Here, Home, Hope Page 7

  I wonder why I want to keep my seeing Dr. Weiskopf private, to keep my antidepressant prescription private? I’ll need to ask the doctor. Until then, I decided, I wouldn’t say anything. Patrick had a whole life outside of our house that I knew very little about. I didn’t even know his assistant’s name, although I knew he’d hired a new one. His law firm was one world. His golf games and time spent in the stag room were another. And me, I just had the world inside our home. It was the world I’d chosen, a world I cherished. But now, with the kids spending less time at the house, it was time for me to, as well.

  I had decided, like Michael Jackson sang in “Man in the Mirror,” I was going to make that change.

  I was back at home just in time for the highlight of my week.

  “Mom, this is so cool!” Sean’s voice—a bit squeaky, a lot loveable—said into the phone. “Guess what? Okay, so a guy in my cabin told me if I put my iPod earplugs in my nose and turned up the volume really loud, the song would come out my mouth when I opened it! And it worked. Close—no music. Open—rock concert!”

  “Wow, that’s great! I think. You always learn so much at camp.”

  “Aw, Mom, that’s not all I’m learning. That was just during rest time. I’m also learning some bad jokes and—”

  “Sean.”

  “Just kidding, Mom. Really. This traveling band came to camp and they let all the kids try an instrument and sing with them, and then we started our own group, and I was the lead singer and the lead guitar. It was cool!”

  “That’s great, champ,” Patrick said, joining the call from his office downtown.

  “Hi Dad! Guess what? I got sailor of the week, too!”

  Sean’s list of accomplishments would fill the ten-minute call. I don’t know why I worried so much about having something to say. The most important thing was the listening. I pictured my youngest, scrawny still (his brother called him Twiglet), but so full of life and energy his presence filled the room. My heart ached to hold him.

  “So, are you missing us?” I asked, needy person that I am.

  “Yeah, of course, Mom, but don’t try to talk me into leaving early. Oh, and can you send another care package? Please. I’m out of Skittles and Pringles.”

  “Such good health we’re promoting by sending you that junk,” Patrick said. “But I’m sure your mom would send a big care package your way in exchange for a letter home.”

  “Yeah, sure! I’ll send you a copy of the poem I wrote, too!” Sean said.

  “Wow, a poem, too. I might even throw in some Cow Tales! By the way, a care package is already on the way,” I said.

  “Thanks! Gotta go, guys! Love you!” And then, he was gone.

  After failing to receive a call from our oldest child at the prearranged 2:20 pm, and waiting an excruciating ten minutes more, we called the camp. The receptionist said David was on a nature hike and asked if he could reschedule. So much for our place on David’s list of priorities; we fell somewhere after nature hike and before—well, I’m not sure. Patrick tried to cheer me up before hanging up to head to a meeting. I forgot to ask about his assistant. Jeanne was her name, I suddenly remembered, but I had no idea what she looked like. I’d Google her pronto.

  But first I went out to the garage, unloading my new clothes from Doug’s trunk, and hurried upstairs to incorporate them into my closet in the summer-extra-weight section, tucking and hiding hangtags as I shoved the new clothes into place. I pushed the plastic garment bags and the decorative shopping bags into the bottom of their respective recycling bins. Patrick would never notice.

  A quick glance at my closet satisfied me. It appeared as if the new clothes had been at home here all along.

  THAT EVENING, WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG, OREO AND I were ready. He was wearing his usual black fur coat, and he carried his favorite squeaky toy, the one shaped like a red fish and called “The Lucky Carp.” I was adorned in one of my new ensembles from Clothes the Loop: white jeans (“a must have for the summer” according to Jacob and People magazine), Tory Burch silver ballet flats, a silver peace sign pendant around my neck and a Velvet blue cotton tee (“$89 for a tee shirt?”). Together, Oreo and I were chic and ready for a fifteen-year-old to join us.

  The fifteen-year-old in question appeared to be pouting.

  “Melanie, welcome back,” I said. I hugged her, pulling her inside at the same time, and felt bones. This was the first time I’d touched her aside from a pat on her hand.

  “Kelly, thanks so much for taking care of Melanie,” Kathryn said, walking inside my house while somehow propelling Melanie and her suitcases forward. Kathryn was dressed in black, like Oreo, but hers, again, was Prada. Melanie was in a tee shirt with a tie-dye peace sign on the front and torn jeans. I had the peace sign right, at least.

  Kathryn continued, “I’m so sorry this was such a last-minute trip, particularly with Bruce gone. Melanie wants to be home by herself, but I just knew, what with your boys out of town and all, that you two would have a fabulous time keeping each other company. You’ve already had so much fun this week!”

  “Yep, we’ll do our best. I really am lonely, Melanie, so it’s great to have you here. I know it probably seems like you’d have more fun by yourself, but let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Plus, I can drive and we’ll go places. Can you stay a little while, Kathryn?” I knew I was rambling so I tried to stop.

  I saw my friend flinch, and she averted her big brown eyes. I knew she was hiding a lot more than just her daughter’s eating disorder. She put her sunglasses back on, covering any insight I could gain.

  “No, I really have to go home and pack. Melanie, I love you; and Kelly, thank you.” She turned quickly and then dashed to her BMW, idling in my driveway.

  “Bye,” I said, closing the door behind her, and then Melanie, Oreo, and I were alone.

  “Well, come on, let’s go see your room!” I said in an overly enthusiastic voice. Melanie seemed to be ignoring me, even without her earphones in. She sat down on the floor, and I was about to try again to start a conversation when she said, in a small, childlike voice, “I wish I had a dog.”

  I watched as Oreo climbed into her narrow lap. Folded up, Melanie looked like a wooden marionette. Even when at her normal body weight, she could only be described as long and lean. Kathryn told me Melanie was almost 5′9″.

  “Except my parents would probably pay more attention to the dog than me,” she said quietly to Oreo. “Well, actually, they’re pretty good at ignoring anything but themselves. So I guess it would be my dog, after all.”

  I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. She tensed. I plunged in. “So, kiddo, it’s great to see you again. I really do enjoy hanging out with you, you know. Maybe we could make another meal for the homeless or go volunteer at the YWCA? There are a lot of girls who need tutoring there. One of my friends has talked me into getting involved in their work to empower women. And well—”

  “I know you’re trying to help, Aunt Kelly, but you’re kinda . . .”

  “Sounding desperate?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m used to doing my own thing. I really don’t need a babysitter, especially one of my mom’s old friends.”

  “Hey, watch the ‘old’ comment! I’m working on my midlife crisis here,” I said, chuckling, but neither Oreo nor Melanie laughed. “I’m serious, though, Mel. Life is complicated. I know. I’m trying to figure out how to get mine right, and I’m almost forty. It’s okay to be confused at fifteen.”

  “I’m not the one who’s confused, Aunt Kelly,” Melanie said, reaching into her pocket and, in one swift move, putting her shoulder-length hair up into her signature ponytail. “Is it okay if I have a friend over later tonight?” She’d also pulled out her cell phone and was texting someone.

  “Sure,” I answered, pondering her first answer and tuning out the question. “Let’s go get you unpacked.”

  “Do you have wireless Internet?” Melanie asked, as we hauled her suitcases—two, Louis Vui
tton—up the stairs.

  “Of course, Mel. My Internet is your Internet.”

  When we reached the guest room, at the top of the stairs, she saw the Lucky Carp I had hung from the doorknob (a backup in case Oreo lost the original). “What’s with the fish?” she asked.

  “It’s Oreo’s. If you squeak it, he’ll come running. Also, since this door doesn’t lock, you can leave it on your doorknob as a sort of ‘Do not disturb’ sign.” I hoped she’d take it down, keep her door open, and welcome me with a smile every time I climbed the stairs. Okay, I knew I was dreaming.

  “Well, thanks, I can handle it from here,” she said, pushing the second suitcase into the room and closing the door, fish swinging from the doorknob behind her.

  Oreo and I looked at each other and then headed back downstairs.

  Fortunately, I’d asked Patrick to bring home dinner—I’d been too busy being fashionable and worrying to cook—and he delivered just what I’d ordered from our favorite Italian market, Figlio’s: whole wheat fettucine with pine nuts and sundried tomatoes, house arugula salad, and a whole loaf of fresh Tuscan bread. Heaven.

  I opened a bottle of Chianti Classico, lit a candle for the center of the table, and waited patiently for my husband. I was nervous and felt guilty, since I’d not yet had a chance to tell Patrick about our newest exchange student—Mel—who’d already moved in. I hoped it was a good bottle of wine. I’d break it to him after he’d had a glass. Then, over dinner, he’d have a chance to get to know his new houseguest. With my fabulous new hairstyle and hip clothing, I just knew everything would go smoothly.

  Oreo barked when he heard Patrick’s car pull in, so I was ready.

  “Hi, babe. How was your day?” I asked as he walked into the kitchen. I swooped around the island and brought him a glass of Chianti and a big kiss. I grabbed the carryout bag from him, placed it on the island, and smiled. I unloaded the aromatic food and displayed it on our Italian dinnerware. “Follow me, my love,” I said, leading him to the table.

  “What’s going on, Kelly?”

  Apparently, he had noticed the third place setting. Very observant.

  “What’s the special occasion?”

  Hmm. He sounded suspicious. Smart man.

  “Well, um, Melanie, Kathryn’s daughter, is going to stay with us for a little while. Sounds good, huh?”

  “Kelly, really, don’t you think we should talk about things like this? You can’t just unilaterally make decisions that affect both of us, you know?” Patrick put his wine glass down and loosened his tie. He looked tired. I probably should’ve let him relax a little bit before dropping this on him.

  “Let’s eat, alright?” he said.

  “Sure. I’m sorry.” I called up the stairs for Mel.

  No answer.

  I tried the intercom.

  No answer.

  I got worried. Was Mel okay? Was she listless, lifeless? Did I fail already? It’d been only half an hour since I’d taken her to the guest bedroom.

  She was fine; I was being overdramatic. Or maybe she wasn’t fine, I thought, as I rushed up the stairs. Life-change thought Number Twelve: Cardio exercise would be good to avoid dying on missions to find houseguests. I stopped at the top of the stairs just before crashing into her door.

  “Mel?” I yelled, knocking on the door, clearly marked “Do not disturb” by the hanging, now-swinging, fish. I couldn’t take it, and burst through the door.

  Melanie was lying facedown on the bed, cell phone in her ears, laptop in front of her nose. Fine. She minimized the screen when she felt my presence in the room, and rolled over on to her back to address me. I was used to that trick. My boys did it to me all the time.

  “Oh,” she said. “What’s up? Why are you panting?”

  “Just doing a little aerobic workout before dinner,” I answered, willing my pulse to slow. My bangs were sticking to my forehead. “So, hey, Patrick is home and he’s brought dinner from Figlio’s. Come on down!”

  “I ate a huge lunch with my mom, late, just before we came over, so you guys go ahead. I’ll come down in a little to say hi to Patrick,” she said before plugging the earbuds into her ear sockets and rolling back over to face her computer.

  Blown off, I walked slowly downstairs. Patrick didn’t seem surprised when I entered the kitchen solo and dejected.

  “Come on over here and sit down, Kelly,” Patrick said. “I know you mean well, I do. You’re going to help her, for as long as she’s here. But you’re not going to be able to change her, fix her. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Your teeth can’t take it.”

  Times like these I felt a resurgence of first-love emotions: of slow walks together; of talking about all of life’s possibilities. I’d shared my dreams, my fears, the creation and birth of my kids with this man. I was so glad we were still together, still holding on. He knew me so well and loved me no matter what.

  “Thanks, I needed that. Cheers!” I said. “And I need you, so much. What would I do without you?” I realized I had echoed Kathryn’s words to me, and felt blessed—T2C #8—that Patrick was my best friend. I smiled. I gazed into Patrick’s sparkling blue eyes, now bracketed by laugh lines, and enjoyed the reflection of candlelight flickering there. I reached over and squeezed his left hand with mine. Our wedding rings bumped into each other.

  “Nice outfit. I saw the Clothes the Loop bags in the trash, by the way. Good try,” he said, shaking his head.

  I never could get away with anything.

  “Ah, well, I needed to look hip for our teenage girl boarder,” I said, smiling. Sweetly. I’m an angel my smile said. An expensive angel, but an angel nonetheless.

  “Right,” Patrick said, twirling pasta on his fork. “Just remember, things are tight. The economy is in the dumps, so we need to be cautious.”

  “Are you telling me you’re being laid off? Jim Joseph was just laid off. Oh my God!”

  “What? No, I’m a partner, a rainmaker. I won’t lay myself off, but the firm may not do the trip to Italy as planned. Didn’t know how to tell you earlier, Kelly. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine, really. You know how I hate to leave the boys in September anyway,” I said, trying to look on the bright side as I ripped off a big chunk of bread, dipped it into the dish of extra-virgin olive oil, and kissed my dreams of the Amalfi coast good-bye. Okay, call me selfish, but I have one trip a year, and boy, do I look forward to it. T2C Number Thirteen: Make own vacation plans (not during back-to-school month) so rug cannot be pulled out from under you. Refer to life-change list item Number Fourteen: Get a job to pay for trip and other essentials.

  In an effort to change the subject before I could show my disappointment and to broach the subject of Patrick’s fidelity, I asked as nonchalantly as I could, “So, um, Jeanne, your assistant . . . How old is she?”

  “What? I don’t know. She’s been with the firm for twelve years. When Ralph retired last year, she was transferred to me. She’s amazing. Why? You’ve never asked before.”

  “Is she cute?” Since Doug was in the garage, I didn’t have T2C #4 handy; technically, though, I wasn’t making a direct comparison.

  “No, Kelly, she’s not cute. She’s efficient, talented, and married with two kids. I’m not sure why we’re having this discussion.”

  “That’s fine, I’m finished,” I said, and took a deep breath. Now I just needed to mention the little thing about getting a job. At least I wouldn’t be in Italy when my new business needed me; that was something.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I wonder who that could be? I’ll get it,” Patrick said, and leaned over to kiss my cheek as he walked past. “And I truly am sorry about having to cancel the trip, Kelly.”

  As I followed him to the front door, I smiled. Here Patrick was, feeling bad about the trip to Italy being called off, and here I’d been, worried about his reaction to Melanie. Everything would be fine.

  MELANIE BEAT US TO THE DOOR AND STOOD BEAMING AS HER “friend” stepped inside
. He had the all-American boy look. He was polite, shook hands, made eye contact. He wore the prerequisite high school uniform: Abercrombie/Pac-Sun/American-Eagle/Hollisterish getup consisting of collared shirt, layered tee shirt, khaki shorts, Vans. He smelled of Axe and his name was Gavin. He had tousled brown hair and he was tall, maybe 6′3″. Suddenly Patrick and I looked like midgets in our own foyer.

  After our brief introductions, Gavin and Melanie headed outside to my beloved porch, Diet Cokes in hand, while Patrick and I returned to our meal.

  “Now what?” I asked Patrick.

  “Well, I’m assuming they make out and we go to sleep.”

  “Maybe she should go to sleep and we could make out?”

  “Now you’re talking. What did Kathryn say about Melanie’s curfew and boyfriends? About going out, drinking, and stuff like that?”

  Oh no. “Well, she didn’t really specify anything. I thought my job was to plump me—I mean, her—up.”

  “Oh jeez. Teenage girls are much more complicated than that. I had three sisters, Kelly, and you have one. Heck, you were one!”

  “As I said, now what?”

  “I guess we tell her how to turn out the lights downstairs when she comes in,” Patrick said, getting up to clear our plates. We cleaned up the kitchen and tucked Melanie’s meal in the refrigerator. I put a pink Post-it note—not one of my yellow life-changing T2C Post-its—on the takeout container, with a heart and “Mel” written on it.

  Patrick and I walked out to the porch, but Melanie and Gavin weren’t there. A glance into the yard revealed the two of them nestled in the hammock in the dark (and I had to admit, romantic) corner of the yard.

  We both stopped and stared.