All the while, making small talk with these strangers on the ride up to the party, I am thinking, my brain desperately trying to figure out a way out of yet another embarrassing situation.
Right before the elevator stops, I say, “Oh damn, honey, I forgot something in the car. We’d better go get it.”
“Right,” he says, understanding immediately.
The doors open, but neither Dunkin nor I make a move to get off.
“We’ll catch you later,” he tells the couple. “We’re just gonna get something out of the car first.”
They disembark. As soon as the elevator doors close behind me, I thrust Dunkin’s coat at him, whip off my shirt, turn it around, and then put it on the right way. Phew! Finally, I’ve avoided an embarrassing situation—for once. I seem to be making a fool out of myself quite a lot lately and look forward to having a chance to redeem myself tonight. I silently vow that I will make a good impression at this party. When the elevator doors open on the ground floor to an influx of party guests, I’m all smiles.
Dunkin and I ride the elevator up to the top floor—again—as if nothing has happened. We get out and right away are greeted by a dozen mingling partygoers.
“Oh Shayla!” booms a voice in the crowd that I recognize from some of Dunkin’s other work parties. Barney Temple—an ass of epic proportions, already completely drunk, his arm around his poor, pretty, long-suffering wife—says, “Nice tits. Didn’t know we were in for a peep show.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but my face turns bright red. Do I have another errant boob a la the yoga fiasco escaped-boob incident or the carwash caper? I look down. Everything seems to be in place. What is he talking about?
“Ignore him,” Dunkin squeezes my arm. “The man’s drunk, not to mention the fact that he’s an asshole.”
But, then, Barney points theatrically to a bank of television screens on the wall behind us as he sings off-key, “We saw London, we saw France, we saw Shayla’s underpants.”
Displayed on the myriad of TV screens is a live video feed of the building exterior, the lobby, and, of course, the elevator. Apparently, the Corbetts have a state-of-the-art security system which includes live video feed of the elevator. I wonder how many of the guests saw me shirtless in only my bra?
“Well, hello Dunkin. And who is this lovely exhibitionist you brought with you?”
“Shayla, this is Antony Corbett. Antony, meet my girlfriend, Shayla.”
I blush bright red. But, this is no time for regret. Putting on my big girl panties, I stick out my hand as my boyfriend’s wealthiest patient, the host of tonight’s festivities, lets out a loud laugh and wraps me up in a bear hug.
“Honey, we need not stand on ceremony. I’ve seen all of you. We may as well be friends.”
I plaster on a smile and force myself to laugh along. This night could not get any worse. But then, Pamela Drew, the mother of one of my students from last year and an avid PTA mom at Saint Sebastian, walks over to me, drink in hand, and says, “Why, Shayla Ross. I heard you made quite the splash this evening. If you ever decide to leave teaching, you’ve got a guaranteed job in the pornography industry.”
As I join in her laughter, I can’t help but think that the ramifications of tonight’s little elevator debacle may well be far-reaching, but there’s nothing I can do to stop Pamela from spreading stories to the other PTA moms. So much for making a good impression and wowing people with my conversational skills. It looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the night trying to get people to raise their gazes from my cleavage to my eyes. I can’t win.
I sigh and head to the bar to get myself a drink.
Chapter Twenty-One
By Sunday morning, I am ready—although not eager—to get out of bed. I spent all of Saturday in self-pity mode, huddled beneath the covers, feeling like a total idiot and trying to wish away my flashing episode of the night before. But, today, feeling better and wanting to emerge from my self-imposed exile, I get up and start a pot of coffee. Then, I remember that it’s Sunday’s brunch with Dunkin and my family.
“Ugh,” I groan.
I crawl back into the safety of my bed, burrow under the covers and mope for about five minutes, contemplating feigning illness or injury to get out of today’s brunch obligation. I decide to woman up. I get out of bed, shuffle toward the bathroom, punctuating my walk with a string of expletives as I go. Just because I’m going to go doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.
I scowl at myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s a good thing no one is around to see me in my ratty pink sweatpants, oversized magenta Tinkerbell nightshirt and fuzzy yellow slippers. When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I put on my silliest, most ridiculous sleepwear and mope around the house. It helps me not to take myself, or my life, too seriously.
Before getting into the shower, I text Dunkin my parents’ address. We’re going to meet there rather than drive together because I want Dunkin to be able to leave whenever he needs to make a break for it. He assures me that he’s not worried, but I know that the next time his parents come to town, I’m going to need to give myself an early escape option and I figure it’s only fair to reciprocate in advance. Anyway, I text Dunkin and he replies immediately that he misses me and can’t wait for brunch.
The poor guy is delusional. He actually thinks that spending time with my family is a good thing. I smile at his naiveté then jump in the shower. Nothing short of a miracle will keep my mother from criticizing my appearance, but I decide to at least make more of an effort than usual today.
For Christ sakes, the woman may have cancer. Then, again, she does enjoy criticizing me more than anything else. It gives her life purpose. The Shayla project. Her daughter, the fixer-upper. Without me to jab at what would she do with herself? Perhaps, I should make less of an effort and give her plenty of material to work with—the more she can focus on what’s wrong with me, the less likely she’ll be to obsess about her own problems. But, my mother is an accomplished multi-tasker. Surely, she can obsess about me and herself simultaneously? I opt for the former approach—dressing with care, opting for a skirt instead of jeans and a pretty white camisole top that my mother bought for me.
When I ring the doorbell, my mom flings open the door and gives me a once-over.
“I’m not often wrong,” she says. “But, I was very wrong about that top. It doesn’t suit you at all. So unflattering. I always seem to forget about your boxy proportions. Oh, well, at least, for once, you’re not wearing those dreadful jeans. And your eyebrows are a lot less severe than they were the last time we saw you. Come on in. Where’s Dunkin? Please tell me you two haven’t split up.”
“Hi, Mom.” I kiss her on the cheek. “He’s about five minutes behind me.”
Then, my mother does something completely out of character. She wraps me up in her tiny little arms and holds me close to her. I swear, she actually inhales the scent of me, like a mother with a newborn baby.
“I love you, Shayla sweetheart,” she says. “You really can be quite a lovely girl you know.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
As Dad rounds the corner and sees us hugging, he is understandably perplexed. Mom and I aren’t the most affectionate pair.
“What’s this? Who’s dying?” He is joking, but my mother bristles and I feel her tensing in my arms.
She lets go of me, shaking off his words, and whatever motherly impulses possessed her to hug me and says, “Can’t I be proud of Shayla? For once, our daughter doesn’t look like a hobo. Besides, she finally has a boyfriend.”
As if on cue, Dunkin pulls into the driveway and gives a little hello honk. The three of us turn in tandem and wave at him. Dad puts an arm around my shoulder as I nestle into his neck.
“How is my most beautiful daughter today?”
“You mean your only da
ughter.”
“That I know about.” He chuckles.
I laugh a loud, unfeminine guffaw and my mother clucks disapprovingly at me. I can’t help it. The joke was funny. My dad is anything but a playa and the thought of him having any “baby momma dramas” is enough to set me convulsing with laughter. But, I bite back the impulse to cackle too obnoxiously. After all, my mother may be dying of cancer. I owe it to her to be more somber. With my luck, I’ll probably be one of those people who, overcome by grief and ill-equipped to deal with it, laughs at a funeral.
“Hey,” Dunkin says as he arrives at my parents’ door.
Snapping out of my reverie, I give him a kiss hello, my dad shakes his hand, and Mom does some antiquated European thing which involves a hug and air kisses.
“Oh, Dunkin, don’t you look handsome,” she coos.
He does indeed, in a pair of stonewashed jeans and black button-down shirt. She whisks him away—presumably back toward the dining room to parade him around to my brothers and their fiancées.
“So,” Dad says. “There’s something up with your mother. Care to tell me what it is?”
“What makes you think I know?”
“Because you knew about the abortion,” he says.
“You knew about that?” I ask incredulously. About eight or nine months ago, my mother confided in me that she had accidentally gotten pregnant and gotten an abortion. She’d sworn me to secrecy at the time and I’d kept her confidence. As far as I was aware, she’d never told my dad.
“I figured it out. Not to be crude, but for your mother and I not to have sex for three weeks is unheard of and, besides, she charged the procedure to our joint credit card—$950.00 to Planned Parenthood. Despite what your mother may think, I’m not an idiot.”
“Does she know you know?”
“No. I didn’t see any reason to tell her. And, now, there’s this other thing…”
“Dad, I can’t tell. I promised Mom.”
“It’s medical, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“Just promise me this… if it’s serious, either make her tell me or you tell me yourself. That woman is the love of my life and if something were to happen to her and I didn’t do everything in my power to protect her, I’d never forgive myself.”
“Deal,” I say.
“Now, let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
As predicted, my mother has my boyfriend by the hand and is parading hum around as if he were a show pony.
“Doesn’t Dunkin have the most lustrous hair?” She runs her fingers through his hair. “And look at his teeth.” She pokes him in the ribs to make him smile. “Plus, he’s a doctor. Can you believe it? Shayla finally found herself a quality boyfriend.”
“Mother!” I say, forgetting any promise to myself not to let her exasperate me today.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll stop. He’s just such a catch.”
Dunkin looks abashed, but he’s also grinning like a Cheshire cat, so he can’t be too embarrassed by her flattery.
“Hey John, hey William, congrats on your engagements,” I say.
I walk over to my brothers and their brides-to-be, offer little hugs of hello and politely oooohhhh and aaaahhhh over each woman’s nearly identical engagement ring. I can never remember either of my brothers’ girlfriends’ names despite having met them both nearly a dozen times. The women just seem so interchangeable to me and no different from any one of their previous girlfriends. Are my brothers in love or is this just another item on John and William’s to-do list? Dialing down my inner cynic, I feign rapt attention as Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum (okay, last crack about the girlfriends—promise) prattle on about how excited they are to be planning their weddings together.
“Can you believe it? We both wanted blush and bashful. Like in Steel Magnolias. It is just meant to be!”
“Or like in Ryan and Trista’s wedding! Remember all that beautiful pink?”
I don’t remember the pink and haven’t a clue who Ryan and Trista are, but before I can find a tactful way to say this, my boyfriend interjects.
“Huh,” Dunkin says. “I guess I don’t know much about weddings. But, doesn’t a joint wedding make it less special for you? Wouldn’t you each want your own wedding day experience?”
I love him. I love my boyfriend. I officially have the very best boyfriend in the whole entire world. He manages to convey exactly what I want to say without seeming rude or insensitive. Have I mentioned how much I love him? Maybe, one day, he and I will get married. And, if we do, our wedding colors will not be blush and bashful.
“William and I share everything,” John says. “We’re identical twins. We’ve always shared everything and we like it that way.”
“Well, as long as you don’t share the honeymoon.” Dad smiles.
“Oh, but we are,” one of the fiancée’s—the blonder one—says. “We’re all going to Bermuda together!”
Dad clears his throat. “Tiffany, sweetheart, I meant the post-marital, honeymoon night activities.”
She blushes. “Why, well, of course not, Mr. Ross,” she stammers.
I smile. I have sometimes wondered about that, but not for very long. The thought of my brothers having sex makes my stomach turn and the notion that they might be into anything as kinky as a foursome or swapping girlfriends frankly makes me want to hurl.
“Who’s ready to eat?” Mom asks.
Spread out on the table is an elaborate feast. Bacon, eggs, sausage, croissants, bagels, mini muffins, fruit salad, coffee cake and an apple fritter are beautifully arranged for our consumption.
“Wow, Mrs. Ross, this looks great,” Dunkin says. “Much better than our typical Sunday morning donuts.”
“Well, if Shayla brought you over more often, you’d get to join us for these little brunches. Tiffany and April and the boys come for Sunday brunch at least a couple of times a month.”
“Isn’t it nice being part of such a close-knit family?” the one who must be April because my dad identified the other one as Tiffany, asks me.
John, who has always been my least favorite of my two brothers, says, “Shayla doesn’t quite fit in with us as much as we’d like her to. I mean, she’s not really into the whole country club thing. William, Mom, and I are Tiffanys and Shayla is Target.”
“What about your dad?” April smiles.
“He’s a ‘tweener. Bed, Bath, and Beyond or Pier One or something. Maybe Williams Sonoma. At home in the middle and loved by all.”
“I had some Tiffany’s glassware when I was married,” Dunkin said. “In fact, my old house was immaculate. And, you know what? It always felt so sterile, so empty. I hated it. Shayla is anything but empty. If, by Target, you mean that she has substance, I agree. I don’t know anyone who lives life as fully as this girl here.” He turns his smile on me and I feel suddenly vindicated in my role of family outsider. “Honey, can I cut you some of this delicious coffee cake?” my sweetheart offers.
I nod, gratefully. We manage to navigate the remainder of brunch without a hitch. Dunkin’s charming wit, his engaging mannerisms, and his professional success make him a hit even with my hard-to-please family. It’s nice. Still… a part of me wishes I could do with his parents what he’s done with mine—win them over. However, my naked antics and clear lack of sophistication put me at a considerable disadvantage.
Speaking of naked, for some inexplicable reason, after we’ve all finished eating and retired to the living room with cups of coffee, my mom starts regaling us all with her story about the time she caught me and my high school boyfriend nude in the downstairs rec room.
“I swear, Shayla never did have the good sense to sneak around like the two of you,” she points at my brothers and laughs.
Dunkin smiles, winks at me, and pulls me close to him on the c
ouch. “One of the things I love about you is how many times I’ve seen you naked, both on purpose and accidentally,” he whispers in my ear.
I laugh and wrap my arms around him. We leave at the same time as my brothers and their fiancées, an unprecedented event. Usually, I take off right after eating, before I’ve even had time to swallow my last bite. Dunkin being with me has made navigating Sunday with the family a relatively painless ordeal.
As we’re leaving, Mom says, “Wait! We just have to get a family photo.”
She makes us all stand in front of the fireplace and instructs Dad to set up the camera on its tripod. He hits the delay button, sprints over to the rest of us, and we smile together as the flash goes off. And, despite the fact that a part of me is rolling my eyes at the whole thing, another part of me is excited to finally feel like I belong. It’s nice that Mom wants to commemorate this occasion by taking a photograph. On the way out, I hug her just a little longer than usual and am happy when, for whatever reason, she hugs me back for just as long.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m not a wealthy woman by any means, but I typically keep a couple thousand dollars in my bank account for a rainy day. So, when I call the bank for my balance, I am perplexed to find that my account is overdrawn by $87. It’s a mistake. Of course, it’s a mistake. I hit 0 for the operator, listen to the elevator music in the background, and hum along while on hold. I’m not worried. Why would I be worried? I must’ve punched in the wrong account info by mistake.
“Good afternoon. My name is Jackie Gabriel. How can I help you with your banking needs?” a chipper voice asks.
“Hi Jackie. My name is Shayla Ross.” I give her my account number, verify that I am indeed who I claim to be by providing personal informational tidbits such as my date of birth, mother’s maiden name, and home address.
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