There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  I realize my eyes are red rimmed. I nod quickly to the doctor. She gives me a gentle smile. “So, do you have any questions?”

  “Was it ruptured?” I ask in a panicked tone. “Was anything else wrong? Did I get her here in time?”

  “No, it wasn’t perforated. And you got her here in time, and that should make her recovery go pretty quickly.”

  “Really?” I ask. “So she’s totally okay?”

  “She’s going to be fine.”

  “Thank you so much, Doctor. I can’t … Just thank you so much. When can I take her home?”

  “Probably tomorrow. We’ll see if she keeps running a fever, and how quickly she can keep food down. But I don’t foresee any problems.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  And then I do something I don’t think patients are supposed to do: I pull Dr. Shaw into a bear hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Dr. Shaw is nice enough to hug me back. I know it sounds sexist, but I am glad Megan had a female surgeon. I think we need more of those.

  * * *

  I tell Seema that the surgery was a success, and insist that she go back to work.

  About fifteen minutes later, once I get the go-ahead from the nurses, I head over to the recovery room to see my daughter.

  Okay—so I lied. It was a lie of omission. She has the last name Washington, I now have the last name Washington. So maybe I wasn’t completely clear on my relationship when they said only parents were allowed inside the recovery room. I know I’m being petty, but it’s nice to have people assume I’m the mom for a change. Like Seema said, are there rules about how much you can love a kid?

  I walk into the recovery room to see Megan wearing a paper gown and shower cap and lying on a small bed with the covers up to her chin. She’s groggy but looking around.

  “Hey,” she says, in a drug-induced slur, as I walk up to the bed.

  “Hi,” I say, gently stroking her head. “How are you feeling?”

  She winces a bit. “I feel like I’m going to throw up again.”

  I pull out a sick bag. She immediately pukes her guts into it. It’s yucky and awful, and I wish I could go through this for her.

  After vomiting two more times, Megan stops throwing up, and gasps for breath.

  “That’s from the anesthesia,” I tell her, softly.

  “Let me get that for you,” a nurse tells me, switching out Megan’s sickness bag for a new one.

  Megan continues to look around. “Is my mom here yet?”

  I take her hand, the one that doesn’t have the needle poking out of it, and force a smile. “She’ll be here any time.”

  “Is Dad here?”

  “They’re both on their way,” I assure her quietly.

  I lie down in the six inches of space between Megan’s body and the side of the bed. “But I’m here.”

  Megan tries to move her head onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she says, sleepily.

  “For what?” I ask her in a whisper.

  “For telling you to grow a pair. At the wedding. I just found out what that means.”

  I smile. “That’s called a euphemism. And you were right, by the way. I needed to.”

  Megan smiles at me, then drifts back to sleep. I pull her body closer to me, then snuggle next to her. She feels soft. Cuddly. And mine.

  Megan’s eyes pops open, and her body jolts upward. “Nicole?!”

  “I’m right here,” I say gently.

  Megan lies back down and relaxes her body. “Sorry,” she whispers.

  Megan drifts off to sleep again.

  I hug her some more and wonder how I ever got so lucky to get to be in this moment, hugging this amazing kid. How did I ever get so lucky that I got to be in this future woman’s orbit?

  “Do you know how much I love you?” I whisper in her ear.

  Megan smiles slightly, but her eyes stay closed.

  And then I whisper, “I am so lucky to be your bonus mom.”

  * * *

  An hour later, we are in room 413, and Megan is sleeping comfortably. I’m sitting in the chair next to her, watching her intently. We’ve both talked to both of her parents to let them know she’s fine. Jason is the first to get to the hospital. He races in. “How is she?”

  “She’s doing great,” I whisper to him as I stand up. “The doctor said it couldn’t have gone smoother. They don’t foresee any complications and she can go home tomorrow.”

  He starts to tear up as he pulls me into a hug. “God, I was so worried.”

  “Me too,” I admit. “But she’s fine now.”

  Megan opens her eyes. “Hi, Daddy,” she says weakly.

  Jason rushes to her bedside. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay. I guess.” She looks past him to see me. “Are you staying?”

  Jason gently takes her hand. “Yeah. I took a couple of days off, and then the team is back in town so … yeah.”

  I think the question was directed at me. But I let Jason have his moment.

  I decide to give them some time alone. “I’m going to go get … a cup of coffee or something. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Are you going to Jerry’s Deli?” Megan asks me, referring to the delicatessen across the street from the hospital.

  “Um … I can.”

  “Then I want a ham and Swiss on whole wheat with french fries,” Megan says. “Oh, and a chocolate milk shake.”

  “Are you hungry already?” I ask her, stunned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be hungry yet.”

  “Well, I am,” Megan counters.

  I smile. “Then ham and Swiss on whole wheat with french fries it is,” I say, turning around.

  “Nicole,” Megan continues.

  “I know,” I say by rote, “no mayonnaise. A small bit of honey mustard, lettuce, tomato, no onion, and ask them to toast the bread.”

  Megan smiles. “Thank you,” she says weakly. “Oh, and—”

  “Steak-cut fries, no string, and for God’s sake, no curly,” I finish.

  She smiles again. “Thank you. I love you.”

  “I love you more,” I say.

  And I do. I mean really, what parent doesn’t?

  * * *

  That night, Jason and Jacquie spent the night in the hospital with Megan, and I spent the night with Malika.

  Around eleven that evening, I checked my e-mail and Facebook for the first time all day. It didn’t take long for Kevin to rope me into conversation:

  KEVIN: Heard about Megan. Is she okay?

  NICOLE: She’s fine. They got the appendix out before it burst, and she’ll be home tomorrow.

  KEVIN: Good to hear. So … when’s coffee?

  I look at the screen. Debate what to type.

  NICOLE: I think maybe that’s not such a good idea.

  KEVIN: Why not?

  I look at the screen and just think to myself, Oh sweetie, let’s not play this game.

  NICOLE: Because I’d be tempted to get a giant ice-blended mocha without the girls and I just can’t do that to my kids.

  Subtext is fun.

  Kevin doesn’t write back for a while.

  KEVIN: Fair enough. Can I still read your book when it’s done?

  NICOLE: I would love that. Can I read your script?

  KEVIN: Of course.

  And we don’t Facebook again.

  * * *

  Boom! I hear a thunderbolt crack as I turn off my computer for the night.

  These freakin’ fall thunderstorms—they’re making me nuts.

  Wow … even in my head, I just said freakin’.

  “NICOLE!!!!!” Malika yells from her room. “I’m scared! Can you come up?”

  “I’m on my way,” I yell as I head back upstairs.

  I walk into Malika’s room. She looks adorable in a bunny suit with pink bunnies on it. “I hear someone here is famous for her cuddling,” I tell her.

  Malika smiles, lies down with me with a giant smile on her face, then burrows her head
into my chest.

  Okay, so maybe I’m always going to envy women in their twenties a bit. I’ll miss the promise of the first kiss. I’ll miss the excitement of dreaming of what my future will be. I’ll miss cleaning my house and waking up and having it still be clean. I’ll miss going to the bowling alley at midnight, and happy hours at elegant bars, and not having to schedule my life around a 2:34 pickup time.

  But in exchange, I have something more.

  For better or for worse, I have a family.

  Forty-seven

  Seema

  Once again, I am in front of Scott’s building, ready to press his buzzer and ask to be let in. Once again, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I take a deep breath and press the little white button. Several seconds pass. Nothing.

  This is a bad idea. I turn to leave, and I hear Scott’s muffled voice say, “Hey.”

  I look up at the building camera. “Hey,” I say meekly.

  The door buzzes.

  * * *

  Moments later, I am walking down the long gray hallway, heading to apartment 441. It’s a long walk. I should have called first. Actually, I shouldn’t be here at all. I need to go find someone safe. Maybe an accountant from Encino. Or an actuary from Newport Beach.

  Scott turns the corner of the hallway to meet me halfway. “Hi,” he says awkwardly.

  I nod.

  Desperate not to lose him, and not thinking about the consequences, I grab him in a hug.

  And he hugs me back.

  We stay that way, entwined in our hug, in the middle of the cold hallway, for what seems like hours. Scott finally asks me quietly, “Are we okay?”

  I pull away from him and look at him with sad eyes. “I don’t think we are.”

  Scott sighs. He nods in agreement, then asks me gently, “You wanna come in? Maybe have a glass of wine or something?”

  I nod.

  * * *

  Back in Scott’s loft, I watch him pull out a bottle of Clos Du Val cabernet. “Wow,” I say as he gets a corkscrew and begins opening. “That’s, like, Nic-quality wine.”

  “Wanna know a secret?” Scott asks.

  I nod, so he continues. “I bought it a few days ago. I knew you liked it from the wedding. Thought it might serve as a peace prize or something, but then I didn’t have the nerve to go over and see you.”

  “Peace offering?” I correct. Then, off his look, I quickly say, “Sorry. I’m nervous. Sorry.”

  Scott’s features harden a bit as he pours me a big glass. “So why are you nervous, and why aren’t we okay?”

  “Be … cause…” I begin, dragging out the word to stall.

  Oh, just say it. Get it over with.

  “… I’m in love with you. And I can never have you. And I can’t live like this anymore.”

  Scott puts the bottle down. He crosses his arms, furrows his brow, and asks, “Why not?”

  “Why not what? Why can’t I live like this…”

  “Why can’t you ever have me?”

  “Because being with you makes me feel bad about myself,” I say, truthfully.

  Wow, now I do think I’m going to throw up. God, what do you do when you tell someone the worst thing in the world about yourself? “You know, I think I should go.”

  Scott looks stunned by my statement. “I make you feel bad about yourself?” Scott repeats. His tone gets a little more angry as he says, “I, who went out and bought you your favorite bottle of wine because … oh wait … I actually know what your favorite bottle of wine is. I, who routinely tell you how you don’t need to lose weight, or get Botox, or dye your hair. I, the guy who has been your last phone call for the past eight or nine months. I make you feel bad about yourself?!”

  Boy, now he does look angry.

  I respond by getting angry in return. “Oh come on!” I say. “I watch women who are much better than me throw themselves at you on a regular basis. All kinds of women! I watch size-four blondes with fake breasts hit on you and get shot down. I’ve watched artists who are world renowned for their work hit on you, and you have no interest. I watch a woman who speaks seven languages flirt with you in French, then get rejected. A few months ago, I saw an heiress offer to sponsor you the first time she met you, and you couldn’t get away from her fast enough. They’re all tens, and with those reminders regularly around, I cannot help but notice that I’m a seven.”

  Scott looks at me. “Did it ever occur to you that you might be the reason I keep finding fault with all of them?”

  “No,” I say. “Because we don’t fit, and you make that clear all the time.”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “The checkbook argument?” I immediately say.

  Scott throws up his arms. “Because it is ridiculous to balance your checkbook by hand when there is a computer program and online bill paying to do it for you.”

  “I like doing it my way,” I tell him for the millionth time. “Just because something is new doesn’t make it better.”

  “Right. Let’s go get our horse and buggy and try that out.”

  I shake my head. “Here we go…”

  “No, no. I’ll get my quill, and we can write texts to each other, then wait three days for a mailed response.”

  I try to defend myself with a good offense. “You know, I’m not crazy about the way you run your life sometimes either. Why don’t you try an alarm clock sometime? Maybe start your day before the crack of noon.”

  “Another good invention: the electric lightbulb,” Scott says. “Now the day people don’t get to be in charge.”

  “The day people are still in charge!” I raise my voice. Then I stop. “God, we’re both talking, and no one is saying the hard, ugly truth!”

  Scott stops talking, and so do I. We have thirty seconds of silence.

  “And that’s what?” Scott says.

  “That we don’t fit,” I tell him sadly. “We just don’t. I like order in my life. I hide behind it. I’m too afraid to let it go. I don’t take risks. You do. It’s why I fell in love with you.”

  I shake my head. “And I finally took a risk, and all it’s done is led to fighting.”

  Scott just stands, not responding. Eventually, I turn on my heel to go.

  “It’s not supposed to be this hard,” I tell him, as I head for his door.

  “You can balance our checkbook,” Scott says before I leave.

  I turn back to him. “What?”

  He shrugs, “I’d at least like the online bill paying part, but if you want to take a ballpoint pen and do the register by hand, I can live with that.”

  Before I can figure out how to respond to that, Scott walks up to me. “You’re right. You don’t take risks. You suck at it. It’s all me. I’m the one who takes risks.” And he grabs me in his arms and kisses me.

  The first few seconds, the kiss is tentative. I’m scared, I’m nervous, and it feels weird.

  And then I begin to relax, and so does he.

  And the kiss becomes comforting, yet sexy. Exciting, yet safe.

  And, mostly, not hard.

  Any girl who’s ever been kissed by the one knows that the second he kissed me, my arguments were all out the window. I don’t think he’s going to win every argument by kissing me like that—just the ones for the next ten years or so.

  I pull away from him to ask, “Wait, did you just say ‘our checkbook’?”

  Scott smiles. “I did. And I have something I want to show you.”

  He gently takes my hand and walks us over to his walk-in closet.

  “I’ve been working on a small piece for a while. It’s still in the ‘Oh, God, it’s crap’ phase. But do you want to see it?”

  Before I can answer, Scott opens his closet door. “I call this piece Love Takes Work.”

  As I look at the installation, Scott confides in me, “This was actually in the middle of my living room until you buzzed, and then I quickly hid it. I’ve been working on it ever since the night of Nic’s bridal sh
ower.”

  I walk around the piece, completely stunned that he has thought about me even one tenth of the time I’ve dreamed about him.

  Scott continues, “I don’t know if you remember, but that night you were complaining about your shovel, and how it wasn’t what you wanted because all it meant was hard work, and you wanted a different one, and then I got the heart, and I thought to myself, ‘Yeah—this is the universe trying to tell us something. But I’m too much of a douche to ever do anything about it.’ ”

  The installation has rendered me speechless. The background is a series of pictures: one of us at Nic’s wedding, another of me holding the penises the night Britney was here, another of us at the beach the first weekend we spent as friends. Then there are various souvenirs from our adventures together strewn around in what looks like a random fashion—but I’m sure he thought out their exact placement to the millimeter. My business card with my home phone number written in Scott’s handwriting, in black pen. Tickets to a suite at Staples Center to watch the Kings play ice hockey. The copy of Ulysses I bought him for his birthday. A book of matches from a restaurant in Ventura.

  And, in the center of the installation is his silver heart charm, next to a silver shovel, next to a small velvet box.

  “Is that my shovel?” I ask Scott.

  “Yeah,” Scott says, donuting his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my left shoulder. “Only you were wrong about what it means. According to my research, the shovel doesn’t stand for a lifetime of hard work. It symbolizes nurturing and caring. The theme of the piece is: relationships take nurturing and caring. And, yes, sometimes hard work. Some people don’t want to acknowledge that. They want the red hot chili pepper romance. And that works great for about ten of us on the planet. There are some people who just happen to be totally available when they find the person they want, and there are no complications. No boyfriends or girlfriends already in the picture, no money or career problems, no getting used to the other person’s habits or quirks. People totally ready to lose their last Trader Joe’s vanilla bon bon from the freezer, even though they were waiting for it all day.”

  Scott moves his head over to my right shoulder to declare, “I hate those people.”

  Scott reaches around me to take the velvet box next to the shovel off of its clear plastic stand. “I need this for one sec, then I’ll put it back.”