“Of course you do! Everyone needs a cake on their birthday, right Meg?”
I’m surprised by the question. Caroline never asks my opinion. Under normal circumstances, or if I were doing my show, I’d probably go into a harangue about how bad cake is for you and how cake contributes to childhood obesity and juvenile diabetes and how when you get to a certain age, you should be eating carrot sticks and celery instead of processed flour and sugar, and how I haven’t had a cake on my birthday since I was seventeen.
“Absolutely. Birthdays without cake are like…like…”
“Peanut butter without jelly,” Caroline supplies.
I was thinking sex without orgasms. I like my comparison better, but I should probably keep it to myself.
“Exactly,” I agree. “Peanut butter without jelly.”
Fourteen
Barry: So, Meg, how was your weekend?
Meg: I really don’t want to talk about it, Barry. Let’s just say that I went to the Met to relax and meditate and there was an elementary school field trip happening. Hundreds of little cretins running around screaming about Michelangelo’s ‘nads.
* * *
Since Tebow missed his morning nap, he is sound asleep by the time we pick McKenna up from school. I leave him in Cera’s unsmiling care and casually saunter up to the gate where the rest of the parents wait for their children. I’m feeling smug because I’m not just on time, I’m early.
My mood quickly deteriorates when I catch the supercilious looks from the other mothers around me. One, a blonde with her hair pulled into an Angels cap, surreptitiously tips her head in my direction on the pretense of stretching her neck. Then she turns and says something to three other women who proceed to whisper and nod.
Another little clique of half a dozen moms stands by the parking lot, all of the women glancing in my direction. It’s ironic. Even though these women are wearing sweats and sneakers and freaking baseball caps, and I’m wearing a BCBGMAXAZRIA Dolman Poncho and 7 For All Mankind jeans and Tory Burch t-strapped jeweled wedges, I feel like I’m the beggar at the ball. They all seem to know who I am—probably Miss Livingston sent out a PTA email blast about me and my irresponsible ways—Stay away from the b-i-t-c-h from New York—and they’ve all formed opinions without having met me. Not that meeting me in person would raise their opinions very much.
Their scrutiny reminds of the cliques in high school, how I was ridiculed and whispered about and gestured to back then. I realize how little has changed. Despite my worldly success, my show, my amazing metropolitan life, and my wardrobe, I’m still an outcast, different, an object of disdain. I try to ignore the stifled laughter which I’m sure is at my expense.
To hell with them, I think, and comfort myself with the likelihood that they all have stretch marks and I don’t have a single one. I restrain myself from pulling up my poncho to show off my spectacular abs.
When Miss Livingston emerges from the building with the kids following her in single-file line, the awaiting parents abandon their conversations mid-word and swoop towards the gate. McKenna sees me and raises her hand. Her teacher glances in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. She pats McKenna and sends her on her way.
McKenna passes me without a word and heads for the Camaro. I open the back door and she drops her backpack onto the pavement and climbs into her car seat.
“How was your day?” I ask her as I strap her in. She shrugs and glances at her brother whose pacifier dangles between his lips. Cera is slumped over in the front seat with her ear buds in and doesn’t acknowledge her little sister at all.
“Did you make your turkey?” I ask, trying to sound interested.
“I had to use a stupid little dented one ‘cause you forgot to bring mine,” she snaps, and I’m surprised by how much hostility a five-year-old can muster.
I count to ten by twos and decide not to defend myself. (Small steps, right?) “I’m sure it’s terrific. May I see it?”
She shrugs again and stares straight ahead while I retrieve her backpack from the ground and unzip it. I rummage through the papers, reminding myself to read through them carefully. Wouldn’t want to miss any important information for tomorrow, like the need to bring in a stuffed animal for playtime, or cheese sticks for snack time, or a goat for ‘sacrificial altar’ time.
I find the pumpkin turkey at the bottom of the bag, and withdraw it carefully so as not to damage it, although when I get a good look at it, I realize that it would be hard to make it look any worse. The pumpkin is, as McKenna stated, dented, making the turkey look like a deformed creature from a horror flick about demented fowl. The multi-colored feathers splayed out on the back of the pumpkin are bent and sparse, and a hideous little hanging thing that looks like part of a chicken liver but is really clay, dangles from the front, just beneath a macaroni-shell beak. The eyes are two different sizes, one of them is static and the other has a moving pupil, giving the turkey a wandering eye.
“Oh, McKenna, it’s great!” I exclaim using that ‘mommy-takes-happy-pills’ kind of voice. “Isn’t is great, Cera?”
Cera can’t hear me or is ignoring me, probably the latter. McKenna bites her lower lip.
“It’s not great!” she cries. “It sucks! That’s what Simon Dunwiddie said! He said my turkey sucks!”
Oh dear God.
“First of all, McKenna, you shouldn’t say ‘sucks.’”
“I didn’t! Simon Dunwiddie said it!”
“Second of all, what kind of a name is Dunwiddie? Seriously, why would you listen to anyone with a stupid-ass—uh—silly name like that? Listen, the next time he makes fun of you for any reason, you just call him Simon Dim-witty. Like dimwit. You got it?”
She narrows her eyes at me, interested. “Dim-witty?”
“That’s right. Dim-witty. I think it’s a wonderful pumpkin. And your mom and dad are going to love it.”
“Dim-witty. Dim-witty. Dim-witty.”
Uh oh.
I hand her the pumpkin while she repeats the moniker over and over again, then I close the back door and climb behind the wheel. As I turn on the ignition, I glance at Cera to find her smirking in my general direction.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s with the face, Cera?”
She feigns wide-eyed innocence. “What face?”
“Forget it.”
“It’s just that, you know, you’re telling her to call names.” She purses her lips. “I mean, I don’t know what the rules are at this stupid school, but I don’t think name-calling is allowed. She could, like, get expelled.” Gulp. “Not that I care or anything.” She makes a show of turning up the volume on her phone, then stares through the windshield.
She’s right. I’m an idiot. I’m going to get my niece thrown out of kindergarten.
In the backseat, McKenna continues to repeat the derogatory nickname as if it’s a magic spell.
“McKenna, take a break,” I holler, then peel away from the curb with a smidge more speed than I should in a school zone.
* * *
By some huge miracle, I manage to get Tebow from his car seat to his crib without waking him. As soon as he’s situated, McKenna announces that she needs a snack. And although I bought Cera drive-thru after we left Caroline, she also claims to be hungry. (Ah, to be prepubescent!)
The two girls sit across from each other at the kitchen table while I forage through the fridge. Neither speaks. Cera scrolls through her phone and McKenna stares at her turkey.
I gaze at the shelves of the refrigerator, hoping something will jump out at me. After Monday night, I will never offer Doritos to a child again, but I’m not sure what constitutes a proper snack at three in the afternoon, with dinner only a few hours away. I open one of the crisper drawers and spy a couple of apples. I reach for them absently, a memory stirring in my brain.
I rinse the apples and set them on a wooden cutting board, then pull the jar of Skippy from the pantry, which Danny was kind enough to unlock.
As I cut into the apples, I think of my father. This was his go-to snack when I was a kid: apple slices with peanut butter.
Buddy was always slow with the preparations, and I was impatient with him, wondering why it was taking him so long and why couldn’t we just have some pre-packaged snack since pre-packaged food made up most of our meals anyway.
The memory comes into full focus and I can see my father, carefully cutting through the apples. I understand now how difficult this simple task must have been for him. Not because he was incapable, but because his hands were so large and he was used to dealing with heavy machinery and equipment, not cooking utensils. The paring knife was too small and constantly fell out of his grip, so, too, were the apple slices—many landed on the floor only to be rinsed off. The peanut butter would slide off the slick, moist surface of the apples as he struggled to apply it. But he never gave up, never cursed with frustration, just kept at it until he had two perfect plates with exactly six slices on each.
Buddy would sit with us while we ate, not talking much, just watching, a small smile playing on his face. I didn’t get it then, but I do now. He was taking pride in this one small victory over Melanie. I can do this, that smile said. I can’t do everything. But I can do this.
And I realize, with something that feels like shame, that I never thanked him for that snack. I never thanked him for a lot of things, like being there. I was so busy thinking about the things he didn’t do and the person he wasn’t that I forgot to be grateful for the things he did and the person he was.
I’m so lost in thought, I don’t notice Cera until she’s right beside me.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” I say, annoyed.
“You look like you’re crying.” Her tone is impassive, like that of a scientist analyzing a specimen.
“I don’t cry,” I tell her, and swipe at my eyes with my sleeve.
“Like, ever?” she asks.
“Go sit down. Your snack is almost ready.”
She narrows her eyes at the apple slices, perfectly appointed with peanut butter. “That’s our snack?”
“You were expecting fois gras?” I snipe.
“Fwa-what?”
“Never mind.”
“What if I’m allergic to peanut butter? That could kill me, you know. Then I’d be dead and it would be your fault.”
There are so many other ways I could kill you that would be much more fun.
I don’t say that, much as I’d like to. Instead, I plant my hands on my hips and stare at her. “Cera, are you allergic to peanut butter?”
“No.”
I roll my eyes. “Then sit down and shut up.”
“You said the s-h word,” McKenna says as Cera stomps to her seat.
“Yes, I did. Ooops.” I take the plates over to the table and set them before the girls. McKenna actually smiles when she sees what I made.
“Poppy makes this for me sometimes,” she says, then shoves an entire slice in her mouth.
“Well, Poppy’s the one who taught me how,” I tell her.
She chews enthusiastically and nods. “It’s good. Thanks, Auntie Meg.”
I swallow hard. “You’re welcome, McKenna,” I say, then flee from the kitchen before my tear ducts can betray me.
* * *
McKenna sits at the kitchen table coloring with crayons, Cera lounges on the living room couch reading a Twilight book—which I think is too old for her, but, hey, what do I know?—and Tebow is still sleeping in his crib. I’m seated at the dining room table, staring at my laptop. My mouth hangs open and I know I should close it, you know, before a bug flies into it, but I’m currently unable to control my lower jaw.
I’ve been reading the comments on my Facebook fan page and I’m in shock at how my fans have turned on me. It started with a simple question posted on Monday, anonymously: Anyone hear about Meg jumping ship and moving to a station out in California? That one post opened the floodgates and my listening audience has proceeded to skewer me.
So, she took her bite out of the Big Apple, and now she’s done with Barry and with us! So rude! Good riddance.
I love Barry but I never got why Meg’s so popular. She’s funny, sure, but sooo mean. She’ll never make it out in the ‘nice capitol’ of the world.
And my personal favorite: The traitorous bitch!
There are a few random entries of support, like No way. She hates SoCal. And Not a chance. Meg’s our girl. But most of them are indignant as hell.
I grip the edge of the table and clench my teeth, trying to remain calm, but with little success. Counting doesn’t work. Nor does going to my calming place. I know I should write some kind of post to reassure my fans, but nothing comes to mind that doesn’t sound glib or like an out-and-out lie. I grab my cell phone and scroll through my contacts list, then press the number for Gordon Davies, the station manager. My boss. The call goes directly to voicemail.
“Gordon, it’s Meg. I really need to talk to you, so please call me back as soon as you get this.”
I disconnect the call and set my phone down, then stare at the Facebook page on the monitor of the laptop. The cursor blinks at me in the text box, beneath the legend: What’s on your mind?
Everything’s cocked up, that’s what’s on my mind.
“I can’t find my glitter pens,” McKenna calls from the kitchen. “I need those pens!” She appears at the archway and gives me a look of panic. “I’m making a card for Mommy and I need the glitters.”
“Are they in the crayon box?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Maybe they’re in your room.”
“Maybe,” she concedes.
“So…go look.”
“I need help.” Her lower lip trembles and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“I’m sort of busy.” I turn toward the living room. “Go ask your sister.”
McKenna hesitates, shuffling her feet, then walks to the living room. She stands in front of Cera, looking overly hopeful and not a little nervous.
“Will you help me?” McKenna asks in a whisper.
Unlike me, Cera does not suppress the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m busy too.”
I stand and stretch my neck. “McKenna, you go and start looking and someone will be in to help you in just a few seconds, okay?”
She nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, then scurries to her room. I march into the living room and stare down at Cera. “Go help McKenna. Now.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I said so.” Inwardly I cringe, hating the fact that I just used that phrase. “And because she’s your sister and because she needs you.”
“Like I care.”
I bend down so that my face is six inches from hers. “Look, you little shit, you’re the only big sister she has. And, as far as I know, she’s the only sister you’re ever going to have. So get the fuck in there.”
Cera blinks at me a couple of times, her face frozen in a hateful grimace. Without a word, she gets off the couch, then stomps out of the living room and disappears down the hall.
I return to my computer and sit. The cursor still blinks at me: What’s on your mind?
Okay, what’s on my mind? What’s on my mind? What is on my mind?
Just as I start to type, my phone rings. I answer without looking at the caller id.
“Gordon, what the hell’s happening out th—”
“Actually, Meg, it’s Doctor Rabinowitz calling.” I recognize the smooth, relaxed baritone immediately, can see him in my mind’s eye in his Mr. Rogers’ sweater, absently swiping at his beard.
“Oh, hi, Doc.”
“You were expecting someone else?”
“My boss.”
“Well, knowing what I do about your station manager, I imagine you are delighted to hear from me.”
In fact, I am delighted. I need that freaking Xanax. “Oh, yeah, Dr. Rabinowitz. I’m so glad you called. Listen, I need you to—”
“Of course I’m calling, Meg,�
� he says, cutting me off. “Remember, before you left, we agreed we would touch base on Wednesday.”
“It’s Wednesday?” Crap. I’ve heard about how moms lose track of time, how they don’t know what day it is. I once went into a half-hour rant on my show about how ridiculous that notion is. Come on, moms, get a life, I’d railed. Get a calendar! Buy a watch! Now, in this moment, I totally understand how it happens. You lose track. Time is ruled by the kids. The days pass in a haze of schedules and diapers and bottles and meals and finding lost toys and drop-offs and pick-ups and tears and tantrums. I suddenly realize that I didn’t have a chance to shower today and I miss my life with painful intensity.
“I take it things are very busy for you right now. How is it going?”
“Fine.”
“Excellent. How are you getting along with your brother?”
“Fine.” When I’m not busy losing his kids or making them cry.
“And your father? Have you seen him?”
“Yes. Today.”
“And how was that?”
“Fine.”
“How many ‘fines’ is that? Three?” He chuckles. “And your sister-in-law?”
I let out a sigh. “I saw her today, too. It was…okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. We kind of had a moment. You know. It was okay.”
“That’s very good to hear.”
The doorbell rings and I glance at the front door.
“Look, Doc, I have to go.”
“I understand, but I think we should continue this conversation. I know being home is a cause of great stress for you—”
“My home is Manhattan.”
“You know what I mean. All sorts of feelings must be rising to the surface about your mother and your childhood. That, coupled with your recent news from your physician…I don’t want you to bury your emotions, Meg. But I also don’t want you to become overwhelmed, as you did on your birthday last month.”
The doorbell rings again, more insistently this time. I raise myself from my seat and head for the door, phone in hand.
“Doc, I’m fine. I’m a little stressed, yes. But I’m okay. Things are okay. I’m not going to wig out, I promise. And in a week, I’ll be back to my life and everything will be peachy.”
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