Keep Your Mouth Shut and Wear Beige (6 page)

So it was with a fair amount of pleasure that I now reminded Mike that his mother was not my responsibility.

But it was with no pleasure at all that I went shopping for a new dress. Getting dolled up for a big doo-wah event like this engagement party has never been one of my strengths. Even though the loss of appetite associated with Ritalin has left me weighing less than I have since before I got pregnant with Jeremy, I don’t trust my taste. I’m often drawn to things that look bright and cheerful, only to find that everyone else thinks that they are garish. Sometimes I don’t care what anyone else thinks. But sometimes I do, and a party hosted by my ex-husband’s blogging lady friend was a major “care about what other people think” occasion.

When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I went to Loehmann’s, a big discounter, and instantly found a dress that I loved. It was violet blue with scarlet and magenta poppies. I tried it on, and, thanks to the Ritalin, it fit well. It moved when I walked, brushing against my legs in what felt like an almost sexual caress. It had already been discounted twice, so the price was great.

But I hesitated. Was it a lucky find, or was it double discounted at Loehmann’s because no sane woman would ever wear scarlet and magenta poppies? I didn’t know. I also didn’t know if violet blue was a good color for me. I have light brown hair, hazel eyes, and freckles. The colors other people said looked good on me were kind of boring.

I grew impatient with myself. Why was I having trouble deciding? That should tell me something. And what was the point of
a dress that felt good on the legs? I would be wearing pantyhose. So I crossed the street to Lord & Taylor and paid full price on a very acceptable, very boring sleeveless black dress.

I know that I don’t look great in black.

Ten days before the party, Mike called again. “Your father sent in his RSVP, but he hasn’t done anything about a hotel room.”

“Of course he hasn’t. He’s staying with me. As are Cami and Jeremy.”

He paused. “Claudia has Cami and Jeremy on the list for the hotel. Do you have room for them?”

I interpreted that as a criticism of my house. “Yes.”

“You do understand that Cami and Jeremy need to be on time. They really have to be there to greet the guests. They can’t be late.”

“They’ll be there on time.”

Twenty minutes later he called back. “I just confirmed with Jeremy that he and Cami want to stay with you.”

I knew that.

“And so I spoke to Claudia”—he was sounding uncharacteristically hesitant—“and she was concerned that it would be awkward for you, having everyone stay at your house.”

“Why would it be awkward to have my father, my son, and my future daughter-in-law staying at my house? There will be lines at the bathrooms, but that’s inconvenient, not awkward.”

“Oh, well, you know . . . with them all going to the party and all . . .” His voice trailed off, and I got it.

I was not invited to this party.

I felt my mouth drop open. I wasn’t invited? How could that be? And why didn’t I know?

Zack had opened the invitation, and he wouldn’t have done that if it had been addressed to both of us. But even if I had seen only his name on the envelope, it still wouldn’t have occurred to me that I wasn’t expected to come.

“It did seem a little odd to me,” Mike was saying, “but Claudia said that you wouldn’t expect it, that divorced people do not expect to go to one another’s occasions.”

I was speechless. I truly was.

What had we promised the boys? That we would still be a family. And families don’t do this.

Or did they? What did we know? It wasn’t as if either one of us was on a second or third divorce and so knew the rules, the guidelines for how to be divorced, for managing it perfectly.

Although he wasn’t going to admit it, I knew that Mike had made the same mistake as I had. He too had assumed that I would be coming. So far we had been trusting our instincts about when we should go places together, and that had been working well enough. But now we were adding someone else’s judgment to the mix.

Did I mind missing the party? I wasn’t sure. I could think only about how humiliating it would have been if I had shown up, clueless and uninvited, startling Claudia, forcing her to beg the caterers to squeeze in another place setting.

But even if I didn’t mind my staying home, I knew who would—Jeremy and my father. Even the twelve-bedroom Zander-Browns might find it awkward. Cami’s family was flying in from New York on Saturday morning. They were coming straight to my house for lunch. “We’ll see you tonight,” they would say after lunch, and I would smile blandly. “I won’t be joining you. Your hostess did not care to invite me.”

This wasn’t going to reflect badly on me. Claudia was the one who would look terrible. I had the moral high ground here; I was the Offended Against. I could see myself enjoying this every bit as much as going to the actual party. I just wish that I had bought the dress with scarlet and magenta poppies. If I was going to get all dressed up with no place to go, I might as well be in a dress I liked.

I knew that I needed to warn Jeremy that I wasn’t going to the
party. Firstborns do not like to be surprised. Zack can roll with the punches far better than Jeremy. So, a few days later, when Jeremy called to micromanage which cars to take out to Claudia’s house, I had to interrupt him. “You know that I won’t be going to the party.”

“Mom! Why not!”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Jeremy, your dad and I are divorced. Why would Claudia invite me to her house?”

“Because the party is for Cami and me, and we want you there.”

“Don’t be like that,” I cautioned sternly, although I was secretly pleased by his outrage. “Don’t start being a bridezilla when you’re only the groom.”

“How do you think Cami’s parents are going to feel, coming to lunch when you aren’t invited to the party?”

“Cami’s parents are grown-ups. They can handle a little awkwardness.”

“But this is just wrong. Dad promised that we would never have to choose between going one place with one of you or another place with the other.”

That might not have been a realistic promise to make. “Don’t be too hard on your father. This wasn’t necessarily his decision.”

“But he agreed to it.”

“Darcy, Claudia was going to call you, but I said that I would. She truly hopes that you will accept her apologies and come to the party.”

I didn’t want to give up my moral high ground too easily. “Why would I want to go somewhere that I’m not wanted?”

“It wasn’t a case of not wanting you personally. It was more that she didn’t understand the situation.”

“We have an amicable divorce. What’s to understand or not understand about that?”

“Darcy, don’t make this difficult. Will you please come to this party?”

Why shouldn’t I make it difficult? Wasn’t I entitled to be a little snot? I had not been on Claudia’s list until she realized that my exclusion would make her look all unmanaged and imperfect. Why should I show up just so that she would look better? There was still time to return my dress.

But what good would sitting at home do me? I wanted to have a good working relationship with Mike. I wanted that for the boys; I wanted it for me. So if Claudia Postlewaite was now an element in this equation of ours, I needed to brush up on my multivariable calculus.

“Of course I’ll come,” I said as pleasantly as I could, “and tell Claudia that she doesn’t need to call me. It would embarrass us both.”

But during the three times she’d visited us, I’d never thought of her in terms of her appearance . . . probably because she didn’t seem to. She carried herself like a smart girl, not a pretty one. Her expression was alert and focused; her body language was that of someone who is always paying attention, always engaged. She also had a slight hint of anxiety about her, which I assumed was the natural “meeting the boyfriend’s mother” desire to please.

She, like Jeremy, was her family’s good child, always asking herself if she had done everything she was supposed to have done. This did make her an easy houseguest. She wasn’t moody or unpredictable; she knew how to load a dishwasher and scramble
an egg. She didn’t expect Jeremy to pamper her. I liked her for that.

But another mother of sons had once given me some advice: “Don’t fall in love with your sons’ girlfriends.”

Apparently that happened to women who were hungry for a daughter. When one of their sons brought a girl home, they were so thrilled to have another female at the dinner table that they grew very attached to her. But then—bingo—the kids would break up, and the mother would never see the girl again. The mother would have no closure, no opportunity to say good-bye.

So when Cami had come to visit, I’d always made sure that there were sanitary products in whatever bathroom she was using; I’d happily answered her questions about why I was doing what I was doing with a particular recipe; I’d taken her on a behind-the-scenes tour of the hospital. Beyond that, I had been cautious.

I felt clueless about this whole mother-in-law/daughter-in-law business. What relationship were Cami and I supposed to have? Mike’s mother had hardly set a good example. She viewed me as the enemy, the competition, and I did not want to think that way about any girl whom my son loved.

My mother and my brother’s wife had always seemed to get along well. I wished I could ask Mother about it, but, of course, when Dad arrived for the engagement party, he was alone. Mother was dead.

The morning of Claudia’s engagement party, Cami came into the kitchen early, dressed in the loose pajama bottoms and little knit tank that she had slept in, wearing her glasses because she wasn’t awake enough to put her contacts in. She looked cute and sleepy, a puppy waking up.

My son will be happy with you, won’t he?
“I bet you’re still on California time.”

“At least I made it out of bed.” She pointed to the cabinet over the dishwasher, asking if the coffee cups were there. “Jeremy says that he can’t move.”

He can be rigid. He can be overbearing. Forgive him. Work with him. Please don’t make the mistakes his dad and I made.
“You’re being a good sport about this.”

“Wait until the people taking the pictures see how pretty my little sister is. They’re the ones who will have to be the good sports.”

Cami and Jeremy, along with Zack, had to get up far earlier than they wanted to in order to get themselves to Claudia’s house. The article that Claudia was writing about their garments was for an important sewing magazine—I learned that from the blog— and she had hired a professional photographer to come to her house first thing in the morning.

Zack’s interest in participating in such a photo shoot was well below zero, and it took me two trips to the basement to get him out of bed. But at eight thirty he stumbled upstairs and headed for the door. I tried to give him a protein bar.

“I hate those things,” he groaned.

“You said you like this brand.” Otherwise I wouldn’t have purchased two forty-eight-bar megaboxes of them at Costco last week.

“I don’t know why I would have said that.” But he took the bar and jammed it into his pocket, a method of transport not likely to make the bar more appetizing.

The photo session was supposed to take only an hour, an hour and a half at the maximum, and one of the boys was going to call me when they left Claudia’s. I was expecting to hear from them by ten thirty. At eleven I called Zack. “Are you on the road yet?”

“No.” He didn’t sound very concerned. “I think they’re done with me and maybe Jeremy, but Cami’s still in there.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I don’t know. There was this makeup artist, and he took forever, but I think Cami enjoyed it.”

“Are you going nuts?”

“No, not really. Claudia ordered in a deli platter and a bunch of fruit. Her TV’s got a superpremium cable package, and Dad and Jeremy are watching a rerun of last spring’s NCAA lacrosse championship. They seem to be happy about that.”

We had never gotten more than the most basic cable channels; I hadn’t wanted to encourage the boys to watch TV. And a deli platter had to be better than a Costco protein bar. “So what are you doing?”

“Kind of hanging with the photographer and the makeup guy. They’ve both worked in the theater, so that’s cool.”

“Would you please remind everyone that Cami’s family is supposed to be getting in around noon?”

“Okay. No problem.”