Turning Thirty-Twelve (2 page)

“Fine.”

Eighteen years of marriage, and the only word we ever seemed to exchange regularly was “fine.” I figured that was at least a better choice of vocabulary than when we were still together. The only word that popped up then was another
word that began with “f.” We’d used it as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb. You name any part of speech; we would have found a way to throw the f-word into the mix.

At least now we could have a civil conversation—as long as we didn’t talk about anything other than the boys. I really believed I was lucky. At least my former husband paid the kids’ bills and didn’t drag the trophy bimbo with him everywhere he went. I only had to see Ashley occasionally, which was a really good thing. I would’ve hated to scratch her pretty little blue eyes out in front of too many witnesses.

“You all settled in, Nate?” his father asked.

“Yeah, but thanks for coming Dad. Hey, do you want to go get some lunch with us?” my entirely too generous and totally naïve youngest son asked.

“I can’t stay that long,” my ex replied much to my relief. “Ashley and I are taking Duncan to see his grandparents.”

Good God, was it hard not to make a snide remark about David’s age making him a more likely candidate to be his new son’s grandfather instead of his father. But I was the well-behaved ex-wife who bit her tongue and made nice for her boys.

“That’s a shame,” I said.

David shot me one of his patented, incredulous glares, and I gave him one of my fake, patronizing smiles. I hoped he realized that I was tremendously grateful that Duncan and Ashley were probably waiting in his Hummer, so he couldn’t join us for a happy family lunch.

My heart clenched when I glanced over and saw how disappointed Nate looked.

Damn it all anyway.

I had to constantly remind myself that David might have been a pathetic excuse for a husband, but he would always be the father of my boys.

I quickly sucked up my own misgivings. “David, why don’t you and Ashley bring Duncan along for lunch? I’m sure it would mean a lot to Nate.”

He cocked his head and stared at me as if I had just spoken to him in Mandarin Chinese. “What’s gotten into you?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought it’d be nice for you to spend some time with the boys.”

“Really?”

Didn’t this man have a single solitary clue how hard I was grinding my teeth together, so I wouldn’t make one of my typical smart-ass comments? “Really.”

“That’s nice, Jackie, but Ash’s parents are expecting us.”

I added yet another demerit to David’s perpetual misconduct column since he’d hurt Nate.

Turning back to my son, I said, “Then it’s your choice, Nathaniel. Sky’s the limit.”

He gave me a weak smile that made me want to smack his father, and then Nate went back to unpacking the last of his boxes.

David crossed the room to slap him on the back and say some macho fatherly things that I was sure they didn’t want me to overhear. When the word “condom” floated in the air, I excused myself to go see if there were any more boxes to carry up from my mini-van. The notion of my baby needing condoms didn’t sit well on my already emotionally overwrought brain.

There are simply some things mothers are better off not knowing about their sons.

I wasn’t surprised in the least that David’s big black phallic-mobile was idling in a handicapped parking spot. Ashley sat in the passenger seat admiring herself in the visor’s mirror. Not a long, blond hair was out of place, but she adjusted it anyway. Her face was perfection. The woman really could have been a model. Of course, her figure had instantly returned to its pre-pregnancy state the minute Duncan was born. I was still trying to lose those last few “baby pounds” from giving birth to Nate eighteen years ago. And my hair had always been mousy brown and way too short and baby fine to do anything except just... lie there.

She flipped the visor closed and caught me staring at her.

I actually gave her one of those goofy half-waves. God, I could be so damned lame sometimes.

I often wondered exactly what flew through Ashley’s mind whenever she saw me. Did she feel any kind of guilt for the nights she stayed late to help David “organize his files” when what she had actually been doing was unzipping his fly? Or did her mind justify her actions in some way? Did she wish I would fade away so she didn’t have to acknowledge that she was wife number two and that wife number three was parked in some junior high school just waiting to finish growing up enough to have her turn at bat?

I’d desperately tried not to hate her. I really had. It was poison for me to carry that kind of loathing around. I was entirely aware of this because the marriage counselor had told me so. He even told me that I should’ve thanked Ashley for showing me that David and I weren’t really all that compatible. By luring my husband away, she’d only revealed the fundamentally unstable foundation upon which my marriage had been based. And he charged us a hundred and fifty freaking dollars an hour for this super-duper advice. So I had really tried not to hate her. 

But, damn it all, I wanted to hate her anyway.

I didn’t see David waltzing up behind me until he started to talk to me. I jumped a good foot, which was pretty phenomenal considering the weight I carry in my caboose.

“Jackie? You okay?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t take you up on the lunch invite. We’ll have to do it some other time.”

I just nodded again.

“Well, I need to get going.”

The asshole actually hugged me. I awkwardly patted his back and then turned him loose. It crossed my mind that it was one of the first times I had stopped hugging before he did. Back in the day, I always squeezed a little bit harder and clung a little bit longer.

Ashley glared down at us from her perch in the huge SUV. I saw the flash of insecurity, and I was petty enough to let myself enjoy it.

***

The house was like a tomb.

I went over to let my cockatiel out of his cage, and he didn’t even whistle at me. The boys had taught the little gray bird to wolf-whistle, and Jellybean seemed to condition himself to make that particular sound whenever I walked in the door. It was the closest thing to a compliment on my looks I’d received from any species of male in years.

But he didn’t whistle at me tonight.

I wondered if Jellybean felt the same type of gloom that had settled over me the minute I drove away from the dorm. I decided that I’d have to leave the TV on for him to listen to when I went to school the next day. I’d hate to have a depressed bird on my hands. My own case of the empty nest blues was hard enough to handle.

How odd—an empty nest that still held a bird.

Logic told me that Patrick and Nate were only an hour away, just forty, teeny miles. Yet the house was still like a tomb.

I dropped my purse and keys on the table and let my eyes wander for a minute. The bottom floor of my Cape Cod was mostly one big open area. The kitchen and the great room were joined, and during the time my boys were growing up, the joint was jumping. Between raising Patrick and Nate and the litany of friends that drifted in and out of my home, there had been very few quiet moments.

As my gaze flitted about the room, I noticed that the place was spotless. The afghan was folded neatly and draped over the chair. The only pairs of shoes piled by the door belonged to me. The size thirteen and fourteen Nikes had all been packed away as they followed their owners to Indiana University. No
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues were strewn on the floor. The discarded food wrappers that couldn’t seem to find their way to the trash—unless a female took the initiative to move them—were absent. There was no blaring stereo, television, or iPod, just a home that was too neat and too silent.

Tears welled up in my eyes again.

I remembered some days wishing for a just few moments of peace and quiet so I could gather my own thoughts and catch my breath. All I really wanted was a short respite from the bustling world of raising two boisterous boys—three if you counted David.

A hard lesson, but I was learning to be careful what I wished for.

CHAPTER TWO

The first day of the new school year has always been a teacher work-day for our school district. Of course, it’s not as if the teachers actually get any real work
done during those eight hours. Most of us start popping in the building during the last few weeks of summer vacation to get lesson plans ready, to make copies before the copier breaks down and stays broken for an entire semester, or just to hang some new posters on our bulletin boards. As a result, most staff members spend the teacher “work-day” attending faculty meetings and catching up on all the juicy gossip we missed over the break.

As I pulled into my usual parking space, a wave of
déjà vu
washed over me. It didn’t seem like I’d even been away from Harrison High School for more than a day or two. The familiarity was akin to that feeling when dragging the artificial Christmas tree up from the basement the day after Thanksgiving and setting it up. Doesn’t it always seem as though the silly thing got put away a couple of days ago? That’s what it’s like for teachers on the first day back from summer break.

With an exaggerated, resigned sigh, I forced myself out of the car and into the school. My sons were gone, but I took comfort in the notion that at least I could mother my new students.

My friends were waiting in the cafeteria as the arriving teachers congregated around the donuts provided by the administrators. I grabbed a couple of warm Krispy Kremes and vowed to walk a few extra miles after school to make up for them. After fetching a cup of coffee, I took a seat at one of the long tables our students used for lunch.

“I can’t believe it’s August already,” I complained.

The two women I considered to be my best friends dropped down on the benches attached to the table.

“I’ll be fine until I see my class lists,” Julie chimed in. “If I’ve got Trevor Taylor in world history for the third time, I’ll scream.”

Abby laughed. “There ought to be a rule about having a kid more than twice. Can’t we put some of the kids on waivers or something? Trade ’em like athletes?”

“That would be nice,” I added, “but what happens to the ones no one wants? It’s not like we can just release them from their contracts.”

“Bummer,” Julie replied.

When Keith Sloan came into the cafeteria, we all smiled. Sauntering over like a conquering gladiator, he had one hand on his hip, the other cradling a donut. With his chest spread wide, highlighting that nice middle age spare tire he carried around, he marched up to our table. “If it isn’t the prettiest women in the entire school corporation.”

The man was a shameless flirt and very politically incorrect, but we loved him anyway. He always made everyone laugh by passing along the dirtiest jokes and funniest comics. The fact that he’d been married to the same woman for thirty-five years only made him more appealing.

“What do you see when the Pillsbury doughboy bends over?” he asked with his usual twinkle in his eye.

We all waited for the punch line.

“Doughnuts.” He took a big bite out of his cruller, chuckled, and walked away.

Our laughter followed in his wake.

“Well...” I wadded my napkin. “Time for our meeting.”

My friends groaned. It was hard to work up any momentum to move, knowing we were in for a good two hours of sheer boredom when we’d learn all about the ridiculous new paperwork we’d need to fill out this year.

Things would go much smoother if the powers-that-be would simply put all of the useless information from our meeting into an email. The faculty would probably be more cooperative if they had set up several pitchers of margaritas instead of coffee.

***

As usual, our table at lunch was loud.

About a dozen of the veterans pushed several tables together at T.G.I.Friday’s and sat around to talk about our summer accomplishments while we toasted the end of our vacation with iced tea.

Unfortunately, the teas were not the “Long Island” variety. 

Julie and Abby started in on me immediately. After allowing me a year to “get over” my divorce, they believed it should be their mission in life to get me back into a relationship.

The last two years of tolerating their meddling had been both endearing and exhausting. The fact that I had absolutely no desire to be tied down to another man was entirely beside the point. I just could
not
seem to convince either of them that I was happy on my own.

Who needed a man when Sharper Image makes several perfectly good vibrators?

Not that I would have known anything about that.

Julie was still happily married after thirty-some years, which drove her to actively seek a mate for me as loyal and wonderful as her Larry. That fact allowed me to forgive her interference in my lack of a love life.

Of course, if I still looked as great as Julie did, David might not have noticed Ashley’s many...assets. Julie didn’t have a gray hair anywhere in her warm brown hair. She still wore a bikini on the cruise Larry insisted they take every year. The Indiana Legislature actually passed a law last session that made it a felony for me to wear any type of swimsuit in public.

Abby was “Miss Fix-it” with everyone. She always knew someone who knew someone who would be “perfect” for whomever she was trying to wrangle into a blind date. Even though she’d never created a long-lasting relationship between any of the poor souls for whom she’d played matchmaker, she never gave up hope. I couldn’t help but admire the fact that she was the eternal optimist and believed that love would always find a way.

She probably still believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny.

“Seriously, Jackie,” Abby continued on her current tirade, “You’ve got to meet this guy. Suzanne told me he was a great date.”

I gave her a skeptical squint. “If the guy’s so great, why isn’t Suzanne going out with him again?”