“Hey guys, do you know where Ashley was last night and this morning?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Ashley lives with her daddy now,” Sam pipes up. “I asked Sloane if she has any kids and she said her daughter lives with her daddy, so now we can be her kids.”
On the one hand, I am feeling so vindictive that I’m more than a bit happy that Sloane’s own daughter doesn’t even want to live with her. On the other hand, I’m furious that Sloane is positioning herself as a new mom for my children, especially Sam, my baby. “Why does Ashley live with her daddy?” I ask.
Emma is next to me in the front seat, head turned, staring out the window. “I’d like to live with my dad,” she spits—under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
I ignore her and look at Sam in the rearview mirror. He answers quickly, “I don’t know, but I heard Ashley tell her mommy that she hates her and doesn’t want to see her again when Sloane called her. She yelled really loudly. I heard her all the way through the phone.”
“What did Sloane say?” I ask.
Will answers for Sam, “I heard it too. Sloane yelled a word we can’t say and hung up. Her face got really red when she turned around and saw me. I told her she shouldn’t say words like that.”
I really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. Maybe I’m becoming as much of a bitch as Sloane is. As terrible as it makes me, though—I can’t help but feel some sort of cosmic justice that her daughter hates her as much as mine hates me. It still doesn’t fix my daughter hating me and certainly doesn’t make it any less hurtful that my daughter seems to have taken to Sloane, but it does make me want to yell, “Karma’s a bitch,” out the window at the top of my lungs. But because I don’t curse in front of my children, I don’t. I just smile a bit to myself.
I drop the kids off on time—a miracle—and head home. Another miracle—the paparazzi are nowhere to be seen today. They weren’t camped out in front of my house when I left to get the kids, and I have no idea if they saw Ben leave so quickly last night. They didn’t follow me to school, and they weren’t waiting when I got back. I know the public has to tire of me at some point, especially since I haven’t marketed myself by going on any of the talk shows that have called or giving interviews. And, I’m all too happy to have them tire of me now.
I don’t know how all those so-called celebrities live their lives under a microscope. Even this short time has been so incredibly difficult—wondering if there will be camera lenses on me, trying to protect my children. The fact that I became “famous” for being naked has just made everything worse. It’s a nightmare completely not of my doing—it’s all Sloane’s fault. She ruined my life. I thought that the silver lining would be Ben coming back into my life, but even that didn’t work out. I’m wallowing in self-pity and for just a moment it feels indulgent, but then it doesn’t—it just feels pathetic.
“Max, snap out of it!” I chastise myself. I often talk to myself. Someone once told me that talking to yourself is good, because you always get the answer you want. I pull down the car visor and look in the mirror. Dark circles shadow the hollows under my eyes, and fine lines are etched below. I really need to start wearing concealer, especially with all the stress in my life. There, that’s a constructive thing I can do to make myself feel better—wear concealer. It’s small, but hey, it’s something.
I let myself in the house and turn off the alarm as Daisy comes bounding down the hall to me. I scoop her up and bury my face in her fur. I breathe in deeply. She’s my Prozac. I don’t know what I would do without my fur babies. Daisy and Charlotte help me get through, although Charlotte does it on her own terms. Fortified with a bit of doggie love, I decide to do something I haven’t done in a while—I sit down with my laptop and Google myself. I click on the top link and there’s the picture of me getting pooped on at the train station, then one of me and Ben embracing, and then one of me wiping my hair off with baby wipes. The teaser reads, Even Pigeons Can’t Ruin Suburban Sex Goddess’ Tryst with New Man. No, pigeons couldn’t ruin it, but my inability to let the past be water under the bridge did.
I wonder if Ben knows these pictures are out there, if he even thought to look after seeing all of the photographers last night. I look at the picture of us embracing. It’s taken from behind me and Ben’s cheek is resting on my head—pigeon poop be damned. His eyes are closed, and he has a smile on his face—the best way I can describe it is rapturous. That look just drives home how stupid and stubborn I’m sure I’m being. I snap my laptop shut and wonder what it would take for me to get past Ben’s two decades-old transgression, but I just don’t know.
I want more than anything to crawl back into bed, but I need to brave the elementary school PTA meeting. I know the looks that I’ll get. I know the whispers. Probably half the moms train with Sloane. I’m sure they all know about the video, and they all know that my husband cheated on me with the “Hot Mama.” I wish I could skip the meeting, but I can’t because I have to give my chairperson reports.
When I walk into the cafeteria, I make sure to sit in the back at one of the lunch tables. The top is sticky, and the elbows of my cream-colored hoodie are left with pale pink stains from the small patches of fruit punch. I’m wondering why the table isn’t clean when kids haven’t even eaten lunch yet when a woman I don’t know slides in next to me. She smiles and I smile back, but then turn to face the principal, who’s speaking at the front of the room.
The woman next to me clears her throat and says quietly, “Excuse me?”
I turn back to her. She has a fresh-scrubbed Midwestern look, and I can tell from the absolute lack of any Long Island accent that she’s not from around here. She speaks again before I can. “I just moved here, and I noticed that you’re sitting alone also, so I thought I’d join you. I feel like I’m back in high school trying to find a seat in the lunch room.” She laughs—it’s throaty and instantly I like her. I’m a sucker for a throaty laugh—on a man or a woman. The principal looks right at us and narrows her eyes slightly.
“Better be careful,” I whisper. “She’ll send you to stand in the hall.” This earns another throaty laugh.
“Uh oh,” she whispers back. “I’m in trouble. I’m Shannon, by the way.”
“I’m Max,” I whisper. “Nice to meet you.”
Shannon slides away from me just a bit. I think perhaps it’s my imagination, until she says, “Oh. You’re Max? Funny, you don’t look like I pictured you. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve heard about you. It’s kind of hard not to. Everyone’s talking about your video and your husband and Max is an unusual name for a girl, so I knew it was you. I just thought you’d look more, I don’t know—I guess I just didn’t expect a sweatshirt and jeans.” She looks me up and down a bit and I just lose it.
“What did you expect me to wear to a PTA meeting? Did you expect me to show up wearing assless chaps and a leather bustier or something?” I ask a bit too loudly. The principal gasps into her microphone and the whole room turns to look at me. I stand up as dignified as I can, which is not very, nod my head and walk out of the cafeteria. I know I just fed the entire PTA even more fodder for the gossip chain, but if the shy new mom who can’t get a seat at the popular table knows about me, there’s really not much more damage I can do to my reputation.
I walk out of the school and breathe in the crisp October air. The mild days of last week have been replaced with a definite biting chill this week. I wish that I was wearing more than a sweatshirt as I make my way to my car. I just sit in the driver’s seat shaking for what seems like an eternity—before my cell phone rings, making me jump.
It’s Andi and when I tell her about how I blew up at Shannon, asking her in front of the entire PTA if she expected me to show up at the meeting in assless chaps and a leather bustier, she gasps with laughter and says, “You did not! I love it!” At least someone still supports me. I don’t know what I’d do without Andi.
Just as I’m thinking how grateful I am, my phone
beeps with another call. A glance at caller ID tells me that it’s the PTA president, an aggressively perfect woman named Suzette. I contemplate not answering it, but I decide it’s better to just get it over with, rather than have to call her back. “I’ve got to go, Andi. It’s that bitch, Suzette,” I say quickly.
“Enjoy that convo. Hey, do you want me to pick up Sam from school?”
“I would love that. Thank you!”
“No problem! Love you, Babe.”
“Love you too,” I say before switching over, hoping maybe Suzette has hung up.
But no, she’s still there and being blatantly fake, of course.
“Max, Sweetie, how are you, Hon?”
“I’m okay, Suzette. How are you?” I ask warily.
“Me, oh I’m just fine. Thanks so much for asking, Hon.”
“What can I do for you, Suzette?” I ask, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’m about to start driving.”
“Oh, of course—I’m sure you’re super busy. I’ll be quick. We’re all just a bit concerned about you, Sweetie. After your, umm, little outburst before, we—meaning the Executive Committee, of course—think that you have your hands full right now just getting back on your feet and dealing with everything, so we’ve decided to relieve you of your committee duties. You know, just to make your life a little easier. This way, you don’t have to do anything other than get your life in order and take care of that beautiful family of yours. Okay, Hon? What do you think?” She doesn’t even give me a chance to answer before she continues with, “Shannon will be taking over all of your responsibilities. Since she’s new here, she never had a chance to chair anything and she’s really excited. Wasn’t it nice of her to volunteer to take over everything for you?”
“Super nice, Hon,” I say brightly. Two can play at this game.
“I know! She’s got some great ideas for the fourth grade night out. I know this would be your third time around planning it, so why don’t you give her all your contacts? You know—the DJ and everything. She doesn’t really know any vendors around here, so drop off your folders at the office as soon as you can. She’ll pick them up and get going. She really just can’t wait. So, we’re all good, Hon? You just go ahead and relax—take some time for yourself.”
“Okay, Suzie. I’ll do that. Take care now. Bye.”
I end the call as she is protesting, “Please don’t call me ‘Suzie.’”
“Then don’t call me ‘Sweetie’ and ‘Hon,’ you stupid bitch!” I yell at the phone. I quickly check to make sure that I had hit “end” and she’s not still on the line. I’m not that badass, despite what people may think. I can’t believe how quickly they booted me—the meeting must have just ended, if it’s even ended yet. Maybe they brought it up while the meeting was still going—probably right after I walked out.
I can just see it: “Okay, let’s have a motion to strip Max of all her duties. Anyone second?” Ten hands shoot up. “All for?” And all the hands shoot up. “Any opposed?” Not one hand, I’m sure.
“Well, fuck them!” I yell out my open window as I pull out. I guess I am a bit badass. I’m not as broken up as I thought I would be at being booted out of the PTA and “relieved” of my duties. I’ve been a chairperson for various committees since Emma was in kindergarten, and she’s now in ninth grade, so maybe it’s time for a break. Maybe next year when Sam starts kindergarten, I’ll go back to all my PTA craziness, but for now it feels like I can breathe a bit better without it. Let Shannon have my responsibilities. I guarantee she’ll be floundering within the month.
I figured it would only be a matter of time before this happened. I never even shared my reports at the meeting. I didn’t tell any of the assembled moms how much I raised for the school’s cultural programs through the “Back to School” notebook sale. It took me weeks to put everything together for it. I didn’t share how many backpacks and school supplies I collected for homeless kids. I didn’t even share that I already had all the vendors booked for the fourth grade night out. Let Shannon figure out everything on her own.
Everyone seems to have forgotten that before all of this happened I poured my heart and soul into the school, never looking for any thanks. They’re more than happy to blab about me to the tabloids and snicker about me behind my back. Perhaps I should have reminded them of that before I skittered out of the meeting with just a shred of my dignity. Yes, I suppose bringing up assless chaps at a PTA meeting might not have been the best call on my part, but I still think it was pretty reasonable that I lost it when Ivory Girl Shannon gave me the once over. In fact, maybe I did have more than a shred of dignity when I left there. I think telling off Ivory Girl, instead of just letting her judge me, was the best thing I could have done.
Still, I desperately need to clear my head. So instead of turning left out of the school parking lot to go home, I turn right and head up to the north shore. I have some extra time, since Andi is picking up Sam, and it’s where I feel closest to my mom. I just want to talk to her for a bit. Other people go to the cemetery to talk to their deceased parents; I go to the beach. I like to imagine that my mother’s body is in the ground, but her soul is floating out there among the gently rippling waves of the Sound.
Sometimes I feel my parents’ absence so acutely. At times like this being an adult orphan leaves a void that seems insurmountable. My father passed away suddenly when I was a year out of college. He was playing racquetball and he just collapsed. He was gone before the paramedics even got there—massive heart attack, which is so odd, because he was always at the gym. He seemed even younger than his fifty-three years.
I was depressed for a long time. Plus, being an only child, I took it upon myself to be my mother’s companion. I took her to dinner and to the movies. I moved out of the apartment I shared with friends and back into my old bedroom.
I still missed Ben, and I was devastated about the loss of my father, so it probably helped me as much as it helped her. We did everything together, but after a year she told me that we should each start spending time with friends our own age. I was twenty-four, and I still couldn’t even leave my mother’s side. I did, though, of course I did, but it was hard.
I wish that I could really talk to my mom now—on the phone or over a cup of tea, not just hoping that her spirit hears me. She passed away right after Emma was born. There were so many times that I wanted her advice when I was a new mom. If Emma had a fever or a rash or I couldn’t decode a cry, I missed my mom so much that it physically hurt. I suffered from stomachaches and headaches. Eventually I found my way and listened to my own inner voice, but it was hard. When I became friends with Andi, I felt like I finally had someone to go to for advice, even though she was a new mom as well. She just seemed so confident. But, there were still times that I longed for my mom.
I could really use my mother’s advice now on how to start over after the end of a marriage. My mother was only forty-nine years old when my father died—not that much older than I am now—but I remember thinking, She’s going to start over again now? How can she possibly do that? Now, I understand—she really was young and vibrant and within a year she was dating a new man who swept her away on long romantic weekends, showered her with gifts, and just treated her like a queen. But, after six months she broke up with him. “Once you’ve had a great love, you can’t settle for one that’s mediocre,” she explained to me.
“But Mom, Walter is so romantic. He’s always making the grand gesture. He clearly adores you. How is that mediocre?” I chastised.
“Honey, he looks great on paper, but come on—an accountant named Walter? He’s exactly as his name and profession sound. He did everything right, but we just didn’t have that zing. Every time I looked at your father, my stomach did somersaults and my knees felt weak, even after 30 years together. That’s how long we were together, you know—we started dating when I was just a teenager. I can’t stay with someone just to have a warm body in my bed.”
“Mom!” I really felt that I didn’t n
eed to hear that, but she persisted.
“I’m sorry to make you uncomfortable, Max, but it’s something you should learn now—don’t be with someone just because they’re right on paper; just because you don’t want to be alone. Be with someone because you can’t live without them, not simply because you can live with them.”
I carried that conversation with me for years—holding every man I met up to the “Walter Test.” Was he just someone to keep me warm at night, or did he truly drive me crazy? Nick was the first guy after Ben who truly drove me crazy. The last thing my mother said to me that day was, “I’ll be fine. There are plenty of Walters in the sea.”
And you know what? She was right. She was absolutely fine. Until she got sick, she dated a parade of men, each of whom she insisted fulfilled a need in her. But, when she got sick, she got back together with Walter. He had waited for her for six years and then stayed by her side as leukemia made her weaker and weaker. He read her magazines and fed her ice pops during chemo. He tied scarves around her head as clumps of her lustrous auburn locks fell out. And when she only had tufts of hair left, he shaved her head for her and shaved his own head too. I was shocked when I saw his thick silver hair was gone. “I don’t want her to feel alone,” he explained. He was by her side with me and Emma when she passed away in her own house.
So, would my mother tell me now to go for the Walter or the Nick, and which one is Ben? I’m contemplating this as I enter the stretch of road running alongside the Long Island Sound. It’s only about fifteen minutes from my house, but it seems like a different world. During the summer, daylilies grace the edges. Now in the fall, the trees are a riotous canopy of color. I glance out to the right, and there’s that expanse of water, sailboats bobbing peacefully, that just calms me. I love the ocean beaches, but something about the drive to the Sound just centers me.
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