“What, do you have a boyfriend or something?” he says. He blows on his coffee while he watches me and I wonder if guilty people have X-ray glasses that allow them to see other guilty people.
“You have a boyfriend, Mom?” “Isn’t Dad your boyfriend?” “Mom has a boyfriend!”
“Very funny, very funny,” I say. My heart’s jackhammering, as Craig would say. I’m aware of trying to act like the idea’s preposterous. “A boyfriend’s coming over and I’m here in my sweats.”
Bob looks up from his cereal bowl and it occurs to me I shouldn’t have added that last part. If I weren’t guilty I’d have sloughed the whole thing off with a laugh.
“Cam! Mom has a boyfriend!” Andrew announces when Cammy shuffles in, still in her pajama bottoms and ripped-up T-shirt.
“Yeah, right,” she says. The only people she’s not a bitch to are the boys. At least there’s that. She’s always been good with them. It’s probably the age difference. There’s never been competition between the three of them. She’s never really complained about babysitting.
“Guys? Get your stuff and get ready, will you?” I say. I’ve finished packing their crustless sandwiches and Ziplocked baby carrots. I’m out of juice boxes so I throw in the small bottled waters I know will return unopened in their backpacks.
“Cammy? Why aren’t you dressed?” Bob asks. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows in a question mark to see if I’m going to weigh in. I return the look with one that says “it’s all yours” and I go back to pushing crumbs off the counter into my hand. I try to fold the tops of the cereal boxes, but the kids have ripped into the cardboard, so latching them shut is impossible. I scrunch the plastic bag inside and hope nothing goes stale.
“I’m not going to school,” Cammy says. Like it’s something we all talked about and agreed on and how could we have forgotten this development in the life and times of Cameron Friedman.
Bob shrugs his jacket on, pulling the cuffs out from under the sleeve of the suit. “And why is that, may I ask? Sam? Did you know Cammy’s not going to school?”
“Nope.”
I’m pouring milk from cereal bowls down the sink and loading them into the dishwasher.
“I’m just not going,” Cammy says, pouring Cheerios into her bowl. She takes out the baking box of Domino sugar and scoops three heaping tablespoons over her cereal. Over at the fridge she shakes the carton of milk.
“Great. The boys used up all the milk,” she whines. “There’s, like, nothing left for me.”
“You can’t just decide you aren’t going to school,” Bob’s saying. He’s got what a writer would call a beseeching look on his face when he looks at me. “You aren’t sick so you’ve got to go. Sam.”
“I don’t care what Samantha says, I’m not going.”
When Jamie hears his sister call me by my first name he takes Andrew’s arm and pulls him out of the kitchen into the living room. I don’t know if I’ve noticed this before. Andrew hisses at him to stop pulling him away. He wants to stay and watch. Jamie finally tug-of-wars his brother through the doorway.
I’m aware Cammy and Bob are looking at me like I’m the tiebreaker.
“If Cammy doesn’t want to go to school she doesn’t have to,” I say, shoulders up and down. Cammy tries to mask her surprise with indifference but Bob is flat-out astonished.
“Can I talk to you outside?”
He closes the door behind us. It’s chilly out so I probably will have to wear a sweater on top of my blouse. No clouds in the sky, so hopefully it’ll be a good hair day.
“What’s up?” I look at Bob and he’s got his hands on his hips with his legs in a V, Batman style.
“What do you think’s up?” Bob asks. “What’s going on, Sam? Seriously.”
“I honestly don’t give a shit if Cammy goes to school today or not.”
“Why? What the hell is going on with you?”
“I’m tired of being the only one fighting the fight. I’m tired of trying to figure out why our daughter is unraveling. She’s bottoming out and you’re missing in action, Bob. You know what? If you want to try to get her to go to school today, be my guest. But I’m out of it.”
“I’ve got to go to work, Sam. Remember? I work?”
“Oh, and I don’t is what you’re saying.”
“I’m not saying that,” he says.
“Yeah, you are. You always pull that one out of the hat when you don’t want to deal with something.”
“I’m dealing with it, Sam!” he says. “I’m trying here. I got her onto the soccer team. That wasn’t easy, you know. I had to practically bribe the coach with new cleats for the team to get him to take her. I knock on her door and she won’t open it. I don’t know what else to do. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“I could be asking you the same question. Why don’t you tell me what to do? How about that instead of me having to take the bull by the horns every time.”
“Mom, Mrs. Lang’s here.” Jamie pokes his head out the sliding glass door that opens onto the deck. Carol Lang is driving car pool this week.
“Oh, honey, sorry,” I say. “Daddy and I just needed to—”
“It’s okay, Mom,” he says. “Bye.”
“Have a good day at school, buddy,” Bob says. He waves through the glass at Andrew.
“Okay, so you get the gold medal for being the one to take care of everything. You win.” Bob’s smile faded in the turn from the boys back to me. “Happy?”
“It’s not a competition, for God’s sake,” I say.
“So why do I feel like I’m being judged?”
“I thought you had to rush to work,” I say.
“You got somewhere to be? What, the market has a run on kiwis?”
“Nice. Really nice. Perfect example of how you think I sit around doing nothing all day,” I say.
“I’m just saying, you have more time to deal with Cammy than I do right now. I’m so overwhelmed at work it’s not funny. This is about the worst time for Cammy to implode.”
“I’ll tell her she should plan her breakdown at a more convenient time for you,” I say.
“You know what I mean,” he says. “Stop twisting my words. What I mean is I’m behind on four projects.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize napping was considered a project.”
Low blow. I know. I semi-wish I hadn’t said it.
He looks down and pushes a clump of dead leaves through a slat in the deck with the toe of his shoe.
“I know about all the naps, Bob.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” he says.
“You’re depressed but you won’t do anything about it and you know what, I’m at the point where I don’t give a shit anymore. Get help, don’t get help. Whatever.”
“So that’s where we are,” he says.
“That’s where we are.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“What about Cammy?”
“If you don’t care I don’t care,” he says.
“We can’t take our shit out on Cammy,” I say. I don’t know why I haven’t said this out loud to him before. Maybe I’ve only just now realized that’s what we’re doing.
“Yeah, well, you don’t seem to give a shit so why should I?” he says.
“I care, Bob. I honestly do. But I’m out here doing this on my own. You’re totally depressed. You hate work. You’re sleeping all the time. We haven’t had sex in almost a year.”
“It was ten months a few days ago now it’s a year,” he says. He throws his hands up.
“So you were listening after all,” I say. “Funny, I thought you were riveted by the Silvermans’ house.”
“Will you just get to the point?”
“If you’d just think about seeing someone with me. A counselor. I’ve got names …”
“What? You’ve got names? You’ve got names. How did we go from managing the Cammy crisis to seeing a fucking marriage counselor?”
“Shh, keep your voice
down. It all fits together.” This is not exactly how I’d imagined the therapy conversation would go. “If we could band together again. If we could communicate …”
“Here we go.” He reaches for the door handle.
“Wait! Wait. Okay, okay, we don’t have to get into it now. I know you have to go. Just wait. Let’s figure this out.”
“I’m done. You want to go to therapy, go to therapy. I’m not going. I happen to think we’re fine. You’ve got a problem with your life, go talk your head off with someone. I’m sick of hearing about how I’m coming up short.”
I haven’t actually thought about marriage counseling in a while. I threw it out there to get credit. Like later on down the road I can say I tried everything. This is the dance we do now. Back and forth. Me trying and giving up, Bob trying and giving up. This is me now. Back and forth. Forgetting my family, remembering my family. The one thing I’m not back and forth about is Craig.
Cammy
I found out who she is. There’s a wall for peeple who have medils … wait, what the hell am I writng? I’m so fcked up rite now I can’t type. Theres bird nests out front and little babies birds peeping and I want carmals to chew on. Oh man I am so wastd.
I found out which 1 she is. Aktually Paul did. Fcking Paul. He’s a scumbag. I had no idea he knew about her but then last nite he comes up + sez he knows. I should aske him how he found about about the serch. I’ll rewrite this latr. I’ve gotta crash. The wind is taking the subway in a city I dont know. Note to self … don’t erase this tomorrw. Fuckng hilarius. Six seven eight nine ten one two …
OMG I just read what I wrote last night and I almost erased it but what the hell. So hilarious. Paul’s deal was worth it but I think it screwed me up. It hurts to go to the bathroom. Plus I have a bruise where my butt hit the seat belt in the backseat. And my pants weren’t all the way off so there’s a rash on my ankles. I don’t see why anyone ever wants sex. Especially in the places he did it to me. It was like a porno or something. Monica never told me how much it hurts back there. This morning I found blood on my pajama bottoms. I’ll throw them out in the Dumpster behind school. It’s too risky to throw them out here. The normal sex didn’t hurt half as much.
At least now I know which one she is. I told him I knew already and he busted me when he goes, “Yeah? So which one is she? Here they come. Point to her.” I pointed to this old lady who was the stupidest choice since she’s like old enough to be my grandmother. I asked him how he knew I was looking for my real mother and he just blew me off like everyone knows, but I know for a fact no one but Ricky knows. Then again I tried talking to Will about it but he said he doesn’t talk parent-shit. I feel bad I even brought it up with him since his parents were so fucked up. Now that I think about it I may have told Will her name. I’m always kind of out of it when I’m around Will, so there’s a chance I got that much out.
Anyway, Paul asked me why I didn’t just go in and ask who Gerry Wilkes is and I told him the truth: that I’m scared shitless. Whenever I’ve walked up to the front door my mouth goes dry and my heart skips even more beats, so I have to hold my left side because it’s shooting pains now all the time. The only time I feel weak from hunger is when I walk up those steps to that glass door with the metal bars pushing into the main reading room. Plus I don’t want her to see the bald spots where my hair’s fallen out. Not that she’d care but still. I don’t tell Paul any of that part but he was looking so nice, like a shrink would. He’s asking me what I’m so scared of and I’m trying to come up with an answer when he goes, “I know which one she is.”
“Bullshit you do,” I say back. I have this habit of biting my fingers. Not my fingernails but the skin around them. Sometimes they get bloody. When he said that, I was holding my second finger to stop the bleeding. I guess I didn’t wash my hands when I got home because I have brown cracked blood on my thumb. I don’t even know how I got home after. I might have walked. I only have one of the shoes I wore. And my zipper on my pants is ripped. And the back of my hair is matted into rat’s nests.
So he goes, “Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you which one she is.”
“How? You’ll describe her?”
“Yeah. I’ll describe her.”
“Why can’t you just tell me here?” I ask him.
“I do something for you, you do something for me.”
“No way,” I say.
“You’re so pretty. I’ve been watching you forever. I think I’m falling for you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Sure enough he was totally lying about falling for me because he stood up from the ledge that looks out at the guys who were skateboarding at the time. He stood up and said, “Let’s just get outta here.”
“How about you tell me who she is and I promise I’ll go with you after.”
He laughed and I remember he said “pinkie swear” and I started to hold out my little finger and he goes, “oh my God you’re so retarded.” The only times I’m happy I have olive skin is when my cheeks burn. It’s hard for anyone to tell that I’m blushing.
“What the fuck,” he says. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. She’s the one who always wears short skirts. She’s got fucking killer legs. Not much of a rack. But motherfucker she’s hot.”
“Does she have long hair or is she the one with curly hair?”
“Her hair’s straight. Down to here.” He holds his hand to my shoulder and it was sweet the way he did that. I thought he might have been using it as an excuse to kiss me since he could’ve held his hand up to his own shoulder but since the Ricky thing I didn’t make any kind of move in to him.
Then he goes, “She’s the one who looks like she’s black but she isn’t. She’s like half and half.”
For some reason when he told me who she was I felt nothing. I mean, this huge mystery’s solved finally! After so long. The minute he said it I wanted to go home to my room and think about it. That’s the only thing I was thinking: how good it would feel to be in my bed staring up at the ceiling listening to music. So I got up to go. I forgot my deal with Paul.
I remember weird things about last night. And the sound of him running up behind me. Weird. I remember how he called me a bitch when he reached me before I got to the main street at the end of the library but I don’t remember whose car he shoved me into. I don’t remember him dragging me back up to the lot but in my head all I can picture is my shoes rattling along the pavement and I think that’s probably how I lost one of them. There are a lot of pebbles on the cement so my foot got cut up. I can see that now, I mean. I think my brain shut down during it. I remember the sound of my voice going you’re hurting me but I don’t remember what he did about it. I can’t remember unlocking the front door when I got home but I can remember saying my address out loud a couple of times.
I hate my life. RAGE COMPANY. RC. I fucking hate my life.
I just want to tune it out. It’s all noise. I wish my head could be still and I could be blank inside for more than a minute at a time. The sounds are killing me. I seriously think I’m more fucked up than I first thought. Is there anybody out there?
Samantha
I’ve checked and I get a full signal so Craig hasn’t tried to call my cell phone. Besides, I’ve been holding it so there’s no chance I missed a call. He’s never late. And he made a point of telling me not to be late. Fifteen minutes is a chunk of time I wish we hadn’t lost because we only have an hour and a half together. I’ve got to get to the cafeteria by six-thirty to sign up Andrew and Jamie for Boy Scouts. Fifteen minutes feels like an eternity. I’m trying not to think the worst but I have these flashes of her stumbling upon his e-mail asking why he has so many from me.
“Who’s Samantha Friedman?” Evie’d ask, not remembering we met at the park.
“Her? Oh, just a random friend,” he’d tell her.
“She e-mails you a lot for just being a friend,” she’d say. She’d try to click on one of my e-mails but he’d stop her, which would
make her suspicious so he’d say:
“Oh, please. If you could see her you’d know.”
“I know all your friends,” she’d say. “How come I’ve never heard you mention her?”
By now I know we’re not just friends. I replay our kiss so many times it’s frayed in my mind. We moved in toward each other slowly. The air was charged like back in high school and I could barely breathe. Then, after our lips met and slightly parted, with his hand cupping my face he pulled back and said, You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Samantha Friedman.
It was like a movie. Just like a movie.
I said, “That’s not true. Lexi.”
My hand was on his thigh like it was something I always did. He kissed me again and said, “After Lexi. After her you’re the best thing.”
We felt each other’s faces. We breathed into each other’s mouths so we didn’t have to break from kissing. Maybe it was ten minutes.
We shifted back into our seats and I turned to him and said, “We can never do this again.”
He stared ahead at the lake. I got out of his car and back into mine. Five minutes later, at a red light, I fixed my hair in the mirror on the back of the visor. I put lipstick back on. I touched my cheek. I wondered if he thought my skin was soft. I wondered what he was doing. He hadn’t started his car when I pulled away. He’d just sat there.
“Hey, sorry I’m late.” He is breathless. The outside air clings to him.
“I was starting to worry,” I say. “Everything okay?”
He’s looking cagey and nervous. I feel my muscles start tensing up. He looks over his shoulder before he pulls the chair out and sits down. He doesn’t take off his coat. I grip the edge of the table. She found out. He probably told her he had to run an errand.
When Craig leans across the table toward me all I can hear is a faraway ringtone version of “Staying Alive” and I turn in my seat to see whose cell phone is ringing. The song’s getting to the falsetto chorus and it still hasn’t been answered. I turn back to him and realize I want to be the one to break our hearts.
“Oh, God, wait,” I say. A sourness in my stomach combined with lack of oxygen makes me feel like I am about to faint. “Wait a second.”