What Came First (23 page)
I put my Diet Coke on the counter. I wept. And then I called Annalisa to say I’d be happy to host.
I spend the rest of the afternoon dumping toys into bins, shoving stuffed animals into closets, and semicleaning surfaces that haven’t seen the light of day in years. Even without crap all over the floor, tables, and chairs, my house is dumpy. It needs a coat of paint. It needs new furniture. It needs pictures and window treatments and new carpet.
Since I have neither the time nor the money for any of those, at five o’clock I load the kids into the van and head to the grocery store to stock up on booze. If the ladies drink enough, they won’t even notice the house.
Unfortunately, Harrison and Sydney used up all of their good behavior at school. Plus, five o’clock is the witching hour: blood sugar is low but it’s not quite time for dinner.
“I don’t wanna go to the store! I don’t wanna get in my car seat!”
And then, when we pull into the Safeway parking lot? “I don’t wanna get OUT of my car seat!”
I consider just leaving them in the car, but everyone knows that only very, very bad moms do that. A stranger might abduct them. Granted, the stranger would give them back after twenty minutes—a half hour, tops—but still.
Inside Safeway, I employ my most powerful parenting technique—bribery—with limited success. Four cookies, two Hershey bars, and a bag of Twizzlers later, I walk out of the store with six bottles of wine, a jug of premixed margaritas, some vodka, a veggie tray, and two extremely whiny children.
When we get home, Darren is upstairs in front of his computer. Of course he is.
I say, “You have to take them.”
He says, “Huh?”
I say, “Scrapbooking is here. Tonight.”
He says, “What?”
I say, “I’m hosting. It was supposed to be at Annalisa’s house but her kids are puking, so now it’s here. People are coming. Didn’t you notice that the house was neater than usual? I spent three hours cleaning.”
He squints at the door as if he can see around corners and down the stairs to the cleaner-than-usual common areas.
“People will be here in an hour,” I say. “You need to stop playing Sims and get them out of here!”
“This isn’t Sims. It’s World of Warcraft.”
“Mommy, I’m hungry!” Sydney hugs the door frame. Her voice has taken on the gurgling quality that generally precedes a crying jag. Her eyes glitter. In a bad way.
“Can’t we just order a pizza?” Darren remains in his chair, top half twisted around to look at me, bottom half optimistically oriented toward the computer.
“I want pizza!” Harrison says.
“You can go out for pizza,” I say. “Or to the McDonald’s with the playland or whatever. But you’ve got to be out of the house. People are coming.”
“McDonald’s!” Sydney yells, loosening her grip on the door frame.
Harrison yells louder.
“I want pizza!”
“I want pizza!”
Oh, crap.
“I can’t take them out when they’re like this,” Darren says.
“Then go downstairs and make them taquitos or something. You can go out after. Just as long as you’re gone by seven. I have to get dressed, I have to do something with my hair, I’ve got to set out the food and booze . . .”
“I don’t want taquitos!”
“I want pizza!”
“You can’t just dump them on me like this,” he says, his voice quiet.
“Dump them on you?”
My voice is not quiet. “Who do you think takes care of them all day? Can’t you act like a father for three lousy hours of your life?”
My voice is not quiet. “Who do you think takes care of them all day? Can’t you act like a father for three lousy hours of your life?”
Okay. That? Was an extremely poor choice of words. And I would have backed down, apologized, whatever, but I’m so tired of doing all the work, of taking all the blame, of feeling like a single parent with a roommate.
I stare at Darren. Darren stares at me. And then Harrison takes two steps toward his sister and shoves her away from the doorway, into the hall.
Sydney howls. Darren springs from his chair and grabs Harrison from behind. Harrison kicks, misses his sister, takes out a lamp. Darren lets him go. Harrison punches the wall.
“Stop!”
I’m shrieking. I didn’t mean to lose my cool like that. But as long as I’ve started: “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
I’m shrieking. I didn’t mean to lose my cool like that. But as long as I’ve started: “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. Once the tears start flowing, I can’t get them to stop. Every time I break down like this, I think the twins might show a little empathy. Maybe they’ll stop their tantrums to comfort me, but no.
Darren stands there, quiet and helpless—has any man ever been more passive?—waiting for our three flames to burn out.
If only he’d been able to give me children,
I think for the thousandth time. The kids might have inherited his meekness. He might have loved them more. He might still love me. If only, if only . . .
If only he’d been able to give me children,
I think for the thousandth time. The kids might have inherited his meekness. He might have loved them more. He might still love me. If only, if only . . .
When the children stop crying, Darren grabs his keys. Sydney and Harrison follow him out of the house. The garage door rumbles and his car engine roars to life. Then the garage door closes and all is quiet.
I have twenty minutes to get ready.
My face is puffy. I don’t want to see anyone or make pleasant chitchat or sort through pictures of my kids. But I have no choice. I pull on my all-purpose black dress. It’s a little fancy for the occasion, but it will have to do. I run—well, yank—a comb through my dark curls and brush powder over my red face.
I’d planned to take the veggies out of their plastic tray and arrange them on a pretty platter, but there isn’t time. I’ve just pulled off the lid and am setting out the bottles of wine (I forgot to chill the Chardonnay—damn!) when the doorbell rings. Seven o’clock on the dot: you’ve got to love those punctual types. I contort my face into a smile and open the door . . . to Sherry Plant.
“Sherry! Hi.” She’s put on a few pounds since we were friends, though not as many as I have, and since she stands a good half foot taller, she carries them better.
When she doesn’t explain the reason for her appearance, I say, “I’m hosting my scrapbooking group tonight, so when the doorbell rang I thought it was . . . I mean . . . hi.”
(What I really mean, of course, is:
I’m busy! Go away!
)
I’m busy! Go away!
)
Her mouth twitches in a vague approximation of a smile. “That’s why I’m here. Annalisa Lemberger invited me to join the group. It was supposed to be at her house tonight.”
“Yes. I know.” (Obviously.)
Wait. Annalisa and Sherry are friends? When did that happen? And why in the world would Sherry join my group? It can’t be any more comfortable for her than it is for me. Why did she have to come tonight of all nights?
She carries a big black tote bag. It looks heavy. Her brown hair is the same as always: curly, layered, shoulder length, stuck in the eighties. She is wearing jeans, heels, a pink T-shirt, and too much foundation that she has neglected to blend at the jawline.
“Well, um . . . come in.” There’s no reason for me to feel so freaked out. Sherry and I wave to each other across our driveways all the time. (We also pretend not to see each other across our driveways all the time.) But is her joining the scrapbooking group—
my
scrapbooking group—an attempt to mend fences? Or does she just want to ruin the one good thing in my life?
my
scrapbooking group—an attempt to mend fences? Or does she just want to ruin the one good thing in my life?
There’s no way I’m going to let her know how much she’s rattled me. Not that it would take much; I’ve been rattled all afternoon.
As we pass through the living/dining-room-turned-toy-room, with its plastic bins against the walls and choo-choo train rug over the stained once-white carpet, I say, “I’ve completely remodeled the place since you were last here. I can give you my decorator’s number, if you’re interested.”
She does not smile.
In the kitchen, I offer her wine, margaritas, and vodka with four different juices. She declines.
“Water?” I say.
“No thank you.” She props her big black tote on the table and pulls out a binder, an envelope full of photos, paper, and markers.
“I didn’t know you were into scrapbooking,” I say.
She looks up. “Why would you?”
“I think I hear someone pulling up.” I hurry out of the kitchen. In truth, I didn’t hear anything, but if I spend one more moment alone with Sherry, I might attack her with one of my three pairs of scallop-edged scissors.
After an uncomfortable interval, the doorbell rings. I am actually glad to see Tara, who has moved on from her poo book to a chronicle of her family’s yearly pilgrimage to Legoland.
“It’s so nice that you agreed to host,” Tara says as we exchange an awkward hug. “Being last minute and all.” She is wearing white jeans, a turquoise T-shirt, and platform sandals.
“Oh, it’s about time I had it at my house.”
She tosses her blond hair. “Annalisa could have called you earlier. I mean, her kids have been sick since Monday. She did that to me in the fall, remember? Her sister or cousin or somebody was coming to town? But it wasn’t until the day before scrapbooking that she thought to switch with me. Nice house!”
She grins at my ugly, high-ceilinged room.
“I can give you my decorator’s number if you’re interested.”
She smiles. “Ooo, I’d love it, but I’m afraid that’s not in the budget right now!”
Strike two.
In the kitchen, Tara makes a straight line to the booze.
“Margarita?” I suggest.
“Love one!”
It isn’t until she’s taken a (large) sip that she turns to Sherry. “Hi! I’m Tara!”
“Hi.” Sherry stays seated.
“This is Sherry,” I say, since she missed her cue. “She lives next door.”
“You must be over here all the time, then,” Tara says.
Sherry and I are quiet. Finally, she says, “We’re both very busy.”
The day Sherry and I met, I was planting a rosebush in our front yard (it died). Darren and I had just moved in a week or two earlier. Sherry walked over, introduced herself, and said, “I don’t care what religion you are. I don’t care about your politics. Just tell me you like to drink, and we’ll get along fine.”
Neither of us was much of a boozer, as it turned out, but in early days, if one of us was in a foul mood, the other would provide wine and appropriately misanthropic commentary.
“Don’t you like Sherry?” I asked Darren after a barbecue during which he was unusually quiet (even for him).
“She’s edgy.”
“I’m edgy.”
“You’re edgy-funny. She’s just mean.”
Now that she’s sitting at my kitchen table, frowning at old photos of Ashlyn and Brianne, she doesn’t even seem edgy-mean. She just seems cranky.
The doorbell rings again (thank God). Three women, including Annalisa, come in at once. They are all wearing denim. When did scrapbooking get so casual? I am way overdressed.
I don’t make my decorator joke. They won’t get it.
“I didn’t think I was gonna be able to come,” Annalisa says. “But my Roger, bless his heart, he saw how frazzled I was and he goes, ‘You go out and a have a good time. I’ll hold down the fort.’”
“They have that stomach thing?” Mary-something asks (I think it’s Marybeth, but I’m not sure). “Trevor’s had diarrhea for a week. I’ve been giving him Gatorade, but it makes his poop turn funny colors.”
It strikes me, for the five-hundredth time, that nobody ever tells you just how much motherhood revolves around bodily functions.
In the kitchen, Tara pops up and hugs everyone, even Debi, who’s only come to scrapbooking three times over the past year. Sherry stays seated, daring anyone to say hello. She finally smiles when Annalisa sees her and says, “You made it!”
Sherry nods.
Annalisa says, “Y’all, this is Shelly. We met at Michaels when I was buying a new trimmer.”
Debi asks, “Do you live around here?” as Mary-something says, “Hi, I’m Mary Jane.” Thank God I didn’t call her Marybeth.
Tara says, “What kind of trimmer?”
Sherry says, “Next door.” Then she picks up a glue stick and jabs a gray sheet of paper. The frown line between her eyebrows deepens.
Everyone gets something to drink and stakes out a spot around the table. I fetch ice cubes for the Chardonnay drinkers: lukewarm wine doesn’t cut it, especially in the desert. No one touches the veggie platter, but I choose to think it’s because they’re not hungry and not because it’s such a lame excuse for munchies.
A couple of more women show up, drain the margarita pitcher, perch on stools, and spread their supplies out on the counter. I make more margaritas and refill my glass. The women talk over each other about vomit and diarrhea and whether Pedialyte is really any better than Gatorade.
The only spot left at the kitchen table is between Mary Jane and “Shelly.” Crap. I put my binder-in-progress on the table. Mary Jane moves her stuff to make room. Sherry doesn’t.
Having long since finished the
Bath Time for Babies!
scrapbook, I’ve moved on to miscellaneous memories, sorted by year. I recently completed
From Zero to One in Twelve Months
and
Two Are One
and am now working on
The Terribly Terrific Twos!
Bath Time for Babies!
scrapbook, I’ve moved on to miscellaneous memories, sorted by year. I recently completed
From Zero to One in Twelve Months
and
Two Are One
and am now working on
The Terribly Terrific Twos!
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