Say Never (2 page)

A little thing like getting older shouldn’t really bother a hot bitch like me, right?
Fucking A.

But since my birthday, things have been a bit off. I cry occasionally for no reason, like Holly Hunter in
Broadcast News,
although
she
was able to control her crying jags, whereas I break into tears with no warning whatsoever. I have inexplicable cravings for things I ate as a child, like Cap’n Crunch and Fun Dip. I forget things all the time, like the names of my doorman and the super in my building and my neighbor’s dog and, oh yeah, my
boss
. I forget whether or not I’ve taken a Xanax, and I end up accidentally taking two, then find myself drooling onto my desk—or one of my coworker’s desks. And believe you me, my coworkers do not welcome my saliva on or near their personal property.

I didn’t think I sustained a head injury during my birthday weekend, but I worried I had some other kind of neurological trauma, like an aneurysm or a brain tumor or a hemorrhage or something. I went to a neurologist-cum-sadist who put me through a battery of tests only to tell me that my brain was just hunky dory.

But last week, at my annual well-woman exam, after swabbing my vajayjay and kneading my breasts and listening to my tales of mental woe, Dr. Kim suggested I have my hormone levels checked.

And here we are.

“The usual window for menopause is forty to sixty years of age,” Dr. Kim says. “So you’re within that window. Nothing to worry about in terms of other health issues. Your bloodwork came back normal.”

“Yay for me.”

“I’d rather not put you on any hormone replacement at this time. Let’s just see how things play out, yes?”

Before I can answer, I hear the first eight bars of Tom Petty’s “American Girl” from inside my purse. I root through it and grab my cell phone, then glance at the caller ID. My brother’s number lights up the screen. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t answer his call while in the middle of an appointment. But I welcome any excuse to end the discussion about the impending obsolescence of my girl-parts.

“I have to take this,” I tell Dr. Kim and she nods.

“Just let me know if you have any more questions or concerns, Meg. You can me call anytime.”

I nod my thanks and swipe at my screen as Dr. Kim leaves the room.

“This is Meg Monroe,” I say, even though I know it’s my brother.

“Meg, I need you.”

“What the hell, Danny? Don’t you even say hello anymore?”

“There’s been an accident.”

I bolt to my feet, a slew of horrific images dancing around my head. “What?”

“We’re all fine,” he says. “Pretty much.”

“No one’s dead?” I just want to make sure. ‘Pretty much’ could mean any number of things with my brother, whose attention to detail is impaired by the severe case of ADHD he’s had since childhood. ‘Pretty much’ could mean that his entire family is in a coma, all of them hanging on by a thread.

“No, everyone’s fine. Pretty much.”

“Jesus, Danny. Just tell me what happened!”

“Caroline’s Volvo was t-boned.”

“Drunk driver?”

“Of course not,” he cries. “She’s eight months pregnant!”

“I didn’t mean your wife! I meant the other driver.”

“Oh. No, no, no, it was some eighty-three year old woman with macular degeneration and diabetes. The kids weren’t in the car, thank God. And the baby’s fine. But Caroline’s leg was crushed on impact. She’s in the hospital right now, but they’ll be moving her to a rehab center in a couple of days. She’ll probably be there until the birth.”

“God. What a nightmare. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. So, listen…um…I could really use your help, Meg. I’ve taken this week off, obviously. But I have to go back to work on Monday. And I don’t know what to do about the kids…”

There is a long pause on the phone line, during which I pretend not to understand the point of his call, and he waits for me to understand the point of his call.

“You’re not asking me what I think you’re asking me, right Danny?”

“Look, it’s just…Caroline’s parents are in Florida—”

“And I’m in New York,” I almost shout as I fumble through my purse for my travel pack of Motrin. I feel a migraine coming on.

“—and they’re in an assisted living facility. You know how much older they are. And, Dad…Well, Dad can’t do it. That’s a given.”

“What about that Hispanic woman who babysits for you, Consuela Something?” I ask, trying to ignore the roaring in my ears. A young nurse opens the door to the examining room and gives me a questioning look. I hold up my hand and mouth the words
Just a minute
.

“Her name is Rosa,” Danny says. “And her visa stipulates that she has to spend a month of the year in Mexico. She’s down there now and won’t be back for another two weeks. Wouldn’t you know, now of all times!”

“What about an agency?” I suggest.

“We can’t afford to hire someone from an agency, what with the baby coming.”

“It’s your own fault!” I cry. “You should have stopped at
two
kids!” The nurse glances at her watch then closes the door.

“I don’t want a stranger watching my kids.”

“Danny, I hate to point out the obvious, but
I’m
a stranger to them. The last time I saw McKenna, she was, what? Two? And Tebow was just a bun in the oven.”

“But you’re family, Meg.”

Ah. The dreaded F-word.

“What about my job?”

“You told me you have time off coming to you because you never take your vacation. You could even do your show from here, if you want. There’s this wonderful thing called the internet that makes these things possible. We have the studio in the back. It’s perfect.”

“I have a co-host. We do the show
together
. Which would be impossible from your studio.”

“Meg.” His voice is soft, pleading. “I know you have this whole anti-California, anti-family, anti-kid thing going.”

“I do not,” I argue, even though I do.

“But I really need your help. If you tell me you can’t do it, I’ll understand. But if you can…possibly…It would only be ten days. Just until Thanksgiving. I’m off that whole weekend, then Rosa comes back. You could even stay for the holiday.”

“I already have plans,” I say.

“That’s okay. You could fly back Wednesday afternoon, as soon as I get out of work. Please, sis.”

I hate the desperation in Danny’s voice. When we were kids, he used it on me a thousand times, and I always folded. But now I’m an adult. A million miles from my former self. Okay,
three-thousand
miles.

The nurse appears again. She swings the door open and strides to the examining table, then tears off the section of wax paper that was previously beneath my butt. Loudly.

“I have to go, Danny. I’m at the doctor’s office.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks, suddenly concerned.

My uterus is about to become a barren wasteland.
“Just fabulous,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

I drop the phone into my purse and glance at the nurse. She apologizes without the slightest hint of remorse. I don’t fault her for doing her job and hustling me out of here. There are hoards of pregnant women in the waiting room, with their swollen bellies and varicose veins and lower backache and indigestion.

I will never be one of them.

Yay for me.

* * *

“I think you should go.”

My assistant, Damien, peers at me over the rim of his margarita. I called him as soon as I left Dr. Kim’s office for an emergency meeting at our favorite Mexican restaurant in Midtown.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “Have you gone totally mental?”

“That’s my line, not yours. And, no, I’m not kidding.”

Damien is a tall drink of water with close-cropped dark brown hair, green eyes, and a British accent that could melt the polar ice caps. He also happens to be as gay as the day is long. He is my closest confidant, my sounding board, and the one person—including my shrink—who keeps me from going off the rails. He is a few years younger than me and wants a career in radio broadcasting. I mentor him in exchange for his undying loyalty.

“Meg, my queen, an hour ago, you called me in a state of distress rivaling the Balkan Wars, crying to me about how you’re never going to have kids even though the idea of having kids has always made you completely nauseous.”

“And?”

He takes a sip of his margarita then sighs. “Look, dearest, I know you don’t believe in coincidences, nor do you suffer from the illusion that Fate is in charge and that we are all helpless little minions being thrown around in whatever direction the Great and Powerful Oz decides to send us. You are the master of your universe. But it occurs to me that you’re being offered a gift. On the very day you were informed that your biological clock has run out of batteries—I’m paraphrasing, naturally—you’ve also been asked to leap head first into substitute motherhood. If caring for your brother’s little cretins—uh, children—isn’t enough to validate your decision
not
to procreate, I don’t know what would be.”

I want to protest, but after a moment’s consideration I realize that Damien is absolutely right.

“You’re right.”

He gives me a wicked grin. “Say it again. I’m going to record it.”

I stick out my tongue, then laugh.

* * *

Two margaritas and a Corona later, I step into my Upper West Side apartment. I flick on the lights and set my keys on the table next to the door, then wander through the living room toward the kitchen.

My home is small, but it suits me. The décor is sleek and modern, most of my furniture is from Crate and Barrel, Room and Board and Bloomingdales. I have few personal adornments, save for a framed photograph of my dad, Danny and me on the mantel above my faux-fireplace, and a drum my bother made from a garden hose and a plastic flower pot which sits on my nightstand. I adhere to the principle of ‘a place for everything and everything in its place.’ And if there’s not a ‘place’ for it, it goes in the trash.

Because I live alone and eat most of my meals standing by the stove, I converted the dining alcove into a work station, with a desk and two filing cabinets on either side.

I turn my computer on, then head for the fridge where I retrieve a bottle of Evian. As I wait for my computer to boot up, I gaze at my spotless counters and gleaming appliances. For a brief instant, I try to imagine what my apartment—and my life—would look like with a family in it.
Fingerprints on my stainless steel Sub-Zero, jelly stains on my Persian rugs, neckties hanging over the chairs.

Uncontrollable giggle-fits, silly sing-alongs, Sunday morning snuggles.

I banish these thoughts from my mind and repeat the mantra I read in a self-help magazine:
I am happy with my solitary life. I am happy with my solitary life.

I know I should call Danny, but I’m procrastinating. Once I tell him I’m going to come, the deal is done and I’m committed. And even though Damien is right, and a trip West will likely end my internal conflict regarding my impending sterility, there are other issues to consider. Spending time in Southern California always tends to unleash certain demons that I try to keep leashed at all costs. Which is why I haven’t been back in five years.

I love my brother, I do. But am I really willing to make this trip?

I open my internet browser and Google
Nanny services Southern California.
Danny can’t afford to use an agency but I can.

In the scant milliseconds it takes for Google to search, I click over to my emails and see a new message from Eileen Buchanan at KTOC.

KTOC is a popular Los Angeles-based talk radio station. Six months ago, the station manager contacted me about a job possibility. I never responded because I would never consider living in So Cal. I’m still not interested, but I open the new email and read the message anyway.

Meg-How are you? I hope this email finds you well. Your name came up today during our programming review, and we would love to discuss with you the many innovative and entertaining ideas we brainstormed surrounding a new morning show. We believe that KTOC and Meg Monroe would be a perfect match. I’ll be in New York for the holidays and would love to meet. Or, if by chance you find yourself out west, we could get together for lunch or drinks. Let me know. Best, Eileen. P.S., I loved your segment about the militant organic movement. LOL! That would play really well out here!

Six months ago, I deleted Buchanan’s email without a thought. But tonight, I don’t. Because a week ago, with the help of Damien and his manipulative thievery, I managed to get a look at WTLC’s payroll. I discovered that my cohost, Barry ‘the Humpinator’ Humphries is making
a lot
more money than me.