Dunkin and Donuts (7 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“Wow, hon. That’s terrible!”

I am in the living room ironing Dunkin’s shirts as he listens to me vent about my mother. The worst part about her dropping the c-bomb is that now I can’t yell at her. I can’t shake her and demand that she get quality medical care or tell her to stop being so superficial and deal with what may be a serious, life-threatening issue. What if she dies? I have to be nice to her. I have to pocket my pride and become the daughter she’s always wanted. I take a deep breath. I am trying not to catastrophize. Dunkin is a godsend, calming me down not only with his boyfriend conciliation but, also, his doctor expertise. He’s the only person I’ve told about what’s happening with my mom. When I called back to talk to her about it, she told me not to tell anyone.

“Your dad and your brothers don’t need to know about this. They love me too much and they’ll worry.”

“I love you too, Mom,” I pointed out. “I worry too.”

“Nonsense. We’re women. We can handle these things. I only told you because, you know, it’s important for you to know about my medical history. Breast cancer has a genetic component to it, in addition to all the other risk factors.”

“What about the boob job? Won’t Dad notice if they cut your boobs off and replace them with silicone ones?”

She laughs. “I doubt it. No. I’m just kidding. If I do have cancer, I’ll tell your father. I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily.”

I tell her that I’ll drive her to her appointment in two weeks. I can’t believe they make a person wait two whole weeks for a biopsy! She thanks me and we disconnect.

“What does your father say about all this?” Dunkin asks.

“She hasn’t told him.”

“How could she not tell him?”

“Because she’s my mother and she thinks that a woman’s role is to protect her man from any possible knowledge about her that might make her any less attractive to him.”

“That’s insane.”

“She’s insane.” As I say this, I sniff the air. Is something burning? It smells like singed fabric. Dunkin and I look down at the same time as a cloud of smoke fills the air. It is emanating from the iron board where I have been ironing one of his favorite work shirts. The shirt is now—don’t be alarmed—slightly on fire. Shit! I throw some water on it then a towel over that and douse the iron-shaped burn mark on the back of my boyfriend’s shirt.

“I’m late,” he says. “I’ll just throw a jacket on over it.”

So I send my man off to work with a giant iron-shaped brown patch on his back and hope he doesn’t forget and take off his jacket at all during the day today. Clearly, Vanity and I are very different when it comes to our ideals around protecting our men.

Chapter Twenty

The Friday night before my family’s dreaded Sunday brunch, I agree to accompany Dunkin to a work party. We’ve had a seemingly endless stream of social engagements lately. I never realized that doctors were so in-demand. Most aren’t, I don’t think, but Dunkin’s practice is a lucrative one and his business partner is the king of all schmoozers which means that he gets invited to a lot of parties. Consequently,
we
get invited to a lot of parties. I’m not always the most adept at hobnobbing with the glitterati, as is evidenced by my earlier swinging faux pas, but I try.

Tonight, Dunkin and I have agreed to play it straight. We’ve learned our lesson about playing tricks at parties. Sometimes, they backfire. Tonight’s party is being thrown by Antony Corbett, one of the practice’s wealthiest clients who lives in a penthouse apartment in Center City.

“I never knew that physicians socialized with their patients.”

“I try not to,” Dunkin says as we walk arm-in-arm, into the lobby. “This is sort of a necessary evil. This particular patient is a close personal friend of Scott’s and has gotten us a lot of connections that we wouldn’t have if not for Corbett. It’s sort of incestuous.”

I kiss him on the cheek. “Speaking of incest…You look incredibly handsome tonight.”

“Um, thanks.” He chuckles. “Although you may not want to reference incest next time you come on to me.”

I nuzzle against him and he smiles down at me seductively.

“You look beautiful yourself,” Dunkin says, then shakes his head at me—never a good sign. “Shayla? Don’t take this the wrong way, but, is there something wrong with your shirt?”

I look down and notice that, indeed, I have put my shirt on backwards. It looks ridiculous. I bought this slinky black, sequined number that, when worn correctly, shows off my figure nicely. Crap! Now, I’ll have to find a place where I can change inconspicuously. We’re already in the lobby and it’s too late to turn back now. The doorman greets us with a broad smile.

“You must be here for the Corbett party,” he says.

“Yes, that’s right,” Dunkin nods.

“Far elevator on your left. It only makes one stop—at the penthouse.”

“My shirt’s on backwards,” I hiss in Dunkin’s ear as he guides me toward the elevator. “I have to fix it before we go up there.”

“Just turn it around on the ride up to the penthouse,” he whispers back. “No one will ever know.”

Unfortunately for me, there are two breathless guests sprinting for the elevator after us. Damn. Just my luck. It would be rude not to hold the elevator for them considering the fact that the female member of the pair is brandishing her handkerchief at us and shouting, “Hold that elevator!”

“Give me your coat,” I hiss at Dunkin who takes the hint and immediately wraps his coat around me so no one can see my fashion faux pas.

Only, now, I won’t be able to change in the elevator and the minute we arrive at Antony’s apartment, they’ll offer to take my coat. Fuck.

All the while, making small talk with these strangers on the ride up to the party, I am thinking, my brain desperately trying to figure out a way out of yet another embarrassing situation.

Right before the elevator stops, I say, “Oh damn, honey, I forgot something in the car. We’d better go get it.”

“Right,” he says, understanding immediately.

The doors open, but neither Dunkin nor I make a move to get off.

“We’ll catch you later,” he tells the couple. “We’re just gonna get something out of the car first.”

They disembark. As soon as the elevator doors close behind me, I thrust Dunkin’s coat at him, whip off my shirt, turn it around, and then put it on the right way. Phew! Finally, I’ve avoided an embarrassing situation—for once. I seem to be making a fool out of myself quite a lot lately and look forward to having a chance to redeem myself tonight. I silently vow that I will make a good impression at this party. When the elevator doors open on the ground floor to an influx of party guests, I’m all smiles.

Dunkin and I ride the elevator up to the top floor—again—as if nothing has happened. We get out and right away are greeted by a dozen mingling partygoers.

“Oh Shayla!” booms a voice in the crowd that I recognize from some of Dunkin’s other work parties. Barney Temple—an ass of epic proportions, already completely drunk, his arm around his poor, pretty, long-suffering wife—says, “Nice tits. Didn’t know we were in for a peep show.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but my face turns bright red. Do I have another errant boob a la the yoga fiasco escaped-boob incident or the carwash caper? I look down. Everything seems to be in place. What is he talking about?

“Ignore him,” Dunkin squeezes my arm. “The man’s drunk, not to mention the fact that he’s an asshole.”

But, then, Barney points theatrically to a bank of television screens on the wall behind us as he sings off-key, “We saw London, we saw France, we saw Shayla’s underpants.”

Displayed on the myriad of TV screens is a live video feed of the building exterior, the lobby, and, of course, the elevator. Apparently, the Corbetts have a state-of-the-art security system which includes live video feed of the elevator. I wonder how many of the guests saw me shirtless in only my bra?

“Well, hello Dunkin. And who is this lovely exhibitionist you brought with you?”

“Shayla, this is Antony Corbett. Antony, meet my girlfriend, Shayla.”

I blush bright red. But, this is no time for regret. Putting on my big girl panties, I stick out my hand as my boyfriend’s wealthiest patient, the host of tonight’s festivities, lets out a loud laugh and wraps me up in a bear hug.

“Honey, we need not stand on ceremony. I’ve seen all of you. We may as well be friends.”

I plaster on a smile and force myself to laugh along. This night could not get any worse. But then, Pamela Drew, the mother of one of my students from last year and an avid PTA mom at Saint Sebastian, walks over to me, drink in hand, and says, “Why, Shayla Ross. I heard you made quite the splash this evening. If you ever decide to leave teaching, you’ve got a guaranteed job in the pornography industry.”

As I join in her laughter, I can’t help but think that the ramifications of tonight’s little elevator debacle may well be far-reaching, but there’s nothing I can do to stop Pamela from spreading stories to the other PTA moms. So much for making a good impression and wowing people with my conversational skills. It looks like I’ll be spending the rest of the night trying to get people to raise their gazes from my cleavage to my eyes. I can’t win.

I sigh and head to the bar to get myself a drink.

Chapter Twenty-One

By Sunday morning, I am ready—although not eager—to get out of bed. I spent all of Saturday in self-pity mode, huddled beneath the covers, feeling like a total idiot and trying to wish away my flashing episode of the night before. But, today, feeling better and wanting to emerge from my self-imposed exile, I get up and start a pot of coffee. Then, I remember that it’s Sunday’s brunch with Dunkin and my family.

“Ugh,” I groan.

I crawl back into the safety of my bed, burrow under the covers and mope for about five minutes, contemplating feigning illness or injury to get out of today’s brunch obligation. I decide to woman up. I get out of bed, shuffle toward the bathroom, punctuating my walk with a string of expletives as I go. Just because I’m going to go doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

I scowl at myself in the bathroom mirror. It’s a good thing no one is around to see me in my ratty pink sweatpants, oversized magenta Tinkerbell nightshirt and fuzzy yellow slippers. When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I put on my silliest, most ridiculous sleepwear and mope around the house. It helps me not to take myself, or my life, too seriously.

Before getting into the shower, I text Dunkin my parents’ address. We’re going to meet there rather than drive together because I want Dunkin to be able to leave whenever he needs to make a break for it. He assures me that he’s not worried, but I know that the next time his parents come to town, I’m going to need to give myself an early escape option and I figure it’s only fair to reciprocate in advance. Anyway, I text Dunkin and he replies immediately that he misses me and can’t wait for brunch.

The poor guy is delusional. He actually thinks that spending time with my family is a good thing. I smile at his naiveté then jump in the shower. Nothing short of a miracle will keep my mother from criticizing my appearance, but I decide to at least make more of an effort than usual today.

For Christ sakes, the woman may have
cancer
. Then, again, she does enjoy criticizing me more than anything else. It gives her life purpose. The Shayla project. Her daughter, the fixer-upper. Without me to jab at what would she do with herself? Perhaps, I should make less of an effort and give her plenty of material to work with—the more she can focus on what’s wrong with me, the less likely she’ll be to obsess about her own problems. But, my mother is an accomplished multi-tasker. Surely, she can obsess about me and herself simultaneously? I opt for the former approach—dressing with care, opting for a skirt instead of jeans and a pretty white camisole top that my mother bought for me.

When I ring the doorbell, my mom flings open the door and gives me a once-over.

“I’m not often wrong,” she says. “But, I was very wrong about that top. It doesn’t suit you at all. So unflattering. I always seem to forget about your boxy proportions. Oh, well, at least, for once, you’re not wearing those dreadful jeans. And your eyebrows are a lot less severe than they were the last time we saw you. Come on in. Where’s Dunkin? Please tell me you two haven’t split up.”

“Hi, Mom.” I kiss her on the cheek. “He’s about five minutes behind me.”

Then, my mother does something completely out of character. She wraps me up in her tiny little arms and holds me close to her. I swear, she actually inhales the scent of me, like a mother with a newborn baby.

“I love you, Shayla sweetheart,” she says. “You really can be quite a lovely girl you know.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

As Dad rounds the corner and sees us hugging, he is understandably perplexed. Mom and I aren’t the most affectionate pair.

“What’s this? Who’s dying?” He is joking, but my mother bristles and I feel her tensing in my arms.

She lets go of me, shaking off his words, and whatever motherly impulses possessed her to hug me and says, “Can’t I be proud of Shayla? For once, our daughter doesn’t look like a hobo. Besides, she finally has a boyfriend.”

As if on cue, Dunkin pulls into the driveway and gives a little hello honk. The three of us turn in tandem and wave at him. Dad puts an arm around my shoulder as I nestle into his neck.

“How is my most beautiful daughter today?”

“You mean your
only
daughter.”

“That I know about.” He chuckles.

I laugh a loud, unfeminine guffaw and my mother clucks disapprovingly at me. I can’t help it. The joke was funny. My dad is anything but a playa and the thought of him having any “baby momma dramas” is enough to set me convulsing with laughter. But, I bite back the impulse to cackle too obnoxiously. After all, my mother may be dying of cancer. I owe it to her to be more somber. With my luck, I’ll probably be one of those people who, overcome by grief and ill-equipped to deal with it, laughs at a funeral.

“Hey,” Dunkin says as he arrives at my parents’ door.

Snapping out of my reverie, I give him a kiss hello, my dad shakes his hand, and Mom does some antiquated European thing which involves a hug and air kisses.

“Oh, Dunkin, don’t you look handsome,” she coos.

He does indeed, in a pair of stonewashed jeans and black button-down shirt. She whisks him away—presumably back toward the dining room to parade him around to my brothers and their fiancées.

“So,” Dad says. “There’s something up with your mother. Care to tell me what it is?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because you knew about the abortion,” he says.

“
You
knew about that?” I ask incredulously. About eight or nine months ago, my mother confided in me that she had accidentally gotten pregnant and gotten an abortion. She’d sworn me to secrecy at the time and I’d kept her confidence. As far as I was aware, she’d never told my dad.

“I figured it out. Not to be crude, but for your mother and I not to have sex for three weeks is unheard of and, besides, she charged the procedure to our joint credit card—$950.00 to Planned Parenthood. Despite what your mother may think, I’m not an idiot.”

“Does she know you know?”

“No. I didn’t see any reason to tell her. And, now, there’s this other thing…”

“Dad, I can’t tell. I promised Mom.”

“It’s medical, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“Just promise me this… if it’s serious, either make her tell me or you tell me yourself. That woman is the love of my life and if something were to happen to her and I didn’t do everything in my power to protect her, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Deal,” I say.

“Now, let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

As predicted, my mother has my boyfriend by the hand and is parading hum around as if he were a show pony.

“Doesn’t Dunkin have the most lustrous hair?” She runs her fingers through his hair. “And look at his teeth.” She pokes him in the ribs to make him smile. “Plus, he’s a doctor. Can you believe it? Shayla finally found herself a quality boyfriend.”

“Mother!” I say, forgetting any promise to myself not to let her exasperate me today.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll stop. He’s just such a catch.”

Dunkin looks abashed, but he’s also grinning like a Cheshire cat, so he can’t be too embarrassed by her flattery.

“Hey John, hey William, congrats on your engagements,” I say.

I walk over to my brothers and their brides-to-be, offer little hugs of hello and politely oooohhhh and aaaahhhh over each woman’s nearly identical engagement ring. I can never remember either of my brothers’ girlfriends’ names despite having met them both nearly a dozen times. The women just seem so interchangeable to me and no different from any one of their previous girlfriends. Are my brothers in love or is this just another item on John and William’s to-do list? Dialing down my inner cynic, I feign rapt attention as Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum (okay, last crack about the girlfriends—promise) prattle on about how excited they are to be planning their weddings together.

“Can you believe it? We both wanted blush and bashful. Like in
Steel Magnolias
. It is just meant to be!”

“Or like in Ryan and Trista’s wedding! Remember all that beautiful pink?”

I don’t remember the pink and haven’t a clue who Ryan and Trista are, but before I can find a tactful way to say this, my boyfriend interjects.

“Huh,” Dunkin says. “I guess I don’t know much about weddings. But, doesn’t a joint wedding make it less special for you? Wouldn’t you each want your own wedding day experience?”

I love him. I love my boyfriend. I officially have the very best boyfriend in the whole entire world. He manages to convey exactly what I want to say without seeming rude or insensitive. Have I mentioned how much I love him? Maybe, one day, he and I will get married. And, if we do, our wedding colors will
not
be blush and bashful.

“William and I share everything,” John says. “We’re identical twins. We’ve always shared everything and we like it that way.”

“Well, as long as you don’t share the honeymoon.” Dad smiles.

“Oh, but we are,” one of the fiancée’s—the blonder one—says. “We’re all going to Bermuda together!”

Dad clears his throat. “Tiffany, sweetheart, I meant the post-marital, honeymoon night activities.”

She blushes. “Why, well, of course not, Mr. Ross,” she stammers.

I smile. I have sometimes wondered about that, but not for very long. The thought of my brothers having sex makes my stomach turn and the notion that they might be into anything as kinky as a foursome or swapping girlfriends frankly makes me want to hurl.

“Who’s ready to eat?” Mom asks.

Spread out on the table is an elaborate feast. Bacon, eggs, sausage, croissants, bagels, mini muffins, fruit salad, coffee cake and an apple fritter are beautifully arranged for our consumption.

“Wow, Mrs. Ross, this looks great,” Dunkin says. “Much better than our typical Sunday morning donuts.”

“Well, if Shayla brought you over more often, you’d get to join us for these little brunches. Tiffany and April and the boys come for Sunday brunch at least a couple of times a month.”

“Isn’t it nice being part of such a close-knit family?” the one who must be April because my dad identified the other one as Tiffany, asks me.

John, who has always been my least favorite of my two brothers, says, “Shayla doesn’t quite fit in with us as much as we’d like her to. I mean, she’s not really into the whole country club thing. William, Mom, and I are Tiffanys and Shayla is Target.”

“What about your dad?” April smiles.

“He’s a ‘tweener. Bed, Bath, and Beyond or Pier One or something. Maybe Williams Sonoma. At home in the middle and loved by all.”

“I had some Tiffany’s glassware when I was married,” Dunkin said. “In fact, my old house was immaculate. And, you know what? It always felt so sterile, so empty. I hated it. Shayla is anything but empty. If, by Target, you mean that she has substance, I agree. I don’t know anyone who lives life as fully as this girl here.” He turns his smile on me and I feel suddenly vindicated in my role of family outsider. “Honey, can I cut you some of this delicious coffee cake?” my sweetheart offers.

I nod, gratefully. We manage to navigate the remainder of brunch without a hitch. Dunkin’s charming wit, his engaging mannerisms, and his professional success make him a hit even with my hard-to-please family. It’s nice. Still… a part of me wishes I could do with his parents what he’s done with mine—win them over. However, my naked antics and clear lack of sophistication put me at a considerable disadvantage.

Speaking of naked, for some inexplicable reason, after we’ve all finished eating and retired to the living room with cups of coffee, my mom starts regaling us all with her story about the time she caught me and my high school boyfriend nude in the downstairs rec room.

“I swear, Shayla never did have the good sense to sneak around like the two of you,” she points at my brothers and laughs.

Dunkin smiles, winks at me, and pulls me close to him on the couch. “One of the things I love about you is how many times I’ve seen you naked, both on purpose and accidentally,” he whispers in my ear.

I laugh and wrap my arms around him. We leave at the same time as my brothers and their fiancées, an unprecedented event. Usually, I take off right after eating, before I’ve even had time to swallow my last bite. Dunkin being with me has made navigating Sunday with the family a relatively painless ordeal.

As we’re leaving, Mom says, “Wait! We just have to get a family photo.”

She makes us all stand in front of the fireplace and instructs Dad to set up the camera on its tripod. He hits the delay button, sprints over to the rest of us, and we smile together as the flash goes off. And, despite the fact that a part of me is rolling my eyes at the whole thing, another part of me is excited to finally feel like I belong. It’s nice that Mom wants to commemorate this occasion by taking a photograph. On the way out, I hug her just a little longer than usual and am happy when, for whatever reason, she hugs me back for just as long.