Mike, Mike & Me

  I did know, and I again wanted to blurt out that I was in love. With somebody else. Some other Mike.

  But we weren’t talking about love.

  “…getting in touch with me,” this Mike finished with a shrug.

  I felt guilty taking his card, but I did. I shoved it into my bag without looking at it.

  “Thanks,” I told him. “For the card and for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome. What time does your friend’s flight get in?”

  “Any second now,” I lied, and looked around as though I almost expected to see Mike—my Mike—lurking behind a potted palm, spying on us.

  Not that there were any potted palms in the airport lounge. Even if there were, Mike wasn’t the spying, lurking type. He totally trusted me.

  Poor sap.

  No, just kidding. I was entirely trustworthy. I had no intention of cheating on him.

  Yet.

  “Oh, my God…look at that,” said the guy with whom I would not be cheating on Mike.

  Yet.

  I followed his gaze up to the television over the bar, where a special news bulletin was unfolding. The room had fallen silent as everybody seemed to notice the television at once. In mute horror, we watched a passenger jet crash-land and burst into a fireball.

  “Where is it?” I heard somebody ask.

  “Somewhere in the Midwest,” came the official-sounding reply.

  My stomach turned over. Mike was flying over the Midwest.

  Calm down, Beau. Thousands of people are flying over the Midwest right now. What are the odds that it’s his plane?

  “What airline is it?” somebody else was asking.

  “Looks like United.”

  I gripped the arms of my bar stool to keep from toppling over. Mike was flying on United.

  “Beau…are you okay?”

  I looked up to see my companion watching me worriedly.

  “My…friend is on United, flying from California. What if—?”

  “Shh, listen…” He reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly as the news bulletin proceeded.

  I was too frantic to focus; I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I wanted to bolt, but I was afraid to move. I was afraid to breathe. It was as though the slightest movement could carry the tragedy home.

  Still fixated on the television screen, Mike told me, “That plane was headed to O’Hare from Denver. Your friend was flying from California? Was it a direct flight?”

  “Yes. But what if—”

  “Do you have the flight number?”

  “Yes.” Somehow, I managed to produce the scribbled information from the bottom of my bag, and handed it over with a trembling hand. My heart was racing and it felt as though a giant rubber band were compressing my chest.

  Mike compared the scribbled flight number to the television screen, double-checking a few times before telling me, “The plane that crashed was flight 232. Your friend was on flight 194.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  I could feel tears springing to my eyes. I’d never been so relieved in my entire life.

  Then I remembered that I had just held hands with a stranger.

  Shit.

  Reaching for my glass, I drained what remained of my drink in one long gulp, thinking it might steady my nerves. I plunked the glass back on the bar, heaved a shuddering sigh and imagined hurtling myself into Mike’s arms in the near future.

  “The friend you’re meeting here…is she a she, or is she a he?”

  I looked up to see the other Mike watching me. It dawned on me that even in my panic a few moments ago—my hand-holding panic—I couldn’t bring myself to say the B word in front of him.

  “Boyfriend.” I said it now, then spelled out for good measure, “She’s a he, well, he’s a he, and he’s my boyfriend. Not my friend. I don’t know why I called him my friend.”

  “Maybe because you didn’t want me to know you were involved with somebody else?”

  I feigned shock. Now my heart was racing all over again, dammit.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said before I could respond. “You’re thinking I’m a cocky son of a bitch. Right?”

  Fortified by gin, I said, “Well…kind of, yes.”

  “The thing is, I would have asked you out, and not just because you work in TV. I would have asked you out before I knew that, because you’re gorgeous and I like your laugh and like I said, I’m new in town.”

  “How new?”

  “New enough not to have a girlfriend.”

  Yet.

  I was sure that wouldn’t last long. The city wasn’t exactly teeming with cute, stylish, witty, straight guys.

  But I already had one of those, so I had no choice but to release this one back into the wild.

  “Listen,” he said, “if it doesn’t work out with your boyfriend, give me a call.”

  “It’ll work out with him,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt.

  “Well, if you find yourself casting a sitcom, give me a call.”

  I laughed. “Will do.”

  But I was sure I wouldn’t.

  So sure that the next morning, as Mike lay snoring in my bed, I crept across the room and removed the blue business card from my bag. I tossed it right into the garbage can without a second glance.

  After all, Mike was back. My Mike. And I wasn’t interested in anybody but him.

  Yet…

  seven

  The present

  Hey Beau, Bet you’re surprised to hear from me. I Googled your name and found your e-mail address and figured I’d drop you a line. Where are you living now? I’ve moved around quite a bit, but now I’m pretty settled in Florida. Anyway, I’d love to know what you’re up to, so please write back. Take care. Mike

  And that’s it.

  I reread the e-mail at least a dozen times, just to make sure there isn’t something more. Some hidden meaning between the lines. Some clue as to why he suddenly decided to get in touch after all these years.

  Unless…

  No. It has to be him.

  Of course it’s him.

  He didn’t sign his last name. He didn’t have to. He knew I’d know who he was the second I saw Happy Nappy. Happy Nappy 64—the year he was born.

  So…

  Why?

  Why is he barging into my life now, after all these years?

  Because he Googled me?

  Why did he Google me?

  Okay, confession time: I Googled him, too.

  It’s not as though he’s been on my mind every second for the past decade and a half, but like I said before, he does tend to pop up now and then. I can’t help getting lost in memories sometimes, and I can’t help occasionally wondering where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s married with children.

  Back when we first got the computer, I entered his name in the Google search engine and held my breath until it came up with thousands of hits. His name was too common. I gave up after the first few hundred. But I knew that if I really wanted to get in touch with him, I could have done it. I could have tracked down his parents, or old mutual friends, or hell, I could have hired a private detective.

  Not that I would have gone to that extreme.

  Still, now that he’s found me…

  Now that I know where he is…

  I have this sudden, pressing need to know more.

  Like, what is he doing in Florida? He never said anything about wanting to move to Florida.

  And…

  Is he married with children?

  But I can’t come right out and ask him that. I can’t write Dear Mike, Thanks for writing. Oh, by the way, are you married with children?

  After all, his marital and paternal status doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because, oh yeah, I’m married with children.

  Not that he’s proposing anything in his e-mail other than an innocent e-mail in return. I could write and tell him what I’ve been up to.

  But what co
uld that possibly accomplish?

  I read the e-mail again, then tear my eyes away, forcing myself to focus elsewhere for a minute. I have to clear my head.

  The sun is streaming through the windows. It’s a beautiful summer afternoon. I should take the kids over to the pool. Or the park. Or for ice cream.

  But it’s so hot. And the baby is sleeping. And…

  And I would rather stay online and write back to Mike.

  But that would be wrong.

  Wouldn’t it?

  I don’t know. I mean, I struck up an e-mail correspondence with Gaile after all these years.

  But Gaile and I never took a Happy Nappy together. Gaile never tried to steal me away from the man I loved.

  And still love, I remind myself. You still love Mike. Nobody is going to try to steal you away from him now. He’s your husband. You built a life together.

  Yeah, and keeping that life running smoothly is my full-time job.

  I look around the family room, noticing all the things that need doing. There are a few stray orange Goldfish cracker crumbs on the rug, which the incompetent Melina missed, which I was about to vacuum yesterday before somebody interrupted me. Beside the television is a scattering of kiddie videos and DVDs I was in the midst of matching with their boxes earlier in the week before somebody interrupted me. On the desk is a stack of bills I started paying last night before somebody interrupted me. And after that I decided to settle in and watch a movie before somebody interrupted me, forcing me to TiVo the rest.

  TiVo might just be the most revolutionary invention known to man or harried suburban mother. We’ve had it for a year now. It’s nice to be able to hit Pause when the homeroom mother calls you just as CSI: Miami is starting, to remind you that you signed up last fall to bring two dozen homemade cupcakes for snack in the morning. Or you can hit Fast Forward when one of the kids shows up in the room just as some unfortunate soul is getting violently whacked on The Sopranos. Or you can hit Instant Replay when your husband erupts in a deafening sneezing fit just as Alex Trebeck is giving the right answer on Jeopardy.

  You know, it’s too bad the trusty TiVo remote doesn’t work on anything other than the television set, because I could use a version of it to Pause, Fast Forward and Rewind real-life moments all day, every day. No matter what I’m doing, somebody is always interrupting me.

  So why isn’t that happening now?

  Why isn’t one of the kids bugging me to give them Gummi Worms or to wipe their poopy keister or to tell so-and-so to stop kicking/biting/looking-at-me so that I can forget about answering Happy Nappy?

  I don’t have to answer him. I can delete him from my life with the press of a button.

  Too bad it wasn’t that easy the first time around.

  Back then, I didn’t know how to let go.

  Maybe I still don’t.

  My fingers are flying over the keys before I can stop them.

  Dear Mike, Thanks for writing…

  Good. Now what?

  I was so surprised to hear from you!

  Good. Now what?

  I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately.

  Not good.

  I replace it with I’m sorry things ended the way they did, and I’ve always hoped for the chance to tell you how sorry I am that things didn’t work out for us.

  Definitely not good.

  I backspace over that and sit with my fingers poised on the keyboard, trying to think of something to say. Something that will lead us not into temptation. Something that isn’t trite yet won’t dredge up the painful past.

  I mean, I broke the guy’s heart. I let him believe we could have a future together, even though I was in love with somebody else.

  The somebody else I married.

  The somebody else with whom I have three children, a mortgage and a retirement plan. I should probably point that out first and foremost.

  I immediately type I’m still married to Mike.

  Then I realize it sounds as though I thought we might not last.

  I backspace quickly. Of course I’m still married to Mike. Why wouldn’t I be?

  I try again.

  Mike and I have three beautiful sons and a house in Westchester. He’s working at an ad agency in Manhattan and I…

  I pause, frowning.

  Hmm. How can I make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?

  Perhaps the more pressing question is why do I feel the need to make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?

  I delete the last line, all the way back to Westchester. That was probably TMI, anyway. He doesn’t need to know the intimate details of my life.

  I just can’t help wishing there were some.

  Time to wrap things up quickly.

  I’d love to hear from you again when you have time. Take care! Beau

  There. Short and sweet.

  I hit Send before I can read it over and change my mind.

  Time for a reality check.

  I log off, march over to the phone and dial Mike’s extension.

  His secretary answers.

  “Hi, Jan, it’s Beau.”

  “Beau! We were just talking about you.”

  “You were?” I say, wondering who we is.

  I hate when somebody says they were just talking about me. Not that it happens regularly, but still…

  What could anybody possibly have to say about me? I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t see anyone.

  “Yes, I was just telling Mike how lucky he is to have a wife who’s willing to stay home and be with the kids. If I had to be at home with my kids, I’d kill myself.”

  “Oh. Well…” What does one say to that? “It’s not so bad.”

  “Well, I told Mike he needs to bring you some flowers once in a while too, to let you know how much he appreciates you.”

  Too?

  “He’s such a sweetheart, Beau,” she goes on. “I can’t believe he always remembers that purple is my favorite color.”

  “Oh…he’s got quite a memory.”

  So do I. I remember when my husband used to stop at the florist in Grand Central on his way home every once in a while. He’d come in the door with a paper-wrapped bouquet of my favorite flowers, heavenly scented stargazer lilies.

  He hasn’t done that in months.

  I hadn’t even noticed until now.

  “Hang on and I’ll go get him for you,” Jan says, and puts me on hold.

  It’s not that I’m jealous. If Mike’s secretary were the least bit buxom or beautiful, I might be jealous. But Jan, a married mother of toddler twins, has crow’s-feet, prematurely gray hair, saddlebags and an upper lip that desperately needs electrolysis. She and I are about the same age, but she looks a good decade older. She’s so not a threat to my marriage.

  In fact, until recently, I didn’t think anything could be a threat to my marriage.

  “Hey, what’s up, Babs?” my husband’s voice asks.

  I hate when he calls me Babs. But at least he sounds cheerful, so I say, just as cheerfully, “Hi! I just…I wanted to see how your day was going.”

  “Crazy. How about yours?”

  Upstairs, I hear the clattering of a million tiny plastic pieces against hardwood. Apparently, the Lego city has met its demise.

  “Crazy,” I tell Mike.

  Because if an out-of-the-blue e-mail from an old lover isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.

  “Crazy how? Are the boys okay?”

  “They’re fine. One is playing, one is watching Dora, one is sleeping. When are you coming home?”

  “Late” is his prompt reply. “I have to take some people out for drinks. Don’t wait for me for dinner.”

  “I won’t. Will you be home before I put the kids to bed?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll try. Kiss them for me if I’m not, okay?”

  “Okay. I wish you were coming home soon.”

  “Believe me, so do I. I’d rather be home with you and the boys than drinking G
rey Goose and tonic at the Royalton on an empty stomach.”

  And I’d rather be drinking Grey Goose and tonic at the Royalton on an empty stomach. Ironic, isn’t it, that we long for what we can’t have?

  Like…

  No. Stop that.

  “Let’s go away,” I tell Mike spontaneously.

  “Away? What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go on vacation. Instead of staying here and working on the house. Let’s just go somewhere. Please?”

  “Beau, I spend every weekday of my life somewhere other than at home,” Mike points out, sounding weary. “I’m tired of going somewhere. I want to go nowhere for a change.”

  “But if we went out to the Cape for the week, you could go nowhere once we got there. You could sit in a chair on the beach for six straight days.”

  “Do you know what the traffic on 95 is like between here and the Cape in August? It would be a nightmare.”

  “But—”

  “I want to sit in a chair in my own backyard for six straight days, Beau. And when I’m not sitting in a chair, I’m going to be working on that bathroom under the stairs. Believe me, you’ll thank me when you’re flushing that toilet at the end of the week.”

  I don’t think so. Not if it means also flushing any hope of a real vacation this summer.

  I sigh. “It’s just hard to be at home with the kids day in and day out, Mike.”

  “Maybe you should get a hobby.”

  Is it my imagination, or is he being condescending?

  “What do you suggest?” I ask in a brittle tone. “Macramé? Model airplanes?”

  “You know what I mean. You need something to do, other than taking care of the kids. I don’t blame you for being bored.”

  His unexpected sympathy catches me off guard.

  Before I can respond, I can hear a phone ringing on the other end of the line.

  “We’ll talk about it over the weekend, okay?” he asks, slipping from sympathetic to distracted in a matter of seconds.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  We hang up.

  I don’t want a hobby. I want…

  I don’t know what I want, other than for this sudden restlessness to go away.

  I stand there in the family room, listening to the overhead hum of childish conversation, Dora’s theme song, the rhythmic, battery-charged rocking of the swing.