When I get to the beach, it’s totally empty. I park and walk under the tunnel from the Cove side to the Sound side. It’s chilly and I’m grateful that I have a fleece blanket in the trunk. I grab it and a canvas chair and settle in right by the water. The waves are gently lapping just a couple of feet away, and for the first time since this whole debacle started I feel a bit at peace. There are no paparazzi here, no judgmental moms giving me the once over. I can just think.
When I was a kid, my mother used to take me here during the week all summer long because she couldn’t swim and was afraid to bring me to the ocean. On the weekends, when my father could go, we’d drive to the town beach on the ocean. But when it was just me and my mom, we always headed north to the Sound. After, we’d stop in the little village by the beach for the best Italian ices anywhere. I still take my kids there every summer. The lemon is so true and intense that you have to spit out the seeds when you eat it.
Nick never wanted to go. He always said it was just a little shack, and it couldn’t be any good. So, he’d sit in the car while I got ices for the kids and myself. We’d stand out on the sidewalk and slurp the tart sweetness from flimsy paper cups— then clean our hands with the wipes he handed out the window to me. “They’re not getting in this car with those hands,” he’d snap—like the van wasn’t totally trashed already.
Ben was another story. Whenever he’d visit me during the summer when we were in college, we’d go to the beach and then for ices. I remember the first time we went—he was nearly orgasmic over the chocolate. He couldn’t get over how it was real chocolate and not that chemically tasting artificial chocolate that most Italian ices were made out of. I think about how I can’t wait to get ices with him when summer finally rolls around again and I catch myself. I don’t know if he’ll be around next summer. I don’t know if he’ll even be around next week. I just don’t know anything.
“Mom, do you think I should give Ben another chance?” I whisper into the wind. “I know what he did was a really long time ago, and I should just forgive and forget. I don’t know why I can’t. Maybe I am projecting my anger at Nick onto Ben, like Andi said. You’d love Andi, by the way. I wish you could have met her.”
I glance around me, up and down the beach. I’m so glad that I’m here alone. I must look like a crazy person talking into the wind. I don’t let that stop me, though. “Just give me a sign, Mom, please. I remember how much you loved Ben. Dad, if you’re listening—you loved Ben, too. I’m just so scared that if it doesn’t work out, I won’t get over him a second time. I’m scared that my kids will love him, and then they’d have to deal with a second breakup—first me and Nick, then me and Ben. I’m just scared period.”
I know I’m getting ahead of myself. Ben hasn’t even met my kids and yet, I’m worrying about how they’d get over him if we break up. And, I know that my dead parents aren’t actually going to speak to me or send me a sign, but I need to do this. I need to try to process everything.
I sit there for a while with the blanket wrapped around me, just watching the waves. When my feet are so cold that I can barely feel them, I slowly stand up, fold up the chair and walk back to the car. It’s a shame that I’m so cold, because I really want to stop and get a lemon ice. They’re open all year, so I promise myself I’ll come back. Maybe I’ll even bring Ben. We don’t need to wait for summer.
I drive slowly out of the beach and back along the water. I really wish my mom or my dad had sent me a sign. I realize that most people think signs from the dead are a bunch of New Age bullshit, but I really believe in them, which is odd, considering that I’m very practical in every other area of my life. I guess I just feel like those signs mean that they’re still with me somehow, so I want to believe.
After my father died, there was a crane fly that was on my mom’s porch while we said the prayers that are part of the Jewish mourning process. It sat there the entire time. When we were done, I found it in the kitchen, just sitting on the countertop. My mother killed it with a fly swatter, but it reappeared a few minutes later. I just knew it was my father, and I screamed at her not to kill it as she grabbed the fly swatter a second time. She thought I was nuts, but she listened. Over the years, crane flies have shown up in the oddest places, like when I was planning Emma’s bat mitzvah—one was sitting on the wall right behind the caterer. My dad was always a foodie and that made me feel like he was there planning the menu.
Right after my mother died, a soap bubble floated up from Emma’s bath and just did not pop. It must have floated around for at least twenty minutes—while I bathed her, dried her off, put her in her pajamas and swaddled her. I used to bathe her in her little infant tub on the floor of my bedroom because it was carpeted, and I was terrified of dropping her when she was wet and slippery in my arms. This way I sat on the floor, and then just laid her on a blanket right next to the tub to dry her and dress her. I just sat there next to the tub watching that bubble until Emma started to cry to be fed. When I settled into the glider in Emma’s nursery, tears streamed down my face because I missed my mother so, and I just wanted to stay watching that bubble all night. Of course it was gone when I was done, and it’s entirely possible that it was just a bubble, but I was postpartum, and I was grieving. Watching that bubble gave me something to hold onto for a moment. Now, there’s nothing. I don’t know what answer I was looking for at the beach, but I didn’t get it.
I turn on the radio and scan through the stations. I gasp when I hit the soft rock station—one I never listen to. Out floats Ready to Take a Chance Again. I turn up the volume and belt it out along with Barry Manilow.
“This is my sign, I know it,” I say to no one, and I decide that I have really lost my mind. I tell myself that the song isn’t a sign of anything and my believing that it’s a sign from my dead parents is likely just an indication of my mental unraveling. I can’t help it, though; a smile spreads across my face. I’ve really lost it. I know that.
I try to explain everything to Andi when I get to her house to pick up Sam. “I went to the beach,” I begin, but she interrupts me.
“Did you get ices?” I introduced Andi to the ices too. When our oldest kids were toddlers, before the demands of more than one child kicked in, we’d go to the beach all the time and let them pick up shells and rocks—the north shore beaches are as rocky as the south shore beaches are smooth—and then we’d get ices.
“I was way too cold, and I wanted to get back to pick up Sam. Plus, Emma gets home soon, and she doesn’t have her key. I saw that she left it by the front door. So, I’ve got to get home for her. But I did think about how I’d love to bring Ben there when it gets warm again.”
“So, you’re going to give him a second chance?” she squeals. “I’m so happy. I’ve never even met him and I know you’re perfect together!”
“I don’t know—I still haven’t decided yet. But, the strangest thing happened. On my way out of the beach I heard Ready to Take a Chance Again.”
“You and that song. What is it about it that you love so much?”
“I told you—just that whole notion of living your life safely and never taking chances and then suddenly, someone comes along who convinces you to shake off those shackles and start living. I just find it so romantic.”
“Okay, so you heard this very romantic song, and you called Ben and said all is forgiven?”
“Um, no. I heard the song and decided that it was a sign from my dead parents telling me I should give Ben another chance. I asked them at the beach to give me a sign, and then as I was pulling out the song came on. I’m crazy, aren’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say crazy; maybe just a bit unbalanced.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“I’m joking, of course. You’re not unbalanced. You’ve been through a ton of stuff, and you’re holding it together better than most people would. So no, I don’t think you’re crazy. I do think that you really don’t want to make the decision about Ben yourself, so you’re letting this ‘sign’
make the decision for you. That way, it’s out of your hands. If it doesn’t go the way you want, you can tell yourself it wasn’t your fault.”
“How do you know me better than I know myself? I think you’re right. So, maybe I shouldn’t take it as a sign at all and just forget about giving him another chance—just live with my dog and cat and my children and be happy and safe.”
“No, no, no! That’s not what I meant at all—how did you even get that out of what I said?”
Andi doesn’t give me a chance to answer before she continues, “Give him another chance. But, own your decision. Don’t put it on a song. Don’t put it on your dead parents. God rest their souls. Just make the decision and take control of your happiness.”
I glance at my watch. “Thank you for the pep talk—really, I appreciate it. But I’ve got to go. Emma will be home soon, if she’s not already. She’s probably sitting on the porch getting madder and madder at me. Sam,” I call down the hall. “Come on, Honey-Bun.”
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Andi calls after me as I leave. I heard her. I don’t know if I’ll listen to her, but I definitely heard her.
“Love you! Thanks for taking Sam.” I yell back as the door swings shut behind me.
I pass Emma’s school on the way home and see the buses start pulling out in my rearview mirror, so I know Emma’s not home yet. She’ll be at least ten minutes behind me, if not more.
Only, once I get home ten minutes go by and then fifteen. Twenty minutes later, I call her cell. No answer. Even if her bus was the last one to pull out of the school, she should have been home by now. I decide she must have gone to Kate’s, but didn’t tell me. I’m so angry that she didn’t let me know and she’s not answering her phone—I try two more times and text her. My mom used to say she was so mad, she could spit—that’s exactly how I feel right now.
I call Kate’s mom. “Hi Debbie, is Emma there?” I ask, eschewing any pleasantries. I need to find my daughter and tell her in no uncertain terms that she must respect me more.
“She’s not here, Max. I’m sorry. Did she tell you she was coming here? We have to go out in a few minutes. I don’t want her to show up and not find us here, so I’ll tell Kate to give her a call.”
“No, it’s fine,” I answer quickly. “I’ve got to go. Sorry to be abrupt.”
“No need to apologize. I know you’ve been through a really tough time lately,” Debbie is saying as I cut her off.
“So sorry, got to run,” I say quickly and then add, “Thanks.” I feel bad. She’s one of the few moms who are still nice to me. But now I’m panicking. I don’t know where Emma could have gone. Kate is her best friend and she never goes to anyone else’s house. She and Kate are on the same bus, and she just gets off at her stop around the block. She knows she’s not supposed to go anywhere else.
I consider calling the police, but realize that they’ll laugh at me. A ninth grader who’s ten minutes late is not a cause for alarm for them, but it is for me. They’ll assume she walked to the yogurt shop or to get a slice of pizza. But I just know she didn’t. And, she never stays late on Wednesdays, because the only teacher she needs to see for remedial help—her math teacher—isn’t there. I hope she’s not stupid enough to run away because of everything.
When did this happen? I have one child who was kicked out of school (even just for half a day) for fighting and one child off somewhere, but I have no idea where. I feel like social services will be knocking on my door any minute.
After Trevor gets home, and I get Will off the bus, I wait another ten minutes—just in case for some reason Emma took the ninth period bus home and it’s a little late. When I see it at the corner and Emma doesn’t get off, I load everyone in the minivan and we go in search of her.
First, I head to the high school and peer into the large picture windows of the lunchroom. The security guard at the front desk won’t let me wander around the school, so I’m relegated to trying to see if she’s there from the outside. And yes, I realize that I’m bordering on psychotic, but quite frankly I don’t care. Honestly, if I could get past the front desk, I’d stalk the halls of the school, checking every single classroom.
After checking the school, we go across the street to the pizza place and the yogurt shop. I even check the nail place in the same strip mall. I know it’s a long shot, but seeing some other ninth graders through the window gives me a glimmer of hope. Emma’s nowhere to be found. I try her cell phone three more times and still no answer. As I get back in the car I call Nick. “Have you heard from Emma?” I bark at him.
“Whoa, what’s going on? Why are you yelling at me?”
“I’m yelling at you because I can’t find Emma and I don’t know where she is. Maybe she’s dead in a ditch somewhere, God forbid. She didn’t come home on the bus, and she didn’t go to Kate’s.”
“Maybe she stayed ninth,” Nick says calmly.
“She didn’t stay ninth—the bus came a long time ago. She’s not at the pizza place or getting a yogurt. She’s not even getting her nails done. I checked.” After everything with Trevor, I can’t handle this. This is even worse than Trevor. At least when Trevor got into the fight, I knew where he was. He may have been in trouble with the principal, but he wasn’t lost. He was safely at school. I’ve lost Emma, figuratively and literally. I’m shaking so hard, I can’t even drive. I look for the paper bag I keep in the car and find it under the seat. It has some mysterious sticky substance on the outside, but I don’t care. I hold it with one hand and breathe, while I hold the phone with the other.
“Calm down, Max,” Nick says soothingly, which irritates me more. “I think I know where she may be. I just remembered hearing Sloane offering this morning to take her for a manicure and pedicure after school. I was rushing around to leave, but I’m pretty sure she said today. I think she was picking her up at school. They’re probably at the salon right now. There—do you feel better now?”
Oh how I want to yell, “Fuck you!” as loudly as I can into the phone, but of course I can’t with my kids listening. “No, I don’t feel better,” I spit. “That you know what should have told me. She should have asked me if it was okay.”
“What you know what?” Sam asks. “What’s a you know what?” he asks again.
“Nothing, Sweetie,” I answer before turning back to the phone. I hear Trevor and Will giggle in the back.
“Mom wants to curse,” says Will.
“Leave Mom alone,” Trevor tells him. “She’s having a hard day.”
I am stunned and appreciative. But then Will punches Trevor, and Trevor punches him back harder. Of course, Will starts crying. “Don’t be such a baby,” Trevor says. “You’re in fourth grade, act like it.”
This makes Will cry harder. “Mom, Trevor hurt me when he punched me. I’m not a baby! It hurt.”
“Trevor, please don’t punch your brother. You have at least twenty pounds on him. I know he punched you first, but please be the bigger person. Let’s not make violence a habit.”
“I was just trying to help you,” Trevor counters.
“Yes, I know, and thank you for that, but please, no fists!”
“Yeah, no fists!” Will chimes in.
Suddenly, I hear Nick yelling from the phone, “Hello, you there? Max, I’m still on the phone.” I put it back to my ear and drop the bag back on the floor. I’ll have to clean the car one of these days, but not today.
“Yes, I’m here.” I’m livid that Sloane would not only try to buy my daughter’s affection with spa treatments, but do it without telling me. “I hope that you’ll step up and say something to her, Nick, but I doubt you will. She really has you and Emma fooled, doesn’t she? You both think she’s so amazing, but she’s not,” I whisper, hoping my boys won’t hear me bad mouthing my husband’s girlfriend. I can’t believe that Emma has sided with her. I know how childish that sounds, but it’s how I feel—like she’s rejected me for glossy, blond, fucking perfect Sloane, who has stolen not only my husban
d, but my daughter as well. And, let me tell you—her stealing my daughter hurts way more than her stealing my husband.
“Do me a favor,” I tell Nick. “Call her and find out for sure if she has Emma with her and if she does, can you please tell her to inform me of her plans in the future? And find out when she’ll get her home. I understand that Sloane has lost Ashley, but that doesn’t mean that she has to use my daughter to replace her.”
“Did you find Emma?” Sam pipes up from the backseat. “I was really scared when I thought we lost her.” It’s only then that I turn around and notice that his eyes and nose are all red.
“Have you been crying, Buddy?” I ask gently.
“Yeah. I love my Emma, and I want her back.”
“I do too,” I whisper. “I do too.” I finally start the car and pull out of the parking lot. My phone rings two minutes later and I put it on speaker. It’s Nick. He informs me that Emma is indeed with Sloane, and that Sloane swore up and down that she told me this morning that she and Emma had a spa date after school today.
“Maybe you just didn’t hear her,” Nick offers. “You know, she means well. She just wants our kids to like her. You should be happy that she’s not the evil stepmother.”
“I should be happy she’s not their stepmother, period. Will she be their stepmother, Nick? Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, no of course not. Our divorce won’t even be final for months. I couldn’t get remarried. But, well—I was planning on telling you this in person, but I guess I may as well just tell you now. Sloane has asked me to move in with her. She has enough rooms for the kids to stay in their own rooms when they’re with me, and it’s so much more comfortable than a hotel. Plus, I would save a lot of money—money that can get passed on to you in alimony, you know. It’s getting expensive to live at the hotel. We’re shooting for next week.”
“Are you kidding me?” I’m actually laughing, because at this point this day has gotten funny. It’s like I’m on some hidden camera show. Look what we’ve done to this suburban housewife—she had a PTA meeting from hell; she lost her daughter, only to find her with her soon-to-be ex-husband’s girlfriend; oh, and that ex is moving in with the girlfriend. Let’s not forget her son punching another boy who called her a whore. And of course, there’s the humiliation of the night before that actually took a back burner to everything else, but will surely haunt Max as soon as she tries to fall asleep tonight. I’m really losing my marbles.
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