Your Big Break (19 page)

“Hmm . . . what's good?”

“Do you want iced or hot?”

“Iced.”

I run through the list of items.

“My goodness, you're practically a walking, talking Starbucks menu.”

I grimace. Maybe we should have gone somewhere else. But no, I have to stay in the right frame of mind. Technically, I'm dumping my mother. I need to view this as a business transaction or I'll never get through it.

A few minutes later, my mother and I are seated in the corner, sipping Iced Nonfat Mocha Lattes and eating a piece of chocolate cake. Or, more precisely, Mom's eating. I'm just picking at it with a fork. My stomach feels tense, nervous. I don't want to drag this out. I want to get it over with.

“I need to tell you something.” I say.

“Tell me what?” She takes a sip of coffee.

I swallow hard. “It's about Dad.”

“What about him?” she asks, stirring her drink with a straw.

I recite rule #4 in my mind:
You are an impartial observer
. I'm going to give her the facts. I'm not going to let this affect me personally. “Mom, you have to leave him,” I blurt out.

“What are you talking about?” She looks uneasy.

They're just words. Don't think about what they mean
. “You have to leave Dad. He has a girlfriend.” I swallow hard, trying to force down the sickness that's building up in my throat. “Her name's Gretchen,” I finish.

Mom's expression changes to one of horror. “Who told you?”

Who told you?
I turn the words over in my mind. That's not the response I expected.
Why isn't she upset? Why isn't she demanding to know more about Gretchen? Why isn't she worried that her husband is an adulterer?
She's not shocked, she's not surprised. And then it hits me. Mom knows. Mom knows about Gretchen.
Oh my God, oh my God. Somehow, some way, she knows
.

“Did he tell you?” she asks. “Did Paul tell you about her?”

I stick to the story my brother and I came up with. “No, Sean found e-mails on Dad's computer.”

“Your father shouldn't have been so careless.”

“We were supposed to tell you together, when the time was right.”

“What?” I ask. Any second now, I think I may pass out.

“Dani, I didn't want you to find out like this, but now you know half the story, so I'd better tell you the rest. Your father and I grew apart a long time ago. . . .” She keeps talking, telling me about how after she quit her job, she reevaluated her life, realized it wasn't working anymore. Her voice sounds distant, far away. I'm barely able to focus on what she's saying.

“When you marry as young as I did, when you only sleep with one man in your entire life, you reach a point where you just want more,” Mom says. “It was my idea that we see other people, find out where it leads.”

I'm stunned, nauseated. My mind flashes to the top ten biggest breakup excuses. I see right through Mom's story. The only time someone says they want to “see other people” is if they already have dates lined up.

“Who is he?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

“What makes you think there's someone else?”

“Isn't there?” I look her dead in the eyes, and she looks away.

“His name's Jude. He teaches my yoga class at the community center. We've been seeing each other off and on for six months.”

I'm going to be sick. Right here, in the middle of all these Starbucks customers. I mentally measure the distance between the table and the bathroom—all the bodies I'll have to push past, all the tables, the coffee display, the baristas.

I'll never make it
.

I lean down and vomit Iced Nonfat Mocha Latte all over my purse and the floor.

 
 
I'm cruising with my mother along the brightly lit streets of central Boston. This time Mom is driving, shifting the gears on my Volvo.
How did we get here?

“Take this,” she says as she pulls up to a stoplight. She hands me the bottle of Pepto-Bismol I'd stuffed in my purse earlier. “I wiped it off. It'll make you feel better.”

I drink a few tentative sips of the thick, pink liquid.

I know, despite her assurances, that nothing will ever make me feel better again.

20

In Another Time or Place, This Could''ve Worked Out

My eyes slowly open and I look around. I'm laying in a bed, but not my bed. My head feels fuzzy, thick, and it's difficult to concentrate. I fling back the floral bedspread and stare down at myself.
Why am I wearing clothes in bed?
I look down at my feet.
I went to bed with my shoes on?
My tongue feels as though it's stuck to the roof of my mouth. I climb out of bed and my knees buckle. Then it hits me: I'm in my parents' guest bedroom. Last night's events come flooding back.
Did Sean help me up here?
I think I'm going to be sick. Again.

I dash into the adjoining bathroom.

Fifteen minutes, a glass of Alka-Seltzer, and two Advils later, I feel somewhat better. What I really need are some ginger ale and saltines, like Mom used to serve whenever I had the flu.
Oh, God. Mom
. She's probably downstairs right now, watching Lifetime, Television for Women. Or is she out with some mystery man? I venture downstairs. “Hello?” I call out. No one answers. I check the driveway. All three cars are gone.
I wonder where everyone is
. Dad, presumably, is at work. Sean may be, too. But Mom can't be at the office; she's retired (which I've now discovered is code for “sowing her wild oats”).

I'm just grabbing my things to hightail it out the door when my cell phone rings. It's Sophie. “This has been one of the worst days of my life!” she complains, not bothering to say hello. “I went to Addington Academy.”

She's already been to Brady's school?
“Why didn't you wait till lunchtime?” I ask.

“Dani, it
is
lunchtime.”

“It is?”

“Later, actually. It's two o'clock in the afternoon,” Sophie informs me.

“Holy shit!” I shriek.
How can it be two o'clock? I've missed work!
Craig's bound to be freaking out. I'll call him the second I get off the phone with Sophie.

“What happened at the school?” I ask, sinking back down on the bed.

“I got arrested.”

Obviously, I am still asleep. I must be dreaming. In fact, I'm starting to think the entire last month of my life has been one extended nightmare.

“Did you hear what I just said?” Sophie demands, sounding indignant. “I got
arrested.
Sort of.”

“I heard you,” I answer. “Why did you get arrested?”

“I had some trouble finding Brady's classroom. Some teacher saw me wandering around and asked me for a hall pass. I couldn't produce one, so she dragged my ass down to the principal's office!”

I'm speechless. I finally ask, “What did the principal do?”

“She said visitors aren't allowed on school property without prior permission.”

“Did you see Brady?” I ask.

“The principal was making such a big stink, I was worried I might get Brady in trouble, too. So when she asked who I was there to see, I refused to answer.”

Uh-oh
. “What happened then?”

“They called the cops on me for trespassing!”

“Sophie, I'm so sorry. I never meant to get you”—I swallow hard—“arrested,” I whisper.

“
Almost
arrested,” she corrects. “The school didn't
actually
press charges. They just had the cops take down a file on me, and I was warned to never again come on school property unless I had prior permission.”

That's far less dramatic than what she initially told me. “Still, I feel terrible. I should have never suggested you surprise Brady at school. We can arrange another way—”

“I'm done,” she says. “At least for the time being. I've had enough.”

I realize I'm a tiny bit glad things didn't work out. Now that I think about it, they don't seem like such a good match. “Again, I'm sorry,” I apologize. “If there's any way I can make it up to you, let me know.”

“I'm rearranging my apartment tomorrow evening. I could use some help. You up for it?”

“I'd love to,” I say, and I mean it. Krista's going out with Jason Dutwiler tomorrow, which means my Saturday night is free. The last thing I want to do is sit around all weekend and think about the situation with my parents. It'll be good to take my mind off things for a while.

“Can't wait,” she says, and clicks off the line abruptly.

I check my cell phone. There are eight calls from Craig.
Not good
. I call him back and apologize for missing work. He's surprisingly understanding. “Problem with the parental units?” he asks.

“How'd you know?”

“Trey heard from Gretchen. She called off the breakup. Guess she's staying with your old man.”

“Guess so.” I honestly have no idea what's happening. I need to talk to Sean, find out what transpired between him and Father.
Or should I go back to Dad? Since this isn't entirely his fault
. “I'll stop by the office for a few hours.”

“Don't worry about it,” Craig says. “Take a sick day. No biggie.”

 
 
I call Blockbuster as soon as I get back to my apartment.

“Can I speak to Sean Myers?” I ask the girl who answers. She puts me on hold. A minute later, my brother picks up the phone.

“Welcome to the Apocalypse,” he says, instead of hello.

“That's not funny.”

“It's not meant to be.”

“So, how did it go with Dad?” I ask.

“Not good.”

“Did he tell you about Mom's yoga instructor boyfriend?” I ask.

“No, but she did.”

I gasp. “When?”

“When she brought you home last night. You were completely out of it. I had to help you upstairs and put you in bed! Don't you remember?”

I grimace; I feel so humiliated. “I can't believe Mom told you.”

“I knew something was up anyway,” he explains. “When I confronted Dad about Gretchen, he got really quiet and then he said that was a topic for me to discuss with Mom.”

This situation is so surreal, so bizarre
. “I'm in shock.”

“Tell me about it.” He groans. “I feel like a first-class moron. I've been living under the same roof with them and I never even realized any of this was going on!”

“They did a good job of hiding it,” I say.

“Dani, I've gotta get back to work. I'm stuck here until midnight, but give me a call tomorrow and we can figure out what to do, how to patch up our family.”

“Okay,” I agree, but I'm pretty sure we've run out of options.

 
 
I walk over to Sophie's about five the next evening. It's a beautiful night, and I enjoy the stroll. It's nice knowing someone else in the neighborhood. Sophie buzzes me up and answers the door looking peppy and bright-eyed. Her mousy, sullen, post-breakup frumpiness is completely gone. She's back to her former goddess state.

“Thanks for helping me with this.” She smiles.

“No problem.”

We work diligently to rearrange her apartment, scooting couches across the floor, hanging up new curtains, moving bookshelves and dressers. It's hard work, but we pass the time talking, jabbering about clothes and men and books. A few times, she runs across items that remind her of Evan: matchbooks from restaurants, earrings he gave her “just because,” a small teddy bear from FAO Schwarz, postcards from a trip they took to Martha's Vineyard. Sophie's eyes tear up when she finds the postcards. “I fought so hard to get him to take that vacation. He did not want to go, but once we got there, he cut loose. He was like a big kid again, building sandcastles, collecting seashells.”

I almost laugh at the mental image of Evan Hirschbaum trotting along the beach, poking around in the sand for dainty shells. “You shouldn't keep it,” I advise her. “Any of it. They'll only serve as bitter reminders.”

“You're right.” She sinks down on the floor, postcards in hand. She wipes her eyes. “I think I'm over it, that I've moved on. I haven't even called him in weeks. But then I see something that reminds me of him and I fall to pieces. I've managed to collect more mementos from this than from all my other relationships combined.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “He's not coming back,” I say with a conviction that surprises even me. I sound like Trey.

“The way you said that”—Sophie bursts into tears—“it sounds so final.”

I move down on the floor beside her and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “I've known Evan for a year. This is who he
is
. He doesn't get involved, he doesn't get hurt. He takes nothing personally. People are just possessions to him.”

Craig would flip if he heard me bashing our number-one client like this. But I feel bad for Sophie, and I want to help her.

“It's so hard,” she says, drying her eyes on her sleeve. “You lose a part of yourself when you lose a relationship.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

We sit there, side by side on the floor, for a long time. We talk about relationships, about Evan. I tell her about my dumped-on-the-radio horror story.

“Is he still on WBCN?” she asks.

“No.” I stand and stretch. “He moved to California, last I heard.”