When Mr. Larson leaves at 11:50, I pick up the phone to dial Lucy’s cell. I’ve just punched in the first set of numbers when Annika pops her head into my office.
“Do you have plans for lunch?”
I abruptly hang up the phone. “No, actually, no plans.”
“Want to go for noodles? I’m starving.”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
“I’ll go get my purse. Meet me at the front door when you’ve finished your call.”
“No,” I say, standing up and sticking my phone in my pocket, “I’ll make the call later. Let’s go eat.”
At lunch, Annika and I sit on tall stools at a tiny round table, bowls of Japanese noodle soup in front of us. We make small talk about work as we eat. I love how she eats. She scoops up enormous heaps of noodles with her chopsticks and shoves them in her mouth. She’s not trying to be phony and ladylike. It’s great how she can just be one of the guys, like she’s completely comfortable in my presence. Unless, of course, that means she just thinks of me as a friend and isn’t interested in me as, like, a man. The thought sends a wave of something like anxiety through my stomach. I set down my chopsticks and take a drink of Coke.
As if she can read my mind, Annika coyly stirs her soup. “So … how’s your wife these days?”
I refrain from letting out an audible sigh of relief. Her question—or more accurately, her delivery—makes it clear that I’m more than just a co-worker to her. Besides, we’ve been flirting like crazy for months now. “Uh …” I clear my throat before continuing. Is it too soon to tell her that I’ve left Lucy? Will it scare her off? But our eyes connect and I feel the intensity of her gaze. “We’ve separated. I moved out.”
“Oh … I’m sorry,” she says, placing her hand consolingly on mine.
“I’m not,” I say, my voice hoarse. Our eyes are still connected, and I swear to god I could take her into the restroom at the back of the restaurant and do her right now. Except, of course, everyone would hear us and our receptionist is at the counter ordering her lunch at this very moment. Plus, we’d be banned from eating lunch here ever again, and it’s the best place to get noodles in the general vicinity of our office.
“Where are you living then?”
“I’m staying at the Sutton Place, just until I can find an apartment.”
“Nice hotel,” she says, waving to the receptionist as she carries her take-out back to the office. “I love the bar there. It’s so fun to have a drink and watch the celebrities.”
It’s a cue, isn’t it? It’s not just a simple, celebrity-spotting anecdote. It can’t be. Christ, I’ve been off the scene for so long, I can’t tell anymore. But I take the plunge. “Yeah … We should meet there for a drink one night. I heard Lance Armstrong was staying there the other weekend.”
She looks at me and smiles. It’s a playful smile, almost teasing, but not mocking like when Lucy was looking at my skinny-leg trousers. “My friend and I saw Gene Simmons there two months ago. How’s Friday?”
When I get back to the office, I can’t stop smiling. I feel like an idiot, but I can’t help it. I have a date with Annika. Of course, it’s not officially a date: it’s just two co-workers getting together to have a drink and spot B-list celebrities. But I can feel the attraction between us and I know she can too. It’s been building for ages. And who knows where Friday night will lead? It could be the start of something, something new and exciting and unbelievably hot.
I decide not to phone Lucy. She’s only going to bring me down with her insults and accusations. I deserve to enjoy this moment of anticipation. It’s been way too long. But I haven’t forgotten that I owe my daughter an explanation. I busy myself with paperwork until 4:30 when I know Sam will be home from school.
“Hey you,” I say cheerfully when she answers the phone.
“Oh, hey Dad.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I just got home.” I hear her opening the fridge, rummaging for her after-school snack. “Where are you?”
“I’m at work,” I answer, a little confused by the question.
“Mom said you were out of town on business.”
Thank you, Lucy. At least she had the decency to let me tell Samantha in my own words. “Right. Well, I’m back now and catching up on some stuff at the office. But I’ll be home around 7:00, 7:30. Will you be there?”
“Yeah,” she says, chewing something she found in the refrigerator. “I’ve got a project to work on for the art show in March.”
“Great. Okay, that sounds great.”
“’Kay. See you later.”
“Uh … Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“When I get home, I’d like to talk to you and your mom … Okay?”
“Sure, fine. See you then.”
“Bye honey … I love you.” But she has already hung up.
Lucy
I TRY TO CLING TO CAMILLE’S WORDS for the rest of the day, but I have trouble believing that, in the long run, I’ll be ecstatic that my husband chose to walk out on me and my teenage daughter. Perhaps when Camille comes over tonight with her bottle of vodka she’ll be able to convince me. But when I get home from work, Samantha relays a message.
“Dad called,” she says, staring at Access Hollywood on the TV.
“He did?” I reply, my voice sounding shrill and strained. I consciously affect a more casual tone. “Okay … so, what did he say?”
“He said he’ll be home around 7:30.” Her eyes remain on the television screen. “He wants to talk to us about something.”
“All right then,” I say cheerfully, going to the fridge and peering inside. “What should we have for dinner?”
“I already had soup,” Sam calls.
“Okay, good.” Of course, I can’t eat. My stomach is suddenly filled with butterflies. Home. Trent said he’d be home at 7:30. Could that mean he’s come to his senses and wants to apologize to us? Of course, he doesn’t really need to apologize to Samantha, since as far as she’s concerned he just went away on a business trip. But perhaps he wants to start a new chapter of our life together? Maybe he wants to tell us both that he really treasures us and will start treating us accordingly. I’m a little surprised at how the possibility of his return fills me with elation. As angry as I am, Hope was right. I really do want him to come home and put our family back together.
I suddenly realize I’d better call Camille and tell her not to come over with her cocktails and venom. Thankfully, I get her answering machine and leave a brief message. I don’t really want to hear her tell me that I’m married to an immature cocksucker who doesn’t deserve a second chance. Now I wish I hadn’t even told her. No, as Hope said, Trent just needed a little time alone before he realized that he loves his family and can’t bear to give us up. It’s normal, middle-aged male behavior. I’m just lucky that it only took one night in a downtown hotel for him to realize it, and not multiple trips to Aspen and the Bahamas.
Suddenly, my daughter lets out an ear-splitting squeal. “Oh my god! There’s Wynn Felker! You didn’t tell me he was going to be at the Teen Choice Awards!”
“I didn’t know,” I say, closing the fridge and looking at the TV. Sure enough, Wynn Felker is being interviewed at the after-party by a bubbly Latina with a microphone. “I don’t know why he’s there. He’s hardly a teen.”
“Shhhhh!” my daughter insists angrily, leaning closer to the television.
“Yeah …” Wynn is saying. “It’s really flattering to be voted Choice Hottie. You know, I’ve been in the business for a few years now …”
I scoff. “Only, like, fifteen or so.”
“Mom!” Samantha says angrily, eyes still affixed to the TV.
Wynn continues. “You know … it’s just really nice to get recognized.”
“I can’t believe I missed the Teen Choice Awards!” Samantha cries when the program breaks for commercial. “If you had told me that Wynn was going to be on, I would have made sure I stayed home.”
“Well, maybe if you made more of an effort,” she says. “Like, why have you never invited him over for dinner?”
“Why would I? What would I have in common with Wynn Felker?” But the sound of a key in the front door stops me. Damn! Trent is here already. I’d hoped to have time to freshen up before he arrived. Not that I intend to completely forgive him for his desertion of us, but it would have been nice to mark his return with a little fresh lipstick and maybe offer him a martini.
“Hi my girls,” he says, walking into the living room with his usual greeting. I can’t help but smile as he leans over the back of the couch and kisses the top of Samantha’s head. We’re a family, even if we are going through a rocky patch.
Sam flicks the TV off. “So what’s up? I’ve got an art project I want to get started on.”
“Why don’t we all sit down together?” Trent says, looking over at me. Obediently, I move to the TV area and sit next to Samantha. Trent, sitting on her other side, continues. “Your mother and I would like to talk to you about something.”
Sam twirls a piece of shoulder-length blond hair, evidence that she senses this is no ordinary conversation. Automatically, I reach over and squeeze her knee. She looks at me, her eyes full of fear. I give her a supportive smile. Don’t worry, I try to convey with my expression, it’s all going to be fine. Dad’s gone through a little mini-crisis, but he’s home now.
Trent clears his throat. “You know I wasn’t home last night.”
“Yeah.” Sam shrugs. “Mom said you were away on business. So?”
“Well … that’s not entirely true. I … uh … Your mother and I have decided that … we’ve reached a stage in our marriage where we need to spend some time apart.”
Oh, no you don’t! “Well, Sam, that’s not entirely true either. Your father has made this decision one hundred percent on his own.” I’d hoped to keep the anger out of my voice for Samantha’s sake, but somehow it seeps in. Perhaps it’s the rage that is suddenly engulfing me, sending hot, bubbling hatred coursing through my veins. Not only is he not coming home, now he’s trying to blame me for half of this!
“Okay, whatever,” Trent says, dismissively. “Who decided is irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant? Hah!”
“Lucy … this isn’t helping.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, sarcastically. “I’m sure if I just smiled and nodded along, Samantha would have no trouble accepting that her father has decided to leave us.”
“Mom!” Sam cries, sounding annoyed at me.
“What, honey?”
“Just let him talk, okay?” And I see her chin tremble with emotion.
Trent shoots me a look of warning and then turns to our only child. “I’m going to be moving out for a while.”
“How long?” she asks, suddenly sounding about four years old.
“I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t love you … and your mother,” he adds, in a tone that could not be more devoid of love. “It’s just that I need to spend some time by myself to figure out … some stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Uh … Grown-up, man stuff.”
I snort. I know I’m supposed to let him talk, but “grown-up, man stuff”? Pleeeeeze!
Trent ignores me. “I still want to see you, sweetie. And I still want to be a part of your life. I’ll still come to your art show in March. And I’m going to get a two-bedroom apartment so that you can stay with me some weekends.”
Samantha stands up. “Oh, can I?” she says, obviously having inherited her mother’s sarcasm. “That sounds great! I can’t wait!” Marching from the room, she growls, “Whatevs.”
“Well done,” I snipe, moving back to the kitchen. “You’ve broken two hearts in two days. Good job.”
“Enough with the sarcasm,” Trent barks. I have to admit that even I am getting a little tired of it. I turn to face him as he continues. “This is not an easy time for any of us. And I know you think I’m being a selfish bastard for moving out, but I’m not Saddam Hussein, for Christ’s sake. Cut me some slack.”
And suddenly I feel the tears starting to build. Oh no, not again. I’m torn between wanting to cut him some slack and wanting to cut him into several pieces with the paring knife sitting next to the toaster. But of course, a paring knife couldn’t possibly cut through a full-grown man. I nod mutely, a single tear trickling, almost poetically, I think, down my cheek.
“Oh honey,” he says, coming toward me. He reaches for me but I wisely step away. As much as I want to melt into the familiar comfort of his arms, I know it wouldn’t change anything. It would only make it that much harder when he walks out the door.
“Okay then,” he says. “I’ll check on you girls later.”
When he’s gone and I’ve ebbed the flow of my tears, I go to Samantha’s room. “Knock, knock,” I say, opening the door. “Can I come in?”
“No,” she snaps, “I’m working on my art project.”
“Can I see?” I ask, as cheerfully as possible.
“It’s not ready yet.”
“Okay … well, if you want to talk about any of this, I’ll be downstairs.” Silence. “I love you Samantha … more than anything in the world.”
There is a long pause before my daughter finally mumbles, “Yeah, whatevs.”
THE NEXT MORNING, it’s evident that my daughter and I have made an unspoken pact not to mention the fact that we now live in a broken home.
“How are you?” I ask, as she shuffles into the kitchen.
She looks at me morosely. “How do you think?”
“Well, if you’re not up to going to school today, I understand. I could take the day off and we could do something. Go to the art gallery or something?”
“Nah,” she says, grabbing a banana out of the fruit bowl. “I don’t want to get behind. See ya later.”
“Have a good day, honey!” I call after her.
And that’s how I get through the day: with a forced cheerfulness that’s probably bordering on creepy. As I dig through the chaotic props room looking for pool noodles, coolers, a punch bowl, and various other toys for Cody’s end-of-school-year beach party, I let the facade drop. But as soon as I face any of my co-workers, I smile with a ferocity that’s almost painful. When I receive a few awkward, almost frightened looks, I wonder if I’m looking a bit like The Joker.
Hope calls me on my cell phone at noon. “I left you four messages yesterday. Where were you?”
“Sorry. I was at work and when I got home, Trent came over and—”
“See?” she says triumphantly. “I knew it was just a phase. That was really quick though. I mean, it took Mike a few months to sort himself out.”
I explain my husband’s visit. “Oh, Lucy,” she says, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to control the quiver in my voice.
“You and Sam are coming over for dinner tonight and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s nice of you, but … I don’t know if it’s really a good idea for Samantha to be around a happy family right now. It might just make her feel worse about what’s going on at home.”
“Mike won’t be home though,” Hope says. “Trent asked him to go for drinks tonight. It’ll just be us and the kids.”
“Drinks? Trent’s going out for drinks?”
Hope laughs. “Don’t turn it into some kind of bachelor party. Trent needs someone to confide in, and Mike’s already been through this. You know he’s going to tell him to go back home to you and Sam.”
“Okay,” I mumble, “I’ll call you after I talk to Sam about dinner.”
“Tell her to come and spend some time with Sarah-Louise. It’ll be good for her.”
I already know my daughter won’t be in the mood for perky, straight-A-getting, trombone-pla
ying Sarah-Louise, but I don’t say anything.
I hang up the phone just as Wynn Felker walks past, trailed by one of his obsequious female handlers. As usual, he ignores me and I him. But I can’t help but think about Samantha’s suggestion that I invite him home for dinner. Obviously, he’d say, “No thanks. Who are you?” but it’s the one thing I can think of that would cheer my daughter up. And even I would rather have dinner with Wynn Felker tonight than with a pitying Hope and her three eerily perfect children.
But Wynn barks, “Debbie, I’m not going to some mall opening in Nebraska. I don’t care how much money they’re offering.”
“I know,” Debbie chirps, “but Stephen thinks it would be good to capitalize on your Choice Hottie win. He says you need to get your face out there.”
“In Nebraska?”
“I know, but Stephen says your numbers are lower in the Midwest, so it might be a good idea …?”
“I can’t do it,” Wynn says. “I’ve got other plans and I can’t be in two places at once, can I?”
“I know. Okay, I’ll talk to Stephen and tell him your position.”
At that moment, Wynn turns and looks through the doorway of the props room. Our eyes meet for a moment, but there is no warmth, no recognition. And there is certainly no “You look like you’re going through a hard time right now. Would you like the Choice Hottie to come over for dinner to cheer up your teenage daughter?” I flash him my creepy, Joker-like smile. He gives me a quick, indifferent grin and then continues on his way.
Trent
“YOU KNOW I’M SUPPOSED to be talking you into going home,” Mike says, sawing off a piece of blue-rare steak and shoving it in his mouth. He’s a big, beefy kind of guy and looks really comfortable eating nearly raw meat.
“I’m sure you are.”
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 3