Been There, Married That (ARC)

by Gigi Levangie

  “I don’t want to fight!” Trevor said, then, “Petra! Stop crying! I need to sleep!”

  I drove up the driveway, waited for the gate to open, scooped up my heels and phone and the box of books, balancing Sami’s script.

  I thought about how much an Uber driver pulls in. And would I make a good Uber driver and . . . no. I talk too much and I’d get crazy nervous about people rating me and I probably would pick up a serial rapist on the first ride.

  Which wouldn’t make a bad movie.

  I had to find my girl.

  * * *

  Inglewood, Inglewood always up to no—As soon as I departed the dead zone, I called Gabriela to let her know I was on my way and raced down the 405 past the airport. I exited right on Inglewood Boulevard and slunk along side streets in the dark until I found Gabriela’s house, a neat California craftsman bungalow in a row of bungalows and ’70s apartment buildings.

  I hiked up the concrete steps to the front door, where Gabriela stood with her arms crossed against her chest, my hideous pink Ugg boots I’d gone insane looking for blinking on her feet.

  “Petra es la diabla,” she snarled, then bear-hugged me. It seemed rude to mention the Uggs, given the circumstances. Inside her home, a small dog wheeze-barked. Gabriela ushered me into the living room as the wheezer jumped at my shins.

  “Shush, mijo!” Gabriela said.

  The house was darkened, but I discerned Jesus and the Virgin Mary atop her mantel. I had gifted her the Virgin Mary last Christmas and she’d cried, and now my email box was filled with 20% off Jesus! messages from the Catholic Company. But how could I unsubscribe to Jesus?

  “Come in, come in,” she said. I liked her cozy, manageable home—so unlike the house I’d just left. I started calculating. How much would it cost to rent? Could Pep attend a neighborhood school, or would I have to bus her to Briarwood, her girls’ school on the hill? Should I move out of California altogether? And could I make “downwardly mobile” as chic as feathered eyebrows?

  A familiar wave of guilt hit me; I’d never stepped inside Gabriela’s home, even though she’d worked in our home for close to a decade. Almost the same time I started working for Trevor.

  Wink.

  I grabbed my mental surfboard and dove under the wave as I took in my surroundings. Gabriela’s home was beyond white-glove reproach. You’d be hard-pressed to find a speck of dust or lint or a stray wheezy dog hair. Gabriela had told me she woke up at 4:30 in the morning to clean her house before making the trek to the dead zone, where she then spent eight hours cleaning up our dust and lint and stray Trevor hair.

  Living room, dining room, kitchen . . . each room a few steps away from the next. I assumed the bedrooms were down the hallway, to either side. The house felt warm as a womb, and the faint smell of cornmeal tamales made my stomach rumble. Gabriela had brought out the big guns for Pep’s arrival. She didn’t make tamales for anything but weddings and funerals and Jesus.

  And Pep.

  Gabriela’s husband, Bernardo, our Mr. Fixit who was great at cleaning windows and not so great at anything requiring a wrench, was curled up under a blanket on the couch, snoring softly. I had always just seen him grinning and nodding and pushing Pep in her swing when she was little.

  “Where’s Pep?” I asked.

  “She’s in our bed, missus,” Gabriela said. My face warmed with further embarrassment. Pep had gentrified Gabriela’s house.

  We walked down the hallway where a door was ajar. I peeked inside. Pep was sound asleep, her arms overhead, Bear resting in the nook of her neck. She looked so sweet and docile I almost wished I could set her in amber. Is that a thing?

  “Does she know about . . . ?”

  “No,” Gabriela said. “Peppy, she just want to sleep over. Mr. Trevor was using phone. We had party for her. Like when she was little.”

  “I can smell the tamales,” I said. “Thank you so much, Gabriela.”

  She grabbed my hands and held them to her chest. “I sorry, missus.”

  “Did you know about Petra?” I asked. “I don’t think she’s fucking Trevor—sorry, having sex with him. That would be normal; this seems a lot weirder.”

  “Diabla,” she said, followed by a string of Spanish expletives. Gabriela was Team Agnes. I mentally high-fived myself. Gabriela was good with Jesus and the Virgin Mary and solid with hexes. She’d fought with our neighbor over a parking spot, and he broke his leg the next day and couldn’t drive for six months. That’s some strong God shit.

  “La Reina, I see her tomorrow,” she said. “I tell her what to do. She knows.”

  Gabriela meant ask instead of tell, but who cares? I was excited. This was the first good news I’d had since . . . since . . .

  I’ll get back to you.

  La Reina was the Latin community’s premier psychic. I’d begged Gabriela to take me to La Reina; I had questions! Would I ever hit the bestseller list? Would Fin ever straighten out her act? And, most importantly, how do I stop Pep from becoming a #richkidsofInstagram?

  Gabriela had explained, patiently, that La Reina didn’t meet with gringas. “Who can blame her?” I’d said.

  “You stay tonight,” Gabriela was saying. “I sleep on floor next to Bernardo.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

  “I have futon.” I braced myself for the monster of all guilt waves. Now that I raced toward a future as a single mother, I’d try to cozy up to guilt, ply it with Chardonnay (so I could feel more guilt in the morning).

  The Circle of Life was nothing without the Circle of Guilt.

  “Thank you so much, Gabi.”

  “Anything for you, missus,” Gabriela said, kissing my cheek.

  “Gabriela?”

  She turned back at the door. I had to know.

  “Do you . . . are those my Uggs?” I couldn’t help myself. I’d spent an hour looking for them the other morning. I literally thought I was going crazy (I’m definitely going crazy).

  “No, missus.”

  “But . . . I . . . are you sure?”

  “You didn’t want them no more.”

  “But I did, I think?”

  “No, missus, you didn’t,” she said with infinite patience.

  I examined my faulty memory. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “It’s okay, I keep them?”

  “Of course, of course,” I said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. I’m being an asshole.”

  “I love you, Missus Añes,” Gabriela said.

  “I love you, too, Gabriela,” I said as she shut the door. I heard wheezy dog bark on the other side as I curled up next to my daughter and hurtled into sleep.

  4: On the Job Failing

  The job description of the Hollywood wife: Please read carefully before you sign up. The fine print is not just at the bottom.

  Your number-one job is to socialize. Socializing is Hollywood’s lifeblood, and the social circles are very specific.

  A Hollywood wife socializes with other Hollywood wives.

  Exceptions: A Hollywood wife may socialize with a hairdresser or makeup artist or stylist or interior decorator. She may even be close with her assistant—so close that the lines are blurred and the assistant winds up living the Hollywood wife life.

  Ahem.

  Be careful who assists you. She may “assist” you right out of a marriage.

  Your closest friends will be other wives of _____(fill in star, producer, director, or major agent). Writers are only acceptable if they also direct or have won an Oscar.

  You will “adopt” wives who are new to the city and whose husbands show great promise, and you will close in on them and become best friends in a matter of hours.

  Your pre-wifedom friends will fade as you succumb to shiny, bright new friendships that fill your every waking hour. You “literally have no time.” You will SoulCycle, Zumba, or PlyoJam. Tracy Anderson will call you by a nickname and know your “trouble spots.” You will live in
athleisure. Your kids will go to the same three preschools as the other Hollywood wives’ offspring, and you will hate the same teachers and love the same teachers and also share grave concerns about the new security guard or coach. You will hire a nanny for each child, and this year goes to the Filipinos, and a manny when your boys get a little older. Your manny will be hot, but you’ll pretend not to notice. You’re “crazybusy.” When your child calls the nanny “Mommy,” you’ll fire her but kindly and with two weeks’ severance. Because that’s what all the mommies say is fair.

  You will fret about the environment but Snapchat on the Sony jet to see Britney in Vegas (#lovemylife). You’ll campaign for progressive candidates but never (never, ever) send your kids to public school. After the first pregnancy, you’ll forget the last time you had sex with your husband, but you’ll remember the last time you had sex with your trainer / tennis pro / yogi / politician / environmental activist. A few years in, you’ll resent your husband because you’re unhappy, and yet you have everything so it’s his fault. You have a law degree, an art history degree, a business degree, a life coach degree, but you left your career to be a stay-at-home wife.

  Not mother, wife.

  Hubby needs you more than the kids do. The kids, you hire nannies for. The husbands have assistants, but there’re never enough assistants. When the kids are in middle school, you’ll leave them with a Black Amex as you dance and suck down shots and wake up with a headache too late to take them to that school with the good name. Because you have to keep up the socializing. If you’re not out every night with the same people, how will they know you exist?

  Worst Fear:

  Wife #1: Where’s Brooke?

  Wife #2: She’s not feeling well.

  Wife #1: OMG, I hope it’s not happening again.

  Wife #3 What do you mean? What happened? She looked healthy the last time I saw her.

  Wife #2: Yeah, hello, last week. I hear Brody [her three-year-old] can’t spell his name and they’re freaking out.

  Wife #1: I heard they’re moving. Steve’s [her husband] in turnaround. Again. I mean, once, okay, but . . .

  Wife #4 Hey, guys, sorry I’m late—

  Wife #1: Brookie! Hi, beauty!

  * * *

  Trevor’s second assistant, Dorette with colitis, who occasionally passed gas so pungent my eyelashes curled, cornered me in the kitchen as I tossed back my third double espresso of the day. (Sleep? What’s that?) I was running late to pick up Pep from volleyball practice.

  “Are you busy?” she asked, eyes bloodshot, blocking my exit like an anxious traffic cone.

  “Crazybusy, nuttybusy, kookybusy,” I said, hiking my arms like Usain Bolt because we have so much in common. “Literally running out the door.”

  “Stop,” she said and handed me a printout.

  “A blueprint?”

  “Exactly. So good! A blueprint of this house.”

  “Well, thank you? Am I adding a bathroom? We have . . . twelve.”

  “Trevor told me to come up with a plan,” she said. “He doesn’t want you guys to risk running into each other.” She lowered her voice. “He’s in a lot of pain.”

  She flattened the blueprint out on the kitchen island and clapped a presentation pointer, and a laser shot out.

  Pep could wait a few minutes while I enjoyed the laser show.

  “Here’s the main house,” she said, gesturing with the pointer. A bright green dot lit up the main bedroom suite.

  “Your room—I mean, your old bedroom—is at the far end.”

  Coliti-Girl had graduated from Brown. I calculated the cost of her education against this moment. Mental note: Send Pep to trade school. How adorable would she look in a tool belt?

  “I know where it is,” I said, perhaps a little grouchily.

  “Of course,” she said. “Sorry. Anyway, there’s Trevor’s closet and bathroom.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can see his vocabulary cards from here.”

  “I forgot the vocabulary cards!” she said, her eyes tearing up. “God, I worked on this all night. I haven’t slept in two days.”

  “It was a joke,” I said. “I’ll pencil them in.” I grabbed a ubiquitous pen and drew in tiny vocabulary cards. Today’s word: Asshole.

  “Thanks. Do you think you’ll need help moving your things out of the closet?”

  “My clothes?”

  “Trevor would be more comfortable if any contact could be avoided. Including things you’ve worn.”

  I sighed. “Why don’t we just do this on a timer?”

  “Right, so you can still use your closet and personal bathroom, but not between the hours of 5:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. on.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I’ll hold my bowel movements.”

  She looked at me.

  “Not with my hands,” I said.

  “I was wondering,” she said. “I’m sorry, Trevor requested that you steer clear of here, here, and here.” Green dots danced over the blueprint.

  “I need the kitchen,” I said.

  “How about half the kitchen? Would that work?”

  “What happens if I need to step onto the other half? Does a blade come down from the ceiling and chop me in half?”

  She started laughing so hard I realize someone must’ve fantasized about it.

  “We’ll work that out. Meanwhile, good news, you have full access to Penelope’s room, the laundry room, and one-quarter of the deck,” she said.

  “What about the bar?” I asked, looking at the rooms of our home, every furniture item down to minor accessories penciled in. Trevor had demanded and thought of everything—couches, lamps, telephones, notepads, pens(!) . . . even the trophy case. Even Oscar.

  I felt my nostrils flaring.

  “Not a problem,” she said, “as long as it’s before 3:00 p.m.”

  “I’ll move happy hour up to 10:00 a.m.,” I said.

  “Oh my God, thank you!” she said. “I’ll tell Trevor how helpful you are! Maybe he’ll let you stay!”

  “Oh my God! That would be, like, totally amazing!” I clapped, then grabbed my keys from the counter.

  Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Pep had volleyball practice in the school gym that cost donors $40 million—and, like any school gym, it was basically a warehouse with bleachers and colored lines painted on the floor.

  As I sneaked into the gym, I’d given Pep the tiniest humanly possible wave, and she’d rolled her eyes at me. Communication!

  I hid in my favorite spot—the corner at the top of the bleachers, avoiding the Volleyball Mafia at the far end. This group of moms showed up at the start of every practice, finding new life in each well-placed serve and death in each missed block. You’d think they were raising a flock of Misty Mays. Besides, I didn’t need to talk to the volleyball moms; they hijacked my Gmail numerous times a day. Bring sliced oranges to the game, brie for the adults. Can we coordinate knee pads, PLEEZE Who’s signed up to bring the red? NO PLASTIC CUPS Missie’s private coach is amazing as you can see Looking into new refs for season Summer volleyball camp in Maine or Colorado? Petition to get rid of current coach please sign!!!

  There were many petitions; coaches didn’t last more than two weeks.

  “You can sit up front,” I said as Pep jumped into the back seat of my car with her $250 volleyball duffel bag.

  She looked out the window, her freckled nose practically against the glass, as though rooting for escape. “Don’t want to.”

  “Do you want to listen to anything? Gaga? Ariana? Doesn’t Ariana have a new song out about her ponytail?”

  She shook her head.

  “Funny podcast? True crime podcast?”

  “No,” she said. “Just . . . drive please, Mom.”

  “Rightio,” I said. “Yes, ma’am.” I steered the car into traffic.

  “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?” she asked, still staring out the window.

  My mind went blank. “What made you ask that?”

  “Wha
t made me ask that is that everyone is talking about it except my parents.”

  “How would they know?”

  “Everyone’s moms know. Greer, Azalia, Porsche, everybody.”

  “No, honey,” I said. “Right now, we’re just . . . giving each other space. Sometimes people need space from each other.”

  She sniffed, blinked.

  “So . . . if you get divorced, do I get to go to another school?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Stay married, then,” she said.

  “Out here doing my best,” I said. “Wait. You liked school last year. What happened?”

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled all her tween angst.

  “Mom,” she said. “You hate the parents at my school. Why would you think I like the kids?”

  “Hate is such a strong word.”

  “You told Auntie Liz they were stuck-up anorexic buttholes with vagina lips. I heard you.”

  “I meant it as a compliment,” I said.

  That got a small smile out of her.

  “Are we going to be poor?”

  “What? No.”

  “I could live with Gabi.”

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  “She said I could.”

  “I’m telling you, you can’t.”

  “Are you saying Gabi’s not a good mom?”

  So hard to make cogent arguments against a smart tween while driving in LA; I needed to concentrate on swearing and shaking my fist at all the illegal left turns.

  “Of course not. Gabi’s a great mom; her kids all have actual jobs. I’m saying Gabi’s already raised her kids. You’re my kid. My only kid. I’m not done raising you. I haven’t screwed you up enough yet.”

  I turned up the air-conditioning. I was riding that hot flash highway again.

  “What did you say you and Dad were doing? Giving each other space?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Sometimes people need a break.”

  “Well, I’d like space, too,” she said. “Could I get a break from you guys?”

  I sighed and turned on the stereo. My kid was outsmarting me. Maybe she would be better off with Gabriela. Maybe Gabriela could raise both of us.

  Operation Blueprint was working! Trevor and I avoided each other—I hadn’t run into him in days, although sometimes I’d walk into a cold, empty room and smell his cologne. I imagined his lawyers or a famous actor or the valet parker at Craig’s or maybe just the last person he spoke to convinced him not to lock me out. Meanwhile, I could pretend everything was normal when it was never normal; blueprint life was the latest in a string of un-normal. Was Trevor still getting his ducks on the road (to misquote a misquoted metaphor)? It was like living with a Tyrannosaurus rex—if he didn’t see me move or breathe, I was safe.