Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

by Robyn Harding

  “Obviously, it was a bad choice.” I think about Annika, the epitome of bad choices. “Sometimes you’re lonely and you need someone to be with, and then someone’s just there, you know, and they may not be the right person, but you’re attracted to them, for whatever reason, and they’re attracted to you—”

  “Dad! Gross!”

  “Sorry. I’m just saying that grown-ups do stupid things sometimes, just like kids.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  We drive in silence for a while as I build the courage to make my next suggestion. “Why don’t we invite your mom to join us tonight? We could go for pizza or something?”

  I expect Sam to blow her stack, but she doesn’t. She says nothing for several blocks, obviously considering the idea. Finally she says, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  “I understand. But we’d be together. We could forget about all the crap that’s happened lately and just hang out.”

  “So, we wouldn’t talk about Cody or that fat girl you were dating?”

  This obsession with Annika’s weight really pisses me off. I mean, the chick’s a complete psycho, but she’s not fat … more like curvaceous. Lucy really needs to watch it or Sam’s going to end up with an eating disorder. But I guess now’s not the time to explain the distinction between voluptuous and obese. “Right,” I say. “Those topics would be completely off limits.”

  My daughter is quiet for another long moment before she grumbles, “I guess we could invite her.”

  I feel a swell of relief—or maybe it’s more like hope? This is a huge step toward getting our family back together. Yeah, it’s just pizza, but Lucy’s got to appreciate what I’m doing for her here. I reach over and squeeze Sam’s knee.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’re really going to make your mom happy here.”

  She stares out the passenger window. “Whatevs.”

  Lucy

  I DRIVE HOME from the studio in a daze. There is no way I can process what has just happened and keep the car on the road. It was too insane, too surreal! I’ve never been one of those people who coveted fame. In fact, I’ve always sneered at the pomp and pretense. And now I’m being offered a chance to step into the limelight, to become “a celebrity”—albeit along the lines of Richard Hatch and Verne Troyer.

  The house is silent and empty as I let myself in, but I’m starting to get used to that. That’s not to say I don’t long for my daughter’s presence—I do. But now it’s more of a dull ache instead of a crippling stab of loneliness. I have to believe that her absence is only temporary. Automatically, I make my way to the kitchen. The mess of sugar and plastic bags remains, like some sort of tribute to my emotional breakdown. I didn’t have the fortitude to attack the mess this weekend. But for some reason, I now feel capable.

  I begin by picking up the large plastic Toys “R” Us bag and stuffing it with smaller ones. There must be some place I can recycle these, though I have no idea where. As I stuff, I realize that the bags aren’t just a product of my career as a props buyer; they’re practically a metaphor of it: useless, empty, and wasteful. All that plastic will end up languishing in some landfill, leaching chemicals into the soil and clogging waterways long after we’re gone. When I’ve retrieved the sacks from the floor, I attempt to cram the enormous package into the cupboard, but it no longer fits. I’ll have to find another way to get rid of them. I can’t keep cramming them away until the cupboard bursts and I’m asphyxiated by a landslide of shopping bags.

  Removing the broom, I start to sweep up the spilled sugar, lost in my thoughts. Based on the average life expectancy of the North American female, I am exactly halfway to the grave. For the first half of my existence I’d done everything right: worked hard (too hard probably, but I was committed); married well; bought a beautiful home; and doted on my child. And look what it’s got me. Nothing! Everything I wanted, or thought I wanted, is in jeopardy of vanishing.

  I bend down and sweep the sugar into the dustpan. It takes some effort—the tiny granules seem determined to flee the bristles—but I work diligently. As I do, my mind picks up speed. I reflect on the day’s offer: my own reality TV show. Never in a million years could I have predicted this opportunity. It’s so weird, so bizarre! It’s also a chance to win back my daughter, make a lot of money, and build a new relationship with a sexy young guy. But do I want the dubious fame? The notoriety? And do I want to raise my daughter in a fishbowl?

  Dumping the contents of the dustpan into the trash, I move to the counter. Leaning my elbows on the granite surface, I breathe slowly and deeply to calm my racing mind. A warm white light is filtering through the window, not sunshine exactly, but a welcome brightness in the otherwise gloomy day. I close my eyes for a moment. Behind my eyelids the light seeps in and I experience an unusual moment of clarity. It’s not an epiphany, exactly—that’s too strong a word. Perhaps revelation would be more appropriate. I suddenly realize that I have roughly forty more years on this planet, and how I spend them is entirely up to me.

  I can choose to be the star of Dating Cody, or I can choose not. I can choose to start a new relationship with Wynn, or I can try to salvage what I had with Trent. Hell, I can choose to be completely on my own if I want. It’s an incredibly powerful feeling, the knowledge that my future is back in my own hands. Sure I’m faced with a plethora of options, but how I proceed is my decision alone.

  I stand upright, my body reacting to this jolt of awareness. I’m going to do what’s right for me and fuck the rest of them! It might be selfish, but it’s a good kind of selfish. It’s suddenly so crystal clear. No longer will I exist in this state of anger and jealousy and self-pity! I’m moving forward! I know what I want for the next half of my life—and perhaps more importantly, what I don’t want.

  At that moment, the phone rings. I lean across the counter and answer it.

  “It’s me,” Trent says. “I thought you’d still be at work?”

  “I came home early.”

  “Okay … well, good. Sam and I are celebrating tonight. I got a new job.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” There’s a pause, probably intended for me to ask about the details of his new position. But the truth is, I don’t care. I guess this is a side effect of my newfound selfishness. Finally, Trent continues. “Yeah, so we’re going out for pizza and I suggested that maybe you could join us. It took some persuading, but Sam finally agreed that you can come.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “It wasn’t easy. She’s still upset with you, but I think she’s starting to come around.”

  “Good. But I can’t go out for pizza tonight.”

  I hear an incredulous snort. “What?”

  “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

  “So you’re going to blow off dinner with your kid? You haven’t seen her in a week!”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been,” I reply. “But tonight, I need to figure some stuff out.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Trent mutters. “You’re a piece of work.”

  I know what he was expecting. He was expecting me to thank him effusively for his peace-talk efforts and express eternal gratitude for including me in the invitation. Two days ago, I would have; two hours ago, I would have. But now, I know I need to spend the night alone. By tomorrow, everything will have changed.

  “Could you two come to dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook.”

  “I don’t know,” Trent grumbles. “Once I tell Sam that you’re blowing her off, she probably won’t want to come.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” I say calmly, “because that’s not what I’m doing. I’m asking you to give me one night to myself, and tomorrow we’ll have a family dinner to discuss our future.”

  There is a brief pause before Trent says, “Does that mean you’ve made a decision?”

  I hesitate for just a second. “Yeah, I just need to think through a few details.”

  “Okay then,” Trent says cheerfully. “Do you want me to brin
g anything?”

  For some reason, this simple act of courtesy fills me with emotion. “Sure,” I croak through the lump in my throat, “bring a salad.”

  Trent

  IT TAKES ALL MY WILLPOWER not to tell Sam how momentous this impending dinner is. I’m excited about it, for obvious reasons, but I play it cool. There’s enough pressure on her as it is, seeing her mom for the first time after all the shit that’s gone on. She doesn’t need to know that we’re all going to be moving back in together.

  Sam’s quiet on the drive to the house, fiddling with the Saran Wrap on the spinach salad I made. I glance over at her and see the concern etched on her face. Poor kid. She’s been through so much in the past couple of months. I’m glad that her life is finally going to get back to normal. One day, we’ll look back on this crazy fucked-up blip in our lives and laugh.

  I pull the car into the driveway and turn to my daughter. “You okay?”

  She looks at me and shrugs. “I guess.”

  “She’s your mom and she loves you,” I say, “more than anything in the world.” Sam nods and looks as though she might cry. “Give me that salad,” I say to ease the tension. “I wonder what’s for dinner?”

  Following Sam up the walk, I hang back as she rings the bell. They’re going to need a moment, no doubt. I can tell by my daughter’s demeanor that, despite her rage, she’s missed her mom. Within seconds, the door swings open and Lucy is there. Her eyes fall on Sam and instantly fill with tears.

  “Hi honey,” she manages.

  “Hi Mom.” Sam’s voice wobbles. Lucy reaches a tentative hand out to our daughter and touches her arm. It’s all Sam needs to fall apart.

  “Oh Sam,” Lucy says, drawing our sobbing daughter into her embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I-I was so embarrassed,” Sam wails. “How could you do that t-to me?”

  Lucy hugs her, stroking her hair. “I know. I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of that to happen.”

  “I-I know.”

  “And you will never be humiliated like that again.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  I stand holding my salad, witnessing their touching exchange. It’s a relief to have the two women I love back on speaking terms. Sure, Sam said she wanted to live with me full-time, but it’s obvious by her current reaction that she’s lost without Lucy. I can be a great dad to her, but she’s a girl and she needs a female role model in her life. She needs her mom.

  The salad is starting to get heavy and the females show no signs of ceasing their love-in. I clear my throat. Lucy looks up, acknowledging me. “Let’s go inside,” she says.

  We head to the kitchen and I place the salad on the counter. “Smells good,” I say.

  “Enchiladas,” Lucy says, giving Sam’s hand a squeeze. “Not very original, but I know you guys love them.”

  “Great.” I clap my hands together. “I’ve really missed your enchiladas.” It comes out as a double entendre, but thankfully, neither of them notices.

  “Do you want a beer?” Lucy offers, going to the fridge. “Sam, I’ve got San Pellegrino?”

  When we’ve got our drinks, Lucy suggests we sit in the living room. Sam reclines in a corner of the sectional, looking instantly at home. I perch in the center seat. It’s going to take me a little longer to feel completely comfortable back here.

  “So,” Lucy says, taking the spot between us, “it’s really great to have you both home.”

  Sam and I nod. Sam looks like she might cry again.

  “I’ve got some news,” Lucy continues, giving Sam’s knee a squeeze. “I’ve left my job.”

  “Really?” Sam asks. “Why?”

  I give Lucy a knowing look, but her eyes are affixed on Sam.

  “I decided that it’s not what I want to do with my life anymore. I want to do something more meaningful than go shopping for some TV character.”

  “And, I told you to stay away from that Cody kid.” I don’t say it though. We don’t need to bring that whole mess up right now. Things are going so well.

  Sam says, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well …” Lucy replies, her face lighting up. “I want to start my own business.”

  I take a swig of beer. “Really?”

  She looks at me. “Really.”

  “Doing what?” I didn’t mean it to sound challenging, but it sort of does. Lucy doesn’t rise to it, though.

  Instead, she looks at Sam. “Reusable shopping bags.”

  “Oh.”

  “But not just ordinary black or beige ones,” Lucy continues. “These will be beautiful: an environmental fashion statement.”

  Is there a market for that? I guess Lucy would know more than I would. She’s spent the last eight years of her life shopping. Sam seems to think so because she says, “Cool.”

  Lucy angles her body toward Sam, excluding me from the conversation entirely. “I want to hire you.”

  “Me?” Sam asks. “To do what?”

  “I want you to be my designer,” Lucy says. “It was the art on your bedroom wall that inspired me. I want some of those big floral prints you do. And I was thinking about something cleaner too, maybe like, your insects?”

  “Totally,” Sam says excitedly. “I think bugs are a really edgy design element.”

  “I love it!”

  “Great,” I say, pushing my way back into the conversation. “Have you got the start-up money?”

  Lucy turns to me. “I’ve got some of it, and I’ll get a small-business loan.”

  “You’ll qualify?”

  “I’ve already started working on my business plan,” she says with a touch of defensiveness in her voice.

  I don’t want to piss her off—not right before we announce our reunion to Sam. “I’m proud of you,” I say, giving her a warm smile. Then I look to Sam. “Your mom’s got some more news, too.”

  “Actually,” Lucy says, glancing at her watch, “I think those enchiladas need to come out.” She addresses our daughter. “Could you take them out for me? Just cover them and let them sit for a bit. There’s a piece of foil on the counter.”

  Sam hops up. “Should I set the table?”

  “That’d be great.”

  We watch her bounce to the kitchen, happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. The girl is really forgiving. I guess a short memory is a blessing. I turn to Lucy. “She’s really excited.”

  “Me too.”

  “Should we tell her at dinner then—that we’ll be moving back in?”

  Lucy bites her lip and slowly shakes her head. “No.”

  I feel a surge of anger—or maybe it’s fear. “When then?”

  “I can’t,” Lucy says calmly. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I can’t live with you, Trent. Not now, anyway.”

  “Fine,” I snap, standing up. “We won’t stay. We’ll let you get packing.”

  “Please,” she says, reaching for my hand. “Don’t storm off. Let’s talk about this.”

  I don’t get why she’s so freakishly calm. Lucy’s always been the one with the temper. “There’s nothing to talk about.” I pull my hand away and glance over my shoulder. Sam is digging in the cutlery drawer, oblivious to our conversation. “You don’t want to put our family back together, Lucy, so you can move out of the house.”

  “I’m not moving out,” she says firmly. “I’ll need the space for my business.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re putting this … shopping bag thing ahead of us? When did you become so goddamn selfish?”

  “Yesterday, actually.”

  “I’m out of here.” I start to walk off but she grabs my arm.

  “Just hear me out, okay?”

  Reluctantly, I allow her to drag me back to the sofa. “We are a family, Trent, whether we live in the same house or not.”

  I grunt. I’m not going to sit here and listen to a bunch of Oprah Winfrey bullshit. But she just ke
eps on talking.

  “We’ve hurt each other so much these past few months. It’s going to take a long time for the pain to go away.” She touches my hand in a motherly way. “But we also had a lot of good years together, and we can’t forget that either.”

  Christ! I somehow resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Get to the point,” I growl.

  “I want Sam to feel she has a home with both of us—here with me, and at your apartment with you.”

  “She wants to live with me,” I growl, though after the tearful reunion at the front door, I’m not so sure anymore.

  “I think we can both agree that it’s best for Sam to have both parents in her life.”

  “Yeah,” I snap, “but that doesn’t automatically mean you get the house.”

  “You’re the one who left,” she says, still eerily calm. “I’m staying.”

  I stand up. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Don’t go, Trent.”

  “You’ve really changed, Lucy, you know that? You’re acting like some weird Zen … freak.”

  She shrugs. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “See?” I cry. “I just called you a weird freak and you didn’t even react! The old Lucy would have been pissed off. What the hell has happened to you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just decided I want to live my life differently. I don’t want to be angry anymore.”

  She’s definitely been watching too many daytime talk shows.

  “Please,” she says, “stay for dinner.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” I storm into the kitchen where Sam is folding napkins. “Let’s go.”

  Her cheerful expression fades and I feel like shit. “What? Why?”

  “Your mother and I …” Fuck. What am I supposed to say? She’s finally reunited with her mom, and now I’m dragging her away. Lucy steps forward.

  “Your dad needs some time on his own,” she says beatifically. “But I’d like you to stay.”

  Sam looks at me, as if for permission. I can tell she doesn’t want to leave, but feels guilty not coming with me. She’s such a sweet kid. Yeah, she’s acted out a bit lately, but who can blame her? Lucy and I have put her through so much crap. I suddenly feel really emotional. “Stay,” I croak. “I’ll pick you up later.”