“But, Meg, you can’t escape from your past. We’ve discussed this. You should use this time to confront it. Examine it. Really take a good look at your personal history.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good idea. But in the meantime, do you think you could send in a prescription for Xanax to the Vista View Target?” A strident knock sounds at the door. “Thanks a lot, Doc. Gotta go. Bye.”
I disconnect and pocket my phone, then pull open the front door to find Patsy Gates standing on the porch. A girl of about three sprouts from her hip and another older child of indeterminate sex stands on the ground beside her, arms wrapped around her left leg like a tree hugger. In her free hand, Patsy holds a Trader Joe’s carry sack filled to bursting with groceries. She gives me a condescending smile and I have to use all my strength to keep from slamming the door in her face. Talk about confronting my past.
“Well, hi, hi, Meg!”
“Patsy,” I say tightly.
Without waiting for an invitation, Patsy brushes past me. She moves into the foyer effortlessly, as though she’s not hauling around an extra eighty pounds of clinging-kid weight, and stops at the living room landing. She sets the grocery sack on the banquet, then detaches the girl from her hip and sets her on the floor. It takes a bit more effort to disengage the child from her legs.
“Sam. Let go, honey.”
I still can’t figure out whether this is a boy or a girl and the androgynous name doesn’t help. ‘Sam’ shakes his or her head, letting fly a mane of blond hair.
“Sammy,” Patsy says entreatingly. “Sammy-Sam-Sam. Sam-errific. Sam-I-am! Please, sweetie. Let go of Mommy’s leg.”
“I can get the hose, if you’d like,” I offer, then bite my lower lip to keep a straight face. Patsy raises her eyes to the heavens and sniffs dismissively, but doesn’t respond to me.
She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a small lollipop, then holds it in front of the child. His (or her) eyes go wide and he (or she) dutifully releases Patsy’s leg. The little girl ambles over and holds her hand out and Patsy produces another lolly for her.
“Bribing with sugar? Isn’t that a no-no in the mommy handbook?”
“For your information, these are honey-ginger-mint lollies, No sugar, and very good for digestion.”
“For your information, they sound revolting,” I reply evenly. “What are you doing here, Patsy?”
“Caroline asked me to come over and check on things,” she says, a note of superiority in her voice. “She thought maybe you might be in over your head and could use a little backup.”
“When was this?” I make no effort to mask my irritation. I thought Caroline and I had come to a kind of cease-fire, that she’d accepted the fact that I was doing an okay job of things.
“Oh, let me think,” Patsy says, pursing her lips and pretending to think hard. “About an hour ago?”
I feel my hackles rise. I was wrong about my ‘moment’ with Caroline. There was no truce. And even though I shouldn’t be surprised, I admit I’m disappointed.
Just then, McKenna and Cera appear from the hallway. McKenna’s face lights up. “Auntie Patsy! Auntie Patsy!”
Seeing the exuberant look on my niece’s face at the sight of Patsy Gates makes my stomach twist involuntarily. I refuse, refuse to be envious of Patsy, and, furthermore, since when have I cared about the affections of a five-year-old?
“Hello, McKenna-whenna-bobama-banana-fanna!”
Is she kidding with this shit?
McKenna rushes over and gives Patsy an enthusiastic hug.
“Sammy, Daisy, look! It’s McKenna-bo-benna!”
“I have a new doll!” McKenna announces to the younger children. Daisy looks interested, but Sammy frowns.
“I don’t like dolls!” Sam exclaims. Aha. A boy—if you adhere to gender stereotypes, which, in my opinion are the only things we can rely on in most circumstances.
“I got LEGO Star Wars, too,” McKenna says, and Sammy lights up. “Come to my room!”
The three scamper off down the hallway. Patsy watches them with a look of sheer contentment on her face that makes me want to retch.
“Isn’t that sweet?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just marches over to Cera. “Hi, Cera. Remember me?”
Cera looks at Patsy with the same disdain she reserves for me. “Yeah. Hi.”
“It’s really good to see you! What grade are you in now? Seventh? Just like my Ethan.” She peers around the room. “Hey, where’s Tebow?”
“In his room, napping,” I say. I cross my arms over my chest and smile, quite proud of myself.
Patsy’s eyes go wide as though the house just caught on fire.
“What? Still sleeping? My god. It’s four-thirty. You shouldn’t have let him sleep this long, Meg.” She shakes her head and tsks, then immediately heads for Tebow’s room, a steady stream of reprimands passing her lips.
I follow in her wake, stomping like a little kid. I’m angry that Pasty Gates thinks she can just barge in here like she owns the place, and I’m totally pissed off at Caroline for telling Patsy to come here in the first place.
“I mean, I know you have no idea what you’re doing, Meg. It’s not your fault, but honestly, Danny is going to have a very difficult night tonight. How long has Tebow been sleeping, anyway? Two hours, three?”
I pull out my cell and check the LCD. “About two and a half hours,” I report. “Look, he was exhausted, Patsy. We had a very long morning.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She strides into Tebow’s room and heads for the crib, then reaches in, grabs him, and yanks him off the mattress.
“Up and at ‘em Tebow-liscious!” she shrieks in his ear. His chubby little cheeks are flushed and one side of his face is imprinted with lines from his bedding. His blond hair looks slightly damp and askew and his pacifier is conspicuously absent.
He opens his eyes half-way, blinks a few times, then squeezes them shut, scrunches up his nose and puckers his lips in a grimace. I’ve been with my nephew long enough to recognize this as his pre-wail facial expression.
I may not be the Dalai Lama of parenting, but something strikes me as just plain wrong about interrupting a person’s sleep so abruptly and inconsiderately, even if that person is a two-year-old who can’t pronounce the word ‘daddy.’ I’d like to see how Patsy would react if someone woke her up like this. When my nephew starts to howl with displeasure, I don’t blame him one bit.
“It’s okay, Tebow-weebow-zippety-deedow!”
I might have to punch her in the face if she keeps this up.
“It’s Auntie Patsy, honey.” He continues to cry and Patsy bounces him up and down so vigorously I fear he’ll puke. I step away from the two of them, just in case (I will not take a chance at ruining this fabulous Hudson top), then move to the crib and start foraging for his pacifier. Just as I locate it under a stuffed bat (creepy!) he stops crying and opens one eye to peer at Patsy.
“Well! Hi, hi, little man! I bet you want a snack, don’t you? Don’t you, won’t you, please be mine!” She twirls with him in her arms and he giggles gleefully, and again, I have to tamp down the resentment that simmers in my gut.
“But first, you have a little something in that diaper. Don’t you my sweet baby-bebop-bubba-licious-wishes!” She turns to me and starts to hand Tebow over. I shake my head and smile sweetly.
“Oh, I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of changing diapers, Patsy. You’re the expert. You go ahead.” (I told you I’m a quick thinker.) She gives me a doubtful look, probably sensing my deception, but she likes being the ‘expert’ too much to call me on it.
“What do you have, five kids? I’ll bet you’ve changed so many diapers, you could do it in your sleep with one arm tied behind your back, juggling flaming batons.” I grin at her. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
“You should stay,” she says, challenging me. “Shouldn’t Meg stay, Tebow?”
“That’s Auntie Meg, Patsy. Aunt by blood. The real thing.”
“Right, sorry.” Sh
e shakes her head with false regret. “We learn by watching, Auntie Meg. You know. You could take some notes on how to change a diaper.”
“That’s okay, thanks. I’ll just Google it.”
With that, I walk from the room. Behind me, Patsy starts to sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider to my nephew. Each burst of his laughter cuts me like a knife.
Fifteen
Barry: I’d hate to be a sewer cleanup engineer.
Meg: That’s profound, Barry.
Barry: It’s true, Meg. Don’t you love what you do?
Meg: Talking to idiots and making fun of them for a living? Best job in the whole (bleeping) world.
* * *
I escaped to the backyard and am currently seated on a plastic chair on the patio outside the kitchen door. My new Burberry cape offers little protection against the chilly, late afternoon air, but I’d rather freeze to death than put up with one more minute of Patsy Gates.
As soon as she finished changing Tebow, she’d bustled into the kitchen and started unloading groceries, pulling out pans, rinsing veggies and rearranging countertop appliances, all while carrying Tebow on her hip, proving that, yes, she is wonder-mom. Or should I say wonder-mommy-winza-finz-apalooza-woozy-kins. Her nonstop rattle of ridiculous baby talk has nearly sent me over the edge.
Godiva sits on the concrete beside me, the whole of her upper body smashed against my leg, which is almost as good as an electric blanket. She entreats me with her sad doggy eyes to play ball with her, but there’s no way I’m touching that saliva-soaked scuz-ridden thing, so she’s had to settle for a little love. I stroke her neck and scratch at her chest, more to keep my hands warm than to please her, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
On the far end of the grass, a few feet from the back fence stands my brother’s studio. He calls it a cottage, but it more closely resembles a large cardboard box with a roof. The last time I saw it, before my brother’s family moved in, it was filled to the brim with the previous owners’ crap—rusted lawnmowers, bikes, broken furniture, and endless stacks of boxes, everything topped with a thick layer of dust. Danny told me he’d emptied and gutted the interior and had slapped together the sound booth all by himself using a DIY guide he found online. I absently wonder how the acoustics are.
I was always the voice in the family and my brother was always the musician, with a capital M. He picked up the guitar when he was six and mastered it by the time he was eight. Then he went on to the drums, the bass, the violin and, for some strange reason, the harpsichord. Although his dreams of having a rock band fizzled when he discovered the concept of financial security, he still noodles around with his buddies every Sunday night and occasionally lays down a new tune which he emails me for my consideration. I’ve yet to hear a number one hit, but his music sucks less than most garage (or backyard) bands.
I stand and brush a fur coat’s worth of dog hair off my jeans. Godiva looks up at me, her pink tongue lolling to the side of her mouth. Her expression is one of doggy puzzlement—her eyebrows are actually furrowed. How can this love fest be over already? she seems to be asking.
Without the heat of her body against me, the cool night air seeps into my bones, and I rub my arms as I walk toward the grass. It’s almost five and the sky has turned a deep blue, although no stars have appeared yet. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet, but with Godiva padding along beside me, I manage to make it to the cottage without incident.
The door is unlocked, much to my surprise. (I live in New York, and that means I lock my door even when I’m just going to the garbage chute.) I know Danny has a lot of equipment inside, and although most of it isn’t top of the line, an enterprising thief could make a few bucks on it. I make a mental note to remind my brother about this later.
Godiva wags her tail, but makes no move to follow me into the studio; probably she isn’t allowed to enter my brother’s domain. I pat her head, then step inside and fumble for a light switch. After a few seconds, I locate one on the wall beside me. I flip it and the overhead light flickers to life.
The space is cramped, but has a cozy, comfy feel to it. Just beyond the door is a small lounging/jamming area with an old, worn couch and love seat set, a couple of folding chairs, a scarred wooden coffee table and a mini fridge. Behind the door is a tiny bathroom barely large enough to allow you to close the door while you’re doing your business. There is no frat-boy debris, no soiled food containers or empty beer cans, no drug paraphernalia in sight, although I detect a faint, slightly sweet incense-like smell in the close air. Immediately I think of Matt next door and a warmth spreads through my belly.
Holy crap. I don’t even know this guy and he’s making me feel woozy.
Hormones, I decide, and quickly suppress the feeling.
A drum kit sits in the corner and several instruments line the wall: two acoustic guitars, one electric guitar, an electric bass and a steel-stringed banjo. A portable electric keyboard lays across the love seat.
On the far side of the room is Danny’s makeshift recording area. He has built a four-by-four foot sound booth in the corner and through the small window facing the interior of the cottage, I can make out the black foam padding which insulates the sound. Beside the booth, Danny has set an old wooden door on two sawhorses, creating a long spacious desk. I take that back. It would be spacious if it weren’t covered with crap: a PC, another electric keyboard with a gauntlet of bells and whistles and various other sound choices along the top panel, a desktop microphone with headset, a reading lamp, a Rubik’s cube, a Magic Johnson bobble head, an ashtray—currently empty, thank you—a couple of containers of Sex Wax and pages upon pages of sheet music, both copyrighted and printed, and handwritten originals.
I amble over to the desk and switch on the lamp then pick up a piece of sheet music. I recognize my brother’s block printing and quickly scan the lyrics. Caroline, she’s a friend of mine, and the love of my life, she’s my wife, my baby, and a lady.
Gag me. I can think of more appropriate lyrics for my sister-in-law, including something that rhymes with another trucker.
I set the music down then run my fingers along the desktop mic. It’s only been five days since my last live broadcast with the Barry and Meg Show, but it feels like an eon. I take off my cape and drape it over the recycled office chair that looks like it’s about to fall apart, then gingerly lower myself onto the padded seat. The chair creaks in protest, but thankfully remains intact.
I switch on the mic and slide the headset into place, then press the power button for the electric keyboard. A samba rhythm sounds from the speakers. I touch the panel on the keyboard and the rhythm shifts to soft rock, similar to the theme song for my morning show.
“This is Meg Monroe,” I say, “coming to you from La La Land, home of the tank-sized SUVs, sixty-year-old actresses who look like wax dummies, and CEOs who surf every morning before work.”
The muscles in my neck and shoulders instantly loosen. “More specifically, I am in So Cal suburbia, which might be compared to the fifth ring of Hell, unless you’re one of those people who like doormats that say ‘Welcome to Our Humble Home.’ Personally I’m fond of doormats that say things like ‘Stay the Fuck Out!’ but that’s just me.”
I smile and take a deep breath. This is my gift, my element. More than a full body massage, far better than my sessions with Dr. Rabinowitz, and even more relaxing than a martini, my work has always soothed me. It has been my one constant in an ever-changing world. The thing I could always rely on, the outlet that gave me peace of mind, even during great turmoil, for as long as I can remember.
It started in my closet when I was six. I learned early on that airing my complaints or disappointments to my father only hurt him gravely and upset the tenuous status quo of my childhood home. So I kept things to myself, held things in, put a figurative sock in my mouth until I could escape to my private domain and let it all out in the safety and anonymity of darkness.
At first, these closet soliloquys were merely tantrum-like
rants—what I might say to my father if I could, or to my tormentors at school who’d harassed me as I stood mute. But as I got older, I chose my words more carefully and elevated my content. Shows like Oprah and Sally Jessie Raphael and Merv Griffin helped me hone my craft, and pretty soon, I was interviewing my stuffed animals and occasionally my little brother, who thought I was both out of my mind and super cool.
I was always aware of my unusual voice. According to Buddy, I was a premie, and because I spent a week on a ventilator as a newborn, I ended up having one of those sexy gravelly voices, like Demi Moore’s. It was cute at six. It was a curse at thirteen when older men would leer at me just for ordering a soda. At sixteen I realized that between my sharpened wit and razor tongue and my unique vocal chords, I could have a career in broadcasting. And I went for it, full stop.
I started recording myself and my “shows” with my pocket-sized tape recorder (the precursor to podcasts), and played them for anyone who would listen. (Buddy, mostly, Aunt Bella occasionally, Patsy Gates, yes, when we were friends, and poor Danny who I made stay up into the wee hours of the morning, even on school nights, asking him to critique me. Of course, if he ever said anything negative about my broadcasts, I’d punch him out and ignore him for days at a time. He learned quickly to always tell me I was wonderful.)
Because I was smart and got good grades—I didn’t have a social life so nothing got in the way of my studies—I managed to get a scholarship to Berkley. Instead of sending an essay, I sent one of my recordings. The admissions board was impressed. Thanks to Melanie’s life insurance payout, which Buddy put away for Danny and me, I had enough to make the move north. I interned at the university’s radio station, not because they thought I was talented—they probably dumped my cassette in the trash without listening to it—but because they needed free labor. I worked as a waitress at a coffee house to cover my bills. I went to school year-round in order to graduate in four years. I never visited Buddy or Danny, ever. I rarely slept. (Ah, the infinite energy of youth.)
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