Momfriends (22 page)

“He’s going to miss his mother,” Pam said, not realizing—or knowing all too well—that she was twisting the knife in my heart. I went against my “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” better judgment and picked him up out of his seat to give him a hug and demonstrate what a loving mother I actually was.

He immediately started wailing. I had left two bottles in the fridge, but I decided to nurse him. I felt so torn in so many directions. The whole process of getting out of the house, of having somewhere to be was making me frantic.

Abe’s gift to me was to vomit on my cardigan when I was finished nursing.

“Oh, dear,” Pam said. She went to get a wipe to try and wipe me down. She got the stain out, but I could still smell the spit-up and I feared that Claudia and Kirsten would smell it too.

I took the cardigan off.

“You’re fine that way, Ruth. I think it’s warm out.”

“I know, but I should take something just in case,” I said. The only thing that remotely fit me was a heavier red sweatshirt that was in my closet. It wasn’t pretty but it was that or a denim jacket and I had my standards. I could not do clashing denim. There was no way.

And even though, I had been rushing frantically around and practically jogged down Flatbush and up Fifth Avenue fearing I would be late, here I am the first one at the restaurant. I am a big bloated loser.

I sit down at the bar. There is a giant mirror behind it and I can’t help but stare right at my reflection. I look unbelievably exhausted. Behind me, I can see all the rest of the patrons enjoying their night out. For them it’s common; they probably don’t have full breasts and a child who is most likely screaming at home. It’s hard to believe this used to be my life. I used to go out every night. I was carefree and answered to no one. Now, when the bartender approaches me for my drink order, I practically cower in fear.

“I think I’ll stick with water for now,” I say and he nods and fills up my cup. “I am waiting for someone.”

‘Ok,” he says and goes down the bar to attend to someone else. I realize that I sounded way to defensive. I made myself seem like an even bigger loser. The bartender really doesn’t care. This, as everything, isn’t all about me.

Why didn’t I bring something to read? I am way behind on all my magazines; this could have been the perfect time to catch up. No, that would have made me an even bigger loser. Instead, I stare at the mosaic behind the bar. It’s a big cactus. This place is Latin fusion. I think women always go to Latin places these days when they want to have a girls’ night. What is it about Latin places that is meant to equal fun? What is it about my brain that keeps jumping from topic to topic?

Claudia taps my shoulder and I turn around. I immediately feel more like a schlub when I see her. But she doesn’t notice my outfit, at least not right away. She is too busy nervously giving me excuses.

“I can’t believe this; my train was delayed for a half hour. I never take the N and I’m never late.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “Kirsten isn’t here yet either. “

“She’s late,” Claudia says, sounding annoyed, seemingly forgetting that she was late, too. “She’s the one who organized this,”

I shrug. I am not really sure what to say to Claudia. Normally, I would give someone a kiss on the cheek when I was meeting her, but I don’t really know Claudia at all. And she doesn’t seem like a fan of affection.

“Should we get a table?” she asks.

“Um, sure,” I say. “Or we can wait for Kirsten, you know, maybe get a drink.”

“A drink, sure,” Claudia says. I don’t know if she really thinks it’s a good idea, but I think a drink would definitely help. I flag the bartender over. This will show him that I’m not a loser.

“I’ll have a margarita.”

“Frozen?”

“Sure.”

“Flavored?”

“Wow, yes,” I say. The very prospect of alcohol has pepped me up. I haven’t had an adult cocktail in almost a year.

“What flavor?”

“Right,” I say. I’m back to loser status. “What flavors do you have?”

“Strawberry, mango and blood orange.”

“Blood orange, I want that.”

He looks at Claudia.

“I’m not sure,” she looks at me and up at the ceiling. “Can I see a menu?”

He gets her one and she studies it. We are both waiting.

“I’ll need a minute,” she says. She has this matter-of-fact way of speaking that comes across as rude. The bartender backs away and Claudia studies the menu.

“What’s the mojito?”

I think she’s kidding. I laugh. She looks at me. I realize that she’s not kidding.

“You know, it’s that Cuban drink with the mint, lime, rum, sugar. You know, a mojito,” I say. She looks at me, blinking her eyes. In this day and age, who doesn’t know what a mojito is? I mean, has she avoided television, cookbooks, the Internet, pop culture? Who doesn’t know what a mojito is?

“I don’t drink much,” she says. I nod. This is turning out to be the worst first date ever. I am anxious for Kirsten to get here to defuse, to deflect.

The bartender brings me my drink and Claudia asks him what is in a pisco sour and then she orders a Merlot after his explanation. It’s all done dismissively, as though she is doing him a favor, by letting him take her order.

She takes off her jacket, and she has a nice sleeveless top on underneath. Her new haircut makes her look younger too and more relaxed. I feel fat.

“I can’t believe how long the train took,” she says and launches into a whole story about, well, how the train was delayed. It should have been as simple as “the train got stuck on the bridge,” but instead it is an intricate tale of the ins and outs of her commute, where she likes to sit, how many times in the past she has been stuck, comments on the demeanors of the other passengers. I can’t really follow what she is saying. She keeps going off on tangents. I am nodding, but all the words are making my head spin. Before I know it, I have sucked down most of my drink. I keep on nodding, feeling the drink hit me faster than I suspected. Claudia has barely had a sip of her wine. She is too busy to drink as she keeps interrupting her own story.

“Can I have some water?” I practically scream when the bartender comes back down our side of the bar. This time, I interrupt Claudia and she shoots me a look and sips her drink.

“Sorry,” I say. “I wanted to get him before he never came back.”

She nods. I wonder if I have offended her. I always feel this way around her. I am about to apologize when Kirsten shows up. She looks glowing in some purple tank top with a silver shrug. She wraps her arms around both of us, enveloping me in her fresh vanilla smell. I can’t figure out how these two women with varying styles and more than one child manage to be so put together while I can’t seem to find a stylish outer shell.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Kirsten says. “My signals got crossed with David.”

I study her face, but she is smiling and ordering a Negro Modelo from the bartender.

“You guys look terrific,” she says. She takes a long sip of her beer. “Sure is good to have a night out.”

I nod.

“I know I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant at night. I mean it,” Claudia says. She may have taken her jacket off and ordered a drink, but she isn’t relaxed. Her eyes dart back and forth between us as if she suspects something.

I shouldn’t have even come. My kid needs me, my mother-in-law is judging me, and I should be attempting sex with my husband. Plus, I really can’t enjoy myself knowing I look this bad.

The water isn’t helping me counteract my buzz, and already I feel myself zoning in and out of the conversation. But I notice that Kirsten is gulping her beer. Claudia is also drinking a lot. After each sip, she winces. Lightweight.

But who am I to judge? I don’t know these women at all. In fact, I can’t really imagine a situation in my life when I would have chosen to hang out with them. They are lovely in their own ways, I guess, but they aren’t women that I would have gravitated toward. I miss Liz and all the nights we spent partying into the morning. We went out almost every night of the week, drinking drinks and meeting boys. We had fun. But I can’t imagine going out with her right now. I can’t imagine what we would have to talk about. I’m still dodging her messages, and they have gotten less frequent since I no-showed her birthday party.

Not that I have much to talk about with these two either. Claudia is grilling Kirsten about preschool. Her questions are so pointed that I want to turn around and see if someone is projecting them on a screen behind me. After each answer Kirsten gives Claudia pauses as if trying to send a message back to the mother ship. And each time she asks the follow-up question, she looks around as if trying to convince us that she is truly pulling these questions out of thin air.

I’m simply sitting here, and sitting here is not what I do well. I am a television producer. I’m funny. I’m used to holding court. But how? I really can’t remember the things I said that people found entertaining. But I know they did. I distinctly remember people laughing at things I said. They guffawed. I was a regular Don fucking Rickles and now I’m sitting on a barstool trying to think of something funny to add to the conversation. Where is the place for me? It’s not with Liz and not with these two moms who can’t really think of anything else to talk about but preschool eating habits.

“So what do they do about snack?”

“Well, we alternate with all the other families.”

“Yes, but are there standards? Are there certain acceptable snacks?”

“I think it depends on the class. You never know what allergies will be and they definitely take that into consideration, but they give you a list to refer to, so you aren’t flying blind.”

I don’t think Claudia is ever flying blind. As she pauses to telegraph back to the home planet, I order another drink.

“I’ll get one, too,” Kirsten says, gesturing to her beer.

“Oh, we are getting another, not getting a table,” Claudia says.

“We can,” Kirsten says.

“No, that’s fine,” Claudia says, unconvincingly. She picks the drinks menu up again. “I’ll have one of those mojitos.”

“Fancy,” Kirsten says approvingly. “I’ll try one too.”

I stick with my margarita. Only amateurs change their drink. Claudia keeps at it with the questions and at one point I mutter that they probably have a guidebook, expecting Kirsten to turn around and smile, but she doesn’t. I like a little acknowledgement from time to time. She is totally focused on what Claudia is asking her. I am beginning to think this night out was only so they could talk about preschool. Even my attempts at humor are lame. I suck down the rest of my drink and then I wave the bartender over for another drink. Those two are still nursing their drinks.

At last Claudia runs out of questions. Or maybe she is giving Kirsten a break before the next onslaught. I decide to try to get involved again. What the hell, right? I am two and a half drinks in with a babysitter and a head of blow-dried hair.

“So how is Sage?”

But Kirsten ignores me. She doesn’t turn around. It’s surprisingly rude and Claudia looks at her and then back to me. Kirsten starts telling Claudia about the other time she was at this restaurant, but then she notices Claudia’s expression. She turns around, cocking her head in that way she does, that makes her look at once coy and guileless.

“I’m sorry, Ruth did you say something? I didn’t hear you.”

“I just asked about Sage,” I say.

“Have you said anything else that I didn’t hear?”

“Sort of,” I say.

“Well, I’m sorry. I should have told you. I am deaf in one ear so sometimes. I can’t hear everything.”

“You are,” Claudia says. Then she nods like she suspected something and now it all makes sense.

“I usually try to adjust for my surroundings, but sometimes”—she gestures to the drink in front of her—“I forget.”

“You’re completely deaf?” I ask. “That’s got to be tough.”

“It honestly was never that a big a deal. You do a lot of things to compensate. You get good at reading people’s body language and anticipating what they are going to say. It also teaches you to be a little more patient and not respond so quickly. I have to take a minute and make sure I don’t respond to things in anger, because I might have misheard.”

“Is that what happened with your husband tonight?” Claudia asks. It’s a personal question. The drinks are making Claudia bold. Her shoulders have sunk lower and her back is not so rigid.

“No, that wasn’t it. He was supposed to be home by five so that I could, you know, have some help while I got dinner together and maybe showered. So I called the bakery where he works at five thirty and they said that he was gone since four thirty. It should take him about twelve minutes to get home and he didn’t get home until six thirty. Of course, I called his cell phone, but it was mysteriously off.”

“That sounds as though you need to have a conversation,” Claudia says.

“Well, needless to say, I didn’t take a shower.”

“Wow, you still smell good,” I say.

“Body splash,” Kirsten says and giggles. She looks down at her drink and twirls the straw between her fingers. “We just can’t seem to get it together lately.”

Claudia and I don’t say anything for a minute. But then I’m grateful for Claudia’s directness because she comes right out and asks the question I have wanted to ask since Kirsten was last at my house.

“What do you think the problem is?”

Kirsten looks up and I think that she might cry.

“I’m not sure. It seems like he’s turning away from me. He doesn’t see me anymore. He’s pulling away. He’s not where he should be, where he says he’s going to be. And even when he is there . . . he’s not.”

I know what it sounds like. I look over at Claudia. I think she is thinking the same thing, but we aren’t going to say it.

“Maybe, it’s nothing. I could be being sensitive. It’s something strange I feel. You know how animals always seem to know when a disaster is coming. That’s how I feel. I spent the day listening to chick music wondering what I can do.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” Claudia says. “But maybe instead of listening to songs, you should ask him straight out what the problem is.”