No Ordinary Life (23 page)

50

W
e're halfway to the elevator, pulling our new roller suitcases, when Sean steps into the parking garage from the street. “Hey, kids.”

“Daddy.” Molly drops the handle of her bag and runs straight into Sean's outstretched arms. He lifts her and twirls her around.

Emily also leaves my side, shuffling over to him and burying her head against his stomach. “Hey, M&M. What's the matter, babe?”

His genuine concern makes me want to scream. He's never there when the actual calamity strikes but somehow always manages to appear after, swooping in like a superhero.

Emily sniffles and sobs. “I need new clothes,” she says, shocking me.

Sean looks to me for translation.

“She doesn't need new clothes. What she needs is new friends.”

Emily's head shakes against Sean's shirt. “No. I need new clothes. I'm dressed like a farm girl, and if I'm going to live here, I need to dress better.”

I can't believe that is what she is taking from the experience.

“Well, luckily that's something your old man can take care of. The Galleria's right around the corner. Let's go.”

“Sean, no,” I say.

“You want to come with us?”

My mouth opens, then snaps shut, then opens again. “No. And they're not going either. We need to go upstairs and unpack.”

“Okay, kids. It looks like it's just us. Let's go.” With the girls attached to him, he walks toward the street.

Tom hesitates.

“Tom, you coming?” Sean asks with a glance back.

Tom looks at me, his loyalties torn.

“Go,” I say, mustering up a fake smile. “Have fun.”

He trots after them, and my smile drops, my heart thumping erratically in my chest. Something very bad is happening, a dark force creeping toward me that I feel but am powerless to stop.

I watch as they climb into a brand-new red convertible Mustang parked at the curb, and my eyes bulge at the sheer expense of it, knowing the only way Sean could afford a car like that is if he sold his rig.

“Top up or down?” he asks.

“Down,” Molly squeals, and the black top collapses into the trunk.

They drive away, and I am left alone in the garage with the bags.

51

M
y nails are nibbled to nubs. The laundry is done, and the condo is spotless. I've baked cookies and written a list of everything that needs to be done in my life—at the top of the list,
Call Divorce Lawyer
, underscored three times. I sip a beer as I stare at the list, hoping the alcohol will settle my irritation.

I wish my mom were here. While we were gone, she took the opportunity to visit a friend in San Francisco, and she doesn't get back until tomorrow. Strange how I've grown used to her company. She still nags and annoys, but I find comfort in it. Like an irritating conscience sitting on my shoulder, her pestering is reassuring, letting me know when I'm being an idiot and when I'm doing all right. Like I know right now she'd be having a fit, screeching at me for what a mess I've made of things, but then she'd sit down and help me figure it out.

It's one of the reasons I haven't gotten us a place of our own. Though I hate to admit it, I like living with my mom, and I know she likes it too. If we move out, something precious will be lost, all the unplanned moments we share together.

She would be proud of how I stood up to Chris and blown away that Tom started talking and got himself hired as Grant. I want to tell her about Helen and Griff, and how now we're all friends.

The last thought makes me smile, and I wish I had Griff's number so I could text him something stupid like,
Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids
. He would get it because it makes no sense, and most of our jokes are like that, nonsensical randomness that somehow makes us laugh.

I could use a laugh right now, my irritation at critical mass. It pisses me off that the kids love Sean so much. Part of me feels like they should love me enough not to love him. I know that's wrong, but being here alone while they're off with him is awful. And so while I know it isn't fair to make them choose, I want them to choose, and I want them to choose me.

He left us, abandoned them. How can they forgive him so easily? Shamefully I recognize that I also considered forgiving him and taking him back.

Why? Do I think so little of myself?

The answer is instant and absolute—a simple, universal truth:
We all want to be loved and loneliness is a powerful elixir for forgiveness.
Our need to have someone care about us is as rudimentary as hunger, and it allows us to overlook faults and accept less than we want or deserve.

My thoughts are so distracted that I'm startled when the door opens and Molly walks in. “Hi, Mom,” she singsongs. “We'wre back.”

Tom follows, and my eyes bulge at his new getup of camo fatigues with a black T-shirt. He looks like a thug. I frown at the skull cap low on his head and the leather band with studs on his wrist—the ensemble similar to an outfit Grant would wear on the show.

“Hey,” he says, the attitude and voice not my son's.

Emily is transformed as well, her heartbreak that was so gut-wrenching only hours ago manifested into a disturbing adaptation. Her long, wavy hair has been sheared to shoulder length, and her outfit—a plaid miniskirt, tight white tank top, and knee-high black leather boots—looks like something Kira would wear. The new look is edgy and sexy, and combined with her natural height makes her look closer to seventeen than twelve.

Sean follows them in and sets at least six expensive-labeled bags beside the door.

I expect him to turn and leave, but instead, without even a glance my way, he follows Emily to the couch and sits down beside her. Leaning back, he drapes his arm over her shoulder and pulls Molly onto his lap, his body language suggesting he's settling in for a while.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Mexico versus the US is on,” Emily says excitedly, clicking to a channel showing a soccer match.

“Sean,” I say.

He glances back but makes no effort to move, like he belongs here, like this is his home.

“Damn, they're already down,” he says, his attention turning back to the screen.

“By how much?” Tom says in his strange voice as he sits on the other side of Sean.

Unsure how to move him, I pivot from the meteor that crash-landed in the middle of my life and return to my list, underlining
Call Divorce Lawyer
three more times.

52

M
olly twirls in a circle, her black skirt flaring around her thighs, the bedazzled edge winking in the light. Her denim overalls have been cast aside for our big night—her night—the night of the season premiere.

At six o'clock, the first episode of season four of
The Foster Band
will be aired to millions on the East Coast, an hour later it will be in the middle of the country, and two hours after that it will reach California. It will continue its journey around the globe until it finishes its travels fifteen hours later in Cuba, at which point an estimated forty-four million people will have been introduced to Molly.

The studio is hosting a party for all the people involved in the show and their families. Three hundred people will be there. The event is being held at the Park Plaza Hotel, and a limo is being sent to pick us up.

I've never been in a limo. I've never been to an event in a ballroom at a five-star hotel. I've never been to a premiere party. And I've never watched my daughter star in the number one show on television! My cheeks hurt from my constant smile.

My mom is my plus-one for the night, and her excitement exceeds my own. The dress she wears—a gauzy, taupe gown with a low neckline—emphasizes her proudest feature, her bodacious bust. It is the twelfth gown she's bought since I invited her to join us two weeks ago, the other eleven returned to the frustrated Nordstrom's saleswoman who was helping her. Her hair is freshly highlighted, and this afternoon she had her makeup professionally done. Sometimes I forget how beautiful my mom is, but she really is a stunner—tall and blond with curves that turn heads.

I take a final glance in the mirror to assess my own transformation, and my smile grows. My dress, a simple indigo silk slip that hugs tight at the bodice and flares at my hips, was an extravagance. But how many times in my life am I going to go to a once-in-a-lifetime event like this? I swish back and forth, admiring the way the liquid fabric opens and closes seductively around my legs.

“Em, the limo's here,” I holler toward the bedroom.

I'm slightly concerned about Emily's reunion with Caleb. The two haven't seen each other since we left the farm a month ago. She assured me when we went dress shopping that it would be fine and that she was over it, but mother's intuition is telling me otherwise.

Something has changed in Emily since our return, a subversive secretiveness that concerns me. Most of her time is spent alone in her room, and when she does come out, she divulges little about her day, her friends, or her life.

School started a week ago—her first year of middle school—and I blame it on that, a new stage in which she is simply figuring out how she fits in and who she is. The private school she's enrolled in is near the studio and caters specifically to children who are either celebrities, the children of celebrities, or the siblings of celebrities. The school is safe and convenient, and Emily seems much happier than she was at public school. The school's soccer coach has taken a real shine to her, and she now plays on his club team, which keeps her busy every afternoon and on the weekends.

The school costs a small fortune, but luckily I only need to pay for Emily since Tom's role as Grant allows him to attend studio school.

Life has worked out grand for Tom. Thanks to his new career, he no longer needs to contend with the overwhelming challenge of public school with its unruly classrooms and dozens of classmates. Studio school is only three hours a day and usually only consists of him and Miles and the studio teacher.

“Em, let's go,” I yell again.

She steps from the room, and I gasp.

“Em, that's not the dress we chose. What happened to…? Where's the…? You're not wearing that!”

Her dress, if you can call it that, is a narrow tube of vanilla sequins cropped at her thighs and chest. On her feet are a pair of gold platform heels at least six inches tall.

My phone buzzes. It's the limo driver texting again to let us know he's waiting.

“Get changed,” I say. “Now.”

“I can't. I returned the dress we bought for this one.” A glimmer of a smile curls her red-painted lips. “This is the only dress I have.”

Heat creeps up my chest to my face. She planned this, timing it so I'm left with the impossible decision of letting her go in a tramp outfit or telling her she can't go, which would mean either my mom or I have to stay home as well.

“She looks fine,” my mom says, clearly realizing the options as well and choosing option number one. “Come on, Faye, let's go.”

I glare at Emily. She is definitely her father's daughter; this is exactly the kind of stunt Sean would pull. It's possible he even put her up to it.

My divorce lawyer told me I need to let Sean see the kids. So the way it's been working between us is that the weekends are now his, an arrangement that, quite frankly, sucks. While I'm responsible for getting the kids to school and work and for rehearsing their lines and giving them baths and helping them with their homework, Sean is responsible for nothing but taking them to the beach or the movies or amusement parks and bringing them back Sunday night stumbling tired, drunk with love for their dad, and their heads filled with his off-color ideas of right and wrong and how to deal with the issues in their lives.

He probably even returned the dress with Emily, the two of them tittering with glee as they hatched the plan, identical smirks on their faces, like the one she wears now. I hate it when I see him so clearly in them, the man I hate manifested in the kids I love, confusing the notions of love and hate until they're muddled into a maddening brew that makes me want to slam a sledgehammer into a wall.

Grabbing a dishcloth from the counter, I hold it under the sink, march over to my twelve-year-old daughter, and wipe the expression from her face along with the rouge, lipstick, and mascara she caked on. There are black smudges beneath her eyes, but at least her face no longer looks like a hooker's.

If looks could kill, I'd be dead, her laser-green eyes piercing me, but luckily all her vicious glare does is make me smile.

“Now we can go,” I say.

“I'll just put it on again when we get to the party,” she says.

“And I'll just wipe it off again, and I'll do it in front of everyone, with Caleb front and center.”

She storms past, wobbling on her ridiculous shoes, and as I follow, I wonder how it got this bad this fast. Only four short months ago, she was my little girl who didn't give a damn about clothes and who would have laughed at a girl like the one she's become.