Say Never (43 page)

I’m afraid that if I open my mouth to answer, I’ll start to cry again, so I merely nod my head. When the wave of emotion passes, I gulp in some air, let it out on a sigh, then lean in and gaze at my new niece, my namesake—well,
middle
namesake, anyway. I breathe in her baby smell, then whisper in her ear so that Caroline can’t hear me.

“Katherine, huh? Well, I’m still going to call you Spaz.”

Twenty-four

Barry:
People change all the time, Meg. Like the Grinch. And Ebenezer Scrooge.

Meg:
I’m talking about real people, Bar. What real people can you name that have actually changed their lives?

Barry:
(pause) Transgenders?

Meg:
Okay, Barry. You got me there.

* * *

I awaken at six-thirty on Sunday morning feeling refreshed and energized. and I decide to take advantage of it. I don my workout gear and running shoes, then head for the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

After patting my cheeks dry, I lean in closer to the mirror and scrutinize my reflection. I trace the lines around my eyes with my index finger, then move my fingertip to the furrows between my brows. My last Botox injection is wearing off, likely helped by the stress of parenting. Not even dead botulism cells could withstand the tension my facial muscles have endured this past week.

I tuck my cell phone into the pocket of my leggings, as is my habit lately. I’m not worried about being jumped or abducted in this neighborhood, but I’ve reached the age when suffering a heart attack while running is not terribly rare. Yup, I’m old. (Of course, if I’m actually felled by a heart attack while running, I probably won’t be able to dial 911, but hopefully a passing stranger will take pity on me and make the call before stealing my beloved Samsung). I think for a second, then slide one of my credit cards in the pocket alongside my phone. (Might as well make the passing stranger’s day.)

The sky is still mostly dark with the merest hint of pink creeping up the horizon. I shiver in the predawn air and zip up my brother’s UCLA sweatshirt. It still bears a faint stain from the green tea latté, and when I gaze at it, I think of Matt Ryan.

On the curb, I stretch for a few minutes longer than usual, and tell myself I’m doing so because my limbs are tight. The truth is, I’m hoping Matt will come outside to nab his paper or throw out his trash or recycle his freaking Styrofoam or wash his truck—which would be ridiculous at this hour, but you know, it could happen.

After stretching myself to the point of turning into Plastic Woman, with no hint of movement behind Matt’s curtains, I finally give up and head down the street at a slow, easy pace. With every stride, my mind empties a little more and I manage to enter that ever-elusive meditative zone. I’m only aware of my heart beat, my breathing and the slap of my feet against the pavement. Ah, sweet blissful mental silence.

Within ten minutes, I have increased my speed and my body heat has risen. I take off the sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. When I reach the perimeter of Golden Gables, I turn down the main boulevard and jog toward the rising sun and the mighty Pacific. I’ve always loved jogging in central park, but I have to admit, running on this tree-lined street with a view of the ocean in sixty-degree weather—in November—doesn’t suck at all.

A half a mile from the beach, I cross the boulevard and loop up a side street that winds up a small hill. My calves and thighs and glutes protest as I push myself up the incline. My breathing becomes shallower and my heart rate rises. But I keep going. My destination is within sight.

When I first set out on my run, I had no idea I would come to this place, but now that I’m here, I’m not surprised. The gates to Vista View Cemetery stand open, even this early in the morning. Buddy once told me that he’d chosen this place for Melanie as much for their long hours as for the spectacular view of the Pacific. He could come before work, or after, depending on his schedule. And for years, he did, every single day. I don’t know how often he visits now. I hope not very.

I never came back to Melanie’s grave after the funeral. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Every time Buddy asked me if I wanted to go, I’d make up some lame excuse
. I have homework, I have a project due, I have to wash my hair, I have to clean my room (yeah ,
right). But I couldn’t bear to go, was sick at the thought of laying flowers on her grave, of pretending to grieve for a woman who’d left me alone in a house with two men and deprived me of the maternal guidance I’d so desperately needed.

Even though Danny was younger, he visited regularly. He tagged along with Buddy until he was old enough to make the trip on his bike. My brother’s memories of Melanie were vague, and there was a certain romanticism attached to them. She was like an unattainable goddess in his imagination. Arizona was akin to Never Never Land to him. She wasn’t evil for leaving, she was ethereal for not being there. And because he was too young to understand what she’d done, he allowed himself to love her despite her sins.

I didn’t love Melanie. I was pissed at her.

I never would have admitted it at the time, but I was glad she died. A dead mom couldn’t hurt me anymore. A dead mom was better than a mom who’d abandoned me. For seven years, when people asked me about her, I had to tell them that she left us for the plumber and ran off with him to Phoenix. Now when they asked, I could tell them she died. No more fish eyes. No more whispers behind my back. No more derisive giggles and finger-pointing in my direction. Only pity. Pity was far better than disdain.

Almost thirty years have passed since I’ve been here, but I find her grave easily, as though the route was burned into my memory and my feet are merely following the instructions of my subconscious. There is a tree nearby. In the early morning light, its leaves create a shifting kaleidoscope on Melanie’s gravestone. My cheeks burn not from my run, but because I am here, in this place, where the bones of my mother lay.

I kneel down and run my hand along the stone, over the ridges of the engraved words.

Melanie Lucas 1946-1986
I know a place, ain’t nobody cryin’, I’ll take you there.

The line beneath her name is a lyric from a song that was popular the year Buddy and Melanie met. They danced to that song on their first date. There is no mention of
Beloved wife
or
Beloved mother.
Not that there would be. Not that there should be. She was neither.

The absence of those sentiments hits me hard. Because if I were to drop dead today, my gravestone will be just like hers. I believe what my father told me—that I am nothing like Melanie. But I am neither beloved wife nor beloved mother.

I fall back onto my butt and cross my legs. I reach over and brush some fallen leaves off of the gravestone, then I take a deep breath and start to count. Before I hit five, I stop. I don’t need to count my feelings away. I need to
feel
them.

“Hi, Melanie. Mom.
Bitch
.” A sigh escapes me. “How’s it going?” I chuckle, but the sound is grotesque. “I’m really freaking out right now. I don’t know how I could be so screwed up. I totally blame you. I’ve blamed you for so long that now it’s just habit. But, you know, blaming you kept me from having to take responsibility for my own choices.”

I gaze up at the lightening sky. The day will be cool and crisp, but crystal clear with a blazing blue sky. A
cerulean
sky. I smile to myself.

I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, then rock back and forth like a little kid. My thoughts spin around in my head, then land on Buddy’s words from last night.
Melanie left us before she could do serious damage to Danny and me
. For a moment, I try to imagine what my life would have been like if Melanie had stayed. I would have had a mother. But she would have been miserable, and likely she would have gone slowly mad. How might she have lashed out, how might her misery have infected my childhood? Would I be better off now, or would I be a million times worse?

“Maybe you made the right choice for yourself. And maybe you thought you were doing the right thing by us kids. I don’t know. I’ll never know.”

The chilly air makes me shiver and I pull the sweatshirt from my waist and wrap it around my shoulders.

“I’ve been so mad at you for so long, Mom. But I’m starting to think that maybe I need to get over it. I’m forty.” I raise my voice. “I’m FORTY!!!” I laugh, and this time my laughter sounds genuine. “I guess it’s about time I got on with my life, don’t you think?”

I sit quietly for a few minutes and feel the breeze cool my cheeks. After a while, I stand and feel my legs wobble beneath me and I realize there’s no way I’ll be able to make it back to Danny’s. I withdraw my cell phone and the LCD tells me that it’s seven forty-five. I unlock the phone then scroll through my contacts list. I halt the cursor at one of the emergency numbers I stored at the beginning of the week. I touch the little green phone icon, then lift the phone to my ear. He answers on the third ring.

“’Lo?” Matt’s voice is muffled with sleep.

“It’s me. Meg. Meg Monroe.”

“I don’t know any other Megs,” he says, and I can hear him shift in his bed.

“That’s good. That makes it easy.”

“What time is it?” he asks. “Geez. Not even eight o’clock. Wow. Morning.”

“Good morning.” My heart is racing. I can picture him in bed, probably naked or at least shirtless, his smooth chest rising and falling, his hair disheveled, his dark stubble peppered with a hint of grey.

“Is there something you wanted, Meg Monroe?”

“Yes, I…I was wondering… Do you still want to take me out for dinner? I’m sure you’re aware that the Sunday-night jam session has been cancelled due to the arrival of the little one, so I know you’re free.”

“I thought you were leaving today,” he says, his tone not entirely warm.

“I was. I’m not anymore. I didn’t feel like getting on a plane. Not many people know this about me, but I’m a fearful flier.”

“Okay.”

“So, about dinner…”

There is a pause and my breath catches in my throat. I shouldn’t have called him. He probably hates me after Friday night and yesterday. He thinks I’m a bitch, which I am, and doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. But he’s a nice man and he won’t want to offend me, even though I deserve to be offended.

“Forget it, Matt. Sorry to wake you.”

“Does Italian work for you?”

“What?”

“Italian food. Pasta. Garlic bread. Calamari.”

“I love Italian,” I tell him.

“Okay. Good. It’s not New York Italian, but it’s not half bad.”

I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“See you later?” he says, his voice warm enough to make me shuck my sweatshirt.

“Yeah. Terrific. Oh, and one more thing. I’m at Vista View Cemetery. I know I’m a pain in the ass to even ask this, but could you come pick me up? I need a ride. To Target. Then to Danny’s.”

“Come again?”

“You know, Target? Otherwise known as the devil’s playground? They open at eight. I need to stop there on the way to Danny’s and get a Bratz doll and a birthday card.”

“I think I need a few minutes to catch up,” he jokes. “My brain’s not quite awake yet. Target?”

“They have a Starbucks. I could buy you a coffee.”

“Venti?”

I smile into the phone. “Anything you want.”

“I’ll pick you up in ten.”

* * *

I walk into the house forty minutes later. Everyone is still asleep, which is not surprising after the late night we all had at the rehab center. Even Godiva is snoring from her dog bed in the kitchen.

I set the Bratz doll—which I wrapped in Matt’s truck on the way home—on the dining room table, then head to the back of the house. I tiptoe past Tebow’s room, then McKenna and Cera’s room, mentally blowing each of them a kiss as I go.

When I reach the guest room, an image of little Katherine comes to mind. I can’t wait to see her later at the rehab. And more importantly, I can’t wait to hit South Coast Plaza and the baby boutiques, so I can buy her a bunch of designer onesies.

Today is Cera’s birthday, so I shouldn’t go too crazy for the newborn, but I have a feeling the twelve-year-old will understand. She was quite taken with her new sister, held her for ages last night, and even went online when we got back from the rehab to find some Baby Gap bibs and blankets. Maybe Cera and McKenna will want to take a little birthday excursion to the mall before we pick up the cake for Cera’s party.

I perch on the side of the bed and rummage through my purse until I find what I seek. Then I pull my cell phone from my pocket and check the time. It’s probably too early to make this call, being that it’s Sunday, but I don’t want to wait a moment longer. He’ll understand. He’ll be glad I called. At least I
hope
he will be.