By the Numbers (18 page)

I exhale heavily. “And whose fault is that?”

He clenches his jaw. “You're going to keep pinning this on
me?
Yes, I made a bad investment. I know. You've mentioned this many, many times. I realize I'm the reason you had to take this job until we were back on solid ground. However, the decision to continue to climb the corporate ladder was not something we made together.
That
was all you. We were getting by on your initial salary.”

“It wasn't enough.”

“It
was
. You kept saying you wanted to advance because it would mean more for the kids, but stop lying to yourself; you wanted more responsibility because you liked it. Because you were good at it. Because dealing with your facts and figures was easier for you than figuring out your own flesh and blood. Your job gave you an excuse to hide from what was hard.”

I try to protest, but Chris doesn't let me interject.

“No, I don't want to hear it. I'm telling you this right now as
your husband, as your partner, as your best friend: These kids don't want
stuff
from you; they want
time
.”

Chris steps out from behind the counter and comes to sit by me at the table in the breakfast nook. “Don't you get it, Penny? These college visits are your opportunity to bond with Jessica. Take a road trip and listen to her shitty music—and I assure you, her music
is
shitty; in twenty years, no one is going to form a Nickelback tribute band. Have the experience. Buy terrible snacks at gas stations. Eat nachos made with liquid plastic cheese and petrified hot dogs from those roller things. Stop along the way and see the world's largest ball of twine. Have an adventure. Make some memories.”

He puts my hand in his, rubbing my knuckles with his thumb. “Just take that week and figure out what makes her tick. She acts like she has her guard up, but I know she's still open to letting you see who she is. That won't always be the case. The door between you will eventually close. Get in while you can. I'm worried that if you don't do something to change your trajectory with her, you're going to wind up with the exact same kind of distant, formal, awkward relationship you have with Marjorie.”

I snort. “Yes, but that's entirely
her
fault.”

Chris looks at me for a long moment. “Is it?”

I bristle and snatch back my hand. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He gets up from the table. “That means figure out a way to get your daughter out on her college visits before it's too late.”

• • • •

“So . . . what's happening with Jessica's college applications? I haven't heard anything!” Vanessa says with false bonhomie as she
sidles up to me after our staff meeting. I tried to escape the conference room quickly, but apparently I wasn't quick enough.

“Are you going to be road-tripping soon?” she asks. “She's got to be excited! I understand most kids apply in the summer now. You'd better get on that, right? It's almost August! Will you need me to cover for you in New York? It's no problem. My schedule is wide-open, and I've been dying to become better acquainted with the clients.”

“Handled,” I reply. While I'd prefer to say nothing, I can't, because no response would be blatantly rude.

Vanessa stops in her tracks, her smug smile faltering ever so slightly. Her eyes seem especially hard behind all that heavy liner. What led her to believe that the key to success in corporate consulting is to steal Pat Benatar's look from the “Love Is a Battlefield” video? I wonder. “Handled?” she asks.

“Yes, handled. But thank you so much for your offer. If I do need to take time off, which is unlikely to happen before the New York project ends, seeing how we're almost done, you'll be the first one I call.” I begin to walk down the hall in the opposite direction.

Vanessa scrambles after me. “Is she not going to college now?”

“What gave you that idea?”

“But her visits . . . You haven't been anywhere. . . .”

I reward Vanessa with my brightest smile. “They went
so
well, thanks for asking. She loved FIT
and
Parsons, so she may have a bit of a Sophie's Choice on her hands. We'll see what happens. Listen, Vanessa, I have to hop on a conference call. Bye!”

As Vanessa has been ratcheting up her level of aggression over the summer, I knew I couldn't let her take over the New York project, even for a week, so I came up with a compromise. I brought
Jessica and Marjorie out to NYC to visit schools. I put them up at the Plaza for the week, and the two of them hit a slew of New York colleges with fashion programs. Instead of road-tripping to Rhode Island and Georgia following New York, I promised she and I would do that together when my project is put to bed.

Except that's not going to happen because Jessica has found her passion and apparently that passion is New York City. After less than a week, she's more familiar with the place I've practically been living in for the past couple of years. She said she wanted to see the city like a real New Yorker, so she pocketed the cab money I left her and she and Marjorie figured out the subway system on their own. They visited all the schools on the list, but also made time to shop and sightsee and hit Bleecker Street for pizza (which is far superior to Chicago-style, according to them) and discover places I'd never even heard of, like the hidden waterfall at Greenacre Park.

Chris was right—spending a solid week with her is really all it took to figure out what makes her tick . . . at least according to Marjorie. Those two always had an amiable grandmother-granddaughter relationship, but now they're the best of friends, with inside jokes and the ability to communicate entire thoughts with nothing more than a wink or a raised eyebrow. When I'd meet them for dinner to download about the schools and how their day had gone, they behaved like sorority sisters and I was some unwanted rushee they were stuck entertaining for the hour. So the trip
was
a wonderful bonding experience.

Just not for Jessica and me.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 22nd

Subject: Yes

I'm still thinking about you, too.

XO,

A

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 22nd

Subject: ???

Um . . . do you, like, not live here anymore? There's someone else in your apartment, with, like, not your stuff. Am I fired? Is this because I ate your caviar?

If I don't hear back from you, I'm going to take the rest of the day off, cool?

XO, Cassie

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: June 22nd

Subject: You are amazing

You are beyond compare. You are the best. You rock my world.

• • • •

“Y
ou are never going to guess who I heard from on Match!” I exclaim.

“Hold up, do I hear a car radio? Are you
driving?
You're actually talking to me on your mobile while you're
behind the wheel,
Miss Nine Americans Die Every Day Due to Distracted Driving? Miss One in Four Motor Vehicle Crashes Involve a Cellular Device? Miss Talking on the Phone While Operating a Car Makes You Four Times More Likely to Have an Accident?” Patrick fires back at me.

“I waited to dial until I pulled into the driveway, you jerk.”

He immediately turns chatty. “Oh, okay, then who'd you hear from?”

“Remember Wyatt? Anagram Wyatt?”

“The world's most boring attorney, or the Natter Yo?”

“That's him. Interesting news. He lives in Lake Forest and he's recently divorced. We're going to meet up for a drink on Friday.”

“Huh. On the one hand, congratulations; I'm proud of you. You're very brave to step outside of your comfort zone like this. And, on the other, I'm really underwhelmed and you can do better.”

“Can you put Michael on the phone? Because I hate you and I'd like to speak with someone I don't despise.”

“What?” he says, indignant. “You wanted me to lie? My job is to tell you the truth, so, yes, those pleated pants make your ass look wide, yes, you have spinach in your teeth, and yes, you've told me the story about how you once met Kelly Clarkson on a plane and, yes, it gets more boring with each and every retelling.”

I grab my purse and computer bag and exit the Camry. I don't bother parking in the garage during the summer because I'm not
trying to keep snow off the car. I head toward the back door and turn to double-check that I've pressed the remote locking key. The car's lights flash reassuringly and the horn rewards me with a jaunty honk. (I love this vehicle about a million times more than that horrid string of minivans.) I'm about to climb the stairs to the back porch when I realize they've been replaced with a very long wheelchair ramp.

“Mooooooootherfucker.”

“Listen, Penny, if you want someone to sugarcoat things for you, call Karin. I'm sure Kelly Clarkson
was
sweet; no one's arguing that. But she—”

“No, no, that's not it. Oh God, no. This cannot be happening.”

“What?” Patrick asks, suddenly on high alert. “What cannot be happening?”

I hiss, “My daughters are assholes.”

“Tell me something I
don't
know.”

“Damn it.” I sit down on the ramp. “Their dad got back from Costa Rica Saturday night and they went down to the city to see him. I guess he and Stassi live in a walk-up loft with no elevator, which is almost impossible to manage on crutches, let alone in a wheelchair. I was sympathetic, because that's rough and I'm not a monster.”

“Eh, debatable.”

“Anyway, remember when Chris and I planned to move his mom in here about five years ago? We redid the bathroom in the den to be handicap accessible so Num-Num could have a first-floor bedroom?”

“But she went into assisted living instead.”

“Right, and then she deteriorated pretty quickly, which was so sad. She was such a great lady.”

“She was one hell of a broad.” Being one hell of a broad is
Patrick's highest compliment. Even though Chris's mom was no relation to Patrick, she made sure he was willed her extensive Staffordshire dog collection because she knew he'd treasure it. She was famous for making thoughtful gestures like that.

“Anyway, I must have said something to the girls about it being too bad he didn't live here with the made-over den and all, not realizing that I should have said, ‘It's too bad he had an affair and now we're divorced, or he could have used the den.'”

“Pen, when are you going to realize your kids are only going to hear the parts they want to hear?”

“Apparently never. Now the e-mail I received from Stassi today makes perfect sense. She sent a note that was all, ‘You're the best; you're a rock star!'”

Patrick lets out a low whistle. “He was infirm and in her direct care for less than twenty-four hours and he already made her crazy. That's a new record, wouldn't you say? What do you think, she bought him saltines instead of oyster crackers and he lost it? So she found a way to foist him back off on your family? Hoo-boy, Michael is going to die when I tell him. I'm not kidding.”

“Can I come live with you guys? I don't want to be in this house anymore.”

I'm joking. Mostly.

He's quick to answer. “No. You're a shit magnet lately. I don't want your bad luck following you down here, messing up our lives.”

He's joking. Mostly.

“Then I guess I'd better go inside and see my ex-husband, and my parents, and my two daughters, and the very large, very destructive dog who all live with me, each one of them an uninvited guest.”

“On the bright side,” Patrick says, “probably can't get any worse.”

“Don't say that,” I reply. “I'm learning it can always get worse.”

• • • •

“That'll be eleven dollars and eighty-one cents, please,” the cashier tells me.

“I'm sorry? I just want the one pack, nothing else,” I reply.

Yes. I'm breaking my own rule about smoking. I'm buying a pack of cigarettes. I know I normally have only one a year, but I normally don't have my two daughters who can barely conceal their contempt for me, my temporarily handicapped ex-husband, and my parents who may or may not be in the throes of dementia living under my roof for an undetermined amount of time. Oh, and I keep forgetting Sweet Caroline, who chewed her way through a solid oak door last night. Not a little hole, either. I'm talking the full-on “Here's-Johnny-in-
The-Shining
, minus Jack Nicholson and the ax” kind of hole. I'm beginning to understand how she ended up in a shelter in the first place.

The cashier bobs his head, which causes his septum piercing to swing like a door knocker. That piece of hardware's got to be a bitch when he has a cold. How would he blow his nose? Maybe he receives an employee discount on preventative meds like vitamin C and Zicam and never gets sick?

He tells me, “Right. That's how much one pack of Marlboro Reds costs.”

“Really? The last time I bought cigarettes, they were a buck fifty,” I say.

“Cool. I guess that was a while ago?”

“I guess it was.”

“Would you like to enter your Walgreens rewards card number to earn points on your purchase?”

“I would not.”

“Cool.” I hand him a twenty and he makes change before placing my cigarettes in a plastic bag and passing the whole lot over to me. “Thank you and be well.”

I pause before I walk away. “Does it strike you as odd, or at all hypocritical, to tell me to ‘be well' when the only item I'm purchasing causes almost five hundred thousand mortalities
per annum
, which is more deaths than HIV, illegal drug use, alcohol use, car accidents, and incidents related to firearms
in toto
?”

He blinks at me a couple of times. “Did you need matches?”

Sheepishly, I reply, “Yes, please.”

He reaches into a box under the counter and hands me a book. “Here ya go. Thanks. Be well.”

I return to the car, drive home, hide behind the shed to smoke not one, but the better part of
two,
of my new, secret stash before finally stepping inside for the first time. I felt that the cigarettes would help me steel myself to have a stern discussion because everything about this setup is ridiculous.

I can't have Chris here.

I can't live like this.

While I'm sorry his living situation isn't ideal, that stopped being my problem when we signed the divorce papers. Correction: That stopped being my problem when he selected that fateful Kenny G album. How am I supposed to move on with my life with him
here?

I stomp up the ramp and through the back door, where Caroline greets me with the mangled carcass of my favorite sandal in
her mouth. No! Not these! Not my super-fancy summer favorites! I bought these little gold wedges with the T-straps, strung with little-bitty coins in mixed metals that jingle with each step because they're the perfect shoe for every hot-weather outfit, appropriate with anything from a swimsuit to a cocktail dress. I paid a ton for them, too, because they do the job of at least three pairs of shoes.

“No, Caroline, no! Bad girl! Give it here! No three-in-one super-fancies for you!”

I attempt to take the sandal from her, and this is apparently the most fun she's ever had. She lowers her front end, leaving her ample rump high in the air, and she begins to tug.

“Caroline, mine! MINE! Let go! Kelsey? Where are you? Come get your awful dog!”

Caroline's puffy tail swishes back and forth and she grunts with glee while keeping her teeth firmly clamped down on my shoe. She's got such a grip that she's starting to pull me across the room inch by inch.

“Caroline, drop it!” I command. She simply jerks harder. I try to imagine Barnaby behaving like this and I can't. I'd have a much easier time picturing him finding a qualified cobbler on Yelp and then making an appointment to have the shoes resoled in high-quality leather at a reasonable price, all without ever having been asked.

“I said
now!
” I give the shoe a solid yank just as Chris rolls into the room in his wheelchair, which frightens Caroline. She releases the super-fancy and bravely runs away while I'm mid-tug, which sends me reeling back into the kitchen island with a tremendous
thump
.

“You okay?”

I glance up at Chris from my spot on the floor. He looks both
better and worse than I expected. On the plus side, his tan is deep and his hair bleached out from the hot Costa Rican sun. On the minus side, he's in a cast past his knee on the left side, he's wearing a neck brace, and he's covered in multiple cuts and bruises, with dark circles under his eyes. I didn't realize until this moment how lucky he is not to have been injured worse.

“You should have seen the other guy?” I reply, rubbing the back of my head where it hit the cabinet. “So . . . um, hi.”

“That dog is no Barnaby,” he says.

“Tell me about it.”

He wheels closer to me and offers me a hand to help me up. I wave him off. He says, “Are we planning to talk about my being here, or is it just going to be this awkward thing? Since you're smoking again, I'm guessing you want to talk and I shouldn't get too comfortable in the den?”

I'm dumbfounded. “You can tell I smoked? How?”

“Please. This is not exactly
CSI
-level detective work. I've known what you smelled like since 1980.”

“You have not.”

“Of course I have.”

“Prove it.”

“You wore Love's Baby Soft until college—”

“So did everyone.”

“Ralph Lauren until you graduated—”

I roll my eyes. “Again, so did everyone.”

“You were big on that super-sweet stuff, um . . . Poison until we got married, nothing when you were pregnant because everything made you queasy, and in the past few years you've been on a quest to find the perfect neroli-oil-based scent. Thus far, Tom Ford's Neroli Portofino is the best. What? I
told
you so. You were
prematurely smug. Stop looking at me with your mouth open. My not listening to you was never our problem. Also, you installed motion-sensor lights, and I can see behind the shed from the den.”

I have no idea how to respond, so I just laugh. He could always do this—he could always defuse any tense situation, if he chose to. “Did you know cigarettes are twelve bucks a pack now?”

“You're kidding! They used to be a buck fifty! When did we get old?”

“Who's old? You're the one in a wheelchair, Grandpa, not me.”

“Ouch. I mean that literally and figuratively—I'm due for another pain pill. They are not as much fun as you'd hope. Do me a favor and don't fall from a jungle canopy; one star, do not recommend.” He wheels a couple of inches back and forth, in a motion that's sort of like pacing. His face takes on a more serious expression. “So, you want to have a discussion? You cannot be thrilled to see me here.”

“Honestly, I'm not, especially because I didn't agree to this. You have to sense that. The girls didn't clear you being here with me, and all of a sudden I come home and, hey! Guess what! We're ADA compliant. You know how I am with surprises.”

Chris nods slowly and only as much as the brace will allow, as though he's agreeing with me, although his lips are pressed together tightly. “Yeah, I wondered about that. They both said it was fine and I said I wanted to talk to you, but somehow it didn't happen. Don't worry about it. I will figure out somewhere to go, but it might take me until tomorrow, if that's okay. I appreciate your being a decent sport, though. I don't think I could have handled fireworks today.”