by Jane Porter
But right now, looking into the girls’ tear-streaked faces, I can’t remember what they are.
The girls are on the sullen side when I take them to school the next morning. They don’t want me to work anymore. They don’t want Mrs. Slutsky coming to the house in the afternoon. They just want me there.
Frankly, I’d like to be there, but I need the income. We need the income.
Nathan calls during my lunch to see how the move went. He called a few times over the weekend, but we could never say more than hi and bye, as I was always in the middle of something like loading boxes into the truck, or away from my cell, or just about to feed the girls Sunday night.
Now I start to tell him about the new house and the new sitter when Marta beeps in from Los Angeles, where she’s presenting to a commercial real estate company. “Nathan, I have to take her call. She only calls if it’s important.”
“Taylor, we really do have to talk.”
“I know.”
“When can we?”
“I don’t know. It’s so busy here. I’m so busy.” I can hear the beeping of Marta’s call still, and I’m panicking that she might hang up. “I’ll try you soon.”
“I’m heading into a meeting, Taylor—”
“Okay. Then we’ll talk after that. Sorry. Bye.” I hang up quickly and take Marta’s call, but the cloud of doom and gloom is on me again.
I’ve learned now that when Nathan says we have to talk, it means he has something to tell me, and it’s never good news.
I try to call Nathan back before leaving work, but I don’t reach him. He calls me while I’m making dinner. “Sounds like you’re busy,” he says, and I immediately feel defensive.
“I’ve just got three hungry little girls here,” I answer, trying not to be short and yet wanting to throw the phone. I’m tired. I really am. “You said you had something important to tell me . . . ?”
He hesitates. “I do.”
“So?”
“Maybe now is not a good time.”
I can’t hide my exasperation. “Will there ever be a good time?”
“I don’t know.”
His voice is so low and heavy that I immediately feel guilty. “Nathan, are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer, and the silence seems to stretch forever.
“Nathan?”
“Maybe we should just do this in person.”
Do what? Panic replaces my guilt. “What, Nathan?”
“I miss you, Taylor.”
I have never heard so much sadness or hopelessness in his voice. My eyes burn and my throat aches. “Come home, Nathan. Please. Because if you don’t, I’m getting on a plane and going there.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll come home.”
“When?”
“Soon. As soon as I can. I promise.”
The rest of the week passes in a frenzy of activity. I wake up, tumble into clothes, hurry kids into theirs, and rush them out the door before hustling to Z Design; and then I’m rushing home, and it’s another frantic couple of hours of homework, housework, laundry, and dinner before bed.
For the first time, I understand what single moms and working moms go through. I’m so busy, I find myself looking at mail as I brush my teeth and leafing through new magazines while peeing. I’ve always been good at multitasking, but multitasking takes on a whole new meaning now.
But even though I’m busy, Nathan is never far from my mind. I think about him first thing when I wake and last thing before I fall asleep, and at night I dream about him, about us, I dream we’re together, we’re over, we’re strangers. I dream the girls miss him. I dream he’s dead. I dream it’s all just a dream and we’re really still in our house and together like we were. In the mornings, I wake up and lie in bed feeling flat, low, depressed.
I need to go to Omaha. I need to go see Nathan.
Marta’s back from Los Angeles, and she returns with a two-page to-do list that she wants taken care of before the holidays, and that’s only my list. She has lists for everyone on the team.
Friday, as it’s a half day, the others leave at noon, but I stay on, determined to get at least half of the company Christmas cards addressed this afternoon. Marta sends cards to 350 customers, colleagues, and contacts; she doesn’t believe in computer-generated labels, and the only way I can do a job like this is by breaking it down in chunks.
With a cup of coffee at my elbow, I work on the stack of envelopes in front of me. I try not to look at the size of the stack; instead I focus on one envelope at a time.
I’ve been working for only forty-five minutes or so when Marta enters the office, slides off her coat, and pulls a paper bag from her purse.
“Here,” she says, pushing the paper bag across the conference table toward me. “An early Christmas present.”
I look in the bag. I pull out a black-and-pink box. There’s a big-breasted blonde on the side and fancy script on the top. I turn the box over to the window and see what’s inside: a gigantic purple penis with silicone veins and a battery end.
Marta’s watching me. “It has great texture. Feel it.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a vibrator.”
“No, I know it’s a vibrator, but . . . what kind of gift is this?” Disgusted, I shove the box back in the bag and crumple it closed.
Marta leans across the table, takes the bag, and dumps out the contents. The box with the silicone penis falls out, along with a smaller box, this one silver and black with a hot pink font.
“And the pocket rocket,” she says, tapping the smaller box. “Every woman has to have one. I love it.”
“Yuck. I don’t want these.”
“Yes, you do. They’ll make you feel better and maybe help you stop pining for Nathan. A man who doesn’t even deserve you, I might add.”
“How can you say that?” I demand, grabbing the boxes and shoving them back into the crumpled bag.
“Because I see what I see. He’s not here for you, he’s not trying to be here for you—”
“Maybe I chased him away. Have you thought about that? Maybe I blew it. Maybe I was the one who messed everything up.”
“How?” She bends down low and looks me hard in the eye. “How did you mess everything up?”
“You don’t know the situation, Marta. You don’t know what Nathan had to put up with—”
“Put up with? Taylor, were you some psycho bitch?”
“No!” I cry, incredulous.
“Did you fly around your house on a broomstick?”
“No.”
“So what did you do that made you so awful?”
I know she’s trying to help me. I know she’s trying to make me feel better, but she doesn’t understand. I do screw up. I have screwed up. I’ve chased Nathan away. And I don’t even know how, as I’ve spent the past twelve years trying to improve me. Trying to be a better woman, a better wife. I have dieted and exercised, I’ve studied fashion and interior design. I’ve taken cooking classes and sailing classes and even joined a wine group so I could appreciate wine with him.
Yet it wasn’t enough. Nothing I do is enough.
“What makes you the villain in this story and Nathan the good guy?” Marta persists.
I shake my head.
“No, I don’t accept that.” Marta is bent so low that we’re eye to eye, and it’s scary as hell. “Tell me. Why are you the bad guy?”
“I . . . have problems.”
“Taylor, everyone has problems. That’s why we have religion. To redeem and save us. To make us whole.”
“But I wasn’t always easy to live with—”
“So who is? And for that matter, did he ever complain before you had money troubles?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Marta returns to her desk, drops into her chair, and crosses her legs. “And I’ll tell you why. Because, Taylor Young, you’re beautiful. You’re smart and hardworking and a great mom and a
ll-around successful. Everyone in the community knows you, and therefore knows him. Nathan isn’t what’s made your family the family it is. It’s you. You’ve created this gorgeous, beautiful family. You carried the babies. You designed the house. You furnished the house. You took care of yourself. You volunteered endlessly at school. You did everything asked of you. And more.”
I grab the Christmas cards and the green envelopes and jam them into my bag. “Maybe I could do these at home—”
“Why can’t you see the good you do?”
“I do,” I say, my heart thumping wildly. “I do. So do you mind if I go?”
The weekend is quiet. In fact, the entire next week is quiet. I don’t know if Marta is more distant at work or if it’s me, but we don’t speak to each other unless there is something specific to say. I’m still agog that she’d think vibrators were a solution to anything.
But the office isn’t the only quiet place. Life at home is more silent, too. The phone doesn’t ring as much, and I’ve realized that in the last month people don’t invite us over or out as often, either.
After having so many friends and such a busy social life for so many years, it’s hard to believe my world has shrunk so dramatically.
What are people afraid of? Nathan isn’t dead or dying. We’re not getting divorced (at least not that I’ve heard). We just sold the house. Downsized. Tightened the belt, so to speak.
It shouldn’t matter to anyone but us. Money troubles aren’t contagious. You aren’t going to lose your blue-chip stocks just by having dinner with us.
But people are scared anyway. They stay away. They don’t call, they don’t return my call, leaving the girls and me more isolated than ever.
It’s so confusing, too. You’d think people would want to rally around, give us the good old pep talk, the one about life being difficult but you can do anything if you just set your mind to it.
People don’t give that pep talk here.
Maybe for most people life isn’t so difficult here.
It had never been difficult for us, either. Maybe that’s why Nathan couldn’t come to me when he lost his job. Maybe he didn’t expect that he—the golden boy—would ever have anything bad happen to him, and maybe he thought if he didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t be true.
It’s finally Friday noon, and I leave Z Design for the post office, where I mail all 350 cards now that they’re signed and sealed.
I have an auction chair meeting at Tully’s at one.
I arrive early, and as I always do, I grab chairs and create a little cluster. It just seems easier to have everything ready when everyone arrives. I suppose it also gives me something specific to do. I like having something specific to do. Gives me a sense of purpose.
As I wait with my coffee for the others, I spot a group of women at the conference table. I’ve seen them before, they gather here on Friday afternoons once or twice a month. They’re former teachers and librarians, smart women who love books and ideas and living. I never paid them much attention in the beginning—they weren’t dressed to the nines and didn’t care about good wine or the newest advances in technology—but today they’re discussing the movie Thelma & Louise.
“A cop-out, the ending was a cop-out. Just going over a cliff like that.”
“It’s because they made so many mistakes.”
“Too many mistakes. They made mistakes all along the way.”
“But you don’t drive off a cliff just because you screw up.”
“No, but they should have reported the rape. That’s the thing.”
“Driving off the cliff holding hands. Ridiculous. What a waste.”
“I thought it was funny. I laughed the entire movie.”
“Laughed because it’s foolish,” another shot back.
My attention is interrupted by the arrival of the committee. They’ve come in one big group, and I smile and greet everyone enthusiastically. Kate’s here, too, and I rise to give her a huge hug. God, I’ve missed her. I’ve missed everyone.
“How was everyone’s Thanksgiving?” I ask, smiling and looking around.
“Good, good,” they answer, but it doesn’t take me long to realize that no one’s making a lot of eye contact. In fact, no one’s really looking at me at all.
I feel a pain in my gut, a sharp pain that makes it hard to breathe. “Everything okay?” I ask quietly.
My question is greeted by silence. There’s my answer, I think as the pain in my gut spreads, radiating out, making me feel sick. Panicked.
Finally Kate looks at me. “The PTA board is worried about this year’s auction. The auction is just three months away, and the board is concerned that the auction is floundering.”
“But everything is right where it should be,” I answer, a little surprised by Kate’s comment but not unduly troubled. The auction’s stressful. Every year we have little dramas and disappointments during the planning. “Our procurement is right on target, and when the invitations go out in the mail after the holidays, we’ll work with the PTA board to push the ticket sales.”
No one says anything. These women, people I think of as friends, just stare into their coffee cups.
“Taylor, they’ve asked me to step in.” Kate sits tall. “They want me involved.”
I try to overlook the vote of no confidence. “That’s great, Kate. I’d love to have your help. The auction’s a huge project, and with Patti gone, I could use a co-chair—”
“They’re not talking co-chair.”
My heart hammers harder. My smile slips. “I don’t understand.”
“Taylor, you don’t have the big corporate sponsors yet, and usually at this point we have the corporate under-writing in place.”
I look steadily at Kate. “I’m confused. You and your husband are usually the auction’s biggest underwriters. You’ve underwritten the auction for the past five years. Are you saying you’re not underwriting the auction this year?”
“No, we’re not.” Kate gives me my answer while looking past my shoulder rather than in my eye.
“Why not?”
Her eyebrows pull. She looks pained that we’re even having this conversation. I’m pained, too. Kate’s my friend. We’ve been friends for years. “It’s a lot of money, Taylor.”
I know it’s a lot of money. It’s close to twenty thousand dollars. But they do it every year. They’re our Gold Sponsor, our Points Angel, every year.
When I say nothing, Kate is forced to continue. “Bill and I have discussed it, and we’re not comfortable underwriting the auction as it stands. We’re not sure it’s a wise investment.”
“What?” I choke, flushing.
“Taylor, there’s concern about your ability to manage such a large fund-raiser—”
“That’s absurd. I’ve been involved with fund-raising for years.”
“People are talking, Taylor, you might as well know it. The consensus seems to be that if you can’t manage your personal finances, how can you be responsible for the school finances?”
“But we’re working as a group. We work by committee.”
Amelia now clears her throat. This is Amelia’s first meeting. “The board felt it wasn’t wise to have you chairing an auction of this size.”
“What?”
Amelia presses on. “Now if Patti were still here—”
“But she’s not,” I interrupt fiercely.
For the first time, Kate looks sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Taylor, the board is asking that you step down as chair and allow someone else from the committee to assume the leadership role.”
I can’t believe it. Can’t. Kate’s my friend. She’s been my friend for years. “And if I don’t?”
Amelia, Kate, and Louisa exchange quick glances. “The committee chairs met last night, and we put the issue to a vote. The school administration has already been notified. You’ve been removed from your position.”
“So it’s done? Decided?” I look at them, not able to believe that women I know, women I cons
ider friends, would go behind my back to have me removed in a vote of no confidence.
“If we can just have your binder and notes,” Barb says terribly gently, “it’ll help the transition process and ensure we don’t lose further momentum.”
I still haven’t accepted it. I can’t accept it. This is such a huge power play, and I won’t be played. “No momentum has been lost. We’re still right on target, if not ahead—”
“We need the Gold Sponsors.” Amelia cuts me short. Her tone is crisp, no-nonsense, and I suddenly remember where we met and why I’m not comfortable with her. Her husband works at McKee Holding Company, Nathan’s former company. Her husband may have even replaced Nathan.
“Without the Points Angel,” she continues, “we don’t have a successful auction.”
I look at Kate. Her expression is pinched. “Kate,” I say softly, pleadingly, “you’re the underwriter, you’re the Points Angel. Work with me.”
Kate shakes her head. “I would, but Bill won’t. He’s not comfortable.” Her voice drops. “Taylor, you must understand . . . so much has happened in the past few months, so much has changed . . .”
I reach for her hand, clasp her fingers. “But I haven’t changed. I’m still me.”
Kate squeezes my fingers. “People are worried.”
“About what? That I’d embezzle money?”
“No, God, no.” Kate looks stricken. “It’s just that to effectively chair the auction, one has to be a good leader.”
“I’m not?” When she doesn’t answer, anger surges through me. Nathan and I are trying to be responsible. We’re trying to do the right thing. How else would people have us handle our mistakes? What would they have us do? Just continue to fake it? Digging deeper and deeper into debt?
Maybe the right thing doesn’t look all glossy and interesting, but it’s real.
Kate squeezes my hand again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I am. If it were me, I’d do things differently.”
Louisa puts her hands on the table. “I think that covers it.”
Amelia nods, rises, and, as she leaves, nods at me again.
The meeting ends and they go, but I don’t. I sit at the small rounds I pushed together earlier, back when I was excited to see everyone and anticipating a good meeting.