Aftertaste (25 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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“No, I'm not.”
“That made it extremely classified information. I had to go pretty deep.”
I smile at him. “Where's Eli?” I ask.
“With my mom. I'm on my way to pick him up now. I just figured, since I was in the neighborhood . . .” Neil's voice trails off as he deposits the shopping bag on my father's front step and turns to leave.
Neil's mention of his mother triggers an idea. “Wait a minute,” I tell him, running in the front door and grabbing one of the extra invitations I made from the kitchen table.
“Here,” I tell him. “I thought of inviting you, after the kids had such a good time the other day, but I didn't know how to get it to you. Not being Jewish, I'm not hooked into the network.”
“Thanks,” he says, taking the invitation and opening it.
“It's going to be a small party. Mostly just family and my friend Ruth and her son Carlos. You met them at Gymboree. She's now your mother's mah-jongg partner, you know. Maybe your mother mentioned it?” I ask hopefully.
But Neil doesn't seem to be listening. Instead, he is studying Chloe's tiny handprint on the front of the card, running his fingers over the rough paint.
“We'd love to come,” Neil says, smiling at me. “I guess we'll see you tomorrow.” He turns to leave, but turns back halfway across the lawn. “And by the way, there are no partners in mah-jongg. It's every woman for herself.”
chapter 22
“I thought you'd be pleased!” I tell Ruth, who is in the process of wailing into the phone.
“But it's tomorrow! My hair's a mess, and I have nothing to wear. I can't possibly be ready in time,” she groans.
“Of course, you can—you're ready now. And it's a kid's birthday party, not an actual date!”
Ruth sighs. “So, where did you say you ran into Neil?”
“On the street. Near Rona Silverman's house,” I tell her, not exactly a lie.
“I wonder what he was doing there,” Ruth asks. I say nothing. It wouldn't be as much of an issue if I'd just told Ruth in the first place that Neil had been at Gymboree that week. It was a silly omission, and I now wonder why I held out. There really was no reason
not
to have told her, but to reveal it now would be awkward. Then, I remember Neil's comment about mah-jongg yesterday, and I feel my face get hot.
“Why don't you see if you can get your hair done on Sunday before the party? I'll watch Carlos.” I can't believe I've just volunteered to babysit Carlos.
“Really? Don't you have stuff to do?”
Of course I do. “Not too much really, and besides Fiona and my dad are going to help with the decorations, so I'm in good shape. Just drop him off early,” I tell her.
“Well, maybe, if you're sure,” she says. Ruth calls back a while later and arranges to drop Carlos off a few hours early so she can get her hair and nails done before the party.
On Sunday, Richard is the first to arrive, bringing with him a huge kitchen set, complete with an impressive assortment of kitchen implements and life-size plastic food, that will likely take my father and me most of the afternoon to put together. He chats effortlessly with Fiona and even remembers to ask my father about his latest grant proposal. In fact, he's so much his usual, jovial self that I find myself studying him closely, wondering if perhaps I'd imagined the shaky hands, bloodshot eyes, and the droopy, hangdog look yesterday. Not to mention the two wineglasses in the sink.
Nevertheless, I've promised myself that I will look for an opportunity this afternoon to talk to Richard alone, so I lose no time getting him in the kitchen under the guise of helping me finish the fruit salad. But once we're there, I have no idea how—or where—to begin.
“Richard,” I say.
“Oh, Mira, I can't believe I forgot,” Richard says, wiping his hands on a dish towel and disappearing into the mudroom at the back of the house. He emerges a few seconds later carrying a small, velvet jewelry box. “It's Chloe's real present. I hope I have the distinction of giving Chloe her first piece of jewelry,” Richard says formally, taking a beautiful, antique sterling silver baby bracelet from the satin-lined box and offering it to me for inspection. He has had H
APPY
B
IRTHDAY
, Chloe's initials, and the date engraved along its underside.
“Richard, it's beautiful. Thank you,” I tell him, reaching up to kiss his cheek. I put my hand on his shoulder and begin again, “Richard, I—”
Once again we are interrupted, this time by Ruth who, weighed down by a large floral arrangement, is rapping urgently at the kitchen door with her elbows.
“Sorry about the elbows,” she says when I open the door. “My nails are still wet. Here, these are for you,” she says, handing me the flowers. “No one thinks to give the parents a birthday present on the kid's birthday, but after all, it's a milestone for you, too. The day your life changed forever. Happy Chloe's birthday, Mira,” Ruth says, hugging me.
“Isn't that the truth, speaks the man with no progeny!” Richard says, helping Ruth out of her coat and introducing himself. He quickly ushers her into the dining room, where I can hear him waxing enthusiastic over the unusual hue of the calla lilies in the flower arrangement as he pours her a glass of punch.
Ruth is right. Today is a milestone. A year ago Jake and I were still together. He'd held my hand, fed me ice chips, and rubbed my back as I labored to bring our baby into the world. His anguish over my pain had been real, as had his joy at Chloe's birth. I never would have imagined back then that a year later he wouldn't even make the guest list.
Ruth comes in, brushing crumbs from her blouse, and asks, “Was Fiona a snake charmer in another life?”
“Not that she's mentioned. Why?”
“She's got Carlos on her lap, and she's feeding him grapes. He hates grapes!”
“She does have a way with kids. Chloe loves her,” I tell Ruth, realizing that it's true.
“So, do I look okay?” Ruth asks, nervously turning a full circle in front of me.
“Better than okay, actually. Your hair looks fabulous.” Ruth has had her hair blown dry, and it looks full and pretty. She is wearing a long silk tunic and a pair of designer jeans she's clearly taken to the dry cleaner—the creases look sharp enough to slice steak.
“Want me to finish that while you go change?” Ruth offers.
“I am changed,” I laugh. I'm wearing my Gap jeans and an oversized button-down shirt that had once belonged to Jake. “Besides, I'm the cook. I need to be comfortable.” Ruth takes the knife from my hand and orders me upstairs to change my clothes. “At least put on a sweater or something. You're going to be looking at these pictures for the rest of your life.”
I keep the jeans, but swap the oversized shirt for a blue sweater. I let my hair down and brush it. When I come downstairs, Neil and Eli are standing in the front hall. Richard handles the introductions, while Ruth sucks at her punch. Everyone turns to look at me.
“Neil, Eli, welcome! Neil and Eli are our friends from Gymboree class,” I tell everyone. Neil bends down to help Eli out of his coat, no easy task since Eli refuses to relinquish the large, brightly wrapped package he's holding.
“Go on,” Neil whispers in Eli's ear. “You know what to do with that, don't you, Eli?” We all watch as Eli approaches Chloe, who is sitting on the living room rug, pulling at the party hat Fiona has placed on her almost bald head.
“How precious,” coos Fiona, setting Carlos down and picking up the camera. “The package is almost as big as he is,” she says, snapping a picture. We all watch as Eli makes his way laboriously to the middle of the room. He's within drooling distance when suddenly he's intercepted by Carlos, who tackles him, causing the corner of the package to poke Eli in the eye.
“Carlos!” shrieks Ruth, rushing to intervene, just as Neil scoops up Eli, who is, for a second, too stunned to cry. Ruth picks up Carlos and whisks him off to the kitchen mumbling ominously about “time-outs,” just as Eli begins to wail.
“How about some ice?” Fiona says to Neil, who is trying to get a look at Eli's eye.
“I'll get it,” I tell her, hurrying into the kitchen to check on Ruth. She's in the pantry, trying to gain control of a hysterical Carlos, who is writhing mightily in a kitchen chair.
“I give up,” Ruth says miserably.
“Forget about it. Calm him down and get back out there. Eli's fine,” I tell her.
I fill a plastic bag with ice and wrap it in a dish towel for Eli, although by the time I return, he's stopped crying. He's sitting on Neil's lap watching transfixed as my father entertains him with his one and only magic trick—the separating thumb.
Mercifully, the rest of the party proceeds uneventfully. When it's time to open the presents, I sit Chloe on my lap while Dad mans the video camera. Fiona has gotten Chloe a pink plastic purse, complete with a play cell phone, a large key ring of brightly colored keys, and a dozen sparkly bangle bracelets. “Thanks, Fiona,” I tell her.
“I figured since she's always digging in mine, she should have her own,” Fiona says, bending down to give Chloe a hug. Neil and Eli have given her a tub of crayons and a whole slew of water toys. Ruth and Carlos have given Chloe a tiny tricycle.
Fiona and Ruth help gather the empty wrapping paper while Richard, Neil, and my dad break down the boxes. “Oh, Mira, you forgot one,” Ruth says, holding out one last gift, buried under a pile of discarded paper.
“Oh, that's from us,” says Neil, “although it's really for Mira, not for Chloe. You can open it later if you—” But I've already begun removing the paper. It's a book.
What to Expect: The Toddler Years.
“Thanks,” I tell him. When I meet his eye, I'm surprised by the intensity of his gaze.
“Hey, I have this book,” says Ruth, leaning over my shoulder. “I loved the series. Of course I really didn't need the
What to Expect When You're Expecting
, but I thought the one about the first year was great.”
“Me too. During that whole first year my wife and I referred to it as ‘the Bible.' ” At the mention of Neil's wife, Ruth falls silent. Neil clears his throat.
“I've never read a parenting book,” I tell them.
“Really?” Neil and Ruth ask in unison.
“Not a one. I guess I should have,” I say, judging from their incredulous expressions.
“Surely you read T. Berry Brazelton? You must have,” Ruth says, shocked.
I shake my head, trying to remember why I hadn't. Running a restaurant had been an exhausting business. By the time Jake and I crawled into bed at night after closing up, it was too late to do anything but sleep. Remembering how little time Grappa had left for anything else, I wonder how different Chloe's life would be now had we stayed.
Richard jumps to my defense. “How could you? You didn't even read the newspaper! The moment you stopped moving you fell asleep.” Neil and Ruth are unimpressed. I give Richard's arm a grateful squeeze and pick up the book. It's a hefty tome. How much invaluable parenting advice have I missed already?
“Time for cake, everyone?” Fiona asks, handing Chloe to my father and adjusting her party hat.
“Don't forget to read the inscription. It concerns an addendum to the Manifesto,” Neil whispers over my shoulder as we move into the dining room for cake and ice cream.
“What manifesto?” Ruth asks, innocently.
I tuck the book under my arm and follow Fiona into the kitchen. Richard dims the lights, and Fiona readies the camera. I bring in the cake, a homemade vanilla sponge cake with real buttercream icing. I've decorated it like a pasture with green coconut grass and a corral made of licorice. Inside, an entire farm's worth of animal candles are grazing. Chloe is charmed.
Food. As I've long suspected, it is my greatest parenting accomplishment.
To Ruth's chagrin, Neil and Eli leave shortly after we finish the cake, pleading nap time, but Ruth suspects it's the prospect of free playtime with Carlos that has chased them away.
“Seriously, every time Carlos sees Eli he goes into attack mode. It's like he's gunning for the poor kid!” Ruth says, exasperated. “You've got to admit, this doesn't exactly bode well for the Brady Bunch future I've been envisioning,” she says, helping herself to another slice of cake. “It's a good thing I've already got an in,” Ruth continues. “Did I tell you? Leah asked me what I was doing for Passover. I think there's a chance she might invite me—I mean us,” Ruth says, looking down at Carlos. He's sitting on a blanket at her feet, gnawing on the cow candle. “Carlos! Enough of that,” she says, picking him up and sitting him on her lap. I hand her a napkin. “Look, a hive! There must be red dye in those candles. Mira, can you get the Benadryl? It's in the living room in the diaper bag.”
My dad's in the process of putting together the kitchen set from Richard, and the living room is littered with hundreds of plastic pieces. It takes me a while to find the diaper bag. When I return to the kitchen with it, Ruth is no longer at the table. She is standing at the kitchen counter. She looks up when I come in, and the expression on her face is pure pain. Her mouth is set in a grimace as if she's about to cry.
“Mira,” Ruth whispers. “How could you?”
I look down at the book open in front of her on the counter, the one Neil had given me. On the inside cover he's inscribed the following message:
The Parents' Manifesto—If you want her, let her know. All's fair in love, war, and mah-jongg. Will you please go out with me? Neil.
Of course I try to explain, but Ruth tells me she's in no mood to hear it. “All this time, I thought you were helping me,” she says, her voice cold and low. I try to tell her that I hadn't done anything to encourage Neil. I was trying to help her. But none of it makes any difference. The sound of our arguing chases my father and Richard from the living room. Fiona takes Chloe upstairs. I follow Ruth and Carlos out to the car, but Ruth still refuses to talk to me, refuses even to look at me.
Back inside, the house is quiet. I grab a picnic blanket from the mudroom, wrap it around myself, and head outside to the front porch where I curl up on the porch swing, furious with myself for letting things get so out of hand. Why hadn't I anticipated this would happen? What had I been thinking? The problem is I've never been the type to think too far ahead, which might explain why I've never been any good at games. Unlike Ruth, I'm incapable of developing anything resembling a strategy.

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