A Different Kind Of Forever (29 page)

He finally opened his eyes, blinking against the sunlight. “How long have you been sitting here?” he asked groggily.

“A while. Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

“Food?”

“Toast. Please.”

She nodded, and went back to the kitchen. She was spreading butter as he came down the hall from the bathroom, and she carried the tray into the living room. She sat beside him and he kissed her.

“I tried to call you,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Seth changed the number because too many people had gotten hold of it. He never told me, of course. Then I gave my password to someone, she said she’d help with some of my business stuff, but I found out she was, ah, editing my e-mail. And after you said you couldn’t fly over, I thought – “ He stopped and shook his head again. “What about Emily?” he asked.

She told him, about Emily, Megan, and Quinn. The phone rang once or twice, but she did not answer it. At one point she crawled into his lap and he held her and she told him about Levinson and his plans for her play. The words came in a flood, everything she had been holding and saving just for him.

“Now you,” she said finally. “Tell me. Tell me everything you did while you were gone.”

He started with Seth, and Jane Whyte. He told her about the movie, it would be released in December as planned. They were done with the score, but there was an additional song for the soundtrack, another ballad he had written, and he had to finish recording. He was going back. He’d be home for good in a week.

She was quiet in his arms. “I love you very much,” she said. “Did I tell you that?” She looked at him, and he was smiling, eyes blazing with happiness.

“Yes, you mentioned it.”

“It wasn’t until after you left. I was so miserable, and I couldn’t figure out why. My life was the same, the girls, my job, everything. And then I remembered what you said, about having a place to belong. That’s what was wrong. You weren’t here, and I had nowhere that was just mine, no place to be happy. That’s when I knew I loved you. Because I knew that I belonged with you.”

He kissed her. “Then what are we going to do?” He asked.

“I guess you’ll come for dinner. We’ll talk to Megan and Emily. We’ll tell them how we feel. We’ll see each other as often as we can. We’ll spend every weekend together. We won’t be apart any more than we have to.”

“Is Emily going to be okay with that?”

“I think she has big plans for you. Megan too. Be warned. And don’t say yes to anything.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Would you consider moving up to Mendham?”

She sat for a long time, then shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t live with you. I wouldn’t feel right, with the girls.”

He nodded. “Can we go away somewhere?” He asked her. “We have serious catching up to do.”

“I know. I can’t believe you’re leaving again. I’ll talk to Marianne. I’ve got days coming. We could get a long weekend, maybe. Someplace warm - just the two of us?”

“Yes. I need a long, quiet rest. I feel one hundred years old. And I’ve missed you so badly I thought I would lose my mind. I need days in bed.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Could we start now? Do you have anyplace you’re supposed to be? I need you, you have no idea.” He kissed her roughly. “Can we go back to bed? Please. I need to make love to you. It’s going to be the longest week of my life, waiting to get back to you this time.”

“Come on.”
 

They undressed. She was thinner, he thought, but her breasts were still full and lush, and as he slipped into her, her legs were still strong around him. He would not rush, moving slowly as she arched against him, her hands in his hair.
 

“I love you,” he whispered at last.
 

“I know,” she whispered back, “I love you too.”

A
PRIL, IN GENERAL
, is not a good month for me. Here in northern New Jersey, April can either be awash with daffodils or buried under a foot of snow, and waiting to see which way it will go kills me. MI hate the April version of winter –some days, that nip of spring teases the air and gets you thinking about warm sunshine, but mostly it’s just cold enough to be miserable. The snow turns black and ugly in about six minutes, and the salt used on the roads gets in between the pads of my dog’s feet. Ever try washing the feet of a 60-pound lump of wet fur? Whimpering, quivering wet fur? No fun at all.

On the flip side, what if it does get warm and sunny right away? That whole process of morphing out of winter woolies and sweaters and scarves that successfully hid my entire body for four months and getting into clothes that not only show skin, but also rolls, pouches, wrinkled knees – it’s excruciating.
 

Then, of course, there’s the whole tax thing.
 

Let’s not even discuss my allergies.
 

So it stands to reason that any given April day will not be a particularly good one. But the day my husband Brian told me that he was leaving me for somebody 15 years younger and 30 pounds lighter was the worst.

That morning, Daughter the First, the 16-year-old, bitchy, bossy one, screamed from her upstairs bedroom that she had no clean clothes to wear, so she was not going to school. Since she, like her two younger sisters, is responsible for her own laundry, I screamed back that it was not my problem and she could go to school in her pajamas for all I cared, but she’d better be out of the house in fifteen minutes. She then came down stairs in full make-up and her pajamas.

“Miranda. Go upstairs. Put on real clothes.”

“These are real clothes.” She was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a camisole.

“No. Those are pajamas.”

“You just told me I could wear them.”

The space right behind my eyeballs started to heat up. “What?”

“Just ten minutes ago, you said I could go to school in my pajamas for all you cared, as long as I got out of the house on time. You just said it, Mom.” Her face was full of sudden concern. “You’re not starting to forget things, are you?”

“No. Of course not. I remember what I said. I just didn’t mean it. I was being facetious.”

She walked over to the cupboard, pulled out a bowl, walked to another cupboard and found the cereal. The look on her face was one of fierce concentration. “What does that word mean again?”

“You know damn well what it means. It means I won’t let you out of the house in pajamas.”
 

“Just the bottoms,” she pointed out.

“That still counts.”

“All the girls wear them. Not just to school, either.” She went to the refrigerator and pulled out the milk. “Remember the girls we saw in Kings?”

Yes, I remember. I remember thinking, at the time, that I’d die of embarrassment if my daughter walked around in public looking like she had just rolled out of bed. I also remember telling my daughters that I would lock them in a closet before I would let them walk around looking like that. Did Miranda remember that?

“Don’t you remember what I said about that? About locking you in a closet?”

She shrugged. “You didn’t mean it.”

“Yes. I did.”

She defiantly poured Cocoa Puffs into a bowl. “I thought you were being facetious. Besides, I have nothing else that’s clean.” She poured some milk as I counted to ten.

“What about that outfit we just bought last weekend? The one with the camouflage skirt?”

Daughter the First, also known as Miranda Claire Berman, shrugged expressively. “I won’t wear that. It’s ugly.”

“Then why did I spend all that money buying it for you?” I asked, although I should have known better.

“Well, I liked it in the store. But when I tried it on at home, it was really awful.”

“And what,” I continued, simply because I had to hear her answer, “is the difference between here and the store?”

She chewed, then swallowed. I could see that she was actually giving this some thought. “Maybe the light?” she suggested at last. “Yeah, I think the lights that they have in dressing rooms are trick lights so that everything you try on looks really cool, but when you put the same clothes on in, like, real daylight, it looks crappy. So I can’t wear it.”

And this is the girl who has problems in school, they keep telling me, because she’s not working up to her potential. Any human being who can come up with an idea like that should be working in a brain trust.

“Real clothes, Miranda,” I said in my best I’m-only-saying-this-once-then-I’m-killing-you voice. “Jeans. Or a skirt. Or Dockers. Not jammy pants. Then bring down the ugly outfit so I can take it back to Macy’s for credit. Now.”
 

Miranda knows when she can push and when she has to back down, so she actually dropped her cereal bowl and spoon into the sink before she flounced out of the kitchen in a subtle display of teen-age compromise. I stirred lots of sugar into my coffee and waited for the second wave.

Daughter the Second and Daughter the Third are only separated by eight minutes, but that counts for a lot when you’re fourteen. Daughter the Second is very sweet. Daughter the Third chews nails for breakfast then spits them out at people all day long. When they were little, they were kept in separate classrooms in school because they were impossible to tell apart. But sometime around the age of ten, distinct personalities began to develop. Now, to the casual observer, they could be two completely separate species.

Lauren, the older and infinitely wiser, combs her shining, soft brown hair into neat little braids or pony tails, applies some mascara and clear lip gloss, then descends into the kitchen smiling, her books in a neat pile by the door, her jeans freshly washed and actually ironed – which, I must admit, bothers me just a little- and her T-shirt always clean. That bothers me a little too, but she actually kisses me on the cheek every morning as part of her morning routine. I tend to overlook a lot of her little foibles.

That particular morning, I could see a happy kitten face beneath her grey hoodie, and her hair was in a long braid. She carefully measured oatmeal and water into a bowl and set it in the microwave, then smiled as she poured her orange juice and said, in her very sweet, little-girl voice, “I put our DNA in Johnson already. Is that okay?”

I smiled. Of course it was okay. For those who need a translation, Johnson is our mini-van. I call it Johnson after the actor, Van Johnson. I am a huge movie fan, and I watched a lot of old movies on television when I was a kid. The DNA she was referring to was the science project she and her sister had been working on for the past six weeks. The science teacher put a number of acceptable projects into a hat, and Lauren and her sister Jessica, who are both very smart in science and are lab partners, pulled out the DNA model as their project. Jessica, with her warped sense of humor and her innate ability to take any mundane activity and turn it into something that will drive everyone crazy, insisted on a very large-scale model. The finished project was over five feet long and about as graceful to maneuver as a herd of water buffalo. So I was driving them both to school that morning.

On cue - that is, late - my youngest, my baby, my last chance of attaining perfection, clumped down the stairs. Jessica can’t help clumping. She really can’t. Her feet are encased in Doc Marten boots that are designed to protect SWAT team members from having their feet shot off by bazookas. But they are black, so they match the rest of her outfit, which is, of course, the important thing. Her pants, cut raggedly below the knee, are black. Her long-sleeved button-down shirt is black. The heavy eyeliner and clumpy mascara is black – are we all getting the picture? And her hair is black, the kind of dead, dull, artificial black that can only be bought. Very cheaply. Speaking of hair, her haircut is very one-of-a-kind, but for anyone who would care to duplicate it, here’s how it’s done.

1. Bend over, brushing your long, silky, beautiful hair straight down.
   
2. Gather all your hair together and fasten with a rubber band, as close to the scalp as possible.
   
3. Still bending over, grasp the hank of hair about three inches from the rubber band with one hand, and with the other hand, using very dull scissors, cut as close to the rubber band as possible.
   
4. Remove rubber band, stand upright, and shake your head.
   
5. Leave all the cut hair on the bathroom floor.
    
   
6. Mix one application of GothGirl Hair Color #666, Your-Mother-Will-Scream Black, in the bathroom sink, making sure to get a few flecks on the walls.
   
7. Apply half the bottle to your newly shorn head, leaving the rest to drip over the hair on the floor.
   
8. After rinsing, let hair dry without benefit of conditioner, gel, mousse or blow dryer.
   

Ta-dah! The Jessica!

Jessica growled. She’s not a morning person. She poured herself a cup of coffee, which she drank, of course, black, and started taking apart a bagel with her blackened fingertips, putting very small bits into her mouth a little at a time.

“I need a favor,” she said. “It’s really important.” She was slouched against the counter, squinting at the sunlight like a vampire.

I sighed. “No,” I told her, “you cannot get a tattoo.”

“That’s not it.”

“And you can’t get your nose pierced either.”

“Wrong again, Mom.” She sighed and munched more bagel, then and asked, very casually, “Could I sleep at Billy’s Friday night?”

Billy is her so-called boyfriend. He’s a year older and lives six blocks away. He walks over to see her on the weekends and they go out for walks, sometimes into town, where there are places to eat and have coffee. He’s a very quiet kid, with long hair that hides most of his face most of the time.

I put my coffee cup down very carefully. “Did you just ask me to spend the night at Billy’s?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. He’s having a sleepover party.”

“A sleepover party?” I looked over at Lauren for some sort of verification. Lauren was actually nodding.

“Yes, Mom,” Lauren said. “A lot of kids are having boy-girl sleepovers. It’s kind of the new thing.”

I was trying not to hyperventilate. “Who else is invited?”