Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (13 page)

Sam’s eyes stay fixed on the TV. “Thanks,” she says, coolly.

I go upstairs to change my clothes and fume about my daughter’s reception. She’s lucky I didn’t shell out two hundred dollars on those flowers, or I wouldn’t be letting her off the hook so easily. Is this what happens to children of broken homes? They’re given carte blanche to act like selfish little monsters because Mommy and Daddy feel too guilty to discipline them? I experience another surge of anger toward Trent. If only those flowers really had been from him, then I wouldn’t have had to lie in the first place. The logic around this train of thought is a little sketchy, but blaming Trent does make me feel slightly better.

Going to the phone, I finally return Hope’s call.

“How are you?” she asks, her tone pitying.

“Fine,” I reply. “It’s getting easier.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, pal. I know how it is, remember?”

“I’m not pretending,” I snipe. “I’m fine, really.” I suppose she means well, but I can’t help but feel Hope wants me to be a sniveling mess so that she can swoop in with her cookies and self-help books.

Hope senses that it’s time to change the subject. “I just called to tell you that Sarah-Lou and I will be coming to the art show tomorrow night.”

“Oh … okay.” I’m surprised and a little confused, but my friend elaborates.

“We want to show Sam our support. Plus, I know Trent will be going and I thought you might like to have a friend there.”

I suddenly feel guilty for doubting her motivation. She’s right. After the strained silence between my husband and me, our face-to-face meeting is bound to be tense. It will be nice to have Hope there for support.

“Thanks Hope,” I say, my voice wobbling a bit.

“I’m here for you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Okay, we’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

Trent

ANNIKA AND I SPENT THE DAY TROLLING THROUGH IKEA.
She insisted on lending me her “design eye” for my new place. Fifteen hundred dollars later, we returned to the small apartment and began the arduous task of assembling my furnishings. When we were done, I surveyed the room. I had the distinct feeling that I’d just graduated from college all over again. The one bedroom and den was a sparsely furnished sea of unfinished pine, brightly colored pillows, and flat couches with weird names.

We had sex on the Karlstad three-seat sofa bed (Annika insisted we christen it) then grabbed some take-out sushi from the restaurant downstairs. And now we’re sitting in my car in the darkened school parking lot. I stare straight ahead at the building, peering into the few lit classrooms. A stream of parents heads in through the main doors. I haven’t spotted Lucy yet. She’s either already there, or running late.

“Okay,” Annika says from the passenger seat, “I’m just a friend from work who’s really interested in art. There’s nothing romantic going on between us, but we are good friends.”

“Right.”

“I can’t wait to meet your daughter,” she says. “This was such a good idea—like, to have us bond over her art first.”

I turn to her. “What about my wife? Can you wait to meet her?”

Annika places a consoling hand on mine. “Don’t worry. If I’m just an art-loving friend, how can she get mad?”

Oh, she can get mad, I think, but don’t say. In fact, the whole purpose in bringing Annika here is to make Lucy mad. And as I enjoy these last moments of peace, I can’t help but wonder: what the fuck I was thinking? Do I really want my wife and my girlfriend to collide at my kid’s art show? My relationship with Sam is strained enough. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, Sam might buy the “art-loving co-worker” bit, but there’s no way Lucy will. Annika’s way too sexy to be just a friend.

I ponder Lucy’s reaction. Will she assault Annika with a piece of art? I can’t see her embarrassing Sam that way. Besides, Annika’s got at least twenty pounds on Lucy. She could take her down in a second. I allow myself a quick visual. If I wasn’t so stressed out, I’d be turned on right now.

Annika’s voice brings me back to the present. “Let’s go in, babe.” She leans over and licks my ear. Somehow, it’s simultaneously erotic and annoying. She sits back in her seat. “From this moment forward, you are nothing more than my good friend and co-worker who was kind enough to invite me to his daughter’s art show.”

She’s trying for levity, but it falls flat. “Let’s go,” I mutter, getting out of the car.

As we enter the bustling studio, I decide not to search out my wife. Let her stumble upon us. It’ll be even more shocking that way. Christ, when did I become such a prick? But I remind myself that Lucy asked for this. She’s been a complete bitch since the day I walked out. She’s been cold and stubborn and shut off from me—except for that night when I fucked her on the couch. It seems like months ago, but I suddenly realize that, other than the brief glimpse in the doorway, that was the last time I saw her. I turn to Annika.

“This was a bad idea.”

“What?” she asks, peering at a pastel drawing of kids building a sand castle.

“This,”I say, tugging at her arm. “This isn’t the right place for you to meet my family.”

Annika turns on me, hands defiantly on hips. “We discussed this. You said it was the perfect place to meet your daughter.”

“But it’s too hard on Lucy.” I reach in my pocket and hand her my keys. “Take the car home. I’ll catch a cab.”

She lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “You think I’m going to leave, just like that?”

Oh fuck. What have I done? I glance nervously around the room for Sam or Lucy. Oh Christ, what are
they
doing here? Hope and the chipper Sarah-Louise are already headed toward me.

“Hi Trent,” Hope says, giving me a perfunctory hug. As usual, when I embrace Hope I can’t help but think of my rather large Aunt Marilyn.

“Hi,” I say cheerfully. “Hi Sarah-Louise.”

“Hi Mr. Vaughn.”

“You must be very proud,” Hope says.

“I just got here, actually. I haven’t seen Sam’s pieces.”

“I haven’t either, but I’m sure they’re great.”

Annika steps forward. Of course, it would have been too much to ask that she continue to unobtrusively stare at the sand castle picture. She holds out her hand.

“I’m Trent’s friend and co-worker, Annika.”

Hope takes her hand briefly, her eyes darting to my face. “Nice to meet you,” she says coolly.

“I love art,” Annika continues, “especially young people’s art.” She reaches out and touches Sarah-Louise’s arm. Of course, being a robot programmed for only pleasant responses, Sarah-Lou smiles sweetly.

“Trent, Lucy is just getting a glass of wine.” Hope points toward a table set up in a far corner. “I’m sure she’d like to admire your daughter’s artwork together.”

“Great!” Annika smiles. “We’ll be right over.”

I feel like punching a hole in the wall. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I lost my fucking mind? Was I that enraged at my wife that I wanted to humiliate her like this? I’m a monster, a fucking monster. Lucy was right to shut me out. I’m subhuman.

Hope and Sarah-Louise scurry back to Lucy, obviously trying to warn her. I turn to Annika. “We can’t do this.”

Annika smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry, pal.” She slips her arm through mine; I fight off the urge to shudder.

“It’s going to be a disaster,” I plead.

“No,” Annika says, already pulling me toward the wine table, “it’s going to be fine.”

Lucy

I
’
VE JUST TAKEN A SIP OF RED WINE
when Hope and Sarah-Louise rush up to me. “I just saw Trent,” Hope whispers, as Sarah-Louise continues to smile agreeably.

“I’m glad he made it. He’s let Sam down too often over the past month.”

“He’s got someone with him,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Who?”

Hope turns to her daughter. “Honey, go find Sam’s artwork for us, would you?” When Sarah-Lou has obediently departed, she continues. “It’s a co-worker … some woman who ‘loves young people’s art.’”

My stomach lurches and I know. Even before Trent materializes with that frizzy cow hanging off his arm, I know. Hope places a calming hand on my forearm. Or perhaps it’s just to keep me from chucking my glass of wine in his face.

“Hi Lucy,” Trent says, his voice thin and reedy. “Nice to see you.”

I am actually thankful now that I’d spotted the two of them at the bar last week. Instead of fainting or crying or throwing up, I am composed. Well, as composed as you can be when you realize the man you were married to for sixteen years is the biggest shithead on the face of the planet.

“Hi Trent,” I say, with a forced cheerfulness bordering on the psychotic. “Who’s your friend?”

Trent’s pallor goes from pale to ghostly. He clears his throat. “This is my co-worker Annika. She loves young people’s art, so she thought she’d tag along.”

“Nice to meet you.” Annika sticks out her fat hand and I force myself to touch it, briefly.

“I’m Lucy, Trent’s wife. But you probably already know that.”

Annika looks nervously to Trent, who is now peering around the room.

“Have you seen Sam’s pieces?” he asks, not having the balls to actually look at me.

“Not yet,” I say. “So Annika, do you like all young people’s art, or just my daughter’s?”

“I love checking out the art of teenagers,” she says, sounding like a Miss America contestant. “It’s a real window into the soul of the next generation.”

I can’t suppress a snort of vicious laughter. Hope steps in. “Where is Sarah-Lou? I’m dying to see Sam’s stuff.”

“Did Sam come in with you?” the cowardly lion asks, eyes looking everywhere but at me.

“She came in early to help set up.” I turn to Annika again. “Tell me, how long have you been dating my husband? Was it before he left me, or just after?”

“We’re not dating,” Trent cries. “She’s a work friend.”

“I saw you, asshole,” I growl, leaning menacingly toward him. “At Chill.”

“Shit.”

Hope tries once more to intervene. “We’re all here for Sam, remember? You can talk about this later.”

“That’s right,” Trent says, sidestepping away from me. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“Right. You’re so concerned about your daughter’s feelings that you brought a date to her art show,” I spit. “I nominate you father of the year.”

“Oh, here we go!” Trent says. “The queen of sarcasm reigns again.”

“That’s rich, coming from the king of insensitivity—make that the emperor!”

Trent lowers his voice. “Maybe if you’d responded to any of my messages, we could have talked about this before.”

“Talked about what? That you’re dating Miss Piggy a month after you deserted us?”

Annika steps up. “Watch it, you scrawny bitch.”

Hope turns to Trent. “You’re going to let her talk to the mother of your child that way?”

“She called her Miss Piggy!”

I step back. “If the size ten–wide shoe fits …”

“You’re right, Trent,” Annika snarls, “she’s a total monster.”

“Oh you just wait, porky! You think you’re happy now, but soon he’ll be telling you he needs to sort out his grown-up man stuff.”

“That is crossing the line!” Annika cries. “You definitely have an eating disorder or something.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Trent barks at me.

Sarah-Louise walks up to her mother. “Samantha’s not in the art show,” she says calmly.

“What?” Trent and I whirl on her.

“I couldn’t find her paintings, so I asked the teacher. She said Sam pulled out two weeks ago.”

“Oh my god,” I say softly, the anger seeping out of me like a leaky balloon. It’s quickly replaced by a feeling of utter, inconsolable sadness.

Hope puts her arm around me. “It’s okay. She’ll be okay.”

“But where is she?” I cry. “I need to see her.”

Trent is already dialing his cell phone. He listens for a minute then says, “Voice mail.”

I sag a little into Hope’s shoulder. “Let’s get you home,” she says. “She’ll turn up sooner or later.”

Trent

“
I
’
M COMING WITH YOU
,” Annika insists as I speed toward her apartment.

“No, you’re not,” I grumble. “You’ve done enough.”

She misses the sarcasm completely. “But I want to be there to support you. It must be scary not knowing where your daughter is, or what she’s been doing for the last two weeks when you thought she was working on her art projects.”

She is so not helping. “Lucy and I need to handle this on our own. I’m taking you home.”

“Fine.” She settles back in her seat in a pout. “I just wish you’d let me start participating in this family.”

What the fuck is she talking about? We went on our first date just two weeks ago. We’ve had sex precisely nine times—okay, nine and a half times if you want to count that first disaster. Yeah, we’ve worked together for a year and we’ve been flirting heavily for much of that, but that doesn’t make her a part of my family! I’d set her straight, but I don’t have the energy to get into it. I’ve got to get over to the house and deal with my daughter.

I pull up in front of Annika’s Fairview apartment building, leave the car in drive. She steps onto the curb then pokes her head back into the car. “Call me when you’ve found Sam. I’m really worried about her.”

“Right.” I’m inching the car forward before she’s even finished talking.

Seventeen minutes later, I’m at Lucy’s door. Using my key, I let myself inside.

“Sam?” My wife comes rushing toward me, her tear-streaked face hopeful. “Oh.” Her expression crumples with disappointment.

“Has she called?”

Hope appears behind Lucy. “No, we haven’t heard from her.”

“Did you check her room?” I’m already heading for the stairs, passing a floral arrangement fit for Sinatra’s funeral. Normally, I’d make a crack like “Who died?” but under the circumstances, it seems inappropriate.

Hope says, “Good idea. Maybe she left a note?”

“Oh god!” Lucy cries, taking a nose dive off the deep end. “What if she …”

I stop on the staircase. “Don’t be ridiculous. But she obviously knows that we’re aware she dropped out of the art show by now. Maybe she left a note to explain.”

As I continue up the stairs, Lucy calls, “Check for drugs while you’re there!”