Keep Me Posted (16 page)

“Tomorrow.”

As it turned out, it was dairy. I’m officially lactose intolerant. After a few false starts on a full elimination diet, I decided to start with dairy, which was hard, but within two weeks my legs were better. I couldn’t believe it. I went to bed and fell asleep and didn’t wake up kicking and twitching. I hadn’t felt truly rested in years. To wake up in the morning and not immediately go through my day looking for a window where a nap might fit in was terrifically refreshing. I saw dairy as the poison in my body that was causing me to be such a slacker of a mom and wife, and as it left my system, so too did the apathy, the unfaithfulness, the general blah-ness I felt almost all of the time. I pictured my blood running pure red instead of a milk-tinged pink. And I have to admit, if Jenna hadn’t
sent me to that workshop, I wouldn’t have found the cure and had that great date with Leo that renewed my hope in my
marriage.

A
week after the Hoboken disaster, I took Quinn to the neurologist to check the nerve endings on his hand. Mom had arrived the day before for a visit, so Joey stayed home with her. The waiting room was small and dark and devoid of any toys or books, so I handed him my phone to watch YouTube videos of toads catching flies in slow motion. Digging through a pile of
Cosmopolitan
s and
Good Housekeeping
s, I found a battered copy of
New York
magazine, which featured a two-page spread on Jake and his now-famous beer-and-bacon-braised Brussels sprouts. Forcing myself to skip past the article, I instead flipped to the back page for the Approval Matrix.

Had I not resisted the temptation to read the article on Jake, had I been remotely interested in what
Cosmo
says he’s really thinking in bed, had I chosen to abide by my resolution to be more present with Quinn instead of handing him my phone, I might have remained blissfully in the dark for just a bit longer. Maybe even long enough for evidence of my improved behavior and mothering
skills to show up in my letters. But this was the moment that the shutter closed on the snapshot of my life. There, in the Lowbrow/Brilliant quadrant of the “oversimplified guide to who falls where on our taste hierarchies” from the editors of
New York
, right between a chubby nine-year-old in a tuxedo singing a tear-jerking rendition of the National Anthem and a new Muslim superhero movie, was this:
Our latest voyeuristic guilty pleasure, the Slow News Sisters.

And there was a teeny-tiny picture of one of my letters. It was on my graph paper and I couldn’t make out any of the words, but I recognized my writing and the big heart I had drawn at the bottom. For the second time that week, my heart dropped right out of my chest. I shoved the magazine in my bag, as if it were the only copy in the world.

“Mama, come on. That lady saying my name!” Quinn stood in front of me, pulling me by the hand. He sounded far away; my ears were ringing with some sort of internal alarm. When I started walking, my heart, having bounced off of my cushy pelvic floor, made its way up to my throat, and I felt like I might vomit it right out.

“Do you need to sit down?” I heard someone ask.

A woman was leading me by the arm to a chair inside the doctor’s office, and I muttered something about low blood sugar and skipping breakfast. Quinn studied me silently, looking like he might cry. I knew I should pull it together and stop freaking him out, but I felt trapped inside a body that was unable to do anything but physically react to seeing what I had just seen. A nurse brought me a juice box, and I pretended that it was exactly what I needed. If only. I took a sip and offered some to Quinn. He pushed the juice back toward me. “Uh-uh. You drink,” he said.

The nurse gave me a look, and I nodded at her. “I’m okay.
Thank you so much.” When she left the room, I took a deep inhale and slid the magazine out of the top of my bag to look at the date. It was this week’s issue.

The mind is a funny thing, isn’t it, that it could come to the following explanation and hold on to it until midway through the subway ride home: It’s simple, really. This is some kind of bizarre coincidence. It was a movie or a book or a TV show or something with the same name as my private blog.

What a coincidence
. I muttered it like a mantra while leading Quinn to the Thirty-fourth Street station. I was gripping his forearm the way a clueless bachelor in a movie might hold on to a three-year-old he’s been tasked with keeping safe for the day. In a daze, I led us onto an empty car on an otherwise packed train and then cursed my amateur mistake when the doors closed and we found ourselves alone on that express train with a ranting, awful-smelling person. I knew better than to try to get Quinn to move to another car—he was (rightfully) terrified of that space between the cars. So we sat as far away from him as we could, and I focused on distracting Quinn by softly singing “Baby Beluga” and fishing a stick of peppermint gum out of my bag, hoping the scent might alleviate the violent odor in some small way. Quinn watched me intently, not singing along. When I finished, he said, “Mama, are you happy with me?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m happy with you. Of course I’m happy with you. Are you happy with me?”

He rolled his eyes and said, “Yes.”

“How’s that finger feeling?” I managed, putting my arm around
him and pulling him closer. He let his head fall into my lap and looked up at me.

“I’m all better. ’Member? Doctor said. I’m getting bigger and bigger and bigger, you know.”

“I do know.”

I glanced back at the man to make sure he had no plans of moving from his seat. While I rarely found encounters like this alarming, being alone with Quinn in that car and in the state I was in had me feeling vulnerable and uneasy. His pushcart had fallen over, and some empty water bottles and a beer can littered the floor. The beer had been full only moments ago, by the look of the fresh puddle making a small river down the middle of the car. The Velcro was undone and the tongues stuck out of his black shoes, which seemed about two sizes too small for his balloonlike feet.

We rattled through the Twenty-third Street station, and the rants grew louder. “Fucking spies! Fucking criminals!”

“Is he a bad guy?” asked Quinn.

“I’m not sure. Probably not. What do you think?”

“He smells like poop and pee.”

“Yes, he does, honey,” I said, finding my earphones in my bag and playing him “Here Comes the Sun” off my phone. He listened and pulled his T-shirt up over his nose.

“Goddamn secrets. Everyone knows. Stupid bitch.”

And then my heart was in my throat again because my cerebral cortex, or whatever part of the brain it is that’s in charge of grasping reality, kicked in. I woke up and smelled the poop and pee, and I was in deep shit.

W
e arrived home and shared the good news about Quinn’s hand with Mom and Joey, who had their own good news: A trip to the toy store had garnered little Batman and Robin figures with accompanying Batmobiles and Batcycles. The boys immediately busied themselves, and Mom showed me a flyer she’d picked up for some famous storyteller coming to the bookstore. Great. We would definitely go, I promised, walking into my room.

“I just need to take care of something on the computer real quick,” I hollered over my shoulder, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Typing “Slow News Sisters” into Google, I held my breath. After four entries dedicated to the Pointer Sisters’ song “Slow Hand,” my heart rate began to slow. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But then I saw the fifth link:
The Slow News Sisters
. I clicked on it, and there it was, my blog. It looked exactly how I had left it.
Can this be right?
I thought. Then I noticed a little gray “263” at the bottom of the most recent letter, clicked on it, and watched in horror as pages and pages of comments unfurled.

The comments were all dated in the past two weeks, but almost all of the letters had been commented on, going all the way back to January.

Yet another wave of panic washed over me, and I scrambled to find the privacy settings. The shock mixed with adrenaline had me struggling to remember basic computer skills, and I fumbled around until I found it.
Uncheck public, check private. Change password. Confirm password. There.

I moved on to Twitter and searched for “SlowNewsSisters,” where I discovered “#TeamCassie” and “#TeamSid.” People were pitting us against each other. I was further befuddled when the tiny URLs took me right back to my blog, as if the doors were still wide-open. Was this because the computer knew it was me?

I had so many other questions, most of them beyond the scope of any Geek Squad.
I’m sure it was private and even regularly double-checked the settings, so how did this happen? Did one of the kids inadvertently make it public? Did Mom use my laptop and somehow press something? Did she see it? How could I have been so stupid as to think this could never happen? Who in the hell are GaryX and Kitty69 and HamsterSandwich, and why are they talking about Sid and me like they know us?

One of the (many) things that surprised me was that despite the name of the blog, a lot of people didn’t seem to be clear on the relationship between Sid and me, perhaps because of her name. There was a raging debate among a few of the commenters over whether we were sisters or a couple.

All this time, Mom had still been talking to me—asking questions about what the doctor said, telling me about a rude woman at the bookstore who had admonished Joey for not using his indoor
voice—to and I made weak efforts to respond, but my scalp was buzzing and my ears were ringing, making communication difficult. I wanted to slam the door and curl into the fetal position, but Mom wouldn’t stop with the small talk, so I closed my laptop, went to the bathroom to wash my hands and face, and rejoined her and the boys.

As if on cue, she said, “Oh, this is weird. I just had a voice mail from Joanne Stryker asking me if you and Sid were some famous sisters on the Internet. The Bad News Sisters? Isn’t that the strangest thing?”

I produced a sort of guttural expression of confusion, hoping to summarily dismiss the topic. My apartment suddenly seemed even smaller than usual, and I longed to scurry down a hall to, say, find a ringing phone or investigate a crying child. But I had just come out of the bathroom, so there was nowhere to go. Looking around for something to put between us, the best I could do was open the fridge and stick my head inside. I eventually grabbed us each a can of Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda. If Mom hadn’t been there, I’d have mixed it with the Stoli from the freezer, but it wasn’t even three o’clock on a Wednesday and I’d hate to give her something else to worry about.

I started shooting enthusiastic questions to the boys about what they were doing, with the aim of shifting Mom’s attention to them. But my normally loquacious and needy little ones were of no help. They were in a new-toy trance, and all I could get out of them were dismissive grunts. If Mom found any sort of ironic satisfaction in that, she didn’t let on. Unable to imagine getting through an afternoon of chatting with Mom, given my scrambling brain, I played my ace.

“Ugh. I’m not feeling well all of a sudden,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“Oh, hon,” Mom said, coming over to feel my forehead. “I thought you looked a little peaked. Go lie down. Get some rest. I’ll take the boys to the park and then we’ll get dinner at the Hudson. I’ll bring you some chicken soup. How’s that sound?”

Mom could be a real gem sometimes. I think she might have a touch of that disorder where you want your children to be sick, because that’s when she’s at her best. Growing up, we stayed home from school whenever we had sore throats or looked flushed. I missed half of first grade before we figured out that I was allergic to cats and got rid of the stray we had taken in that summer. Sid and I joke that her version of heaven is for us to be mildly ill—sick enough to have to stay home, but well enough to play a game of Oh Hell or watch a Turner Classic Movie with her—lying on the sofa under crocheted afghans, asking meekly for chicken soup and ginger ale. I blame her for my inability to function when I have a cold. Leo’s mom—while she doted on her boys regularly—did the opposite when they complained of a cold or a toothache. Toughness was expected, weakness not rewarded. So, while Leo expects a round of applause for unloading the dishwasher, he soldiers through a nasty case of the flu or a hangover with hardly a word.

I sat on my bed and stared at my closed laptop, unable to bring myself to take another peek. I felt like I might cry, but crying seemed too simple a reaction. The situation was so complex that I was not yet fully grasping it. I also worried that if I started to cry, it would be the loud blubbering sort that would attract the attention of Mom and the boys. If I could just write to Sid, I might be able to think clearly.

Writing to her had become my destressing ritual, its effects at
least as great as a cigarette, a brisk jog, or breathing exercises. I retrieved a pen and a zebra notecard from the box under my bed, but for the first time since that inaugural letter to her back in January, I felt paralyzed, unable to let my pen mar the surface of that creamy mottled paper. Several minutes passed and I still had nothing. Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn’t checked the mail since yesterday. By then Mom and the boys had left, so no one was there to see me sprinting though the apartment and down to the mailboxes like a maniac. Shaking, I turned the key in that metal box marked “2K” and lurched at the letter inside like it might scamper away. Taking the stairs back up two at a time, I was with it enough to know that Sid’s letter wouldn’t contain the panacea, but for a few minutes it could make me forget.

Singapore

August 2

Dear Cassie,

When it rains it pours, doesn’t it? I’m feeling a bit foolish today. Susan, one of the helpers in my bank group, lied to me about her son needing an operation. I loaned her $400, and she disappeared. Then I noticed that all of the money in my bank was missing—I had one of those accordion files with a folder for each helper, and the whole thing is gone. I had $1,100 in there. The other helpers tell me she has a boyfriend in Malaysia whom she may have gone to live with. The money’s not the problem—I can replace $1,500 without Adrian even noticing. But still, for this to happen while I’m dealing with an adulterous husband is just a bit much.

Of course, everyone is talking about it—the money, not the adultery (as far as I know!). The helpers at the playground are all abuzz, and the family who employed her is none too pleased with me, to say the least. Rumors are swirling about me funneling young women to Malaysia, I’m sure.

In related news, I have my first “frenemy” (one of River’s girlfriends taught me that one). This mom in my condo—Bridget from Minneapolis—who resents me trying to help these women just stopped over to “make sure I was all right.” But actually, it was to gloat. She was all, “I’m just relieved that you see now what they’re capable of.” Watching her stand there in her $900 sundress, her fake boobs, and her keratin-treated hair, having her “I told you so” moment, I felt—well, I felt nothing really. She’s nothing to me, and having this confirmation of her mean spirit actually alleviates me of some of the guilt I have over being unable to be a friend to her.

The thing is, she’s always popping up and acting overly familiar with me. Plopping down next to me at the pool, bringing over muffins (made by her helper) for no reason, stopping by with her little boy for a playdate. Sounds nice, right? But she constantly gossips and complains. We’re the only Americans in our condo, and I think she assumed we were going to be good friends. When we went for coffee that first time, I knew immediately that was not to be. I was in the process of interviewing helpers and she was trying to give me advice, and it was the most bigoted stuff I’ve heard. I don’t think she’s all bad, just wrong about so many things and really sort of mean as a result. How do I get rid of her? I’m no good at this.

Love,

Sid

I let myself escape into her letter, and my heart ached for her. Stupid Adrian. Stupid Bridget. Stupid me.
When it rains, it pours
: oh, if you only knew, big sister. Knowing something about her that she didn’t made me feel dirty and sad.

It crossed my mind to just call her and tell her exactly what had happened—
that I chose the dumbest method imaginable to preserve our letters. That I wanted them to be saved only for us, all together, all in order, a complete and organized record of this beautiful experiment. But that something went wrong. I don’t know how, but my private blog had become public. Very public, I’m afraid.

I knew she’d have trouble understanding, though. She didn’t share my yen for order and control.

New York

August 11

Dear Sid,

I am so sorry to hear that. You are a trusting soul, and I love that about you. There are people out there who can’t help but take advantage of that in a person (the helper), and there are people who are just fuckups (Adrian). Regarding this Bridget, oy! She sounds like a doozy. Since I can’t do confrontations, I usually just freeze people out.

But what do I know—I have a frenemy too! And she’s my first, too! How did we come all this way to have a high school relationship in our thirties? Her name is Jenna and she lives across the hall from me and thinks she’s better than me because her kid eats broccoli. For some reason I can’t not care—she drives me nuts! I find myself trying to compete with her and I hate it. And then sometimes I feel bad because
I think she might just need a friend. But mostly I wish I could just erase her from my life.

I wonder if our frenemies would be friends. I would give anything to trade places with Bridget for a week or so—I’ll plop down next to you at the pool and bring you muffins. And ol’ Bridge can hang out here and receive a lifetime of free advice on child rearing, health and wellness, and general goodness from my building’s foremost mommy blogger.

So what are you going to do about the stolen money? Did you call the police? Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I don’t know what that might be, but I’m here for you. And you know my couch and floor are all yours if you and the kids just want to get out of Dodge for a while. You can trade places with Jenna!

I’ve also been meaning to tell you that you’re right about my life. It’s not so bad. I’ve got myself a gratitude journal. I’ve signed up for this boot camp workout at seven a.m. before Leo leaves for work, and I have every intention of actually going to it. These sound like silly housewife-on-a-mission-to-change clichés. But what can I say? I’m too tired not to be a cliché. Not being a cliché is for the very few truly original people (you, for example) and the young who have the energy to fight being ordinary.

Love you.

—Cassie

Ah, that was just the fix I needed. That superfine black felt-tip was perfect on those notecards. Why hadn’t I figured out that
combination sooner? Basking in the warm glow of a back-and-forth with Sid, I curled up under the covers, closed my eyes, pictured old-fashioned TV static running through my brain, and fell fast asleep.

It was glorious, as naps go. I didn’t stir until the boys were climbing on me, smelling of French fries and chocolate, at nearly six p.m. I had been in such a deep sleep that it took me a few seconds to figure out where I was. As I slid out of bed, doing my best to deflect their sticky hands from the clean sheets, a heaviness set in.
Something bad happened, didn’t it? Or did I just have a bad dream?
And then I remembered, but I tried to push the reality back into the bad-dream part of my brain—it haunts you, yes, but no lasting harm’s done.

In a haze, I made my way through bath, book, and bedtime with the boys, and then pizza and movie at home with Mom and Leo. It was Mom’s last night in town, and we had talked about going to dinner just the two of us while Leo stayed in with the boys, but with my afternoon illness, she wouldn’t hear of it.