Happily Ever After? (9 page)

“Diana. It’s eight in the morning. On Sunday. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Oh, baby, did I wake you? So sorry! You know how it is with us early birds. By eight o’clock I’m ready for lunch.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Not until you tell me how your date went. Was it everything you’d dreamed it would be?”

This line of questioning made me uneasy. I knew that Diana couldn’t possibly be rooting for Michael and me. I decided that
the less I told her, the better. “It was fine, Diana.”

“Fine. Be that way,” she said. “That’s not why I called. I’ve got news about Roger.”

Now I was wide awake. “Tell me.”

“He’s out of jail. He’s living with his little girlfriend and her parents. And he wants to see Pete.”

“Over my dead body.”

“You know, according to your temporary custody agreement, he’s allowed to see Pete. You can’t keep him from his son.”

“Oh? And now you’re defending that jackass?”

“No, not defending. Just telling the truth. If you make trouble now, it could work against you later, when you finalize the
agreement. You get one of those fathers’-rights type judges and you could lose Pete altogether. I’d hate to see that happen
to you.”

“I’d never lose Pete,” I said, trying to sound confident as I felt tremors right down my spine. “That can’t happen.”

“Look, if he wants to see Pete, let him. That’s all I’m saying.” And then, as if on cue, there was a knock on the door.

“Did you send him over here?” I asked Diana.

“Who? Roger? No!” she said.

“I think he’s at the door,” I said.

“Don’t answer it. Just ignore it.”

The knocking continued, louder now. I ran into the guest room and peered between the blinds. I couldn’t see Roger but I spotted
his Lexus SUV at the curb. I ran back to the phone. “I’ve got to go,” I told Diana.

“Be strong, baby,” she said. “Don’t let him in.”

“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin,” I said, and hung up the phone. I pulled my gray sweatpants off the Nordic Trak and
checked my face in the mirror. I wiped the old mascara off my face, swished and spat a capful of Listerine, and stumbled down
the steps. I swung open the front door, but kept the glass storm door closed and locked. Roger stood with his arms crossed
tightly against his chest. He was wearing a tailored shirt, new black jeans, and new sneakers. (Where was he getting the money
to buy new clothes?) His pale blond hair was cropped so closely it looked as if someone had spray-painted his skull. He wore
a tiny gold hoop in his right ear. He seemed to be growing a beard.

He slid his sunglasses down his nose. “Nice hair,” he said, smirking. He put his hand on the storm door handle. “I want to
see Pete.”

“Pete’s sleeping,” I told him. I had no intention of telling him that Pete was sleeping at Drew’s. I didn’t want him harassing
the Steubens.

“I want to see him now.” He jiggled the handle impatiently. I looked toward his SUV and noticed Surfer Girl in the passenger
seat. The mirror was flipped
down. She was slicking her lips with gloss. She must have sensed that I was watching her because she swiveled her head toward
me and smiled.

“You can’t see him now, Roger. He’s sleeping.”

Roger glanced at his watch. “Wake him up. He’s had enough sleep. I want to see him.” He jiggled the door again. “Open the
damn door. I have a right to see my son.” He stepped back off the porch and looked up toward Pete’s window. “Petey Boy! Pete!
Peeetttterrrr!” He was bellowing now. “Wake up, Pete! It’s Daddy! Wake up, honey!”

“Give it up, Roger. He’s not coming down.”

Roger shot me a malignant glare. “I have the right to see my son.”

“No you don’t. Right now I’ve got full custody. You know that.”

“I don’t care what the papers say. Pete is my son and I want to see him.”

I glanced toward the SUV. Surfer Girl was pulling a comb through her flowing blond hair. “Go away, Roger,” I told him. “Go
take your girlfriend to Chuck E. Cheese’s.” I closed the door slowly, deliberately. I locked it and watched through the window
as Roger stood there, staring up at Pete’s window. Finally, he gave up. At least for the moment.

’Til next time,

V

Michael hasn’t called, but Lynette has. She left a message on my machine. She wants to meet for lunch. I haven’t called her
back.

’Til next time,

V

I saw Lynette at the bus stop this morning. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and she was wearing pale lipstick,
a hint of blush, no mascara. I, on the other hand, was wearing the same sweats I’d slept in, a pajama top without a bra, and
slippers. Whatever makeup I’d had on my face was left over from last night.

“You didn’t return my call,” she said as the bus heaved and rattled down the street. I pretended to wave at Pete. In fact,
the windows were tinted and I couldn’t make out anyone’s face, let alone Pete’s.

“I’m sorry, Lynette. I’ve been so busy.”

“Oh, I understand.” She began to turn away.

“Wait. Lynette. I’m lying.”

She turned toward me and waited.

“It’s just that, I feel so, I don’t know …”

“Weird?”

“Weird’s a good word,” I said.

“I feel weird too,” she said. “It was a weird night. But
I never thought you’d stop talking to me because of it. I guess I thought you’d be more understanding.” She looked down at
the ground and paused for a moment. “It’s not like you’ve never veered off the straight and narrow. No offense.”

She was right, of course. But I couldn’t expunge the image of Lynette and Curtis and Wade and Melanie contorting themselves
on Lynette’s queen-size bed, atop the blue and yellow Amish quilt that Lynette’s mother had given them for their tenth wedding
anniversary. Why couldn’t I just ease up and be her friend again? “No offense taken,” I said, trying to stoke the remaining
embers of goodwill. “How’s Hunter?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s fine,” she chirped, clearly thrilled that I was willing to talk to her. “He’s lobbying for that new Play Station”
She rolled her eyes. “I told him that Santa’s still waiting for a thank-you note for the Nintendo.” She looked at me. “And
he really misses Pete.”

“Maybe we can get them together over the weekend,” I suggested.

“Oh, Hunter would love that!” she said. She said she was trying to get an early start on making beginning-ofthe-year gifts
for the teachers, and maybe Pete would like to get involved. She had an idea for filling teacups with chocolate-dipped spoons
and little packs of flavored instant coffee. “It’s really easy, and so yummy!” I told Lynette that I’d send Pete over on Saturday
afternoon, and then maybe I could have Hunter in the evening for a sleepover.

“Really? Oh! That would be great!” She was beaming now and it made me feel guilty. I’d behaved punitively toward her, and
why? Because she’d tumbled—consensually—into bed with another couple?

Exactly.

’Til next time,

V

I spent the morning online, researching prostate cancer treatments. I found an intriguing trial in Los Angeles, made a few
phone calls, and managed to get my father an interview with the oncologist who is heading up the research. But when I called
my mother, she had an entirely different idea.

“Forget the doctors,” she told me. “Let’s take your father to Medjugorje.”

“You want to take him where?”

“Medjugorje. People come from all over to be healed. They see visions of the Virgin Mary.”

“Mother, you’re kidding, right?”

“I’m absolutely serious. I saw a TV special on this place. It’s amazing. People see apparitions, they experience miraculous
healings. Valerie. We’ve gone the medical route. I want to try it. Please.”

I didn’t know what to say. My mother had never really
begged me for anything. “But we’re not even Catholic.”

“It doesn’t matter. Anyone can go. Valerie. Please. It’s our last hope. Your father wants to do this.”

I sighed. “Where is this place?”

“It’s a village in Bosnia-Herzegovina.”

“WHAT? Are you crazy? We’ll get ourselves killed.”

“No, no. It’s fine, it’s safe. We’ll go with a group. We’ll be fine. Please, Val. Let’s do this. Let’s go to Medjugorje.”

“Okay, Mom.” I sighed. “We’ll go. We’ll go to Medjugorje.”

And we will.

’Til next time,

V

Went to Talbot’s today for a new outfit. My mission: To dress like a Mushroomhead. I bought a pale blue crepe jacket ($184),
matching slacks ($89), and strappy sandals ($110).

Now that I’ve got the outfit, tomorrow I’m paying a visit to C.J. Patterson. I’m going to make her an irresistible offer.
And then I’m calling Omar to push for a permanent custody agreement so Roger will never, ever get his hands on my son.

’Til next time,

V

Met with C.J. She was wearing the same blue crepe suit. We tittered politely and I said something lame like “Great minds shop
alike.” When she went upstairs to get her reading glasses, she came down wearing a white sundress.

My plan went beautifully. I offered her $25,000 for the hospital foundation, but first she had to do me a small favor.

“I want you to press charges against Jerry Johansen.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you to call the police and press charges.”

“But he’s gone. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that he’s creepy, and whether he lives here or in Wyoming, he shouldn’t be coaching little boys.”

C.J. smoothed her highlighted hair with both hands. “Why can’t you do this? Peter is involved in this too.”

“Because I’ve got enough legal activity in my life right now. And because you’re a respected member of our community. Your
husband golfs with the D.A. and you play bridge with his wife. You can make it happen C.J., I don’t have that kind of pull
in this town.”

C.J.’s cheeks reddened as she absorbed the compliment.

“I’d love to support the hospital. But it’s hard for me to think about making big donations when I’ve got this other thing
on my mind.” My sandals were killing me.

“Okay. I’ll have my husband make a phone call. I’m sure we can get this matter resolved. And in the meantime …” She flashed
a slick, solicitous smile.

I pulled out my checkbook. I wrote out a check for $25,000, ripped it out, and handed it to her. “It’s my pleasure to help
the hospital foundation,” I said. “You gals do wonderful work.”

Did I just say “gals”?

’Til next time,

V

When I got back from the mall with Pete, I found a message on the machine from Michael. He wants to see me tonight. I’d like
to see him, too. But Hunter is supposed to sleep here. I’d have to get a sitter. Or send them both to Lynette’s house. Then
again, I think it’s a mistake to take every offer, especially one on such short notice. On the other hand, I’m too old to
play games. I like him, he likes me, would it really hurt for me to see him tonight?

’Til next time,

V

Decided against going out with Michael tonight. He was disappointed but perfectly understanding. I rented
Toy Story 2
for the boys, made a giant bowl of popcorn, and snuggled with them in the family room. Michael called at 9
P.M.
to say he was thinking of me and asked if we got to the part in the movie when Jessie the cowgirl sings that sweet, heartbreaking
song about being outgrown by the girl who once played with her. Michael confessed that he had cried the first time he saw
that scene, and I admitted that I’d sobbed so loudly I had to go sit in the bathroom until I could pull myself together. He
said he was going to his parents’ next Sunday and asked if I wanted to join him (whoa!), but I told him that my sisters and
I would be having a little reunion at my folks’ house, to relish whatever time we have left with my father. I’m thrilled Michael
would consider introducing me to his family. I also wonder if he was fishing for an invitation to watch the movie with me
and the boys, but I’m not about to introduce him to Pete—yet.

’Til next time,

V

My sister, Mother Teresa, insisted on cooking EVERYTHING for dinner, not because she’s an altruist, but a control freak who
believes that she is the only one capable of cooking an edible meal. I’m sure that my other sister, Julia, would have been
delighted to let Teresa handle all the cooking, and I probably would have acquiesced just to avoid a confrontation with my
pig-headed big sister, but this time I insisted that we all pitch in. In fact, I volunteered to grill chicken, an offer I
now regret because I hate standing over a flaming grill.

So I’ve just killed the last two hours surfing the Web for new recipes. I wanted to dig up one recipe in particular, an absolutely
sublime sweet potato dish I’d found online three years ago and, naturally, never filed. I was just about to give up when miraculously
I found the site with the recipe for glazed maple sweet potatoes. The last time I made it, I regretted I hadn’t doubled the
recipe because it was gone in a flash. Everyone was yum-yumming over the sweet potatoes, everyone except Teresa—who had three
helpings, by the way. I think I’ll also make cooked cranberry sauce with toasted walnuts and mandarin oranges. Easy, delicious.

As for the chicken, I’m not sure whether I want to go sweet or spicy. I’ve got a good recipe for lemon-oregano roasted chicken
… but where the heck is it??? My
kitchen is a mess and I’ve come to realize that it probably doesn’t matter how rich I am, I will always be disorganized. The
little telephone table off the kitchen is piled high with junk mail, bills, Pokémon cards, assorted nonfunctioning pens, Post-it
notes, school notices (most of which have expired), a stray slice of American cheese and three cheese wrappers, a tiny Monopoly
game key chain and unwanted Halloween candy (the kind even I won’t eat).