“Fuck.”
“I know.”
“How do we stop this?” I ask pleadingly.
Wynn lets out a puff of breath between his lips. “We just have to ride it out. You know how these things go … You’re all over the tabloids one week; completely forgotten the next.”
I jump up. “I can’t just ride this out!” I screech. “I can’t be all over the tabloids. I have my daughter to think about.”
Wynn’s youthful face looks stressed. “You guys might want to get away for a while … So you’re not harassed …”
And then, like a jolt of electricity, the magnitude of the crisis hits me. What if Sam sees the photo before I’ve had a chance to explain? What if Ava Watkins runs into her and says something like, “Oh sweetie, I’m sorry to hear that your mother tried to rape your teenage crush.” What if the press is at Crofton House this very moment, asking Sam to comment on how she feels about her mother flashing her boobs at Cody Summers?
I grab my coat and purse. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll come with you,” Wynn stupidly offers.
“No,” I growl at him. “You will not come with me. You’ve done enough damage.”
Trent
“SHE SAYS YOU GAVE HER CRABS,” Don says.
“No!” I cry. “I didn’t!”
“She has a letter from a doctor.”
“Maybe she has crabs, but she didn’t get them from me!”
Don continues, “We need to sort this out, Trent. She’s threatening legal action against the firm.”
“So what are you saying?” I snap. “That you want me to resign?”
Don reclines slightly in his chair. “I could offer you a transfer to the Coquitlam office.”
I jump out of my seat. “She’s crazy and I’m being sent to work out in the boonies?”
“It’s not the boonies. It’ll take you forty-five minutes tops.”
“No,” I say, placing my hands on the desk and leaning across it. “I’m trying to reconnect with my family. Adding an hourand-a-half commute to my day is not going to help any.”
His response is cool. “Maybe you should have thought about your family before you started banging that psycho.”
“I made a mistake!” I boom. “I admit it. But would you rather keep a crazy bitch like Annika in the office than a solid, loyal employee like me?”
Don sits forward, a gesture that puts me back in my seat. “You don’t want this to go to court, Trent. She’s saying things … It’s not just the crabs.”
“I never asked her to spank me!” I shout, then lower my voice. “She’s making all that shit up.”
“She says you like to be peed on.”
“Oh my god!”
“And dress up in women’s lingerie.”
“I don’t!”
“I believe you, some won’t.”
Oh god. Annika will stop at nothing to destroy me. What’s next? Boiling Sam’s hamster? Thankfully, the hamster died over a year ago of natural causes, but I suddenly realize what I’m dealing with here. I clear my throat.
“I need some time to think.”
Don seems glad to get rid of me. “Sure. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You can give me your decision tomorrow.”
Outside, the spring sun is peeking through the buildings, warming the west side of the street. I cross Hastings and move onto the sunny side of Richards. It’s grown on me, this walking back and forth to work. I thought I’d miss my car, but now the thought of a forty-five-minute commute is distasteful. It’s bad for the environment, for starters. But if I’m being honest, I’ve got too many problems of my own to give a shit about global warming. It’s not the drive I dread so much, but the time investment. How am I going to ease my way back into Sam and Lucy’s good books when I’m spending an hour and a half stuck in traffic every day?
It’s not a definite plan at this stage, more of an overall strategy. Slowly but surely, I will infiltrate my daughter’s life again. I’ll start picking her up from school a couple of times a week, bringing her back to my apartment for a home-cooked meal. When I know she’s home alone, I’ll pack up dinner and take it over to her, something she loves, like lasagna or my chicken parmesan. “Leave a little for your mom,” I’ll say, so that when Lucy finally gets home from work, she can reheat one of my specialties. Eventually, I’ll stay a little longer, just to keep Sam company until her mom gets back. Lucy won’t have the heart to kick me out when she sees how close Sam and I have become. Sam will get back to her old self and start painting again, and Lucy will be so grateful to me that she’ll invite me back home. But how can I execute my strategy when I’m stuck out in Coquitlam, land of strip malls, dodgy pubs, and fast food outlets?
I’ll get another job, one that’s in the city. It shouldn’t be too hard: I’ve got the education, the experience, and the contacts— unless Annika has spread word through the industry that I’m a cross-dresser with crabs and a penchant for golden showers.
Almost unconsciously, I walk into the beer store two blocks before my building. My fridge is empty, and if ever I needed an after-work beer, it’s today. Sure, it’s only one-thirty, but I need to de-stress. I grab a case of Heineken. Given the fact that I could soon be unemployed, I should buy something domestic. But this isn’t the time to deprive myself. Walking to the cash register, I plunk the case on the counter.
The clerk, a skinny kid of about twenty, keeps his eyes glued to the open newspaper beside my beer case. “That all?” he asks, eyes affixed to the entertainment section.
“Yep.” As he punches in my purchase, I glance at the paper to see what had him so transfixed. It’s upside down, but there’s a large photo of some woman in her bra and some good-looking young guy. She’s got a nice rack. Then the words Cody’s Way pop out at me from the caption. That’s Lucy’s show! I grab the paper and turn it toward me.
That’s when I see that the woman with the nice rack is my wife, who appears about to eat that Cody Summers kid. I’m stunned. A sickening wave of rage and betrayal overtakes me.
“Twenty-two bucks,” the kid says.
I hand over the bills. “Can I take this?” I ask hoarsely, indicating the paper.
“I was reading it.”
“I’ll give you five bucks for it.” I toss a fiver on the counter.
“Okay,” he shrugs, handing over my change. “There’s a newspaper box right outside …” But I’m already leaving the store.
Somehow, I make it home before reading the article. I just can’t do it in public. My wife is banging some teenage actor. It’s sickening! How can she degrade herself like that? How can she degrade me like that? In the privacy of my apartment I devour the contents.
It’s a short blurb. The paper doesn’t even know who Lucy is, or the scope of her relationship with Wynn Felker (Cody Summers’s real name). She’s identified only as “a sexy soccer mom” caught outside Felker’s waterfront home. The kid is apparently twenty-seven, not seventeen, which at least makes it less illegal for her to be carrying on with him. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s disgusting. He’s still on some teenybopper TV show and millions of little girls are in love with him.
Jesus Christ! I’m immediately running out the door, car keys in hand. Sam can’t see this photograph. She’s one of the millions of little girls in love with that Cody kid. If she sees her mom sexually attacking him in the newspaper, who knows what she’ll do. “Damn you, Lucy,” I mutter as the elevator slowly lurches down to the parking garage.
Within moments I’m behind the wheel and racing toward Crofton House. Amidst my anger at Lucy and my fear for my daughter, one thing has become clear. I can’t take a job outside the city. My daughter needs me now more than ever.
Lucy
I WAIT IN THE HALL as Principal Black disrupts tenth-grade history class to extract my daughter. “Your mother is here,” the large woman whispers, her tone pitying. I’m thankful for Principal Black’s kindness, but there’s something inherently judgmenta
l in her rigid posture and cloying smile. If she saw that photo of me and Wynn, she’d probably feel it her duty to call Children’s Services and have Sam removed from my care.
My daughter spots me across the hall, her face contorted with worry. She rushes up to me. “What’s wrong? What happened? Is it Dad?”
“No honey, it’s nothing like that,” I assure her. But to maintain the urgency of the situation for Principal Black’s benefit, I say, “I just need to talk to you about some … urgent … family … stuff.”
When we’re outside the building, Sam says, “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”
“Don’t freak out.” I reach for her hand, give it a squeeze. A lump forms in my throat as I experience a flash of déjà vu. Sam is a little girl skipping beside me, holding my hand like I’m her favorite person in the world. Breathing in, I try to staunch the emotion threatening to overtake me. I look at my daughter and realize that, in about half an hour, she’s going to hate my guts.
We’re almost to the SUV when Trent pulls in. I hear the squeal of tires before I notice the Lexus speeding in to the parking lot.
“Christ,” I grumble, “this is a school zone.”
“Why is Dad here?” Sam cries as Trent flies out of the car. “Oh god. Did Grandma die?”
“Grandma’s fine,” I say as Trent jogs up to us.
He touches Sam’s shoulder. “How you holding up, kiddo?”
Sam shrieks, “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Let’s go home so we can talk.” I make a move toward the car, but no one follows me.
“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on!” my daughter cries.
Trent looks at me. “She hasn’t seen it yet?”
“Seen what yet?”
I turn to my husband. “Can you let me handle this, please?”
“Handle what?” Sam screams.
“You’d better tell her,” Trent insists, “before she finds out on her own.”
I don’t like his holier-than-thou tone. He probably thinks that my being caught in a compromising position with Wynn Felker somehow erases his dalliance with his porcine coworker. But now is not the time to take offense. My daughter looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“Well honey,” I say cheerfully, “you know that I work with Wynn Felker.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
“We’ve become sort of friends lately, and sometimes, people get the wrong idea when two adults are friends.”
“Be straight with her, Lucy,” Trent says.
“Will you stay out of this?” I shriek. “You obviously have no idea how to handle new relationships and children.”
“New relationships?” Sam says weakly.
“Nice one,” Trent grumbles.
I’d like to kick him in the nuts right about now, but obviously that wouldn’t help Sam. “No, no,” I say, trying to backpedal, “Wynn and I are just friends, but there’s a photograph … You know how the media always spin things to make a better story.”
Sam says, “A photograph of you and Wynn Felker?”
“I’d been to his house to talk about some work stuff,” I say lamely. “And when I left, a photographer jumped out of the bushes and took a picture.”
“Oh,” Sam says, skeptical but accepting. But Trent just can’t keep his big fat nose out of it.
“Tell her the truth,” he demands.
“I did!” I lie.
“You’re in the newspaper with your shirt undone, practically throwing yourself at that Cody kid.”
“What?” Sam shrieks.
“You’re such an asshole,” I hiss at Trent.
“She’s going to find out sooner or later.”
“Honey,” I say, turning to my daughter, “it’s not that bad. I’d spilled some juice on my shirt and so I had it undone to dry out.”
“Juice?” Trent snorts.
“Yes,” I glare at him, “juice.”
“Stop treating her like a baby,” Trent snipes. “She’s not going to buy that bullshit story.”
Unfortunately, he appears to be right. Sam turns on me. “First you flash your boob at him, and now this?” Her voice is cruel when she says, “You make me sick.”
As Sam storms across the parking lot toward Trent’s car, he says, “You flashed your boob at him?”
“No!” I snap. “It fell out—not that it’s any of your business.”
“What exactly is going on with you and this Cody kid?”
“Nothing! And he’s not a kid. Why are you even here, anyway?”
Sam is at the Lexus’s passenger door. “Dad, unlock your car!”
“Don’t,” I tell him. “She needs to come home with me so we can talk.”
“Sounds like it’s a bit late for that.”
“Trent …”my voice wobbles. “There’s nothing going on with me and Wynn. It was a mistake. Please … I can’t lose her.”
He is surprisingly kind. “You won’t,” he says, giving my shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Give her a little time to cool off. I’ll bring her home later.”
Trent
“I WANT TO SEE IT,” Sam says, flopping on the couch. Despite the fact that she’s only been to my apartment once, she seems remarkably at home. “If you don’t show it to me, someone at school will. And that will be even grosser and mess me up more.”
She has a point. At least if her initial viewing of the photograph is with me, I can be there to ease the pain. I grab the newspaper off the floor and hand it to her.
Sam stares at the photo, and for a few moments, says nothing. Other than a distasteful curl of her lips, she seems to have no reaction at all. Then finally, she throws the paper to the floor. “It’s disgusting!” she shrieks. “It’s even more disgusting than you bringing your girlfriend to my art show.”
“Uh … thanks.” I shift uncomfortably. “That was a big mistake and I’m not seeing her anymore.”
Sam picks up the paper, looks at it once more, then proceeds to rip it into pieces. “What is wrong with her? Cody’s like, practically my age.”
I clear my throat. “But Wynn Felker is actually twenty-seven, so it’s not … you know, against the law or anything.” It feels strange, defending Lucy’s liaison with Cody Summers. I’m sickened by the thought of it. And although I have no right, I feel jealous, possessive, and hurt. Seeing her breasts hanging out in the newspaper makes me livid. Those are my breasts! Why did she have to flaunt them in that kid’s face like that?
Sam brings me back to the room. “She’s sick,” my daughter is saying. “She invited him over to our house and she was all like, ‘Meet my poor sad daughter.’ And then she hits on him!”
“Well …” I’m not sure if I should say this in front of Sam, but the pieces are coming together in my mind. “Maybe Cody was really there to see your mom?”
“But he brought me flowers!” Now she stops, acknowledges the possibility. “Eww! Do you think Cody’s, like, her boyfriend?”
The words are like a punch in the stomach. “No,” I say quickly, “he’s not, like, her boyfriend. She said there’s nothing going on and I believe her.”
“Well, I don’t,” Sam huffs, going to the fridge. “Can I have a beer?”
“What?” I boom. “No!”
“God, you don’t need to spaz. It’s just one beer.”
“Forget it.” I hurry to the kitchen and shut the fridge door.
“That’s what’s wrong with this society,” Sam says, rummaging through the cupboards in search of something to eat, I suppose. “Parents are so uptight about everything. If this was France, you would already have offered me a glass of wine.”
“This isn’t France,” I mutter. “There’ll be no underage drinking.”
“Okay,” she says, removing an Ikea glass and filling it with water. “I’ll just deal with my mom banging the guy I’m in love with without alcohol.”
“They’re not banging!” I yell. “And don
’t say banging, please.”
“Sorry!”
“And you’re not in love with him. He’s a TV character.”
She whirls on me. “He came to see me and brought me flowers!” She suddenly remembers the distinct possibility that the visit wasn’t hers. “I’m not going back there.”
“What?”
Sam charges back to the living room and sits on the sofa. “I’m not going back to Mom’s house.”
I’m really dying for a beer myself, but it would be like taunting her. Instead, I follow her to the front room. “You have to go back, honey. It’s your home.”
Shades of the vicious girl I’d seen after the art show emerge. “So you don’t want to spend time with me after all. Was that just your way of getting into Mom’s good books again?”
I keep my cool. “Of course I want to spend time with you, Sam. But you don’t have any clothes here. You’ve got school in the morning …”
“I’m not going to school.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How can I? Everyone at school will have seen that photo! They’ll think my mom is some child-molesting sex maniac!”
She has a point. “You have to go,” I say.
“Forget it. And I’m not going home either.”
I look at my daughter, her arms crossed fiercely across her chest. Her jaw, so like her mother’s, is set with grim determination. Suddenly I realize I’m completely out of my depth. Obviously, Sam can’t live with me in this apartment forever. And she can’t quit school. But what do I say? How am I supposed to handle this? I need Lucy.
“I’ll go to the house and pick you up some clothes and stuff,” I offer, already grabbing the car keys. “I’ll tell your mom that you’re going to be staying with me for a few days.”
“A few years!” Sam snipes.
“But you will be going to school tomorrow. Okay?”
To my surprise and relief, she shrugs. “Okay.”
“There are some frozen dinners in the freezer,” I say, slipping on my jacket. “I’ll be back soon.”
She reaches for the remote and flicks on the TV.
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 18