Say Never (37 page)

I’m about to correct her, to tell her that McKenna is not my daughter, that she’s my niece. But something stops me before I get the words out.

Your daughter…your daughter…

In the short space of a long moment, as I cross to the partition and grasp the Dora bag through the opening, I imagine myself with a daughter of my own, a child whose hand I would hold in the emergency room, whose minor booboos I would kiss and make better, a child I would sing lullabies to in the dark of night, whose tantrum’s I would dutifully endure, whose diapers I would change, a child whose victories I would celebrate and losses I would grieve for. The vision is so strong, it nearly knocks me over.

“Are you all right?” the nurse asks from behind the glass.

“Fine. Great. Thanks.”

I slowly walk out of ER and make my way to the Camaro.

* * *

“This one was not my fault, Caroline.”

My sister-in-law looks as pale and drawn as Danny did, perhaps more so since she was stuck in her bed in this room, impotent and fearing the worst while her child was being sewn back together.

“I know that,” she snaps, and I recoil from the harshness of her tone. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just, fuck.”

“She’s fine. I swear.” I pull out my Samsung and find the picture I took in the ER, after McKenna was cleaned up. My niece is smiling crookedly and eating some Jell-O.

“The Jell-O was strawberry. That’s not blood.”

Caroline takes my phone and gazes at her daughter. “Thank God she’s okay.” Tears stream down her face and I grab a couple of tissues from the box beside her bed and hand them to her. “Thank God you were there, Meg.”

I ignore her. “They’re going to call you when they get home so you can talk to McKenna yourself.”

She nods, drops the phone in her lap, and breaks down into sobs. I lift the phone from her enormous belly and tuck it into my purse, then hesitantly pat Caroline on the shoulder.

“She’s a tough kid, Caroline. She was really brave.”

“Danny said you stayed with her the whole time. He said the nurses told him you refused to leave her.”

“She wouldn’t let go of my hand,” I joke. “What was I supposed to do?”

Caroline doesn’t look at me. “You and I have never gotten along.”

“Caroline—”

“I always thought you were a selfish bitch and you thought I was…just a bitch.”

“This is not necessary—”

“And when Danny told me you were coming out here to take care of the kids, I almost asked for a divorce because I thought you were the last person in the world who could do this job. But I was wrong, Meg. And I’m sorry.”

I clear my throat, trying to hack up the lump within. “Hey, Caroline. You weren’t wrong about the selfish bitch part. I am. And, by the way. I couldn’t do your job. Not on a daily basis. I was a mess in the ER. I thought I was going to throw up, or faint, or completely lose it. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I wanted to!”

She blows her nose, then leans her head back against the pillow. After a moment, she turns to me.

“Meg, being a mom doesn’t mean you want to be there or that you’re totally fine with everything that happens or everything you have to do. It means being there and doing what you have to do despite the fact that it’s really really hard.”

She closes her eyes and I sit quietly beside her for a few minutes, recalling my vision in the ER and thinking about her words.

* * *

“Oh, Crimeny,” Buddy says as soon as he sees the Camaro. “How the heck am I supposed to ride in that thing with my sciatica?”

“It’s a Camaro, Buddy, not a Smart Car. And besides, it’s only a ten minute drive to Danny’s. I think you’ll be fine.”

I open the passenger door and wait for him to fold himself inside, which ends up taking several grunt-filled minutes. I count to ten, then twenty, then thirty, and somewhere after that, I lose my place and give up.

Once we’re on the road, Buddy starts fiddling with buttons and knobs and looking around the Camaro’s interior as if he’s never been inside a car before.

“You know, I bought your mother a car like this after we got married. 1967 Camaro. She hated driving in the pickup. Nearly drove me crazy. I think it was almost the exact same color as this one. Funny, huh?”

I sigh. “It’s not really a surprise, is it? It’s like you always said, Buddy. I’m just like Melanie.”

“Huh?”

“You always told me I was just like her.”

My dad is silent in his seat. I glance over at him to see him frowning at me.

“I never said that, Meggly-weggly.”

“Yes, Buddy. You did.”

He shakes his head vehemently, almost angrily. “I never said any such god damned thing, Megan Katherine Monroe.”

I suddenly wonder if Buddy has started down the road to dementia. I check my rearview mirror, engage my right turn signal, then crank the steering wheel to the right. A horn sounds behind me as I pull to the curb, and I flip the bird to the driver of the passing car.

Shifting into Park, I turn and face my dad. “Buddy.” I take a deep breath. “From the time I was a kid, you went on about how I was just like Melanie. I’m not making this up. It happened.”
And it shaped my every decision and action, and made me who I am today.

He shakes his head again. “I never said that. I said you were so like her.”

“Exactly!” I cry.

“No, no. Not that you were just like her, but that you were so like her.” He rolls his eyes. “You
looked
just like your mom, Meg. Same auburn hair. Same pale skin and blue eyes. Same body type. Danny got my side, all the way, ‘cept for his height, of course. But he got the light hair and dark eyes and olive skin from me. You were just the spitting image of my Melanie.”

My mouth drops open. “That’s what you meant? That I
look
like her?”

“Oh, honey, yes. You weren’t the same type of person at all. God, no. How could you think a thing like that?”

“Because she was a selfish bitch. And so am I. I always have been, Dad!” This is the first time I’ve called him ‘Dad’ since I was a kid. It feels strange and also makes me want to bawl my eyes out.

“No you weren’t. You were independent and strong-willed and stubborn. But you weren’t a selfish kid. Let me ask you something. Who took care of your little brother when I was at work, huh? You did. Who took care of me, made sure my shirts were clean and gave me hell when I drank too much beer and did the dishes when I fell asleep on the couch? You did. Ah, sure, you complained and stomped your foot and called me names. But you were the one who took care of Danny and me the whole time you were growing up.”

I feel like my head is about to blow apart. “But I left! I moved as far away from you as I could!”

“Yeah, you did, Meg. But not until you knew Danny and me were okay.”

He reaches out and lays his huge hand over mine. “You got it all backwards about your mom, Meggie. It’s not so much that she was selfish as she was weak. And she had no sense. Now, don’t get me wrong, I loved Melanie more than I can tell you. And loving her the way I did made me ignore who she really was. But the truth is, she wasn’t strong enough or smart enough to be a wife and a mom. The only really smart thing she ever did was realize her limitations and leave us before she could do serious damage to you kids.”

He squeezes my hand and the floodgates open. Tears violently stream down my face. “You are nothing like Melanie, Meg,” he says. “You are the strongest, smartest girl I know.”

I choke back my tears. “I’m not a girl, Buddy. I’m forty years old.”

“You’ll always be
my
girl, Meg. And I’m damn proud of you, no matter how damn old you are.”

* * *

By the time we reach Danny’s house, I have managed to calm myself down through a lot of heavy breathing and counting well into the hundreds. But on the inside, I’m still in complete turmoil. My whole life, my whole outlook and belief system has been based on a misunderstanding made by an eight-year-old girl.

Just to add to the chaos that is my current situation, Danny invited Matt Ryan to our family dinner, which I discover when I enter the foyer and find him in the living room watching
Wild Kratts
with Cera, McKenna and Tebow. He gets to his feet and smiles uncertainly when he sees me, but instead of greeting him, I hand Buddy off to Danny and dart down the hallway to the guest room.

I kick off my MaxMara pumps and head for the bed where I dump out the contents of my purse. I snatch my phone and perch myself next to the night stand, then begin to scroll through my contact list. I find Dr. Rabinowitz’s emergency line and hit call. After four rings, I get his voicemail and am treated to his calm, mellifluous voice.

Emergency numbers should
not
have voicemails, damn it!

“Hi, Dr. Rabinowitz, this is Meg Monroe. I’m sort of in the middle of a personal crisis, so if you could call me back at your earliest convenience, I would really appreciate it.”

I disconnect, then return to my contact list. As I scroll through, I realize that there is no one to whom I can reach out that will understand my situation. I have spent years pushing people away, denying my vulnerabilities and rejecting intimacy. I slept with Adam for over a year, but I’d bet a hundred bucks he doesn’t even know my middle name or the fact that I’m from California. Twenty-four hours ago, I would have called Damien for support, but obviously I’m never going there again.

I have nowhere to turn. I flop onto my back across the bed and cover my eyes with my arm. A moment later, a knock sounds at my door.

“What?”

I hear the door open and the soft thud of footsteps on the carpet. The mattress shifts beside me.

“Danny asked me to come and get you,” Cera says. “The food should be here in twenty minutes. He also wanted to know if you’d like a…um…liberation…”

“Libation,” I correct.

“I know. I was kidding.” She chuckles. I readjust my arm and peer at her beneath the sleeve of my blouse. “Libation and liberation are totally different things.”

“Although you may be able to achieve one by indulging in the other,” I say, and am slightly ashamed by my satisfaction over stupefying my eleven-year-old step niece.

“Huh?”

“If you’re drunk enough, you feel free,” I explain. “Even though you aren’t.”

She nods knowingly, and I realize how well beyond her years Cera is.

Just like I was.

“Are you coming out, or what?” she asks and I shake my head.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I think maybe you’re a little too young to understand.” I shimmy up into a half-seated position, my head resting against the pillows. Cera frowns at me.

“You like Mr. Ryan, right?” she says. “But you don’t want him to know and be all like ‘oooh, she likes me and I’m so stoked.’”

“I don’t like him like that.”

“That’s total bullcrap.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m, like, almost twelve, but I’m not stupid. I saw how you looked at him. I know you thought I was watching
Wild Kratts,
but I totally saw you look at him like you liked him.”

“That’s funny, because when I saw him sitting there, I thought I was going to throw up.”

“Yeah. Like that.” She sticks her forefinger in her mouth and chews on her nail for a few seconds. “I had a thing for Craig Kauffman—he’s this really cute eighth grader—and every time I saw him I thought I was going to toss my cookies.”

“It’s a little more complicated at my age,” I say, then cover my eyes again. The darkness is welcome. “Matt Ryan is the least of my problems. It’s like, when everything you thought you knew turns out to be false and you have no idea who you are anymore. I think I might be on the verge of a total nervous breakdown.”

Cera is silent for a moment. “So, what are you going to do?” she finally asks. “Curl up into a ball and die?”

Again, I move my arm and look at her. “That sounds about right.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes. It does. Can you think of any alternatives?”

“Well, you could come out and eat Chinese with us.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither am I,” she says. “I got a text from my dad saying my grandma is going to die any minute.”

I abandon my own angst for a brief moment and lean forward to give her my full attention. “I’m sorry Cera. That must be really hard for you.”

She nods. “Grandma Fran is awesome. She sends me stupid t-shirts and sweaters for Christmases and for birthdays and, like, you know, special events. The last one was for when I graduated sixth grade. It said ‘What happens at Grandma’s Stays at Grandma’s.’ I thought it was totally lame. But now, you know, I’m never going to stay at her house again, so…”

Her breath hitches and I reach out to grab her hand. She pulls away from me, but not in anger. “It’s cool, you know?” she says, tamping down her emotions. “She’s totally old. But it sucks, too. So, I could so curl up in a ball and cry my eyes out. But I’m not going to. I’m going to go out and eat Chinese food and pretend everything’s cool, because
it is
. You made me see that. I’m, like, here with my sister and brother and step dad and step grandpa and…uh… step aunt. So, it is okay, right? I’m with my…family. My
second
family, anyway. So even though I’m totally sad and freaking out, I can still eat Chinese food, you know?”