Higher! I’d scream. I want to touch the sky!
I joined him, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the dirt. Swaying back and forth, but not swinging.
I turned to face him. “Why?” I asked.
He reached over and brushed a tear from my cheek. “Every relationship is different,” he said. “And no one who’s not in the relationship can see what goes on behind closed doors. Your mother and I have been together in name only for years. We don’t talk. We don’t make love. We simply cohabitate. We tried marriage counseling. It didn’t help.”
I could feel my heart slamming against my rib cage and had to struggle to catch my breath. I had no idea. I thought my parents loved each other. But as memories of the last few years flooded my brain, I realized suddenly that I might have been looking at their marriage through rose-colored kid glasses. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen them kiss. Hug. I couldn’t. But I had simply chalked it up to it being an older, more mature marriage.
“But you didn’t have to cheat on Mom,” I reminded him with a frown. Falling out of love was one thing. Cheating was another.
He sighed. “Your mother is a very special person,” he said, swaying from side to side on his swing. “I tried to tell her I was unhappy for years. She begged me to stay. Said I could go out and do what I had to do as long as I didn’t leave her.”
This was surely a shocking day to end all shocking days. My mother had told my father he could go out and have affairs? I couldn’t even fathom the idea.
“So you’ve been fucking other women this whole time? While pretending to be a family man?” I demanded, not caring at my father’s cringe at the F-word. “That’s kind of a harsh way to put it,” he said in a sad voice. “I simply opened myself up to new opportunities. I guess you could call them affairs. But there was no deception involved.”
“Oh, right,” I said sarcastically. “Because you had permission.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“I know. I soon realized the situation wasn’t fair to anyone—your mother or the woman I fell in love with.” Oh, now he was in love, was he? Anger burned through my stomach, and I rose from the swing. “I don’t want to hear this!”
“I know, honey. I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in.”
“So who is she?” I may not have wanted to hear this, but at the same time I couldn’t stop my overwhelming masochistic curiosity. “And is she really carrying your child?”
My dad looked old. Drained. “Her named is Cindi. With an ‘i’,” he added, as if that made everything okay. Cindi with an “i”? My whole world was turning into a bad made-for-TV movie. “And yes, she’s pregnant. You’re going to have a new brother or sister,” he added, as if that were a good thing.
That was it.
“You know what? Fuck you! You’ve ruined my life. You’ve ruined Mom and Lulu’s lives. Now you’re going to go start a whole new family and probably ruin their lives, too! You’re such a selfish asshole. I never want to see you again!” I stormed off into the house, slamming the back screen door with as much force as I could muster.
I wanted to throw things. I wanted to beat someone senseless. I wanted to drink myself to oblivion.
I took a deep breath. I had to talk to my mother. My poor, long-suffering, abused mother. If only I had known what she was going through all these years, I could have been there for her.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked Lulu as I entered the living room. No answer. My little sister was catatonic, crunched up on the floor, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. Shit. I’d need to comfort her, too. How did I get stuck in the sane-person-who-picks-up-the-pieces role? I wanted to be the fall-apart-and-do-stupid-things one.
“Lulu, are you okay?” I knelt down and gave her a warm hug. Her body was cold. She looked like she’d gone into shock. But then she reached out her arms and hugged me back.
“I don’t want them to get a divorce,” she wailed, sobbing into my shoulder. I could feel nasty snot from her nose, dripping onto my new shirt, but I didn’t care. “I know. Neither do I.” I stroked her bleached-blond hair. “But it will be okay. Things will work out.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to figure out an entirely new living situation.”
She had a point. As much as this sucked for me, it was much worse for her.
“Why don’t we go talk to Mom?” I suggested. “We’ll figure out what’s what.”
“Mom left.”
“What?”
“Right after you and Dad went outside, she grabbed her car keys and said she was going shopping.”
“Shopping?” I repeated, like a dumbfounded parrot. “She went shopping?”
“Yup,” Lulu said glumly. She pulled from the embrace and slunk over to the couch. Plopping down, she pulled her knees to her chest. I was about to big sister her about grimy sneakers on the couch, but bit my tongue. What did it really matter?
“I can’t believe she went shopping.” I scrambled up from the floor. Could this day get any weirder? “Should we go after her?”
Lulu shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe she needs time alone.”
Maybe. I didn’t know. Was it a cry for help or a cry for new shoes? How could I be expected to know these things? I wasn’t some shrink. I had no experience dealing with the parents-divorcing scenario.
Lulu used her forearm to wipe the tears from her eyes. “I’m going upstairs to my room to call Dora. If Dad comes back in the house, tell him I’m not to be disturbed.” She got up from the couch and headed for the stairs. Then she turned around. “If things are really bad, can I come live with you?” she asked, her eyes wide and pleading.
“Of course,” I said, even though I didn’t really mean it. I lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Pacific Beach. I had no room for another person and no time to parent my wild-child sister. Still, I was pretty sure Lulu would never take me up on the offer. Mom would come back from shopping. (Shopping!) And she would convince Lulu that the two of them would get along just fine here in the Normal Heights house. Dad was the betrayer so he’d have to move. That was how it worked: I’d seen it with all my friends’ parents.
Lulu went upstairs, and I was left alone. Out the window, I saw my dad getting up from the swing and heading into the house. I had no desire to talk to him anymore. In fact, all I wanted to do was be sick again. My stomach had knotted like I had severe indigestion. Not surprising since “Dad’s got a pregnant twenty-three-year-old girlfriend and is leaving Mom” news is a bit tough to digest in one sitting.
So I did the cowardly thing. I left. I opened the front door, sucked in a huge breath of fresh air, and headed to my car. There was only one thing left to do.
I was going out drinking.
Chapter Four
FROM: “Terrance Toller”
TO: “Madeline Madison”
SUBJECT: ME!!!!!
Dear Madeline,
I am writing to say how delighted I am that we will be working together on my new investigative feature, “Terrance Tells All.” I just wanted to go over a few teensy weensy things that I need, to make sure our time together is productive. After all, as the anchor most San Diegans trust to bring them all the day’s events, I have a certain image to project. I’m SURE you understand.
1) I require three hours advance notice before any shoot that will involve my participation. I need to put on my makeup and get my hair professionally set and dried and, as you know, beauty takes time! Also, I am not available for shoots on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday so please plan accordingly.
2) I would prefer not to go on location—I have better things to do than spend my day driving to some viewer’s dog hair–infested, beanie baby–decorated house and make idle chitchat while the photographer takes forever setting up the lights. Besides, I might get mobbed by the paparazzi on the way over and this could mess up my hair. Therefore, I’d like to be shot in the studio (give
my lighting director approximately two hours to set up—after all, I must look good!) and ask the questions there. Then you can intercut my questions with the interview subject’s answers. Don’t worry if the background doesn’t look the same. Or if my questions don’t exactly match up with his answers. The ignorant Wal-Mart shoppers who watch our news will never know the difference.
3) I enjoy triple venti nonfat sugar-free vanilla dry soy lattes from Starbucks. Please insist the lazy employees HAND GRIND my espresso beans. (They may grumble a bit, but they will do it if you insist, take my word for it.) My last producer brought me lattes every morning and I found this quite a lovely gesture. Of course, if you are “too busy” you can feel free to let me succumb to caffeine depravation, but don’t expect a stellar performance. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be the one to let the whole show sink because I was “too busy” to run to the coffee shop, which happens to be only four blocks from the station, but that’s completely up to you.
Great to be working with you, Madeline! Terrance
Back from the parents’ fiasco, I showered, changed, and checked my e-mail. Deleted the lovely note Terrance had sent me, detailing exactly how he was going to make my life miserable. As if I needed any help in that department. It was definitely going to be a pleasure working for him, I could tell already.
But work problems were the last thing on my mind that night. My biggest challenge? How to get as drunk as humanly possible in the least amount of time.
After shutting down my computer, I called Jodi. She was always good for a night of sorrow drowning. Unfortunately, she wasn’t home. Probably off with her husband as people with husbands (who weren’t cheating on them with people half their age) tended to do. The thought made me even more depressed.
I called a few other friends, but for some reason, no one was around. Since when did everyone have important Thursday-night plans? I was evidently destined to spend my night alone.
Being alone, however, did not preclude me from wanting a drink. But I decided against the alcoholic wallowing-in-my-misery-home-alone route. I would go out. There was no shame in going to a bar alone. Who knew, maybe I’d meet some uber-sexy guy who wanted nothing more than to distract me from my hideous situation with wild and crazy sex. Not that I’d necessarily give it up on the first date, mind you. Well, unless he was uber, UBER sexy, that was.
Since I didn’t have to consult with others on bar choices that evening, I chose to hit my favorite: Moondoggies, a real chill bar just a block from the beach. It had great drinks, a large outdoor patio area with a fireplace and drew a fun, non-stuck-up crowd. Plus it was within walking distance of my apartment so I could crawl home without worrying about a DUI.
I arrived, showed my ID to the doorman, and took a seat by the sidewalk (to people-watch), and ordered one of Moondoggies’ special K9 Kosmos—a cosmopolitan made with Absolut Mandarin.
Unfortunately, after only a few sips, instead of feeling liberated, I got the damn alcohol blues. What was I doing, sitting at a bar all by myself? Why wasn’t I home comforting my sister? Looking for my mother? My family had fallen apart that evening and what did I choose to do? Go to a bar.
I was a loser. A total loser. Probably an alcoholic, too. I’d soon be hiding vodka in the bathroom. Not that I had anyone to hide it from. I could drink it with my morning Cocoa Puffs and no one would know. In fact, if I died in my apartment from a bad vodka/Cocoa Puffs overdose, no one would come looking for me for at least three days. Until the smell started getting really bad. After all, it was blatantly obvious my family was too busy messing up their own lives to care about mine.
Why did my father decide to leave my mother? At what point did the marriage fall apart? Was it in any way my fault? Did I say or do something to convince him that my mother wasn’t worth staying with? I know there had been times when my mom had said something idiotic and I’d rolled my eyes to my dad. Did I diminish her worth in his eyes and make him go elsewhere? Find someone smarter? Cooler? Oh, this was probably all my fault. I’d broken up my entire family with my callous eye rolling.
Yup. Here came the tears. Perfect. I could feel several people staring at me as I swiped at my eyes. Of course. Why wouldn’t they stare? I was a loser sitting in a packed bar, by myself, drinking a Cosmo (sorry, Kosmo) and crying my eyes out.
Loser with a capital “L,” that was me. “Are you okay, Maddy?”
Oh no, I’d been spotted by someone who knew me! How embarrassing. I looked up to see who had discovered me in my less than desirable, probably raccoon-eyed state.
It was Jamie. What was he doing here?
“Oh. Hi,” I said, grabbing a napkin and blotting my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. Bad allergies this time a year.”
Man, I was such a terrible liar. I wondered if it was something you could take classes for at the Learning Annex. They had everything else under the sun—why not Lying 101?
“Can I sit down?”
“Um, sure.” Man, he probably thought I was the biggest dork on the planet. First there was that whole price tag on the skirt thing earlier. I was pretty positive he didn’t buy the idea that it was cool to leave price tags on. Now he’d found me sitting at a bar by myself, crying into my drink. Great.
He took the chair across from me and propped his elbows on the table. He looked good. He’d added a well-worn leather jacket over the black T-shirt he had on earlier. It gave him a slightly rebellious look. Just bad boy enough to look cool, but not skanky.
“I was riding by on my motorcycle, on my way to check out the beach, and I saw you sitting here. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Why yes, I’m fine. Like I said, allergies …
Oh, what the hell.
“Not exactly,” I blurted, against my better judgment. I barely knew this guy, but suddenly I couldn’t help the flow of words spewing from my lips. Alcohol did that to me. Jodi even had a nickname for me in this state—Loose Lips Lola.
And so I spilled the whole sordid tale to a guy I barely knew. To his credit, Jamie listened to the whole 411 on my family situation without interrupting once.
“Wow,” he said as I finished the tale. “You’ve had a tough day, huh?” He reached over and squeezed my hand. In any other circumstance, the move might have seemed a bold come-on. But at that moment, it was simply a gesture of comfort. One I definitely appreciated.
“Yup. You could say that.”
Before he could respond, the waiter appeared to take his drink order.
“Do you have Mojitos?” he asked, picking up a drinks menu and paging through it.
The waiter looked at him as if he were from Mars. “Mo-what?”
“Guess not, huh?” Jamie said. “How about a Seven and soda? And get the lady another one of those pink drinks.”
“Thanks.” I smiled as the waiter left, sucking down my beverage so I’d be ready for round two. “What’s a Mojito?”
“It’s this Cuban drink. Rum and mint. I got addicted to them when I spent three months working on a documentary in Miami last year. Most bars in So-Cal have yet to catch on.” He grinned. “But hey, here we can choose from twenty varieties of Margaritas so I guess we should count our blessings.”
I laughed. The tequila snobbery in San Diego had always amused me. Napa had wine tasting; we had tequila. Some bottles cost over a hundred dollars. There was this one bar down the street that boasted a tequila club. If you could drink shots of their fifty different brands, (not all in the same sitting, mind you!) they’d buy you a plane ticket to Cabo San Lucas.
“I’d like to try a Mojito,” I said. “So if you find a San Diego bar that serves them, let me know.”
“You know, they were one of Hemingway’s drinks of choice,” Jamie informed me.
I was impressed. “Really? Now I definitely want to try them. Hemingway was kick-ass. I loved his books.”
“Me, too. Especially the Sun Also Rises.”
“Ooh, yes.” I nodded enthusiastically. “That’s my fave, too. I used to imagine how cool it’
d be to be a writer like Jake in gay Paris, loafing around all day and hitting the bars all night. The unrequited love with him and Brett. It’s so romantic. Tragic and romantic.”
“It’s definitely given me inspiration.”
I cocked my head in curiosity. “Are you a writer or something?”
“Aspiring. Well, I did publish one small-press book. A sci-fi action-adventure. Not exactly Hemingway,” he clarified, his cheeks coloring a bit.
“Really?” I’d never met a real author before. “Can I read it?”
His blush deepened. “I guess. If you really wanted to. And you’re not just being polite.”
“No way.” I shook my head. “I’m never polite. Bring it in tomorrow.”
“It’s a deal.”
The waiter returned with our drinks. I was having so much fun talking to Jamie, I suddenly realized I hadn’t thought about my tragic life in ten minutes. Amazing. The alcohol helped, too, warming my insides and making my troubles seem inconsequential.
“Where’s your fiancée?” I asked, remembering for a moment that the attractive man charming me from across the table belonged to someone else. Not that it mattered. We weren’t on a date. We weren’t even flirting.
“In LA,” Jamie told me between sips. “She has about a month left at her job before she moves down here.”
“Ah, I see. So you’re down here all by your lonesome,” I couldn’t help but coo in mock sympathy.
“Not really. You’re here, aren’t you?” The corners of his mouth quirked up in a grin.
Now it was my turn to feel my face heat with embarrassed pleasure. Oh, how I wished he wasn’t half of a committed couple. How serious was the engagement anyway? The woman didn’t even move down with her man? She left him alone in a strange city? Didn’t seem very loving to me! Maybe he was looking for a way out of the relationship. That was why he moved down to San Diego. Hey, you never knew.
Before I could ask him more about this fiancée character, a scantily dressed waitress approached our table. She held out a tray full of florescent-colored shot glasses.