Say Never (30 page)

Cera watches Patsy for a moment, then turns to me and rolls her eyes. I bite my lip and give my step-niece a curt, surreptitious nod.
Patsy Gates has a thing for my brother
. And Cera and I know it.

I slice into my chicken breast and, since Patsy didn’t bother to sauce me, I mash some sweet potato on top of the meat. “So, Patsy. How’s Dennis doing?”

She barely glances in my direction. “He’s fine.” Danny enthusiastically piles food onto his fork and Patsy giggles. “Oh, Danny, not such a big bite!”

“I’m a guy. It’s just how we eat.”

Patsy roars with laughter even though Danny wasn’t making a joke. He smiles at her good-naturedly as he chews on his gargantuan mouthful.

“Seriously, Danny. I don’t want you to choke.” When she lays her hand on his forearm,
I
nearly choke.

“Is Dennis still doing the high finance thing?” I ask. Dennis is an accountant, and he’s true to the cliché, right down to his horn-rimmed glasses and bow-tie.

“Mmm hmm,” she replies. She pushes her fork around her plate, but doesn’t seem to be eating anything, which is a shame for her because the food is delicious.

“Still with Kander and Ebb?”

“Carter and Epstein,” she corrects. Clearly she has no idea that Kander and Ebb are the famous composers responsible for Liza Minnelli’s career.

“You guys have been married, for, what? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-two,” she snaps, her annoyance rising to the surface. She probably doesn’t want to discuss her husband in front of Danny. And because I am me, I find this supremely amusing.

“Wow. That’s a long time to be married. You guys must have a great relationship. What’s your secret?”

Patsy lays down her fork and turns to me, exasperated. “It’s not a secret, Meg. You’re single so you don’t understand.”

“But, seriously,” I say. “I’ve always wondered how people can sustain a happy marriage. How they can stay together and only have se—uh, only be with each other in
that way
and not be with anyone else. It must be hard.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Patsy says.

“She means sex,” Cera pipes up, and I almost spew collard greens onto the table.

“What’s sex?” McKenna asks.

“It’s when the daddy puts his penis inside the mommy’s vagina,” Sammy announces.

“Wow, Sammy, I’m impressed,” I say. “What are you, four? Here, have my roll.”

Patsy clutches her napkin to her chest. “I don’t think this is an appropriate dinner conversation.”

“What’s a penis?” asks Daisy through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“What’s a angina?” McKenna jumps in.

“That’s what your dad is experiencing right now,” I tell her, struggling to keep a straight face as I watch my brother’s cheeks turn a dangerous shade of red.

“I just don’t believe this!” Patsy cries, throwing her napkin on the table. “I try to provide a nice dinner for you, and this is what happens! You really are a terrible person, Meg Monroe.”

“
I’m
a terrible person?” I toss my fork down and it clatters against my plate. “What about
you
, Patsy. You stole my boyfriend in high school.” (My first and last boyfriend before Brian, whose name I cannot remember, but still.) “Because you thought I wasn’t good enough for him.”

“You weren’t!” Patsy spits out before she can stop herself.

“Right. And now you’re here making googly eyes at my brother, for God’s sake. In front of your kids!”

“What?” Danny’s confused expression reveals that he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“What kind of a person does that?”

“I am not…I…I don’t know what you’re…This is unbelievable!” She stands suddenly, nearly knocking over her chair. “I don’t have to put up with this! Daisy, Sam, we’re leaving!”

“But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Daisy protests.

Patsy storms into the kitchen and returns with her purse, then grabs Daisy’s wrist and pulls her from her seat. “Get up, Sam. Now.” The cords in her neck are strained with tension as she turns to face my brother. “I’m sorry, Danny. I cannot put up with your sister for a moment longer. If you need me, you can call me any time.”

“I’ll bet,” I snipe.

Danny jumps to his feet and trails her and her kids to the front door, entreating them to stay. He follows them outside and the door swings closed behind him. Cera turns to me and smiles. “That was awesome,” she says.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

“Nice job, sis,” Danny says wearily as he walks back into the dining room. “I don’t know what all that hooey was about, but you owe Patsy an apology.”

Apology, my ass.

Danny takes his seat at the table and we eat the rest of our meal in silence.

* * *

I can’t sleep. Too many thoughts are plaguing me. Gordon hasn’t returned my call, and I worry what that might mean for my job. If he honestly thinks I’m jumping ship, I’m screwed. He’ll give Barry Humphries the whole show and I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to get back on it. I have to talk to him and set things straight.

When I’m not worrying about my job, my mind circles back to Matt Ryan and our green-belt kiss. What the hell was he thinking? I mean, seriously, I know I am an attractive woman, but come on! I am not irresistible, especially while wearing workout clothes and sweating my ass off. And what was I doing kissing him back? It’s not like I’m in desperate need of sex. In a week, I’ll be gone. He knows that! Maybe that’s what he was banking on. Maybe he thought the two of us could have some fun, no strings, just a bump and grind kind of thing before I fly off into the night. And that would be great. But his kiss—our kiss—didn’t feel like a no-strings kind of thing. It felt totally real and totally right with the promise of something deeper behind it.

And I absolutely don’t want that! I’ve been avoiding
that
for fifteen years, for crap’s sake.

At eleven-thirty, after tossing and turning for an hour, I throw back the covers and emerge from my room. The hallway is dark, but I see the sleeping forms of McKenna and Cera in my niece’s room, their silhouettes softly lit by McKenna’s princess night light.

I continue toward the living room and before I reach the landing, I hear Danny’s resonating snore. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Tebow sits on the floor, contentedly playing with his blocks while my brother sits beside him, his head lolling to the side, his mouth hanging open, a single building block in his hand. He is fast asleep.

Damn it if Patsy wasn’t right about Tebow. I really hate her.

“Hey pal,” I whisper as I make my way to my nephew. He looks up at me, then hands me a block.

“Mmphler,” he announces, and I crouch down beside him and take the block from his hands.

“Mmphler to you too. What’s this you made?”

Tebow has unwittingly created a little Stonehenge, and I carefully place the block he gave me next to the last one in the semi-circle. My nephew smiles behind Thomas the Train.

“Glundimak!”

“Absolutely,” I agree.

He cocks his head to the side, then reaches up and pulls out his pacifier. Pointing at me with the plastic nipple, he says, “Mae.”

I smile and nod. “That’s right. Meg.”

“Mae,” he repeats, as if cementing it in his brain. “Fuck me, Mae!”

“Ssh! You’ll wake up your dad!” I make a silly face, and he giggles.

An enormous yawn escapes him. He sticks his pacifier back in his mouth and gains his feet by first raising his diapered ass in the air and then slowly lifting his torso. He stomps over to me and plops himself down into my lap. Reflexively, I encircle him with my arms and feel him relax against me. I begin to rock him back and forth. I’ve never held a child in my arms like this, but it feels like the right thing to do.

“What are you doing up so late, little mister—uh, little man? You should be sleeping and dreaming dreams of purple elephants and rainbow waterfalls and candy flowers and whipped cream clouds.” (Don’t ask me where I came up with that, and no, I never dropped acid.)

He leans his head against my chest and I breathe in his baby scent, which is a combination of dried milk and talcum powder, and not altogether unpleasant. I rest my chin against his blond hair and start to hum the melody of an old nursery rhyme.

“Hushabye, don’t you cry, go to sleep my little baby/ When you wake you shall have your cake, and all the pretty little horses.”

His breathing turns deep and rhythmic, and a moment later, his pacifier slips from his mouth and brushes against my arm on its way to the floor.

Something stirs within me as I continue to rock Tebow. I’m not suddenly overcome with the desire to have a child. But for the first time in my life, I have the barest inkling of how a mom must feel about her child, on a bone-deep level. To my great surprise, this feeling doesn’t fill me with dread.

Hormones,
I tell myself. But I don’t believe it. I close my eyes and tighten my grasp on my nephew, humming softly to him. When I finish the last stanza, I open my eyes and find Danny staring at me, a knowing smile on his face.

Seventeen

Barry:
My wife loves Target. It’s just like Alexander’s was, but better. You can get anything from Target. A microwave, a winter coat, a kitchen sink, roach motels, hemorrhoid cream. It’s terrific!

Meg:
Barry, when Target shows up in the greatest city in the world, it’s like the fall of Rome.

* * *

Thursday seems to be going well so far. Things are finally gelling for me in the kid-department. I got McKenna to school on time and I remembered to send in the bag of uncooked pasta with which she will be recreating the first Thanksgiving dinner, or some such shit. Cera and I have fallen into a tenuous alliance, likely due to my mistreatment of Patsy Gates last night. She was markedly less hostile to me at the breakfast table and cleared the plates the first time I asked, which surprised both me and Danny. I even managed to change Tebow’s diaper this morning without getting any amount of fecal matter on my person. So, that was definitely a win.

But the day goes south at Target. I should seriously have known better.

Danny had a list of household items that were running low, and I foolishly offered to pick them up for him before heading over to the bakery in Pelican Point to order Cera’s birthday cake. (Also, I’m secretly hoping that Dr. Rabinowitz called in my prescription for Xanax, although knowing the sadist, he probably didn’t.) I am not a Target shopper, nor have I ever been, even though Manhattan now has one. The reason I don’t shop there is not because I’m a snob, but because I get everything I need from Gristedes and Zabar’s and Duane Reade and Bloomingdales. (Okay, maybe I am a wee bit of a snob.)

But here in So Cal? Jesus. Apparently, Target is the go-to spot for moms after dropping their kids at school. The parking lot is packed with SUVs and minivans, and a veritable parade of mothers and small children excitedly hike toward the entrance as though it’s the Taj Mahal.

I find a parking space about a million miles from the monolithic building decorated with red targets, pull the Camaro in, and shut off the engine.

Cera turns to me from the passenger seat and says, “Target. Cool.”

In the backseat, Tebow starts mumbling excitedly. I glance in the rearview mirror and see that he is pointing at the store. “Targie, Targie!” he exclaims. Wow. He can almost say the name. Amazing.

With Danny’s list safely tucked in my pocket, I hoist Tebow from his car seat. I carry him on my hip, with Cera shuffling beside me. “Can we go to the toy section?” she asks. “I want to see if they have Totally Polished Fianna.”

Like I know what that means.

“I couldn’t find her at my Target back home. I have my own money, you know.”

“Sure, we can stop at the toy section. Why not?”

I am about to learn why you should never
ever
stop at, pass by, or push your cart anywhere near the toy section of Target if you are with a couple of kids. Not only will you possibly never see the light of day again, it can turn into a disaster equal to flood, famine and pestilence on a global scale.

First things first; I have to get Tebow situated into a cart. As per my brother’s instructions, I have brought something called a ‘Floppy Seat,’ which apparently is different than a ‘Boppy Seat,’ although I have no idea what
that
is. The floppy seat fits over the front of the cart, protecting the child from whatever germs and microbes might have been left behind by the previous occupant. It’s supposed to be easy, but I’ll tell you, you need a freaking master’s degree to figure this fucker out.

After five minutes of tucking and pulling at the elastic, and tugging on the straps (witnessed by a battalion of mothers who effortlessly slide their own freaking floppy seats into their carts and look at me pityingly—but none of whom offers to help) I finally decide to simply stuff the fabric onto the plastic panel and shove Tebow on top of it. Yes, the push bar is naked, so he will likely contract diphtheria when he runs his chubby little hands across it, but I’d like to get moving and I’ve wasted enough time already.