“I’m not kidding,” Nick insists.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if this was all some kind of crazy joke? Like I’ve been Punk’d or something?” I ask, knowing full well that I sound insane.
“Max, I think you need some time to yourself. Maybe you should be a little more like Sloane and go for a spa day. I’ll tell you what—I’ll pay for it. Just tell me where you want to go, and I’ll get you a gift card to use whenever you want. It’s the least I can do.”
“Actually, the least you can do is to make sure that your stupid girlfriend never hijacks my daughter again.”
“Mom said ‘stupid’,” Will cackles from the backseat, then “Ow, Trevor punched me again.”
“Good-bye, Nick. Tell Sloane to have Emma home by 5:00, so she can do her homework and have dinner.” With that I hang up. I feel a bit guilty, being that Nick offering to give me a spa day was actually a kind gesture. Maybe I will take him up on it, but right now I’m just steaming mad at Sloane. Then I take a deep breath and whisper to myself, I just don’t give a fuck. Instantly, I’m a bit calmer—enough so I can chastise my kids properly, at least.
“Trevor, stop punching your brother,” I demand as I pull into the driveway. When we walk into the house I realize that I’ve left the dog outside and she’s scratching at the door and crying. Poor Daisy; even she’s suffering from the upheaval in our family, and the poor baby does nothing but give us love and comfort. I open the door for her and she hurls her 12-pound body at me. “I know, Baby-Girl, I’m so sorry Mommy left you outside. Have a cookie.”
“Hey, how come you’re nicer to Daisy than you are to me?” Will whines. “I want a cookie.”
“You may have one cookie and then have something healthy, okay? Then please sit down and do your homework. We’ve had a crazy afternoon and I want to have a calm night.”
The rest of the evening actually went somewhat smoothly—at least more so than the morning and afternoon. Emma came home at about 4:50—with ten minutes to spare—in a better mood than she’s been for a long time. I told her that if she didn’t start answering her phone when I call, I would take it away. She just laughed and said, “You wouldn’t do that.” I kind of wanted to smack her, but I decided that at least she didn’t yell at me. Laughing is a step in the right direction, even if it was totally disrespectful.
Will and Trevor actually do their homework; and Sam falls asleep watching a Thomas video after dinner. I stealthily change him into pajamas and carry him upstairs. Miraculously, he doesn’t wake up, and by 9:45 everyone is in bed and asleep, even Emma. I check on her just to be sure she’s not in bed texting with Kate, but she’s out cold. She looks so angelic when she sleeps; I watch her for a moment before heading downstairs. I collapse on the couch and snap open my laptop.
I go on Facebook so I can write back to Ben. I realize that it’s probably rude that I haven’t even acknowledged his message with a quick reply. The fact that Facebook lets you see when someone has read your message makes it even worse. He probably knows I read it right away, and yet I haven’t responded yet.
I just don’t know what to say. I want to see Ben so badly. I want to give him a second chance—or I guess it’s more of a third chance, since last night was really our second chance, but I also don’t want to set myself up to get hurt again. And I feel so foolish—I can’t believe that I’m reacting so harshly to something that he did so long ago. I definitely need therapy, along with my kids, and I send myself an e-mail reminding myself to call my old therapist again if I don’t hear back from her in a day or two.
Perhaps talking it out can help me get past my anger at Ben—actually it’s more disappointment than anger. It’s really not about what he did to me almost twenty years ago; it’s about what I did to myself after—doubting myself and ignoring my gut instincts, and that’s not Ben’s fault. I start to write back, but I only get as far as, Hi Ben, before I close it. I decide that it’s probably best that I don’t bring anyone else into my kids’ lives right now anyway. This really has nothing to do with Ben, and maybe it’s better that things didn’t work out last night.
I need to focus all of my attention on my children at this very moment. I need to pull them close and try to get through this with them—not battling them or at least not battling Emma. The others don’t battle me too much. But Emma—I don’t know how I’ll repair our relationship. I don’t understand why she doesn’t blame Nick at all, and I certainly don’t understand why she doesn’t blame Sloane. Shouldn’t the other woman take at least some of the blame?
I think Sloane represents everything that I’m not to Emma and that’s why she’s bonded with her. She’s the cheerleader to my bookworm. The spa treatments and new outfits certainly don’t hurt Sloane’s bid to win over my daughter. I don’t even know how I can compete. I can’t afford spa treatments for myself, let alone Emma. Then I remember Nick’s offer. I’ll take him up on a gift card for a spa and take Emma. There has to be some way for me to get back to her.
I’m so very tired and contemplate going to sleep, but if I go to sleep before 11:00, I’ll probably be up at 5:00 a.m. and that will just make tomorrow even longer. So, I go back on Facebook and delete what I’ve written to Ben so far. Instead, I write, Okay, I’ll meet you for a slice of pizza on Friday night. We’re not going back to my house—this is just old friends having pizza together. There’s a little storefront pizza place right across from the train station. I’m dropping the kids at Nick’s at 5:30. I can meet you any time after that. You can walk from the train, and then get back on it when we’re done. That certainly won’t jeopardize my focusing on my kids—just old friends getting together. It’s not like I’m embarking on a relationship.
I hit send, but then I realize that it sounds a bit nasty or at least curt. I write a second message quickly. I didn’t mean to sound snappy or abrupt. I just don’t quite trust myself if you come back to my house :) I’m not really quite ready to take whatever this may be to the next level, but I’m willing to take baby steps. Thank you for your message. It truly meant a lot to me… I hit send and snap my laptop shut. I don’t want to sit and wait for a message back.
What Ben might say is the only thing on my mind, though. As I brush my teeth, wash my face, and get into pajamas I imagine his possible responses. I fall into a restless sleep, waking what seems like every five minutes. Finally, I sit up and grab my phone. It’s 1:37. I guess I must have slept for some stretch, because I’ve been in bed for over two hours. There’s a Facebook message from Ben on my home screen. I only glance at part of the preview. It’s enough. Anything for you—we’ll take…
I quickly get on Facebook and read the rest. …it as slowly as you want. I’m not going anywhere. Pizza sounds great, and I won’t try anything ;) I’ll see you at 6:15 on Friday. Just let me know exactly where to show up…
I send him a message back with the restaurants address, never expecting a response at this hour—but there it is. I can’t wait…
I guess you can’t sleep either, I write back.
Nah, sleep is overrated, right? I just have to get up in four hours and be ready to teach children the joys of music when they’d rather be snapchatting or posting on Instagram or something. You have no idea how hard it is to hold the attention of this generation. Oh wait, you’re a mom—of course you do. You’re probably a great mom too…
I wonder if Ben is half asleep to be rambling just a bit, but I don’t care. I love it so much. For a moment I think about maybe trying to restart the conversation I ended the other night. In some ways it seems like a lifetime ago. So much has changed in two days. I was so full of anticipation the other night and now—well, now I’m not sure how I feel. Hesitant. A little excited. In need of a release. No, I think it’s better if I don’t hear his voice. His voice turns me so inside out. So, I just write back, Ask my daughter and she’ll tell you what a great mom I am—not. She pretty much hates me and it kills me.
I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Max. It seems like
everything was Nick’s fault, so I can’t imagine why she hates you so much. But, she’s a teenager. So…
I answer him right away, hitting send a minute after I’ve read his message. I know. I just keep telling myself she’s almost fifteen and that’s why she hates me. Someday, she’ll come around. When I lost my mom, all I could think about were the times I was mean to her—mostly as a teen, but even as an adult, I snapped once in a while. But, I think I made my peace and apologized to her for everything. I just think you appreciate your mom so much more when you’re a mom—I’d give anything to get her back.
Oh Max, I’m so sorry—I had no idea you lost your mom. I remember Judy was an amazing woman. I’m so sorry for your loss. I do remember hearing that your dad had passed away not long after we broke up. I wanted to reach out to you, but I felt funny calling, or even sending you a letter, and of course it was before e-mail. I still feel bad about that. Hey, do you want to talk, instead of messaging? If you do, call me.
What the hell, I figure. We’re talking about my dead parents now—I don’t think there’s any danger of the conversation taking a turn into anything below the waist. “Hi,” I whisper when Ben answers on the first ring.
“Maxie, I’m sorry I never reached out to you when your dad passed away. We hadn’t broken up that long before—I should have,” Ben says quietly, his voice full of emotion.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Honestly, if you had gotten in touch with me, it probably would have opened up old wounds and it would have made me long for you even more.”
“You longed for me?”
“Of course I did. You broke my heart.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them.
“Max, how can I ever make it up to you?”
“Just…” I pause for a moment. The first thing that goes through my mind is entirely inappropriate—lots of oral sex. Lots. Like every day for a year. That’s the first thing that goes through my mind, because I can’t help but remember how good Ben was at it, and I haven’t had even the slightest touch from a man in what seems like forever. Though, I guess it’s only two days since our one passionate moment before our date went horribly awry. But, that moment wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. “Just no more secrets,” I say instead. “Even if we’re just friends—no more secrets ever again, okay?”
“Absolutely, Max. I will never, ever hide anything from you again. And we can start off as friends, if that’s what you want, but I hope I’ll wear you down eventually.”
Oh, he’ll wear me down all right—but I’m not about to say that yet. “We’ll see where everything goes,” I say as calmly as I can muster, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. Yes, I have butterflies. A forty-four-year-old woman with four kids and a cheating soon-to-be ex-husband and I have butterflies. This seems like such a miracle, that I don’t even feel tired anymore—even though I glance at the time and it’s just past 2:00 a.m.
“Good enough for me.”
“You going to be able to function tomorrow, Ben?”
“Probably not. I really don’t care, though. I like having your voice be the last thing I hear before I go to sleep at night.”
“I do too.” That was something that bothered me when I was dating Nick. He never wanted to talk to me right before bed when we weren’t together. I would call him when I was getting into bed, hoping we could just kind of drift off on the sound of each other’s voices. But he always had to rush off to do his sit-ups or push-ups or get ready for work the next day. For all I know, he was rushing off to watch porn. Whatever the reason, he just didn’t like talking in those sleepy quiet moments. I should have realized that was a red flag. Maybe he never really cared that much about me—or maybe he did and we just weren’t well-suited to each other.
“I guess I should try to get some sleep. My alarm goes off in about three and a half hours. Sweet dreams, Maxie.”
“Sweet dreams, Ben.” I roll over and drift off, hoping to dream of Ben.
Chapter Eight
MERCIFULLY, THE NEXT MORNING is uneventful. Emma actually says, “Morning,” when she comes down for breakfast. I serve her a bowl of Lucky Charms straight—her favorite—as a peace offering. I usually mix sugared cereal with plain Cheerios, but I figure I could let that habit go, just for now. Nick is the one who got them into sugary crap in the first place. Anytime he went food shopping, he’d return with Lucky Charms, Count Chocula, Cocoa Krispies—anything with enough sugar to make them bounce off the walls. I know I’ve read that it’s a myth that sugar makes kids hyper, but I swear it leaves mine like they’re amped up on meth.
Nevertheless, I dole out bowls of sugary goodness to all of them while thinking: We’ll see how long they accept Sloane and her healthy fiber-filled oatmeal breakfasts now. I decide right then that I’m on a very slippery precipice. Competing with Sloane is making me abandon my very core belief that a kid needs a healthy breakfast. I swear under my breath that the next day will be better.
I decide that therapy can definitely help me. Now that I’m no longer with Nick, I’m free to go—besides saying that it would be too big of a distraction for me, he also always said, “Therapy is for wusses.” Would it have helped us stay together if he agreed to go? Would I have even wanted that? Yes, Nick is sexy, and he could be unbelievably sweet and romantic during the good times—but he was also aloof, emotionally unavailable, and to be honest, kind of vapid. His life revolved around working out and the latest kitchen gadget in his sales arsenal.
We really became roommates toward the end—the video notwithstanding. I think that video was my last chance grasp at holding onto something that I knew was quickly slipping away. When I look at it that way, I don’t feel as bad about making it. I was just trying to save our marriage, which is more than Nick did. Yes, the video was his idea, but he also just jumped into bed with someone else. At least I tried. At least I didn’t cheat on him.
***
After I get the kids to school, I pull out a stained, ancient folder from the hutch in my kitchen. It’s where I keep all of my most treasured recipes. I’ve had it since I was in culinary school, long before I even got married. I have recipes scribbled on sticky notes that I thought of while at work. I worked as a secretary in the city in between college and culinary school. I hated it, and the only thing that made it bearable was sampling all the delicacies the city had to offer at lunchtime and then clandestinely jotting down the recipes those sweets inspired while I was supposed to be typing up reports. I didn’t last all that long at the job, and I never worked in an office again.
I run my hand over the cover of the folder. It’s silken from age, and I could almost tell you what every tiny stain is from—almost. I open it and pull out my favorite recipe—it’s complicated and will definitely take my mind off of everything. Unlike Snickerdoodles, I have to actually concentrate. Plus, it was my mom’s recipe. She handed it to me one afternoon after she found out she was dying. “This needs to be yours,” she said as she pressed the index card into my hand. “You can do it justice. It was your grandmother’s. The other girls—your cousins—couldn’t do it. You can. I’m so lucky.” Tears filled her eyes. Her bony hand cupped over mine. Her hands were always so young looking—just like the rest of her. But at that point, she had lost so much weight from the chemo that they were all sharp angles and hanging skin.
Her perfectly formed script filled all of the lines. Cream cheese, raisins, walnuts, butter, sugar—I glanced over some of the ingredients. I had most of them in the house. I couldn’t wait to get home and start baking. As I rolled the dough into disks, tears streamed down my cheeks. It seemed as if everything was slipping through my fingers. I was pregnant with Emma and I knew that my mother likely wouldn’t be there for the birth of my first child.
I wanted to stop time, I wanted to stay connected. Baking was the one way I felt I could do that, if only for a moment. Plus, if I could do a good job with the rugelach and prove my mother’s confidence in me right—I just felt like it would
be a tiny way to put her mind at ease before she passed away. Her only daughter—her only child—would continue her baking legacy and hopefully pass it on to her own daughter.
At that point, I knew I was having a girl—a fact that both thrilled and saddened my mother. She always wanted a granddaughter and was heartbroken that she wouldn’t be around to see her grow up. I was so grateful that she at least got to meet her—even if it was only for a short time. I really think she fought so hard to hang on at the end because she just had to see her granddaughter. Once Emma arrived, my mother was free to let go.
A few weeks before my mother died, I pushed her around the mall in her wheelchair. She picked out a whole wardrobe of impossibly tiny dresses for Emma, pale pink rose buds or intricate lace gracing them. I was hugely pregnant and didn’t have the easiest time waddling around, but I didn’t care. She bought booties in ice cream shades and a fluffy buttercream teddy bear. All those gifts cracked my heart in two after she was gone. Just looking at them left me in tears, but I would never part with them. In fact, even after Emma grew out of them, even after knowing I’d never have another girl to pass them down to, I still have them packed away. The teddy bear still sits on Emma’s bed. She knows it’s from her grandma who loved her before she was even born.
Now, I look over the recipe card, making a mental checklist of what I have on hand. Happily, I have everything. It’s such a simple recipe, really. Not many ingredients, but the rolling out of the dough needs to be just perfect. Too thin and the walnuts, no matter how finely chopped, will tear it. Too thick and it won’t cook correctly, plus all you’ll taste is dough—it’ll overpower the fillings. And you need to put in just the right amount of fillings or you’ll have the opposite problem—too much filling without the proper balance of dough.
Goddess of Suburbia Page 16