Keeping Up With Piper

by Amanda Adair

  “So what?,” you say. “Isn’t that what you hired her for?”

  “She’s a student,” I explain.

  You swing your legs over the armrest and lay your head on my legs. “Then she shouldn’t work. I know an agency for find full-time nannies in case you want to replace her.”

  “She’s the best,” I say. “I don’t need another one. It’s our responsibility to be there for our kids.”

  “And the father’s,” you add. “That’s the downside of being a single mom.”

  “Joe could take her to Connecticut more often,” I suggest and pet your head.

  You throw your head to your neck, so you can look at me. “No, I don’t want her to be raised by him and his bitch. She doesn’t have kids, she wouldn’t know what to do.” Nanny doesn’t have children and I trust her completely. She knows what she’s doing. “And Joe can’t teach her how to be a girl. I’m the only one who can take care of her properly.” What does it mean to be a girl? She’s not a teenager, she’s a child. Does she need to know how to wear a skirt? How to wear heels? How to braid her hair? “As a mother wouldn’t you do anything for your child?,” you ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like mothers have a special connection to their children,“ you say. “A different one than with their fathers. Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your child?”

  “Sure.” That’s the answer you want to hear. I’d like to say it’s complicated. It’s not just my child, it’s also the child of the father. I don’t know what I would do for him. I’m not sure who he is and if I like who he is. I’m sure you do everything to protect yourself.

  “My mom would do anything for me,” you say. “But she’s strict. She wants me to be successful. What do you want for Kye?”

  “I guess I want him to live a happy life,” I spontaneously say. It’s a default response. “I want him to do what he likes.”

  “You must have an idea of his future life,” you say. “I want Dana Isabella to be an artist. Not a painter, but maybe a singer or a dancer. I want her to become successful. I want the best for her. And I want her to fall in love with a handsome guy, then I want them to have beautiful children. And you?”

  I play along and come up with something. “He’ll become a scientist.” Like his grandfather. “He’ll find a cure for diseases or help humanity flee to a foreign planet.” Maybe this is not just some story, maybe it’s what I want for Kye. “And I want him to be surrounded by honest and kind people.” People who are the opposite of you. People who are nothing like you. I want everybody to be surrounded by honest and kind people, actually.

  “Sounds cool,” you say. “Do you want him to marry?”

  “Maybe.” How should I know what Kye wants and what will happen to him? I wanted my life to look very different, that’s for sure. But sometimes things happen that stop you from doing what you want. We don’t get another chance. We get older and once an opportunity is gone, it’s gone forever. You have to seize the moment. I live in the moment.

  “Maybe?,” you say.

  “You’re not married,” I say. “And me neither.” That’s the problem with our generation. Most of our grandparents and some of our parents are married or have been once, so we assume that marriage is needed. Still, we don’t marry. Because we keep looking for someone more fitting for us, someone more handsome, someone smarter or someone richer. We think there’s someone better, so we keep looking. We’re on a journey that never ends. We have plenty of opportunities. There are lots of partners to choose from, female or male. There are lots of professions to. Choose from. There are lots of people to become friends with. There are lots of opportunities, and since we can’t taste them all, we will think that there is a better option forever. It’s a never-ending circle.

  “I wanted to marry. I mean I still want to” you say. “It just didn’t work out with Joe. I shouldn’t have chosen the first men that I liked.”

  Joe didn’t want to marry you and now you think that there’s a better and richer good-looking man waiting for you. A man you’ll never find because it’s an illusion. You have a child and you’re growing older every second. That shrinks the selection you can choose from. Not that it matters. You’ll lose everything, your ex and your lovers, your beauty, your job and your money, your life, maybe even your daughter. Everything you’re so proud of. I’ll make sure there’s no future for you.

  “We can still marry,” I say. “We’re young.”

  “You go first,” you say. “I need to be sure this time. I don’t want so much waste my time on a loser again. Joe made awful sounds every time we had sex.” You say that like you haven’t had sex with him in years, which is a lie.

  A message from MWG pops up on my phone that lies on the coffee table.

  “My phone’s on five percent,” I say.

  I get up and go to my bedroom to look for my charger. It’s not where I usually store it, so I search for it under the bed. It must’ve kicked it underneath accidentally. When I come back you’re not in the living room anymore, but the bathroom door is locked. Kye still sits on the ground. He’s drawing a dragon. Dana stands in front of the window and looks outside. For a second I think about pushing Dana out of the window. I turn around and run to the bathroom. I lock the door. Right now, I just want to be alone. Tears roll down my cheeks like a waterfall. I can’t stand Blair. I can’t stand the person you turned me into. I hate myself for thinking about hurting a little girl. She’s your offspring and she’s raised by you. There’s a high probability that she’s going to be exactly like you. For a second I thought I could prevent her from harming other people like you did. But it’s just a child. The plan is to hurt you, to make you lose everything, and to kill you. I’m not here, I’ve not invented Blair and become your friend to harm a child.

  18

  Before driving to the airport, I drop off Kye at your building. I see him walk towards the door where you and Dana Isabella are waiting for him. Jane booked us a flight from New York to Boston. It’s more sustainable to take the train but none of us wanted to sit together on a train for four hours. You can do that with your friends or family. People you can stand. But not with colleagues like talkative Jane. Even though we’re on a flight, traveling with them feels like a lame school trip. I sit next to Jane because Paola has a seat in the premium economy section of the aircraft. Her excuse is that she is planning on writing a blog post about traveling by plane. Paola wants to compare premium economy, business and first class. Jane told me that. It’s a short flight to Boston, but I wish I could use earplugs. Jane tells me about health problems I didn’t know exist. She isn’t sick but her granny is. Thanks, Jane, but your grandma’s borreliosis is none of my business. And I bet your grandma doesn’t want you to go around and tell people about her condition. But in case I ever get sick I know how to read the symptoms. As soon as the plane lands I get up and wait for all those slow losers to grab their bags, coats and suitcases, and move. Getting of the plane takes longer than the flight itself. A shuttle takes us to the hotel. Finally, I can enjoy the silence in my room. I sit on the white fluffy bed in my room and look at the pictures on the wall. They look like Paola picked them. The interior designer probably is a reader and fan of her blog. What a wimp.

  An hour after our arrival Jane knocks on each of our doors. Goodbye silence. Sadly, we have rooms close to each other, which means Jane is probably going to force us to spend the nights and breakfast together. Hashtag teambuilding. Hashtag fun. Hashtag lalamilan. Hashtag work hard, play hard. Yes, Jane is as addicted to Instagram as all the others at lalamilan. I was tagged in four of her photos already. Paola is currently meeting with someone from the Bostoner company. We’re supposed to arrive at their headquarters two hours later. We’re not even getting a bonus for joining her. It’s not like I’ve planned on hanging out in Boston for a couple of days. Lalamilan pays for our hotel and the flights, but there is no additional salary for stealing our time. I could be with you, Piper, and with my little so
n. I have better things to do. Much better things. That’s the downside of working at a modern start-up-like blog. It seems to be all fun and chill, but it’s exhausting and also kind of low budget. I’m lucky there’s a salary after all. You may expect female bosses to take care of their employees more generously and conscientiously, especially the single moms, who are most often left out, but that’s not the case. It’s never the employees that are most important but the revenue.

  When we arrive at the headquarters of Johnson Inc. a friendly young lady takes us to a bunch of suit-and-tie men that greet us at the fifteenth floor of a high-rise-building downtown. It feels like traveling through time because everything here looks like we ended up fifty years ago. The only women we see are either serving coffee or cleaning the toilets. The building and its furniture are as grey as the sky today. The sky looks as depressed as I feel. Looking at these men on the opposite side of the conference table makes me think of you and your wish to find a rich man. Paola should have taken you here, not me, not Jane. This is better than Tinder. Those men seem to be your type. They are rich and they are probably never at home because of their full-time office jobs in the city. You could use them to pay for whatever private school you want for Dana Isabella after you marry or at least screw one of them.

  When I first saw them, I thought they were boring, sexist and professional. Five hours later I’m convinced they’re sexist, but also filthy, fucked up and dumb. I’ve never heard jokes as stupid as theirs before. They range from jokes about moms, fat people and foreigners to jokes about blondes. Paola is laughing at every single one of them. I’ve never seen colorful socks as distasteful as theirs. One them is wearing red socks with yellow penises on them. I stared at them trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating and they’re actually supposed to be tree trunks or weird mushrooms, but nope. You can only see them once he sits down and crosses his legs. Only then his suit trousers go up and reveal his bad taste shown off at his ankles. The man next to him, probably his office mate a.k.a. best friend from nine to five, is wearing purple socks with the outline of boobs on them. Thank god Paola hired you. It could be worse. I thought lalamilan is hell, and it is, but this is a different level of hell. It’s a female servants and penis socks kind of hell.

  “Blair,” Paola says.

  I look up and see her smiling at me. She looks stressed. After a few seconds I realize she wants something from me. I should stop daydreaming and listen. The men from Johnson Inc. and my coworkers are staring at me like they expect me to say something. It’s probably our current project. We’ve been working on some kind of proposal for two weeks now. You, Piper, handed me your draft, which I threw away, because it was total bullshit. I came up with my own ideas and that’s what I’m going to present. When I get up and start talking while walking towards the projector I can see that Paola starts relaxing. I was right, this is what she wanted from me. According to their applause and Paola’s praise afterwards my ideas were superb. Blair Morgan could get an amazing reference from Paola for her future jobs. Too bad that she is going to die with you.

  I didn’t expect this business trip to be a marathon of conferences and drinking. We either talk about facts and figures, negotiate and discuss or we drink beer together. Paola chose a traditional and long-established firm to cooperate with. Johnson Inc. is the company for male business graduates with a preference for European beer, blonde jokes and black suits. Those middle-aged men are the opposite of the young females employed at lalamilan.

  “Blair?,” I hear Paola’s voice.

  We’re facing another evening with lots of beer and lame jokes. I turn around and look at her. She is dressed up like a businessman in her black suit and tie. Her appearance today is masculine. She put her sleek hair into a low ponytail. Paola hands me a beer. I think it’s a German or Dutch one, but I am absolutely not a beer specialist. I’m pretty sure I can’t even differentiate alcohol-free beer from regular beer. I’m a beer illiterate. I drink cocktails or shots, not beer. Beer is for guys with a beer belly who watch football when they come home from their construction jobs. At least that’s what comes to my mind when someone says beer. Other than that, I imagine students playing beer pong at frat parties. Since the first image is more often produced by my brain I can’t stand beer.

  “It looks like we’re going to take over Europe,” Paola says. “And I want you to support my team in Milan.”

  Excuse me, Paola, what did you say? I stare at her skeptically. Does she mean Milan in Italy? In Europe? She wants me to go to Europe. Maybe it’s because I told her I already worked there. That’s the downside of lying.

  “Not now,” she says, “I mean I need someone to support them establish another office in London. This deal’s big. That’s our chance to grow in Western Europe and reach new audiences.”

  I try to appear intrigued. “That’s an interesting proposal. I’ll have to think about it.” Everyone knows that interesting means it’s shit. If I really wanted to work for Paola I might want to go to Europe, but since it’s just an alibi job to get to know you, Piper, it’s a no from me. I wonder why Paola’s speaking of Europe as if it’s a new thing for lalamilan. I mean where does the Milan in the blog’s name come from? Paola’s Italian and so is her fashion blog.

  “Take your time,” she says, “and thanks for your help here in Boston.”

  Paola drinks a lot that afternoon. When I’m in the restroom to wash my neck because some extremely sweaty guy hugged me to say goodbye, Paola stumbles out of a cabin. Her blouse reveals her bra. She should button it up. We have a few days left but she’s so wasted that I’m sure she’ll be hungover tomorrow.

  “Morgan,” she says. She’s holding her hand in front of her mouth as if she’s about to throw up. “This never happened. You’re not here.”

  Paola is a mess. Not as much as you are I guess but she’s a catastrophe. She might be a liar, a dumb bitch and naïve but I’m pretty sure she has never done any of the horrible things you did.

  “It’s okay,” I say and wipe my hands on my pants.

  I don’t care what she’s doing. I really don’t.

  19

  On Wednesday night I suddenly realize I haven’t talked to you since my departure. The thought comes out of nowhere. It just hits me. We haven’t facetimed or messaged each other. I haven’t asked you if Kye is alright. I was so busy with being annoyed of Paola, of Johnson Inc., of being here, that I totally forgot. What kind of mother forgets her child? Am I a bad mom? Is Blair? I honestly don’t know if what I do now defines me or if it in fact defines Blair. Can my current actions define a fake identity? A fictional identity? Is Blair a bad mom? What am I doing? Is this Blair or do I slowly and unknowingly turn into Blair Morgan, a fashionable blonde mom with a dark humor, dark thoughts and no conscience whatsoever? Is there a real me left? What if all that’s left inside of me is Blair? A shadow version of myself. Maybe I’ve already lost the fight. Blair vs. the real me. What if there’s no turning back to who I was after all? Maybe it’s the alcohol but I’m confused. I have questions. No one told me that it’s so hard to have a second identity. That’s what it should be. My second identity. I should feel like my real identity is still existent. I should know who I really am, but I lost myself when I met you. Everything is different. If I had to pinpoint the moment that changed my life completely, that turned it upside down, I could. Not everybody experiences a lifechanging moment. For some it is the moment they became famous, for others it is the moment they gave birth to a child. My special moment didn’t make it better, it turned a wonderful life to a living hell.

  BLAIR

  Hey piper, we’re busy, it’s a mess. Paola is totally into this deal.

  How’s Kye? Is everything okay?

  Do I sound too worried? I don’t want to be a worried mom. The old me was considerate and thoughtful. I’m chill. Blair is chill. Full of anger and about to murder someone, but chill. You’re not the best mother and I might hate you for who you are and what you did, and I can’t trust y
ou, but I think you’re going to take care of Kye while I’m away. I still think you shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce or raise a child though. You don’t create lives, you destroy them. You make people suffer and you enjoy it.

  I get up early and go to a nearby Starbucks to have breakfast, consisting of just a cinnamon bun and an Americano. I spare myself the breakfast buffet with my coworkers and Jane’s irrelevant jabbering. I put my laptop onto the wooden table that stands in front of the window and that offers a beautiful view on the streets of Boston and all those lost souls going to work in their suits and briefcases. It should be illegal to wake up for work before sunrise.

  On my laptop I try to connect to your phone camera. I turn down the brightness of the screen, just in case you’re naked or sitting on the toilet. The screen turns black. Your phone probably lies upside down on your night stand. On my phone I open Instagram and log into your account. You haven’t posted anything, so I don’t know what you’re up to. You reacted to several of your friends’ stories, but other than that there are no new messages. I can’t connect to your laptop camera because your laptop is turned off. It has been turned off for a while now. Your office computer doesn’t have a camera. Paola’s trying to save money. She gave us computers that cost two hundred bucks but rewarded herself with one that is worth two thousand Dollars. You haven’t used Facebook in years, so there is nothing on there. The same goes for Twitter. There are lots of order confirmations in your e-mails, but nothing that gives me any hint on what is happening. I can’t find out what you’re doing.

  During our meeting that day I can’t listen properly. I’m physically present but mentally absent. You haven’t replied to any of my messages yet. This behavior is typical for you. I always tell you where Dana Isabella is when she’s with me or Nanny. I always tell you how she’s doing. I even send you pictures of her. I’ve asked you many times if you’re okay. I decide to leave now and book myself an earlier flight. I have to tell Paola that Kye had an accident. What else am I supposed to say? She won’t let me go. I need to know if Kye’s okay. What if you found out who I am? Maybe you hold Kye captive and want me to come clean. That’s the risk when doing all of this with a child. I should’ve made Blair a childless single woman. Kye shouldn’t be involved in this mess. I thought I didn’t care, but maybe I can’t just turn off my conscience, even with a new identity. My hands shake. My hands never shake, only when I’m nervous, frightened or so angry that I am about to explode. Right now, I guess it’s because I’m nervous. I don’t know what to expect and that makes me feel unsafe. Maybe you’re not at your apartment. I’ve been at this meeting all day. That is enough time to drive Kye to another city, to another state, to fly to another country with him. You don’t have his passport, I remind myself. I drive a little too fast, but I’m in a hurry. Maybe I should stop playing. I pretend like I have plenty of time, but out of nowhere I suddenly feel rushed. It’s the same feeling I had when I suddenly turned twenty-four. Wasn’t I fifteen like two years ago? Time flies. Don’t waste it.