Say Never Read online

  When kids would harass me, or make obnoxious comments about me, unlike Danny, all I could do was stammer and blush and high-tail it in the opposite direction. Only afterwards, when my antagonists were long gone, was I able to concoct appropriately harsh and castigating rejoinders. I berated myself for not being able to fight back in the moment. I spent a good portion of my free time rehearsing for confrontations, practicing my scathing comebacks for any number of insults I might receive. (i.e.: Them: You’re a loser! Me: I am, yes, I lost the biggest moron award to you.) By the time I reached junior high, after years of practice, I was better prepared for verbal battle, my mind worked faster, my vocabulary had improved, and my ability to be mean was more finely honed. But elementary school pretty much sucked all the way around.

  I pull the Camaro to the curb at exactly ten fifty, as instructed by my brother in his dissertation on parenting, which I left on the counter next to the phone even though he ‘suggested’ I take it with me wherever I go. That we made it here on time is a miracle, because although Danny had already put the car seats in the Camaro, it took me fifteen minutes to safely strap the kids in.

  I’m wearing Caroline’s clothing—under protest. After some serious digging in her closet, I was lucky to find some brand new workout togs hidden on an upper shelf (obviously reserved for when my sister-in-law gets back into a size six which will be on the twelfth of freaking never). I pull at the black Lycra leggings and roll my eyes, knowing I have to get out of the car and walk McKenna to the gate (another of Danny’s instructions, and a stupid one if you ask me).

  Through the windshield, I see moms and a few dads scurry toward the single-story red brick building, hand in hand with their offspring. Most of the moms wear uniforms of sweats and jackets, their uncombed hair and makeup-free faces hidden beneath baseball caps. The last time I saw so many attractive women wearing baseball caps was at a mixer in Central Park hosted by Corona Cerveza where the beer company was handing out hats with their logo stitched into the brim. At this elementary school, behind the Orange Curtain, there are no alcohol-related logos in sight. Nike, Reebok, Angels, Dodgers, and some little league logos, but no Corona. I wonder if any of these mothers will head home for a breakfast of Bloody Marys. (If I had a kid in kindergarten, I certainly would.)

  A fresh-faced woman of about twenty-three stands at the gate of the kindergarten playground, smiling and greeting each child as they pass through.

  “Okay, McKenna, we’re here.”

  “Yay!” she says with surprising enthusiasm. “And there’s my teacher, Miss Livingston!”

  “Is she nice?” ask.

  “Nicer than you,” McKenna answers without hesitation. And even though I’m slightly offended, I have to give her credit for her quick comeback. Oh, yeah. She’ll do just fine in elementary school.

  “Of course Miss Livingston’s nice,” I tell my niece. “She’s young. Just give her time.”

  McKenna has no idea what I’m talking about. She shrugs, then starts trying to unclasp the safety belt, which is threaded through her car seat. Tebow seems uncharacteristically subdued. He gazes out the side window and rhythmically chews on his pacifier.

  Just as I reach for the door handle, my cell phone rings. I grab it from my purse and answer the call. “Meg Monroe.”

  “This is Janine Jones with KTOC,” comes a monotone voice. “Please hold for Ms. Buchanan.” Three seconds later, I hear a click followed by the booming contralto of Eileen Buchanan, station manager of KTOC. I’ve talked to her twice before, and each time, including this one, she sounds as though her breakfast of choice is a pack of Marlboro reds.

  “Meg Monroe! Welcome to Southern California! You made it safely, I assume?”

  “Yes, thanks, Eileen.”

  “Great, terrific. So, when can we set up a meeting? I know you just got here, but we should really plan for some time over the next few days. Next week is Thanksgiving, you know, so a lot of people will be out from Monday on.”

  “This week is fine,” I reply. “But not today. Today I’m booked.” As in, getting some clothes to tide me over until my luggage arrives.

  “No problem. How about tomorrow?” Eileen asks. “No, wait. Thursday. No…shit. This damn Google calendar system is a pain in my derrière. I long for the days of the desk calendar and a simple pen or pencil.” She cackles in my ear for a good ten seconds.

  I know Danny works a half day on Friday—he made a note in the section of his childcare to me with the moment-to-moment schedule of the next ten days. So unless Eileen Buchanan has a great sense of humor and doesn’t mind having a drooling toddler eating Cheerios next to her during lunch, it cannot be tomorrow or Thursday.

  “Friday would be better for me, actually,” I tell her, even though Friday was not one of my choices. “I’m free after twelve, depending on where we meet. I’m down in Orange County.”

  Eileen says nothing, and I’m half afraid she is going to dismiss me. Not that I really care. I don’t want the job, I only want the leverage.

  “No problem, no problem at all,” she finally says. “We’ll find a restaurant in the middle and email you with the particulars. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Aunt Meg!” McKenna shouts at me. “I’m gonna get a turdy!”

  Oh, God, does she have to make a poop? I glare at McKenna and press my finger to my lips.

  “What was that, Meg?”

  “Sorry, Eileen, that was radio. I really have to go, but I look forward to Friday.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be in touch.” The line goes dead.

  “Do you seriously have to make a turdy?” I ask McKenna.

  “No, turdy! Late!”

  “Tardy! Right.” Thank God.

  I glance through the windshield and see that most of the parents are getting back into their cars and driving away. I hustle out of the Camaro, then yank and pull and tear at the straps of the car seat until McKenna comes free. I set her on the ground, slam the door shut and start heading toward the school.

  “You can’t leave Tebow in the car!” McKenna cries.

  “We’re just going over there,” I tell her, jerking a thumb at the gate, literally twenty feet away.

  “It’s ‘gainst the law.” She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a stony look.

  “Fine!”

  I hurry around to the other side of the car and try to get my nephew out of his restraints, but his car seat is locked tighter than a strait jacket.

  “God damn it!”

  Two moms linger by the gate, chit-chatting about something. When I glance over at them I see that they are looking at me with horror.

  “Gosh darn it!” I amend.

  “I’m turdy, I’m turdy!” McKenna says, biting her lower lip. At last, I get the clasp undone. I pry Tebow from the seat and tuck him under my arm, then grab McKenna’s hand and yank her across the parking lot. When we reach the gate, Miss Livingston is about to snap shut the padlock.

  “Oh, McKenna!” she says and smiles down at my niece. “Good morning!” She unclasps the lock and pulls the gate open and my niece slips through and disappears into the building without so much as a backward glance. When Miss Livingston looks up at me, her smile is conspicuously absent.

  “You must be Mr. Monroe’s sister?” Her tone is cool and I have to wonder if she has received a call from Caroline.

  “That’s correct,” I reply, immediately on the defense.

  “Shlabanzerg!” Tebow babbles. I’m holding him at such an angle that he’s staring at the pavement. I look down and see a squashed bug next to my right foot. Ah. Shlabanzerg. A nice fat stream of drool slides out his mouth around the pacifier and lands on my—Caroline’s—sneaker. I shudder.

  “I know this is all new for you, Ms. Monroe, but punctuality is very important.”

  Her patronizing tone makes me want to slap her silly. “Right. We wouldn’t want them to be late for their lesson on brain surgery.”

  “That’s very humorous. From now
on, please be on time.”

  “I was on time, Miss Livingston. But I had a very important phone call.”

  “Of course you did,” she says. “But unless it was from the President of the United States, I dare say it was not as important as getting your child to school on time.”

  I don’t want to slap her silly. I want to strangle her. I count to ten and try to breathe normally.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get inside. And remember that pickup for Later Gators is two-thirty. Sharp.”

  “I’ll be here.” Bitch.

  I turn on my heel and head for the Camaro. The two moms are still eyeing me suspiciously. I know I should ignore them. I should bite my tongue and get in the car. But I just can’t help myself. I jerk my head around and glare at them, and using my best New York accent, I ask, “What are you looking at?” They quickly avert their eyes as I stuff my nephew back into his car seat.

  * * *

  South Coast Plaza, one of Orange County’s most chichi shopping malls, is bustling on this Tuesday morning. And although I’m dressed in workout gear, and although my hair is frizzy and my makeup is most likely Maybelline (although I can’t be sure because most of the labels were so old as to be illegible), and I’m pushing a stroller for the first time in my life, I feel my shoulders relax as soon as I step inside.

  The holiday decorations are less garish than those at the airport, but far more ostentatious, and I’m certain the huge glass ornaments suspended from the ceiling are worth more than my apartment. Within each enormous crystal sphere lies a holiday-themed object: a reindeer, an ornately wrapped present, a Christmas tree, a glowing candle, a token Menorah. Sparkling lights line the railing for as far as the eye can see, twinkling on and off rhythmically. As we move down the walkway, Tebow grabs for them and makes noises of delight.

  “Yes, very pretty,” I say with little enthusiasm. “South Coast Plaza could feed an entire country for what these decorations cost.”

  My first stop is Sephora. Praise the Lord. In a short time I spend a small fortune replacing all of the items in my makeup bag and toiletries case, adding a wrinkle cream made with shark fetuses that promises to take ten years off my skin. Tebow starts to fuss in his stroller, so I hand him a cleansing facial brush, which he immediately sticks in his mouth. (Guess I’ll have to buy it.) The salesgirl, an exuberant waif who stands about four foot eleven, gives me the hard sell on a new line of eye cream.

  “I use it myself!” she exclaims, gesturing toward her Ivory Girl complexion. “I’ll bet you’d never guess I’m almost twenty-five! But it works for women your age as well.”

  I resist the urge to smack her and snatch the cream from her fingers, then hand her my credit card. I hang my two Sephora bags over the stroller handles, then make my way out of the store and head for my favorite place in the entire world. Bloomingdales. The SoCal store doesn’t have the same charm and panache as the one on 59th and Lex, but it’ll do in a pinch.

  I push Tebow past the jewelry counters, hearing him gasp at the shiny, sparkly rings and bracelets and necklaces housed within the glass cases.

  “Glrompel!”

  “That’s right, Mister Stinky Pants. Jewelry!”

  At the makeup department, a battalion of over-botoxed, perfect looking young women descend upon me, makeup brushes at the ready, all of them chattering about the ‘holiday gift with purchase’ that I absolutely must have. I know I need a makeover in the worst way, however my clothing is much more of an issue. I hold up my Sephora bags to them and continue on to apparel.

  I stop at the first Theory rack I see, and as I reach out and stroke the fabric of the black peplum shell, I sigh contentedly. Within seconds, my peripheral vision detects the approach of a Bloomies employee.

  “So cute!” I hear her exclaim behind me.

  “It is,” I agree. “Do you have it in any other colors?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I turn to see her kneeling in front of the stroller, smiling brightly at my nephew.

  “Yes, you are just the cutest little thing in the world, aren’t you?” she coos. Her straight auburn hair is cut in a severe bob with sharp angles around her face, her eyes are thick with liner, making her resemble Cat Woman, and her lips are Angelina Jolie-thick and generously painted with blood-red lipstick. I’m surprised my nephew isn’t shrieking in fright.

  “Fremslap!” he says with a giggle. Then he farts loudly enough to be heard in Macy’s.

  “Oh, my.” The salesgirl laughs and presses her manicured hand against her mouth, then she stands up to her full height of six feet. I recognize the Kensie pencil skirt and animal print blouse she wears. Her nametag reads Bianca. Of course. “Your son is adorable.”

  I shake my head. “No, no. He’s not my son. He’s my nephew.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet!” She bends over to his level and makes a funny face. “A day out with your auntie? How fun! Isn’t it, little man?”

  Geez. I’m the customer here. Shouldn’t I be getting some attention?

  She straightens again and smiles at me. “Such a handsome boy. His eyes! My God! Amazing. And those dimples! He’ll be a heartbreaker for sure.”

  Yeah, yeah, my nephew is cute, but I am here to shop. I don’t really have time to discuss his dimples when there are literally thousands of ensembles I want to slide my body into.

  “Right. So, as I was saying, do you have this top in any other colors?”

  Ten minutes later, Bianca shows me to a fitting room. Hanging inside are several pairs of AG jeans, various BCBGMAXAZRIA tops, the Theory ensemble, as well as a metallic open knit sweater, and a slew of other items Bianca saw fit to add to my collection. Tebow’s eyes are starting to droop, and if I remember correctly from my brother’s instructions, we are nearing nap time. Bianca stands just outside the private changing room, hands on hips.

  “It’s going to be a bit tight in there with the stroller,” she says. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a family fitting room, like at Target.”

  I should hope not. And anyway, there’s no chance I’m going to disrobe in front of my nephew, what with the whole ‘booby’ thing.

  “I think he might fall asleep,” I say. “I’ll just park him here. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “I can keep an eye on him, too,” Bianca offers.

  “Baba,” Tebow mumbles, so tired that his words barely make it past his lips. I reach into the diaper bag beneath the seat of the stroller—which my brother loaded this morning—and withdraw the half-bottle of milk. I uncap it and hand it to Tebow. He pulls his pacifier out of his mouth with one hand and shoves the bottle in with the other, then begins to suck vigorously on the nipple. Two seconds later, his eyelids flutter closed.

  “Good. Great.” I hold my hand out to Bianca, and she rewards me with an armful of designer clothing. “And, Bianca, whichever pair of jeans fits the best, I’d like to wear them out of here.”

  Her eyes rove over my ensemble and she nods with understanding. “I don’t blame you one bit.”

  * * *

  The AG jeans are a must, although the Citizens of Humanity fit pretty well, too. I’ve already decided on a couple of Splendid tops, and the Magaschoni open knit sweater. I’m trying to be conservative because I know my suitcase will show up eventually. But I don’t ever want to go near Caroline’s closet again, so I may have to buy a few extra items, like two pair of P.J Salvage pajamas—one striped, the other with polka dots—and the Theory jacket and skirt set, which will be perfect for my interview with Eileen Buchanan, and obviously some Cosabella underthings, which I’ll pick up on my way out.

  Bianca has been kind enough to grab several pairs of shoes to match the many ensembles, and they are lined up in front of me. Just the sight of them makes me want to squirt lighter fluid all over Caroline’s sneakers and light a match.

  I am not a serial shopper. I don’t spend half my life and half my income on my wardrobe. I don’t tear through fashion magazines hunting for the latest trend. But I like to look g
ood and I’ll pay a reasonable amount of money to do so. And I admit, after wearing my brother’s sweats and Caroline’s clothes for the past twelve hours, it feels damn good to slip into quality clothing made with quality fabric, designed by people who really know a woman’s body.

  I pull on a pair of VINCE flat front skinny pants and admire myself in the mirror. They fit fine, although I see that my normally firm stomach is slightly more convex than it was yesterday, and not because of the granny panties I’m wearing, but likely because I haven’t been on the treadmill in three days. An errant thread sticks out from the faux zipper and I tug at it only to feel the stitching come loose. Uh oh. I call to Bianca over the door of the fitting room.

  “Do you have another pair of the VINCE’s in a six?” I ask her.

  “Aren’t those fabulous?” she breathes. “I’m sure we do. Just a sec.”

  I slide out of the pants and return them to their appropriate hanger, then spend a moment sorting through the rest of the clothing, separating it into two groups: the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots.’ This is going to be an expensive little excursion, but what the hell? I simply must have the Burberry Herringbone Bouclé cape. It’s November, and I can’t very well wear Danny’s UCLA sweatshirt to keep warm, even if the latte stain comes out. Anyway the cape is on sale. I pull the hanger from the hook and press the cape against myself and gaze at my reflection. Definitely a ‘have.’

  “Okay,” comes Bianca’s girlish voice. “I found you another six.”

  I open the fitting room door and hand the cape to her. “I’m taking this for sure.”

  “Good choice,” Bianca agrees, passing me the VINCE’s.

  “How’s the little guy?” I ask, gesturing in the direction of the stroller. I can only see the wheels from where I stand.

  Bianca’s mouth forms an ‘o’ of surprise. “Isn’t he in there with you?”

  My heart has never skipped a beat before in my life, but at this moment, it skips five.