Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (8 page)

“Yeah, right!” my friend replies, not following my sotto voce lead. “If it was just about the lobster costume, you could have talked about it in the office.”

“Maybe he was hungry. Why are you making such a big deal about this?”

“Uh … because the Choice Hottie asked you out for lunch.”

“The
Teen
Choice Hottie.”

“Whatever. Do you know how many women enter radio contests and stuff, just to meet that guy for two minutes?”

“Not women,” I correct her, “girls. Cody’s a teen heartthrob. Grown women are not lusting after him.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Trust me. Sam and her friends worship him.”

“I still think you should be really flattered,” Camille says, digging through a box of plastic creepie-crawlies. “A super-hot TV star is into you. Maybe you should tell Trent about that, next time he’s too busy to come for enchiladas.”

I can’t deny that she has a point. But would Trent care that another man is interested in me? I have a bad feeling not. My husband has been an endless source of disappointment since our pointless couch reunion. He said he’d call Sam and she still hasn’t heard from him. It’s one thing to blow me off, but quite another to do it to our daughter.

Luckily, I hadn’t told Sam that he was planning to take her out for a burger, so she wasn’t disappointed. She’s been really pouring herself into her piece for the art show in two weeks. I’m at least thankful she has that positive, creative outlet instead of drowning her sorrows in a lunchtime bottle of liquor.

After twenty minutes of fruitless digging, I volunteer to drive out to the Burnaby prop house to look for the plastic frogs we need for Cody’s science class to dissect. A glance at my watch tells me it’s already 5:30. By the time I get out there, find the frogs, and drive back to the studio in rush hour traffic, it’s going to be at least eight. I try to shrug off the wave of guilt that engulfs me, but to no avail. Sam’s father walked out on us, and I can’t even get home to make her a grilled cheese and a bowl of soup. What kind of mother am I?

As I head to my desk, I combat the tears that are threatening to come. But giving in to self-pity won’t help anything. Instead, I decide to channel my emotions into anger. Samantha wouldn’t have to be left alone if Trent would step up to the plate. Before my outrage subsides, I call him at the office.

“Hi,” his cheerful recorded voice says. “You’ve reached Trent Vaughn. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“It’s me,”I snap. “I’m going to be home late tonight, so I need you to be with Sam … When you get this message, call me back so that I know you’re going to pick her up or whatever.”

When I hang up, I dial my daughter at home. “Hi honey,” I say brightly. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Good. How’s the art project coming along?”

“Fine.”

“I can’t wait to see it! You’ve really put a lot of hard work into it.”

I hear her exasperated sigh on the end of the line. “What do you want, Mom? I’m trying to watch TV.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to be a little bit late tonight. But I left a message for your dad, and I thought you two could have an evening together. Maybe get him to take you for dinner?”

“I already ate.”

“Oh … What did you have?”

“Chips.”

I almost start crying again. My little, fatherless child is home alone eating chips for dinner! It’s like some sad movie about life in the projects. I can’t do this. “I’m going to see if Camille can do the Burnaby run. I’m coming home now.”

“No, it’s okay. I can hang with Dad.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve gotta go, Mom.”

“Okay, sweetie. Will you do me a favor?”

“What?” She sounds irritable.

“Please eat some carrot sticks or something with some vitamins in it?”

“I will. See you later.”

She’s fine, I tell myself as I gather my purse and car keys. It will be good for her to spend some time with Trent. He’s a selfish asshole, but he’s still her father and she loves him.

I’m almost out the door when I hear my name. “Lucy!” The voice is immediately recognizable. But it can’t be. I turn and see him striding toward me.

“Hi Wynn,” I say, a little nervous for some reason.

He joins me at the door. “Hey,” he says, pushing it open and ushering me outside. “Are you heading home?”

“No, no. I’ve got to get some frogs for your science class shoot tomorrow.”

Wynn rolls his eyes. “Right. So, I wanted to let you know that we’re not doing the lobster thing. Bruce says he can get a polar bear costume or something. Still funny, but slightly less nonsensical.”

I can’t help but be pleasantly surprised that he just used the word
nonsensical
. “And slightly less degrading for you.”

“Slightly.” We both laugh.

I indicate my car with my thumb. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got a long drive ahead.”

“Yeah …,”he continues, something hesitant in his bearing. “So, I was just gonna say that we should grab a drink some time … you know, when you’re not rushing off to buy frogs?”

My face is hot with embarrassment, awkwardness, excitement. Did he really just ask me out for a drink? Did he just sound nervous and not at all cocky or annoyingly Hollywood? He’s not nearly as cheesy as I’d originally thought. I mean, yes, he is borderline “pretty,” but there’s also something manly about him that I hadn’t really noticed before, a subtle magnetism that—

But I can’t do it. I’ve only been separated two weeks! Six short days ago, Trent was screwing me on the living room sectional! It’s too soon. And while it might be fun to have a drink with Wynn, in my heart of hearts, I know I still want things to work out with my husband. “Thanks but … I’m really busy with work and … my daughter and …” I scramble for one more thing, finally coming up with “my scrapbooking hobby.”

“Oh.” He sounds taken aback, as though it never occurred to him that I might turn him down. Come to think of it, it probably never did. “Right. Okay, see ya.”

He turns and, without a second glance, walks back into the building.

Trent

THE CLOCK RADIO CLICKS OVER TO 6:45 A.M.
In fifteen minutes the alarm will go off, signaling that I should be in the office in about an hour. If I go in, that is. But I have to go in. I have a client coming at 9:30. What am I going to do, call in sick? Quit my job so I don’t have to see Annika again? That’s ridiculous. Just because the sex was an unmitigated disaster, I can’t hide out here forever.

I get up and fill the tiny coffee pot with water. Of course I’ll go to the office. It’s not like I’m some high school kid who can’t face up to his humiliation. At least if I were some high school kid I’d have an excuse for the disaster that was last night. But I’m not a horny teenager who can’t control his bodily functions: I’m a middle-aged guy struck down by performance anxiety.

I stick the prefilled coffee filter into the basket and go take a shower. The beads of hot water do nothing to wash away the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment. The fact that I’ve had only three hours sleep probably isn’t helping. But how can I sleep when every horrifying second of the night keeps looping through my brain like a YouTube video?

It started out okay. Annika had made her intentions exceedingly clear when she came back to my room with me. There was no room for misinterpretation when she flopped onto the bed and pulled me down on top of her. I’d waited so long to be with her. It was new and yet somehow familiar. I mean, we’d been working together for over a year, so it wasn’t as if we were total strangers. And I had fantasized about having sex with her so many times that it was almost as though I’d been there before, in a way. So, it was all going pretty well—the making out, the clothing removal. The lamp was on, which made me feel a little uncomfortable. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my body, but it’s been a long time since I’ve hit the gym. It was really cool looking at Annika though.

It wasn’t until she said “Do you have a condom?” that things went off the rails. “Uh … yeah,” I said, having had the foresight to pick up a pack prior to our date. I crawled off her and walked naked, in the lamplight, to the bureau. I could feel her eyes all over me, a disturbing sensation. I guess I could have been flattered, but I just felt awkward and vulnerable—like I was walking around naked with a boner in front of a co-worker. Which, I guess, I was. Grabbing the box of condoms, I hurried back to the bed.

“Get it on,” she said, or more appropriately, growled. I hadn’t used a condom since 1990, so it was a little challenging, getting the packet open and trying to get the thing on, especially with Annika watching every move like she was doing some kind of research study. And suddenly, all the tension and the guilt just got to me. My dick was just lying there like a sea cucumber.

“It’s okay,” Annika said, diving on it like a lifeguard intent on bringing it back to life. And it did work, to some degree. But when I made another attempt at putting on the condom, I could feel the nerves getting to me again. Annika tore the rubber disk from my hand. “Forget it,” she said. “Just do me … now!”

I was pretty uncomfortable with the idea of going at it without protection. Of course, I’d had a vasectomy when Sam was eight and I realized Lucy would never take time out of her career to have another baby. So it wasn’t like I could get Annika pregnant. And I’d been completely monogamous for the past sixteen years, but what about Annika’s sexual history?

Lucy would say it was poetic justice if I caught some nasty STD off Annika. She’d laugh and laugh when she visited me in the hospital—not that many STDs land you in the hospital, I guess … except AIDS. Obviously, this train of thought was not exactly enhancing my performance. But before I could give it any more consideration, Annika took control and we were suddenly fucking.

It lasted all of forty-five seconds, which, on the bright side, is probably not even long enough to catch an STD. On the not so bright side, it lasted forty-five seconds and now I have to see her in the office and pretend that I’m not completely mortified by what happened last night. Oh shit. What if she tells someone? Who would she tell? She’s not really close to the receptionist or Meg in accounting. Maybe Karen. What if she tells one of the guys? Oh Christ, then I really will have to quit. But until that happens, I’ve got to act like a man and face the music.

When I arrive at the office, Annika is already meeting with Don, the managing partner. Neither of them glances in my direction as I scurry to my office. Not very manly, the scurrying, but I’m not feeling particularly macho at this point in time. I boot up my computer and check my voice messages: my nine-thirty’s running late; and there’s a message from Lucy last night, wanting me to be with Sam.

A wave of guilt resembling nausea washes over me. I can’t believe my daughter needed me while I was out fucking (if what we did even qualifies as such) my co-worker. It’s terrible. It’s worse than terrible, it’s disgusting is what it is. I’ve really been letting Sam down. Not that Lucy is entirely blameless in this situation. If she could ever get her ass home before eight o’clock at night, none of this would even be happening. Not for the first time this morning, I wonder if I’ve really done the right thing in leaving my family.

Suddenly, Annika pokes her head inside my office.

“Hey you,” she says flirtatiously.

“H-hi … Hey …” I strive for a casual tone; fail miserably.

“I had fun last night,” she says coyly.

Is she being sarcastic? Or maybe she’s talking about the part at the restaurant, where we had the waiter who looked like Ashton Kutcher? Because the sex part of the evening could hardly qualify as fun: maybe in some parallel universe where being eaten alive by fire ants is considered a good time, but not here.

“Uh … yeah.” I clear my throat loudly.

“So listen,” she says, stepping into my office. “I’ve got a girlfriend coming in from Toronto on Tuesday. Why don’t you grab a friend and join us for drinks? I want her to meet you.”

“Right. Sounds good.”

She lingers for a moment, smiling at me coyly. “Okay … we’ll talk more later.”

“Yes, definitely. Later.” And finally, she’s gone.

Lucy

“
WHAT DO YOU MEAN
you didn’t see your dad last night?”

“He never called me,” Sam shrugs, shoveling cereal into her mouth and staring at the
Early Show
on TV.

I try not to lose control, but I can feel the urge to throw a tantrum. “So what did you do all evening?”

She shrugs again. “Watched TV.”

“Did you at least eat some vegetables, like I asked?”

“I don’t remember.” She turns to me for the first time. “If you’re so concerned about what I eat, maybe you should try coming home and cooking dinner for once in your life.”

“Once in my life?” I gasp. “I’ve cooked hundreds of dinners, young lady.”

Sam stands, takes her cereal bowl to the sink. “Do the math, Mom. Cooking hundreds of dinners over fifteen years of my life isn’t that impressive.”

“Listen, missy …” I start, but trail off. She’s right. It’s not impressive. It’s terrible and neglectful. And now I’ve driven her father away, the parent who actually did come home and cook dinner for her. Last night I didn’t get home until she was already in bed. I’m a failure as a mother, as a wife. The tears start to come and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.

“Sam … I’m sorry,” I mumble, but my daughter is already stalking out of the room.

“Gotta get to school,” she mutters as she heads upstairs.

I wait until she’s gone to call Trent. She doesn’t need to hear the screaming accusations I plan to throw at him.

“Good morning, Trent Vaughn,” his cheerful fucking voice answers the phone.

“Why didn’t you see Samantha last night?” I hurl.

“I didn’t get your message until this morning,” he says, at least having the decency to sound guilty.

“I didn’t get home until ten. She was alone all night eating chips for dinner.”

“Maybe you should try to get home earlier,” Trent snaps.

“Last I checked, she had two parents. Or are you planning to cut her out of your life too?”