The Leftover Club (21 page)

She glanced at Dylan, who sat close offering silent support
. “You have your own life now.”

“A life that includes you,” I asserted but she shook her head.

“I just want to go live with Dad.”

I steeled my spine and internally tried to keep it together. I needed to be the adult here. I could lick my wounds later. Dylan touched my arm gently and we shared a sad glance. “I should probably go,” he said.

Her eyes met his. “I’m sorry I screwed up your date night.”

He softened immediately. “Oh, honey, no.” He took her into a hug, possibly the first they had shared. “You didn’t ruin anything. But if you give me Kyle’s address, I’ll go kick him in the balls for all of us.”

She laughed, which came out as a snotty snort. It broke the tension. She pulled away with a smile. “Thanks, Dylan.”

He wiped her tears away with his thumb.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”

He rose from the sofa, stooping only to kiss me on the top of the head. “I’ll call you.” I nodded and we watched him leave. I only left Meghan for a couple of minutes to throw on my own pajamas, and I went back
into the living room with a gallon of ice cream, a bottle of chocolate syrup and two spoons. We sat on the floor beside the couch and dug in.

After a few minutes of silence, I finally said, “If you really want to go live with your dad, I’ll talk to him.”

Her eyes sought mine. “Are you sure?”

I nodded as I shoveled more
chocolately dairy goodness on top of the hurt. “You need your dad. I know what it’s like to grow up without one. It sucks.”

She nodded. We finished the ice cream and she finally headed to bed. I
paused by my stereo and pushed play and listened to the CD that Dylan had given me. It reminded me of being a lonely, isolated teenager. Meghan had always been brimming with confidence and verve, it never dawned on me that she might have felt isolated herself.

She needed her Daddy tonight, and he wasn’t there for her.

I thought about all the times I had cursed picking up her messes or restrained my anger with every eye roll and smartass remark she made regarding anything I suggested. It had been chaotic and complicated and messy and heartbreaking.

But I couldn’t imagine my life without my daughter in it. I loved her so much that I had always been willing to do anything I could to give her all the things I never had.

It never occurred to me what she really needed was her dad, and I alone could give this to her in a way my own mother never could. Meghan’s father was alive. There was still a chance she could learn to forge healthy relationships with men by working on the first and most important relationship with her dad.

I sent Wade a text, asking
if we could speak about her custody.

June 7, 1976

I don’t remember what I had been dreaming about first morning of summer break, but I remember that I woke up feeling happy. In fact, if pressed, I’d say I woke up most days feeling that way. I was privileged in the way that I all my basic needs met for a six-year-old in the 1970s. We lived in a nice suburb in a nice two-bedroom house with a big back yard complete with an orange tree. I had a beautiful purple bedroom, with frilly lace and dozens of stuffed animals, as well as a white canopy bed that made me feel just like a princess.

There were pictures of puppies on my wall
in matching white lattice frames. It was the closest I could actually come to owning a dog, considering my dad was allergic. It was a grudge I held every time we went to the park just down the street from where we lived, where I watched kids play with pets that would love them unconditionally. In those days, every kid my age wanted a Benji dog, a loveable mutt that was smart enough to be a best friend, but cuddly enough to snuggle with while going to sleep each night.

I woke up
as light began to pour through the wispy white curtains behind the darker purple drapes. I might have smiled at my closest ally, my pioneer-themed doll with long, yarn pigtails, a cheerful bonnet and a fabric face with a perpetual smile, who sat in her perch in a white rocking chair by the window. But before I could greet her with, “Good morning, Holly,” my door was creaking open and my mother’s head popped through.

My smile quickly faded when I saw the ravaged look on her face. Her cheeks were puffy and her eyes were red
, and my mother – who I had never seen cry – sobbed instantly when she saw my face. I sat a little straighter in bed as she raced to my side, taking me in a powerful hug. “Mama?” I had asked.

“It’s Daddy, baby,” she had said
, quickly as if she had to blurt it out or never say it at all. “He’s gone.”

She didn’t say that he died, or passed away, or
expired. She simply said he was gone, as if he might come back one day. There was no point in sharing painful details like “fatal brain aneurysm” with a first-grader, who thought every boo-boo could be healed with a bandage and a kiss.

But that he was simply “gone” was equally confusing.
I had kissed my smiling father goodnight eleven hours before, and by the time the sun broke he was just… gone? Where did he go? Most importantly, why did he go?

In the week it took to plan the funeral and to bury my father, I waited in that rocking chair with
Holly in my lap, staring out the window and praying for my dad to come back. I knew it would never be normal until he did. A pall had fallen over my house, which had once been filled with laughter and hugs and unquestioning, unconditional love; a safe place for any child to grow up. My mother wept almost constantly, continually reminded of her loss no matter where she looked in our home, and of course whenever she looked at me.

Strangers that passed as family paraded through the house, dropping off an unending buffet of comfort food, from mashed potatoes and fried chicken to chocolate cake and apple pie.

And every night that my father failed to return, I would sneak into the kitchen and dig into that food so that I wouldn’t feel so hollow inside. It was an empty, endless ache and I was desperate to find any kind of salve.

I was numb by the time we entered that Gothic chapel at the cemetery where my father would be laid to rest. We rode in a limousine, my hand clasped in my mother’s hand, while she clutched a wet handkerchief with the other.

The chapel was full of flowers that made me sneeze and sad people I did not know. They all gave me a sympathetic look as I followed my mom to the pew in front. I stared at the polished coffin covered in even more flowers, trying to wrap my mind around the idea that my daddy was inside of it. The preacher droned on, but I didn’t hear anything he said. I stood when they sang, I sat for every eulogy. Several people wanted to share with my mother and me how much my dad had meant to them.

“We can’t imagine your loss,” they’d say, over and over again.
“Gone too soon.” “So tragic.”

The preacher spoke repeatedly about my daddy being “asleep in the Lord
,” that he had gone home to be with Our Heavenly Father. He would never know pain or loss. He was now in paradise waiting for us to join him some day.

He wasn’t dead. It wasn’t final. We’d see each other again.

He was just… “gone.”

Finally the words were spent. Men in suits removed the spray of flowers from his coffin and opened the lid, revealing a
n ivory satin interior. I followed my mother as we began the procession to view the body and say our final goodbyes. Lying within the box was my Daddy, and he was as young and handsome as he had been in life. It did look as though he was merely sleeping. I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look, watching his chest to see if it moved, watching his face to see if he would give me just one more smile.

Everything was just so painfully still.

When I reached for his hand, my mother smothered her sob in her handkerchief and looked away. I touched his hand, which had been placed onto his other hand on his chest. His skin was cold. His hand was stiff.

It wasn’t my Daddy anymore.
I knew it the moment I touched him. I didn’t know who this was, but my Daddy truly was gone.

The days bled together after that.
I started to hate my room, my house, my neighborhood, the park. Nothing was bright anymore. Nothing was cheerful. Even my dolls had lost their smiles.

By summer’s end
my mother was desperate to pull me out of my funk, especially when it was clear we were going to have to move from the house I had known my whole life. The expenses of Daddy’s healthcare and burial forced us to sell the house to pay the bills, not to mention give us something to live off of while Mom re-entered the workforce for a lot less money than Daddy was making. She introduced me to Bonnie Fenn, and I finally got to meet Dylan. I had noticed him on the very first day of school, when he happened to ace a spelling bee in the first week of first grade.

He was smart and I liked that, at a time when I liked very little because
the sun went out in my world.

In a last ditch effort
to cheer me up, my mother offered to take me to the pound, to get a puppy at last, hoping maybe that would fill the hole I now had in my heart. But every time I had looked at those puppy photos on my wall, I was reminded yet again of what I no longer had.

I learned at six that love didn’t last forever.
Any promise otherwise is a promise doomed to be broken.

So
I packed those photos and gave them away. It was easier to give up the dream than to wake up to a nightmare.

I don’t think I smiled again until the
fall, when we all sat to watch the annual broadcast of
The Wizard of Oz
. Dylan pulled me up to act out a scene with the Scarecrow, and didn’t give up until he had me in stitches.

I forgot for a couple of hours I was supposed to be sad.

Yet when I went to bed that night, and cuddled with Holly to go to sleep, I was too terrified to close my eyes. I had laughed. I had been happy. It couldn’t last, I knew. The clock was ticking. The hourglass had been flipped and the sand was falling fast.

I stayed up all night, determined
to greet the sun. I couldn’t go to sleep. Bad things happen to happy people when they’re asleep. I’d stay awake and then maybe the boogeyman would skip over our house entirely. Around three o’clock, I crawled into bed with my mom, wrapping my arms around her waist so I could feel her breathe. When I met Dylan for cereal and cartoons that next morning, I was thrilled to see that we’d both made it through the night.

But I knew that I had to guard my heart. I couldn’t risk the rug being pulled out from under me again. Some folks could have the life I saw repeated on TV and in movies, where parents didn’t die and people didn’t move and all problems were fixed in an hour.

I knew that blessed life didn’t apply to me anymore. The promise had been broken. And I’d never believe again.

October 29, 2007

The weekend had passed peacefully for a change. Wade put me off until Monday, which was fine. I told Bry and Olive that I needed to stay close to home, which they understood. Dylan, likewise, gave me a wide berth. Meghan was quiet, even though I could hear her arguing with Kyle when he tried to call her all weekend.

I cheered for her every time she called him
a selfish, two-timing asshole, but I cursed every single time her phone rang and she answered the call. By Sunday she was exhausted. She barely mustered enough enthusiasm to come out of her room.

She had dated
casually before, but from what I could tell Kyle had been her first real boyfriend. Since I had listened without judgment, she confided the whole familiar tale. He had doted on her, bestowing gifts as he pursued her, and filled all the gaping holes for male attention that her father had routinely left with broken promise after broken promise. Kyle, as the hottest boy in school, had made her feel special. And as easily as he had given it all, he had taken it away.

It broke my heart for her.

I met Wade at his office that Monday, scheduling a late day for myself to try and take care of this issue. He made me wait, of course. He was surly and arrogant, of course. But it was worth it if I could find a healthier way for Meghan to relate to the opposite sex than fending off an adolescent predator who wanted to add her to his list of conquests.

“Make it quick,” Wade sneered down his nose. “I’m busy.”

“You’re always busy,” I informed him.

“That is how one becomes successful,” he said, as if to a simpleton.

I sat in the chair opposite his desk. The office had changed quite a bit in ten years. The furniture was nicer, the view was better; every square inch smacked of affluence and success. On his desk was a photo of his newest live-in love interest, Sasha. They were on a yacht, and she was in a bikini, just another trophy for his clients to envy.

It did not escape my notice that photos of his daughter were delegated to the bookshelves across the room. It was probably harder to explain why most of her photos did not include the rest of his family.

“Meghan tells me that you will be relocating to Arizona.”

He confirmed this with a curt nod of his head. “I’ve been selected to spearhead the new offices we are opening there.”

“Congratulations,” I offered flatly. “Meghan has made it clear that she wants to go with you. I’m here so we can work out some arrangement.”

He shook his head. “I’ve already told Meghan that it is impossible.”

“Make it possible. This is your daughter we’re talking about.”

“Is it Meghan?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Meghan tells me that you have quite the active social life
these days. Maybe having a minor around is cramping your style.”

Inwardly I fumed, but I tried not to let it show. Another pissing contest between exes was not going to accomplish anything. “Do you have any idea how your daughter spent her weekend? She was heartbroken because a boy who had spent
months doting on her and lavishing her with attention walked out on her because she wouldn’t give in to what he wanted.”

“Good girl,” Wade said.

“Yet she’s still answering his phone calls, even after he humiliated her and broke her heart. And I think it’s because she desperately needs to connect with someone of the opposite sex. You’re not around and she’s trying to make due with any guy who will pay her a little attention. I know what that feels like, Wade. That was me. The difference is her dad is alive and well. You can spend time with her if you choose to.”

He shook his head again. “Do you have any idea what kind of work will go into setting up business in a new location? There will be eighteen-hour workdays and networking. She won’t see me any more than she already does. Plus it’ll yank her out of school mid-year and she’ll be faced with the added stress of starting over somewhere else
, without her friends and extended family. Think it through, Veronica. Is this really what you want for her?”

“I want her to have a father,” I told him.

“Then maybe you should find another husband.”

“Maybe I will,” I spat.

He chuckled as he looked me over with obvious disdain. “Yeah. You do that.” His cold eyes leveled on mine. “Are we done?”

“Yeah,” I said, anger lacing my tone. “We are.”

I was still angry when Bryan joined me for lunch. “I can’t believe that asshole doesn’t want to spend time with his own daughter,” he grumbled, and then reconsidered his statement. “Well, I guess I can. She’s going to be so broken-hearted when you tell her.”

“Oh, I’m not telling her,” I said. “That’ll drive her right into Kyle’s arms
despite everything he’s already done to her.”

He stared at me incredulously.
“So… what? You’re just going to let him lay all the blame at your door? Because you know that’s what he’s going to do, right?”

I shrugged. “I’m used to it. And it’s not entirely unwarranted.”

He gave me a pointed stare. “Don’t you think it’s time you get off the cross, honey? There are better uses for the wood.”

I chuckled. “It’s not about martyrdom. I told you what happened with Dylan. I blew my marriage apart when I slept with him.”

“Please,” Bryan scoffed with a roll of his eyes. “Your marriage was on life support way before Dylan marched back into your life. What difference does it make who pulled the plug?”

“To Meghan it makes all the difference in the world. A six-year-old doesn’t see a controlling father or a codependent mother. She just sees a whole family, living in the same house, both parties there when she needs them.”

“How different would it be if you had stayed with Wade? He’d still be working 20-hour days and you’d still be the one picking up all the pieces and putting out all the fires. At least this way you can date and get you some every now and then.”

I laughed.
“Yeah, right.”

“Speaking of which, how are things going with you and Mr. Wonderful?”

“I expect that he’ll be looking for the escape hatch by…,” I paused for a beat, “what time is it now?”

“Always the voice of optimism.”

“This isn’t some one-night-stand or some fun-time fling.
Kids? Exes? This is way more complicated than anything he’s tackled before.”

It was
Bry’s turn to shrug. “Who knows? He might surprise you. I mean, who thought you’d be dating
the
Dylan Fenn?”

“We’re hardly dating,” I corrected. “We hang out once or twice a week, usually with you and Olive.
”

He leaned in close. “That’s dating, sweetie.”

“We haven’t even gotten to second base,” I insisted.

“What are you waiting for? I’d have wrecked
that hot ass weeks ago.”

I shook my head. “Timing hasn’t been right. That’s the story of our whole lives, I guess. Every time something big happened, something rotten followed.
That first kiss on the merry-go-round, the first kiss after that party where Amber left him high and dry. That embarrassing debacle on the camping trip. And who can forget the last time? It’s never been perfect, you know? I guess I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Ever since your dad died,” he agreed with a nod. His astute comment left me breathless. “Maybe your problem is that you’ve been fixated on some stupid standard someone else set. There is no picket fence. There are no rides off into the sunset. For every romantic moment, there are about a thousand moments of mediocrity to make the others special. There is no right way to love. There is no perfect way to be. Life is messy, Roni. Especially if you’re doing it right,” he added with a lascivious grin.

I giggled and threw a French fry at him.

As the afternoon wore on, though, I couldn’t get what Bryan said out of my head. Was he right? Had I put too many expectations on some kind of champagne and diamonds happily ever after? Was I setting Dylan up with these outrageous expectations, in effect pushing him to fail before we could even get started?

The more I examined the past, especially those moments when I was so close to having what I wanted with Dylan, I found that it was me, and not Dylan, who sabotaged every single experience that happened after that first embarrassing rejection at the playground.

Why would I do that?

Was I still expecting him to bolt the minute anyone realized he was
merely slumming with the fat chick?

Was I still expecting to go to sleep one night thinking life was happy and perfect, only to wake up the next morning, having lost everything?

When I stopped at the market on the way home, I bought candles and a bottle of wine. If this really was a date, maybe it was time I started acting like it. Rather than cook, I bought some California-Greek fusion takeout so I could spend a little more time getting ready before Dylan arrived.

Meghan was doing her homework at the kitchen counter when I
got home. “I thought you were going to Erin’s tonight,” I commented casually as I unpacked the family meal of falafel, spanakopita, tabouli and hummus.

Meghan shrugged. “I thought I’d stay home tonight. If that’s okay,” she added. “I know Dylan’s coming over.”

I looked into her green eyes, the exact same shade as mine. And for the first time, I saw the same awkward, uncertain teenager I had been staring back at me. She wasn’t just asking to share dinner. She was asking to belong. I wondered if she had talked to Wade yet about moving to Arizona, but I wasn’t about to ask. “Of course it’s okay,” I smiled as I unpacked container after container. “There’s plenty for everyone.”

She gave me a small smile before she jumped in to set the table. I put the candles in the catch-all drawer and the wine in the fridge.

Dylan arrived a little after seven. He brought a movie for us to share, a sexy romance dating way back to the 1980s, but we decided against the DVD and opted for a board game that we could all play. Dylan was competitive by nature so he kicked our butts handily, and I laughed as he and Meghan trash-talked each other like they had known each other forever.

Dylan lingered until her bedtime. She bestowed a rare hug for her new friend before she disappeared into her room by ten. I rewarded him with a glass of wine as we settled together on the sofa.

“She’s a great kid,” he said softly as he stared at the dark liquid in his glass. “You’ve done a remarkable job.”

I chortled. “It’s a crap shoot some days.
You just close your eyes, plow through and hope for the best.”

“One of these days you’ll take the compliment,” he grinned. “I’m not giving up.” I laughed. “
Look, I know how hard it was for my mom. She tried to hide it, like you, but I know. There were moments I’d watch her when she thought I wasn’t, and I saw the worry and the burden in her eyes. She swallowed all that down so that she could make it okay for me.” He looked into my eyes. “I see that in you, Roni. I think of all these years I’ve been chasing this stupid acting thing and you’ve actually managed to grow a person.
Well
. It humbles me.”

“Thank you, Dylan,” I said softly and sincerely.

He smiled. “There it is.” His hand slipped up around my neck to pull me close as he planted a soft kiss on my lips. The kiss was easy to indulge. I had dreamed so long about being in his arms that every single time I wound up there it felt like a miracle. His hands were soft and tender against my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind his inquisitive fingers. He had learned a lot in twenty years, where to touch and how to kiss. This wasn’t some teenager in my arms; he was all man.

It reminded me of how he made love to me in that Los
Feliz apartment ten years before, taking me with strength and purpose, like he might have died if he hadn’t.

At least that was the way I remembered it. Maybe I had to, to justify how my life imploded right afterwards.

Now I had nothing to lose. I was single, as was he. There was nothing between us but some pesky clothes that could easily be discarded.

Somehow this revelation scared me more.

I gently disengaged. His eyes were cloudy with confusion as he stared down at me. “What’s wrong?”

I motioned to the hallway. “Meghan,” I said simply.

He nodded. “Right.” He caressed the curve of my face. “One day we’ll get our timing in sync.”

I giggled. “Think after thirty years we can get it right?”

He brushed a thumb across my swollen bottom lip. “God, I hope so. Otherwise I may just use up every drop of cold water in L.A.”

I got lost in those bottomless brown eyes.
“Thanksgiving too long to wait?” I asked softly. “Meghan is going to spend that week with her dad. Maybe I could spend that week with you.”

It was a brazen thing to ask, but he answered me with a kiss. His tongue parted my lips and I groaned as I submitted myself gloriously to him. He was breathless when we broke apart. “It’s a date.”