Your Big Break

  I don’t say anything.

  “Please, Dani! I swear I won’t divulge where it came from.”

  On autopilot, I boot up my computer and open Jason’s file. Krista’s my best friend, but client confidentiality comes first. I’ll just give her something innocent, harmless. I read over the notes from our first meeting. “Jason loves Red Sox baseball,” I say. “And he’s not into the New-Age, vegan lifestyle. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Thanks, Dani!” she sounds genuinely pleased.

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Is everything okay? You sound kind of down.”

  I debate whether or not to tell her about having The Conversation with my mom. I don’t want to ruin her mood. “I’m tired,” I lie. “That’s all.”

  “How are you gonna do it?” I ask Trey later that afternoon.

  “Do what?” Trey asks.

  “You’re handling Gretchen Monaghan’s case, aren’t you?”

  Amanda abruptly stops typing. Trey motions to me, and we walk down the hall to his office. I follow him inside and shut the door behind me. “I thought you might want a little privacy,” he says. “Amanda’s been nosing around through all my client files.”

  I make a face. “That’s annoying.”

  “She’s eager. Craig likes that.” Trey sits down on the corner of his desk. “So is it true? Is she really your father’s girlfriend?”

  “Mistress,” I correct. “My parents are still married.”

  “That’s what Craig said.” He folds his hands in his lap. “Don’t worry. Gretchen doesn’t have any idea about the connection.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and then Trey says, “I’ll show up at Merriwether Payne Investments tomorrow afternoon and let him have it.”

  I wince. Let him have it. I shake the guilt out of my head. My father’s getting only what he deserves.

  “I’m going to be honest,” Trey continues. “Tell him she’s leaving because he’s married.”

  I chew on the corner of my nail. “Are you going to be tough on him?”

  He laughs. “No more than usual.”

  Trey and I have different philosophies when it comes to ending relationships. I try to let people down easy, sugarcoating the truth so it doesn’t hurt so much. Trey doesn’t hold any punches. He believes in being brutally honest. “People can spend their whole lives wondering why their lover left,” he told me once. “If I’m in the position to give them the real reason, I’ve got an obligation to do it. People deserve to know the truth, no matter how ugly it is. That’s the only way they can move on.” I see where he’s coming from, but I just don’t have the heart to be so in-your-face honest.

  “I wonder how my father will react,” I say.

  “No telling,” Trey says. “Everyone’s different.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Being the bearer of bad news all the time wears you down. It’s strange to see people’s expressions when you dump them: shock, horror, anger, fear. Sometimes, it really depresses me.

  “I’ll go easy on him as much as possible, seeing how he’s your dad,” Trey promises.

  I shake my head and walk out of the office. “Don’t bother.”

  The day goes by in a blur. Before I know what’s happening, I’m in the car on my way out to my parents’ house. I can’t believe how fast I get there; it feels like ten seconds. Then the instant I arrive on their doorstep, time slows down to a painstaking crawl.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, greeting her in the living room. My heart’s beating so forcibly that I’m afraid it’s going to jump right out of my chest.

  “Hi, hon.” She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nice outfit.”

  I’m wearing a pair of black pants and a dark purple top from The Limited. “Thanks. You look great, too.” Mom’s in some gray slacks and a Gap button-down shirt. She looks classy, reminiscent of Diane Keaton. She grabs her purse and heads toward the door. “I’m so glad you invited me out for coffee and chocolates!” She stops to check her appearance in the hall mirror. “This is great, Dani! When you promised we’d have a girls’ night out, I honestly didn’t expect you to follow through with it.” She smiles and puts her arm around my waist. “This means to so much to me. Do you know that?”

  I nod solemnly and force a smile. I want to kick myself for being so cruel. My God, why didn’t I propose a real girls’ night? Why didn’t I invite her out to a movie last week or something? Instead, I’ve opted to play grim reaper. I’m only hanging out with her because I have bad news.

  “You ready to go yet?” I ask.

  “Am I ever!” she enthuses. “Your dad and Sean are having some sort of guys’ movie marathon. They’ve been bugging me to get out of their hair all evening.”

  Movie marathon. I imagine what feature film Sean picked. What gets across the message: You’re Cheating on Mom, You Lying Jerk?

  The last thing I want is a run-in with Father, so I hightail it out the door and down the steps. Alone in the car with Mom, I’m so nervous I can’t think of anything to say. The drive out to Back Bay seems to last for hours. Time is screwed up. Why do uncomfortable silences stretch on endlessly, while amazing moments evaporate into thin air? Is this what Einstein meant when he said time was relative? I should have paid more attention in the Survey of Physics class I took freshman year.

  At long last, we arrive at Starbucks. “What do you want, Mom?” I ask as we make our way to the front door. “I’ll go get our orders.”

  “Hmm . . . what’s good?”

  “Do you want iced or hot?”

  “Iced.”

  I run through the list of items.

  “My goodness, you’re practically a walking, talking Starbucks menu.”

  I grimace. Maybe we should have gone somewhere else. But no, I have to stay in the right frame of mind. Technically, I’m dumping my mother. I need to view this as a business transaction or I’ll never get through it.

  A few minutes later, my mother and I are seated in the corner, sipping Iced Nonfat Mocha Lattes and eating a piece of chocolate cake. Or, more precisely, Mom’s eating. I’m just picking at it with a fork. My stomach feels tense, nervous. I don’t want to drag this out. I want to get it over with.

  “I need to tell you something.” I say.

  “Tell me what?” She takes a sip of coffee.

  I swallow hard. “It’s about Dad.”

  “What about him?” she asks, stirring her drink with a straw.

  I recite rule #4 in my mind: You are an impartial observer. I’m going to give her the facts. I’m not going to let this affect me personally. “Mom, you have to leave him,” I blurt out.

  “What are you talking about?” She looks uneasy.

  They’re just words. Don’t think about what they mean. “You have to leave Dad. He has a girlfriend.” I swallow hard, trying to force down the sickness that’s building up in my throat. “Her name’s Gretchen,” I finish.

  Mom’s expression changes to one of horror. “Who told you?”

  Who told you? I turn the words over in my mind. That’s not the response I expected. Why isn’t she upset? Why isn’t she demanding to know more about Gretchen? Why isn’t she worried that her husband is an adulterer? She’s not shocked, she’s not surprised. And then it hits me. Mom knows. Mom knows about Gretchen. Oh my God, oh my God. Somehow, some way, she knows.

  “Did he tell you?” she asks. “Did Paul tell you about her?”

  I stick to the story my brother and I came up with. “No, Sean found e-mails on Dad’s computer.”

  “Your father shouldn’t have been so careless.”

  What the hell is going on here? Why is she so calm about this?

  “We were supposed to tell you together, when the time was right.”

  “What?” I ask. Any second now, I think I may pass out.

  “Dani, I didn’t want you to find out like this, but now you know half the story, so I’d better tell you the res
t. Your father and I grew apart a long time ago. . . .” She keeps talking, telling me about how after she quit her job, she reevaluated her life, realized it wasn’t working anymore. Her voice sounds distant, far away. I’m barely able to focus on what she’s saying.

  “When you marry as young as I did, when you only sleep with one man in your entire life, you reach a point where you just want more,” Mom says. “It was my idea that we see other people, find out where it leads.”

  I’m stunned, nauseated. My mind flashes to the top ten biggest breakup excuses. I see right through Mom’s story. The only time someone says they want to “see other people” is if they already have dates lined up.

  “Who is he?” I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

  “What makes you think there’s someone else?”

  “Isn’t there?” I look her dead in the eyes, and she looks away.

  “His name’s Jude. He teaches my yoga class at the community center. We’ve been seeing each other off and on for six months.”

  I’m going to be sick. Right here, in the middle of all these Starbucks customers. I mentally measure the distance between the table and the bathroom—all the bodies I’ll have to push past, all the tables, the coffee display, the baristas.

  I’ll never make it.

  I lean down and vomit Iced Nonfat Mocha Latte all over my purse and the floor.

  I’m cruising with my mother along the brightly lit streets of central Boston. This time Mom is driving, shifting the gears on my Volvo. How did we get here?

  “Take this,” she says as she pulls up to a stoplight. She hands me the bottle of Pepto-Bismol I’d stuffed in my purse earlier. “I wiped it off. It’ll make you feel better.”

  I drink a few tentative sips of the thick, pink liquid.

  I know, despite her assurances, that nothing will ever make me feel better again.

  20

  In Another Time or Place, This Could’’ve Worked Out

  My eyes slowly open and I look around. I’m laying in a bed, but not my bed. My head feels fuzzy, thick, and it’s difficult to concentrate. I fling back the floral bedspread and stare down at myself. Why am I wearing clothes in bed? I look down at my feet. I went to bed with my shoes on? My tongue feels as though it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. I climb out of bed and my knees buckle. Then it hits me: I’m in my parents’ guest bedroom. Last night’s events come flooding back. Did Sean help me up here? I think I’m going to be sick. Again.

  I dash into the adjoining bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes, a glass of Alka-Seltzer, and two Advils later, I feel somewhat better. What I really need are some ginger ale and saltines, like Mom used to serve whenever I had the flu. Oh, God. Mom. She’s probably downstairs right now, watching Lifetime, Television for Women. Or is she out with some mystery man? I venture downstairs. “Hello?” I call out. No one answers. I check the driveway. All three cars are gone. I wonder where everyone is. Dad, presumably, is at work. Sean may be, too. But Mom can’t be at the office; she’s retired (which I’ve now discovered is code for “sowing her wild oats”).

  I’m just grabbing my things to hightail it out the door when my cell phone rings. It’s Sophie. “This has been one of the worst days of my life!” she complains, not bothering to say hello. “I went to Addington Academy.”

  She’s already been to Brady’s school? “Why didn’t you wait till lunchtime?” I ask.

  “Dani, it is lunchtime.”

  “It is?”

  “Later, actually. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” Sophie informs me.

  “Holy shit!” I shriek. How can it be two o’clock? I’ve missed work! Craig’s bound to be freaking out. I’ll call him the second I get off the phone with Sophie.

  “What happened at the school?” I ask, sinking back down on the bed.

  “I got arrested.”

  Obviously, I am still asleep. I must be dreaming. In fact, I’m starting to think the entire last month of my life has been one extended nightmare.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” Sophie demands, sounding indignant. “I got arrested. Sort of.”

  “I heard you,” I answer. “Why did you get arrested?”

  “I had some trouble finding Brady’s classroom. Some teacher saw me wandering around and asked me for a hall pass. I couldn’t produce one, so she dragged my ass down to the principal’s office!”

  I’m speechless. I finally ask, “What did the principal do?”

  “She said visitors aren’t allowed on school property without prior permission.”

  “Did you see Brady?” I ask.

  “The principal was making such a big stink, I was worried I might get Brady in trouble, too. So when she asked who I was there to see, I refused to answer.”

  Uh-oh. “What happened then?”

  “They called the cops on me for trespassing!”

  “Sophie, I’m so sorry. I never meant to get you”—I swallow hard—“arrested,” I whisper.

  “Almost arrested,” she corrects. “The school didn’t actually press charges. They just had the cops take down a file on me, and I was warned to never again come on school property unless I had prior permission.”

  That’s far less dramatic than what she initially told me. “Still, I feel terrible. I should have never suggested you surprise Brady at school. We can arrange another way—”

  “I’m done,” she says. “At least for the time being. I’ve had enough.”

  I realize I’m a tiny bit glad things didn’t work out. Now that I think about it, they don’t seem like such a good match. “Again, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “If there’s any way I can make it up to you, let me know.”

  “I’m rearranging my apartment tomorrow evening. I could use some help. You up for it?”

  “I’d love to,” I say, and I mean it. Krista’s going out with Jason Dutwiler tomorrow, which means my Saturday night is free. The last thing I want to do is sit around all weekend and think about the situation with my parents. It’ll be good to take my mind off things for a while.

  “Can’t wait,” she says, and clicks off the line abruptly.

  I check my cell phone. There are eight calls from Craig. Not good. I call him back and apologize for missing work. He’s surprisingly understanding. “Problem with the parental units?” he asks.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Trey heard from Gretchen. She called off the breakup. Guess she’s staying with your old man.”

  “Guess so.” I honestly have no idea what’s happening. I need to talk to Sean, find out what transpired between him and Father. Or should I go back to Dad? Since this isn’t entirely his fault. “I’ll stop by the office for a few hours.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Craig says. “Take a sick day. No biggie.”

  I call Blockbuster as soon as I get back to my apartment.

  “Can I speak to Sean Myers?” I ask the girl who answers. She puts me on hold. A minute later, my brother picks up the phone.

  “Welcome to the Apocalypse,” he says, instead of hello.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s not meant to be.”

  “So, how did it go with Dad?” I ask.

  “Not good.”

  “Did he tell you about Mom’s yoga instructor boyfriend?” I ask.

  “No, but she did.”

  I gasp. “When?”

  “When she brought you home last night. You were completely out of it. I had to help you upstairs and put you in bed! Don’t you remember?”

  I grimace; I feel so humiliated. “I can’t believe Mom told you.”

  “I knew something was up anyway,” he explains. “When I confronted Dad about Gretchen, he got really quiet and then he said that was a topic for me to discuss with Mom.”

  This situation is so surreal, so bizarre. “I’m in shock.”

  “Tell me about it.” He groans. “I feel like a first-class moron. I’ve been living under the same roof with them and I never even realized any of thi
s was going on!”

  “They did a good job of hiding it,” I say.

  “Dani, I’ve gotta get back to work. I’m stuck here until midnight, but give me a call tomorrow and we can figure out what to do, how to patch up our family.”

  “Okay,” I agree, but I’m pretty sure we’ve run out of options.

  I walk over to Sophie’s about five the next evening. It’s a beautiful night, and I enjoy the stroll. It’s nice knowing someone else in the neighborhood. Sophie buzzes me up and answers the door looking peppy and bright-eyed. Her mousy, sullen, post-breakup frumpiness is completely gone. She’s back to her former goddess state.

  “Thanks for helping me with this.” She smiles.

  “No problem.”

  We work diligently to rearrange her apartment, scooting couches across the floor, hanging up new curtains, moving bookshelves and dressers. It’s hard work, but we pass the time talking, jabbering about clothes and men and books. A few times, she runs across items that remind her of Evan: matchbooks from restaurants, earrings he gave her “just because,” a small teddy bear from FAO Schwarz, postcards from a trip they took to Martha’s Vineyard. Sophie’s eyes tear up when she finds the postcards. “I fought so hard to get him to take that vacation. He did not want to go, but once we got there, he cut loose. He was like a big kid again, building sandcastles, collecting seashells.”

  I almost laugh at the mental image of Evan Hirschbaum trotting along the beach, poking around in the sand for dainty shells. “You shouldn’t keep it,” I advise her. “Any of it. They’ll only serve as bitter reminders.”

  “You’re right.” She sinks down on the floor, postcards in hand. She wipes her eyes. “I think I’m over it, that I’ve moved on. I haven’t even called him in weeks. But then I see something that reminds me of him and I fall to pieces. I’ve managed to collect more mementos from this than from all my other relationships combined.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “He’s not coming back,” I say with a conviction that surprises even me. I sound like Trey.