By the Numbers

by Jen Lancaster

  “No, no, that’s not it. Oh God, no. This cannot be happening.”

  “What?” Patrick asks, suddenly on high alert. “What cannot be happening?”

  I hiss, “My daughters are assholes.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Damn it.” I sit down on the ramp. “Their dad got back from Costa Rica Saturday night and they went down to the city to see him. I guess he and Stassi live in a walk-up loft with no elevator, which is almost impossible to manage on crutches, let alone in a wheelchair. I was sympathetic, because that’s rough and I’m not a monster.”

  “Eh, debatable.”

  “Anyway, remember when Chris and I planned to move his mom in here about five years ago? We redid the bathroom in the den to be handicap accessible so Num-Num could have a first-floor bedroom?”

  “But she went into assisted living instead.”

  “Right, and then she deteriorated pretty quickly, which was so sad. She was such a great lady.”

  “She was one hell of a broad.” Being one hell of a broad is Patrick’s highest compliment. Even though Chris’s mom was no relation to Patrick, she made sure he was willed her extensive Staffordshire dog collection because she knew he’d treasure it. She was famous for making thoughtful gestures like that.

  “Anyway, I must have said something to the girls about it being too bad he didn’t live here with the made-over den and all, not realizing that I should have said, ‘It’s too bad he had an affair and now we’re divorced, or he could have used the den.’”

  “Pen, when are you going to realize your kids are only going to hear the parts they want to hear?”

  “Apparently never. Now the e-mail I received from Stassi today makes perfect sense. She sent a note that was all, ‘You’re the best; you’re a rock star!’”

  Patrick lets out a low whistle. “He was infirm and in her direct care for less than twenty-four hours and he already made her crazy. That’s a new record, wouldn’t you say? What do you think, she bought him saltines instead of oyster crackers and he lost it? So she found a way to foist him back off on your family? Hoo-boy, Michael is going to die when I tell him. I’m not kidding.”

  “Can I come live with you guys? I don’t want to be in this house anymore.”

  I’m joking. Mostly.

  He’s quick to answer. “No. You’re a shit magnet lately. I don’t want your bad luck following you down here, messing up our lives.”

  He’s joking. Mostly.

  “Then I guess I’d better go inside and see my ex-husband, and my parents, and my two daughters, and the very large, very destructive dog who all live with me, each one of them an uninvited guest.”

  “On the bright side,” Patrick says, “probably can’t get any worse.”

  “Don’t say that,” I reply. “I’m learning it can always get worse.”

  • • • •

  “That’ll be eleven dollars and eighty-one cents, please,” the cashier tells me.

  “I’m sorry? I just want the one pack, nothing else,” I reply.

  Yes. I’m breaking my own rule about smoking. I’m buying a pack of cigarettes. I know I normally have only one a year, but I normally don’t have my two daughters who can barely conceal their contempt for me, my temporarily handicapped ex-husband, and my parents who may or may not be in the throes of dementia living under my roof for an undetermined amount of time. Oh, and I keep forgetting Sweet Caroline, who chewed her way through a solid oak door last night. Not a little hole, either. I’m talking the full-on “Here’s-Johnny-in-The-Shining, minus Jack Nicholson and the ax” kind of hole. I’m beginning to understand how she ended up in a shelter in the first place.

  The cashier bobs his head, which causes his septum piercing to swing like a door knocker. That piece of hardware’s got to be a bitch when he has a cold. How would he blow his nose? Maybe he receives an employee discount on preventative meds like vitamin C and Zicam and never gets sick?

  He tells me, “Right. That’s how much one pack of Marlboro Reds costs.”

  “Really? The last time I bought cigarettes, they were a buck fifty,” I say.

  “Cool. I guess that was a while ago?”

  “I guess it was.”

  “Would you like to enter your Walgreens rewards card number to earn points on your purchase?”

  “I would not.”

  “Cool.” I hand him a twenty and he makes change before placing my cigarettes in a plastic bag and passing the whole lot over to me. “Thank you and be well.”

  I pause before I walk away. “Does it strike you as odd, or at all hypocritical, to tell me to ‘be well’ when the only item I’m purchasing causes almost five hundred thousand mortalities per annum, which is more deaths than HIV, illegal drug use, alcohol use, car accidents, and incidents related to firearms in toto?”

  He blinks at me a couple of times. “Did you need matches?”

  Sheepishly, I reply, “Yes, please.”

  He reaches into a box under the counter and hands me a book. “Here ya go. Thanks. Be well.”

  I return to the car, drive home, hide behind the shed to smoke not one, but the better part of two, of my new, secret stash before finally stepping inside for the first time. I felt that the cigarettes would help me steel myself to have a stern discussion because everything about this setup is ridiculous.

  I can’t have Chris here.

  I can’t live like this.

  While I’m sorry his living situation isn’t ideal, that stopped being my problem when we signed the divorce papers. Correction: That stopped being my problem when he selected that fateful Kenny G album. How am I supposed to move on with my life with him here?

  I stomp up the ramp and through the back door, where Caroline greets me with the mangled carcass of my favorite sandal in her mouth. No! Not these! Not my super-fancy summer favorites! I bought these little gold wedges with the T-straps, strung with little-bitty coins in mixed metals that jingle with each step because they’re the perfect shoe for every hot-weather outfit, appropriate with anything from a swimsuit to a cocktail dress. I paid a ton for them, too, because they do the job of at least three pairs of shoes.

  “No, Caroline, no! Bad girl! Give it here! No three-in-one super-fancies for you!”

  I attempt to take the sandal from her, and this is apparently the most fun she’s ever had. She lowers her front end, leaving her ample rump high in the air, and she begins to tug.

  “Caroline, mine! MINE! Let go! Kelsey? Where are you? Come get your awful dog!”

  Caroline’s puffy tail swishes back and forth and she grunts with glee while keeping her teeth firmly clamped down on my shoe. She’s got such a grip that she’s starting to pull me across the room inch by inch.

  “Caroline, drop it!” I command. She simply jerks harder. I try to imagine Barnaby behaving like this and I can’t. I’d have a much easier time picturing him finding a qualified cobbler on Yelp and then making an appointment to have the shoes resoled in high-quality leather at a reasonable price, all without ever having been asked.

  “I said now!” I give the shoe a solid yank just as Chris rolls into the room in his wheelchair, which frightens Caroline. She releases the super-fancy and bravely runs away while I’m mid-tug, which sends me reeling back into the kitchen island with a tremendous thump.

  “You okay?”

  I glance up at Chris from my spot on the floor. He looks both better and worse than I expected. On the plus side, his tan is deep and his hair bleached out from the hot Costa Rican sun. On the minus side, he’s in a cast past his knee on the left side, he’s wearing a neck brace, and he’s covered in multiple cuts and bruises, with dark circles under his eyes. I didn’t realize until this moment how lucky he is not to have been injured worse.

  “You should have seen the other guy?” I reply, rubbing the back of my head where it
hit the cabinet. “So . . . um, hi.”

  “That dog is no Barnaby,” he says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He wheels closer to me and offers me a hand to help me up. I wave him off. He says, “Are we planning to talk about my being here, or is it just going to be this awkward thing? Since you’re smoking again, I’m guessing you want to talk and I shouldn’t get too comfortable in the den?”

  I’m dumbfounded. “You can tell I smoked? How?”

  “Please. This is not exactly CSI-level detective work. I’ve known what you smelled like since 1980.”

  “You have not.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Prove it.”

  “You wore Love’s Baby Soft until college—”

  “So did everyone.”

  “Ralph Lauren until you graduated—”

  I roll my eyes. “Again, so did everyone.”

  “You were big on that super-sweet stuff, um . . . Poison until we got married, nothing when you were pregnant because everything made you queasy, and in the past few years you’ve been on a quest to find the perfect neroli-oil-based scent. Thus far, Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino is the best. What? I told you so. You were prematurely smug. Stop looking at me with your mouth open. My not listening to you was never our problem. Also, you installed motion-sensor lights, and I can see behind the shed from the den.”

  I have no idea how to respond, so I just laugh. He could always do this—he could always defuse any tense situation, if he chose to. “Did you know cigarettes are twelve bucks a pack now?”

  “You’re kidding! They used to be a buck fifty! When did we get old?”

  “Who’s old? You’re the one in a wheelchair, Grandpa, not me.”

  “Ouch. I mean that literally and figuratively—I’m due for another pain pill. They are not as much fun as you’d hope. Do me a favor and don’t fall from a jungle canopy; one star, do not recommend.” He wheels a couple of inches back and forth, in a motion that’s sort of like pacing. His face takes on a more serious expression. “So, you want to have a discussion? You cannot be thrilled to see me here.”

  “Honestly, I’m not, especially because I didn’t agree to this. You have to sense that. The girls didn’t clear you being here with me, and all of a sudden I come home and, hey! Guess what! We’re ADA compliant. You know how I am with surprises.”

  Chris nods slowly and only as much as the brace will allow, as though he’s agreeing with me, although his lips are pressed together tightly. “Yeah, I wondered about that. They both said it was fine and I said I wanted to talk to you, but somehow it didn’t happen. Don’t worry about it. I will figure out somewhere to go, but it might take me until tomorrow, if that’s okay. I appreciate your being a decent sport, though. I don’t think I could have handled fireworks today.”

  He begins to wheel out of the kitchen, and I watch him maneuver past the doorframe, careful not to ding the paint. “You’ll just go back to Stassi’s, right?”

  “Yeah, probably not.”

  “Because of the stairs?”

  He turns back to face me. “No, because of the breakup.”

  “What? What happened?”

  He runs his good hand through his hair. “Stassi said she couldn’t handle my injuries. She said she wasn’t going to be able to take care of me. She said she truly didn’t realize how old I was until I was helpless.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I point to his lap. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s just a broken leg and torn ACL right? The bruises aren’t that cute, but those will be gone in a week. Otherwise, you’re good, and the girls said you can do the whole, you know, bathroom thing by yourself. Wait, you didn’t sprain anything . . . else, right?”

  The tips of his ears turn red. “All of my parts are functioning normally, thank you. And here I thought we were going to avoid awkwardness.”

  “I’m sorry, but she’s a bitch!” I fume. “That is bullshit. That is ageist. That is not right. I thought you were serious with her. I thought marriage was a possibility. In sickness and in health, for better or worse? Well, this is worse and a little bit of sickness and her first instinct is to cut and run? Not cool. One thousand percent not cool.”

  Chris takes a deep breath and he suddenly looks very fragile in his chair. “Ultimately, it’s my fault for not choosing well. Actions have consequences, and I have become painfully aware of them. Okay, I’m going to make some calls and figure some things out. I can probably go to my sister Sophie’s. She’s the closest, and she’s already going to take me to physical therapy anyway until I can drive.” He does a three-point turn and goes to leave, but I catch his wheelchair by the handles before he can roll off.

  Before I can even think through my idea, I find that I’m already talking. “Listen, I could actually use your input. There’s a lot going on with our daughters, and neither one of them will tell me anything. Kelsey’s left Milo and I have no idea why. And I suspect Jess has gotten herself into some trouble in New York. I saw a couple of weird comments on her blog about her owing people money and now the whole site is down. She says it’s a technical glitch, but I have a bad feeling there’s more to the story. Between them and whatever is up with my folks—I can’t even begin to pick apart that mystery—having you tool around the first floor really would be the least of my problems. I know you’re going to have to find your own place at some point because you guys broke up. I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be today. Take a minute. Slow your roll.”

  I can’t read Chris’s expression as he searches my face. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, Penny. Do you want my input, or do you want my help? I realize it’s hard for you to admit you require assistance, but I’m here; I just need confirmation.”

  I have to swallow hard to get the words out. They feel foreign on my lips. “I want your help.”

  He lets out a soft chuckle. “Then I guess you’ve got yourself a temporary new roommate.”

  “One thing, though?” I ask.

  “What’s that?”

  “If anyone asks, I don’t smoke.”

  • • • •

  “Penny Bancroft, my goodness, it’s like you’re still twenty-three years old,” Wyatt says, greeting me with a brief formal hug.

  Time has been kind to Wyatt, rounding out the places where he was once too angular. The fire of his ginger hair has softened and the volume thinned, but not drastically. He’s definitely matured, but he also appears a lot less anxious than he used to. He no longer seems on the cusp of being shaken down for his lunch money.

  “You flatter me, but it’s Penny Sinclair,” I remind him. “Married. Divorced, but first married.”

  “Penny Sinclair, Replicas Ninny.”

  “You can say that again.” I motion toward the bar. We’d decided to meet on his turf, at an elegant old English-style pub on the first floor of a timbered Tudor boutique hotel in downtown Lake Forest. The walls are covered in dark panels of oiled wood, and beneath them, the banquettes are comprised of tufted leather. All of the gilded framed paintings are of hunting dogs. What is the North Shore’s obsession with making everything look exactly like the local country clubs? Doesn’t anyone else get tired of all the plaid and brass? Would all of Lake County implode if someone decorated modern or minimalist for once?

  “Shall we sit?”

  He pulls out my chair and we’re seated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to order for you; it’s been a very long time. I mean, Zima and ice beers have come and gone since I saw you last, although no one would know that to look at you. I hope you don’t mind that I got started,” he says, holding up his rocks glass.

  “Oh, please, how could you remember what I drink? It’s been more than twenty-five years! What are you having?” I ask.

  “Right now, club soda with a twist of lime.”

  “Whoa, slow down there, cowboy.
Hope you’re not driving tonight.”

  He smiles at me over the rim of his glass. “It’s wonderful to see you, Penny. What are you in the mood for? I hear they make a nice Moscow Mule here, which is vodka, lime, and ginger beer served in a copper cup.”

  “Mmm, that sounds nice.”

  “But wait—before you decide, their signature cocktail is the French 75, which is gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and prosecco. The story is that it’s supposed to pack such a kick that drinking one felt like being shelled by a French 75-millimeter field gun. If I may be so bold, might I suggest we get one of each, we taste them both, and decide from there who drinks what?”

  “You have a beautiful mind,” I reply.

  Hold up, is that flirting? I can’t tell if I’m flirting. Holy cow, I’m rusty at this. Is this a date? I’m not sure, since we’re not actually consuming a meal. Let’s say it’s a date, though. If this is a date, then it would stand to reason that I would act the coquette. Maybe my body is involuntarily reacting to this situation by making me say flirty things, sort of like how my pulse would quicken and dump cortisol and adrenaline in my system and my muscles would automatically contract to protect me from pain if I were in a situation where I felt fear. Also like if I were on a date.

  (Is it too late to go back to my idea of getting fifteen cats?)

  Wyatt is someone I used to quite like. He and I have been exchanging e-mails all week, and his witty banter is reminding me of what I enjoyed about our relationship. Did he ever rock my world, in so many words? No. Yet there’s something to be said for quiet, clever companionship. And let’s be frank here—I’m a fiftysomething actuary who’s basically married to her job. Hot monkey sex is not at the top of my to-do list. Karin says it should be, but Karin spends way too much time talking to Ryan and Sasha about their hookups. (Which is disturbing, if you ask me, and exactly why we never let our kids watch HBO.)

  He places our order and I’m reminded of what a gentleman he always was. While I’m loath to do the Wyatt-did-this and Chris-did-that comparison, I do recall Wyatt having impeccable etiquette. Chris was always my hero—until he wasn’t—but Wyatt was certainly diligent in his own way. I forgot how well mannered he was. I don’t think I touched a car door or picked up a check once the entire time we dated, no matter how hard I protested. At the time I found his chivalry painfully old-fashioned, but now I grasp the appeal.