Say Never (26 page)

I’ve been reading the comments on my Facebook fan page and I’m in shock at how my fans have turned on me. It started with a simple question posted on Monday, anonymously:
Anyone hear about Meg jumping ship and moving to a station out in California?
That one post opened the floodgates and my listening audience has proceeded to skewer me.

So, she took her bite out of the Big Apple, and now she’s done with Barry and with us! So rude! Good riddance.

I love Barry but I never got why Meg’s so popular. She’s funny, sure, but sooo mean. She’ll never make it out in the ‘nice capitol’ of the world.

And my personal favorite:
The traitorous bitch!

There are a few random entries of support, like
No way. She hates SoCal.
And
Not a chance. Meg’s our girl.
But most of them are indignant as hell.

I grip the edge of the table and clench my teeth, trying to remain calm, but with little success. Counting doesn’t work. Nor does going to my calming place. I know I should write some kind of post to reassure my fans, but nothing comes to mind that doesn’t sound glib or like an out-and-out lie. I grab my cell phone and scroll through my contacts list, then press the number for Gordon Davies, the station manager. My boss. The call goes directly to voicemail.

“Gordon, it’s Meg. I really need to talk to you, so please call me back as soon as you get this.”

I disconnect the call and set my phone down, then stare at the Facebook page on the monitor of the laptop. The cursor blinks at me in the text box, beneath the legend:
What’s on your mind?

Everything’s cocked up, that’s what’s on my mind.

“I can’t find my glitter pens,” McKenna calls from the kitchen. “I need those pens!” She appears at the archway and gives me a look of panic. “I’m making a card for Mommy and I need the glitters.”

“Are they in the crayon box?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Maybe they’re in your room.”

“Maybe,” she concedes.

“So…go look.”

“I need help.” Her lower lip trembles and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

“I’m sort of busy.” I turn toward the living room. “Go ask your sister.”

McKenna hesitates, shuffling her feet, then walks to the living room. She stands in front of Cera, looking overly hopeful and not a little nervous.

“Will you help me?” McKenna asks in a whisper.

Unlike me, Cera does
not
suppress the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m busy too.”

I stand and stretch my neck. “McKenna, you go and start looking and someone will be in to help you in just a few seconds, okay?”

She nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, then scurries to her room. I march into the living room and stare down at Cera. “Go help McKenna. Now.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so.” Inwardly I cringe, hating the fact that I just used that phrase. “And because she’s your sister and because she needs you.”

“Like I care.”

I bend down so that my face is six inches from hers. “Look, you little shit, you’re the only big sister she has. And, as far as I know, she’s the only sister you’re ever going to have. So get the fuck in there.”

Cera blinks at me a couple of times, her face frozen in a hateful grimace. Without a word, she gets off the couch, then stomps out of the living room and disappears down the hall.

I return to my computer and sit. The cursor still blinks at me:
What’s on your mind?

Okay, what’s on my mind? What’s on my mind? What
is
on my mind?

Just as I start to type, my phone rings. I answer without looking at the caller id.

“Gordon, what the hell’s happening out th—”

“Actually, Meg, it’s Doctor Rabinowitz calling.” I recognize the smooth, relaxed baritone immediately, can see him in my mind’s eye in his Mr. Rogers’ sweater, absently swiping at his beard.

“Oh, hi, Doc.”

“You were expecting someone else?”

“My boss.”

“Well, knowing what I do about your station manager, I imagine you are delighted to hear from me.”

In fact, I am delighted. I need that freaking Xanax. “Oh, yeah, Dr. Rabinowitz. I’m so glad you called. Listen, I need you to—”

“Of course I’m calling, Meg,” he says, cutting me off. “Remember, before you left, we agreed we would touch base on Wednesday.”

“It’s Wednesday?”
Crap
. I’ve heard about how moms lose track of time, how they don’t know what day it is. I once went into a half-hour rant on my show about how ridiculous that notion is.
Come on, moms, get a life,
I’d railed.
Get a calendar! Buy a watch!
Now, in this moment, I totally understand how it happens. You lose track. Time is ruled by the kids. The days pass in a haze of schedules and diapers and bottles and meals and finding lost toys and drop-offs and pick-ups and tears and tantrums. I suddenly realize that I didn’t have a chance to shower today and I miss my life with painful intensity.

“I take it things are very busy for you right now. How is it going?”

“Fine.”

“Excellent. How are you getting along with your brother?”

“Fine.”
When I’m not busy losing his kids or making them cry.

“And your father? Have you seen him?”

“Yes. Today.”

“And how was that?”

“Fine.”

“How many ‘fines’ is that? Three?” He chuckles. “And your sister-in-law?”

I let out a sigh. “I saw her today, too. It was…okay.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. We kind of had a moment. You know. It was okay.”

“That’s very good to hear.”

The doorbell rings and I glance at the front door.

“Look, Doc, I have to go.”

“I understand, but I think we should continue this conversation. I know being home is a cause of great stress for you—”

“My home is Manhattan.”

“You know what I mean. All sorts of feelings must be rising to the surface about your mother and your childhood. That, coupled with your recent news from your physician…I don’t want you to bury your emotions, Meg. But I also don’t want you to become overwhelmed, as you did on your birthday last month.”

The doorbell rings again, more insistently this time. I raise myself from my seat and head for the door, phone in hand.

“Doc, I’m fine. I’m a little stressed, yes. But I’m okay. Things are okay. I’m not going to wig out, I promise. And in a week, I’ll be back to my life and everything will be peachy.”

“But, Meg, you can’t escape from your past. We’ve discussed this. You should use this time to confront it. Examine it. Really take a good look at your personal history.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good idea. But in the meantime, do you think you could send in a prescription for Xanax to the Vista View Target?” A strident knock sounds at the door. “Thanks a lot, Doc. Gotta go. Bye.”

I disconnect and pocket my phone, then pull open the front door to find Patsy Gates standing on the porch. A girl of about three sprouts from her hip and another older child of indeterminate sex stands on the ground beside her, arms wrapped around her left leg like a tree hugger. In her free hand, Patsy holds a Trader Joe’s carry sack filled to bursting with groceries. She gives me a condescending smile and I have to use all my strength to keep from slamming the door in her face. Talk about confronting my past.

“Well, hi, hi, Meg!”

“Patsy,” I say tightly.

Without waiting for an invitation, Patsy brushes past me. She moves into the foyer effortlessly, as though she’s not hauling around an extra eighty pounds of clinging-kid weight, and stops at the living room landing. She sets the grocery sack on the banquet, then detaches the girl from her hip and sets her on the floor. It takes a bit more effort to disengage the child from her legs.

“Sam. Let go, honey.”

I still can’t figure out whether this is a boy or a girl and the androgynous name doesn’t help. ‘Sam’ shakes his or her head, letting fly a mane of blond hair.

“Sammy,” Patsy says entreatingly. “Sammy-Sam-Sam. Sam-errific. Sam-I-am! Please, sweetie. Let go of Mommy’s leg.”

“I can get the hose, if you’d like,” I offer, then bite my lower lip to keep a straight face. Patsy raises her eyes to the heavens and sniffs dismissively, but doesn’t respond to me.

She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small lollipop, then holds it in front of the child. His (or her) eyes go wide and he (or she) dutifully releases Patsy’s leg. The little girl ambles over and holds her hand out and Patsy produces another lolly for her.

“Bribing with sugar? Isn’t that a no-no in the mommy handbook?”

“For your information, these are honey-ginger-mint lollies, No sugar, and very good for digestion.”

“For your information, they sound revolting,” I reply evenly. “What are you doing here, Patsy?”

“Caroline asked me to come over and check on things,” she says, a note of superiority in her voice. “She thought maybe you might be in over your head and could use a little backup.”

“When was this?” I make no effort to mask my irritation. I thought Caroline and I had come to a kind of cease-fire, that she’d accepted the fact that I was doing an okay job of things.

“Oh, let me think,” Patsy says, pursing her lips and pretending to think hard. “About an hour ago?”

I feel my hackles rise. I was wrong about my ‘moment’ with Caroline. There was no truce. And even though I shouldn’t be surprised, I admit I’m disappointed.

Just then, McKenna and Cera appear from the hallway. McKenna’s face lights up. “Auntie Patsy! Auntie Patsy!”

Seeing the exuberant look on my niece’s face at the sight of Patsy Gates makes my stomach twist involuntarily. I refuse,
refuse
to be envious of Patsy, and, furthermore, since when have I cared about the affections of a five-year-old?

“Hello, McKenna-whenna-bobama-banana-fanna!”

Is she kidding with this shit?

McKenna rushes over and gives Patsy an enthusiastic hug.

“Sammy, Daisy, look! It’s McKenna-bo-benna!”

“I have a new doll!” McKenna announces to the younger children. Daisy looks interested, but Sammy frowns.

“I don’t like dolls!” Sam exclaims. Aha. A boy—if you adhere to gender stereotypes, which, in my opinion are the only things we can rely on in most circumstances.

“I got LEGO Star Wars, too,” McKenna says, and Sammy lights up. “Come to my room!”

The three scamper off down the hallway. Patsy watches them with a look of sheer contentment on her face that makes me want to retch
.

“Isn’t that sweet?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just marches over to Cera. “Hi, Cera. Remember me?”

Cera looks at Patsy with the same disdain she reserves for me. “Yeah. Hi.”

“It’s really good to see you! What grade are you in now? Seventh? Just like my Ethan.” She peers around the room. “Hey, where’s Tebow?”

“In his room, napping,” I say. I cross my arms over my chest and smile, quite proud of myself.

Patsy’s eyes go wide as though the house just caught on fire.

“What? Still sleeping? My god. It’s four-thirty. You shouldn’t have let him sleep this long, Meg.” She shakes her head and tsks, then immediately heads for Tebow’s room, a steady stream of reprimands passing her lips.

I follow in her wake, stomping like a little kid. I’m angry that Pasty Gates thinks she can just barge in here like she owns the place, and I’m totally pissed off at Caroline for telling Patsy to come here in the first place.

“I mean, I know you have no idea what you’re doing, Meg. It’s not your fault, but honestly, Danny is going to have a very difficult night tonight. How long has Tebow been sleeping, anyway? Two hours, three?”

I pull out my cell and check the LCD. “About two and a half hours,” I report. “Look, he was exhausted, Patsy. We had a very long morning.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She strides into Tebow’s room and heads for the crib, then reaches in, grabs him, and yanks him off the mattress.

“Up and at ‘em Tebow-liscious!” she shrieks in his ear. His chubby little cheeks are flushed and one side of his face is imprinted with lines from his bedding. His blond hair looks slightly damp and askew and his pacifier is conspicuously absent.

He opens his eyes half-way, blinks a few times, then squeezes them shut, scrunches up his nose and puckers his lips in a grimace. I’ve been with my nephew long enough to recognize this as his pre-wail facial expression.

I may not be the Dalai Lama of parenting, but something strikes me as just plain wrong about interrupting a person’s sleep so abruptly and inconsiderately, even if that person is a two-year-old who can’t pronounce the word ‘daddy.’ I’d like to see how Patsy would react if someone woke
her
up like this. When my nephew starts to howl with displeasure, I don’t blame him one bit.