I feel guilty and remorseful, and on top of that, I feel the need to prove myself. It’s ego. I’ve always been independent and self-sufficient. But more than that, I pride myself on being competent at everything I do. And here I am, confronted with the knowledge that there is something at which I completely suck.
I turn to face him, even though he isn’t looking at me. “I can do this.”
“It’s not a challenge or a competition,” he says, reading my mind.
“I can do this,” I repeat firmly.
“You said that last night and look what happened.” He sighs. “This isn’t a spelling bee,” he says, referring to my greatest success in junior high school which I accomplished after studying every word in the dictionary for a month. “It’s not learning French or writing a book or getting a masters in communications. It’s parenting. Some women just aren’t cut out for it. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”
But I know what he’s thinking. It’s written all over his face. You are a bad person. You lost my son and forgot my daughter. You are a bad person.
I cross to the table and put my hand on his shoulder. He stiffens but doesn’t pull away. I gaze down at him, willing him to look up at me. Finally, he does.
“Danny. I am so sorry about today. Please give me one more chance.”
He shakes his head.
“You don’t want a perfect stranger taking care of your kids. You said so yourself.”
“No, I don’t. But it’s better than—”
“No, it’s not. I’m telling you, I will not let you down.”
He doesn’t say anything. I lower my hand and return to my seat. An unpleasant feeling stirs inside of me—the knowledge that if I don’t fix this, if I don’t make up for my mistakes today, something between my brother and me will be forever broken.
Finally he speaks. “It’s not just about what happened today.”
Puzzled, I narrow my eyes at him.
“I mean, today mostly, but there’s something else too, today notwithstanding.”
“Danny, speak English.”
He looks at me, a hint of a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, fine. Remember Cera?”
I nod. Cera is Caroline’s daughter from a previous relationship, and one of the main reasons why I warned Danny away from his wife. Anyone who has baggage in the form of an ex-husband and a child by the time she’s twenty-six should be kept at arm’s length. He didn’t agree. Obviously. Cera lives with her father and his family in Seattle and visits Caroline and Danny only sporadically. I’ve never even met her, and according to Buddy, he hasn’t either.
“Her dad called. She’s…well, she’s coming to stay here for a while. She flies down first thing in the morning.”
“What?”
“His wife’s mother is terminally ill, and they have to fly to Toronto to make the final arrangements. Richard asked if Cera could stay with us instead of making the trip.”
I tsk, loudly.
“What was I supposed to say, Meg? ‘No, sorry, Rick, I’m sure Cera will have a great time watching Hospice change your mother-in-law’s colonoscopy bag.’ I’m sure!”
“No, but you might have suggested he find childcare, which I know he can afford. What is he doing with his other kids?”
“They don’t have any other kids. And they’re not going to. Rick’s wife can’t have them. Anyhow, he thought it would be nice, under the circumstances, for Cera to spend time with her other family. Her brother and sister.”
“Half-brother and half-sister,” I correct him. “Did you mention that Cera’s mother is in a rehab facility?”
“We agreed that seeing Cera might cheer Caroline up.”
“Oh, please. You’re an idiot.” I catch myself before I do further damage and count to ten. “She’s what, eleven, right?”
“She turns twelve on Sunday.”
“Doesn’t she have school?”
“She goes to a private middle school.”
“Of course,” I say under my breath.
“They’re on break till after Thanksgiving.”
I roll my head from side to side, hearing the satisfying crack of my vertebrae, then I take a deep breath and blow it out on a sigh. “No problem.”
“Excuse me?”
“No problem, Danny. I can handle it. She’s almost twelve. You never know. She might come in handy.”
“It’s too much for you. Seriously, Meg.” He stares thoughtfully into space for a few seconds. “You know, the greatest lesson Melanie taught me was that we have to recognize our limitations and come to terms with them. This is one of those times. For you and for me.”
I jump out of my seat and plant my hands on my hips. “Fuck you, Danny, and fuck that! You want to know what Melanie taught me? She taught me that life’s a bitch, and the best way to navigate through it is to be one. I’m taking care of your kids—and your step kid—and that’s the end of it.”
I stomp to the counter, but instead of going for the Smirnoff, I grab my brother’s parenting bible, tuck it under my arm, and carry it toward the dining room. I stop at the archway and call to Danny, “I’ll be back in a while.” Then I storm from the house and head for the Camaro.
* * *
The drive to Vista View State Beach takes less than five minutes. As luck would have it, as soon as I make the left onto PCH, I spot a metered space at the curb. I parallel park, then shut off the ignition and lean back against the driver’s seat. For a few minutes, I force myself to breathe deeply.
Today’s episode at Bloomingdale’s hits me with renewed force, and I feel my shoulders tense with the memory. Knowing my nephew was safe and sound all along does little to absolve me of my guilt. I close my eyes and call up my calming place, transporting myself to the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Ironically, in my mind’s eye, there is a barrage of people on the deck with me including a shrieking toddler. My neck muscles spasm. The last thing I need in my calming place is a shrieking toddler.
I open my eyes and glance to my right. The sun is a blazing orange ball lowering in the afternoon sky, and its heat radiates through the Camaro’s closed window. I alight from the car, shove a quarter into the meter and head for the bike path. A couple of cyclists are moving swiftly in my direction and I wait for them to glide past before making my way across the asphalt.
When I reach the top of the trail that leads down the steep embankment, I pause and gaze at the Pacific Ocean just beyond the sandy beach. The grey-blue water is choppy, riddled with foamy white caps, and medium-sized waves rhythmically pound the shoreline. Perhaps a half-dozen wet-suited surfers brave the freezing cold water, sitting atop their boards, waiting patiently for the perfect ride. A steady, cool breeze licks at my face as I stand taking in the tranquil scene. I take a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, then head down the path to the beach below.
My brother was a surfer, spending as much of his summer vacations as he could hanging ten. And although I never would have been caught dead on a surf board, I always enjoyed the beach and swimming in the ocean. In the water, I experienced a sense of release, a feeling of giving over my tight reigns of control. A human being has little or no power over the mighty sea. I intuited that early on. The ocean was the only place in which I found myself content and at peace with the concept of being ruled by a force greater than my own.
Ten yards from the foamy surf, I bend at the knee and remove my shoes, then roll my jeans halfway up my calves. I leave the sandals where they lay and head for the water. Icy needles stab at my toes, my feet, my ankles as I wade in the shallow water. The wind whips through my hair. The clouds above and beyond me seem to be on fire, a cornucopia of orange, magenta, hot pink, gold.
I watch a youngish surfer with a shock of sun-bleached hair paddle furiously as a wave approaches. At just the right moment, he pops to standing and smiles victoriously. A fraction of a second later, a secondary swell hits his board and he tumbles over into the water. The wave takes him, and he rolls ove
r and over in the violent surf before he finally manages to gain his feet.
As he stands and shakes his head, sending a spray of water flying in every direction, I sense the underlying message of the last sixty seconds—the Pacific Ocean’s not so gentle reminder that, no matter what we think or what we talk ourselves into believing, we are, none of us, in control.
* * *
“We’ll have to do something for Cera’s birthday,” Danny says as he sets a platter of meatloaf on the table.
My brother has been very amiable since my earlier declaration. I don’t know whether he’s planning to microchip his children just in case Auntie Meg screws up again, or install hidden cameras in every location imaginable—including the Camaro—but he seems to have regained his confidence in me. I know he doesn’t want to borrow money from Buddy. My dad is on a fixed income and watches every penny. But I think there’s more to it. Danny knows me, possibly better than anyone. He knows that once I put my mind to something, I won’t give up until I am victorious. I have to give him credit for wagering his children on my success.
McKenna, on the other hand, is doing nothing to hide her contempt for me. Every time I look in her direction, I catch her glaring at me. Before dinner, I tried to entice her with my Bloomingdales booty, but she could care less about Anne Klein and Max Mara. Not surprising since she’s Caroline’s daughter.
“Nice meatloaf, bro” I say, slapping the bottom of a ketchup container.
“Thank God Caroline stocks the freezer.”
“The perfect wifey,” I snipe.
Under the table, Godiva scoots closer to me and plops down on my feet, creating a canine slipper. I’d nudge her away if my feet weren’t so damn cold. Possibly the Michael Kors cut-out sandals were a mistake, given that it’s not summertime. But I was sort of in a bad state at the time and just bought everything Bianca offered, nodding my head at her as the security guard escorted me to Joe Bridgeford’s office. I could have left them in the box and returned them—I won’t be able to wear them in New York until next spring—but, damn, they are fabulous.
Danny breaks up a few pieces of the meatloaf and drops them onto Tebow’s high chair, then adds some cooked peas and carrots. Then he sets a slice on McKenna’s paper plate.
“Yuk,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “I hate meatloaf.”
“You love Mommy’s meatloaf,” Danny replies.
“Hate it.”
I’m not especially fond of meatloaf either and I find myself longing for the takeout place on the corner of 79th and Broadway. Great gyros. Ah, for a Manhattan meal. I push the brown glop around on my plate.
“The secret is lots of ketchup,” I confide in McKenna, but she turns away from me. I make a show of enrobing a bite of meatloaf in the red condiment until none of the meat shows. Then I pop it into my mouth and make ‘yum’ noises. She pretends to ignore me, but a moment later she does the same with her own bite. I consider it a small victory but I don’t allow myself to smile.
“We should get Cera a cake,” Danny announces as he finally takes his seat.
“Who’s Cera?” McKenna asks.
“You know Cera, silly,” Danny says. “She’s your sissy who lives far away.”
“I don’t ‘member her.”
“I’m sure when you see her, you’ll remember her, honey,” Danny assures her. “Anyway, there’s this bakery over in Pelican Point. They make really great cakes. Maybe we can get one from there.”
“I’m on it,” I say, and Danny gives me a doubtful look. And why shouldn’t he? I haven’t exactly been reliable since I arrived, but I’m determined to prove myself. “Seriously, I’ll take care of the cake. Just tell me where I’m going. It’ll be my treat.”
“Deal,” he says. “I’ll write it down for you.
Great, just add it to the Encyclopedia of Childcare by Danny Monroe. In the index.
I glance at the clock on the microwave and note the time: 5:05. “Hey, bro. You always eat dinner in the afternoon? In New York, this would be a late lunch.”
He smirks. “I’m taking the kids over to see Caroline this evening. Visiting hours end at eight.”
“Got it.” I try not to smile, don’t want my brother to know how much I’m suddenly looking forward to a little alone time. Maybe I’ll log some miles on the treadmill or take a luxurious bath or listen to my iTunes or check my Facebook fan page. I should read and respond to my emails, too. Damien hasn’t called since this morning, which is odd since we normally talk six or seven times a day. I’ve only been here twenty-eight hours, but I feel like I haven’t checked in with my life in ages.
“You’re welcome to come with us. I’m sure Caroline would love to see you.”
Right, I think. About as much as she’d love to have an appendectomy without anesthesia.
“I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” I say brightly. “But tell her I said hi.”
“Of course we will,” Danny says.
I look over at him and catch him staring at me. I squirm in my chair. “You’re not going to…um…mention anything that might, you know, upset her. Right?”
He grins. “I would never purposely upset my wife.”
I would and with pleasure, the bitch. But I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I choke down her meatloaf and fantasize about a six course meal at Le Bernadin, sans ketchup.
* * *
At quarter to six, Danny looks at his watch and instructs McKenna to get her shoes on. (I’m impressed that the five-year-old can do this by herself until I see that the shoes are slip-ons with Velcro. Yeah. Real hard.) I offer to clear the plates and take out the trash so that Danny can get Tebow ready and go. Not that I want them out…oh, who am I kidding. I can’t wait until they’re gone.
I walk them to the front door and watch them pile into the Camry. Danny straps the kids in their seats quickly and effortlessly and I have to admire his skills. When we were kids, I was the efficient, capable one and Danny was the clumsy, klutzy one. My brother couldn’t even dress himself properly until he was ten. He’s come a long way.
When the Camry is finally out of sight, I close the front door and lean back against it. I stand there for a full sixty seconds, just drinking in the quiet of the house. For the first time in my life, I understand what it must be like to be a parent, the overwhelming sense of freedom a mom must feel when she has a brief respite from her charges.
But I am not a parent. Only a surrogate. And a terrible one at that.
I look at my surroundings: the LEGOs and Barbies and baby blankets strewn around the living room, the 8x10 family pictures on the walls, the worn sofa and DVD collection made up of Sesame Street and Little Einsteins, and I suddenly feel depressed. A week ago, I learned that if I want to have children I’d better get my ass moving. But a week ago I had no idea what motherhood entailed. Now I have an inkling. And I realize that even if I wanted to procreate, I would totally fail at it.
Shut up, Meg. You have dishes waiting.
In the kitchen, I find a Sprite in the fridge and make myself a vodka cocktail to sip while I work. Compared to my kitchen in New York, this is palatial, although my own refrigerator is absent the myriad photographs of smiling kids and the kitschy magnets with legends like ‘Got Formula?’ and ‘Chef Mom’ and ‘I Love You!’ and the finger paintings of suns and flowers and stick figures that are supposed to be Mommy and Daddy and Brother and Me. My refrigerator is stainless steel with a defrosting drawer and room for catering trays even though I never entertain, and absolutely no adornments on the exterior. I long for my wonderful trash compactor, but am slightly envious of Danny’s garbage disposal, as I am not allowed to have one in my sink, per co-op regulations.
The truth is, I could probably fit my entire apartment in my brother’s kitchen, dining room and foyer. But I love my home, mostly because it’s mine. Still, I admit I sometimes wish I had a backyard with a nice square of lawn and room for some flowers and plants. My apartment has a small balcony, which is considered something of a luxury
in Manhattan. But it’s no good for any living thing other than the pigeons. If I had a dog, the balcony wouldn’t be enough—the dog would probably commit suicide by jumping from the twelfth floor if it weren’t spirited away by the brazen birds first. New York City pigeons are a tough lot.
My cell phone vibrates from the back pocket of my jeans. I withdraw it and see that I have a text from Adam. I allow myself to smile, not because I miss him per say, but because he’s the closest thing I have to a significant other. I swish my screen then call up the text.
Lst nite was hot! Ready 4 round 2? B there in 10. Get naked now. A.
I’m still trying to process the text linguistics when my phone vibrates in my hand. Another text pops up under the first:
Oops. LOL. Sorry, Meg. Last one wasn’t 4 U. Hope ur having fun. A.
Fucking hell. My un-boyfriend is screwing someone other than me and accidentally (Oops. LOL.) sent me a lascivious text meant for her. Wonderful. I pretend not to care and busy myself by collecting the paper plates from the table and stuffing them into the trash.
Adam and I aren’t exclusive. We don’t have a commitment. This doesn’t bother me. I keep repeating these sentences to myself as I wrap the remainder of the meatloaf in tinfoil and place it in the fridge. After all, I wasn’t exactly the paradigm of monogamy following my birthday, now was I?
I stare at my reflection in the kitchen window, trying to pinpoint how I’m feeling. I would never want Adam to know, but I’m stung. It’s the pride thing at work. How could he want to be with anyone else after being with me? I’m good in bed. Really good. I bump and grind and mash and lick with the best of them. So what if I close my eyes when I’m riding him and pretend he’s Russell Crowe? Don’t all women do that with their beau-hunk of choice, even the ones who are madly in love?
I refuse to think about the woman awaiting my lover’s arrival. (Refuse might be too strong a word, considering that I can’t help but think about her.) Probably young. Twenties with a killer body and huge breasts. I wonder if she’s in love with Adam, or he with her. By the tone of his text, I’d guess not, but who knows? Maybe he’s found his soul mate, and that’s why the sex lst nite was so freaking hot.
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