“Cole who?”
“He’s a senior and the captain of, like, every team. Don’t worry, he’s had his license for over a year.”
“Over a year! Well then, by all means, put your life in his hands.”
“Mom.”
“Chloe. I’d like to at least meet him.”
“Jesus, Mom! That’s so embarrassing. There’s no way. I’d rather walk to school.”
“That’s fine. You can walk. I doubt you’ll get very far in that outfit.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Chloe flailed her arms in the air. “Fine, I’ll go put on a sweatshirt.” She stalked toward the stairs in the three-hundred-dollar boots I got her for Chanukah. They were a recent-divorce guilt purchase that I immediately regretted.
“Watch your language!” I projected after her. “And put on a pair of tights, too.”
I heard her stomping around in her room, most likely trying things on and then discarding them on the floor. I’ll have to remind her that employing a housekeeper isn’t an open invitation to be a slob. Jeremy used to call it “being accountable.”
I sat down on the stool that her tushie had been occupying moments earlier and snapped a piece of bacon with my front teeth. A few minutes later, she came soaring down the stairs. Before I could even think to stop her, she zipped past me in my gauzy cardigan sweater, no tights beneath her fabric swatch of a skirt.
She didn’t say goodbye. She just slammed the door behind her. I sprinted over to the window and watched her strut to the end of the driveway, where a shiny silver Range Rover was awaiting her. Then I saw her jump into the passenger seat and lean toward Cole, I presume, so he could kiss her on the lips. A kiss that lasted a little too long for my taste.
As they pulled away, I dumped the eggs and bacon in the trash.
I’d lost my appetite.
4 BREE
“It’s like I don’t even know her anymore,” I lamented to Maggie, who was distracted by her ten-year-old son Quinn’s mad rush to catch the school bus.
“Tie your shoes. A little faster, come on… now put your jacket on… and don’t forget your hat. Okay, go. I can see the end of the street from the kitchen window. I’ll watch you. Hurry. I love you.” Finally, I heard her front door shut. “Sorry about that. He moves like molasses in the morning. What were you saying?”
“Chloe. Different person.”
“Right. I’m sure it’s just a phase.”
“Well, I hope it’s a quick one, because I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck and it’s not even eight thirty.”
“It’s very normal for teenagers to go through different stages of development.” Maggie put on her psychologist hat and reassured me. She specializes in family crises and sees patients in her home office, which is two houses down from mine.
“From what she looked like this morning, she’s already developed.”
“Not physical development. Emotional and social development. She’s figuring out who she is, who she wants to be, and how far she can push you. In other words, she’s testing her limits. So you have to figure out what your limits are and stick to them, otherwise she’ll walk all over you,” Maggie advised. “And, I hate to say it, but it’s definitely going to be harder now that you and Jeremy are separated.”
“Divorced,” I corrected.
As implausible as it still seems, I’m training myself to use that word. I’ve come to realize that, to most people, divorcée defines who you are in a way I never felt when I was married.
“You know what I mean.”
“The thing is, Chloe has never needed much discipline. She’s always been so easy. I’m not making that up, am I?”
“No, Chloe’s amazing. I’m telling you, she’s just spreading her wings, and in doing so, the two of you are clashing a little. Especially because she knows that Jeremy was the tougher one. Maybe she thinks she can get away with more when she’s living with you.”
“Maybe.” Jeremy always was the authoritarian. He was more comfortable in that position. “What’s that crunching sound?”
“I’m force-feeding myself those disgusting fiber crackers. I think they’re made of cardboard. For real.”
“Then why are you eating them?” My stomach grumbled at the suggestion of food.
I opened the refrigerator in search of something inspiring and then closed it. An expired Greek yogurt, leftover Caesar salad, a bottle of wine, and a six-pack of Diet Coke wasn’t what I wanted at the moment.
“Because my ass is the size of a hot-air balloon and I’m trying to deflate it.”
“Would you stop? You look great.” For as long as I’ve known Maggie, she’s been chasing that last ten pounds.
“From the front, my body is marginally palatable. But the rear view is a shit show. Pun intended.”
“You’re insane.” I laughed. “So what’s on your schedule today? I need to live vicariously through someone who still has a job.”
“Let’s see, after I eat a cardboard box, I have a session with a patient who has severe OCD.”
“That sucks. I’ve seen those people on TV, where they have to do everything three times.”
“Obviously I can’t go into the details, but let’s just say that’s nothing compared to this woman.”
“Ugh.”
“I know. We’ve been working together for nearly a year and, unfortunately, it’s not getting any better. I’m exhausted just thinking about everything she goes through on a daily basis. I really feel for her, ya know?”
“I hear you.” One of the many things I love and respect about Maggie is that she truly cares for and empathizes with her patients. Sometimes, when she can’t make a girls’ lunch or happy hour drinks, she threatens to quit and become a housewife, but I know she’ll never do that. She’s too invested in helping people.
“What about you?” Maggie asked, as I moved to the pantry and located a box of Wheat Thins.
“I actually have an interview at the Fairfield Chronicle.”
“That’s cool!”
“I’m not sure I’d call it cool, but it’s something to get me back in the game. Even if the game is just Go Fish. I mean, they might take one look at me and realize I’m a dinosaur.”
“Oh, shut up. For starters, I’m four years older than you are. Anyway, I bet you have more experience than anyone who works there. You’re a legitimate journalist.”
“Correction. I used to be a legitimate journalist.”
When Chloe was born, I swore to myself that I’d never leave the workforce. I had a staff position at ABC, which isn’t easy to come by. I thrived on the fast pace of producing a daily news show and considered any woman who left to become a full-time mom a sellout. Eventually, though, we moved out of the city, and after seven years the Metro-North commute became too taxing, so I switched gears and started ghostwriting for celebrities and a couple of reality-TV personalities.
“You wrote Millie Sanders’ book. Need I remind you that she’s at least B-list, and that it was a New York Times bestseller?”