Say Never (27 page)

“It’s okay, Tebow-weebow-zippety-deedow!”

I might have to punch her in the face if she keeps this up.

“It’s Auntie Patsy, honey.” He continues to cry and Patsy bounces him up and down so vigorously I fear he’ll puke. I step away from the two of them, just in case (I will not take a chance at ruining this fabulous Hudson top), then move to the crib and start foraging for his pacifier. Just as I locate it under a stuffed bat (creepy!) he stops crying and opens one eye to peer at Patsy.

“Well! Hi, hi, little man! I bet you want a snack, don’t you? Don’t you, won’t you, please be mine!” She twirls with him in her arms and he giggles gleefully, and again, I have to tamp down the resentment that simmers in my gut.

“But first, you have a little something in that diaper. Don’t you my sweet baby-bebop-bubba-licious-wishes!” She turns to me and starts to hand Tebow over. I shake my head and smile sweetly.

“Oh, I still haven’t quite gotten the hang of changing diapers, Patsy. You’re the expert. You go ahead.” (I told you I’m a quick thinker.) She gives me a doubtful look, probably sensing my deception, but she likes being the ‘expert’ too much to call me on it.

“What do you have, five kids? I’ll bet you’ve changed so many diapers, you could do it in your sleep with one arm tied behind your back, juggling flaming batons.” I grin at her. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

“You should stay,” she says, challenging me. “Shouldn’t Meg stay, Tebow?”

“That’s
Auntie
Meg, Patsy. Aunt by
blood.
The real thing.”

“Right, sorry.” She shakes her head with false regret. “We learn by watching,
Auntie
Meg
.
You know. You could take some notes on how to change a diaper.”

“That’s okay, thanks. I’ll just Google it.”

With that, I walk from the room. Behind me, Patsy starts to sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider to my nephew. Each burst of his laughter cuts me like a knife.

Fifteen

Barry:
I’d hate to be a sewer cleanup engineer.

Meg:
That’s profound, Barry.

Barry:
It’s true, Meg. Don’t you love what you do?

Meg:
Talking to idiots and making fun of them for a living? Best job in the whole (bleeping) world.

* * *

I escaped to the backyard and am currently seated on a plastic chair on the patio outside the kitchen door. My new Burberry cape offers little protection against the chilly, late afternoon air, but I’d rather freeze to death than put up with one more minute of Patsy Gates.

As soon as she finished changing Tebow, she’d bustled into the kitchen and started unloading groceries, pulling out pans, rinsing veggies and rearranging countertop appliances, all while carrying Tebow on her hip, proving that, yes, she is wonder-mom. Or should I say
wonder-mommy-winza-finz-apalooza-woozy-kins.
Her nonstop rattle of ridiculous baby talk has nearly sent me over the edge.

Godiva sits on the concrete beside me, the whole of her upper body smashed against my leg, which is almost as good as an electric blanket. She entreats me with her sad doggy eyes to play ball with her, but there’s no way I’m touching that saliva-soaked scuz-ridden thing, so she’s had to settle for a little love. I stroke her neck and scratch at her chest, more to keep my hands warm than to please her, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

On the far end of the grass, a few feet from the back fence stands my brother’s studio. He calls it a cottage, but it more closely resembles a large cardboard box with a roof. The last time I saw it, before my brother’s family moved in, it was filled to the brim with the previous owners’ crap—rusted lawnmowers, bikes, broken furniture, and endless stacks of boxes, everything topped with a thick layer of dust. Danny told me he’d emptied and gutted the interior and had slapped together the sound booth all by himself using a DIY guide he found online. I absently wonder how the acoustics are.

I was always the voice in the family and my brother was always the musician, with a capital M. He picked up the guitar when he was six and mastered it by the time he was eight. Then he went on to the drums, the bass, the violin and, for some strange reason, the harpsichord. Although his dreams of having a rock band fizzled when he discovered the concept of financial security, he still noodles around with his buddies every Sunday night and occasionally lays down a new tune which he emails me for my consideration. I’ve yet to hear a number one hit, but his music sucks less than most garage (or backyard) bands.

I stand and brush a fur coat’s worth of dog hair off my jeans. Godiva looks up at me, her pink tongue lolling to the side of her mouth. Her expression is one of doggy puzzlement—her eyebrows are actually furrowed.
How can this love fest be over already?
she seems to be asking.

Without the heat of her body against me, the cool night air seeps into my bones, and I rub my arms as I walk toward the grass. It’s almost five and the sky has turned a deep blue, although no stars have appeared yet. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet, but with Godiva padding along beside me, I manage to make it to the cottage without incident.

The door is unlocked, much to my surprise. (I live in New York, and that means I lock my door even when I’m just going to the garbage chute.) I know Danny has a lot of equipment inside, and although most of it isn’t top of the line, an enterprising thief could make a few bucks on it. I make a mental note to remind my brother about this later.

Godiva wags her tail, but makes no move to follow me into the studio; probably she isn’t allowed to enter my brother’s domain. I pat her head, then step inside and fumble for a light switch. After a few seconds, I locate one on the wall beside me. I flip it and the overhead light flickers to life.

The space is cramped, but has a cozy, comfy feel to it. Just beyond the door is a small lounging/jamming area with an old, worn couch and love seat set, a couple of folding chairs, a scarred wooden coffee table and a mini fridge. Behind the door is a tiny bathroom barely large enough to allow you to close the door while you’re doing your business. There is no frat-boy debris, no soiled food containers or empty beer cans, no drug paraphernalia in sight, although I detect a faint, slightly sweet incense-like smell in the close air. Immediately I think of Matt next door and a warmth spreads through my belly.

Holy crap. I don’t even know this guy and he’s making me feel woozy.

Hormones,
I decide, and quickly suppress the feeling.

A drum kit sits in the corner and several instruments line the wall: two acoustic guitars, one electric guitar, an electric bass and a steel-stringed banjo. A portable electric keyboard lays across the love seat.

On the far side of the room is Danny’s makeshift recording area. He has built a four-by-four foot sound booth in the corner and through the small window facing the interior of the cottage, I can make out the black foam padding which insulates the sound. Beside the booth, Danny has set an old wooden door on two sawhorses, creating a long spacious desk. I take that back. It
would
be spacious if it weren’t covered with crap: a PC, another electric keyboard with a gauntlet of bells and whistles and various other sound choices along the top panel, a desktop microphone with headset, a reading lamp, a Rubik’s cube, a Magic Johnson bobble head, an ashtray—currently empty, thank you—a couple of containers of Sex Wax and pages upon pages of sheet music, both copyrighted and printed, and handwritten originals.

I amble over to the desk and switch on the lamp then pick up a piece of sheet music. I recognize my brother’s block printing and quickly scan the lyrics.
Caroline, she’s a friend of mine, and the love of my life, she’s my wife, my baby, and a lady.

Gag me.
I can think of more appropriate lyrics for my sister-in-law, including something that rhymes with
another trucker.

I set the music down then run my fingers along the desktop mic. It’s only been five days since my last live broadcast with the
Barry and Meg Show
, but it feels like an eon. I take off my cape and drape it over the recycled office chair that looks like it’s about to fall apart, then gingerly lower myself onto the padded seat. The chair creaks in protest, but thankfully remains intact.

I switch on the mic and slide the headset into place, then press the power button for the electric keyboard. A samba rhythm sounds from the speakers. I touch the panel on the keyboard and the rhythm shifts to soft rock, similar to the theme song for my morning show.

“This is Meg Monroe,” I say, “coming to you from La La Land, home of the tank-sized SUVs, sixty-year-old actresses who look like wax dummies, and CEOs who surf every morning before work.”

The muscles in my neck and shoulders instantly loosen. “More specifically, I am in So Cal suburbia, which might be compared to the fifth ring of Hell, unless you’re one of those people who like doormats that say ‘Welcome to Our Humble Home.’ Personally I’m fond of doormats that say things like ‘Stay the Fuck Out!’ but that’s just me.”

I smile and take a deep breath. This is my gift, my element. More than a full body massage, far better than my sessions with Dr. Rabinowitz, and even more relaxing than a martini, my work has always soothed me. It has been my one constant in an ever-changing world. The thing I could always rely on, the outlet that gave me peace of mind, even during great turmoil, for as long as I can remember.

It started in my closet when I was six. I learned early on that airing my complaints or disappointments to my father only hurt him gravely and upset the tenuous status quo of my childhood home. So I kept things to myself, held things in, put a figurative sock in my mouth until I could escape to my private domain and let it all out in the safety and anonymity of darkness.

At first, these closet soliloquys were merely tantrum-like rants—what I might say to my father if I could, or to my tormentors at school who’d harassed me as I stood mute. But as I got older, I chose my words more carefully and elevated my content. Shows like Oprah and Sally Jessie Raphael and Merv Griffin helped me hone my craft, and pretty soon, I was interviewing my stuffed animals and occasionally my little brother, who thought I was both out of my mind and super cool.

I was always aware of my unusual voice. According to Buddy, I was a premie, and because I spent a week on a ventilator as a newborn, I ended up having one of those sexy gravelly voices, like Demi Moore’s. It was cute at six. It was a curse at thirteen when older men would leer at me just for ordering a soda. At sixteen I realized that between my sharpened wit and razor tongue and my unique vocal chords, I could have a career in broadcasting. And I went for it, full stop.

I started recording myself and my “shows” with my pocket-sized tape recorder (the precursor to podcasts), and played them for anyone who would listen. (Buddy, mostly, Aunt Bella occasionally, Patsy Gates, yes, when we were friends, and poor Danny who I made stay up into the wee hours of the morning, even on school nights, asking him to critique me. Of course, if he ever said anything negative about my broadcasts, I’d punch him out and ignore him for days at a time. He learned quickly to always tell me I was
wonderful
.)

Because I was smart and got good grades—I didn’t have a social life so nothing got in the way of my studies—I managed to get a scholarship to Berkley. Instead of sending an essay, I sent one of my recordings. The admissions board was impressed. Thanks to Melanie’s life insurance payout, which Buddy put away for Danny and me, I had enough to make the move north. I interned at the university’s radio station, not because they thought I was talented—they probably dumped my cassette in the trash without listening to it—but because they needed free labor. I worked as a waitress at a coffee house to cover my bills. I went to school year-round in order to graduate in four years. I never visited Buddy or Danny, ever. I rarely slept. (Ah, the infinite energy of youth.)

By the time I had my degree in communications, I got hired at a talk radio station in San Francisco where I worked my way up from gofer to fill-in weather-girl, and eventually got a regular news-and-San-Fran-hot-spots report. That was about the time when I met Brian, my ex.

I hadn’t had many boyfriends in my life. School and work were my social outlets. Brian was a young, hotshot assistant station manager and he was dazzling and handsome and he made me feel like I was the most special person in the world. Also, he gave me orgasms, which I’d never had before. When he asked me to marry him, I was so overwhelmed by my recently awakened girl-parts that I’d said yes. (It should be noted that he proposed in bed after a triple header, and I may have been a bit sex-drunk at the time.)

During our entire courtship, he’d seemed ambivalent about having kids, and I deluded myself into believing that we would be one of those awesome power couples who took the world by storm and lived separate but parallel lives and never had kids but were just fine with it because we were so busy being amazing.