Plan C (21 page)

Every day, you must show the adoption agency – via multiple photographs - that the child is learning. Bebe has sent me the jpeg photos of Tamara and her holding up fingers to demonstrate how many days it’s been – this is day six of them being together. Bebe tells me it’s important to smile in the photos, so it looks as if you and your child are bonding. But there’s no need to fake it. Bebe has never looked more relaxed and happy. And the little girl looks genuinely thrilled to have a mommy.

The email goes on to explain that after this ordeal there’s a court date and then a fifteen day appeals process. You hope and pray you won’t lose your kid.

I hit the reply key and say, “I can’t wait to meet Tamara. She looks beautiful, and she looks like you. The waiting period is worth it. You can’t help but grow from all of this, Bebe. What an experience! I’ve never been more proud of you, and I can’t wait to finally be an aunt. Love, Libby.” I hit the send button.

Seconds later it’s in Bebe’s inbox in a Hyatt Hotel on the other end of the world. Tamara hits Bebe on the head several times with a plastic beach ball that I later learn has been their entertainment savior. Bebe rubs her head and says, “Ouch, Tamara. That hurts. You can’t do that to Mommy.” Tamara lowers the ball and pouts. The problem is, Bebe can’t reprimand her new daughter because they can’t understand each other. It’s as though Tamara’s a pet who can only respond to tone. Bebe’s tone tells Tamara she’s tired of being slammed in the noggin.

Tamara starts crying. Bebe goes to her side desperately trying to console her. But the little girl pushes her away - “no, Mommy no” and curses her new mother in her native tongue. The word “Mommy” sounds glorious to Bebe, but the attitude that follows concerns her for a brief fleeing moment.

Bebe goes back to her computer, where she finds a “P.S.” from me. She hits the email to read it: “En route to Boston but ran into Henry tonight at the Roadhouse. He misses you, too. Godnight.” And with that, my second shot of vodka kicks in.

*

The ride to Boston is a severe mix of rain pellets pounding on the windshield and Beatrice screaming, “Are we going to die before I go in the pool?” The car moves at a
snail’s pace over the Sagamore Bridge – apparently the weatherman got it wrong and the hurricane came early. My fingers tighten their grip on the steering wheel, and I’m feeling very Naomi Campbell, longing to bash Beatrice with my cell phone. She’s the reason we’re stuck. If she hadn’t been such a “slowpoke, fuss budget” as she called herself this morning, I’d have dropped Beatrice to her niece’s hours ago. Right about now I should be sharing a pot of tea with my oldest daughter, Scarlett, on her sofa in Boston.

Getting to Plymouth, normally a twenty minute ride proves to be an endless chore. It’s been two-plus hours in the car, and there’s no rest area in sight. Beatrice needs to pee. She’s needed to pee every five minutes since we’ve left the Cape.

Through the windshield wipers I squint to see a motel’s neon sign. I pull the car into the parking lot and turn to Beatrice. “I’m going to make a run to the office. You sit here. I’ll see if I can get us a room.”

“Find out if they serve lunch by the pool.”

“Not today, Bea. There’s a hurricane.”

“Oh, rats!” she says, slamming her body against the seat.

*

I wouldn’t want to put even my ninth grade music teach who stole my rights to the musical lead of “
My Fair Lady”
through the torturous twenty-four hours that follow… Blowing rain, no TV and, far worse than that, no liquor store in sight. We live on pizza from Stella’s pizzeria, which Stella operates on a gas lit stove out of her home right next to the motel. I won’t be seeing my daughter, Scarlett now.

I started reading Evelyn Waugh’s
Scoop
by candlelight since working at my computer is impossible. Beatrice sits upright against the headboard knitting. She complains after every other chain stitch. “I only wanted to go in a pool more than anything in the world.”

It’s her trembling chin that does me in. “Fine, we’ll do it tomorrow,” I say. “Before we pack up the car, and if the rain has stopped, I’ll have my morning cup of coffee and then we’ll jump in the pool. The motel has one out back. I saw it.”

Beatrice smiles and then pulled the covers up to her chin. I stare at her – she’s sound asleep in seconds. What am I, nuts? It’s November! It’s not more than forty degrees outside. The manager’s had the pool covered by a plastic tarp since Labor Day.

Wasn’t it Eleanor Roosevelt who once said a woman is like a tea bag? You never know how strong she is until you get her into hot water. Or, in my case, freezing water…

The spit balls fly through the tip of a plastic straw lodged into the back of my hair. I don’t realize what’s going on until the twins’ giggling tips me off to the fact that my up-do has become a nest of wet paper wrappings. I run my fingers gently across the back, so as not to disrupt the bobby pins. “Okay, gross!”

From the passenger’s side of the car I turn to the back seat, just in time to spy Jean-Christophe lowering his straw into his lap and casting his eyes to the carpet muddied by his filthy sneakers. Jean-Baptiste bites his bottom lip, his chin trembling. “Okay, that’s about enough,” I say, and then turn around, succumbing to the comfort of my car door window which I lean against before staring over at Ben. He’s behind the wheel driving with some difficulty, since his left hand is bandaged from the accident. The sunlight slices through the trees and casts light onto his face – the one I study and love. It’s still bruised - his cheeks and nose the final shade of golden yellow, like late past-peak foliage just outside the window as we pass along the apartment buildings of Fifth Avenue.

He reaches over to squeeze my knee, but my mind drifts off to the men in all my friend’s lives. Bebe’s guy - that despicable Bernie - is a moron, but she doesn’t notice.
We do. Kitty’s guy, Clive, is fantastic but she
thinks
he’s a moron. He isn’t. And my guy Ben, is fabulous, but his situation just plain ole sucks. Maybe because he allows it to suck!

And then, there’s Darth Vader – the dog whose drool is dribbling down the sides of his mouth as his stale breath hits my neck. Darth Vader is the twins’ new rescue mutt. Turning to meet his stare, I sense that his hooded brown eyes are trying to tell me something: I too want to escape this chaos for the safety of my crate. Why did
they
adopt me!

“My eyes are watering,” I say to Ben, rubbing my lids.

“Allergies?”

“Yes, it’s the dog. The dander goes straight to my sinuses.”

“I’ll drop you off at the corner while I go find a spot.”

Moments later I’m left to standing in peace on the corner of Park and 72
^nd
Street, juggling a large festive box with pink and orange curling ribbons. The gift screams “happy“ even though my heart is screaming “I hate my life, get me out of here.” If only I could break through the glass of my own personal snow globe.

But my self-absorption quickly turns to curiosity as I squint to see if the approaching woman is Kitty…

It is. And she’s empty-handed, except for her Blackberry. “How could you
not
bring a present?” I yell out.

“Why do we have to have a baby shower for this kid?” Kitty shouts back. “She’s practically in college!” She crosses, engrossed in reading a text reply.

“It’s not a baby shower,” I say, “It’s a congratulations party.” I raise my gift up in the air with genuine enthusiasm. “It’s a welcome to America. Welcome to Bebe’s world!”

“Well, I ordered Tamara a gift online. Some lunchbox. Blow Job Queer Pants – something like that.”

I shake my head and accept her cheek smooch. Then it hits me. Her face! I step back to examine her. I don’t actually detect much change since her surgery, but I’m not about to tell her that. “Wow, Kitty, your facelift looks amazing! You look like ten years younger,” I say, touching her cheek, and then adding what she most wants to hear: “And your jaw line. It’s so smooth. Like a baby’s bottom.”

“Baby’s bottom my ass. Forget how I
look
. What about what it’s done for my state of mind! I’m emotionally restored to youth. My confidence is up! I’m finally capable of saying anything that crosses my mind!”

“Gosh. What a change!”

“Don’t give me a hard time. I’ve got a wicked hangover.”

“How much wine?”

“Let’s just say I should be going to AA, not a plastic surgeon.” Kitty cranes her neck behind me. “I thought Ben and the children of the corn were coming?”

“They are. They’re just…” and then my eyes catch a glimpse of her calf from beneath her Gucci skirt, which is the only skin visible except for her hands, which are, like her calves, noticeably spotted brown and white. “Kitty! What the….”

“No, I don’t have that Michael Jackson disease – rest his soul,” says Kitty. “It’s another disease…its called alcoholism!”

“Huh?”

“Let this be a lesson to you. Don’t ever bronze after three martinis.”

“Oh my God, Kitty,” I say, as she twirls her leg to show me the inside of her knees. “Well, it’s not that bad. I mean Clive shouldn’t mind. Brits are used to pasty skin…”

“It’s not for Clive,” she snaps. “It’s for Helmut.”

“Helmut Fuck?”

“Fascchhhh….”

“Kitty, are you….”

“Not yet,” says Kitty.

“But his breath is so…”

“Listerine. Kills germs.”

“Then why is he still here!”

“Oh, stop,” says Kitty. “He’s minty fresh. Good to go…”

“Good to go where? Bed? Because I couldn’t even
stand
next to him, let alone
sleep
next to him.”

“I give it two weeks and we’ll be together – just Helmut and me, rolling in the sheets.” Then she grabs my arm. “Assuming I can wait that long for Paris…”

“Oh, Paris!” I say with some accent like a cheap imitation of Audrey Hepburn’s. “J’aime beaucoup Paris!” Next thing I know my body is robotically twirling into traffic as though I’m instantly possessed by the mere mention of that city. “I’m so delighted to just say the words!”

Kitty pulls me back to save me from an oncoming bus. “Oh you and your Paris,” says Kitty. “I told you to just join me already. Stay at the George V. It’s a glorious hotel. Get a room on my floor.”

“The George V? Are you kidding?”

“I’m serious. In this day and age it’s not
whom
you sleep with, it’s
where
you sleep.”

“No, I mean, you know I can’t afford it right now…”

“You’ve got to be kidding…”

“No, really,” I say. “I can’t afford it.”

“Not you. That!” Kitty points.

I turn to see what’s attracted Kitty’s attention and land on Ben dragged by Darth Vader nose first into the telephone pole. It’s like something out of a Looney Tunes cartoon as Ben tries to untangle the leash while Darth Vader stops to lift a leg and pee on a limo’s tires. The dog stops short and changes his mind, opting to territory-mark a classic Jaguar on the next corner. Jean-Baptiste slouches against the Hermes storefront window lifting his leg as though imitating the dog, and leaving multiple hand marks on the glass. The store manager comes out to reprimand him, and that’s when Jean-Christophe licks the hand marks off the window.

“Oh, god,” says Kitty, “Can’t you put a muzzle on ‘em.”

“Ben’s got one in the car, but it seems a little extreme. I know he’s a bit hyper, but otherwise he’s really a very sweet dog.”

“Not the
dog
, the kids!”

“Well, we tried a leash once….

“And…”

“We were worried what people might think. But the boys seemed to love it. When people stared the twins would just growl and bark.”

“Why do they have so many presents?” she says, counting the boxes. “Isn’t your one gift enough?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “They cant handle it well when
another
child gets to celebrate an event so we have to make sure
they
have presents, too. So they don’t feel left out.”

“They’re such monsters,” says Kitty.

“Yes,” I say, “And speaking of their Halloween costumes…”

“Were we?”

“Apparently the monsters
did
get punished.”

“For what?” snaps Kitty.

“Egging the neighbor’s house.”

“Well, even I used to do that,” she snaps.

“Yes, but not with…”

“Cage-free Omega-3 eggs?”

I nod.

“Ha!” she says. “That’s somewhere between uproariously funny and completely disgusting.”

“Like everything else in Greenwich
fucking
Connecticut.”

Two women walk into a SpongeBob SquarePants bikini bottom theme party that their best friend is throwing. None of us is
in
bikinis but each of us is equipped with the perceptions about how one another’s lives should be. Life is all about perception… like when you enter a room thinking your hemline is kind of flattering to your calves, and somebody else is thinking the same hemline is too short. And then there’s Kitty’s hemline – her brown-spotted legs crying out for a full-length Amish dress.

It’s a magnificent party. Bebe always throws magnificent parties. That’s everyone’s perception.

Until you’ve lived in New York you haven’t experienced a real New York party – a party worthy of New York society pages. Bebe’s in the dining alcove, working out of a mahogany trunk, as four models off the pages of this month’s
Vogue
dress the little girl guests for a faux fashion show. A clown near the bookcase face-paints a little boy, while a SpongeBob roams the terrace that overlooks the city, juggling Bebe’s Mackenzie Childs cake plates.

My cousin Godfrey – the famous chef – has sent over a winning contestant from the show “
Top Chef”
to do the cooking. Ballerinas from Lincoln Center command the living room’s white woolen carpet on tippy-toe, their pink-slippered feet posed in second position. One ballerina does a pirouette, and the little girls clap with delight.

As Kitty and I take it all in, somebody hugs me from behind. I spin to see my daughter, Madeline, all grown-up and sexy in six-inch come hither heels. I run my hand down the back of her waist-length wavy brown locks.