So Much More (28 page)

Sometimes it takes the purity of a child to remind us what’s important.

Miranda sniffs and answers, “You’re welcome, Kai.”

So, I vow, at least for now, to deal with Miranda with caution instead of hatred. I don’t have to like her to do that.

“Miranda, can you help me take the trash out?” I need to talk to her and find out why she’s here and, most importantly, where my kids fall into her plans, because on paper, she still has full custody.

I grab the bag out of the kitchen trashcan—it’s only half full—and walk outside. She follows me down the stairs. At the big dumpster at the back of the building, I ask again, “What are you doing here?”

She finally answers. Sort of. “In California? Or here at your place?”

I lift the lid on the dumpster and toss the trash bag in. “Both.”

“In California? Looking for a job and trying to find a house. And here? Hoping I can stay until I find both of those.” She doesn’t even blink when she runs through her list. She doesn’t sound confident. She’s unsure, not at all hopeful, pessimistic. She says it like she may as well because she doesn’t have anything to lose.

I’m dumbfounded by almost every answer. I can understand the looking for a place to live part, but the rest makes no sense. “You don’t have a job? Why can’t you transfer back to the Marshall Industries office here?”

She raises her eyebrows, and there’s no pride in her answer. “Because I was fired months ago.” And before I can say anything she adds, “I lied. Blackmailed Loren. He didn’t trust me with his business after that.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. She’s like bad reality TV. “Was this before or after you married?”

“Before.”

I know I’m looking at her like I don’t understand what she’s saying because I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it. “And he still married you?”

She nods and then stops and tilts her head almost like she’s going to change her mind and shake it side to side. “Yes. And no. I thought we were married. We never were, the license and certificate were fakes.”

“Jesus Christ, you two were perfect for each other.” I probably shouldn’t have said that, but it’s true. It’s so goddamn true.

“We were a fucking disaster.” She shrugs because there’s nothing more to say on the subject I’m sure. Fucking disaster sums it up.

I don’t want to talk about her dismal love life. “I want my kids here. Winter break ends, and school starts up again Monday. I’ll go in late to work and re-enroll them.”

“I can do it,” she offers.

“Really?”
I sound doubtful and mocking.

She sighs and a little bit of the old defiant Miranda peeks through because that comment pissed her off. “I ran a goddamn Fortune 500 company, Seamus, give me some credit. I can fill out a few mundane forms.”

“Are you trying, Miranda? Is this you trying to be a parent? I want so fucking badly to believe you’re being real with me and that you’ve finally come to the realization that you have the most amazing children on the planet, and that it’s a privilege to be their mom.” I know I’m begging, but I want this for my kids. I want them to have a mom who loves them. I don’t care if she’s in my life, but I want her to be in theirs if she’s going to try.

“I’m trying, Seamus. I’m not perfect, and I don’t know how to do this, but I’m trying.”

“I’m only going to say this once, Miranda. Go all in or go away. This isn’t something you try and then get bored with like yoga and give it up. These are children who’ve been waiting their whole lives for a mom. Think about them. For once. You’re a mother, not a martyr.”

“I’m all in,” she says.

I hesitate because our past is screaming at me,
Don’t believe her! She’s a liar!
But then I remember Kai…and compassion…and shit, before I can talk myself out of it my mouth is sounding offers, “You can stay here for a month while you look for a job and a place to live. You’re sleeping on the couch, no one’s giving up a bed for you. If you don’t find anything in four weeks, you’re out. You can go stay in a hotel or sleep on the corner, I don’t care. My kids stay here during the week to go to school. We can discuss joint custody on the weekends. I’ll have my lawyer outline the new arrangement. And you’re paying the lawyer fees to straighten it all out because you fucked it up. And every goddamn day you better make an effort to be part of their lives. Do you hear me? Real, no pretending. You wake up and take them to school, and I’ll pick them up. You help them with homework a few nights a week. You play with them. You talk to them. And you can make dinner a few nights a week too.”

“Can I order takeout? I don’t cook.”

Nothing’s ever easy with her. I shake my head. “I don’t fucking care. Put some goddamn food on the table. This is about responsibility. You’re not going to be judged on your cooking abilities.”

She nods her head.
 

I feel like I’m talking to a child instead of an adult. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” she answers.

I reword for clarification. “Do you
want
to do that?”

She nods.

Shit.

I can’t believe I just agreed to this.
 

I hope she can.

Where’s the fucking butter?

present

I’m trying.

I’m really trying.

But this domestic shit is for the birds.

Cooking and baking should be easy. I have an IQ of 155. It’s just reading a recipe and following directions.

Apparently I’m awful at following directions because almost everything I’ve attempted this week has been inedible. I do it while Seamus and the kids are gone because I don’t want them to know I failed. I hide the evidence in the dumpster out back and order take out instead.

Today, I’m trying again. Because Betty Crocker can kiss my motherfucking ass if she thinks I’m giving up. I’m going to make monkey bread. I saw it on Pinterest. Yeah, yeah, I know…
Pinterest
. The porn of housewives everywhere. I’m ashamed to admit I like it. I feel like I need to turn in my Gucci suits and Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps for ill-fitting Target yoga pants and baby puke stained tank tops for the betrayal of good taste. But these damn recipes, they look so good. And they’re photographed and presented with the skill of Ansel Adams. The monkey bread is a work of art in a magnificent Bundt pan. Not to mention, just the thought of all that gooey goodness makes me feel gooey. I practically spontaneously orgasmed reading the recipe. Fuck me, I’m being warped by social media and stereotypical America. I need a job.

Back to the monkey bread. I went to the store earlier and bought the ingredients, a Bundt pan, and an apron because I figure maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong. Maybe you have to look the part to play the role. The apron should help. It does on Pinterest anyway.

Everything is going smoothly. Success will be mine. Finally.

Until I figure out there’s no butter in the fridge.

Sonofabitch, butter is going to be my downfall!

Think. Think fast. What would Rachael Ray do? Would she give up on her monkey bread? Hell no!

I’m out the door and down the stairs in five seconds flat banging on the door of the apartment under Seamus’s. I’m looking at the number one on the door while I’m whispering under my breath, “Hurry up, this monkey bread is not going to make me its bitch.” When the door opens, I don’t wait for an introduction or to be invited in. “I need butter,” I announce as I speed walk toward the kitchen. When I open the fridge, I go straight for the little plastic door that always houses sticks of butter and pop it open. It’s empty. “Where’s the butter?” I ask exasperatedly. The owner of the fridge is standing on the other side of the open door. She looks a little sketchy, and she’s not answering my urgent plea quickly enough, so I ask again,
“Where’s the fucking butter?”

“You shouldn’t swear. It’s a sin.” It sounds like a recording when she says it, a droning sound bite.

“Not having butter is the only sin here, missy.” I slam the miniature door shut before I slam the fridge door and put my hands on my hips. I’m frantic. This goddamn monkey bread has me worked up into a frenzy. “Where can you get your hands on some? Quick?” I rephrase, “I need it now.” It sounds like I’m trying to score illegal drugs instead of a simple dairy product.

She looks a little rattled, calmer than I would expect for a stranger bum rushing her home, but still a touch rattled. “Maybe Mrs. Lipokowski has butter.”

I pat her on the arm as I walk quickly past her to the front door. I don’t know who Mrs. Lipokowski is, but I need this woman to come through for me, so I’m talking to her like I’d talk to someone who works for me. It’s a flurry of pep talk mixed with get your ass in gear. You don’t give people time to think when you need something, you just tell them what they’re going to do. They usually never question it. Couple that assertiveness with my desperation and it’s a volatile mix that anyone would be crazy to challenge. “Good thinking. You run and get a stick of butter from Mrs. Lipokowski right now and bring it up to apartment three.” I’m talking fast, but watching her eyes to make sure she understands the importance of this mission.

“Okay?” she says it like a question.

I clap my hands, and she startles at the sound. “Come on. Chop chop. I need your head in the game. Mrs. Lipokowski. Butter. Now.
Go
.” I’m a coach barking out orders.

She walks out the door and I pull it closed behind me.
 

“Apartment three!” I yell at her retreating figure.

I race back up the stairs and leave the front door open so the butter can easily find its way in.

A few minutes later, the neighbor appears in the kitchen with a stick of butter. She’s out of breath and hands it off like a baton in a relay race before she drops into a chair at the table.

I accept it like a baton in a relay race, remove it from its wrapper, drop it in a mixing bowl, and stick it in the microwave. I look at her, because if she didn’t fail me with the butter, maybe… “Do you know how to bake?”

“I bake pizza sometimes.”

“Frozen?” I question. Warming a frozen pizza isn’t baking. Because frozen pizza isn’t really food.

She nods.

Damn.

I pick up my phone off the counter and tap the screen to bring up the recipe and hand it to her. “Do you think you can make this?”

She accepts the phone, and it takes longer than I’d like for her to read the recipe, but when she stands and starts opening the tubes of Pillsbury biscuits on the counter, hope erupts within me like Mount Vesuvius.

We take our time and when the Bundt pan is in the oven, I look at the woman I’ve been working with for the past thirty minutes and I extend my hand in celebration. “I’m Miranda.” I don’t say thank you because those are words I use sparingly. Most things we do during the course of a day are trivial, or are meant to propel our existence forward, they don’t require thanks. People
do
—it’s how we get through the day. It’s how we persevere. No thanks are needed for doing.

“I’m Hope,” she responds. She’s awkward now that we don’t have a task to focus on. Or maybe she was always awkward, and I didn’t notice because I was all hopped up on daydreams of monkey bread. She won’t look me in the eye.

“Do you want something to drink, Hope?” The monkey bread has to bake for thirty minutes, and I don’t want her to leave until I know if an emotional meltdown over dough is needed.

“You got any iced tea?”

Her incorrect grammar makes me my teeth grit and my eyes squint. “Do I
have
any iced tea?” I correct.

“Yeah, you got any iced tea?” She missed the correction.

“No. I have orange juice, Pellegrino, milk, or Coors Light.” I don’t care if she did just potentially save my ass, I’m not offering her my wine.

“Orange juice.”

I pour her a glass and then sit at the table with her. She fidgets like a child. Her mannerisms are all childlike. I wonder what her story is. I’m usually not interested in people personally, but she’s odd and it’s intriguing. “How long have you lived here, in your apartment?”

She thinks it over and then answers, “A long time.”

“One year? Five years? How long is a long time?” I press.

“I came when I was eighteen.”

“How old are you now?”
 

“Forty.”

Shocker. I would’ve guessed her ten years older. I want to tell her about dermabrasion, and chemical peels, and Botox, but I don’t think those words are in her vocabulary. And then I have an idea and run to the bathroom to retrieve my bag of tricks.

When I return, I hand her a hair elastic. “Put your hair up.”

She’s good with commands. I like that. She gathers back her long, tangled blond hair into a ponytail.
 

I do the same with mine.

Then I turn on the hot water in the sink until it’s steaming and wet two washcloths and wring them out. “Now tip your head back. I’m going to put this on your face. It’s hot, it will open up your pores.”

“Pores?” she questions.

“Just do it. Your skin is screaming for attention like a middle-aged woman in the front row at a Bon Jovi concert.” After I put the washcloth on her face, I do the same with mine. When it starts to noticeably cool, I remove them and set them on the counter. Hope flinches when I smear the mask on her face. “Sorry, I know it’s cold.”