“Bryan is unhappy because you wouldn’t cook dinner or have sex? Come on. This is ridiculous. What else weren’t you doing—well, besides the starving and the rejecting? And why did you come here without him?” Diana just stared at me with those cold, blue eyes. So I poked her on the cheek. “Wake up, D! What else did you do?”
Mom reached across Diana’s bulging front to slap at me, but she missed, her blow ending up on D’s abdomen with a thump. This seemed to bring Diana to consciousness, and she lashed out.
“I didn’t do anything! In case you didn’t notice, I am gigantic! Being like this”—she indicated her belly—“is horrible! I feel bloated, sick, ugly, and tired all the time! You can’t blame me for being just a little self-centered at the moment!” Diana teared up. Mom continued to pat Diana’s arm helplessly. “Bryan wouldn’t come. He said he needed a break.”
My God. I looked over at Theo, who seemed intent on escape. He turned longingly towards the entryway. The poor guy—dragged right into the scene from a reality show. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, checking his watch.
I couldn’t help myself. “Jesus, D. It’s all about you, isn’t it? The Diana Dallas show! My God. You have a handsome husband, you are going to have a baby, you have a beautiful apartment in Chicago, and just because you don’t feel tip-top, you push away one of the greatest guys ever,” (I wished I hadn’t said that part—poor Theo) “and you still manage to blame him for your own disgusting self-centeredness?” I punched her on the arm.
“OW! Mom! Did you see that?”
By this time, Theo had stood and begun inching toward the door. It was just too much. Diana, rubbing her arm and pouting, moaned, “You don’t understand! You have never understood me!”
With that, I dragged myself off the suede, stomped over to Theo, turned to D, and snarled: “Nope. I don’t understand you, D. I guess I need to Google narcissism.”
I hated to leave Mom holding the bag (literally), but it was just too poisonous in there. I grabbed Theo’s arm and dragged him out the door, slamming it in our wake. We both gulped the air in the hallway, as if we had just escaped drowning.
“I don’t know about you, but I need a huge cheeseburger and some beer. Do you by any chance have any more siblings?” He put his hand over my mouth. “Wait. I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.” Theo grinned.
The cheeseburgers were restorative. Later on, after a brilliant sunset, Theo demonstrated his skills two more times before falling into a deep sleep. I on the other hand, stayed awake the rest of the night, imagining Bryan alone in Chicago, sitting on the sofa, drinking brews and watching sports on the big screen. Ordering his favorite Moo Shu Pork from the Chinese delivery just down the block. Choosing not to come because his wife was fat and didn’t want sex. Having “me time.” I stared at the streetlight, flickering through the leaves outside the bedroom window, trying to remember to blink. The covers seemed to strangle me. My elbow hurt. I got up, leaving Theo breathing evenly, drooling slightly onto my best pillow.
I ran the water in the kitchen sink for about a minute, waiting for the ancient pipes to send up some cool water. I filled a mug, drank it down, and looked out the window over the sink. The Bowers’ house looked settled, solid, the porch light beaming softly. I thought of Ella, probably snoring softly in her batiste nightgown, probably talking to her dear Robert in her sleep. And Bob, the nightlight illuminating all those freckles, her scabby legs lashing out in a dream about chasing butterflies or racing down the sidewalk on her scooter. Or worse, limbs churning due to nightmares about a hopped up mother, track marks on her arms, raising a fist in anger. I held the coolness of the mug against my cheek and thought of the promise I had made Bob. The promise I broke as soon as I set foot in my mother’s apartment.
I set the mug in the sink. I felt the softness of Simpson as he wound around my legs. I bent down to pick him up, burying my nose in his neck. I held him tight.
“Simpson, I am a liar and a horrible role model.” Simpy merely purred, kneading my throat gently with his dear old paws.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The three of us hadn’t had lunch in a while—too much going on in our lives. Ella had invited Gail and me over for a “picnic” one afternoon while Bob and Hallie were at the movies with Marva. Mom and D were also otherwise occupied—luckily for me, I hadn’t been called upon to deal with my little sister since the brunch.
Ella sighed, as she had been doing repeatedly for the last hour. We sat on the comfortable old lawn furniture in Ella’s back yard, surrounded by soft grass, hostas, and Ella’s very disciplined boxwood hedge, thanks to Mr. Danvers and his pruners. Ella had served us triangular egg salad sandwiches with dill springs and iced tea, which she had put on an antique tole tray. It sat between us on Ella’s glass-topped table. I had eaten three already. Ella just nibbled hers. Gail bent toward Ella with concern. “Are you okay? You seem tired.”
Ella sat, holding her sandwich with both spotted hands. “Bobby has been having a hard time lately. She worries about all sorts of things. She wakes in the night after bad dreams, and so I have been sitting up with her. I am just a bit behind on my rest.”
Gail, always the fixer, urged Ella to eat. “Nutrition is very important, Ella. Especially when you are burning the candle at both ends. Don’t just stare at your sandwich, dear. Eat some.”
Ella took a small bite, chewed, and then took a sip of tea. “Bobby is so fragile. I worry about her.”
I had never thought of Bob as particularly fragile. Her energy seemed boundless, her inner springs always wound very tight. She rode her scooter like a gladiator. She loved Simpson with an all-consuming fervor. “Bob? Fragile? Really?”
Ella set her sandwich on her napkin and put it back on the tray. “She is always worried about something. She is afraid Charles won’t make it home. She worries that I might die. She has nightmares about her mother.” A sudden cloud floated over us, turning Ella’s face gray in its shadow. “She is better during the day, when there are things to do outside. She loves being outside. And Rebecca, I am so glad you are across the street, because Bobby so enjoys your company. And the cat. And, Gail. You are such a wonderful, encouraging friend to all of us.”
I felt as if someone had just gut punched me.
Gail jumped in again. “Ella, you can’t handle this all by yourself. Have you thought about finding a nice camp or maybe a youth counselor?”
“Bobby was in counseling in Iowa. But the counselor was ineffective. She made Bobby feel guilty for disliking her mother. She tried to get Bobby to forgive.” Ella’s face flushed with the memory. “Imagine—asking an eight-year-old child to understand the concept of forgiving an abusive mother? That woman just made things worse! No, I will not put Bobby through that again. And camp? I couldn’t send Bobby away.” Ella made a bony fist and drummed the arm of her chair. “No. Bobby needs to have stability. She has been shuffled around enough.”
Gail looked abashed. I felt the egg salad curdle in my stomach. My internal organs felt as if they were rearranging themselves, my mouth was dry, and all I could think about was how terrible it is to be a person who feels lost in the world. I knew how that felt. The winter after my father left, I had recurring dreams. I often woke in the night, absolutely sure that he had just kissed me on the forehead and left the room. I remember scrambling out of bed, running down the hall and into my parents’ bedroom, only to find Mom sleeping alone on her side of the bed, her hand resting on my father’s pillow. I remembered being alone on Dads’ Weekend at Ohio State, High Street clogged with fathers and daughters strolling companionably, eating Jeni’s ice cream and looking happy as I stared at them with both envy and loathing.
I jolted out of my chair and knelt by Ella. “Don’t you worry. I am right across the street. I work part time. I have all kinds of hours free. Forget camp. Bob can hang out more with me, and we will stay busy! Right, Gail?”
Gail, who actua
lly had a full-time job, and one that demanded lots of extra hours for stuff like open houses and scouting around for listings, looked at me with wide eyes. “Right, Beck. You certainly do have the time to spend with Bob. But I am right there with you, emotionally. And of course, whenever I am available.”
Ella relaxed into her chair, fist unfurling, and she looked first at my hot face and then over at Gail’s soothing one. She seemed to sense that the two of us had just reached over to lift the burden off her little, osteoporotic shoulders, and she smiled with great relief, picked up the rest of her egg salad triangle, and put the whole thing into her mouth with gusto. As she chewed, she patted me gently on the head. I wanted to put my face in her lap.
Instead, I stood up and began to wish that I had been to camp. Or at the very least been a Girl Scout. If only I possessed those skills!
▷◁
Three a.m. Dammit. Real life drama and deadlines just don’t mix. Heartthrob Press was expecting the first draft of Bad Boys on the Beach in just weeks, and I was only a third of the way through. My heroine and her pals weren’t nearly satisfied enough with just one lover each—I had to invent at minimum one other hottie and throw in at least a smattering of plot.
I wondered if this was a sign from the universe that I should stop phoning all this crap in and start to actually craft a novel. Lord knows there had been enough inspiration so far this summer: a bitchy pregnant sister, a heroic little girl, a drug addict mother, a slightly boring boyfriend with a heart of gold, a weary granny, the war in the Middle East. I stopped typing to think about this. Just as I was envisioning a new work of literary fiction by Rebecca Throckmorton hitting The New York Times bestseller list, my phone beeped. A text at three a.m.?
It took me a while to find my phone. It wasn’t in the pocket of my sweatpants. I swept my feet under my desk, thinking I might have dropped it. Nope. I lifted the scrambled mass of papers and bills on the desk. Not there. It beeped again. The beep sounded like it was coming from my armpit. Oh. I reached into my bra and pulled out the phone.
I need to talk to u
Wake up
It was from Bryan. My heart flopped in my chest. My ears burned. Suddenly, my hands shook so much I could hardly type.
I am awake. What’s up?
He texted back immediately.
Let me in.
My heart stopped flopping. It just stopped altogether. I realized I needed to inhale, and then my thoughts ran amuck:
Oh my God! He is outside the apartment, and I look like shit.uick, comb your hair; no time to brush teeth, just eat some toothpaste. my God, he is outside. what the hell is going on? Spray some perfume down your front and get a hold of yourself, Beck, take five deep breaths . . .
I opened my door, and there stood my one-time lover.
He looked awful.
Compare and contrast: The Bryan I fell for had deep coffee-brown eyes and lush eyebrows. This guy had dull eyes underlined with purple circles. Had he plucked his eyebrows? The old Bryan had gladiator muscles and ramrod posture. This sad sack was slumped over and flabby. To top it all off, he gave off a pungency that reminded me of Limburger cheese.
I waved him in. For all I knew, the guy was dying.
“Bryan. Sit down before you drop over. What are you doing here? And what in God’s name is going on? You look and smell like garbage. Wait. Do you want something to drink or eat? Maybe a hot shower?”
Bryan smiled ruefully as he sank down onto the floor. It was nice of him not to sully my furniture with his nastiness. My prince.
“Hi.” He rubbed his eyes and pulled something out of the left one and rubbed it on the front of the tee shirt that looked as if Bryan had been sleeping in it for about a week.
“Wait. Don’t say anything yet. You need a Coke.” I pulled a cold can out of the fridge and popped it open. By the time I had settled down on the floor, a safe distance away from him to avoid asphyxiation, Bryan had glugged the entire can dry.
He set the can down on the floor beside him. Meanwhile, Simpson had wandered sleepily into the living room to investigate, and as soon as he got a good whiff of Bryan, he yowled in either protest or disgust. I sympathized and shooed him away. Good cat. He complied.
“Okay. Spill it. You came to beg D’s forgiveness? So why do you look like someone tried to murder you?”
Bryan put his head in his hands for a few seconds. I thought he might just fall asleep like that. I cleared my throat. He dropped his hands and looked at me with those hollow, inflamed, yet gorgeous deep, dark eyes.
“Well, first off, I haven’t slept since the eruption between Diana and me. Secondly, I have been drinking for about three days straight, and third, I nearly had a car accident on the highway on the way here from Chicago. I think I may have fallen asleep at the wheel or something.” He wiped his nose, and then looked at the back of his hand. I nearly gagged.
“Bryan.”—I pushed him toward the bathroom—“Take a shower, then let’s talk. Clean towels are hanging in there. Just go wash.”
While he showered, I got a hold of myself. Sort of. I reminded myself that Bryan was no longer mine, and that he was in some sort of crisis, and that I needed to be calm and listen. No old Beck agendas. I found a tatty OSU tee shirt and a pair of sweats that I thought would fit him, and I opened the bathroom door and threw them in, shutting the door so the steam wouldn’t escape.
A few minutes later, Bryan wandered out, looking drippingly woeful. He followed me into the living room. I motioned for him to sit. His hair dripped onto the back of the sofa. I sat cross-legged on the floor. Didn’t want to get too close.
“I need the whole story. And I don’t care how pitiful you look or how execrable you feel. GO.”
“Shit, Beck.” He took a deep breath. I held mine.
“Your sister has been a complete mental case since she got the pregnancy hormones.”
“This is old news.”
He held up his hand. “If you want the whole story, don’t interrupt. I know how you feel about her, so just shut up and listen.”
He put me in my place. I nodded, making the “lip zipping” motion.
“We both wanted to have a baby. At least that’s what I thought. Diana was taking her temperature and everything. We spent a lot of time online looking at cribs and stuff. It was fine. We were happy. We must have bought at least three dozen pregnancy tests.”
I rolled my eyes but kept quiet.
“So after a couple of months, she got pregnant. And I don’t know, was it the damn hormones, or was it fatigue, or something else? But Diana started sleeping all the time. And when she wasn’t sleeping, she was eating. My God. The Dorito people will erect a monument in her honor . . .”
I couldn’t help guffawing. Bryan looked startled, but continued.
“Then she started making lists. All the stuff that WE NEEDED TO BUY. I know babies need a lot of stuff, but a robotic teddy bear? And she wanted to redecorate the entire place—because it was too dirty for a baby or something. She started talking about having a full-time housekeeper. Nannies. Beck, the woman lost her mind!”
Not to mention her lovely figure. “Go on.”
“We had arguments. I tried to see things her way, but I had to put my foot down on the housekeeper. I tried to point out to her that we don’t need a housekeeper when one of us is staying at home all the time.”
Oooh. Bad move. I could see the handwriting on that wall in the apartment in Chicago. D had a job. I felt pretty sure the stay-at-home-mom thing was a no-go.
“And I told her she had to send back the jogging stroller. She doesn’t jog. Plus, the baby won’t need a trampoline until much later. You know, when he knows how to walk.”
I hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. “So? This still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Cut to the chase, Bryan. It’s three in the morning.”
“Okay. Okay
. So Diana continued to be impossible. And she gained all that weight.”
I was in seventh heaven.
“It got to the point where all D did was sit around in front of the TV, watching The Home Shopping Network. All those baby blankets and breast pumps and stuff. She was ordering EVERYTHING. I had no choice, Beck. No choice. I cancelled all but one of the credit cards, and I took that one to the office and locked it in my desk.”
Glee.
“Diana was stymied on the shopping. I thought she might come to her senses. But no. She told me that when we came here for the family thing, she would just ask your mom to get her all the stuff that I wouldn’t let her have. You know, the deluxe breast pump with the car charger, the jogging stroller with the cup holders, and the Lilly Pulitzer diaper bag.
“It was too much, Beck. I told D that I wasn’t coming with her to Ohio. And if she got Claire to buy her all that stuff that she would be in really good shape, wouldn’t she? She would have all of that high-tech equipment, and so she obviously wouldn’t need me.”
Grinning ear to ear.
“I thought that would bring her around. But no. She left for Framington in a huff. Without me. The goddamn brunch. Well, you know. You saw her, didn’t you?”
“I did. It wasn’t pretty.”
“Yeah. She told me she wants to stay here for a while. She needs a break.”
Suddenly, I felt as if I was choking. I struggled to breathe. The blood drained out of my extremities, and I nearly passed out. “WHAT? She told me YOU wanted a break.”
Bryan pressed his lips together in a tight line.
“Bryan. We both know Diana. She is the queen of the dramatic gesture. This is all just a way to get you back into line. She can’t be serious.”
Bryan snorted. “Wrong. She is serious.”
The sky was brightening. Time passes quickly during family drama.
Crossing the Street Page 10