If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now

by Claire Lazebnik

“Are you kidding? That’s exactly what she wanted: for me to say I couldn’t take it anymore, that I wasn’t as tough as I thought.” I shook my head. “No way I was letting her win.”

  Melanie said, “So instead you let her hurt you?”

  “It’s fine. I mean, in a way it feels good.” As I stood up, I inadvertently let out another small groan.

  “You’re an idiot,” Melanie said.

  “Me?” I turned on her. “I’m not the one who invited my on-again-off-again husband to Casino Night so everyone could gawk at us out together. If we’re going to talk about idiotic behavior—”

  “People aren’t going to gawk.” She appealed to Mom. “Will they?”

  Mom patted her on the shoulder. “Of course not. I think it’s a good idea.”

  “That’s not what you told me yesterday,” I muttered.

  “Shush,” she said. But it was true: when we were alone, she had said to me that she was worried Melanie was setting herself up to get hurt again by going out in public so soon with Gabriel. “People will ask too many questions and assume they’re permanently back together, which will make it much harder if they ultimately decide it isn’t working,” she had said. Now suddenly it was A Good Idea? “She’s just being Rickie,” she told Melanie now. “Ignore her.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Ignore me even though I’m right.” I stumbled toward the stairs, each step igniting a new pain, to go score a couple of Advil from my parents’ bathroom.

  21.

  I had already started my community college classes: Shakespeare, abnormal psych, and economics. I wanted to try out different subjects since I knew I wasn’t going to be a bio major when I transferred to a four-year college.

  At first I sat by myself in every class, but one day a girl asked if she could borrow a pen, and we chatted for a while when psych class ended. She was twenty-three, not that much younger than me, and was also stuck living at home, although in her case it was so she could take care of her mother, who had been paralyzed in a car accident. From then on we always sat together in psych and sometimes went out to lunch together afterwards.

  And there was a friendly guy in Shakespeare who started chatting with me one day. He was only nineteen and had an energetic puppyish quality that was pretty endearing. I kind of liked playing the role of the older and wiser adviser with him. So now I had a seatmate in that class too.

  My classes were all on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I was free to have lunch with Mel when she asked me and Mom to join her one Tuesday. She picked us up at home and, saying she had a craving for smoked salmon, took us to Barney Greengrass, the restaurant at the top of Barneys in Beverly Hills.

  “I have a confession,” she said when we were all seated. “You guys are here under false pretenses. Well, sort of false. We are eating lunch. But as soon as we’re done—and no stalling, Rickie—we’re heading downstairs to try on dresses and we’re not stopping until we all find the perfect thing to wear to Casino Night.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said, but then she added, “For you two. I already have plenty of things I can wear.”

  “Oh, come on,” Melanie said. “When was the last time you bought yourself a new dress, Laurel?”

  “It’s been a little while,” she admitted. “But I haven’t changed size in ages, so all my good dresses still fit.” I had to give my mother credit: she really hadn’t given in to any kind of serious middle-age spread. It wasn’t that she was all that thin or buff—she was a solid woman with a slightly thick waist and always had been—it was just that she was consistent, didn’t overeat, kept busy all day, and moved briskly around town, taking Eleanor Roosevelt on almost daily walks. She might not have been a size four, but she had been on the thinner side of ten for as long as I’d known her and maybe that’s why she always looked so healthy. In a town full of skeletal women with fake tits, she was abnormally normal, and definitely of sound mind and body. Too bad she was so annoying.

  Melanie wagged her index finger at Mom. “Well, I want you to look fashionable on Casino Night. You’re on the board of trustees, for goodness’ sake. And since Rickie and I are the point people for this whole event—”

  “If you count picking a caterer who they didn’t even use as being ‘point people,’ ” I cut in. “And you just want to look good because you’re going with Gabriel.”

  She picked up a breadstick and irritably snapped it into two. “I just want us all to look our best. Is that so crazy?”

  “Not at all,” Mom said soothingly. “I’ll look for a dress, Mel.”

  “Me too,” I said, and they both stared at me in surprise. I shrugged. I wanted to look nice on Saturday. Sue me.

  My mother pulled a dress off of a rack and held it up. “This would look great on you, Rickie.”

  I glanced at it. “Uh-uh. It’s red.”

  “So? It’s a nice color for you.”

  “Forget it.”

  Melanie came up as Mom was reaching to hang the dress back on the rack. “Oh, my god, I love that!” she said.

  “You want to try it on?” Mom asked, holding it out to her.

  She shook her head. “Not for me, for Rickie. It’d be perfect for her.”

  My mother beamed. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Aren’t you going to try it on?” Mel asked me.

  “It’s red,” I said.

  “Which would look great with your coloring. And it’s got that Audrey Hepburn vibe.” Melanie took it from my mother and held it up to my body. “It’s totally gamine-like or whatever the word is. You have to try it on.”

  “Okay, okay.” I took it from her.

  “She’ll listen to you but not to me,” Mom said to Mel.

  “Don’t be such a drama queen.” I headed toward the dressing rooms with the red dress and several others draped over my forearm. Inside, I tried on the dresses I had picked out myself. They were all black. They all looked okay. None of them looked great.

  Then I tried on the red dress.

  It had wide red satin straps that revealed the prettiest part of my collarbone and shoulders and a narrow red silk bodice that tapered to an even narrower waist, emphasized by a belt in the same matching satin. The skirt flared out below, becoming unexpectedly full. The cut was kind of old-fashioned, a little girly, and it shouldn’t have suited me at all, but it did. Even my crazy short hair looked good with it—the wide straps and low bodice made me realize I had a long and actually kind of graceful neck.

  I could hear Mom and Melanie talking to each other from a couple of dressing rooms near me so I called out to them. “You guys want to see this?” We all emerged from separate cubicles, Melanie in a sky blue dress that wasn’t zipped all the way up the back yet and my mother in a navy dress with her pants still on underneath. I spun around for their benefit—and the benefit of a couple of other women who were waiting for our dressing rooms and looked like they just wanted us to hurry up.

  Mom and Mel were silent as I revolved in front of them, which surprised me. I thought they’d be thrilled with the dress. I stopped twirling. “Well?” I said. “So what do you think?”

  “It’s fine,” Melanie said with a shrug and disappeared back into her dressing room.

  I looked at my mother. “She doesn’t like it?”

  Mom gave an almost identical shrug. “She said it was fine.”

  “Fine as in you guys hate it or fine as in it’s okay?” I looked down at the dress. What was going on? I had on a beautiful and very feminine dress—one they had both liked and wanted me to try on—and they weren’t enthusiastic? That didn’t make sense. I craned my neck to try to see over my shoulder. “Does it look bad in the back?”

  My mother folded her arms over her chest. “Look, Rickie, we’re not idiots. It’s dawned on us that you only ever ask for our opinion to reject it. So you decide for yourself if you like the dress or not. From now on, we’re keeping our mouths shut.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I bought a ton of
clothing with Melanie just a couple of months ago—”

  “Right after you cut your hair off because she told you not to.”

  I flung my hands up in the air and whirled around on my heel. “I thought you’d be happy I was trying on the stupid dress. Forget the whole thing.” I stomped back to my dressing room, where I wiggled out of the dress and left it abandoned on the chair there with the others, a blaze of crimson against all that dull black. I was furious. I had tried it on for them, not for me. I liked the dress, but I wasn’t going to let them manipulate me into getting it with their petty mind games.

  As I left the dressing room empty-handed, the hovering saleswoman said, “You’re not getting the red dress? It looked so great on you.”

  I just shook my head. I waited for Mom and Melanie to emerge from their cubicles, and when they did, I coldly informed them that I was done shopping and would be waiting in the car for them. I stalked off.

  Of course, I had forgotten to get the car keys from Melanie, which left me stranded in the parking garage, where I tried—and failed—to make myself comfortable by leaning against the car. When the two of them finally came out of the elevator, they were walking slowly and chatting with each other. I could happily have killed them both.

  “So,” I said, nodding at the bags they were carrying. “Guess you guys found something to wear?”

  “We did,” Melanie said. “Thanks for asking.” We got into the car in silence.

  “Are you ever going to stop sulking?” Melanie asked me later, when she was dropping us off. Mom had already gotten out of the car.

  “I’m not sulking.” I swung my legs out. “I’m just being careful about what I say to you and Mom, seeing as how you both totally overreact to every little thing.”

  “Oh, we’re the overreacters?” she said.

  She drove off as soon as I had slammed my door shut.

  Later that afternoon, I went upstairs to get something. As soon as I entered my room, a splash of red caught my eye. The dress I’d tried on at Barneys was spread out on my bed with a note lying on top of it, written in my mother’s spiky handwriting:

  We liked it.

  I stared down at the dress, feeling abused and misunderstood. Feeling annoyed. Feeling ganged up on. Feeling left out.

  I gently fingered the satin fabric.

  I couldn’t wait to wear it.

  Debbie Golden brought coffee and muffins to Saturday’s practice, and we ate together on the bleachers, watching our boys run more slowly and hit more feebly than any of the others.

  It was nice having a companion in discomfort.

  “Next week there’ll be an actual game,” Debbie said with a sigh after Joshua whacked the tee with the bat, completely missing the ball. “I’m terrified. Which is crazy, right? I mean, they’re six years old. What does it matter?”

  “I’m terrified of them,” I said, nodding toward the fathers who had been nasty about Noah at the first practice and had done nothing to make me like them any better since then. Mostly they just yelled at their own kids, but through the things they said to them—things like “You’re going to have to try a lot harder! You’ve got to carry this whole team!”—they managed to make their feelings about our less-athletic kids pretty clear. “There’s no way they’ll be civil through a whole game. Not if we’re losing.”

  “The coach’ll keep them in line,” she said.

  “He’ll be a little busy.”

  She suddenly sat up straight. “Oh, wait! I just realized something. Joshua’s going to have to miss the game.”

  I moaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I’m sorry, Rickie. It’s my husband’s company retreat but we all go. It’s at a resort in San Diego, and it’s the closest thing I get to a real vacation all year.”

  “I hope Joshua doesn’t tell Noah you’re going away. I’ll never get him out the door if he knows he’ll be all alone out there.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Joshua never knows what’s going on or what the plan is. He lives in la-la land.”

  “Yeah? He and Noah should share a condo there,” I said and we touched coffee cups in a silent toast.

  During the water break, Andrew walked over to us. When he stood next to the bleachers, he was at roughly the same height as we were sitting on one of the top rows. “They’re doing great,” he said. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, which left his face pretty much covered up.

  “Natural athletes, the pair of them,” Debbie said dryly. “Oh, hey, Andrew—Joshua won’t be here for the game next week. We’re going out of town.”

  He absorbed that in his measured way. “That’s too bad. The first game is always exciting. But there’ll be more. Hey—you guys going to the school thing tonight? The casino thing?”

  Debbie shook her head. “I’m not, but don’t tell Dr. Wilson on me. I hate those things.”

  “I have to go,” I said. “Long story.”

  “Well, then, I’ll see you there.” Andrew seemed like he was going to say something else but he stopped. “Better go set up the next drill,” he said instead and walked away.

  Noah and Joshua came running over right then, which was good because they distracted me from obsessing about what Andrew might have been about to say. “Can I have a playdate with Noah?” Joshua asked me. Up close, he had the distinctive look of a kid with allergies: he was small and pale with dark circles under his eyes. But those eyes were big and thoughtful and his hair was dark and curly. He was cute. He looked a little like Noah, actually.

  Debbie and I promised them they could do something together after practice, so when it was over the four of us went to Baja Fresh. Noah couldn’t get anything with flour tortillas and Joshua, who did in fact have a lot of allergies, couldn’t get anything with corn, tomato, or cheese.

  The boys chose to sit by themselves at a separate table, which meant we could talk freely.

  “So,” Debbie said as we unwrapped our tacos, “think Caleb has any food allergies?”

  I snorted. “Caleb probably eats a virgin for breakfast every day.”

  “And sharpens his teeth with a file afterwards.”

  “And then bathes in the blood of innocent children.”

  “You know what?” she said. “For all that our kids are his victims and he’s this great athlete and everything? I wouldn’t want to go home with that kid.” She gestured toward Joshua and Noah, who were chattering away to each other, their food forgotten in front of them, their cute little faces lit up with excitement at whatever they were discussing. “Those are the ones you want to go home with, snuggle up with at night. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” I said, gazing at Noah and his friend. His friend. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  22.

  My god,” my mother said, when I came downstairs dressed for Casino Night. “You look”—she stopped herself—“fine,” she finished abruptly.

  My father, who apparently wasn’t part of the don’t-let-Rickie-know-your-opinion pact, said, “What do you mean, fine? She looks fantastic! Rickie, you’re a vision.”

  Noah said, “Why are you dressed like a princess? And where’s your nose thing?”

  He meant the stud. “I took it out,” I said. It just didn’t fit with the dress. Neither did the eyebrow ring, which was also gone. The short hair, on the other hand, did, especially after I had used a curling iron to create soft waves with it—it was long enough now to do that—to make it look more old-fashioned, more Audrey Hepburn–like.

  Actually, I’d gone so far as to do a Google image search for Audrey Hepburn and model my hairdo on some of the photos I’d found. I wasn’t about to tell anyone I had done that.

  But I had.

  Melanie had helped with my makeup. She’d outlined my eyes so they looked even bigger than usual and used a lot more smoky-colored eye shadow than I was used to, which, come to think of it, any amount would be since I didn’t usually wear any makeup. It was a little dramatic but, again, it worked wit
h the dress.

  The doorbell rang, and my mother strode swiftly toward the front door to greet the babysitter, a grad student of my dad’s. Mom’s new dress suited her: it was a dark green and very simply cut, but the fabric shimmered when it caught the light. She had blown her bobbed hair dry and was wearing a touch of makeup—just enough to look a little younger and fresher than usual.

  Once Noah was settled with the babysitter, we headed toward the garage. Melanie had already left to go pick up Gabriel at their house. She had looked drop-dead gorgeous in a black fringed dress and silk black shoes with stiletto heels that were more overtly sexy than anything I’d ever seen her wear before, except maybe that sweater dress she’d worn on Halloween. She had agonized over how to do her hair, and had settled on an updo that left tendrils curling along her neck. She was wearing dark red lipstick and tons of mascara. She looked incredibly hot, and when I told her so, she whispered, “I’m terrified, Rickie.”

  “About being with Gabriel?”

  “About not knowing what I want to have happen tonight.”

  “So just get drunk and let things happen.”

  “That’s never a good idea.”

  “It’s always a good idea.” It was certainly my plan for that evening.

  I realized as I walked into the school with my parents that I had never been to an adults-only fund-raiser at Fenwick before. Mom hadn’t ever insisted that I go, the way she always did with the Autumn Festival, and it wasn’t like I had friends at the school I wanted to spend time partying with, so I’d always chosen to skip them before. So this was all new to me.

  The gym had been taken over by gambling tables: roulette, blackjack, poker, and some games I didn’t recognize. The party committee had hired croupiers and dealers to man all the tables, and between them and the large number of servers walking around with trays of drinks and the lights that were strung up all over the place, it really did feel like we’d walked into some noisy, crowded Las Vegas casino. There was nothing gym-like about the room at all anymore, unless you noticed the bleachers that had been folded up and pushed into their storage space at the back wall.