humiliated.

By this time, my car was fully warmed up, so I turned my windshield wipers on and the ice and snow fell right off my car.

I called him from my cell phone and told him about my great ice-scraping technique, which involved starting my vehicle.

He hung up on me.

Sara and I laughed as I drove her to day-care.

Tuesday, December 23