Say Never Page 31

  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.

  I dial the number on the business card.

  Sixty seconds later, I’m talking to my ex-husband about the Meg Monroe Morning Show on KTOC.

  Twenty-five

  Meg: I never said I hated holidays, Barry.

  Barry: Well, actually, Meg, you said ‘What use are they? These days holidays have no more value than the pithy phrases inside Hallmark cards.’

  Meg: That definitely sounds like me. But I didn’t say I hated them.

  Barry: You also said that holidays are all about the candy. No one cares about the birth of Jesus, but they’re overjoyed by the red and green M&Ms.

  Meg: I do remember that show.

  Barry: And that nobody really believes in anything anymore, but holidays are just an excuse for people to get drunk, spend money, and go on vacation.

  Meg: Really? I said that?

  Barry: And that having to spend time with family during the holidays just because they’re your family is like being water-boarded.

  Meg: Well, maybe a little.

  Barry: And that when you’re single, the holidays turn you into a pariah because you don’t dare show up to a Christmas party or a Passover Seder or a Kwanzaa celebration alone lest you be the recipient of pity, disdain and disgust.

  Meg: Okay! All right! Fine! I hate the holidays! Holidays suck! Are you happy now?

  * * *

  The aroma of roasted turkey and baked sweet potatoes and pecan pie fills the air, and the dining room is alive with conversation, laughter and gustatory delight. The table has been extended to accommodate all nineteen people present.

  Caroline is home from the rehab facility for the day and is seated in her wheelchair at the far end of the table. Thankfully, her doctor downgraded her to a soft cast, so she is far more comfortable than she’s been in weeks. Beside her, my new niece sleeps in her portable bassinet, her tiny hands tucked into little cotton mittens, her cheeks rosy red. Danny is to Caroline’s right, gazing at both of them with such tenderness I almost can’t bear to look at him.

  Cera’s dad Richard and his wife Eliza are here. They buried Elizabeth’s mother on Monday and graciously accepted Danny’s invitation to join us, as they couldn’t fathom putting together a holiday feast on their own. I’m glad Cera is here, and although her dad and step-mom checked into a nearby hotel, she has opted to stay with Danny for the rest of the weekend.

  Patsy Gates and her husband Dennis are also present, with their five kids who line the table alongside Cera, McKenna, and Tebow. Patsy and I have come to an understanding that neither of us will go out of our way to annoy, patronize or undercut the other. For my part, since I can’t even remember the name of the boyfriend she stole from me, I am prepared to let bygones be bygones. The few times I’ve caught her ogling Danny I’ve let pass without comment. Patsy, for her part, has bitten her tongue when witnessing my ongoing child-related faux pas, like when I handed her ten-year-old son the electric carving knife which he immediately began to swing around like a light-saber. (Thank God no one got hurt.)

  Buddy stands at the head of the table, proudly carving the bird while Bettina stands next to him whispering instructions in his ear about how to slice the meat. I sit on Bettina’s right, and Matt, who is in a deep unintelligible conversation with one of Patsy’s kids, sits beside me. He looks over at me and smiles. Beneath the table, I feel his hand slide across my knee. I reach down and intertwine my fingers with his as he leans over and whispers in my ear.

  “I’m sorry about you missing your Thanksgiving plans back in New York.”

  “I’m not,” I tell him.

  I gaze around the table at this group of people of which I have become an integral part in such a short time. My family. I turn to Matt and grin.

  “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

  Epilogue

  Matt and I collapse onto the sheets, our bodies intertwined and slick with sweat, our breathing labored, our hearts pounding in sync. He starts to laugh and I know exactly why. This thing between us, this connection, this attraction, this bond, makes the sex unbelievably good each and every time. We’ve been doing it for several weeks now and it’s only gotten better. And yes, we’ve also been going out on proper dates. I have to admit, I enjoy our time outside the bedroom as much as our time inside. Well, almost as much.

  “I think you should marry me,” he says seriously, rolling onto his side so that we are face to face. His hand slides down my waist and comes to rest on my right butt cheek.

  “Don’t you think this is a little fast?” We’ve joked about marriage a couple of times, but I can tell this is different.

  “We’re not getting any younger.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, frowning at him.

  “Well, I know how you feel about being forty.”

  “Funny thing…I’m actually fine with it now. Not that I’m going to shout it from the rooftops or anything. But I’m in a good place. I’m happy with my life. Truly happy, not just pretending to be or telling myself I am. So, you know. It’s okay.”

  “Wow. Your new shrink must be pretty good.”

  A referral from Dr. Rabinowitz. “She is. She told me that forty is the new twenty-five.”

  “You’re like a twenty-five year-old in the sack, that’s for sure,” he says and gives my butt a gentle smack.

  “Ah. You say the sweetest things to me.”

  “So, marry me.”

  “No! It’s too soon.”

  “It’s not too soon and you know it. Tell me the truth. You’re just stringing me along, aren’t you?” He grins. “You’re just using me for sex until you find Mr. Right.”

  I suspect I’ve already found Mr. Right in the man beside me, but I keep that to myself. “I don’t believe in Mr. Right,” I lie. “And, just for the record, you haven’t even told me you love me.”

  “I love you,” he proclaims, without hesitation. “I love everything about you. Even the not-so-pleasant stuff.”

  “What unpleasant stuff?” I feign annoyance.

  “Like the fact that you are a total grumpy Gus before coffee. Like the fact that you think you’re never wrong. Like the fact that you watch The Bachelor religiously. Seriously, Meg, your dad gives me the fish eye at every family dinner because he knows I’m violating his precious daughter. He wants me to make an honest woman out of you. I do too, as you well know.”

  I roll away from him and gaze at
the ceiling. “I’ve told you before, Matt, I can never marry you. Your last name is Ryan and my first name is Meg and if I married you I’d be Meg Ryan, and there is only one Meg Ryan and I am not her. She’s so cute and perky. I eat cute and perky for breakfast.”

  “She’s not all that cute and perky anymore.”

  “She is eternally cute and perky. Don’t you read People?”

  “We could go to Paris for our honeymoon. Stop in New York on the way so you can meet your sub-letter in person.”

  “I can’t go on a honeymoon right now. The show is just getting started.”

  “Okay, we’ll take a long weekend. We’ll find an expensive hotel in San Diego and order room service and stay in bed the whole time.”

  I won’t deny how appealing his scenario sounds, but still.

  “I’m not going to change my name, Matt. It’s important to me to retain something of my old self. But I know what the whole name-thing means to you.”

  “Don’t change it.” He leans over and kisses me and the feel of his lips on mine is something I might be able to stand for the next thirty or forty years. “I’ve realized that the whole name-thing isn’t that important to me. Not anymore,” he says. “You’re important to me.” He kisses me again, then slides his tongue lightly across my neck. I am breathless within seconds.

  “I’m not sure I can give you kids,” I tell him, gently nudging at his chest. “I mean, unless we…you know…get going on it…I guess we could adopt.”

  “You want kids?” he asks, his expression somber and hopeful at the same time.

  “I might not mind having a little Aspasia or Euthanasia running around the house.”

  He pulls his away and narrows his eyes at me. “Little who?”

  “Aspasia and Euthanasia.” I grin at him, then draw him back into my arms. “I’ll explain later.”