But things are different now.
Before running up the stairs to squeeze my girls and rid myself of this bitterness, I come to an eye-opening realization. Maybe some flirting with Noah is just the thing I need to feel good about myself after Declan’s little brush with infidelity. This reunion will be good for me—an escape from my tumultuous reality and a break from being a grown up. I would never act on it. I would just have a good time without doing any damage. Besides, for all I know Noah Matheson is a happily married man with a perfect family of his own.
“Can we go to Nana’s house today? Pleeeaaase, Mommy?” Cara does her best puppy dog face and it’s hard not to cave in to the adorable pleading. That face makes it difficult to say no to anything it accompanies, even if that request is for something as impossible as her very own pony. The child has everyone who knows her fooled, which is precisely why our playroom is busting at the seams with too many toys. But this is a simple request, one I don’t mind giving in to.
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll call them to make sure they’re not busy today. I bet they would love to see their little angels.”
I need a change in scenery and so do the girls. Moping around within these four walls is making us all very antsy. And antsy isn’t a good thing when you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I check the clock, forgetting what day it even is. Without Declan and his routine, I’ve lost all track of time. Luckily I’ve committed Nick Jr.’s cartoon schedule to memory, and by the sounds of the intro to Little Bear, I know it’s ten thirty a.m. on a weekday. One quick scratch of the head and a memory of the garbage trucks coming yesterday and I remember that it’s Thursday.
Mom should be home; her Mahjong group meets on Tuesdays and her crochet club is on Fridays. Dad would already be at the office—his second home for the last thirty-five years, where he works as our town’s most well-respected and successful realtor. Even at almost sixty that man has no intentions of retiring any time soon.
I plop two bowls of sliced bananas and watermelon on the girls’ miniature Dora table, pat their heads and walk into the other room to call my mom, away from the blaring TV.
I dial her number and she answers after half a ring. I expect the usual sing-song greeting, but instead my heart stops when I hear her trying to speak through unmistakable sobs and sniffles.
“Mom? What’s the matter?” I have never mastered the art of self-control in situations like this. The sound of tears, especially from my stone of a mother, makes me nervous, makes me panic.
It’s been a minute, an hour, maybe just a second, but she still hasn’t answered me and I’m not sure my heart is going to remain in my chest much longer. “MOM! Tell me what happened!”
“It’s Daddy, Mimi.”
Oh no. She never calls me Mimi, only when something’s wrong. Oh my God. What’s wrong with my father?
“What do you mean, Mom? What happened, is he...” I can’t even bring myself to complete the sentence.
“No, no, sweetie. I’m sorry. I…I don’t know. Sam from the office called. Daddy had a heart attack at work. I just got off the phone and was about to dial your number when you called. The ambulance is already on its way to the hospital. Can you come get me and we can go there together? I don’t think I can do this without you.” Hearing my mother ask for help, showing any sign of weakness—this is so not her. She’s scared shitless and quite frankly, listening to her this way, I’m scared out of my mind myself.
“Of course, Mom. I’ll be right over.” For some odd reason I find the need to tell her I love her. Even if it’s not something we say to each other often, she needs the comfort right now. “I love you, Mom. He’ll be okay and so will we.”
She sobs again, a long drawn out, heart wrenching moan, before she answers me. “I love you too, sweetie. Come quick. Please.”
I hang up, look over at the kids in their mismatched pajamas and shut the TV off. I bring over two teeny pairs of flip flops, the ones we usually keep in the back for pool days, and quickly put them on their little feet.
“Come on girls. We get to see Nana today after all. But we gotta move. Quick.”
I take a quick look in the mirror in the entryway. I don’t look like total shit, but then again I really don’t care. This is an emergency and it won’t be the first time the kids and I have left the house without brushed teeth or combed hair, wearing two-day-old, wrinkled clothes. Every mother, except of course the Hollywood superstars who have nannies to mind after them, has been down this road before.