She, Myself & I (10 page)

Two weeks passed by. I tried not to think about Zack as I went about my business of ending marriages. I tried not to think about him while I took long, steady runs along Town Lake, enjoying the coolness of the late autumn air against my face. I tried not to think about him while I was sorting my laundry and found a few Scrabble blocks that had mysteriously ended up in the hamper. And I tried not to think about him as I gathered up all of the Home Shopping Network boxes, scrawled “Return to Sender” across each one with a Sharpie marker, and dropped them off at the post office after business hours. The only item I kept was the Diamondique bracelet Zack had fastened to my wrist, which I now squirreled away in the drawer of my bedside table.

Zack called me a few times, and left messages on my answering machine. I hesitated before erasing each one, not accustomed to the pang of regret I felt when hearing his voice.

Clearly, I’d made a huge mistake. The idea of a strings-free relationship sounded good in theory, but it had been a misstep to attempt it with someone I actually enjoyed spending time with. I should have found some easily forgettable guy, one with an irritating laugh or criminally low self-esteem or serious mother issues—basically any guy I ever went out with before my marriage. Had I chosen my fling more wisely, I wouldn’t be having the disconcerting sensation of missing someone whom I hadn’t known for very long.

And then Soph’s baby shower rolled around. Worse still, I was hosting it. I spent an entire Saturday morning hustling around my house, vacuuming the carpets, scrubbing the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom. And then, since Sophie’s my sister and I love her, I put up all of the tacky-to-the-point-of-kitsch baby shower decorations—a paper banner that spelled out “Congratulations,” balloons in the shape of storks, little plastic rattles scattered around all of the tables. I’d picked up trays of finger sandwiches, crudités, and cookies earlier in the day, and I put them out, before mixing up a punch of cranberry juice, sparkling wine, and lemon-lime soda.

My mom and Mickey, home from school for the weekend, arrived at one o’clock.

“Here, I brought some cheese and crackers, and some brownies and lemon bars that I made last night. Michaela, let’s put out the flowers that we brought. Paige dear, where are your vases? Are these the only ones you have?” Mom said, looking doubtfully at the modern vase collection I’d ordered from West Elm.

“That’s it,” I said. I relieved Mickey of the flowers, handing them off to my mother, who began arranging them around the living room, and then gave my little sister a quick hug. “Hey, kiddo, it’s good to see you.”

“Mom’s driving me crazy. Have you found anything out about her and Dad?” Mickey whispered in my ear.

“No, she refuses to talk about it. Every time I bring it up, she says something vague about how they’re ‘just good friends,’ and changes the subject. But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. They’ve probably called a truce because they’re about to become grandparents,” I whispered back.

“Well, I guess it would be nice if they could be in the same room without killing each other. But it’s just so weird, I can’t get used to the idea,” Mickey said.

“Have a glass of punch. I spiked it with white wine,” I told her, and laughed when she said “Ooo, yum” and hustled off toward the punch bowl.

Mickey was such a goofy sweetheart of a kid. And now, looking at her, tall and slim and looking just a little awkward in her skirt and heels, envy squeezed at me. She had her whole life spreading out in front of her. All of the major decisions were still ahead: what kind of medicine she’d practice, whether she’d marry, and if so, who, where she’d live, and what kind of a life she’d lead. And even when she screwed up, it would be fine, because the mistakes you make in your twenties are always the ones that you learn from. You’re still young and pliable and capable of change.

Mom fussed over the flowers—sweetheart roses and baby’s breath, not my favorite, but I suppose she was going for a theme—while I put the food she brought on a plate and added it to the buffet. I swiped a brownie and absentmindedly nibbled on it while I worked.

“Since when did you start eating desserts?” Mickey asked, watching me critically.

“I don’t know, I’m not really,” I hedged, and then turned my back on both of them and started pulling glasses out of the cupboards. I could feel them exchange a look behind my back, and felt a surge of irritation. The truth was, I’d been eating nonstop since my night with Zack. The memory of his morning beard scratching against my face, or the way his fingers had strummed over my skin, had a way of propelling me right to the refrigerator.

There was another knock at the door, and my mom went to let Sophie in. She toddled in, out of breath and her face red.

“Hey, you! What’s wrong? Did you take the stairs?” Mickey asked her, hugging her in greeting.

“Have you talked to the doctor about your blood pressure?” Mom fretted. She took Sophie’s arm and guided her to the sofa, where she plopped down with a sigh of relief.

“No . . . the elevator . . . I get so winded lately. Thanks,” Sophie wheezed as she accepted the glass of water I handed her. She smiled at me and almost looked like her old, affable self. “Thanks for the shower.”

“No problem,” I said, and tugged the end of her hair.

We hadn’t seen each other since the day of my date with Zack, and had only talked briefly on the phone about shower-related things. But I could tell that the whole thing had blown over. Such was the way with sisters. Or at least the way it was with my sisters.

“So what have you been up to, Paige?” Sophie asked casually.

“Yeah, how’s your love life?” Mickey asked, flopping down on my pristine white love seat, tucking one foot underneath her.

“Mick, get your feet off my couch. Nothing’s up,” I said, and swiftly followed Mom back to the kitchen to escape the interrogation. Unfortunately, the condo had an open floor plan, so I couldn’t completely get away from my inquisitors.

“How’s it going with Zack?” Sophie called out.

“It’s not. We went out a few times, and that was it. No big deal,” I replied. I dug out an ice bucket—one of the few wedding presents I’d forgotten to purge—and handed it to my mother.

“Oh yeah? That’s not what he said,” Sophie teased me.

“What did he say?” Mickey asked.

“Who’s Zack?” Mom asked. She pulled the ice tray out of the freezer and dumped it into the bucket.

“Zack’s my carpenter, the gorgeous one who redid my kitchen,” Sophie said.

“How’s the redecorating coming along anyway? What did Aidan say about it?” I asked, walking back into the living room with a tray of glasses. I set them out around the punch bowl.

“Don’t change the subject. What did the carpenter hottie say about Paige?” Mickey insisted. She leaned forward, her brown eyes shining brightly, her long dark hair falling down over her shoulders. Mickey looks so much like me, although her face is softer, like Sophie’s. She doesn’t have any of the sharp angles that make me look like Snow White’s evil stepmother when I’m angry.

I was saved by a knock at the door that signaled the arrival of our guests. A flood of blonde, perky, giggling women—it seemed all of Sophie’s friends were blonde, perky, and giggling—began to pour into the apartment, each carrying a gift wrapped in pastel paper. Sophie’s mother-in-law—a short, thin, manic woman with hair that had been frosted platinum blonde—and her two anorexic sisters-in-law also arrived, and my mom rallied to entertain them among the sea of strangers.

Thankfully, Sophie insisted on skipping the typical dumb shower games, and so after everyone had arrived and caught up on gossip, we filled our plates with food and settled in to watch Soph unwrap her presents. She sat on the sofa, her legs propped up on an ottoman and a few pillows (my mother, still worrying about Sophie’s blood pressure, insisted that Soph keep her feet elevated), and Mickey sat cross-legged on the floor next to her, taking notes on who gave what to make the task of thank-you notes easier.

I hovered near the kitchen, filling the sandwich trays as they emptied, putting out more punch, and generally doing anything I could to avoid the tedium of watching Sophie unwrap yet another cute, unisex outfit from Baby Gap. I reached out and grabbed a mini–roast beef sandwich with cheddar cheese and horseradish mayonnaise off the tray and popped it in my mouth.

“How long do showers normally last?” I asked my mother when she breezed by me with a tray of empty punch glasses and discarded paper plates.

Mom shrugged. “A few hours. I think it’s going well, though, don’t you? Everyone seems to be having a good time.”

I nodded, my eyes on Sophie. She was laughing, her head thrown back and her blonde curls bouncing around her face. She looked so happy, so complete. I’d thought she’d made a huge mistake getting married right out of college and an even bigger mistake when she gave up her dream of being an art photographer. I’d done everything right—I went to law school, waited until my career was established before I married. But there she was, full of light and life and surrounded by friends, her hand affectionately grazing over her enormous bump.

And here I was. Divorced, alone, and secretly stuffing finger sandwiches into my mouth.

After the horde of chattering women left, I assessed the damage done to my apartment. Mom was washing out the punch bowl, and Mickey was carefully covering the picked-over sandwich platters with plastic wrap. Sophie was still parked on the sofa, looking like she was about to fall asleep, surrounded by a sea of crumpled light pink and baby blue wrapping paper, enormous bows, and boxes upon boxes of adorably impractical baby clothes, such as a faux fur pink baby coat spilling out of a gift bag. I plucked the coat up and held it up for Sophie to see.

“What are you supposed to do with this if you have a boy?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. The same thing I’ll do with this necklace, I guess,” Sophie said, showing me a tiny gold chain with a locket on it.

“Necklace? Do babies wear necklaces?” Mickey asked. She looked at my mom, who shrugged.

“You girls didn’t. I would have worried about it getting tangled up and choking you,” Mom said as she waded through the wrappings and sat down on the love seat. Mickey and I followed her, me collapsing on the other end of the sofa that Sophie was occupying, and Mickey returned to her spot on the floor. Sophie stuck her feet on my lap.

“Will you rub my feet?” she asked.

“Ugh, gross, get them off of me,” I said, pushing her away.

Sophie pouted. “But they’re sore. I’ve been wearing heels all afternoon, and my ankles are so swollen, they look like an elephant’s.”

“And they smell about as bad. Stop waving them at me,” Mickey said, inching away from Sophie.

“Paige. Do you think that maybe you should see a counselor?” Mom said abruptly.

“What? Why would you ask me that?” I asked, prickling.

I was tired of family members suggesting I seek out therapy. It was starting to get a little insulting.

“Well, don’t get upset. But I think it would help if you talked to someone about Scott. Ever since he, um, told you about, well . . .”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘gay,’ Mother,” Sophie said without opening her eyes.

“You haven’t been the same,” Mom continued as if Sophie hadn’t spoken. “And you’ve gotten so rigid about exercising, and for a while you weren’t eating anything, and now you’re at the other extreme, eating constantly. Do you think maybe you have an eating disorder?”

“No!” I said, dropping the cheese and cracker I’d just been about to scarf down. “Trust me, I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“There’s a girl who lived in my dorm freshman year who was bulimic. She threw up so much they had to ask her to leave, because she was upsetting all of the other chicks with eating disorders,” Mickey said, reaching for yet another brownie. She looked at me. “Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Yes, in the cupboard. Why?”

“I want to spread some on this brownie. ‘Two great tastes that taste great together,’ ” she said, springing to her feet and heading into the kitchen.

“That’s disgusting. I don’t know how you can eat like that and stay so thin,” Sophie said, wrinkling her nose. She looked over at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

The sandwiches and cookies and brownies and chips and dip I’d been downing all day were starting to catch up with me. My stomach had started to heave, and I sat still, breathing deeply, hoping it would pass.

“Look how pale she is. Paige, I think you must be coming down with something,” Mom said.

“Either that or she’s pregnant. That’s how I spent the first fourteen weeks of my pregnancy,” Sophie said, resting her hands contentedly on her massive abdomen.

Mickey, who had returned from the kitchen with a jar of peanut butter and a knife, giggled. “Well, we know she’s not pregnant. Right, Paige?”

My mom laughed, too. “That’s just what I need right now.”

I frowned. “So, Sophie gets pregnant, and we all have to suffer through yet another party thrown in her honor, but if I do, I’m just a burden to the family?” I asked.

“That’s not what I meant. And you’re not pregnant . . . are you?” my mother asked.

“Don’t you have to have sex in order to get pregnant?” Mickey asked.

“Why do you find it so unbelievable that I’d have sex?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“I don’t know, I just can’t picture it,” Mickey said.

“God, Mick, I don’t think you’re supposed to picture your sisters having sex,” Sophie said.

“Well, I can totally imagine you and Aidan doing it,” Mickey said.

“Really?” Sophie asked, looking so pleased by this that I just rolled my eyes again.

“Will all of you please
shut up
!” my mother yelled.

We all turned to stare at her. My mother is not prone to screaming “Shut up.” This was the woman who advised me when I was a child that it was much more polite to say “I don’t appreciate the exuberance of your verbosity” than the easier “Shut up” or more satisfying “Shut your face.” I had to look up “exuberance” and “verbosity” in my children’s dictionary to understand what the hell she’d been talking about.