Mine Are Spectacular! (7 page)

“Sure will,” I say chirpily, happy to prove to Bradford that despite the midnight intrusion, I'm glad Skylar's here. “I'll make breakfast. I whip up a pretty good banana pancake.”

“Aren't you the good little housewife,” Mimi says, releasing Bradford's shoulder and reverting to her snarky self. “Your little flapjacks. How quaint. Let's see how they measure up to the soufflés Skylar ordered every morning in Paris at the George V. When she was with me.”

Turning on her heel, Mimi reaches for her alligator purse, pulls out a gold compact and powders her nose. As if leaving with a shiny nose at three a.m. will blind the doorman.

Bradford follows his ex to the front door and throws the dead-bolt lock as soon as she's gone. He comes padding back into the bedroom and climbs into bed.

“We'd better get some rest,” he says, kissing me amiably. So much for our post-midnight passion. Within seconds he rolls over and falls into a sound sleep. I lay awake for the rest of the night—or what's left of it—watching the pulsating digital numbers click toward dawn. Come to think of it, Mimi's right. Bradford doesn't like sex in the morning. Wonder what else she knows about him.

 

Dylan is already eating a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch when Skylar sleepily slouches into the kitchen. He barely looks up when she flops down at the table, dressed in skin-tight white shorts, an orange halter midriff top, and a chain-link belt wrapped around her tiny waist. If she were one of my students, I'd send her home to put on some clothes. I look protectively at Dylan. But fortunately, he's still at the age when he doesn't notice girls and he thinks Britney Spears is famous for her singing.

Dylan peels back the top of his sandwich and starts cheerfully making little Swiss cheese balls which he shoots across his plate. Across the table, Skylar stares at him disdainfully.

“Good morning!” I say brightly to my almost stepdaughter. “Or I guess, good afternoon! Sleep well?”

“The bed didn't feel right,” she says huffily. “Don't you know that anything less than three-hundred-count sheets makes me break out in hives?”

Dylan looks up, finally interested. “Do you want to count to three hundred by threes?” he asks. “I can do it. Three . . . six . . . nine . . . twelve . . . fifteen . . .”

“You're such an idiot,” Skylar says, rolling her eyes.

“Eighteen . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-four . . . twenty-seven,” Dylan continues, undeterred.

I put my hand on his. “That's great, honey, but let's finish counting later.” I turn to Skylar, ignoring both the idiot comment and her idiotic comment about the sheets.

“Chocolate chip pancakes?” I offer Skylar, deciding on the spot that past noon, a well-balanced lunch can include Hershey's. And a little dash of sugar might sweeten her mood.

“Gross,” Skylar says disdainfully, wrinkling her nose. “You want me to get fat? You want me to get pimples? I get it. You're trying to make my life hell, aren't you.”

Wow, we got there fast. I figured I'd have to confiscate her gold MasterCard, delete her AOL buddy list, and marry her father before I could actually destroy her life.

“How about some Cheerios?” I ask, trying not to take the bait. And thinking that something with the word “cheer” in it might have a subliminal effect.

“My mother always gives me Special K,” she says. “No sugar. No fat. And get it? She thinks I'm special.”

“Yeah, my mom thinks I'm special, too,” Dylan pipes in, now eating the grimy little cheese balls he's done playing with.

Skylar stands up, scraping her chair loudly against the terrazzo tile floor. “I'm going over to Heather's house. I'll be back whenever,” she says, popping one of Dylan's cheese balls in her mouth and heading to the door.

“Wait,” I say, trailing after her. “Who's Heather? Where does she live? Can I take you?”

“Don't bother,” Skylar says, sailing past me. “Heather lives in Manor Haven.”

Hadley Farms. Manor Haven. Why do all these suburban communities sound like rest homes?

“Heather's sister's picking me up in the Mustang convertible,” Skylar continues, grudgingly giving me more information. “She just got her driver's license.”

Now I'm stumped. Is Bradford's daughter allowed to get in the car with a sixteen-year-old? I don't even know what I should be more worried about—Skylar in the car with a newbie driver or nubile teenagers driving with the top down. Hopefully the car's top, not theirs.

“I have some errands. I'll drive you instead,” I say, grabbing for my wallet.

“Over my dead body,” Skylar retorts, slamming the door behind her.

Dylan looks up at me with a big grin. “Now what are we going to do, Mom?” he asks happily. He's never had a sibling before and Skylar seems to be providing a certain level of entertainment.

I take a moment to think who I can ask about this, and in a burst of inspiration, I rush to the intercom.

“Enrique?” I entreat.

“At your service,” says the friendly doorman from his guard post at the gate. “What can I do for you today?”

“Skylar's driving with her friend Heather's sister over to Manor Haven. Can you tell me where that is? I'm thinking about following them.”

“Don't bother,” Enrique says soothingly. “I'll keep an eye on them. It's just two gated communities over. All private roads between here and there and the speed limit's ten. Cops at every corner flag anybody going over fifteen.”

Who says suburban children are overprotected? “Thanks,” I say, sighing in relief. Enrique knows everything. Next I'll have to ask what he suggests about Skylar's too-tight shorts.

Exhausted, I slump down next to Dylan and nibble on the crusts he's left on his plate. Amazing how many people one little grilled cheese sandwich can feed.

“So now can I count?” Dylan says. “Thirty . . . thirty-three . . . thirty-six . . . thirty-nine . . . forty-two . . .”

I don't care how long it takes him to get to three hundred. At least I haven't ruined his life yet.

 

When I get to Berni's hospital room an hour later, I edge my way past baskets brimming with flowers and three king-sized orange trees. So many helium balloons are pushing toward the ceiling, I feel like I've wandered into the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. In a corner, the drummer is still on duty, though now he's switched to a keyboard, abandoning primitive primordial rhythms for easy listening.

Aidan is swaying in place to the music, cradling one baby in each arm. And darned if they aren't cooing instead of crying at Neil Sedaka's greatest hits. Poor kids. When they're older, they'll never understand why they feel so happy in elevators.

“They're just gorgeous,” I say, smiling into their sleepy sweet faces. “Who do they look like?”

“Robin Williams,” says Berni groggily from her bed.

I do a double take, and push up one of the baby's teeny sleeves, rubbing my finger gently along the soft, smooth arm. Nope. Not hairy. Sweat's not pouring down his face, and he's not compulsively spewing jokes, either.

“I don't see the resemblance myself,” I say.

“No, really. The three orange trees came from Robin Williams,” says Berni, who's apparently misheard my question over the strains of “Love Will Keep Us Together.” “Wasn't that fabulous of him? I love Robin.” She shoots a sidelong glance at Aidan. “Maybe we can name one of the babies after him.”

“We could name them both Robin,” says Aidan. “With an ‘i' for the girl and a ‘y' for the boy.”

“Or an ‘i' for the boy and a ‘y' for the girl,” counters Berni.

Aidan signs and turns to me. “We can't agree on names,” he says, in case I hadn't guessed. “We've been through six books including the Manhattan telephone directory and nothing seems good enough. We may have to go with working titles. Baby Project A and Baby Project B.”

“Better than your idea of Hannibal and Clarisse,” says Berni.

“
Silence of the Lambs
was a great movie,” growls Aidan. “One of my favorites.”

It's a good thing Aidan's not a Jim Carrey fan. I wouldn't want him naming the babies Dumb and Dumber.

I hold out a finger to one of the infants, marveling, as everyone does as he (or is it she?) clenches it tightly. I extend a finger to the other baby, who has an equally strong grip. Funny how two little beings who weigh less than six pounds each can take over a room. Not to mention your life.

“How about naming them Ben and Jerry?” I suggest. “It might entitle the kids to a lifetime's free supply of Chunky Monkey.”

“If we're going for endorsements, why not ‘Mercedes' and ‘Benz,' ” suggests Aidan.

“I like it,” Berni says, thinking about the deals she could make. “If the company doesn't send new cars, at least one kid could become a rapper, Ben-Z.”

At this point, Baby Project A and B is sounding pretty good to me.

Just then, a tall doctor in hospital scrubs and surgical mask strides in.

“How are the most gorgeous babies in the world!” the doctor sings out loudly, pulling out a digital camera and madly snapping away. Then he spots me, puts his arm around my waist and swings me around. “We did it!” he says. “What a team, hey?”

Surprised, I look into the doctor's eyes and realize it's Kirk, in full soap-opera regalia.

“I came over as soon as we finished shooting,” he says, pulling off the mask, hugging Berni, then going back to the door and dragging in the two biggest, fluffiest stuffed animals I've ever seen. “One for each of the baby's cribs.”

“What a great gift,” Berni says warily, eyeing the animals worriedly. Nine months of trying to have the perfect pregnancy may be over, but new mother mania has kicked in and a hazard lurks behind every teddy bear. Is the stuffing safe? Is the fur flame-retardant? Are the button eyes sewn in securely so the kids won't swallow them? Buttons are already Berni's biggest bugaboo. She swore off normal blouses a month ago and had Chanel custom make a dozen shirts with Velcro.

Kirk's gift reminds me that I have a little something for Berni, too. I pull out a pretty box and plop it next to Berni.

“Chocolate truffles,” I tell her.

“Ooooh. How perfect.” Berni pops one in her mouth, savors it for a moment, and breaks into a smile.

“Three flavors,” I say proudly. “I made them for you last night. I've been playing around with the recipe for weeks.”

“Aidan, honey, come take one. I've never tasted anything this good,” Berni says.

Aidan sidles over, still holding one baby in each arm. He shifts a hip forward and tries to snatch a chocolate without dropping a baby. Doesn't work. He jiggles around, reconfiguring the babies, one higher, one lower, but he's still not any closer to a chocolate.

“Put Baby A down,” Berni says helpfully.

“I've been wanting to for the last half hour,” Aidan says mournfully. “I can't quite figure out how.”

Kirk and I step forward and each rescue a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket from Aidan's aching arms. “Aren't these babies the cutest?” Kirk says, jiggling his baby and smiling at me.

“The cutest,” I beam, rocking the bundle in my arms. But since there's no pink or blue blanket to tip me off, I have to keep the compliment generic. Berni is intent on raising egalitarian, non-sexist, politically correct babies. She wants her kids to grow up free and unbound by stereotypes. It's a good idea and it might work, at least until the twins see their first Mattel commercials.

Aidan laughs and flops on the bed next to Berni. “Look at our friends Kirk and Sara,” he says, cuddling next to her. “What a cute couple. Maybe we should let them be the godparents.”

“I'd be honored,” I say, intoxicated by the sweet baby smell that White Linen could never match. “Be a nice balance for that teenager I have at home.”

Kirk steps back and eyes me appraisingly. “You couldn't have a teenager,” he says. “You're way too young for that.”

“Not too young,” I say, secretly pleased that he'd think so. “But she's not exactly my teenager either. My stepdaughter-to-be.”

“You're getting married?” Kirk asks.

“Yup,” I say. “If I ever order the invitations.”

“Then there's still hope for me,” he teases. “Picking a typeface has sunk many a marriage. If the wedding doesn't work out, call me.”

The baby in my arms starts fussing and I hand her over to Berni. Kirk does the same, and then puts his arm around me.

“I'm heartbroken you're getting married,” he says with a wink. “But don't forget. Everyone needs a last fling.”

We both laugh. Kirk isn't serious, but it's fun to have someone flirting with me. Is that because I've gotten older? I used to be outraged to hear wolf whistles as I walked by a construction site. Now if a guy in a hard hat screams out after me, “Nice butt, lady!” I secretly murmur, “Thank you.”

Across the room, Berni is happily breast-feeding and making her way through the entire box of truffles. The hospital room phone rings, and Berni hits the speaker button with her elbow. Half-a-day into motherhood and she's already mastered multitasking.

The voice of her rival agent pal Olivia booms into the room.

“So you delivered,” says Olivia. “Good. That's a load off, huh? How much do you weigh now?”

“You're supposed to ask how much the babies weigh,” Berni says.

“Why, are they fat, too?” Olivia asks.

“They're perfect,” Berni coos, so infatuated with A and B that even Olivia can't get a rise out of her.

“Enough about them,” Olivia says briskly. “You can finally do something for me. I'm having an important dinner party Friday night. My caterer ate his own gazpacho and has food poisoning, so he's bailed.
Basta. Finito.
Gone. I need someone fast. You have to get me the chef who catered your baby shower. Your food was actually decent for once.”