City Mouse

by Lender, Stacey;

  “I have one too,” said the other Jessica. Or was that Lisa? “What I love is that it’s not so final, like the snip is. Just in case you change your mind and want another.”

  Another pregnancy, another baby—I was with Tami on that one: not interested, not even a little. I was more than happy with two. And now that I was about to hit the thirty-five yard line, there was even more to worry about beyond unexplained miscarriages; there was also Down’s syndrome and the heightened risk of autism and gestational diabetes. Maybe there was something in the water to mitigate those worries in Suffern because nearly every family we had met except for Alyson’s had three kids. Some families even had four.

  “I still don’t think birth control should always have to fall on us; not at this point in our lives,” Tami pontificated. “Let the man deal with it for once. Now let’s do one more for the road and then I’m going home for one of my last good fucks before Chris is shut out.”

  I barely even flinched anymore hearing those words come out of Tami’s mouth. No matter what we were talking about, Tami always found a way to bring up her prolific sex life with Chris. On the kitchen counter, in the front seat of their Suburban, multiple orgasms outside on the swing set—I’d never had a friend who talked about sex so much. My favorite was their forty-eight-hour rule: Tami told us she and Chris have sex every forty-eight hours no matter what. Every forty-eight hours! With Aaron’s travel schedule, we were lucky to have sex once a week. And the most creative we’d been in recent memory was having a quickie on the floor in our home office, stopping in the middle to make sure we hadn’t hit the power cord and screwed up the computer.

  Aaron would have been furious if he found out I’d told my friends what we did together in our most intimate moments. I’d never shared those details with anyone, not even Liza. It had been one thing back in college to trade notes over breakfast about what went on in the sorority house the night before. But bragging about the orgasms your husband gave you . . . to me, that went over the line.

  Luckily, part of Tami’s candor routine didn’t include asking us to dish out our own personal details. I wondered if Chris knew how much she told us, and if he was okay with it. I didn’t see him often, though when I did, I couldn’t help but think about him in all of those positions, entering her from behind in their new steam shower, hands tied up above his head with her Hermès scarf.

  Tami came back to the table with a round of shots. “Drink up, girls,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if I could do a shot and be able to drive home. But I did only have one beer. Tami doled them out and made a toast: “To kick-ass new jeans.”

  “To kick-ass new jeans,” we all said. How could I not drink to that?

  “Ugh, what was in that, Tami?” Aly grimaced. “It tasted like turpentine. Next time, please, gimlets or something sweet.”

  Ten minutes later, I found myself clenching the steering wheel at ten and two, driving at exactly the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit, praying a cop would not stop me. Maybe I was technically under the influence but I was pretty sure I wasn’t DUI drunk; if need be, I could put my finger on my nose and walk in a straight line, no problem. If it ever came to that. It wasn’t going to come to that. Slow and steady, stay right in the lines now. I never did eat dinner, that must be why I felt so light-headed after just one beer and a shot. But if a cop did stop me, he’d totally have to let me go, a responsible mom. In a pair of hot new jeans.

  Despite driving home buzzed, I felt very focused, a more perfect driver than even on my road test. And as I pulled up our driveway, I realized it had been a lot easier than I ever thought it would be.

  Chapter seven

  A few weeks later during my Monday-afternoon marketing meeting, Noreen’s number flashed up on my phone, but I was right in the middle of explaining to our client on the other end of the speaker box how inserting quotes from the New York Times and Daily News reviewers in the Radio City Christmas show’s advertising could help boost ticket sales during the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving. When sales were slow, it always seemed to be the advertising’s fault. And sales were slow.

  “‘A Beloved Holiday Tradition,’ with the subhead ‘Bigger and Better Than Ever!’ right across the top,” I proposed. “We could add a burst with a discount for the weekday performances and promote the offer online through Playbill’s e-mail list.”

  While I waited for the producers’ response, Noreen called again. Shit. “I’ll be back in a sec,” I whispered to our graphic designer, and went out to the hallway to take the call.

  “Jessica? It’s me, Noreen.” Her voice sounded shaky. “I have a big problem. I’m here with the girls and just got in a car accident.”

  I felt my heart stop and drop into my stomach. “Oh my god. Is everyone okay?”

  She paused for maybe a second but it felt like an hour. “Everyone’s fine but the police are filling out a report and an ambulance is here.”

  An ambulance! A wave of bricks hit my stomach and I couldn’t breathe. The girls were in a car accident. There’s police and an ambulance and I am standing here in a hallway talking on the phone.

  “Where are you, Noreen? What happened? Where’s Phoebe? Can she . . . talk?” Tears sprung from my eyes as I imagined the worst, her limp body on a stretcher next to Madison’s.

  “Hang on a sec,” Noreen said. What did she mean, hang on? I cannot hang on! In the background I heard the sounds of traffic going by and a few muffled voices and then a man’s voice on the phone.

  “Hello, Mrs. Almasi? This is Officer Richardson.” Authoritative and professional, even-toned. This is how they tell you, I thought, this is how they break it to you. “There was an accident, a collision at the corner of Spook Rock and Viola. There’s extensive front-end damage to your minivan but I wanted to let you know that everything is fine, that your sitter and both your daughters do not appear to be injured. But as a precaution we’re going to take them over to the Good Samaritan emergency room.”

  Mention of the emergency room instantly turned my tears into sobs. “The hospital?” I choked. If everything is fine, why do you have to take them to the emergency room?

  “Take a breath, ma’am, a deep breath, now. Their car seats seemed to have done their job and kept them safe and strapped in, but it’s standard procedure to have a doctor look them over to rule out any internal injuries or head trauma.”

  Head trauma?! Oh my god.

  “The good news is they are up and alert and they want to be with your sitter. She’s with them right now. Would you like to speak to—what’s your name, little girl? Phoebe?”

  A moment later, Phoebe’s voice said quietly, “Hi, Mommy.”

  She could speak, thank god she could speak. She knew I was her mommy and she could speak. I tried my best to put on a cheery voice through my panic for her. “Hi, sweetie, how are you? Are you okay?” Do you have a headache?

  “Noreen says when we get home we can have ice-cream sundaes.”

  Ice-cream sundaes—what the fuck?! “Wow! What a treat. I’ll be there very soon and don’t worry, Phoebe, okay? Everything’s going to be fine, I promise,” I told her to make it true. “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mommy.”

  Her sweet voice made me even more upset.

  Officer Richardson got back on the phone. “How long until you can get here, ma’am?”

  “I’m in the city—I don’t know, an hour?” I felt a million miles away. Should I take a cab? The bus? The train? And, of course, Aaron was away on a business trip in San Francisco, today of all days, San Fran-fucking-cisco on the other side of the country, and his flight wasn’t getting in until late that night.

  The officer asked if I had a pen to write down a few phone numbers and I sprinted to my office where I scribbled the ambulance cell so I could stay on while they rode the few minutes there, the number of the towing company, and the officer’s contact information in case there were any further questions. I grabbed the piece of paper and flew out the door to m
ake the train leaving in seven minutes, trying Aaron’s cell on the way. He didn’t pick up. “Call me, it’s important,” I pleaded.

  The train felt like it crawled to Suffern. An accident. I can’t believe Noreen got in an accident. With the kids in the car! How could she have done that? The policeman said they were okay and I believed him but I was still filled with the worry of a thousand unknowns. Staying on the phone wasn’t enough, I needed to see them, to see with my own eyes they were all in one piece. And now we were stopped on the tracks between Allendale and Ramsey, waiting for a signal ahead of us to change. I wanted to scream.

  Would they remember it? I wondered. At seventeen months, Madison was too young—she wouldn’t remember anything about it. But at three, Phoebe might. If I had been there, I would have been driving and this never would have happened. Or would it? Add driving to the list of goddamned dangers of the suburbs. I just wished Aaron would call me back already. I tried him again.

  Maybe one of my friends could get to the hospital before me, to comfort the kids and keep me updated while I was on my way. I tried Alyson but she didn’t answer at home or her cell. Who else, who else? I scrolled through my contacts. I tried Ivy and she didn’t answer. I searched for Tami’s contact info and then I saw Alyson was trying to call me back. I told her what had happened and she said she’d leave Emmy with Priya and promised to call me back as soon as she arrived at Good Sam. I let out a shallow exhale, feeling so grateful to have a friend who would drop everything just like that to help me.

  I left my car at the emergency room curb and ran into the empty waiting room. The nurse took me right back behind a curtain and thank god there was Madison bouncing playfully on Alyson’s hip and Phoebe with the doctor’s stethoscope on her ears, giggling at a knock-knock joke. Banana who? I rushed up and hugged them, and even though Alyson had reassured me on the way that they were both totally fine, I burst into tears.

  Phoebe looked shocked. “You’re crying Mommy,” she said, and I hugged her even tighter.

  “Yes, sweetie, I know, I’m just so happy to see you. I’m crying happy.” I wiped my face with my sleeve.

  Noreen stood up from her chair looking pale and scared, and between her profuse apologies I hugged her too. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeated, and now that I was there, it was, my angst and anger extinguished by relief.

  Dr. Romanello (“Call me Connie”) assured me the girls had checked out perfectly, and when I admitted I’d never felt so scared in my life and my hands were literally shaking, she asked if I needed a Xanax. If so, she could give me a few samples and call in a prescription.

  “I don’t know,” I said. Did I look like I needed a Xanax? I had never taken anything like that before; the last thing I wanted was to be zonked out, immobile on the couch.

  “You should,” Alyson advised. “I mean, it’s always good to have for . . . you know, just in case.”

  So thanks to Alyson and my new BFF, Dr. Connie, I walked out of the hospital with my unscathed children and a handful of little white pill samples tucked in my purse. Minus the two Alyson had asked for.

  On the ride back to the house Noreen was mostly quiet. “Are you doing okay?” I asked.

  “Forget about me, I’m just so relieved that Phoebe and Madison are okay. I am so, so sorry, Jessica, I really am,” she said from the passenger’s seat, and told me again how she had both hands on the wheel and more than two car lengths between her and the blue Taurus in front. “I don’t think he saw the light was changing and then he slammed on the breaks and I ran right into him, and not even that hard!”

  I nodded as she spoke, the twenty-three-year-old girl with bitten-down nails painted purply black who I entrusted with my children every single day. The person who might have gotten them killed. Killed! Was I crazy to let someone who was a total stranger until a few months ago be responsible for my children? Could I still bear to look at her every morning after such a huge fuck-up, even if it wasn’t completely her fault? I didn’t want to. But I felt like I had to.

  “Accidents happen,” I said, feeling nauseated as I said it. “But I appreciate how well you handled this, with the police and the ambulance and remembering to call the pediatrician. You must be exhausted.” I had no idea how I’d be able to cancel the three meetings on my schedule the next day, but I knew I needed to be home. “Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow?”

  Noreen looked nervous. “That’s really not necessary, Jessica. I’m totally fine.”

  “That’s okay. Take the day to recoup. My treat,” I insisted.

  The rest of the day and into the evening I snuggled with Phoebe and Madison on the couch, wistful for the days of pushing a stroller to get wherever we needed to go.

  I watched them watch TV, noticing their bellies rising and falling with each breath. Two new freckles on Madison’s arm; a scrape healing on Phoebe’s shin. When did she fall? They spent so many of their waking hours every day with Noreen, not me.

  I can’t believe I wasn’t there today. And my not being there actually caused them harm. It could have been worse, I knew; thank god it wasn’t. And I knew there was no way I could ever be with them every single minute to protect them for the rest of their lives. But for now, I had to do better. I had to figure out a way.

  I smoothed Phoebe’s hair as she watched the puppets on the screen and she promptly pushed my hand away with a “Stop it, I can’t see!” I guess she really was fine, back to her normal obstinate self.

  When Aaron got home after midnight I gave him the lowdown.

  “I do not want the kids driven in a car by anyone except for you and me ever again,” was his response.

  “Oh come on, Aaron, that’s ridiculous—their whole life is being shuttled from one place to another in the car. How do you expect them to get anywhere?” I imagined the neighbors gossiping about us, those crazy parents from the city who no longer let the nanny drive their kids, that weird family under car quarantine who now homeschool their kids and get their annual booster shots by a house-call pediatrician. “We can’t hold them hostage in the house. Accidents happen—some guy stopped short in front of her. And it could have been a lot worse; let’s just be thankful no one was hurt.”

  “I cannot even go there,” he said. He sat down at the edge of the bed and rubbed the sides of his forehead with his fingers, the way he did when he was upset.

  “I know—I worry every minute we’re away from them,” I said, feeling myself getting choked up again. “But I trust Noreen—we have to. It’s the only way this is going to work.”

  He paused, apparently signaling his agreement. “How much damage to the car?”

  “I don’t know.” I forgot I had to deal with the car tomorrow. “Do you know how much our deductible is?”

  “I have to look it up; I think a thousand?”

  Shit. “Maybe the repairs will be less and we can just pay out of pocket.”

  “Well, I would think Noreen would help cover it.”

  “Are you serious? If it’s a thousand dollars, that’s practically two weeks pay for her.”

  “Why the hell would we have to pay if it was her fault?”

  I was too exhausted to argue. “I have to go to bed,” I mumbled.

  The next morning Aaron got dressed for work still complaining about the probable increase to our insurance premium. Alyson proved to be a total lifesaver again, offering Priya to watch the kids while I went to the collision shop where the car had been towed. The front bumper and part of the hood were bent inward, but all in all I didn’t think it looked that bad. Boy was I shocked when the mechanic told me the repairs would be close to six thousand dollars.

  “Are you serious, for that little dent? Is there any other way?” I asked, but he wouldn’t budge and said we were lucky to only have to pay the deductible.

  I had to leave the car there for nearly a week to get it fixed and Noreen said she could use her own car to take the girls to and from school and their playdates and classes. When Aaron asked me if I
’d spoken to Noreen about contributing toward our costs, I told him that we’d be needing to look for a new nanny if we ever brought it up with her and I certainly didn’t have time for that right now.

  So, by the time that week’s moms’ coffee break rolled around, I needed to vent. “It’s so frustrating that Aaron can’t get it through his head why I won’t ask Noreen for money to help cover the repairs.”

  We were sitting at our corner booth at the diner against the wide windows decorated with cling-on turkeys and cornucopias. Looking out on the busy Route 59 intersection, I saw cars following their morning choreography—left arrow, green, go, and then stop—marveling at how the giant masses of moving metal narrowly missed hitting each other every time.

  Carolann took a sip of her tea and said, “I don’t know, Jessica, I can see why he’d be upset. I mean she was the one driving your car. She should be responsible to pay something, don’t you think?”

  “No. I don’t think so at all,” I answered, surprised to hear that she felt this way. “Driving the kids is part of what’s required for her work. Why would she think she’s responsible to pay for something that happened on the job?”

  “Plus, there’s no way she could ever afford to pay,” Tami said, backing me up.

  Carolann persisted: “I think she could at least offer you a token to show how sorry she is for crashing your car. It’s the principle, not necessarily the amount.”

  “How much of a token?” Tami asked. “Even a hundred dollars would be a lot of money to her, to any nanny. If it was me and my nanny offered to pay, there’s no way I would take it. I think it sets up a weird precedent. If by accident she broke a glass or a vase or something in the house, it’s not like I would ask her to replace it.”

  “But this is a car. Your car. It’s not a glass: it’s a thousand dollars. That is a lot of money for you to have to shell out for her mistake,” Carolann said.

  She wasn’t getting it. “I don’t think she feels obligated to pay anything at all. Nor should she,” I said, moving my fork around my half-eaten omelet. “Although she did push me almost to my limit yesterday: she asked for gas money, for driving the kids in her car for the week.”