Happily Ever After?
Page 8
So I’ve just killed the last two hours surfing the Web for new recipes. I wanted to dig up one recipe in particular, an absolutely sublime sweet potato dish I’d found online three years ago and, naturally, never filed. I was just about to give up when miraculously I found the site with the recipe for glazed maple sweet potatoes. The last time I made it, I regretted I hadn’t doubled the recipe because it was gone in a flash. Everyone was yum-yumming over the sweet potatoes, everyone except Teresa—who had three helpings, by the way. I think I’ll also make cooked cranberry sauce with toasted walnuts and mandarin oranges. Easy, delicious.
As for the chicken, I’m not sure whether I want to go sweet or spicy. I’ve got a good recipe for lemon-oregano roasted chicken … but where the heck is it??? My kitchen is a mess and I’ve come to realize that it probably doesn’t matter how rich I am, I will always be disorganized. The little telephone table off the kitchen is piled high with junk mail, bills, Pokémon cards, assorted nonfunctioning pens, Post-it notes, school notices (most of which have expired), a stray slice of American cheese and three cheese wrappers, a tiny Monopoly game key chain and unwanted Halloween candy (the kind even I won’t eat).
All our plans are set for Medjugorje and I’m uncharacteristically calm about the flight. Normally I depend on a glass of wine to help me survive even the quick trip to Chicago. Now I’m flying across the world and I’m actually looking forward to it. I am on a mission and I’m too focused on my father to feel nervous about flying. If there is a God, He has to be looking out for us. This flight can’t possibly be doomed.
I bought five tickets, one each for me, Dad, Mom, Pete, and my sister Teresa, who begged to come along. I agreed to let her come, if only because I’ll need someone to help me carry Dad’s wheelchair up Apparition Hill, where the visions of Mary are said to take place. It was too late to hook up with a group, but I found a driver as well as a guide, a priest, actually, who does nothing but help Americans make the pilgrimage to Medjugorje. I booked us rooms in the Anamaria, one of the two bigger hotels in the area. I’d wanted to rent a bungalow but the bungalow village is already full of Spanish peacekeeping forces. We’re leaving two weeks from yesterday. Total cost of trip: $29,487, which includes plane fare, rooms, guides, and gas (3.80 kuna per liter. I don’t know what a kuna is. Nor do I know what a liter is. I never learned the metric system. Is it a gallon? A cup?).
’Til next time,
V
July 10
It’s raining. I think I’m getting the flu. I want to go back to bed.
But I think I’ll go shopping instead. I know I should be a bit more high-minded about this newfound wealth, but I’ve got to be honest: I LOVE BEING RICH! I can buy any damn thing I want and it won’t even make a dent in my bank account. I bought myself the diamond ring Roger would never have bought me, a flawless two-carat rock. The truth is, I’d discouraged Roger from buying me an engagement ring. He’d made it clear that he thought they were pointless symbols of materialism and female bondage, and I pretended to agree with him. So we opted for matching mopeds and skipped the ring altogether. A year after our marriage his mother guilted him into buying me a diamond ring, but it was one of those optical illusion deals: a teeny semiprecious stone surrounded by a bunch of microscopic diamond chips and bevels. If you look really close, you can see the inscription inside the stone: your husband is a cheap asswipe.
I think I’m going to hire a personal trainer, the same woman who transformed Katie Couric’s body. She charges $7,500 a week, but she’ll probably want more since she’ll have to camp out here in the hinterlands for a few months while she turns my blobbified body into a lean, mean, gorgeous machine. I read somewhere that this trainer—who goes by the name High Voltage—will want me to give up sugar, flour, and salt. I don’t know if I’m ready for that! Especially not sugar. Or flour. Maybe salt. Maybe not.
I’m sick of my stupid washing machine. It’s the lowend model Roger had insisted we buy because he didn’t want to shell out the extra $200 for the better brand. The big problem is that it can’t handle towels or blankets. Try to wash a beach towel and the dang thing starts buzzing in the middle of the spin cycle and you have to stand there lifting and lowering the door like a ninny until the water drains. So today I’m going to buy me the best washing machine I can find, and maybe a new dryer, too, just for the hell of it.
’Til next time,
V
July 11
Boyfriend, boyfriend, I’ve got a boyfriend (to be sung to the tune of “Baby, Baby, Stick Your Head in Gravy”).
Michael called me again, just to check in. He said he missed me. He said he saw a dress that would go perfect with my coloring, and almost bought it for me but wasn’t sure what size I wore (as if I would ever tell him?!?!). I told him about the trip to Medjugorje and he asked, only half-kiddingly, if I might like to have police protection. When I got home from picking Pete up, I found a gift bag on the porch. Inside, a book called The Visions of the Children: The Apparitions of the Blessed Mother at Medjugorje. Inside the bag I also found a pair of warm, nubby socks with a note attached: “You’ll need these to keep those pretty tootsies warm on the hike up the hill.”
What a guy.
Lynette invited Pete over to her house after school to make paper bag puppets. Much to her astonishment, I invited Hunter to our house instead, for an afternoon of crafts. I’d gone to Borders to buy a book of easy projects, then stopped at the Hobby Lobby for $203 worth of supplies. I cringed when the cashier told me my total, then I remembered: Hey, I’m rich. I can afford this. I bought everything Roger always insisted we didn’t need: glue guns, a paper crimper, laminating machine, a dozen rubber stamps and ink pads in every color, unfinished wooden thingamajigs, fabric paints, glitter, markers, modeling clay you can bake in the oven, mosaic kits, fake flower garlands, candy molds, Styrofoam topiary shapes, two big bags of assorted buttons, and pipe cleaners—which, someone has apparently decided, must now be called chenille craft sticks.
So I told Lynette to send Hunter over. We made bird feeders, chocolate suckers, apple votive holders, and gumdrop sculptures. I wish I could have seen Lynette’s face when Hunter walked in with his handmade bounty.
I spent the rest of the day preparing for the trip to Medjugorje and I’m starting to get nervous. I don’t know how I’m going to navigate our family through this foreign land for two weeks. We don’t speak Croatian. What if our guide doesn’t show up? What if our driver is a drunken lunatic? What if another war breaks out? What if Teresa and I can’t carry the wheelchair up the hill?
We’ll need waterproof jackets in the event it rains while we’re climbing Mt. Podbrdo (Apparition Hill), and we’ll need sturdy shoes to make it up the rocky terrain. It takes ten to fifteen minutes to get up the hill, but I suspect it takes longer when you’re dragging up a wheelchair. We’ll also need to pack flashlights, because there’s no street lighting in parts of Medjugorje.
’Til next time,
V
July 12
Roger has crossed the line this time.
At 2:56 P.M. I got a call from the secretary at Pete’s camp. “Mrs. Tisdale, this is Roberta Burns,” she started.
“Is Pete okay?”
“Well, he’s fine, but we have a situation.”
“What is it?” My mind flooded with possibilities. Had he pooped in his pants? Had he whacked another kid with a stick?
“Your husband is standing here now. He says he’s here to pick up Peter.”
Good God. “Please, Roberta, don’t let him take Pete anywhere. He has no right to take my son.”
“He insists that he is well within his rights. And the camp has no power to stop him.”
I told her to hang up and that I’d call right back on my cell phone. “Keep Pete in his room. I’ll be there in four minutes,” I said as I ran to my Jeep.
“I don’t know that I can do that,” Roberta whispered. “Mr. Tisdale insists he has the right to take Peter home with him.”
&n
bsp; “He doesn’t have custody. I do.”
“I don’t understand. You’re divorced?”
“Yes. We’re divorced.”
“But our records indicate that you’re married. It says right here. Camper resides with both parents at—”
“Forget that,” I interrupted. “I never updated Pete’s files. My mistake. I’ve been busy.”
“I see.” The two words projected volumes about my negligence, my disorganization, my incompetence. How could anyone blame me for failing to fill out yet another form? I was floundering in a flood of notices. Every day Pete’s backpack was stuffed with fliers. There were fliers about Family Camping Day. International Festival Day. Science Exploration Day. Camper Appreciation Day. Field trip permission slips. Permission slip so camp may post child’s artwork. Permission slip so child may use the Internet. Permission slip so child may be photographed for camp Web page. Canned food drive. The electric fans for the hot poor people drive. Jump-Rope-a-Thon for Multiple Sclerosis. Penny drive for United Way. Fund-raising appeals for new playground equipment, new gardens, new carpeting in the cafeteria.
It never ended!
I had to get through to the camp director. “Let me talk to Mr. Enright, please.”
“He’s on another line.”
“Oh come on, Roberta. He’s right next door. This is an emergency. Get him off the other line.”
“Yes, of course.”
“This is Mr. Enright,” the camp director intoned, sounding uncannily like Al Gore. “Can I help you?” He acted as if he was unaware of the crisis that was now unfolding two feet outside his office.
“Look. My husband is standing at Roberta’s desk right now. He’s demanding to pick up my son, Mr. Enright. You can’t let him take him. My husband is unstable. He doesn’t have custody.”
“I understand, Mrs. Tisdale.”
“It’s not Mrs. Tisdale. It’s Ms. Ryan. We’re divorced. Please. Listen to me. You can’t let Roger take my son.”
“He says he’s well within his rights.”
“He’s wrong. And let me make myself clear. If my husband leaves that building with my son, you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands that’ll make your head spin.”
“I understand. I do.” I heard the principal call out to Roberta. “I’m going to get security over here now. Your son is safe here. We’ll keep him upstairs with his teacher. They’ll keep the doors locked. They know the drill. This isn’t the first time we’ve been caught in a custody crossfire.”
Custody crossfire? The phrase made me sick. Pete was trapped between rocks and rubber bullets like some bewildered American tourist on the Gaza Strip. We were just another rancorous divorced couple wreaking havoc in our kid’s life.
As I sped through the stop sign at Atkins and Long, I saw police car lights spinning behind me. I decided to let the cop trail me into the parking lot. I pulled up to the curb in front of the school, hopped out of the Jeep, and rushed to the police car. “I know I was speeding. I’m sorry. You can give me a ticket later. I’m not a fugitive. I’m just a mother. Please. You’ve got to help me. My husband is trying to kidnap my son!”
The officer, a kindly-looking man who must have been nearing retirement, looked sincerely concerned. “Don’t worry about the ticket, darlin’.” He had his hand on his gun. He brought his radio to his mouth and called for backup. This was working out splendidly.
The office was packed with bodies: Robert, Mr. Enright, Roger, the burly lifeguard and the deaf one-armed custodian, both of whom double as the camp’s unofficial security guards. The small office reeked of sweat and potpourri and Charlie (Roberta’s favorite perfume, apparently). Roger was wearing the same getup he’d worn to my house the other day, with one new addition, a black beret. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Surfer Girl was there too.
Roger sneered at me. “You can’t keep him from me.” He cocked his head toward the police officer. “What’s with Officer Friday?”
“It’s Officer Navansky,” the cop said. “And you’re not going anywhere until you can prove custodial rights over your child.”
The dismissal bell chimed and the main corridor to the exit was teeming with kids hobbling under the weight of their backpacks. They gawked at the windows. I heard one say, “That’s Pete Tisdale’s mom.”
I could hear a distant chorus of sirens grow louder as they neared the camp. Soon we were joined by two more officers, a pimply kid with a bad haircut and a fetching blond who looked so good in her uniform that she must have custom-tailored the pants, a fact that didn’t escape Roger’s attention, even in the midst of the crisis. I watched him eye her ass. Surfer Girl saw it too and elbowed him sharply.
“We have a situation here,” Officer Navansky began.
“There’s no situation. I’m here to see my son. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“Well, sir, it is if you don’t have custody of the child.”
“He doesn’t, Officer,” I cut in. “I have sole temporary custody.”
“Roger has as much right to be with his son as you do!” Surfer Girl blurted out.
“Who’s this?” Officer Navansky asked Roger.
“Not that I’m required to tell you, but the young lady is my friend.”
Surfer Girl scowled at Roger. “I’m his girlfriend, Officer.”
The cop shot me a sympathetic look. “I’m going to have to insist that the young lady wait outside.”
She tightened her grip on Roger’s arm. “I’d like to stay with my boyfriend, please. He needs the moral support.”
The cop put a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, miss. There’s enough tempers flaring in this room as it is. Please wait outside.”
She released her grip and reluctantly skulked out. Officer Navansky guided her with a hand on her back and closed the door behind her.
“Mr. Tisdale, is it true that your wife has sole custody of your son?”
“Temporary custody.” Roger flicked an imaginary lintball off his sleeve.
“Temporary or not, is it true, sir?” Navansky pressed. “You might as well be honest, sir. One phone call and I can find out for myself.”
“Yes. It’s true.” He stared at me acidly. I stared back.
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to remove yourself and your friend there from the premises.” Officer Navansky reached for Roger’s elbow. He jerked back and flailed an arm. The other cops put their hands on their guns and moved in toward Roger. Officer Navansky withdrew his hands. “You can go of your own accord, sir, or we can help you. It’s your choice.”
Roger straightened his beret and shot me another corrosive stare. “Keep your hands off me. I’m going.”
“You can give me that ticket now if you want to,” I told Officer Navansky, aware of the guile in my suggestion. I knew he wouldn’t ticket me.
“No, no, just forget about it.” He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “My own daughter has the same problem with her ex. That creep left her for a younger gal and now he thinks he has the right to see his kid whenever he pleases. Let me tell you, I would have killed the son of a bitch myself if I didn’t think I’d lose my pension.”
’Til next time,
V
July 16
I’m glad my family’s little reunion is over. What an emotionally draining day, and not only because my father is dying, but because I could see how my mother has neglected her home (I found mouse droppings in the kitchen drawers) and, because Teresa managed to eat every perfect dish I served without a single word of praise, and because Julia yet again made separate meals for her spoiled twins yet never once asked how Pete and I are holding up since the divorce, and because Roger called in the middle of dinner to say hi to Pete and Surfer Girl was on the line and told Pete that she can’t wait to give him a little present, and because we’re leaving for Bosnia-Herzegovina in a week and I’m beginning to fear that our plane is going to nosedive into the sea. Of all the ways to die, that’s got to be the worst. Now my stomach hurts. I’v
e got to go to the bathroom.
I’m back.
The best thing about dinner was that everything I made was delicious, even if Teresa wasn’t big enough to admit it. The derby pie (Pete’s favorite) was obscenely wonderful. I’ve decided to put the recipe down in this journal so I can’t possibly lose it.
Derby Pie, also known as heart attack in a pie shell
1 stick melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup flour
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup pecans (I skipped the pecans since Pete hates nuts.)
Combine all ingredients and pour into frozen pie shell. Bake at 325 degrees for 1 hour. (I baked it for an extra fifteen minutes, then chilled it outside on the deck. It’s supposed to be sort of runny.)
The other hit was my personal favorite:
Glazed maple sweet potatoes, also known as adult onset diabetes in a Corning casserole dish.
10 sweet potatoes, cooked, peeled, and sliced
1 cup maple syrup
3 tablespoons butter
½ cup apple cider
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons maple sugar (I used brown sugar.)
Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Place sweet potatoes in greased casserole dish. In separate pot mix up syrup, butter, cider, brown or maple sugar, and salt and bring to boil. Pour mixture over potatoes. Bake 45 minutes, basting every 15 minutes.
’Til next time,
V