Say Never (23 page)

“Seventh,” she announces. “And I’m only eleven, at least till Sunday. That’s early for my grade. My dad says I’m smart beyond my years, but he says it like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh, no, no,” Buddy says, shaking his head. “It isn’t a bad thing. Being smart is like having a super power. The important thing is to use your power for good and not for evil. So, what’s your favorite subject?”

Cera thinks for a moment, biting her lower lip in the process. “I like reading. And creative writing. My Halloween story got posted on the school blog.”

“Well! Isn’t that something!” Buddy says, slapping his thigh. “I’ve got me a genuine author right here in my living room!” He makes an exaggerated frown. “I wasn’t too good with the writing in school. Lefty.” He waves his left hand. “Couldn’t get the hang of writing forward, ‘cause it felt backward to me. My teacher thought I was writing in code.”

Cera laughs again and the stirring in my chest blooms into a slight ache. It’s not indigestion or even a myocardial infarction, which I would actually prefer to what it really is, which is jealousy.

I’m jealous. Not just that Buddy is getting along with the girl far better than I am, which is true, but also because he’s so freaking natural with her. When I was her age, he never seemed comfortable with me. He tried to make jokes and provide fun and he dutifully asked me about school and my life, but these ministrations always seemed forced, as though he were playing a role for which he was grossly ill-suited. Sure, he had a lot of important stuff on his plate, what with my mother abandoning us and then subsequently getting herself killed. But still.

As if reading my mind, he turns to me and claps his palms together. “And how’s my girl doing?”

“I’m doing well, Buddy. The show’s good. We’re doing pretty good in the ratings.”

“You have a show?” Cera asks, allowing a tiny spark of interest to show.

“A radio show. In New York.”

Buddy shakes his head. “Sure wish I could get it on
my
radio. Then I could hear my daughter’s voice every day!”

“You could if you got satellite,” I tell him for the thousandth time.

“Satellite, shmatellite,” he says. “I got me good old-fashioned cable for the idiot box and a darned antenna for my radio.”

“What about internet?” Cera asks him.

“Well, now, I’m not one for computers, Cera with a C. Bettina ‘n me watch some stuff on her Mac…” He blushes and I can only guess what that means. “But, you know, the WWW isn’t for old farts like me.”

“It’s not hard. I could show you some time.” Cera sounds uncertain, as though she’s embarrassed by her own act of kindness. “You could probably get Meg’s show online.” She looks to me and I nod.

“Podcasts,” I confirm.

Buddy shrugs his shoulders. “I suppose I could give it a try. With the right teacher.” He gives me a covert wink, then turns back to Cera. “You going to be around for a while?”

“I think through Thanksgiving weekend. I brought my laptop.”

“Fancy.” Buddy looks at me. “Meggie, what’re you doing standing there like that? Why don’t you take a seat and relax for a minute?”

“Actually, Buddy, we can’t stay.”

My dad’s smile fades.

“We have another stop to make,” I explain quickly, trying to ignore the sudden rush of guilt I feel. “And I have to be at the school for McKenna at two-thirty sharp. I cannot be late.”

Buddy pushes himself up from his seat, trying to regain his good mood. “I understand, doll. It’s for the best anyway. I got a date this afternoon.” He grins down at Cera. “Takes a lot longer to beautify myself these days.”

“I think you look fine,” Cera says, almost shyly.

My dad puffs up with pride. “I ain’t been complimented by anyone under the age of fifty in a long time, kid. Thanks for that.”

Cera smiles wide, looking truly happy. “You’re welcome.”

I roll my eyes at their mutual admiration society, then cross to Tebow and hastily clean up the array of toys from the floor.

“Hrumaph!” he cries, not at all pleased at the interruption.

“Come on, Tebow. Say goodbye to Buddy. I mean, Grandpa.”

“I’ll see you for dinner Friday, right?” my dad asks me and I shrug my response. “Danny said family dinner at the house.”

“That sounds like Danny,” I say with false cheer. “See you then, Buddy. Have fun with Bettina.”

With Cera and Tebow in tow, I leave my father to get ready for his date, absently wondering if there’s such a thing as septuagenarian porn.

Thirteen

Meg:
When I get old, I just want to be stuck in a home somewhere and forgotten about. I don’t want people coming to visit me and see me drooling and pooping in my diapers and turning into a human parsnip. Better yet, if and when I turn ninety, just shoot me.

Barry:
I don’t think anyone would do that to you, Meg.

Meg:
You haven’t met my sister-in-law.

* * *

“Why do you call him Buddy?”

I’ve been enjoying a full ten minutes of quiet in the car, save for Tebow’s constant stream of babble, before Cera decides to pipe up with her question.

“Why don’t you call him Dad, like normal people?”

“I don’t like normal people,” I retort. “Do you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. But seriously, why?”

I pull to a stop for a red light and glance over at Caroline’s daughter, trying to decide whether or not she is mocking me. Her expression is one of curiosity but there is no trace of malice. “It’s a long story.”

“Fine.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glares out the passenger window.

I take a deep breath, wishing the light would change. It doesn’t.

“I called him Daddy, until I was about six. But whenever we’d meet somebody new, at school, or at a restaurant, or on the street, he’d say, ‘Call me Buddy! Everyone calls me Buddy!’ And he’d be so enthusiastic, so happy, so lit up. With my brother and me, he was kind of sad, kind of withdrawn sometimes, but with other people, he was the life of the party. I wanted him to be that way with me. So I started calling him Buddy.”

“Did it work?” She stares at me openly, waiting for my response. The light turns green and I step on the gas. “Guess not,” she says, then turns her attention to the road. “I like him. Your dad. He’s funny. You should have spent more time with him.”

Like I need advice from an eleven-year-old. Except that she’s right.

“He’s not going to be around forever, you know. He’s, like, gonna die and you’re gonna regret not spending more time with him. Where’s your mom?”

“She’s already dead,” I say. “So, I can’t really spend more time with her, now can I?”

I glance over at her. Her eyes are wide and she looks like she’s trying to swallow a football. “I…I thought…I thought they were divorced. Everyone gets divorced.”

“Not everyone,” I say. “Some people die instead.”

“That’s really sad.”

“Shit happens,” I say, trying hard not to think about my eleven-year-old self standing by my mother’s grave, Danny entwining his fingers with mine as he struggled to keep from crying, and my father’s tear-stained face as they lowered the coffin into the ground. It was the last time I saw Buddy cry.

“I’m s-s-sorry.” Cera forces the s-word out, as though she hasn’t had much practice saying it.

“Don’t worry about it.” The finality in my voice tells her that our conversation is over. She takes the hint, pulls out her cell phone, and scrolls through some messages. She giggles at something, but her laughter sounds forced, as though she’s attempting to prove that she could care less about my dead mother and her own faux pas.

Neither of us says another word until I turn into the parking lot of the rehab facility.

“What are we doing here?” Cera asks, going rigid in her seat.

“We’re here to see your mom.”

“Why?”

I pull into an available parking space, shut off the engine, and turn to face her. “Because she’s your mom and she probably wants to see you.”

“She does not,” Cera says, her tone petulant. “She doesn’t give a shit about me.”

“Watch your language, girlfriend,” I warn her.

“How come you can say ‘shit’ and I can’t?”

“Because I’m an adult and you’re a kid.” I glance in the rearview. Tebow is still asleep. “When you’re eighteen, you can curse like a freaking Shriner. But not until then, and not on my watch.”

“I totally don’t want to see her. You just don’t get it.”

She shrinks down into the passenger seat, looking miserable.

“I do get it, Cera. More than you realize, I get it. I didn’t have a mom growing up. But the difference is that my mother died. Yours might have screwed up royally when it comes to you, but she’s here. She’s alive. And from what I’ve heard, she’s trying to make things up to you.” It feels strange to be championing my sister-in-law since I dislike her with white-hot intensity. But I think I might dislike her daughter even more. “Now, get your skinny a—butt moving and get out of this car.”

If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under from the one Cera shoots at me. Still, she yanks open her door and steps to the pavement without further protest.

Since I don’t think my arms can bear Tebow’s weight a moment longer, I pull the stroller from the trunk and strap him in. (After Bloomingdale’s I considered fortifying the straps with handcuffs, but the Department of Child Services might take issue with that.) I push the stroller to the reception desk, with Cera following at a snail’s pace, a scowl etched into her features.

The Pelican Point Mothers ‘n More Rehabilitation Center is a modern one-story building with lots of windows to let in the bright Southern California sunshine. The lobby is done in neutral tones with mediocre landscape paintings on the walls and beige couches forming a semi-circle around a faux fireplace, above which is mounted a flat screen TV. Thanksgiving decorations abound, a couple of gourds here, a stuffed-animal turkey there, some pilgrim hats sitting in a row on the mantel surrounded by autumn leaves.

The clerk instructs me to sign in, then gives me directions to Caroline’s room. We head down a long hall, weaving through the throngs of health care workers and patients. Some of the patients are in wheelchairs and some are mobile, some practically bursting with pregnancy, others possibly just finished giving birth. All are closely monitored by aids.

As we near Room 8, my pace slows to match Cera’s. It’s possible I want to see my sister-in-law less than Cera does.

Danny thinks I don’t like his wife because she’s my polar opposite, i.e. nurturing, caring, motherly, family-oriented, great cook, sweet, nice, blah blah blah. And yes, that drives me nuts about her. Who wouldn’t hate someone who comes across as totally perfect? But the truth is, the reason I can’t stand Caroline is walking beside me at this moment. Not Cera herself, but what she represents.

I didn’t even know there was a Cera until my brother’s family came to visit me in New York. Caroline, the coward, didn’t have the balls to tell me herself. She bought two tickets to The Lion King for herself and McKenna and sent Danny and me out for some ‘sibling bonding.’ My brother drank a bit more than usual, so instead of simply dropping the bomb about having a step-daughter, he unloaded the whole sordid tale.

Caroline was waiting tables, putting herself through grad school at Cal State Fullerton when she met Mr. Perfect-Trust-Fund-Going-Places-Guy Richard Peters. He was visiting Surf City for Spring Break and happened into her restaurant. He ordered a slippery nipple and she asked him where he wanted it, on the table or under it. And that was it. He had to have her. When she accidentally got pregnant (
yeah, right
), he married her, to the absolute horror of his family, the Seattle Peters—whatever that means.

The marriage lasted three months. Caroline had signed a prenup, so after the quickie divorce she was dropped back into her life of starving student. Only now, she didn’t have a job and she didn’t have a school. She knew she couldn’t afford to care for her daughter and she knew Richard could, so she’d waived all of her rights, returned to Southern California and went on with her life, almost as if the whole pregnancy-shotgun wedding thing hadn’t happened.

I’m no stranger to drive-by marriages. They happen, I know that. And I realize that I look at my sister-in-law from the perspective of an abandoned child, so automatically she loses points for abandoning her own. In my rational mind, I understand that she was young and stupid and when she gave Cera up, she thought she was doing what was best for the girl. (Just as I’m certain, deep down, in some twisted way, Melanie thought she was doing what was best for Danny and me.) And from what I understand, as soon as Caroline got back on her feet, she began trying to forge a relationship with her daughter.

What bugs the ever-loving shit out of me is that Caroline pretends to be this perfect mom. She looks down on anyone who doesn’t breast feed or uses non-biodegradable wipes or can’t put together a frog costume for their child’s play. She shakes her head with mock inconceivability when talking about women who don’t want kids, even though she didn’t want her own. She feeds on the reverence of her peers who worship her as Mother of the Year, even though her oldest child is growing up without her.