Just landed.
I dialed and Aaron picked up. “Hey, you’re still up.”
“Can’t sleep. I wish you were here.”
“Me too. What a nightmare. We sat for almost two hours on the runway.”
“Ugh, the worst. It’s too bad you had to leave today.”
“I know. I got a last-minute call asking me to be here for a dinner tonight, a dinner that I’m now late for—it figures. Were you proud of me, getting the nanny to come and cover without bothering you on your trip? Hang on a sec . . . Going to the Rosewood,” I heard him tell the taxi driver.
And as much as I wanted to have our heart-to-heart right then, I knew it wasn’t the right time. Not on the phone, rushing out of the airport. It can wait a couple of days, I told myself. I just prayed Alyson had put her trip photos in the vault along with the rest of the weekend as promised, or better yet, used some good judgment and deleted them altogether.
I told Aaron how much I loved the Buttercup book and the cards and that I couldn’t wait to see him in a few days. We said good night and before I knew it, my eyes were opening to the predawn light leaking through the edges of our bedroom window, thanks to our Blinds to Go blackout shades proving incapable of performing their one required function. I couldn’t fall back asleep so I showered and got dressed for work, and while waiting for Samina to arrive I searched online and was relieved to find you cannot get salmonella if you cut yourself with chicken shears.
Then I checked my inbox and saw Ivy had already sent the first après-weekend e-mail: BEST TRIP EVER! Good luck with re-entry everyone. I am COMPLETELY rejuvenated and ready to pack the lunches (ugh).
Tami wrote back: Hope your first Monday night back tonight is FUCKING marvelous Carolann, ha ha.
I felt like I needed to add a reply to the chain. I typed, Still no voice! I need a vacation to recoup from our vacation. At least the second part was true. But as I was about to click send, I thought, What am I doing? What was the point of engaging in the e-mail blabber if I wanted to take a step aside? I erased my response and figured I’d just run into them during the week.
But I didn’t see anyone. I landed right back into a hectic work week preparing the “win” campaign creative for Marco’s show, which had been nominated for three long-shot Tony Awards: Best Musical, Best Original Score, and Best Supporting Actress. If any of them hit, we had to be ready to change out every piece of advertising immediately—and if we got really lucky and that award turned out to be Best Musical, we’d be buying up loads of extra media and plastering the accolades all over the place. And I might also be looking forward to an extra bonus come year-end.
It took me until Wednesday afternoon to find a free minute and to get up my nerve to follow up with Steven Masterson. He took my call right away, and now we had a pitch meeting on the calendar in two weeks up in Boston. Sybil was thrilled.
Aaron reported he was having a stellar week at his conference; his first panel about the future of data mining had gone over huge and he had two more panels to go. In fact, it was going so well, he now had to stay until Saturday for a special postconference, invite-only “Innovators of the Future” meeting.
Not telling him about the trip was eating away at me but I couldn’t discuss it over the phone. Only three more days, I could manage for three days—but I wasn’t sure if I could make it through three more nights. Every night since Aaron’s departure, Phoebe had come into our room complaining she couldn’t sleep. I wanted to be strong and send her marching right back to her own bed, but with Aaron out of town it was just easier to let her sleep with me, even though she kicked and flailed and kept me up half the night.
Our mornings were brutal, and getting worse each day. By the end of the week, Phoebe clung to my leg screaming, “I don’t want to go to school, Mommy, don’t make me!”
Don’t make me? “Only two more weeks of school left,” I reassured her. She was obviously overtired and I felt guilty having disrupted her usual sleep schedule. But the way she was carrying on, it seemed like there must be something else.
I asked her if she was sad about the end of school coming so soon, and she shook her head no.
“Do you feel like you’re getting sick?” I put my hand on her forehead: cool. “Is someone not being nice to you?” Is Samina locking you in the closet when I leave for work?
Finally she said, “Emmy took my purple headband and won’t give it back.”
That’s what was making her so hysterical? I knew her purple ribbon headband with the rhinestone bow was her favorite, but really? “Did you let her borrow it?”
“She took it in school and won’t give it back. She won’t give it back!”
“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay.” I hugged her close. “I hear you and I will talk to her mommy and get it back, okay? Maybe Emmy got it confused with her own purple headband,” I tried, and that seemed to calm Phoebe down, at least enough to get us out the door.
I e-mailed Alyson on my way to work to confirm our weekly ballet carpool for Saturday morning and added, PS: Have you seen Phoebe’s purple headband around? She might have left it at your house.
Alyson wrote back with no mention of the headband, just that she’d be taking Emmy to ballet that week, she was dropping her off at her mother’s house afterward so Emmy would be out of the way for Jeff’s Saturday-night fundraiser party. That actually works out better, I thought; now I could go straight from ballet to pick up Lupita and Samuel for our trip to the Museum of Natural History planned for Saturday afternoon.
I was going to write back to ask if our usual Friday coffee at the diner was on but stopped: even if it was, I couldn’t imagine sitting there talking, or trying not to talk, about last weekend.
I decided not going to the Friday coffee would be the first official step of my disengagement. It would be easy; I’d just say I was on deadline and had a conference call. And instead of going to the gym or catching up on e-mails during my new free Friday-morning window, I would spend that time playing with Madison. She was almost two—two already!—and before any more time zoomed by I wanted to play with her, really play; I wanted to turn off the computer and turn up the music and shake the maracas to the “Monster Boogie.” I wanted to build giant Lego castles and take an art class together. Madison was always getting the short shrift of mommy alone time—second child, along for the ride—and I knew if I didn’t make the time now, in a minute she’d be a teenager and wouldn’t want to hang out with me.
A whopping twenty-megabyte e-mail landed in my inbox and disrupted my reverie. Trip Photos! was the subject, and I was the only person listed in the To: line. From: Alyson. Holy shit. Maybe she did know I was covering up the fact that I didn’t actually fool around with Steven; maybe she realized I was a potential risk of spilling their weekend’s secrets. And if you ever open your mouth, here’s what I have on you?
It took an excruciatingly long time for the images to appear—the files were huge. I held my breath as they came up one by one: our smiling faces, the five of us arm in arm with drinks in hand, the glittery eye shadow and low-cut tops, and a few shots devolving into some of our late-night drunken moments. My heart hurt from the wait for those biggies to hit, the ones I had seen on her phone. But then the last photo appeared and it was just Tami, with her straw beach hat over her face, sleeping on the plane.
Maybe I had it wrong, maybe this was Alyson’s roundabout way of saying, This is our story, this is what we’re sharing, and the rest is now put away for good.
I told myself not to worry about it. Instead of replying with a question mark or calling her, I simply pressed delete.
* * *
I was about to leave to take Phoebe to dance on Saturday morning when Aaron called. He was catching the seven a.m. flight and would be home by five. Finally.
“So Alyson just called me,” he said.
Maybe she had dialed his number by mistake about a change in the carpool? “We’re walking out the door—does Emmy need a ride to ballet?” I ask
ed.
“What? I don’t think so. I wasn’t even going to pick up but I saw Alyson’s caller ID and thought maybe there was an emergency. But she said she was calling me because she’s worried about you. That you haven’t been yourself lately.”
The wrecking ball had hit: Alyson called Aaron. Directly. Suddenly I thought maybe she had told him everything—about the trip, about Steven, the pictures—or worse, had already sent them. Aaron could be looking at those pictures right now. I knew I should have explained everything right when I got home, even if it was on the phone. Now it was over and he would never trust me again.
“I haven’t been myself lately? That’s bizarre. She’s the one who’s been going off the deep end,” I said, trying to keep my heart in my throat and quickly come up with a mea culpa that wouldn’t sound defensive.
But thankfully I didn’t have to.
Aaron said, “The whole conversation was laughable. I told her you were just fine, and that I wasn’t going to waste my time getting in the middle of some girl bullshit. That if she had something to say to you, she should be a grown-up and call you herself.”
“Was that it?” I asked, holding my breath.
“There was one more thing—she told me not to mention she called. I thought, Oh yeah, that’s what I’m going to do, keep it a secret. What an idiot. I hung up and called you right away.”
“Like you weren’t going to tell me,” I said, feeling a huge surge of relief that Aaron had halted Alyson’s encroachment just like that. What a bitch. Sending me threatening e-mails, trying to taint Aaron with suspicion and doubt. But Aaron was on my side; he was my husband. In times of happiness, in times of trouble. In times when the psycho next-door neighbor rears her malicious head.
I told Aaron I needed to talk to him about the Kiawah trip when he got home. “Suffice it to say, I won’t be going on another weekend away with this group anytime soon.”
“And I’ll catch you up on my week out here,” he said. “All good stuff. Love you.”
“Fly safe. Love you too,” I replied, and started counting the hours until he landed.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I found myself back in my usual Saturday-morning ballet-watching bench spot. No sign of Alyson, Carolann, Tami, or their daughters yet. I hadn’t seen even one of the moms all week and suddenly I felt butterflies, wondering when they would show. I still couldn’t believe the nerve of Alyson. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say to her, but one thing was for sure: there was no way I was letting this latest stunt of hers go.
Strains of choppy piano music wafted through the air and I tried to keep Madison occupied with her two My Little Ponies as Phoebe and her classmates held hands to form a circle and started their warm-ups—“Stretch up to the sky and down to touch your toes.”
I looked around at the smattering of other moms who had been sitting with me in that waiting room nearly every Saturday morning for a full school year, their not-quite-familiar faces, siloed in their digital comas, staring down at their cell phones. Not exactly the most warm and welcoming bunch. Eventually I’d have to start putting myself out there again, smile, Hi, which one’s your daughter? Volunteer at the school book fair, sign up to be a class parent. My stomach tightened, just thinking about it. But I’d have to get more involved if I wanted to find some new friends. More good eggs like Lupita, who I was excited to spend the afternoon with on our overdue trip to the museum. Who else might be out there . . . maybe the other Jessica? I’d had a nice conversation with her stuffing envelopes at the last auction meeting. Michelle Upton was also a possibility, if we could ever find time to connect. Whenever I ran into her at the school between pickups and drop-offs, she always had a warm smile for me.
Just then, Alyson appeared at the entrance to the waiting room. Her hair was pulled back in one of her usual tight ponytails, and her makeup was perfect, her lips finished with a shine. I noticed she still had remnants of peeling sunburn on her nose and cheeks, but the fluorescent light made her skin look blotchy and pale.
Her eyes darted around looking for a place to sit, and when her gaze caught mine, I gave her a curt wave. She nodded and then sat on a bench on the other side of the room. My section was pretty full but still, to not come over and say hello—there was no doubt in my mind she knew that I knew about her call to Aaron.
I glanced over at her sitting among the others, sporting her usual stoic stare, lips slightly pursed as she flipped through her e-mails. If she felt at all uncomfortable, I couldn’t tell; I never could tell with Alyson. She had perfected the bitch veneer, that cold, hard exoskeleton from head to toe, shielding her from the pain and bumps and bruises the rest of us suffered through and seemed to wear on our faces and in our demeanors. Maybe somewhere deep inside her was a hidden reserve of kindness and compassion, but her constant stream of nastiness really made me wonder.
I decided to focus instead on Phoebe and the girls practicing for their upcoming recital, weaving their sweet spring tableau of insects and flowers. Phoebe was in the ant group, on their backs with their arms and legs moving up and down, in and out, up and down in unison, and I appreciated the instructor’s nod to Busby Berkeley, one of my favorite old-time choreographers. Then one by one, each ant stood and picked up a colorful tissue-paper bouquet and sashayed over to the line of butterflies holding their hands high, creating a tunnel for the ants to dance through. Phoebe took her turn, tiptoeing through the tunnel in her pale pink slippers, and then all of a sudden I saw Alyson’s daughter Emmy bend her elbow and bonk Phoebe on the head with her butterfly wing.
Maybe Emmy’s elbow had slipped; maybe it was an accident. But she had a self-satisfied look on her face that made me think it wasn’t.
Phoebe made her second turn through the butterfly tunnel and Emmy took another swipe at Phoebe’s back. The little fucker.
And, I noticed, she was wearing Phoebe’s headband.
I sprang up to the glass and pounded my fist, “You have got to be kidding me!” but the other mothers barely glanced up from their e-mails and texting, and the ones who did just stared at me blankly. Behind my back, I could feel Alyson smirk.
I spun around and looked straight at her. No one was going to hurt my kid. “What the hell was that?” I demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alyson said.
“You know exactly what—Emmy whacking on Phoebe in there. And taking her headband?”
“Phoebe gave Emmy that headband. You sound seriously paranoid, Jessica—are you going crazy or something?”
All the moms in the waiting room were staring at me. Even Madison was looking up with a confused expression on her little face. But I knew there was no way I’d imagined what Emmy had just done to Phoebe. It had happened, even if no one else backed me up.
“I know what I saw,” I replied, enunciating each word to let the double meaning of seeing her on the deck of that yacht take a moment to sink in. “And I know all about your secret little reach-out to Aaron this morning. Did you really think he wouldn’t tell me? Your schemes might work on other people, but they’re not going to work on me. And now seeing Emmy in there, following in your footsteps—actually, it’s just sad. And it’s not okay.”
Alyson glared. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but Phoebe has been bullying Emmy for months now. Calling her names, pulling her hair.”
Phoebe? Alyson was full of shit. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
“I am not allowing Emmy to play with Phoebe anymore.”
“There is no way I’d ever let Phoebe play with your daughter again after what she did to her just now, that’s for sure.” I turned and saw Phoebe standing alone next to the piano, looking as if she was about to cry. I wasn’t going to let her stay in that room with the next cruel generation of little bitch emissaries just getting started with their vicious ways. Living next door to them, growing up alongside them—the thought of it suddenly made me feel sick.
And for once I had no problem saying ex
actly what I was thinking: “Go fuck yourself, Alyson.”
The waiting room fell silent and all heads turned to Alyson, who stood there with a look of utter shock, as if in her entire life no one had ever crossed her in such a way. She opened her lips but all that came out was a feeble squeak.
I calmly opened the studio door and got Phoebe and Madison the hell out of there.
* * *
On the drive into the city, I told Lupita what had happened in ballet. The PG version, since the kids were there in the backseat.
“I am glad that I have a boy,” she said. “No offense, of course. It’s just that girls can be so mean.”
“Especially when they learn from their mothers.”
When Lupita asked about my weekend in Kiawah, I didn’t get into the details. As tempted as I was to bash Alyson, I felt like if I gossiped about her and everyone else’s exploits, I’d just be perpetuating the nastiness I wanted to be rid of. Today and from now on, I planned to focus on the good, be in the present with people I wanted to be with.
Lupita said, “I have some exciting news.”
I felt bad having hijacked our whole conversation with my girl bullshit drama, as Aaron had called it. “Tell me, tell me.”
“It’s about my meeting with the descendant of Aaron Burr.” Lupita described how the previous Friday morning, she had traveled to the small brick house on a street near an elementary school in Ho-Ho-Kus to pursue one of the last research leads on her professor’s exhaustive list. A woman who looked well into her seventies welcomed Lupita inside; they sat and chatted for a long while about the woman’s husband, who had died of cancer just a few months before. Lupita gently reminded her of the reason for her visit, and the woman stepped into another room and returned with a brown shoe box. She told Lupita, “My husband always said I should take these to Antiques Roadshow, but I never had the chance.”
When Lupita opened the box, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She asked if she could excuse herself for a moment to make a phone call, and twenty minutes later her professor’s car screeched into the driveway. He sat at the dining room table and took deep, slow breaths as he carefully studied the pile of tattered letters written in faded quill ink. When he was finished, he looked up at Lupita with tears in his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”
City Mouse Page 24