Family Affair

by Caprice Crane

  trish

  Brett shows up at the studio, which is currently housing yours truly and April (of the Foster family holiday picture debacle), who I found and hired in a terrible hurry once Layla said she needed an extended leave of absence after we called and told PETCO our funding fell through. I can’t say that I’m happy to see my brother. He looks around at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of Sammy Davis Junior. Pictures of Lou. Various random pictures of other customer pets that were favorites.

  He stares for a moment at April. I think he must be trying to figure out where he knows her from, but he can’t place it. Lou runs over to greet him, but I stay where I am.

  “You know, she really has talent for this,” Brett says. He looks at me. “Don’t get up, really.”

  “I won’t, limpdick,” I reply.

  “Limpdick,” he repeats. “Charming.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Can’t a brother come visit his sister merely to say hello?”

  “He can,” I say. “But you never have, so obviously there’s a reason you’re here. What is it?”

  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, tries to look past me to see if Layla’s here. As if I can’t tell what he’s doing.

  He holds up a mug. I recognize it. He and Layla went to Color Me Mine a long time ago, and she made what is the ugliest mug in the history of all painted pottery.

  “I found this,” he says, “and I thought Layla might be here. I haven’t seen her in a while, and I thought she’d get a kick out of seeing it.”

  “After seeing you, the only kick she’d get out of it would be throwing it at your head.”

  “I thought it would make her laugh. And I thought it would be nice to see her.”

  “Really?” I ask. “Are you seriously going to pull this shit now?”

  “What shit?”

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  “Look, bridge troll,” he replies. “I’m not in the mood to answer your three questions to gain passage. Is she here?”

  “No, Brett,” I say. “She’s not. Take your ugly mug and go.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Clearly you’re having a bad day. So I’m just gonna ignore that. Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “I wish I did,” I say.

  “What does that mean?” Brett asks.

  “She’s been gone for almost two weeks,” I inform him. “She’s working freelance gigs, and I have a stand-in.” I toss my head toward the rear, where April is arranging cat toys for the sixth time today.

  April’s not terrible, but she’s not Layla. Although she did manage to behave in a politic, Layla-like way during an episode earlier this week. That celebutante who’d mistakenly been blowing her bowser came back to have her newest pet’s photo snapped. She was particularly pleased with her new Norwegian blue. It was a funny little thing, she admitted, but she’d bought the ferret off a different dealer than her Maltese, and the dealer had sold her on it after going on and on about its beautiful plumage, which supposedly appears in late fall. (She planned on coming back for more shots then. I didn’t discourage her.) April managed to say nothing throughout. She simply gave the “ferret” a few pieces of cheese, got a couple of great shots, and suggested the woman name it Mickey.

  She seems to enjoy the work, and she’s particularly good with felines.

  “That’s not possible,” Brett says. “You and Layla are partners. She works here.”

  “No, Brett,” I say pointedly. “It’s entirely possible. She’s totally distanced herself from me, our business, and our family. None of us has seen her, and it’s your fault.”

  Surprisingly, this seems like news to him. “Oh, really?”

  Normally I’d say, “No, O’Reilly,” as I’ve done for years, to keep things light. But we’ve grown far enough apart, Brett and I, that the usual niceties all taste sour. So I don’t put them in my mouth anymore. “Yes, Brett,” I say. “Really.”

  “Huh,” Brett says, and sits down, clutching the hideous mug for dear life.

  “If you ask me, I think she’s started seeing someone,” I say. I don’t think for a minute that it’s true, but I’m trying to dig the knife in a little deeper. Because I’m of the strong opinion that he deserves it.

  “What?” he asks. “Who?”

  “How should I know?” I say. “But maybe she’s happy. I hope she is; she deserves it.”

  “Yeah, she does,” he says, seeming unsure.

  “Leave her alone, Brett,” I say.

  “What am I gonna do?” he asks. “Bang on her door and demand that she stop seeing this mystery man? It’s not my business.”

  “Damn straight it’s not,” I agree. “Right,” he says. “Like you know about straight.”

  “There’s the door,” I say. “So you can leave now.”

  brett

  Trish was a jerk, but she was right. I owed it to Layla to leave her alone. So twenty minutes later I find myself banging on Layla’s door. I’m not proud of it, but there I am. It starts as a knock, but when I press my ear against the door and hear her laughing, along with someone else—it’s a man’s laugh—my knock turns to a full-fledged bang.

  After what seems like five hours but is probably less than a minute, Layla opens the door. A crack. And peers out.

  “Yes?” she says.

  “May I come in?” I ask.

  “No,” she says.

  “That’s funny.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Do you have a guy in there?” I ask.

  “I might,” she says. “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my house,” I say, suddenly indignant.

  “Wrong,” she replies. “It was your house.”

  “Fine, Layla,” I say. “Have fun with your mystery man.”

  “I will,” she says. “Thank you.”

  And she shuts the door. And I walk around the back of my house to let myself in the back door.

  “Are you kidding me?” she says, when she spots me tiptoeing in the kitchen.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not kidding. I have a right to know who is in my house with my wife.”

  “Unreal,” she says. “News flash. It’s not your house anymore, and I’m not your wife anymore.”

  “That’s not official yet,” I say.

  “Well, it can’t happen soon enough.”

  “Do you mean that?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, chin jutted outward, which is a telltale sign that she doesn’t mean it. So whoever this clown is, he can’t mean that much.

  “Who is he?” I ask, and then walk past her into our living room, where I see her father.

  “Hello, Brett,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

  “You, too, Mr. Foxx,” I say sheepishly. Then I turn to Layla. “It’s your father.”

  “I’m aware,” she replies.

  “I didn’t know you were in touch.”

  “We have been for a few weeks now,” she admits. “Thanks to you. So now that your curiosity is satisfied, feel free to go.”

  “Can I speak to you?” I ask. “Alone?”

  She just stares at me, expressionless.

  “Outside?” I urge.

  Layla sighs and leads me into our tiny backyard, where she then turns and waits for me to say whatever I want to say. She’s got her arms crossed defensively and looks like I’m inconveniencing her terribly.

  “Does it have to be like that?” I ask, trying my best to be charming. And apparently failing.

  “Yes,” she says. “What do you want?”

  What do I want? Jesus, what do I want? What did I do this whole thing for, get started down this whole damn path? I was feeling so taken for granted, and our life had gotten so routine, and then I was so mad about her and Doug, and that “lie” upon which we’d based our marriage—and God, that seems so stupid right now. Like I care what happened so long ago. I was acting like a fucking child, feeling like Layla got to have her cake a
nd eat it, too. I was looking for my own cake. I was seeing temptation around every corner, girls like Heather who are sweet but—not to be mean or anything—really can’t compare to Layla and are destined for someone else to make them happy. I was wondering what the hell I was doing with my life, wondering why Layla seemed to care about me less, watching us slowly distancing ourselves. I was complaining how she wasn’t fighting for me anymore, coming to my games, dressing herself in sexy outfits … but what was wonderful about our relationship was that we didn’t have to do those things out of obligation. Of course she liked it when we were winning, but it got boring after a while, and maybe she felt less needed so she left a game or two early, or even skipped one now and again. Who cares? If we were losing our fiftieth game in a row, and there was no one else in the stands, and it was ten degrees below zero (okay, that never happens in California, but you get the idea) then, in that situation, a thirty-ton Mack truck couldn’t have dragged her away from the game. And why wasn’t I supporting her? We wanted the same things for the longest time—and still do, I’ll swear it. Of course, I just spent three months rebuffing her attempts at fighting to keep me in her life. In fact, I even brought back into her life the very man who caused her the most pain—partly out of spite. Mostly out of spite. Initially. But …

  “What do I want? You,” I say. Why not just get right to the point?

  “That’s funny,” she snaps.

  “I’m not kidding,” I say. “I want you back.”

  “Too bad,” she says. “I’m dating now.”

  “Fine—add me to your dance card.”

  “That’s a laugh,” she says. “You never dated me to begin with. You wouldn’t know how to court a woman if your life depended on it.”

  “That’s such crap,” I say, futilely denying the truth. “We dated. I dated you. We did. We … dated.” Why isn’t my brain working?

  “We never dated, Brett,” she says. And that’s all.

  Well, okay, she’s right that we never dated. Not really. But almost anything can be fixed. Almost. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s start now.”

  “Dating?” she asks. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says.

  “You won’t go on one date with me?” I urge.

  “I don’t see the point.”

  “That’s okay,” I push. “I see the point. You don’t think I courted you, right? So let me court you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she says.

  “One date,” I beg. “That’s all I ask.”

  “If I say yes, will you leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes,” she says.

  “Good answer,” I reply. “You won’t regret it.”

  “I already do,” she says over her shoulder.

  layla

  Brett picks me up right on time. He brings me daisies: the only flower I’ve ever really liked. But, while it’s a sweet thought, this all seems slightly silly—like we’re playing dress-up or acting out some sort of play. Still, I take them and put them in water, and together we walk to the car like we’ve done a million times before, only now everything’s completely different.

  “So,” he says, as he opens the passenger-side car door to let me in. “I thought we’d hit Katsuya for lunch and then a surprise.”

  Flowers, opening the car door, sushi—he’s rewriting the Brett Foster dating manual cover to cover. (Not that he ever had enough material to write a manual.) Katsuya is my favorite sushi place. He’s trying to pick one of our places. The only problem is I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be eating sushi. Not too big an issue, because half the stuff I love on the menu is cooked. The baked crab roll, for instance. If I could marry a food, I would marry that roll. It’s perfection. But how do I navigate around the stuff we usually order that I can no longer eat? Because I’m not telling him the truth about my condition. Not yet. I’m glad I’m not showing.

  “Sounds great,” I say, as I sit and reflexively open the glove box. I always do. There’s never anything new there, yet I always feel compelled to open it.

  “So, did I tell you I took a little excursion to Chinatown?” he asks.

  “If this story involves a ‘happy ending,’ I’m gonna advise you not to—”

  He cuts me off. “Nice, Layla.”

  “I try.”

  “Not that Chinatown. A manufacturing district called Little Shanghai.”

  “Yes?” I prompt.

  “I got a prototype made,” he says. “Wonder Armour.”

  I’m floored. “Really?”

  “Really!”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say. Because I don’t. I’d figured he’d been spending all his time with Corn Pop Girl. I wonder what happened to her.

  “I swear,” he says. “I’d disrobe right now to show you if I wasn’t driving.”

  I laugh. “You’re wearing it right now? Now I really don’t believe you.”

  “O ye of little faith,” he says, and then changes the subject.

  At one point in the car ride, Brett reaches over and grabs my hand. We’d always held hands when we drove together. For some reason this action chokes me up, and I look out the window so he doesn’t see. I’m probably just feeling emotional. Hormones. How weird is it that I’m pregnant and Brett doesn’t know? I say this in my mind over and over so loud that I wonder if he can hear me. I’m pregnant. I can barely wrap my head around that alone, then add in the fact that Brett doesn’t know … Oh, and we’re in the middle of an ugly divorce, yet we’re kind of on a first date. It’s just all Bizarro World.

  When we’re seated at Katsuya, Brett starts to unbutton his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I told you!” he says. And he pulls back his shirt to reveal his prototype for Wonder Armour. A sleek black second skin. I’m truly blown away.

  “You did it,” I say.

  “You seem so surprised,” he says.

  “I am,” I admit. “I’m kind of stunned.”

  “Well,” he says. “You said it yourself. It was time for me to get off my ass and actually do something about it instead of just talking. The thing wasn’t just going to create itself.”

  “I’m really proud of you,” I say, and I mean it.

  “Thanks,” he replies. “I even found a source for the funding last week. A hundred grand! Unbelievable luck, interesting story for some other time. But it’s all happening.”

  Suddenly, I’m angry. I’m feeling all of these different emotions, but anger is at the top of the list. Why now? Why is he now getting his shit together? Only after we separated. Why couldn’t he have done it when we were together? Don’t get me wrong, I love that Brett does what he does for a living. But if he has another ambition, and an idea, why did it take my absence to get him to act on it? Why couldn’t he get motivated to grow up and do this for us, for our future, for our baby, three years ago? Or three months ago? Why now?

  I let it go. I have to. I need to put my feelings aside and take this evidence that he’s motivated as a positive sign for the baby’s future. He or she will maybe actually have a responsible father, even if the parents aren’t together. Brett even—shocker—asks me for help, admitting he can’t do his Wonder Armour plan alone. And for a while I eagerly talk about marketing plans with him. There’s an excitement in the air as we imagine both of our respective businesses taking off—though his has now skipped over mine in all likelihood, what with the loss of our loan and me pulling out of TLC—and I’m happy for him and he’s happy for me, but everything is tinged with regret. And of course there’s a sadness about Ginny.

  He opens up to me about how frightened he is, and how difficult it is for him to see his mother not be the woman he’s always known. To have her ask the same questions he just answered an hour earlier and get irritated if this is brought to her attention. It’s a fine line they have to walk with her, and it’s not easy. I feel for him and I feel for her, and I feel sheepish for aba
ndoning everyone just as things were getting tough. I offer to be there in any way I can without stepping over any boundaries.

  Lunch goes fine. He doesn’t even notice that I didn’t order a spicy tuna roll. Or any raw fish. On our way out of the restaurant he tells me to use the restroom if I need to, which is slightly odd, but once we get into the car I find out it’s because we have a long drive ahead of us.

  It’s a beautiful drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, where we spend long stretches not speaking at all, just taking in the scenery. This is something we always said we’d do—drive up the coast—yet in all our years together, we never did it.

  Turns out we’re going to Santa Barbara. This is the surprise. And what he plans to do there is an even bigger surprise.

  “There are eight wineries and tasting rooms in warehouses within walking distance of one another downtown,” he explains excitedly. “One of them is even in an old tire warehouse.”

  “We’re going wine tasting?” I ask.

  “Sure are!” he says.

  This is really not good. This is beyond not good. This is awful. The sushi I could navigate around, but wine? I’m not going to drink wine. And how am I going to tell him I’m not going to drink it when I bugged him forever to go wine tasting with me and now he’s finally gone and set it all up?

  I suppose I can spit. That’s what you do, right? You spit. You taste and spit? Swirl, sniff, sip, spit? Isn’t that how it goes? But he knows I like a glass of wine. Oh, this is bad.

  We pull up to the winery, and it’s charming and picturesque. I try to separate my anxiety from the beautiful day that he’s planned, because he really has gone out of his way to make a nice day for me, but my apprehension keeps creeping back up. I start to panic. I can’t do this. I don’t even think I should sip and spit. I’m freaking out.

  “I don’t drink,” I blurt out. So much for subtlety.

  “What?” Brett says, as he looks at me quizzically. “You drink me, Scott, and my dad under the table.”

  “Well, you don’t know me anymore,” I say. “I’ve changed.”

  “Really?” he says, with a bemused look on his face. “You’ve changed.”