Going Overboard (11 page)

“Wow, a newborn,” Lynette said. “I have three children myself. Two boys and a girl.”

Again I thought, just like Mom, who had me and my two older brothers. I was sure any minute Lynette would say she was also from Alabama, drank four Diet Cokes a day, and took bowling in college.

“My son is also two years old,” Lynette said. “We should get him and your son together sometime.”

“That sounds great.” I passed the dice to Melanie.

“Tell me honestly,” Sasha said, looking at Lynette. “Would you ever have guessed Sarah has two kids?”

I jolted in my seat. I knew Sasha couldn't mean “Can you believe she's had two kids and looks so skinny,” because I was clearly postpartum and about twenty pounds overweight. Sometimes Sasha simply had no filter. Thoughts came right from her brain and out through her mouth, and I was afraid of what she might say next.

Lynette looked at me confused. “Well, I don't know. I didn't really think about it, I guess.”

“I guess you'd have to know Sarah to know what I mean,” Sasha said. “This is the girl who sat on a table at a Ronald McDonald concert when she was eight months pregnant and the table actually broke beneath her!”

Melanie was holding the dice in her hand and staring at Sasha.

“This is the girl,” Sasha continued, “who has broken her leg twice and arm once . . . for no good reason! I mean, at least you've got to have a good falling story, but no, Sarah's are always about tripping over a baby gate, or—”

“I really think that's uncalled for,” Melanie said.

“What?” Sasha shrieked. “I'm just telling the truth. Sarah's like a walking calamity.”

“If you can't say something nice—” Melanie started to say, but I stopped her.

“It's all right, really. Honestly, it is amazing I haven't accidentally burned down the house yet or something.”

Melanie looked at me pleadingly, as though she were the one who needed rescuing. I knew she wanted to say more—that she wanted to defend me—but I expected as much from Sasha, and oddly, I really wasn't that hurt.

Sasha was like a tornado: You know you should get out of the way, but you can't stop gawking. She was loud and obnoxious, but, to her credit, you could never say she was a fake. And despite my difficult relationship with her, I admired how she didn't feel compelled to hide anything about herself. In fact, she embraced it all.

Courtney and I stayed late to help Jody with the cleanup. I was washing dishes and Courtney was drying when she said, “So how was your exam with Cute Doctor? I can't believe you went through with it!”

“What was I supposed to do?” I said and handed her another clean plate.

Courtney raised her eyebrows. “Um, like, change doctors!”

“Have you ever tried to change Navy doctors?” I said. “The paperwork alone could take years!”

Jody came in from the living room and put another stack of dirty dishes on the counter. “You know,” she said, “I've decided it's kind of sweet the way Sarah thinks about Cute Doctor. I mean, her dad was gone so much when she was little, I bet he's like a father figure for her.”

“A ‘father' wouldn't do your pelvic exam,” Courtney cried. “Good grief!”

“It's not like that,” I said. “He just makes me feel good about myself, I guess.”

Courtney rolled her eyes and threw a handful of plastic cups into the trash. “Well, for cryin' out loud!” she said. “You aren't supposed to feel
good
about yourself—you're a married woman, for God's sake!”

I turned off the water and dried my hands on a dish towel. “The whole thing reminds me of those Hawaiian dancers,” I said. “The ones who wear coconuts to cover up their . . . well, you know.”

“Their breasts?” Jody said.

“Yes, those.”

Courtney threw up her hands. “Now I've heard it all! How on earth does your ob-gyn remind you of grass skirts and coconuts?”

“Haven't you ever seen the way men look at those women?” I said. “It doesn't matter if the dancers are a hundred years old, if they're married, or if they have twenty children. While they're onstage wearing those coconuts, the men love them. They're hypnotized.”

“So this is about needing a pedestal,” Courtney said.

I frowned. “I actually have one of those coconut bras. Did you know that? Dustin bought it for me in Hawaii, and he used to ask me to put it on all the time. But now? Now it just sits collecting dust in the top of the closet. He's probably forgotten I even have it.”

Jody was tying up a bag of trash. She stopped and looked up at us. “You know, I kind of get what she's saying. I can't remember the last time Steve looked at me the way he used to back when we were younger.”

I tried picturing Jody in a grass skirt and coconut top.

“I can't believe you two!” Courtney cried. “Especially you, Jody! Have you lost your mind? Make your own damn pedestals! Go buy a new pair of shoes. Highlight your hair. Do something—anything! Just don't get all giddy for your ob-gyn!”

I stared dreamily at them and shrugged. “I'm Dr. Ashley's coconut girl. I'm a coconut girl.”

I walked home in the cold, trying to figure out in my mind how much to pay Lauren. Did Dustin say five or six dollars an hour? I wondered. And what to do about the additional forty-five minutes? I wished my BUNCO night had ended on the hour. It would make figuring out the money so much easier.

Lauren was sitting on the couch watching
The Bachelor
when I came in the front door. Her face and the room was tinted blue from the glow of the television.

“Hey,” she said, looking surprised. And then, “What time is it?”

“Almost ten. I'm sorry I'm so late.”

“Not a problem at all,” she said. Then she nodded at the television. “You ever watch this show?”

I looked at the screen and saw a row of women in black dresses waiting patiently for a rose from the bachelor.

“Uh, yeah, I've seen it a few times,” I said; then I riffled through my purse. “Will thirty dollars be enough, Lauren?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she said, standing up from the couch to straighten her denim miniskirt with a tattered hem.

“Ma'am”? Was I really old enough for that?

“Please, call me Sarah,” I said.

Lauren smiled. “OK, Sarah it is, then.” She slipped on a pair of bejeweled flip-flops and started toward the door. I followed behind. At the entryway she turned around and said, “Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Smi—I mean, Sarah—I looked at your wedding album—I hope you don't mind. It was sitting on the piano—and wow! Mr. Smiley is
so
cute!”

At first I thought she meant my father-in-law and I must have looked surprised.

“I mean, your husband,” she said. “He looks just like Tom Cruise!”

“Oh, my goodness,” I said, laughing. “Well, people do tell him that a lot. But if you knew him . . . I mean, looks can be deceiving . . . I mean . . .”

Lauren looked at me, confused.

“Never mind,” I said. “Anyway, it's actually quite frustrating being married to someone prettier than me.”

“Oh, stop!” she said, waving her hand. She opened the front door and started to walk out. “Please call me anytime, Mrs.—I mean, Sarah.”

I closed the door and said aloud to myself, “Mrs.?” Could I be that much older than Lauren? Wasn't I just like her only a few years ago?

I had just closed my eyes and gone to sleep when the telephone rang. The pulse of the ringer startled me and I shot up in bed, looking around confused. Then I glanced at the clock. It was ten thirty.

The phone rang again, and this time Tanner got up from her pillow and stretched.

“It's all right, Tanner girl,” I said. “It's just the phone. Go back to bed.”

I picked up the receiver on the bedside table. There was static on the other end.

“Sarah? Is that you?”

My heart nearly flipped over. “Dustin? I can barely hear you. Is that you, Dustin?”

“It's me, babe. Did I wake you up?”

There was a delay in the connection and our sentences were overlapping each other. Until then I had forgotten how hard it is to talk from overseas.

“I can't hear you very well, Dustin. Can you speak up?”

It sounded like a disco in the background. I heard people yelling and singing over the rhythmic thump of music.

“I'm sorry. What did you say, Sarah? I can't hear you.”

“Are you at a nightclub?”

“We're in Spain right now. I'm out with the guys. It's a little hard to hear.”

I heard someone's voice in the background: “Come on, Dustin, another round of—”

I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “Are you drunk, Dustin?”

“What, babe?”

Dustin never calls me “babe” unless he is drunk.

I decided to ignore his slurred speech. “Hey, Dustin, listen for a minute. I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead, I'm listening. But you'll have to speak up,” he said.

I was worried about waking the kids, especially Owen, who was finally sleeping in six-hour stretches, but I raised my voice anyway.

“Dustin, do you think I'm a little—how should I say this—flighty?”

“What? Why do you ask?” There were hoots and hollers coming from the background.

“Sasha called me a ‘walking calamity' tonight.”

“Did you say a ‘walking calamity'?”

“Yes, a ‘walking calamity.' ”

Dustin laughed. “Well, you always have been my little firecracker. Especially that last night at home. Wow!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Hey, Sarah,” he said, “you wouldn't believe this place. It's amazing. The wine flows like water. The women—oh, my gosh, the women! They flock to us Americans. We're like rock stars. I practically had to beg them to quit asking me to dance.”

My jaw dropped open. I had to remind myself to breathe. Was he really telling me this?

“Dustin, you're drunk,” I said more firmly than I had meant to.

“Oh, I'm totally drunk, babe. How are the kids?”

I couldn't find any words. My throat was closing in and tears came to my eyes. Here I was diapering babies and cleaning dishes, and my husband was gallivanting around the world having a great time.

The injustice of it all was astounding, and I couldn't bear to hear Dustin's voice any longer.

“Sorry, Dust. I can't really hear you that well,” I said. “I think the connection is breaking up. Can you call me back another time?”

“Sure, babe. Is everything OK?”

I pretended not to hear. “What's that, Dustin? I can't hear you. . . . The connection must be bad. . . .”

“Connection's fine on my end,” he said.

“Sorry, Dust. You're breaking up. I'm going to go now. Talk to you soon, I guess. Bye.” I bit my lip and hung up the phone.

After the charger beeped and Tanner settled back down on her pillow, the house was painfully quiet, and I realized I was alone.

“Tanner?” I whispered. “Tanner girl?”

Tanner poked her head out from under the bed and I reached down to scoop her up, feeling her frail rib beneath my palm. Then I put her next to me as I lay on my back and patted her fluffy fur, trying to picture Dustin in Spain.
Was it really as glamorous as it seemed? And what was that he said about the women?

A tear rolled out of the corner of my eye and dripped sideways into my ear.

Through the static of the baby monitor, I heard Owen stir in his crib and whimper.

No, don't wake up. Not yet. Just let Mommy get some sleep.

I lay tense and motionless, willing Owen to go back to sleep. But his whimpers soon escalated to full-blown cries, and I slid out of bed to get him.

The kitchen and living room were completely dark, and I had
that feeling of being a child and running to your parents' room after a bad dream. I could have sworn I felt someone on my heels, chasing me as I walked, and then double-stepped, through the room.

I got Owen out of his crib and brought him to the couch. When I snuggled his warm body against me, I felt the muscles in my jaw and neck release. I hadn't been aware they were tense. I stared at Owen's pink cheeks and round, searching eyes and momentarily forgot how mad I was at Dustin.

“Your dad may be visiting exotic ports,” I whispered to Owen, “but he's missing this.”

When Owen heard my voice and looked up at me with big watery eyes, for the first time I felt sorry for Dustin instead of envying him.

The clock in the kitchen ticked noisily and Owen's sucking slowed. Soon he was drifting back to sleep. His wrinkled, delicate fingers were balled up in fists, but the muscles in his mouth had gone lax and his lips glistened with saliva and milk.