Man of My Dreams (13 page)

I hop out of the bed and walk into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Both girls are still sleeping, so I decide to jump in a quick shower. Seems those are a luxury these days, though few and far between. I reach on the top shelf of the linen closest for a fresh towel and a tiny glass nail polish bottle flies out of nowhere and comes crashing onto the tile floor.
Damn it!
This shower may have to wait too.

I’m thoroughly annoyed when I look down at the little particles of glass sprinkled across the floor, but I want to scream when I see the dark purple splatters of shimmery paint all over the walls, staining the grout in the tiles, smearing too many surfaces to even think of cleaning this early in the morning.

“
Nail polish
?” I yelp, wondering where the hell it came from. And then I remember...I hid it behind the towels, out of their reach, when I found the kids messing around with it last week. In hindsight, their mess probably wouldn’t have been as big as this one.
What a way to start a day!

I try to sop up the spill with a paper towel, but apparently that’s not going to do the trick. The Insta-Dry formula has already started to harden and make itself permanent in places nail polish shouldn’t be permanent. I search the medicine cabinet for nail polish remover and cotton balls, cursing as the towel I placed around my naked body falls to the floor. And then, as if I have nothing better to do at this moment, the phone rings. After looking at the caller ID, I thank God it’s not Declan. I decide to answer when I see it’s Grace. Maybe she can shed some light on this rather inconvenient start to my day.

I answer, already exasperated, “How do you get nail polish out of grout?”

“Good morning to you, too. Dare I ask why?”

“No, don’t. But think of something quick, I’m getting high from the fumes.”

“Nail polish remover,” she says matter-of-factly as I eye the bottle already in my hand.

“Hold on a sec, okay?” I place the phone on the countertop and pour the remover on the worst spot before coming back to Grace.

“Great! Now I really feel high. The girls are going to walk in and find me passed out, naked on the bathroom floor and instead of calling 911 they are going to paint their damn nails!”

Grace snorts as she laughs and I visualize her holding her belly. The sound is contagious, so I go with it and laugh too. If I don’t I’m going to cry. “It’s actually working. Thanks, Grace.”

“That’s what I’m here for. So...”

“So...what?” I ask, confused, wondering what I managed to miss this time in my state of self-pity.

“Didn’t you get your mail yesterday?”

Shit! I actually haven’t gone to the mailbox in a few days. God only knows what’s waiting for me. “No, why? Who moved, got engaged, had a baby or died that I forgot to acknowledge?”

“Nothing like that, you’re good. But Lisa emailed me last night. Come to think of it she probably emailed you too. Guess you haven’t gotten around to checking that either.”

I haven’t showered in two days. Email is certainly not a priority right now. “Nope. Haven’t gotten to that either. Why, what’s up?”

“I’d rather you see it for yourself. Go get yourself and that bathroom cleaned up, get the mail, and I’ll be expecting your call.” She hangs up and I shake my head while letting out an over-exaggerated sigh. I don’t have time for this. But I’m definitely intrigued.

I forgo the cleaning and the shower, but decide to put on the pajamas I threw off earlier and run to the mailbox. When I open the box it’s overflowing. Bills, catalogs, credit card offers, what looks like a ‘thank you’ card from a birthday the kids just went to. And then I see it.

A shiny, gold square envelope addressed to
Ms. Mia Page Murphy
. There is no return address label and no one has used my maiden name in forever so I am immediately curious about this mysterious parcel.

I rush inside, throw the pile of mail on the table in the entryway, and head for the kitchen with the single envelope in hand. I rip it open, like Charlie did with his last chocolate Wonka bar. But instead of a golden ticket I come face to face with something far more enticing. My very own ticket of sorts—to a trip down memory lane.

I glare at the invitation with an ear to ear grin.

Class of 1997

You are cordially invited to

Westmont High School’s ten year reunion

at the Westmont Country Club

On Saturday, March tenth, two thousand seven

at eight o’clock in the evening

A million and one thoughts bombard my mind, the first being that I always imagined my husband would escort me to my ten year high school reunion. In all the years I’d pictured it, I loved the idea of flaunting Declan off to the girls who made me feel less than worthy of his type and the guys who never gave me the time of day. I’d planned to bring along brag books with my favorite photos of the girls to boast about my perfect life with my perfect family. And everyone would fill my head with compliments about looking so good after two kids and snagging such a hot hunk of eye-candy.

But right now my marriage is in limbo and toting Declan along to my reunion might give him the wrong impression. Or worse, the strain between the two of us would be visible on the outside and I’d be judged by everyone for it. I’m not prepared to put on an act in front of these people so I decide I’ll be going stag to this thing. Too bad the invitation indicates “no spouses.” I would have brought Grace along as my plus one. She might not have gone to my high school, but she was definitely one of us.

I hear the pitter patter of Cara’s footsteps upstairs and I know it’s a matter of seconds before she winds up in Charlie’s crib to wake her too. A phone call to Grace will have to wait so I decide on a quick text to let her know I received the invitation.

She replies back with something I hadn’t even thought about:

Better get something hot to wear for your reunion with Noah! I’m taking you shopping next week!

I’m not quite sure how I let that scenario slip past me, especially after just dreaming about him. I shrug it off; even throughout all the erotic dreams, I never thought of Noah as anything but an old crush. Someone who crept into my dreams every now and then to remind me of the past. And while remembering the past was sometimes fun, my present and my future belonged to Declan. He was the man who held the key to my heart and, unlike him, I was content with who I’d chosen to spend my life with and how that life had turned out.

But things are different now.

Before running up the stairs to squeeze my girls and rid myself of this bitterness, I come to an eye-opening realization. Maybe some flirting with Noah is just the thing I need to feel good about myself after Declan’s little brush with infidelity. This reunion will be good for me—an escape from my tumultuous reality and a break from being a grown up. I would never act on it. I would just have a good time without doing any damage. Besides, for all I know Noah Matheson is a happily married man with a perfect family of his own.

“Can we go to Nana’s house today? Pleeeaaase, Mommy?” Cara does her best puppy dog face and it’s hard not to cave in to the adorable pleading. That face makes it difficult to say no to
anything
it accompanies, even if that request is for something as impossible as her very own pony. The child has everyone who knows her fooled, which is precisely why our playroom is busting at the seams with too many toys. But this is a simple request, one I don’t mind giving in to.

“Sure, sweetie. I’ll call them to make sure they’re not busy today. I bet they would love to see their little angels.”

I need a change in scenery and so do the girls. Moping around within these four walls is making us all very antsy. And antsy isn’t a good thing when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I check the clock, forgetting what day it even is. Without Declan and his routine, I’ve lost all track of time. Luckily I’ve committed Nick Jr.’s cartoon schedule to memory, and by the sounds of the intro to
Little Bear,
I know it’s ten thirty a.m. on a weekday. One quick scratch of the head and a memory of the garbage trucks coming yesterday and I remember that it’s Thursday.

Mom should be home; her Mahjong group meets on Tuesdays and her crochet club is on Fridays. Dad would already be at the office—his second home for the last thirty-five years, where he works as our town’s most well-respected and successful realtor. Even at almost sixty that man has no intentions of retiring any time soon.

I plop two bowls of sliced bananas and watermelon on the girls’ miniature Dora table, pat their heads and walk into the other room to call my mom, away from the blaring TV.

I dial her number and she answers after half a ring. I expect the usual sing-song greeting, but instead my heart stops when I hear her trying to speak through unmistakable sobs and sniffles.

“Mom? What’s the matter?” I have never mastered the art of self-control in situations like this. The sound of tears, especially from my stone of a mother, makes me nervous, makes me panic.

It’s been a minute, an hour, maybe just a second, but she still hasn’t answered me and I’m not sure my heart is going to remain in my chest much longer. “MOM! Tell me what happened!”

“It’s Daddy, Mimi.”

Oh no. She never calls me Mimi, only when something’s wrong. Oh my God. What’s wrong with my father?

“What do you mean, Mom? What happened, is he...” I can’t even bring myself to complete the sentence.

“No, no, sweetie. I’m sorry. I…I don’t know. Sam from the office called. Daddy had a heart attack at work. I just got off the phone and was about to dial your number when you called. The ambulance is already on its way to the hospital. Can you come get me and we can go there together? I don’t think I can do this without you.” Hearing my mother ask for help, showing any sign of weakness—this is so not her. She’s scared shitless and quite frankly, listening to her this way, I’m scared out of my mind myself.

“Of course, Mom. I’ll be right over.” For some odd reason I find the need to tell her I love her. Even if it’s not something we say to each other often, she needs the comfort right now. “I love you, Mom. He’ll be okay and so will we.”

She sobs again, a long drawn out, heart wrenching moan, before she answers me. “I love you too, sweetie. Come quick. Please.”

I hang up, look over at the kids in their mismatched pajamas and shut the TV off. I bring over two teeny pairs of flip flops, the ones we usually keep in the back for pool days, and quickly put them on their little feet.

“Come on girls. We get to see Nana today after all. But we gotta move. Quick.”

I take a quick look in the mirror in the entryway. I don’t look like total shit, but then again I really don’t care. This is an emergency and it won’t be the first time the kids and I have left the house without brushed teeth or combed hair, wearing two-day-old, wrinkled clothes. Every mother, except of course the Hollywood superstars who have nannies to mind after them, has been down this road before.

I hustle to get the girls in their car seats, as I listen to them bicker back and forth about who gets to sit on Papa’s lap first and the reality starts to set in. I try to hold back the tears, but for the first time since hearing my dad had a heart attack, I am terrified. I can’t lose him. I love that man more than life itself and I need him. We all need him.

Suddenly I realize I cannot do this without Declan. I dial his number frantically before I pull out of the driveway and am so happy he answers on the first ring.

“Dec, it’s my dad. He’s had a heart attack. I need you.”

An hour later, we’re seated in the waiting room of the hospital—waiting. My father is still in surgery and the doctors have yet to update us with his status. Mom, the kids and I didn’t get here in time to see him before they rolled him up to the operating room and the terrifying feeling that I may never see him again is gnawing at me like a termite eating through a piece of wood.