“It’s short for Cerulean.” She says it like a challenge.
“Your name is Cerulean?” She frowns at me and nods. Despite the sluggishness of my thoughts, I’m incredulous. What kind of idiot would name their child Cerulean? Oh, of course. Caroline.
“It means blue, in case that’s too big a word for you.”
Oh boy. Did I really say I’d take care of this little monster?
“I know what cerulean means, thank you. It’s a stupid name, though.” Ooops. I said that out loud. I definitely need coffee.
“It’s not stupid,” she counters.
“It is stupid,” I reply. “Like Apple and Blanket and Pilot Inspektor. I did a whole segment about stupid kid names on my show, so I’m pretty much an expert. Cerulean is right up there.”
“I’d rather have a stupid name than a boring name. Like Meg. Snore.”
“Touché, kid. Now why don’t you zip it for a few minutes while I make some coffee. I’m much better at this whole sparring-with-a-prepubescent thing after a cup of joe.”
I get to my feet, a little too fast for my brain, and grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
“You don’t look very good,” Cera tells me with a smirk.
“Shut up.” I head for the counter and spend two minutes searching for the plastic one-cup coffee filter. Apparently, Caroline’s ban on coffee consumption included stowing their Mr. Coffee in the garage. I don’t have the time or strength to go in search, so I’ll have to brew my coffee old school. I set a kettle of water on the stove, then grab the bag of Breakfast Blend from the cupboard. As I scoop some grounds into the filter, I can’t help but think of Matt Ryan and our tequila-inspired jam session.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him. He’s oh so yummy. He’s affable and intelligent and a terrific guitar player, this latter fact being my own personal kryptonite. And he’s the antithesis to Adam. Adam is slick and overly concerned with his appearance, always decked out in designer duds, his hair just so, his face stubble-free at all hours of the day. Matt Ryan, in his faded Levis and tattered tee with his Miami Vice chin is far sexier—and this has nothing to do with my recent discovery regarding Adam’s extracurricular activities. The truth is, I’ve never felt as comfortable around Adam—whom I’ve known for over a year—as I did with Matt last night.
Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Why bother? I’m only here for ten days. I have a busy schedule caring for two…(mental forehead slap)…make that three children. And anyway, although Matt was very amiable and overly-willing to share his Patrón, he didn’t make the slightest move on me, which is not surprising. I looked good last night in my new purchases, but it would be difficult for him to erase the image of me in my brother’s clothes, not to mention Monday night’s vomiting debacle. Nothing kills the possibility of attraction like watching someone get puked on. Besides, I’m probably too old for him, even at my faux-age of thirty-nine.
I glance at Cera and see that she is hunched over in her seat, busily texting into her iPhone, oblivious to the world around her. I turn back to my task, place the filter over a mug, then pour boiling water over the filter. A millisecond later, the aroma of coffee fills my nostrils. And the angels sing the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’
“So, did we all have a chance to get acquainted?” Danny asks, springing into the kitchen with a sleepy Tebow in his arms. My brother’s tone is overly bright and cheerful and I assume he’s trying to counterbalance the surliness of his step-daughter. The girl doesn’t even look up from her phone.
“Oh, yes,” I reply. “Cera and I are old friends by now.”
At the sound of her name, Cera snaps her head up. Danny moves toward the table, waving Tebow’s hand in Cera’s general direction.
“Say hi to your sissy, Tebow!” Danny says loudly. Tebow chomps on his pacifier uncertainly. Cera’s eyes go wide as the toddler comes at her.
“Hi, sissy! Hi, sissy!”
“Oh, no way!” Cera cries. “You are so not calling me ‘sissy.’ Total barf-o-rama!”
Danny instantly looks chagrined. He stops and kneels down so that Tebow is facing Cera. “Tebow, this is your sister, Cera.”
“Half-sister,” the girl corrects him. Just then, McKenna shuffles into the room. Oh, goody. The gang’s all here.
“There’s my girl,” Danny says. He doesn’t notice Cera flinch, but I do. “Come on over here, McKenna, and see your sister, um, half-sister.”
My niece wrinkles her nose, but does as she’s told. She walks over to the chair next to Cera’s and for a moment, they all regard each other in silence. I watch this little powwow from the safety of the counter, coffee in hand, a spectator on the outside of a cage at the zoo, peering at the wild animals within.
My niece rubs her eyes, then looks up at her sister. “Hi,” she says, “I’m McKenna.”
“I know,” Cera says tersely. “We’ve met like twenty times. Geez.”
McKenna bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I forgot. But now I ‘member.”
“You ‘member’?” Cera tsks dramatically.
I resist the urge to tell my brother to give the girl a spanking. What a bitch. And, yes, it takes one to know one.
“McKenna is five, Cera,” my brother says, his tone patient.
“Yeah, I get it. She’s a baby,” Cera retorts.
“I’m not a baby!” McKenna cries.
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am not!”
I’m suddenly thinking three ibuprofen aren’t going to be enough. Time to find my Xanax.
“Okay, just stop,” Danny says. He stands and puts Tebow into his high chair, then ruffles McKenna’s hair. “Why don’t you have a seat, McKenna, and I’ll get you some cereal. Would you like something to eat, Cera?”
She sniffs at the question. “I ate a bagel on the plane.”
“How about some juice?”
Instead of answering, she picks up her cell phone and starts to text. Danny stands for a moment staring down at her, his face devoid of expression, and I can tell he has no idea what to do or say. Finally, he backs away from her and heads for the cupboard next to where I stand. As he forages through the second shelf for McKenna’s cereal, I gulp down the rest of my coffee and set the empty mug next to the kettle in preparation for cup number two.
I turn and lean back against the counter.
“Sweet girl,” I whisper to Danny.
He shakes some cereal into a bowl and takes a deep breath. “She’s had it rough.”
“Yeah, right. Her dad flies her to Paris every summer for Bastille Day. Cry me a river.”
“She’s eleven,” Danny says, and I really don’t understand why he’s defending this little wench. “Eleven-year-olds don’t care about Paris and Bastille Day.”
“Come on, Danny. She’s a spoiled brat. She has everything any kid could ever want.”
“Except her mother.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out.
“Speaking of which,” he says. “Do you think you could take her to see Caroline today? Maybe after you drop McKenna off?”
Gulp. “Can’t you take her after work today?”
“I’m going to be a little later than usual tonight. I’ve got an afternoon meeting with the vitaminwater suits and they like to hear themselves talk. Didn’t you read today’s schedule?”
I did, but perhaps I blocked it out. “Oh, sure, yeah. Of course. Vitaminwater rings a bell.”
“So, you know, it would be great if you can swing by the rehab.” He takes the bowl of cereal to the table and sets it in front of McKenna, scatters some bits in front of Tebow, then returns to the counter and fills a plastic cup and a sippy cup with apple juice.
“You don’t have to stay long.” He crosses back to the table and hands off the beverages. Tebow immediately removes his pacifier and replaces it with the chewed nub of the sippy cup.
“I want to see Mommy, too
,” McKenna pipes up.
“You saw her last night, sweetheart,” Danny says with a smile.
“I re-member,” McKenna replies, pleased with her self-correction even though Cera isn’t paying attention.
I put more water in the kettle then set it on the flame.
“You still only have a half day on Friday, right?” I ask my brother as he reaches in the fridge for some almond milk, the sight of which makes me shudder. He pops the top and pours some into a glass, then peers at me suspiciously.
“That’s right. Half day. Why?”
“That station I told you about, the one that wants to meet with me? I made a lunch thing on Friday. I figured that would be okay.” I hate the way I sound, asking my brother for permission. I’m a grown woman, damn it. I don’t need to ask his permission. I don’t need to clear it with him. So what if I thought I lost Tebow for a few minutes yesterday. How long will I have to do penance to make up for that one small infraction?
“No problem,” he says, and I sigh with relief. Then chide myself for sighing with relief. “So you’ll take Cera to see Caroline today?”
I force a smile. “Sure. Absolutely. Can I wait in the car?”
“Ha ha. Oh, and Dad wants to know when he’s going to see your face.”
I feel my cheeks flame. I’ve been in town two days and I haven’t even called Buddy yet.
“His condo’s not far from the rehab center,” my brother tells me.
“Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it!” My tone is slightly manic. Danny raises his eyebrows at me, but I turn away from him and focus on the kettle, willing the water to boil faster.
It’s a good thing I have Dr. Rabinowitz on speed dial.
Twelve
Barry: I just read this fabulous new book called The Au Era, about the golden years and how to live fully and deeply when we’re older.
Meg: First of all, Barry, that’s the stupidest name for a book I’ve ever heard. And second of all, there’s nothing golden about growing old.
* * *
I’ve managed to quell my tequila headache with coffee and ibuprofen, but before we left the house, I discovered I’d packed my Xanax in my luggage. Consequently, I am without my emergency mood-mellower, which I only take in times of great stress, like on my fortieth birthday weekend and almost every day since. And although I’ve often gone weeks, sometimes months, without the drug, something tells me I’m going to need it over the course of the next few days.
I naively assumed drop-off at Dumbass would go more smoothly this morning, since I can leave Tebow in the car with Cera. But McKenna chooses to have a tantrum as soon as we pull to the curb.
“I want to go see Mommy!”
“You saw her last night,” I say, using my brother’s reasoning.
“I want to go see Mommy now!”
“That’s not an option, McKenna. You have to go to school.”
“No!”
Cera wears headphones and is completely oblivious to our contretemps. She stares sullenly out the passenger window as music I don’t recognize blasts into her ears. I get out of the Camaro and open the back door, then kneel down to face my niece.
“I don’t want to carry you to the gate, McKenna, but I will if I have to.”
“I hate you!” she cries, her eyes welling up with tears. I roll my eyes and count to ten.
“I’ve heard that before.” I yank at the buckle of her car seat until it comes free, then grab her under her arms and pull her out of the car.
“I hate you I hate you Ihateyou!!!” She struggles violently within my grasp and I’m left with no other choice than to throw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Other parents give us worried looks and try to shield their children’s eyes as we tromp to the fence of the kindergarten. Miss Livingston does nothing to conceal her hostility as I set my niece down before her.
“Was that necessary?” she asks, then leans over and smiles beatifically at McKenna. “Hi, honey! We’ve got a big day today, and I’m so glad you could be here for it! We’re going to make our turkeys today! Did you bring your pumpkin?”
I look down to see that McKenna has stopped crying. “We are? Today?”
“Pumpkin?” I say. “What pumpkin?”
“You go on inside now and I’ll be right in, okay?”
McKenna nods enthusiastically and scampers through the gate. Miss Livingston straightens up and regards me with contempt.
“All the children were required to bring in a pumpkin today. It was on the sheet I sent home yesterday? Oh, that’s right. You didn’t pick McKenna up.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Well, luckily I brought in some extras for those parents who forgot.”
I’ve had just about enough of the superior, patronizing bullshit from this twenty-something cooz. “Forgive me, Miss Livingston, but I’m not a parent.”
“Obviously.”
Do not murder the kindergarten teacher…Do not murder the kindergarten teacher…
“I’m doing my best,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Your best isn’t very good, is it?” With that, she slaps the padlock in place. Then she turns on her heel and disappears into the building, leaving me speechless, yet again.
For a talk-radio personality, I’ve been left speechless a lot lately. Not a good sign.
* * *
As we head up Pacific Coast Highway, Tebow succumbs to his late-morning nap. I glance in the review mirror and see that his pacifier has slipped out of his mouth and he is smiling sweetly in his sleep, likely dreaming about boobies.
Cera sits next to me, chomping on a piece of bubble gum, staring out the windshield with a bored expression on her face. Every few seconds, she blows a bubble, pops it between her teeth, then cracks it violently. If she keeps this up, I’m definitely going to lose my shit.
“Get rid of the gum,” I say. I feel her eyes on me but keep my attention on the road.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where do you want me to put it?”
I glance around the front seat of the Camaro. I hadn’t thought to put in a trash bag, and because it’s a rental, the ashtrays have been pulled. “Out the window,” I tell her, rolling down her window part-way as I stop for a red light.
“Huh-uh. That’s littering.” Her tone is laced with sarcasm which she punctuates by blowing another bubble and popping it forcefully.
What I do next is something I have never done in my life, nor ever thought I would do. I’ve witnessed mothers do it on countless occasions, and every time, I’ve wanted to vomit into the nearest trash receptacle because the idea of doing it gives me the creeps. But desperate circumstances require desperate measures.
I stop the car then put my hand out to Cera, palm up. I waggle my fingers in a “gimme” gesture, and Cera immediately spits her wad of gum into my awaiting hand.
I flinch with revulsion. I am not a germ-aphobe, but neither am I a forensic criminologist. I’d just as soon not have some eleven-year-old’s saliva touching my skin. I move my hand toward my own window, then realize I haven’t opened it yet. I fumble with my left hand to depress the window button, but I can’t wait another moment to rid myself of the offending pink blob. I jerk my right hand toward the window and watch with horror as the gum hits the glass on the inside and starts to skid down toward my left leg.
“Shit!”
With a yelp, I grab it with two fingers and chuck it out the window. Immediately, I reach into my purse and pull out my travel-sized hand sanitizer only to find it empty. I drop it on the console between the seats.
“Jeez. It’s just gum,” Cera snipes. “It’s not like I have a communicable disease or anything.”
“I know,” I tell her, then proceed to rub my palm against my thigh with such fervor, I might start a fire. The light turns green and I punch the gas.
As we approach the next intersection, the light turns yellow. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Cera. She kisses her index finger and touches the dashboard,
then glances over at me and realizes she’s been caught.
“What?” Defensive with a capital DEF.
“What what?” I retort. “You’re the one who just kissed the dashboard.”
“It’s for luck, stup—Meg.”
Was she about to call me stupid?
“Luck? I don’t get it.” But then again, she’s eleven. I really don’t get anyone under the age of thirty.
“Yeah. You know, good luck? So bad things won’t happen?” She takes a deep breath and speaks slowly, as though I’m intellectually impaired. “I do it whenever I go through a yellow light. My friend Melissa started it last year.”
“And what happens if you forget the kiss?” I ask. “Earthquake? Gang wars? Plague?”
Cera goes silent and I glance at her. She stares out the passenger window, shoulders slumped.
“Hello?”
“I know you’re totally making fun of me,” she says quietly, barely masking her anger.
I hit another red light and brake for it. “I’m not making fun of you,” I assure her, even though I am. “I’m just curious what you think will happen if you forget.”
She whirls around to face me, her mouth set in a grim line. “I forgot yesterday, okay?”
As if that means anything. I think for a moment and then it dawns on me.
“Well, yeah, your grandma being sick is definitely bad luck. But I doubt it had anything to do with—”
“Not my grandma, dummy! My bad luck is being here! With you!”
I don’t even bother counting to ten. I know it won’t help. I shake my head at the girl, hoping the gesture will convey my disdain for her. She meets my eyes and holds my glare for a long moment and I suddenly feel myself start to tremble. Not because Cera is intimidating me in any way, but because I realize that I’m looking in the mirror.
Buddy’s condo is on the way to the rehab, so says my brother’s meticulous directions, backed up by a MapQuest printout (as if I don’t have GPS on my phone. Please.). I decide to stop there on the way to see Caroline.
He lives in a complex called Sunset Heights in Pelican Point, the next town north along PCH, with roughly eighty units of beige stucco-fronted condominiums. The signs along the front lawn carefully spell out the rules of the establishment: no dogs, no smoking in the common areas, no soliciting, no lewd behavior, no parties unless cleared by management, and no excessive noise. You have to qualify for AARP in order to live there, although there’s no mention of that fact anywhere to be seen, which, according to my father, makes it the hip place to be among the fifty- thru hundred-year-old set. The complex doesn’t provide full or part-time care, so unless you can pee, feed yourself, and get yourself up and down the stairs without assistance, Sunset Heights isn’t the place for you. However, the condos are strategically located across the street from Pelican Point Hospital, so if you suddenly find that you’ve fallen and you can’t get up, you can holler for help and someone across the street might hear you and send the paramedics.
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