Say Never (11 page)

I stand in the center of the room, buck naked, wondering what the hell to do. I have no clothes, except the ones covered in kid puke which are now in the trash bin. And I can’t very well streak down to my brother’s room and ask him for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. (The last time my brother saw me naked was when I was thirteen and he was twelve, and I’m still scarred from the memory of him pointing at my chest and asking what
those things
were.)

I shiver. November in Southern California isn’t like New York, but it’s still November. And also I’m nude. I rush to the guest bed, peel back the covers, and dive in. The sheets are cool, but the comforter is thick, and within moments I’m toasty warm. This is not my bed, with my Ralph Lauren four-hundred-and-sixty-four thread-count sheets and my Frette duvet, but it’ll do. I reach over and grab my cell phone from the bedside table, scan the LCD to see that I have a bunch of texts from Damien and assorted emails from God knows who. Instead of responding to any of them, I toss the phone back on the night table and relax into the pillows.

As I gaze at the ceiling—cottage cheese left over from the seventies which really needs to be scraped—my thoughts alight upon Adam, my not-boyfriend. I wonder how, and with whom, he’s spending his evening. Not that it really matters to me. And this thought leads me back to my conversation with Danny and his assessment that I am totally disconnected.

I am loathe to admit it, but my brother is not entirely wrong. I am disconnected. I have been for a very long time. I’ve had years of therapy to deal with this issue, time to mull over the reasons why I am the way I am. According to Dr. Rabinowitz, it all goes back to my mother, Melanie.

Like I needed my therapist to tell me that.

Melanie Lucas was a beautiful girl from a small town in Idaho, the daughter of a farmer and a teacher whose closed minds and calloused hands filled her with shame. On a weekend trip to Southern California to visit a friend, she’d met my dad, Frank “Buddy” Monroe, blue collar worker and all around great guy. In him, she’d seen an opportunity to escape her own overbearing and possessive mother, and she’d used all of her wiles to ensnare him, the poor bastard.

From the beginning, she’d made it abundantly clear to my dad that she did not want children. My dad had always imagined little Buddies running around the front yard, but he’d been so dazzled by her beauty, and—I’m guessing here—her prowess in the sack, he’d readily given up his dreams of fatherhood in exchange for the honor of calling her his bride.

Low and behold, several years into their marriage, the condom broke, or she missed a pill, or whatever, and Melanie discovered she was pregnant. And, boy, was she pissed—had an actual meltdown in her OB/GYN’s office and had to be sedated and taken to the hospital for observation. (Yes, the apple does not far fall from the tree. You can always count on genes.)

This was after Roe vs. Wade and abortion was legal, but there was still a horrible stigma attached to undergoing the procedure. Melanie didn’t like stigma. She wanted to fly to Japan to ‘take care of things’ quietly and anonymously, but Buddy couldn’t afford the ticket. So she was forced to go through with the pregnancy. (Years later, after he put away a few too many beers, Buddy admitted that Melanie had begged him to allow her to put me up for adoption. Upon hearing this, Dr. Rabinowitz wanted to base a study on me—
Abandonment issues begin in the womb!
)

As soon as she gave birth, Melanie decided to get pregnant again, right away. Not because she’d enjoyed her pregnancy, nor because she discovered an overwhelming love for the chubby little infant wailing from the crib, but because she figured it would be easier to provide me with a constant companion and playmate than it would be to entertain me herself. A year and two days after my birth, my brother Danny came into this world. At which time, Melanie had a tubal ligation.

My mother—and I use that term loosely—lasted four years in a house with two children before she started to go bat-shit. Buddy became the hands-on parent, changing diapers and kissing booboos, tasks that did not come naturally to this oil driller. And Melanie became the ghost parent. I still remember the time I fell off the swing set in our front yard and popped my forehead open on the rough patch of dirt beneath it. Melanie was sitting on the front porch painting her nails. She didn’t skip a stroke of the nail brush, not even when I rushed over to her, sobbing, blood pouring down my face. She merely turned her head away from me and called for my father.

On the eve of my fifth birthday, she ran off with the plumber and moved to Scottsdale. For a while, she kept in touch, albeit sporadically. The random birthday card two months late or the completely inappropriate Christmas presents, like the peace pipe she sent to Danny one year, or the hand-carved totem pole of naked men she sent to me the next.

She called her sister, my Aunt Bella, semi-regularly to update her on the goings on in Arizona, and, in turn, Bella would call up Buddy. Which is how he found out that the plumber had gone back to his wife and four children, leaving Melanie alone and heartbroken and in need of a job. The job-thing was probably the most heartbreaking of all for her, as my mother was allergic to work.

Buddy reached out to my mother, asked her to come home, promised that he would forgive her of her sins, and assured her that Danny and I were old enough to take care of ourselves and wouldn’t cause her any trouble whatsoever. According to my dad, she agreed. But days went by, then weeks, and there was no sign of her.

One day, my Aunt Bella appeared on our doorstep. She hadn’t called, which she usually did before a visit. I’d been sitting in the kitchen watching
Brady Bunch
reruns
with Danny when I heard my father start to moan from the porch. Danny and I ran to see what was wrong and found Buddy on the couch in the living room, his head buried in his hands. My Aunt Bella was ineffectually patting his shoulder.

“Your mom died,” she’d told us. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes were swollen and red. “She was driving her car and she lost control and crashed into a ravine.”

“She was, she was on her way back.” My dad practically choked on his words. “She was on her way back to us.”

Aunt Bella had shaken her head. “No, Buddy. She was on her way to a motel. With a man. She was drunk.”

At the time, I remember thinking that Aunt Bella was as big a bitch as my mother, but later I realized that she was giving Buddy and Danny and me a gift. She hadn’t wanted us to blame ourselves for Melanie’s death. She’d been brutally honest to keep Melanie from haunting us. It didn’t work, at least not for me. My mother haunts me to this day.

“Was it instant?” Buddy asked, his haggard face awash with conflicting emotions: turmoil, anguish, desperation, grim hope. I’ll never forget his expression, nor the pleading in his voice, nor the way I felt at that moment, which was utterly and completely numb.

Bella didn’t respond to his question, couldn’t bring herself to relay the awful truth the coroner had given her. That my mother had been trapped in that car for as many as five hours before her heart finally stopped.
Five hours.

I was eleven when Melanie was laid to rest. And although her family surrounded her grave, threw dirt on her coffin, gently placed flowers on her gravestone, it occurred to me, even then, that she had died utterly alone. I didn’t grieve for her the way other people grieve for their loved ones. I had long since closed off that part of myself, that part of me that was a daughter to a mother.

But the idea of her being alone for five hours, likely contemplating her life…I can’t help but wonder what she was thinking as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Did she think about Danny and me at all? Buddy? Did she relive any happy memories from her time with us, if there were some? Did she have any regrets about the choices she’d made? Did she grieve for all the years she’d missed out on, all the years she would never have? Did she care even slightly? I’d like to think she did, but I’m too cynical to believe it. I suspect she didn’t give a damn about any of us.

I pull a pillow from under my head and press it over my face, thinking that if I cut off my oxygen supply for a moment, I might just pass out. Because sometimes, passing out is the only thing that keeps me from drowning in my memories. And since the vodka is in the kitchen, and I don’t have any clothes to put on to get me to the kitchen in a G-rated fashion, suffocation seems to be my only choice.

It doesn’t work. Thoughts of Melanie plague me. Finally, I give up and grab my cell phone from the nightstand. It’s late in New York, past midnight, but I know Adam will be awake. I just want to hear the sound of his voice, maybe engage in a little phone sex to take the edge off. I’m already naked, right? I scan my contact list for his name, then touch the call button. After four rings, his voicemail sound in my ear. As I listen to his smooth, just-got-laid voice telling me he’s unavailable, I contemplate whether or not to leave a message. The tone sounds before I can disconnect.

“Hey, Adam, it’s Meg. You’re probably out shagging some babes.” My laughter sounds forced to my own ears. “Anyway, just wanted to hear your voice. I made it safely to La-La-Land, thought you’d want to know. Okay, well. Talk soon?”

I press the end button and set the phone down, then pick up the remote and flick on the TV. I channel surf until I find one of those
Real Housewives
shows,
then gaze at the screen
and let the non-realistic problems of a bunch of stupid bitches lull me into a stupor.

Seven

Caller:
How can you say it’s disgusting, Meg? Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world.

Meg:
Great. Wonderful. Just keep your ta-tas where I can’t see them, okay? I see enough ta-tas on Cinemax.

Barry:
I love talking about ta-tas.

* * *

I’m dreaming. I can tell because every once in a while, Adam’s face morphs into Pierce Brosnan’s face. Adam-Pierce is kissing my eyelids, caressing my cheeks, enveloping me in his muscular arms. I look like Rene Russo in
The Thomas Crown Affair,
shimmery sheer sheath enrobing my lithe body—another clue that this is a dream. I’m lithe in real life, but my height is not five foot
gazillion
like Rene’s. Adam-Pierce slides the straps over my bare shoulders, gently tugging the top of my dress down to expose my breasts. His hand moves toward my naked skin—oh, definitely Pierce now, thank you God—and I shiver with anticipation. But instead of the soft, subtle caress I’m expecting, he reaches out and starts slapping at my left breast.

Hey, Pierce, go easy on the girls,
I tell him. Pierce smiles sweetly at me, revealing a mouth full of toothless gums, and squeezes my breast violently. I recoil from him, and suddenly Pierce becomes Adam, and a moment after that, Adam disintegrates into nothingness. On some level, I recognize that the dream is over, but as I rise toward consciousness, I realize that my left breast is still being roughly abused.

Slap, slap. Squeeze. Slap, slap. Squeeze.

I shake off the last vestiges of sleep and pry my eyes open. And when I do, I almost have a heart attack. Laying in the bed next to me is my nephew Tebow, half-asleep, his chubby little hand clawing at my boob, his mouth moving hungrily toward my nipple.

I shriek, loudly, then roll away from him, taking all of the covers with me as I go. I land with a thud on the floor, tangled up in the cheap, bulky Linens ‘n Things bedding.

“Fucking hell!” I cry at the same moment my nephew starts bawling.

I hear the heavy tread of my brother’s footsteps coming down the hall, then the door to the guest room swings open.

“What’s going—? Oh, hey, buddy! There you are! What’s wrong, my guy?”

“Booby!” wails Tebow.
Typical man
. Can’t say ‘daddy’ but pronounces ‘booby’ perfectly.

“No, no, no. No more booby. Nummy only. Where’s Auntie Meg?”

“Down here!” I shout, trying to shimmy into a seated position while keeping myself completely covered.

My brother appears around the side of the bed, holding Tebow in his arms. “What the heck are you doing down there?”

“Didn’t you hear your son?” I retort. “He wanted ‘booby.’” I hook my fingers into quotes, causing the bedding to slip down to my clavicle. I grab for the sheet and pull it to my chin. “He’s better than a bloodhound. Found the only pair of ‘boobies’ in the house!”

Danny starts to laugh and I suppress the urge to flip him off. No sense in teaching my nephew that particular gesture.
Yet.
Maybe in five years.

“Oh, yeah. Hilarious. I’ve been manhandled. No, wait. Toddler-handled. Jesus. You’d think he’d be able to tell the difference between me and his mother.”

“Have a heart, sis. His mom disappeared from his life a week ago. He’s still trying to process it.”

“Oh, great. Here we go with the Dr. Phil shi—stuff again. Give me a break.”

“Nummy!” Tebow cries. “Nummy. Nummy. Wan nummy!”

“What the hell—heck—is a nummy?”