Mike, Mike and Me

скачать книгу бесплатно

I look around the family room, noticing all the things that need doing. There are a few stray orange Goldfish cracker crumbs on the rug, which the incompetent Melina missed, which I was about to vacuum yesterday before somebody interrupted me. Beside the television is a scattering of kiddie videos and DVDs I was in the midst of matching with their boxes earlier in the week before somebody interrupted me. On the desk is a stack of bills I started paying last night before somebody interrupted me. And after that I decided to settle in and watch a movie before somebody interrupted me, forcing me to TiVo the rest.

TiVo might just be the most revolutionary invention known to man or harried suburban mother. We’ve had it for a year now. It’s nice to be able to hit Pause when the homeroom mother calls you just as CSI: Miami is starting, to remind you that you signed up last fall to bring two dozen homemade cupcakes for snack in the morning. Or you can hit Fast Forward when one of the kids shows up in the room just as some unfortunate soul is getting violently whacked on The Sopranos. Or you can hit Instant Replay when your husband erupts in a deafening sneezing fit just as Alex Trebeck is giving the right answer on Jeopardy.

You know, it’s too bad the trusty TiVo remote doesn’t work on anything other than the television set, because I could use a version of it to Pause, Fast Forward and Rewind real-life moments all day, every day. No matter what I’m doing, somebody is always interrupting me.

So why isn’t that happening now?

Why isn’t one of the kids bugging me to give them Gummi Worms or to wipe their poopy keister or to tell so-and-so to stop kicking/biting/looking-at-me so that I can forget about answering Happy Nappy?

I don’t have to answer him. I can delete him from my life with the press of a button.

Too bad it wasn’t that easy the first time around.

Back then, I didn’t know how to let go.

Maybe I still don’t.

My fingers are flying over the keys before I can stop them.

Dear Mike, Thanks for writing…

Good. Now what?

I was so surprised to hear from you!

Good. Now what?

I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately.

Not good.

I replace it with I’m sorry things ended the way they did, and I’ve always hoped for the chance to tell you how sorry I am that things didn’t work out for us.

Definitely not good.

I backspace over that and sit with my fingers poised on the keyboard, trying to think of something to say. Something that will lead us not into temptation. Something that isn’t trite yet won’t dredge up the painful past.

I mean, I broke the guy’s heart. I let him believe we could have a future together, even though I was in love with somebody else.

The somebody else I married.

The somebody else with whom I have three children, a mortgage and a retirement plan. I should probably point that out first and foremost.

I immediately type I’m still married to Mike.

Then I realize it sounds as though I thought we might not last.

I backspace quickly. Of course I’m still married to Mike. Why wouldn’t I be?

I try again.

Mike and I have three beautiful sons and a house in Westchester. He’s working at an ad agency in Manhattan and I…

I pause, frowning.

Hmm. How can I make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?

Perhaps the more pressing question is why do I feel the need to make my hausfrau existence sound glamorous and exciting?

I delete the last line, all the way back to Westchester. That was probably TMI, anyway. He doesn’t need to know the intimate details of my life.

I just can’t help wishing there were some.

Time to wrap things up quickly.

I’d love to hear from you again when you have time. Take care! Beau

There. Short and sweet.

I hit Send before I can read it over and change my mind.

Time for a reality check.

I log off, march over to the phone and dial Mike’s extension.

His secretary answers.

“Hi, Jan, it’s Beau.”

“Beau! We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” I say, wondering who we is.

I hate when somebody says they were just talking about me. Not that it happens regularly, but still…

What could anybody possibly have to say about me? I don’t do anything. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t see anyone.

“Yes, I was just telling Mike how lucky he is to have a wife who’s willing to stay home and be with the kids. If I had to be at home with my kids, I’d kill myself.”

“Oh. Well…” What does one say to that? “It’s not so bad.”

“Well, I told Mike he needs to bring you some flowers once in a while too, to let you know how much he appreciates you.”

Too?

“He’s such a sweetheart, Beau,” she goes on. “I can’t believe he always remembers that purple is my favorite color.”

“Oh…he’s got quite a memory.”

So do I. I remember when my husband used to stop at the florist in Grand Central on his way home every once in a while. He’d come in the door with a paper-wrapped bouquet of my favorite flowers, heavenly scented stargazer lilies.

He hasn’t done that in months.

I hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Hang on and I’ll go get him for you,” Jan says, and puts me on hold.

It’s not that I’m jealous. If Mike’s secretary were the least bit buxom or beautiful, I might be jealous. But Jan, a married mother of toddler twins, has crow’s-feet, prematurely gray hair, saddlebags and an upper lip that desperately needs electrolysis. She and I are about the same age, but she looks a good decade older. She’s so not a threat to my marriage.

In fact, until recently, I didn’t think anything could be a threat to my marriage.

“Hey, what’s up, Babs?” my husband’s voice asks.

I hate when he calls me Babs. But at least he sounds cheerful, so I say, just as cheerfully, “Hi! I just…I wanted to see how your day was going.”

“Crazy. How about yours?”

Upstairs, I hear the clattering of a million tiny plastic pieces against hardwood. Apparently, the Lego city has met its demise.

“Crazy,” I tell Mike.

Because if an out-of-the-blue e-mail from an old lover isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.

“Crazy how? Are the boys okay?”

“They’re fine. One is playing, one is watching Dora, one is sleeping. When are you coming home?”

“Late” is his prompt reply. “I have to take some people out for drinks. Don’t wait for me for dinner.”

“I won’t. Will you be home before I put the kids to bed?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll try. Kiss them for me if I’m not, okay?”

“Okay. I wish you were coming home soon.”

“Believe me, so do I. I’d rather be home with you and the boys than drinking Grey Goose and tonic at the Royalton on an empty stomach.”

And I’d rather be drinking Grey Goose and tonic at the Royalton on an empty stomach. Ironic, isn’t it, that we long for what we can’t have?

Like…

No. Stop that.

“Let’s go away,” I tell Mike spontaneously.

“Away? What do you mean?”

“Let’s go on vacation. Instead of staying here and working on the house. Let’s just go somewhere. Please?”

“Beau, I spend every weekday of my life somewhere other than at home,” Mike points out, sounding weary. “I’m tired of going somewhere. I want to go nowhere for a change.”

“But if we went out to the Cape for the week, you could go nowhere once we got there. You could sit in a chair on the beach for six straight days.”

“Do you know what the traffic on 95 is like between here and the Cape in August? It would be a nightmare.”

“But—”

“I want to sit in a chair in my own backyard for six straight days, Beau. And when I’m not sitting in a chair, I’m going to be working on that bathroom under the stairs. Believe me, you’ll thank me when you’re flushing that toilet at the end of the week.”

I don’t think so. Not if it means also flushing any hope of a real vacation this summer.

I sigh. “It’s just hard to be at home with the kids day in and day out, Mike.”

“Maybe you should get a hobby.”

Is it my imagination, or is he being condescending?

“What do you suggest?” I ask in a brittle tone. “Macramé? Model airplanes?”

“You know what I mean. You need something to do, other than taking care of the kids. I don’t blame you for being bored.”

His unexpected sympathy catches me off guard.

Before I can respond, I can hear a phone ringing on the other end of the line.

“We’ll talk about it over the weekend, okay?” he asks, slipping from sympathetic to distracted in a matter of seconds.

“Yeah, okay.”

We hang up.

I don’t want a hobby. I want…

I don’t know what I want, other than for this sudden restlessness to go away.

I stand there in the family room, listening to the overhead hum of childish conversation, Dora’s theme song, the rhythmic, battery-charged rocking of the swing.

I almost wish Tyler would start whimpering, just to give me something specific to do.

When did I get to be this aimless housewife?

Mike and I have three beautiful sons and a house in Westchester.

It sounds so fulfilling when you put it in writing. So much better than the reality.