Carpool Confidential (31 page)

Harmonye was sound asleep even though it was only eight. There was a pile of schoolbooks on the kitchen table. I got the boys bathed, made them cocoa, read them stories, rubbed their backs, reassured them fifty or sixty times that Rick still loved them, his behavior notwithstanding, and that I still loved them and would never leave. Our new nightly ritual.

Then I went and stood in the door to Harmonye's room. She was sprawled on her stomach, her ponytail falling away from the line of her neck. Had anyone ever rubbed her back and assured her that they'd love her forever? I knew this was simplistic, but maybe if they had she wouldn't be self-destructing now. I'd always loved her in a distant, fond way, but looking at her now, asleep, not looking all that much older than my own boys, I felt the same kind of rush of love and protectiveness for her that I did for them, like I'd walk though fire to protect her.

Why did I not know anyone who could give me reliable advice on dealing with a teenager in crisis? As I've mentioned, none of my friends had teenagers, and I think we've already established my parents' credentials. I discussed her in therapy, but Dorothy was more about how I reacted to her. Which was fabulous at further establishing me as a walking disaster, but in terms of practical help? Not so much.

So I figured I had to take it as an omen that on the answering machine, along with a message from Janice Streitmeier saying that she'd been unable to get into the Nantucket house because neither the locks nor the security code worked, there was a message from probably the only person I did know who knew anything about teenagers.

“Hi,” he said, “this is James Spence. If I invite you to lunch, will I end up reading about myself on
NYMetro
again?” He definitely sounded more dryly amused than put out. “And, yes, the shirts are, as you speculated, custom made. My ex-wife liked them, so Borelli has my measurements, and it's easier to keep ordering from there than go anywhere else.” He left his phone number at the end even though he'd already given it to me in our previous conversation.

“Hi,” he said, when I identified myself.

I launched right in. “So, I'm kind of embarrassed about this, but do you know anything about teen pregnancy?”

“Not to be rude, but I don't really consider you a teen.”

“My niece.”

“I knew that, I remember and also, obviously, I've read the blog. I was joking. Sorry if that fell flat.”

I laughed.

“Nope,” he said. “Too late. It wasn't funny.”

“Sorry.” Was it possible he sounded nervous, too? “It's me. I'm suffering acute sense of humor failure.”

“A not uncommon symptom in adults dealing with teen pregnancy in the immediate vicinity,” he assured me. “It doesn't tend to be terribly amusing.”

Which should have sounded stiff, but somehow the Britishness sounded just right, and I really did laugh. “Not terribly, no. Would you mind if I asked you for a little advice?” I realized I was digging my nails into my own hands, my fists were curled so tight.

“Not at all. Do you mind holding on for one second? I just need to get off the other line.”

And before I could tell him he didn't need to do that, he was gone. And then back. “OK, hang on one more second while I grab my drink.”

“What are you drinking?” I was trying to sound friendly, but for some reason that sounded too intimate to me. I could feel my face burn. “I hope that didn't sound too
What are you wearing?
”

He laughed. “Not nearly enough, actually.” And my face burned all over again. Until he added. “I meant it didn't sound enough that way. Not that I wasn't wearing enough. And scotch. It's been a long day.”

“Would you rather I called back tomorrow? Because I don't mind—”

“Not at all. So I get the sense from your blogs that she's just not dealing.”

“Exactly.”

“The adolescent mind is a very interesting place to visit, but longer stays—let's say, their brains just don't work quite the same way ours do. And she wouldn't be the first person in her position at any age to want to pretend the problem doesn't exist.”

“Pretending problems don't exist is my specialty,” I said. “But I can't let her sit back and possibly ruin her life because cowardice is hereditary.”

“You're right, she does need to see someone not emotionally involved for a rational discussion of her options and some basic medical care, and sooner rather than later. I'd offer to see her myself, but as it might be a conflict of interest because I'd really like to take her guardian to lunch, I have someone else really great in mind.”

I felt the blood flush into my face, yet again. I hadn't really expected that to turn out to be more than a polite way of turning down the sex club invite. “I'd like that. Thank you.”

We got out calendars (like I had anything going on) and ended up picking a date after the New Year. He gave me the doctor's number and said he'd give her a call tomorrow morning and I should call a little later. Then, “Oh, about lunch. Don't bring the rabid pooch.”

“Ordinarily I like to bring him everywhere, but I guess I can make an exception.”

He laughed. “See? You don't have total sense of humor failure.”

“Not yet,” I said darkly. “Give me about two more days.”

 

“Forget it,” M.A. said the next morning over her organic fake pop tart. “I'm so not about going to your doctors. And this thing tastes like ass.”

“Fine go to yours then.”

“OK.”

“When?”

“Like sometime.”

“Like now.”

“Soon.”

“Within the week.” I looked her straight in the eye. “It's either that or back to boarding school. And I'll deliver you personally.”

“Sue Moriarty's hummus sandwiches taste like ass, too,” Jared said.

“Jared!” I started loading the dishwasher. “I don't ever want to hear that from you again.”

“Why are you being so mean to M.A.?” Noah asked me.

“And how come she needs to see a doctor?” Jared looked at her. “Are you sick?”

“Checkup.” No need to elaborate. “And I'm not being mean, I'm being firm about her doing something for her own good.”

“That's like just fucking fine. You can escort me like the Gestapo, too.” She stormed out to go get dressed.

“Hey, Mom,” Jared said. “What's the Gestapo?”

“People in Germany a long time ago who weren't nice.” Call me overprotective, but I didn't think they were ready for the Holocaust over breakfast.

“You know how we're getting new school lunches now with baked yam slices instead of fries now, Mommy?” Noah said.

I closed the dishwasher, just missing Cad's hovering nose. “Vaguely.”

“Well, baked yam slices fucking taste like ass!”

 

Once I got everyone dropped off at school, I came home and blogged. Walked Cad, ran out, and ran a million Christmas-related errands, trying hard not to think about pennies. Then came home and started the tough calls. First the doctor to make an appointment for M.A. She was booking six weeks ahead, the receptionist told me, but since Dr. Spence had called, she was going to squeeze us in this afternoon. I thanked her profusely and called M.A. on her cell to let her know I'd be picking her up at noon. Then, with shaking hands, dialled the box office number of Performance Space 6. I got a grainy (if ever a recording could sound grainy, this was it) message saying the box office was closed and to please call back.

Then I called Bowers & Flaum to speak to Patrick from the CFO's office about those receipts. “Oh, hi,” he said when I'd identified myself. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. So I was wondering if you'd made any headway on processing those expenses.” I was trying to sound cool as a cucumber, like I'd just happened to remember, as opposed to hyperventilating for the check.

“You know, I'd been planning to give you a call back, but it sort of slipped to the bottom of my pile.” He chuckled.

Why did I have a feeling I would have kept reslipping to the bottom in an endless loop if I hadn't called? And why did that not give me a good feeling?

“I matched those receipts up against Rick's diary. Standard procedure,” he said before I could ask, “and the funny thing is they don't match. Well, that's not true, two of them did, but the rest he was either on vacation or here.” He sounded truly puzzled. “So I can't quite figure out these itineraries or receipts.”

That made two of us, but for me it was just one more missing piece. I tried the make lemonade approach. “Which two trips did match up?”

“London and Tokyo,” he said.

I felt the wash of relief. Those had involved substantial amounts of money.

“But Rick collected reimbursement for those before his termination.”

The wash of relief was swallowed up by the dizzying rush of blackness. The shock was almost like meeting an old acquaintance at this point. Rick had been fired? Honestly, it was getting hard to keep track of what I did know and what I didn't. I called and left a message for Humphrey saying that sooner would be preferable to later. Then I called Randy.

“So,” she said, “are you planning what to wear to Performance Space 6?”

I didn't bother laughing. “Ran, I think I need a lawyer to start working on a legal separation.”

I picked M.A. up at school. “Hi,” she said when we met in the school lobby. Her gaze dropped, she frowned. “So do you like not have any skinny-legged jeans?”

“No,” I smiled sweetly, “I don't. Because I'm over twenty and so, correspondingly, are my thighs.”

“Katya probably has skinny-legged jeans.” She looked sad.

“Katya,” I said, “wears thongs.”

“She's not very dependable.” She looked sadder.

I put my arm around her. “No,” I agreed, and we went off to the doctor, who was absolutely lovely and took M.A. away for talking and tests and redelivered her to me in the waiting room saying she'd be in touch with the test results.

“So?” I said when we left.

“It was good.”

And that was it. All the information I got. I made one last stab. “I really think you should go see a therapist.”

“My mom made me go a few times but there was no point, I'm not nuts. What would I talk to a therapist about?”

“Whatever you want. I do.”

She looked at me. “So, everything? From like stupid things like if someone makes a humming noise while you're reading and it bugs you?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“And cosmic stuff like why the earth is such a fucked-up place with terrorists and climate change? And my parents are so screwed up? And—Oh my God!”

“What? What is it, hon?”

She was staring in a store window. “Those boots are like
sooo
cute!”

So much for the cosmic stuff.

I sent her home to drop off her new boots and pick the boys up and went over to see Letitia.

“What do you want, Cassie?” she asked after I'd brought her up to date.

Her maid came, filled our coffee cups, then left. The apartment was lengthily silent. Good—no, great—question. Even a few weeks ago, the answer was cut and dried. I wanted Rick, with his pressure-cooker job and his Finnish bottled water and his hand-ironed shirts and everything that came with it, back. But little by little, each new piece of information ate away at that certainty. Not only did I not know anymore, I was no longer sure that an intact family (that included Rick) was best for the boys.

“I want”—I had to force myself to form a coherent answer— “I'd like to understand what happened and why. I don't want the boys to suffer, and I think I'm entitled to a fair share of the marital assets.”

“Are you saying you definitely don't want him back?”

“I'm saying I don't know, but those things I do know.”

“And the money—what about the short term? Are you OK right now, or are you trying to put a good face on being desperate?”

“I'm not desperate yet, and the blog is starting to bring in real income. It's more worry about the longer term. I'm making arrangements to have the Nantucket house rented out.”

She looked down. “I'm sorry.”

“Please don't feel like this is your fault, Letitia.”

“It so clearly is.” When she looked up at me, I noticed for the first time the slightest lines crossing through the Botox-frozen serenity, the tiniest softening of her chin. Proof that at some point no amount of money, no legions of plastic surgeons can disguise that we're all marching in the same direction.

“No, it isn't.” I put my hand on her arm. “You weren't perfect. None of us are. But that doesn't give him any justification for this. None. This is all him, Letitia.”

 

We were just sitting down to dinner when someone knocked on the door. No buzz from the doorman, so we all jumped to the same conclusion.

“M.A.!” Jared yelled, getting up. “She can have dinner with us! Maybe she'll say this lasagna tastes like ass!”

I could only hope.

The two of them tore down the hall.

I dropped my napkin and followed. I was thinking that whatever her decision was about the baby, her nutrition really had to improve—but it wasn't M.A.

“Hi,” Rick said, like he was coming home from a day at the office.

My just-swallowed bite of lasagna felt like it was going to come back up. The hallway tilted. I had to grope—for reality, for balance. Was he just coming home from a day at the office? Had this been real? Imagined?

He stood there, in the door, looking at me. The boys were silent behind me. My emotions were rioting, ricocheting off the walls. My brain, though, was very logically ticking over the fact that just today I'd asked Randy to find me a lawyer.

The boys came out of their shock. “DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY!!” They hurled themselves onto him. ‘DADDY!”

“Guys! Don't knock me over.” Rick was laughing and trying to stay upright and hug them all at the same time.

“Where's your suitcase? Are you home forever? Why did mom say you were getting divorced? Do you still love us? What's your new job? Do you like it? Will you come to soccer on Saturday? Can we see R movies now? Mom said no. And what about PG-13 ones? Did you know M.A.'s staying with us? She's having a baby.” (How the hell did they know that?? And if they knew that, what else might they be up on?)

I leaned against the wall. The boys were still in full swing, their words tripping over each other's.

“We're having lasagna. You missed Thanksgiving. Did you hear that Grandma might marry Grandpa again? Guess what! We have yam fries at school now. They taste like ass. Once when you were gone Cad pooped on the floor and Mommy said the F word!”

“She didn't!” Rick said, laughing. “And who's M.A.?”

“Harmonye. That's her new name.”

“I see.” He looked at me. “You're looking good, Cass. Did you lose weight?”

“Why are you here, Rick?”

“I'm back,” he said softly. “I missed you.”

“Back back or back for Christmas?”

He looked at me tenderly. “I guess that depends on you.”

I was having a hard time not bursting into tears at how happy the boys were. It was like I'd somehow managed to block out how much they'd missed him because I'd had to in order to keep myself going.

Rick looked…the same but different. His hair was longer, and he was thinner, too. I had to admit, he looked good. I'd somehow forgotten to really see him over the years, how good-looking he was.

I had a quick mental flash of James Spence's face. Rick was and always had been a handsome man. But James was in a different league. It could never be an even comparison, though. Looking into a face you know is somehow like looking through a lit window: you can always see in.

“So. Can I come in?” Rick said quietly. Both boys were hanging off his neck.

Our gazes met over their heads. The kids babbled on, more like themselves than they'd been in months. I stared at him while two halves of my brain (half 1: of course, honey, thank God you're finally home. Did you bring money?) and (half two: I'd have to be out of my fucking mind to even
consider
letting you through this door, dirtbag) duked it out.

“Why?” I asked. “Do you want to?”

The boys got quiet then and sort of climbed off him as we stared at each other.

“Later?” he said. It was like a plea. And then he settled it by walking past me.

Noah and Jared whooped with excitement. “Come on,” Noah screamed, “let's go set a place for him,” and they tore down the hall to set the table voluntarily for probably the first time in either of their lives.

“Why are you here, Rick?” We were still standing in the foyer. The phone rang.

“Cass”—Rick put his hand out—“leave it. Let's have our moment.”

I looked at him. He was smiling that old beguiling smile. The phone was ringing. And it was like I was being transported to the night he left. I remembered Sue calling and Rick doing the same thing, reaching out, saying,
Leave it
.

This time, I turned away so his hand slid off my arm and picked up the phone. And what were the odds? It was Sue, her calls neatly bookending my husband's departure and return. “Listen, Cassie,” she said. “The Trustees Committee is meeting next Friday at 5:30 and as Grace's replacement on the Exec front—”

“Um, Sue—”

“Good old Sue,” Rick said. “Nice to know that it's true—the more things change, the more they stay the same. Tell her a great big fat
hi
from me!”

I looked at him. Had he learned irony somewhere while he was gone?

“Is that Rick?” Sue said. “You must be absolutely thrilled he's home! I'll let you go, but let's talk tomorrow. And, Cassie, want to hear something weird?”

“Sure.”

“It's totally ridiculous, but he's been gone so much and for so long I was almost starting to think you were the blogger.” She laughed.

“Really!”

“What's taking you guys so long?” Jared came flying around the corner. He was dancing from foot to foot, he was so excited. “Come on, come on.”

I hung up the phone and followed Rick down the hall.