Magnolia Wednesdays (24 page)

She looked at her father, who generally meant well but who ceded almost all family issues to Caroline. He was studying the alignments at the table, possibly trying to determine whether all the dynamite had been detonated or if there were more shock waves to come.

Because she could see no other course, Melanie looked her mother in the eye. Words she’d never thought to utter began to spill out. “Vivien’s not the only one who’s tired of your judgments and disapproval, Mama. You say you love us; I even think you believe you do. But it’s all so . . . conditional. And we never really know when you’re going to snatch it back. Or come up with new hoops we need to jump through to earn your affection.”

She nodded to Shelby and Trip. “Go get your things, please. We’re leaving.” She watched for a moment while her children stood and then did as she’d asked. Evangeline went with them and she heard them in the library, Evangeline insisting they take their gifts with them when it was clear they preferred to leave them behind.

“So, you choose your sister over me.”

“It should never be a choice, Mama. But if you mean, am I leaving with Vivi right now or staying with you, then, yes, I choose her.”

The room was perfectly quiet. Only the hushed conversation between Evangeline and the kids and the occasional clank of dishware in the kitchen broke the silence.

“So,” Melanie said, knowing that the time had come to make her stand. “When and if you’re ready to support us rather than judge and dictate to us. When you’re ready to try to make things between us different, you know where to find us.” She waited several long moments, her mouth unbearably dry, her heart pounding, hoping that Caroline would respond, but her mother’s gaze was unwavering; she didn’t move or speak.

Ham and Judy refused to meet her eye. Her father’s gaze expressed regret, but he, too, remained silent.

“Fine,” Melanie said, commanding her still-trembling limbs to move. “We’ll show ourselves out.” And then she walked carefully out of the dining room with her sister, her shoulders squared and her chin up. As if every part of her wasn’t wobbling like Jell-O.

THAT NIGHT VIVIEN watched Stone’s six P.M. live report from “a cave somewhere on the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan” where the abducted aid worker had been found, his head separated from his body. She heard his somber recounting of what the dead man had apparently been put through, and her heart went out to the man’s family. As she had when she and Melanie had huddled together to conduct a postmortem of their Christmas dinner at Magnolia Hall, Vivien reminded herself that in comparison to so many others, she was incredibly lucky.

She smoothed out the edges of the Just Peachy article she’d cut from the paper and studied the horribly unflattering and obviously rounded side view of her leaving Dr. Gilbert’s building. She’d been holding it in her lap since they’d gotten home.

So now Matt Glazer’s readers knew she was pregnant; she’d just have to hope his readership didn’t extend beyond Atlanta. So she and Melanie were now personae non gratae at their parents’ home and, presumably, in their lives, something she regretted more for Melanie, whose defense of her had been so surprising, than for herself. So, she had no job she was prepared to admit to and a ton of suspicions about the man her sister considered, at the very least, a valued friend.

Fingering the silver amulet of the necklace Stone had given her, Vivien felt his absence so keenly she imagined her heart pulsing not with blood but with emptiness. She wanted to curl up in a ball and hide under the covers until he came home. Even more than that, she wanted to talk to him, to hear his voice, to tell him everything and hope like hell that he would understand.

Knowing how unlikely it was that she would reach him, she nonetheless dialed his cell phone, holding her breath while it rang alien-toned rings that were just one more reminder of how far away he was.

When she was about to give up, his voice sounded in her ear and the flood of relief nearly swamped her. She’d already opened her mouth to speak when his “Hi,” was followed by the “Sorry I can’t answer” of a recorded message.

Vivien closed her eyes as a potent mixture of regret and despair washed over her. At the beep, she searched deep inside herself for a suitably upbeat tone with which she said, “Hey. Just calling to wish you a Merry Christmas and to thank you for the beautiful necklace. I love it.” She swallowed. “And you.” She swallowed. “I hope you got the package I sent.”

She touched one of the stones as she worried her lip between her teeth. “I saw your report tonight, and I, um, hope you’re okay. I can’t tell you how much I wish you were here.” Oh, God, she was getting maudlin. She needed to hang up before she dissolved into tears or announced his impending fatherhood via voice mail. “So.” She swallowed again, appalled by the quiver in her voice, then cleared her throat for good measure, as if she’d simply had something other than her heart lodged in it. “Call me when you can, okay? I’d, um, really like to talk to you.”

For a long time after she hung up, Vivien simply sat there, struggling to get herself and her emotions under control. This whacked-out neediness was as foreign as it was unnerving. She’d always been proud of her independence and self-reliance; they were the qualities she prized most in herself. And she knew Stone did, too.

As she readied herself for bed, she told herself she should be glad she hadn’t reached him, glad she hadn’t been able to dump her ill-defined worries and fears all over him. Stone was in a foreign and dangerous place, reporting on people who would just as soon slice off his head as talk to him. He did not need to be worrying about her. Or wrestling with what to do about a child he’d never intended to conceive.

24

W
HAT’S WRONG, LUV? Didn’t expect to see you here till after the holidays.”

Angela looked up from the computer screen she’d been staring into and conjured a smile for Brian. She’d pulled up the photos she was considering for her next gallery show but had ended up poring over the images from her original outsider series instead; the stark image of a lone child watching a group of others at play, a television screen filled with the images of bathing-suit-clad beauty contestants shot over the shadowed shoulder of a lumpy teenage girl on a couch, twentysomethings on the dance floor of a nightclub watched by a lone female figure who stands on its edge. Dark and dramatically lit, the images were both beautiful and painful. In each, she had focused on the figure left out. All of them, in their own way, were her.

It was only when she’d allowed them to be hung and shared that she had discovered that all but the most relentlessly confident could relate. They had been meant to put her past behind her. But no matter what front she presented to the world and to James, she hadn’t been able to let go of who she’d been. She couldn’t get rid of Fangie; nor could she bring herself to introduce her to the man she loved.

Angela shook her head, mute, afraid if she tried to speak, she’d end up crying.

Brian sat beside her and slung an arm over her shoulders, pulling her close. “Tell Uncle Brian what’s wrong. If that fiancé of yours is acting up, I’ll . . . call him out. Challenge him to a duel.”

Angela buried her head in the crook of his shoulder. Her partner was more Monty Python than Sir Galahad, but he always had her best interests at heart.

“Really, you know I’d do anything for you, Ang. Except let you blow your nose on my shirt.” He reached for the tissue box on the worktable. “Here. Blow. And tell Uncle Brian all.”

Embarrassed to wallow so blatantly when she had so much, she blew her nose loudly and added an extra honk for effect.

“Very ladylike,” he teased. “I’d try not to do that when you’re with your future in-laws in the Braves Clubhouse.” He gave her a moment to compose herself. “Tell me.”

Wadding the tissue into a ball, she dabbed at her eyes. “James’s parents tried to give me a Lexus convertible from one of their dealerships for Christmas.”

“No!” he said in horror. “Oh, you poor thing!”

“And all through the Christmas parties and the open houses, James just kept looking at me in this really sappy way and telling everybody how much he couldn’t wait to marry me.” The tears squeezed out of the corner of her eyes and dampened her cheeks.

“Shame.” He shook his head. “How bloody awful!” Brian tut-tutted—he was one of the only people she’d ever met who actually knew how.

Angela dabbed at her cheeks, trying her best to ignore his cheerful sarcasm.

“James gave me these earrings.” She pulled her hair away from her ears so that he could see the diamond studs that he’d fastened onto her earlobes Christmas morning.

“Far too sparkly,” he said. “And much too large. I don’t know how you manage to keep your head up.”

She fought back a smile along with the urge to completely unburden herself.

“Ang,” he said quietly, his eyes, as always, warm and accepting. “I’m not seeing the problem. Most of the female population and a large percentage of males would trade places with you in a heartbeat.” He took her by the shoulders and set her back a bit so he could look down into her eyes. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

She met his gaze. “Because I don’t deserve any of it. And I definitely don’t deserve James. He’s been so honest with me.” She looked down into her lap at the wadded-up tissue crumpled in her hands. “And I haven’t been at all honest with him. He has no idea what I used to look like or who I really am.”

“Then tell him, Ang,” Brian spoke quietly, all trace of humor gone. “Tell him what you did, all the weight you lost, all that you achieved. I
watched
you do it and I could hardly believe the magnitude of it. And I don’t just mean the pounds. You were beautiful before and you’re beautiful now. But what you did—how strong you are—that’s all part of you, too. A good part; a part you should be proud of.”

In her head, she knew he was right. But in her heart . . . “I’m just so afraid of losing him. I should have told him right away, but I just couldn’t do it. And now I can’t bear to give up the ‘me’ I see in his eyes.”

She looked away, her gaze landing briefly on the image of the lumpy girl on the couch that filled the screen.

“You’re not on the outside anymore, Ang. You hauled yourself inside by sheer force of will. I think James would respect and understand that and love you even more.” He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to marry anyone who couldn’t.”

VIVIEN SAT ALONE in Melanie’s family room on New Year’s Eve watching the big-screen TV and waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. In her previous life she might have been there. In fact, Stone had talked her into it their first New Year’s together, promising her as they’d pulled on countless layers of clothing, then walked through driving snow to stand shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people, that it would be worth it. And at midnight when he’d kissed her in what had felt like the very epicenter of the universe at the very instant of the New Year, she’d admitted that he was right.

Tonight she couldn’t have made it out of the front door, let alone to Times Square. They’d all spent the day scrubbing the house for tomorrow’s brunch, and Vivien had the sore back and chapped hands to prove it. Vivien had tried to talk Mellie into letting Wilda and Carlos clean, but Melanie had already scheduled them to start “in the new year” and had refused to budge.

It was late afternoon by the time Melanie pronounced the house acceptable and told Vivien she could stop whining. Trip had departed to spend the night at a friend’s house. Shelby and Melanie had sprinted upstairs to shower and dress: Shelby for the New Year’s Eve party her mother would drop her off at, Melanie for the New Year’s Eve shindig at the Magnolia Ballroom.

“Are you sure you won’t come, Vivi?” Melanie had asked on the way out. “The DJ’s first-rate, there’ll be tons of food, and it’s a complete sellout, thank God!”

“I am not moving.” Vivi clutched the big bowl of buttered popcorn cradled in what was left of her lap. “Ever.” She snuggled deeper into the chair. “I don’t even care if I make it to midnight.”

“You old slug,” Melanie said, leaning over to kiss Vivi’s cheek. “Don’t forget to keep an ear out for Shelby.” She gave her daughter a stern look. “One of her friends is bringing her home, but she’s required to be here no later than twelve thirty.”

“It’s so humiliating,” Shelby complained. “No one else has a curfew on New Year’s Eve. And there’s nothing I could do after twelve thirty that I couldn’t do before.”

“I really wish you hadn’t said that,” Melanie replied. “And there’s no reason in the world to be out later than that. If you can’t observe your curfew, you can’t go. Period.”

“Uuggghhh!” Shelby flounced out in front of her mother, her short silver party dress swirling around her thighs. If it had been possible to stomp in the strappy high heels she wore, Vivien was certain she would have. “I am so not going to torture my daughter this way,” Shelby huffed as she rushed out to the garage. “These rules of yours are like from the Stone Age.”

For a while after they left Vivien munched popcorn and changed channels, flipping between the buildup of performances in Times Square and anything else that grabbed her attention, letting the quiet of the house and the idea of tomorrow’s implied “fresh start” soothe her.

Around ten she decided to do a last read through of her New Year’s column, which she had promised to send tonight even though it wouldn’t run until the paper came out on Monday. She felt slightly guilty as she carried the empty popcorn bowl to the kitchen, washed her hands in the sink, then settled back into the club chair with her laptop. Now that she was paying more attention to the details of her sister’s life and had even taken over a few of her volunteer shifts in the interests of research, it had become more difficult to write Scarlett Leigh’s derisive tirades. Because instead of railing at or making fun of nameless, faceless women, she now saw not only Melanie but Melanie’s co-volunteers and friends when she began to rant.

The column began innocently enough with,
Happy New Year from suburbia, where I’m sure the residents have made all kinds of resolutions for the coming year. Lots of them will vow to lose weight, stop smoking, and not only join a gym but use it. Even those who are resolving to let a plastic surgeon take care of the changes they wish to make are, at least, looking to improve in some way.

But I have to tell you there’s something even more important that the adults here should consider. And it’s not complicated or expensive. Any one of them could do it if only they could find the willpower.

Vivien paused to rework the next sentences, finally typing,
The parental population here needs to promise to stop hovering over their children like helicopters. Now. This minute. In other words, they need to
—here Vivien hit the Caps Lock button for emphasis
—GET A LIFE!
After another moment of thought, she added,
OF THEIR OWN!

Oddly enough,
she continued,
the problem is not rooted in a lack of education or good intentions. The biggest offenders are, in fact, grossly overeducated for their roles as parents. Did Ozzie or Harriet have a PhD? Did June Cleaver need an MBA?

Unfortunately, this suburb, like many others, is filled with overachievers who were once highly successful in their chosen professions. Now that they have decided to become full-time mothers and over-involved fathers, they are applying their formidable brain power, energy, and competitive spirit to things that don’t require any of those attributes. Like their eight-year-old’s science project. Their ten-year-old’s batting average. Or their sixteen-year-old’s plans for the prom.

They text their children throughout the day, despite the fact that their children are not supposed to turn on their cell phones during class. Because THEY DON’T HAVE ANYTHING OF THEIR OWN TO THINK ABOUT.

They will tell you that they’re much too busy taking care of their children to do anything for themselves. They are focusing on their seventeen-year-old’s course assignments, SAT scores, and college applications. The act of getting a child into college can consume a good year and a half and require sedatives and sleeping aids.

And once they get their children into college their over-involvement and micromanagement continue. Because they cannot stop hovering and do not know how to land their helicopters.

Some of them actually admit to reading their children’s college textbooks to help their children prepare for tests, calling up their children’s guidance counselors or professors to question individual grades, and a score of other activities and actions our parents, for all their faults, would never have dreamed of engaging in.

After college they communicate with potential employers on their children’s behalf. Sometimes they even go on job interviews with their children, negotiate their contracts directly with the employer, then call later to complain if their children are not promoted quickly enough.

In my heart I believe these parents mean well. They love their children and will tell you that all they want is for them to be happy. But they don’t believe their children have the ability to do this on their own. Nor can they bear to allow their children to suffer from a mistake or poor choice.

And of course, if they stopped managing their children’s lives, stopped competing and living vicariously through their children’s achievements, what would they do all day? How would they fill their time?

Vivien winced slightly at the strident tone, but reminded herself that this was Scarlett Leigh talking and not Vivien Gray. Which, of course, was the very kind of self-deception that these hovering, helicoptering parents employed.

Once again, she read back over what she’d written, cleaned up the language, and tightened where she could. And then she concluded,
I’m not really sure how those who are honest enough to see themselves in this unflattering light might actually stop this behavior. Is there a twelve-step program? A chapter somewhere of Helicopter Parents Anonymous? Maybe we could experiment with shock therapy and provide a collar that would zap the wearer each time he or she tried to live their child’s life for her. Make her decisions. Speak up inappropriately on her behalf.