Your Perfect Life (22 page)

“Charlie?” She looks up from her BlackBerry.

“That’s right! Charlie. How are things going with them?”

“Fine, I guess,” she says, her voice steady and guarded, and I fight the urge to hug her for being so loyal. She knew that I hadn’t confided in Rachel about Charlie and even though she didn’t say it, I could always tell by the disapproving look in her eyes that she thought that was a mistake. And now, looking back, I wonder if she was right. Rachel knew me better than I knew myself. She knew everything—every quirk, every secret, and especially every lie I told myself. She would’ve known just the right combination of words to keep me in the relationship. To talk me off the ledge that night I melted down and destroyed
everything. But maybe that’s what frightened me. And maybe that’s exactly why I didn’t call her.

“It’s okay. She finally told me about him . . .” I hesitate, looking for the right word. Are they just flirting? Or could it be more, could they be falling for each other? I look down at Rachel’s wedding ring on my finger and remember Charlie’s words.
I would marry you
.

“Where’d you go?” Destiny snaps her fingers in front of me, her acrylic nails catching the light.

“Sorry. I was going to say Casey told me all about their relationship, that they’re getting close.” I decide I can handle it if they’re physical. It’s the emotional part that I’m not sure I can stomach. “Do you like him?” I add, desperately wanting Destiny’s perspective.

Destiny sets her phone on her purse and I finally have her attention. “I love Charlie. He’s the nicest guy ever. I just don’t know if Casey realizes what she’s getting herself into.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she already screwed it up once. And up until a few weeks ago, I would have bet you a million dollars that she’d never date him again. She was just so closed about the whole thing. Almost traumatized.”

“Traumatized?” I repeat, thinking back to that night. Destiny was right, I had been. I had stumbled home, crawling into a ball with my favorite chenille blanket wrapped around me, and I’d bawled until my eyes were swollen. I’d cried, not just about Charlie, but about where I was in my life—wondering again if I’d made different decisions twenty years ago, what my life would look like. Would it have been better? And when Destiny showed up at my door I wouldn’t tell her what had really happened, just that things with Charlie and me were over for good.
I think that even then, I knew I had messed up the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“And now it’s on her Facebook page.” Destiny sighs and I know it’s because she feels protective of me. “Have you seen it?” she asks.

“I haven’t been on Facebook,” I say, lying. In truth, I’d been stalking my own Facebook and Twitter pages to the point of obsession, getting up at all hours of the night to find out what people were saying about me and what
Rachel
was saying about me. But I’d finally forced myself to stop after John caught me in the middle of the night hunched over my cell phone on the edge of the bathtub scrutinizing yet another TwitPic of Charlie and Rachel together.

“Her fans are going crazy over her relationship with Charlie. There’s even a poll, and people are voting on whether or not they should be dating.”

“Oh? And what is the poll showing?” I try to sound nonchalant as I lean in closer and breathe in Destiny’s signature Chanel scent, strong and sultry at the same time, just like her.

“It’s neck and neck,” Destiny replies casually.

“What would your vote be?” I ask quietly, Destiny’s opinion suddenly meaning more to me than I realized.

“The jury’s still out for me because of how things ended last time. But I will say that there’s something different about her lately. She seems so open and warm and relaxed, not only with Charlie, but with all the celebrities she’s been interviewing. You should’ve seen her with Melissa McCarthy.”

I feel a twinge in my stomach. Maybe it’s time I face the fact that Rachel is a better version of me. “You don’t think she was any of those things before?” I brace myself for her answer, knowing that she has every right to say I wasn’t putting in my
best work in the last several months, phoning in many of my interviews, asking predictable, boilerplate questions, especially right after Charlie and I broke up.

“Of course she was,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a child, and I feel the tension in my shoulders release, surprised by how much I still need that validation. “You of all people saw that side of her. But I used to think that you and I were the only ones who would ever see how warm and caring she really is, and now she’s showing that real side of herself to everyone.”

“I understand,” I say, remembering the night after Charlie and I first kissed, how he’d pulled back and seen the frightened expression on my face. He’d brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes and as if he’d read my mind, he’d told me not to worry, that this would be our little secret and that no one at work would have to know. I’d hated that I didn’t correct him, that I didn’t say, “It’s okay, I’m falling for you and I don’t care who knows.” But I couldn’t say that because I did care. I cared too much.

“And that’s why all the doors are opening for her now.”

“What?” I say as I grab her arm. “What doors?”

Destiny’s eyes dart back and forth and she knows she’s said too much. “Nothing,” she backtracks. “It was just a figure of speech.” But the right side of her mouth tilts up to the side, a sure sign she’s lying. “Look!” she points to the doorway and Audrey floats out in a black organza halter dress with soft flowing ruffles that cascade toward the floor. She twirls around to reveal an open back and I mentally calculate how much of Audrey’s exposed skin John will be able to tolerate. I think of Chris McNies setting his hand on the small of her naked back and get a sick feeling that I try to push away.

“What do you think?” she asks, beaming from ear to ear.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “And so are you.”

Destiny holds her phone up to snap a picture. “Fabulous!” she cries as she hits a few buttons. “Just sending it off to your aunt.”

“Where is she?” Audrey sighs, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine in the mirror. I’m suddenly struck by how hard it must be for Rachel to watch her daughter wanting someone else to be there for her more than her own mother.

I glance at the text message from Rachel saying again how sorry she is that she isn’t here. As I watch Audrey turning in front of the three-way mirror observing her body from all angles, a shy smile forming on her lips as she falls in love with the Michael Kors dress, I wonder why Rachel doesn’t seem to realize what she’s missing. I know she and Audrey have struggled this past year, but it’s missed moments like these that Rachel won’t be able to get back. Doesn’t she understand that a blurry picture on a BlackBerry isn’t going to properly capture the dress, let alone the moment? I shake my head, wondering how many of these moments in my own life I’ve missed.

“Is this the one?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yes!” Audrey grabs the sides of the dress and twirls around.

The personal shopper steps in disapprovingly, her pale pink Chanel suit looking muted against the sea of vibrant designer gowns on the rack next to her. “She has several more to try on. And you might want to consider buying two—that’s what many girls are doing now, changing midway through the dance.” She hungrily eyes the Stella McCartney, Marc Jacobs, and Marchesa gowns next to her and I can almost see her mentally calculating her commission if she can get us to buy another.

“We’ll take
this one,
” I say as I stand and walk over to hug Audrey, who flinches slightly then releases into my arms.

“You can’t do that!” the personal shopper says indignantly. “It’s the first one. You never go with the first one!”

Destiny steps between the personal shopper and me, waving the American Express card in her face. “When you know, you know,” she says firmly. “Now wrap this up and show us some shoes.”

The personal shopper perks up at the sound of the possibility of a bigger commission and scurries off, no doubt planning to bring us several pairs of Christian Louboutins. I watch Audrey sitting on the velvet bench outside her dressing room, her long legs bent inward, her knobby knees touching, her thumbs flying across the keys of her phone as she texts her friends about her new dress, and I’m struck by how young and innocent she suddenly looks. I start to worry about what might happen when Chris McNies sees her in this dress. Is this what Rachel goes through? This roller coaster of emotions, one minute feeling like you’re on top of the world having just pleased your child, the next worrying that you’ve made a huge mistake? Obsessing that she’ll make the same mistakes you did?

“Thank you,” I say to Destiny, squeezing her hand. Something about the way she handled that prissy salesperson made me miss her more than ever. I wanted to scream,
it’s me! Casey! I’m right here!
But instead I just raise my hand and give her a high-five.

She smacks my hand with hers. “And that, Rachel, is how it’s done.”

I watch as Audrey slips on a pair of three-inch stilettos that elongate her long legs even more, and I hope that Destiny’s right.

CHAPTER 28

rachel

I wipe the bead of sweat trickling down my hairline with my left hand while frantically typing an email to Destiny with the thumb of my right. Rushing down the hallway, I try to ignore the pain of my throbbing toes wedged into a pair of heels that after twelve hours feel at least two sizes too small. I push open the auditorium door with my hip and when I see the red velvet curtain on the stage still closed, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The performance hasn’t started; I’m not too late.

The house is packed and I search for Casey, John, and Audrey in a sea of familiar faces. Faces of my friends I haven’t seen in weeks, even though it feels like years. Standing in the back of the Adams Middle School Performing Arts Theatre—the pale gray carpeting still worn, the walls still painted a shade of orange just slightly too bright, the brand-new blue velvet seats (a recent purchase from years of fund-raising money—quite a
coup!) still a stark contrast against the rest of the outdated auditorium—it all looks familiar. So why do I feel like a stranger?

What would I say to my friends now, after living in this other world? Would we fall into easy conversation about carpool schedules and travel soccer uniforms? Or would I stammer, trying to find something to talk about while I attempted to ignore the buzzing of my BlackBerry, feeling like a woman who’s not a mother awkwardly bobbing her head up and down like she understands (or cares about!) the frustration of being up all night with a baby who’s spiking a fever or the challenges of finding something (anything!) to talk to a teenager about that won’t result in a yes-or-no answer. As I look down at my size-two suit and the Gucci handbag hanging from my wrist that costs more than our mortgage payment, I realize how Casey must have felt in these situations before she became like me—an outsider.

Finally I spot the back of my own head—Casey is sitting next to John. John’s arm is slung over the back of her chair and he’s leaning in, flanking her on one side, Audrey on the other. I can see the side of Audrey’s face and she’s smiling. And my throat becomes dry. Are he and Casey playing
our
game?

We used to compete to see who could think of the conversation topic that would get Audrey to look up from her cell phone for more than ten seconds. And bonus points if you could get her to talk, smile, or even laugh. John usually won, not surprisingly. I’m convinced he could engage Audrey by talking about anything—global warming, the national budget deficit, or even the latest episode of
NCIS
. Audrey had always looked at John differently than she did me. Her face was usually somewhere between a blank stare and a scowl depending on her level of irritation when I spoke. But when she looked at John, her eyes
almost always lit up and she still reminded me of her five-year-old self, when she’d jump into his arms, wrap her arms tightly around his neck, and giggle wildly as she leaned back, her pigtails swinging in the air over her head.

I tried to tell myself this was a typical mother-daughter dynamic, but I wasn’t so sure. I think of my own mom who was always so kind, never impatient, always supportive rather than critical, even when I called to break the news that I was dropping out of college just a few credits shy of graduation to have a baby. Why couldn’t I be more like her?

A tougher nut to crack for both John and me has always been Sophie. She was performing tonight. And for the first time, I’m on the audience side of the curtain before the show starts. For the past two years, I’ve been a part of the group of moms that volunteer in the theater. Ever since Sophie showed an interest, I’d jumped in to support her, relieved to see her finally care about something. It was after Sophie’s first play two years ago when she was the lead in
Alice in Wonderland
that John and I had seen that she could break out of her shell. And from opening night until the play closed two days later, she’d been on a high. She’d even talked to us about her friends and school, and we’d hoped this was signaling a change in her that would remain permanent. But as soon as the play ended, Sophie went back into hiding like a snail ducking the rain.

I meet Hilary’s eyes and wave. She half smiles and her brow furrows the way it does when she’s trying to figure something out and I remember I’m not Rachel. I think about how much Casey has come to dislike Hilary in the past few weeks and smile. It’s true, I can’t imagine the two of them ever being friends under normal circumstances. They both thrive on being the center of attention. Since dropping out of college, I had
told myself that I was meant to lie low in the background and support the most important people in my life: John, the kids, and even Casey. I’d completely let go of the Rachel who used to thrive every Friday night as I cheered for John and the rest of our high school football team, climbing to the top of the human pyramid at halftime, basking in the applause that followed. I forgot how much I came alive in front of the camera at the college broadcasting studio each week. Until now. Leading Casey’s life was reminding me of that part of myself, and like a sleeping bear that’s been awakened after a long hibernation, I was hungry for more.