Play Dates (33 page)

I wonder why I’d never noticed before that Melissa Arden and I are so simpatico. I suppose it’s because Zoë and Lissa interact mostly through the Museum Adventures program. The two of them have never had a play date, one-on-one. I feel a bit PLAY DATES

251

regretful that I haven’t gotten to know Melissa better. Although her situation is considerably different from mine because she’s married, perhaps her friendship might have made me feel a bit less like I was bucking the trends alone. I seize the moment and suggest that we set up a play date, as much for myself as for Zoë. To my delight, Melissa accepts with alacrity.

We catch up with the girls, who are busy choosing party hats for Lissa’s big day. Lissa is modeling a paper tiara that says

“birthday girl” on it in silver script. “I want one, too,” Zoë says, and grabs a yellow one.

“But that says ‘birthday girl’ on it, see!” Lissa says, snatching the yellow crown away from Zoë. “And it’s for
my
birthday, not yours.” She tosses it back into the bin.

Zoë starts to cry and Lissa picks up a package of conically shaped hats. She hands them to her mother.

I squat down and look Zoë squarely in the eye. “Z, you’re overreacting,” I say in a stage whisper. “Remember what that means?” She nods and the water faucet behind her tear ducts miraculously shuts off. I look at the party hats they’ve placed in Melissa’s portable shopping basket. “Ever notice how the birthday girl gets a crown and those in her thrall are given dunce caps?” I remark to Melissa, under my breath.

She gives me a funny look, then bursts out laughing. “Crikey, you’re right. It’s positively medieval! And dreadful for their self-esteem, when you think about it.” She turns to her daughter.

“Darling, what do you say about finding crowns for the other little girls that don’t say anything on them? That way they can be princesses, too, but you get to be the Birthday Princess.” She places the offensive pointed hats back on the shelf.

Lissa shrugs, which her mum takes as a sign of acquiescence.

They begin to sort through the bin of unlettered tiaras.

“I want a yellow one,” Zoë insists and grabs for the only yellow one, the one that says “birthday girl.”

How do I tell her that we don’t even know if she’ll be invited

252

Leslie Carroll

to Lissa’s party? I give Melissa a strained, embarrassed look, which I hope conveys my question.

“You’re not acting like a very big girl today,” I say, through gritted teeth. “Now, let’s pay for your Play-Doh and get home so you can finish your art project.” I try to remove the yellow crown, but she slaps her hand over mine and clutches the tiara to her head.

“She seems a bit knackered,” Melissa observes.

“I’m what?”

“Knackered,” Melissa repeats.

“What’s that mean?”

“Tired,” I tell her.

“You talk funny,” she tells Melissa bluntly.

“That’s not a very polite thing to say, Zoë. It’s not nice to make fun of other people.”

“I wasn’t. I just said she talks funny.”

“I don’t think so. Colorful, maybe. But that’s a good thing, don’t you think?” She doesn’t reply.

Melissa reaches for the yellow tiara. “I think I need that, Zoë,”

she says. “Tell me, do you know anything about
Alice in Wonderland
?”

“I saw the video,” she says. “It’s a Disney movie.”

Melissa smiles. “Then you know that one can celebrate
unbirthdays, too. Well, I think I need this crown so I can make it into an
un
birthday girl tiara for one of the guests at Lissa’s birthday party.” I get it and give Melissa a look that is both relieved and grateful. But Zoë looks confused. “I s’pose I’d better spell it out, then. Zoë, Lissa will be inviting you to her birthday party.

And we’re going to save this coronet for you to wear when you get there. So, may I have it, please?”

My daughter relinquishes the crown. A crisis averted, thanks to a quick-thinking mommy (not me), and our emergency shopping trip completed, we return home to spend the evening hand-rolling pencil-thin Play-Doh snakes.

PLAY DATES

253

*

*

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. Just a minute, sweetheart.” I’ve been running back and forth to the bathroom all morning. It’s a case of nerves, that’s all, but they’re getting the better of my body. I was up before dawn stressing over my date with Dennis tonight, making lists of lists of everything I have to do before seven this evening, the first of which is to get Zoë to her 10 A.M. bikram yoga class. Once I get her settled there, I’ve got forty-five minutes to pick up the dry-cleaning, run to the drugstore, and have a professional manicure before it’s time to pick her up. I figure I’ll treat myself to a little pampering and a better job than I can do myself; hopefully it will relax me a little. I’m as wound up as Zoë’s little jumping frog toy, bouncing all over the apartment, bumping into the furniture. As my Gran used to say, “If your head weren’t attached, you’d forget to take it with you.”

At least there’s the promise of spring in the air. If the weather man is right, we can leave our winter coats at home this morning and get away with wearing sweatshirts or windbreakers.

We trot over to the yoga studio, which is just a few blocks from our apartment. Zoë prefers to wear her exercise clothes to class; she hates locker rooms. If we have nowhere else to be after class I don’t mind, and I shuttle her home to shower post-haste.

Bikram yoga is, literally, one of the hottest fitness trends, known for the sweltering studio conditions. People exit the class smelling pretty rank, in my opinion.

From the moment I kiss her goodbye and tell her I’ll be back within the hour, I feel like my old Thackeray gym teacher, Ms.

Schumacher, is standing over me with her sky blue cardigan, her stopwatch, and her whistle. Time for a wind sprint through the neighborhood.

I ransom my dress from the dry-cleaners, grab some shampoo, soap, and aspirin at the drugstore, and head over to the nail

254

Leslie Carroll

salon. Each time a customer comes through the door, the ladies look up and greet them by name. I’m impressed. I’ve been in here only a handful of times in the past year and they chorus

“Hello Claire! Manicure?”

“Usual color?” one asks, reaching for the sheer shade I tend to favor for its “subtlety,” meaning that my manicure can last for two to three weeks if no one looks too closely.

The array of colors entices me as much as if I were Zoë in a candy store. Everything looks appealing. “No . . .” I say hesitantly, second-guessing myself. “Tonight’s a special night. A big change. So I want something different.” I opt for a bright spring-y pink. A real bubblegum hue.

By the time the manicurist is finished with my nails, I have less than ten minutes to spare before I need to return to the yoga studio. “You want Quick Dry?” she asks me. I agree that I’d better go for it, because I don’t have the time to sit under the air dryer. “Dollar fifty,” she says. Who knew they charged more for that? Since the stuff is called “Quick Dry” and not “Immediate Dry,” I point to my purse, asking her to fish out the wallet and remove the money.

Seven minutes. As I rush up the stairs, plastic dry-cleaning bag flapping in the breeze, I am assaulted by my own biology.

Oh, no. No, it can’t be. It’s not due until Tuesday, I think. Four days early. It’s nerves. That’s what did it. I know I have nothing in my purse. And a quick fix in the ladies’ room won’t do the trick since my body has decided to entertain me with its impression of the Nile. Actually, the Nile flows
up
. Never mind.

I rush down the two narrow flights of stairs and dash back to the corner drugstore. As I dig for my wallet in order to pay for my purchase—
fuck
! There goes the fresh manicure. The nails on my right hand are a smudgy mess. Plus, there’s a bright pink smear along the inside of my pocketbook. Shit. Well, nothing I can do about it now. Or probably ever without ruining the bag.

Back up to the yoga studio and straight for the ladies’ room PLAY DATES

255

before I really mess up my clothes and embarrass the hell out of myself. I hang the dress inside the stall and take care of business.

I hear the door open, followed by the sound of voices. “When she was a stay-at-home, her daughter never acted that way. You know, she and Ashley are very close.” It’s Jennifer Silver-Katz.

“Zoë was a much more cooperative child. Much better mannered. Even until a few months ago. But now that she’s working, I think Claire’s really lost touch with what’s going on with her daughter on a day-to-day basis.”

Oh, my God. She’s talking about
me.

“I’m not entirely sure I agree with you, Jenny,” the other mom says. Her voice sounds familiar, which tells me Zoë must know her kid. “
I’m
a working mother. I’ve always worked and I don’t think Ben is any the worse for it. Being out in the world enables you to bring some of that world into the home. He’s certainly not going to get that from his father. From his father, he has a built-in rabbi to give him bar-mitzvah instruction when the time comes.”

I realize it’s Sarah Ephraim, whose son Ben was assaulted by Xander during musical chairs at Zoë’s birthday party. Ben’s the geeky kid whose bash was held at the planetarium last year.

“Leonard lives in such an insular world. It’s like a fishbowl. If
I
didn’t work outside the home, who else would there be to bring the secular world—outside of his classroom, I mean—into Ben’s life?”

“Of course
I
could
never
do it. It’s just not me. I wouldn’t feel right about it. My children need me; if you’re going to make the decision to be a mother, it’s self-centered to try to have a career.

I used to work, of course, but that was before I married Aaron and had the girls. Nina Osborne and I were talking about that just the other day. In our household, my husband provides us with the lifestyle, I furnish the nurture, and Ashley’s teacher, Mrs. Hennepin, supplies the structure. She’s so good with structure. Ashley adores her. And Tennyson’s teacher, Mr. Clay, is a

256

Leslie Carroll

dream. But, Sarah,
you
have a better argument for the working mom than Claire Marsh does. You’re in advertising.
You’re
using your brain. Your job is rewarding, and you’ve got something to share. Claire’s a
shopgirl
. At a nonprofit, yet. So, you tell me how a working mother like that is able to give a developing child the attention she needs. What do you think of this lipstick? It’s the new Nars color.”

“I think it makes you look too old. If I were you, I’d ask for your twenty-five dollars back.”

A cell phone rings. Jennifer answers it. “Hi, Tenny, what’s up, sweetheart? What? I thought you said this morning you didn’t want to go! Yes, but don’t you have a test on Monday? . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sweetie? Don’t you have—. . . . . . . . . . . . .I know, but I thought you have a test Monday. In health. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Do you have a health test Monday? Because if you’re not going this afternoon, you should be . . . Oh, I see. Yes. No. Oh, in science?? You have a science test?. . . . . . . . . .I thought you had a health test. . . . . . . . . . . You have two tests Monday? Back to back? Then I think you had better get cracking, young lady. Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s what I said, Tennyson. Stay home and skip kick-boxing and study for the—

. . . . . . . . . . . .You can spar with your sister later if you want to practice. Just don’t kick her in the head. You remember what happened last time. . . . .Yes, I know, but you also have a little chest cold. . . . . . . . .No, I
don’t
think it’s so bad that you’ll be sick on Monday. I know where you’re going with that, Tenny.

You can’t fool me. Sweetie, do you need help studying? No . . .

No. No . . . No, I can’t sweetie. Mommy has a facial. She can’t help you today. No. No. I can’t change it. Tomorrow? Mrs. Osborne and I are playing tennis, sweetie. You know, Mommy needs some ‘me time,’ too. No. No . . . . .No, what did I just say to you? I
can’t
help you when I get home. After I drop off your sister, I’ll need to run. What? Ask Maribelle.
Maribelle
. That’s one of the things we pay her for. I know you don’t know any-PLAY DATES

257

thing about photosynthesis, Tenny, but Mommy doesn’t either.

Maribelle should be able to figure it out, and if she can’t, then go online to the teacher help site. It’s bookmarked. I’ll see you in half an hour. Love you! Bye.” I hear the phone snap shut and Jennifer sighs.

“And of course, you miss so much when you have a job,” she continues, without skipping a beat. “Claire wasn’t a working mom at the time, but she was in
school
when Zoë had most of her ‘firsts.’ She was much more hands-on between college and her divorce. But since Claire went to work, Zoë acts out much more when she’s on play dates. She doesn’t play nice sometimes. I hate to discipline someone else’s child, but honestly, half the time I feel like the kid’s surrogate mother. Claire is always asking me to do a favor here, a favor there.”

I’m in shock. I feel like I’ve just been slapped in the face. The heat and color rise in my cheeks as though the sting is actual. I unfurl some paper and dry my eyes.

I flush the toilet and unlock the door. Then I head straight for the sinks with my head held high. The room is as quiet as a mausoleum. No way for them to weasel out of anything I over-heard. Still, I can’t look these women directly in the eye; I’m not that brave. I collect my dress from the stall and summon my courage. “You needn’t feel so put out in the future,” I tell Jennifer Silver-Katz. “Don’t worry; I won’t ask you for any more ‘favors.’ ”

Chapter 17

Bleh. The temperature in the room is over a hundred degrees. While the kids are storing their mats, Zoë’s yoga instructor Sarita, a slender honey blonde whose real name is Cameron, approaches me. She cocks her head as though she’s studying my features in order to paint a portrait. Then she takes both my hands, straightens up and looks deeply into my eyes. “Zoë seemed a little hostile today. Is everything all right at home?”