Magnolia Wednesdays Part 19

Embarra.s.sed to wallow so blatantly when she had so much, she blew her nose loudly and added an extra honk for effect.

"Very ladylike," he teased. "I'd try not to do that when you're with your future in-laws in the Braves Clubhouse." He gave her a moment to compose herself. "Tell me."

Wadding the tissue into a ball, she dabbed at her eyes. "James's parents tried to give me a Lexus convertible from one of their dealers.h.i.+ps for Christmas."

"No!" he said in horror. "Oh, you poor thing!"

"And all through the Christmas parties and the open houses, James just kept looking at me in this really sappy way and telling everybody how much he couldn't wait to marry me." The tears squeezed out of the corner of her eyes and dampened her cheeks.

"Shame." He shook his head. "How b.l.o.o.d.y awful!" Brian tut-tutted-he was one of the only people she'd ever met who actually knew how.

Angela dabbed at her cheeks, trying her best to ignore his cheerful sarcasm.

"James gave me these earrings." She pulled her hair away from her ears so that he could see the diamond studs that he'd fastened onto her earlobes Christmas morning.

"Far too sparkly," he said. "And much too large. I don't know how you manage to keep your head up."

She fought back a smile along with the urge to completely unburden herself.

"Ang," he said quietly, his eyes, as always, warm and accepting. "I'm not seeing the problem. Most of the female population and a large percentage of males would trade places with you in a heartbeat." He took her by the shoulders and set her back a bit so he could look down into her eyes. "What's wrong? Why are you so upset?"

She met his gaze. "Because I don't deserve any of it. And I definitely don't deserve James. He's been so honest with me." She looked down into her lap at the wadded-up tissue crumpled in her hands. "And I haven't been at all honest with him. He has no idea what I used to look like or who I really am."

"Then tell him, Ang," Brian spoke quietly, all trace of humor gone. "Tell him what you did, all the weight you lost, all that you achieved. I watched you do it and I could hardly believe the magnitude of it. And I don't just mean the pounds. You were beautiful before and you're beautiful now. But what you did-how strong you are-that's all part of you, too. A good part; a part you should be proud of."

In her head, she knew he was right. But in her heart . . . "I'm just so afraid of losing him. I should have told him right away, but I just couldn't do it. And now I can't bear to give up the *me' I see in his eyes."

She looked away, her gaze landing briefly on the image of the lumpy girl on the couch that filled the screen.

"You're not on the outside anymore, Ang. You hauled yourself inside by sheer force of will. I think James would respect and understand that and love you even more." He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. "I wouldn't think you'd want to marry anyone who couldn't."

VIVIEN SAT ALONE in Melanie's family room on New Year's Eve watching the big-screen TV and waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square. In her previous life she might have been there. In fact, Stone had talked her into it their first New Year's together, promising her as they'd pulled on countless layers of clothing, then walked through driving snow to stand shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people, that it would be worth it. And at midnight when he'd kissed her in what had felt like the very epicenter of the universe at the very instant of the New Year, she'd admitted that he was right.

Tonight she couldn't have made it out of the front door, let alone to Times Square. They'd all spent the day scrubbing the house for tomorrow's brunch, and Vivien had the sore back and chapped hands to prove it. Vivien had tried to talk Mellie into letting Wilda and Carlos clean, but Melanie had already scheduled them to start "in the new year" and had refused to budge.

It was late afternoon by the time Melanie p.r.o.nounced the house acceptable and told Vivien she could stop whining. Trip had departed to spend the night at a friend's house. Shelby and Melanie had sprinted upstairs to shower and dress: Shelby for the New Year's Eve party her mother would drop her off at, Melanie for the New Year's Eve s.h.i.+ndig at the Magnolia Ballroom.

"Are you sure you won't come, Vivi?" Melanie had asked on the way out. "The DJ's first-rate, there'll be tons of food, and it's a complete sellout, thank G.o.d!"

"I am not moving." Vivi clutched the big bowl of b.u.t.tered popcorn cradled in what was left of her lap. "Ever." She snuggled deeper into the chair. "I don't even care if I make it to midnight."

"You old slug," Melanie said, leaning over to kiss Vivi's cheek. "Don't forget to keep an ear out for Shelby." She gave her daughter a stern look. "One of her friends is bringing her home, but she's required to be here no later than twelve thirty."

"It's so humiliating," Shelby complained. "No one else has a curfew on New Year's Eve. And there's nothing I could do after twelve thirty that I couldn't do before."

"I really wish you hadn't said that," Melanie replied. "And there's no reason in the world to be out later than that. If you can't observe your curfew, you can't go. Period."

"Uuggghhh!" Shelby flounced out in front of her mother, her short silver party dress swirling around her thighs. If it had been possible to stomp in the strappy high heels she wore, Vivien was certain she would have. "I am so not going to torture my daughter this way," Shelby huffed as she rushed out to the garage. "These rules of yours are like from the Stone Age."

For a while after they left Vivien munched popcorn and changed channels, flipping between the buildup of performances in Times Square and anything else that grabbed her attention, letting the quiet of the house and the idea of tomorrow's implied "fresh start" soothe her.

Around ten she decided to do a last read through of her New Year's column, which she had promised to send tonight even though it wouldn't run until the paper came out on Monday. She felt slightly guilty as she carried the empty popcorn bowl to the kitchen, washed her hands in the sink, then settled back into the club chair with her laptop. Now that she was paying more attention to the details of her sister's life and had even taken over a few of her volunteer s.h.i.+fts in the interests of research, it had become more difficult to write Scarlett Leigh's derisive tirades. Because instead of railing at or making fun of nameless, faceless women, she now saw not only Melanie but Melanie's co-volunteers and friends when she began to rant.

The column began innocently enough with, Happy New Year from suburbia, where I'm sure the residents have made all kinds of resolutions for the coming year. Lots of them will vow to lose weight, stop smoking, and not only join a gym but use it. Even those who are resolving to let a plastic surgeon take care of the changes they wish to make are, at least, looking to improve in some way.

But I have to tell you there's something even more important that the adults here should consider. And it's not complicated or expensive. Any one of them could do it if only they could find the willpower.

Vivien paused to rework the next sentences, finally typing, The parental population here needs to promise to stop hovering over their children like helicopters. Now. This minute. In other words, they need to-here Vivien hit the Caps Lock b.u.t.ton for emphasis-GET A LIFE! After another moment of thought, she added, OF THEIR OWN!

Oddly enough, she continued, the problem is not rooted in a lack of education or good intentions. The biggest offenders are, in fact, grossly overeducated for their roles as parents. Did Ozzie or Harriet have a PhD? Did June Cleaver need an MBA?

Unfortunately, this suburb, like many others, is filled with overachievers who were once highly successful in their chosen professions. Now that they have decided to become full-time mothers and over-involved fathers, they are applying their formidable brain power, energy, and compet.i.tive spirit to things that don't require any of those attributes. Like their eight-year-old's science project. Their ten-year-old's batting average. Or their sixteen-year-old's plans for the prom.

They text their children throughout the day, despite the fact that their children are not supposed to turn on their cell phones during cla.s.s. Because THEY DON'T HAVE ANYTHING OF THEIR OWN TO THINK ABOUT.

They will tell you that they're much too busy taking care of their children to do anything for themselves. They are focusing on their seventeen-year-old's course a.s.signments, SAT scores, and college applications. The act of getting a child into college can consume a good year and a half and require sedatives and sleeping aids.

And once they get their children into college their over-involvement and micromanagement continue. Because they cannot stop hovering and do not know how to land their helicopters.

Some of them actually admit to reading their children's college textbooks to help their children prepare for tests, calling up their children's guidance counselors or professors to question individual grades, and a score of other activities and actions our parents, for all their faults, would never have dreamed of engaging in.

After college they communicate with potential employers on their children's behalf. Sometimes they even go on job interviews with their children, negotiate their contracts directly with the employer, then call later to complain if their children are not promoted quickly enough.

In my heart I believe these parents mean well. They love their children and will tell you that all they want is for them to be happy. But they don't believe their children have the ability to do this on their own. Nor can they bear to allow their children to suffer from a mistake or poor choice.

And of course, if they stopped managing their children's lives, stopped competing and living vicariously through their children's achievements, what would they do all day? How would they fill their time?

Vivien winced slightly at the strident tone, but reminded herself that this was Scarlett Leigh talking and not Vivien Gray. Which, of course, was the very kind of self-deception that these hovering, helicoptering parents employed.

Once again, she read back over what she'd written, cleaned up the language, and tightened where she could. And then she concluded, I'm not really sure how those who are honest enough to see themselves in this unflattering light might actually stop this behavior. Is there a twelve-step program? A chapter somewhere of Helicopter Parents Anonymous? Maybe we could experiment with shock therapy and provide a collar that would zap the wearer each time he or she tried to live their child's life for her. Make her decisions. Speak up inappropriately on her behalf.

I can see that it's not easy to pull back and even harder to cease and desist. But I highly recommend it. Because this hovering business is not good for anyone. It deprives the child of the opportunity to live their own life, learn from their mistakes, and realize their potential. And for those who are doing the hovering, well, I think we all know that flying in neutral doesn't get anybody anywhere.

After signing and saving the column, Vivien sent it to John Harcourt with best wishes for a happy New Year. She still hadn't heard back from Stone after her Christmas Day message and so she sent him a quick email saying that she'd try to reach him again tomorrow and that she was thinking of him. And then she shut down her computer.

She dozed. At midnight, the shouted countdown from the television woke her, and she turned bleary eyes on the television as the ball descended the last few inches and horns blew and shouts and confetti filled the air. She roused a little as they showed couple after couple kissing in the frigid night air, and the love on the couple's faces made her want to cry.

But she must have fallen asleep instead because the next thing she heard was the slamming of the front door followed by a giggle and a very loud, though decidedly feminine belch. The clock on the cable box said one A.M.

"Hi, Vivi," Shelby cooed as she tiptoed through the kitchen and into the family room to stand, or rather sway, in front of Vivien. "Happy Yew Near," she over-enunciated, giggling when she registered her mistake. "I mean nappy Hew Year."

This was apparently even funnier, because Shelby laughed hysterically when she heard what she'd said. "Oh, s.h.i.+t." She dropped down onto the couch and giggled some more. "You mow what I nean."

Vivien looked at her niece and didn't feel at all good about what she saw. Her eye makeup had smeared, leaving her with a racc.o.o.nlike ring around her dark eyes, and her lipstick had been rubbed well beyond the scope of her lips in the way of a clown. The silver dress was in one piece but looked decidedly rumpled. One shoulder strap hung down over a bare arm, and there was a dark smudge just under the bust line. One of the biggest hickeys Vivien had ever seen colored the side of her slim neck.

She stood and moved closer to Shelby. "You're late and you're drunk," she observed.

Shelby opened her mouth into a great big red O of shock and surprise. "How san cou yay that?" she asked, far too gone to sound indignant.

Vivien leaned over her and sniffed. "And it smells like rum and c.o.ke." She shook her head. "I guess some things never change."

"'S okay," Shelby murmured. "The c.o.ke was diet." She was swaying in her seat, or at least the top half of her body was, and Vivien realized that if she let her pa.s.s out here, she might never get her upstairs. She really had no idea what to do in this situation, but she did know that she didn't want Melanie to see her daughter like this. That was not the way Melanie needed to start her new year.

Vivien didn't waste her breath berating Shelby for her behavior; there was no way anything she said right now was going to register anyway. She'd take this up with her niece in the morning; right now she had one simple goal: to get Shelby into bed before Melanie got home.

"Come on." Vivien reached down and grasped Shelby's hand, which had all the substance of a limp dish rag. The girl's head lolled back against the sofa cus.h.i.+ons as Vivien tugged firmly, barely managing to pull Shelby to her feet. The problem was how to keep her there.

She leaned into Shelby's face, trying not to breathe in the fumes. "Come with me," she said firmly as she tugged. "Come on!" she repeated the command and tugged again. Shelby's eyes rolled back in her head and she swayed precariously. "Oh, no, you don't," Vivien said. "Come on, lean on me. Just one foot at a time."

Somehow she got Shelby to the foot of the back stairs, but it was slow going, kind of like herding fish. There she wrapped an arm around Shelby's waist for leverage and placed Shelby's hand on the handrail. "Hold on to that. I'll hold on to you."

"Hmmmmm."

"Open your eyes, Shelby, and step up." Taking as much of Shelby's weight against herself as she could, Vivien got her niece up one step and then another. "Tomorrow you're going to tell me how you got in this condition and who's been manhandling you."

"Rum and c.o.ke," she sighed. "Isss soooo good."

It took an eternity, but finally they were all the way upstairs. Vivi had originally thought to take Shelby into the bathroom and let her use the toilet, maybe even put her under the shower, but she rejected all of those plans now as too difficult and too time-consuming.

"To bed with you," she huffed as she wrangled the girl into her room, propped her against the wall while she swept the debris off the girl's bed and skimmed the comforter back. Then she got her across the room, sat her down on her bed and pulled the dress up over her head, leaving her in her thong. Out of breath, Vivien plucked off the silver high heels, managed to slide a nightgown over her head then pushed Shelby back onto her pillows and pulled the covers up to Shelby's chin. For the briefest of moments she considered getting some aspirin and shoving them down her throat, but thought better of it. She hoped this was the girl's first brush with alcohol and she wanted the negatives, as in the hangover she was bound to have when she woke up, to be memorable. Shelby was already snoring lightly by the time Vivien had picked the dress up off the floor and laid it on the chair.

In the hallway, Vivi felt the garage door open beneath her, the loud noise and vibration impossible to miss. Unless one had had too many rum and Diet c.o.kes.

Because she didn't want to look her sister in the eye and lie outright, and because she wanted to read Shelby the riot act herself before deciding what to say to Melanie, Vivien tiptoed to her own room, turned out the light, and gently closed the door.

25.

RUTH WOKE UP early on New Year's Day. Beside her, Ira slept peacefully, his breathing regular and a half smile on his face. Like everything that her husband did lately, this really p.i.s.sed her off.

They'd gone to the Kaminskis' last night as they had pretty much every New Year's Eve since they'd moved to Atlanta, and Ruth had enjoyed the excuse to get dressed up, put on a little jewelry, and spend the evening schmoozing with old friends. What she hadn't enjoyed was pretending that she and Ira were fine when everything about their marriage was as not fine as it was possible to get.

The thing was that Ruth, who had always prided herself on making decisions and acting on them quickly, just couldn't figure out what to do. She simply couldn't accept his refusal to even entertain the offer for Bagel Baron that would have freed them financially. Nor could she believe he hadn't so much as attended a single ballroom dance cla.s.s. But neither could she bring herself to leave him as she'd threatened. Because no matter how brightly her anger burned, she couldn't imagine her life without him. Worst of all, she felt as if she'd lost her best friend, the person with whom she'd shared both good and bad, with whom she'd discussed everything from the lump their daughter had found in her breast to how often they really wanted the Chemlawn people to come.

In a way, though she was careful not to say this to anyone, she felt as if Ira had died. Or at least the Ira she had always known and loved and thought she understood. And she mourned what she now realized she'd taken for granted. Because whatever happened now, even if they somehow found a way to deal with everything and go on, their lives and their relations.h.i.+p would never again be the same. And neither, she was afraid, would her feelings for him.

Ruth got out of bed careful not to wake him, not so much out of courtesy but because she didn't want to speak to him. After the first week she'd spent in the guest room she'd moved back into their bed because if she wasn't leaving, what was the point? The most intelligent thing Ira had done since she'd moved back was to not touch her. She didn't see how she could deal with that.

In the master bathroom, she showered and put on her favorite robe, one Ira and the kids had given her one long ago Mother's Day. The colors had faded over the years and the fabric had pilled, but it was what her marriage had once been-warm and cozy and molded to her shape.

It was too early to dress, so she brushed out her hair and applied her makeup, then went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

An hour later she had read the paper and a.s.sembled a blintz souffle to take to Melanie's. The two dozen bagels she'd had delivered sat, still warm, in the large brown paper bags that carried the Bagel Baron logo.

She heard Ira get up and braced herself for his company; she had to work on schooling her reactions now, smooth down the anger, try not to snap. But instead of coming into the kitchen to share coffee and the newspaper as he once automatically would have, he went into his home office and closed the door.

"Hmmph!" The souffle went into the oven with a little more force than necessary. As she set the timer and tidied the kitchen, she told herself it was just as well, that she didn't really want to talk with the old fool anyway. Nonetheless, she couldn't quite bring herself to ignore the insult completely. And so on her way back to the bedroom, she stopped in front of his office door and rapped loudly.

She saw the flare of irritation in his eyes when she stepped inside uninvited and imagined her gaze telegraphed the same. It took real effort to keep the affront she felt out of her voice. "We're expected at the Jacksons' at eleven o'clock. I'll set out your khakis and blue blazer."

He nodded and she knew he considered her "dismissed." His gaze strayed to the iPhone he held in one hand. Unlike other men his age, Ira had embraced new technology, which now connected him to work like an electronic umbilical cord. She'd grown to hate the thing and had thought up all sorts of inventive ways to make it disappear.

Perversely, she walked all the way in and stopped directly in front of his desk, standing there until his thumb stopped scrolling and he raised his gaze from the screen. He, too, wore a robe and his face was unshaven. His reading gla.s.ses sat on top of a stack of papers.

"What?" he asked.

She folded her arms in front of her and said, "I'd like to leave by ten forty-five."

He nodded and glanced back down at the iPhone screen.

"And I expect you to put forth some effort while we're there. No going outside to make or take phone calls. No texting. No checking email while people are talking to you. No looking bored. Please at least pretend like you're enjoying yourself."

"I do enjoy Melanie and the kids," Ira said. "I'd never be rude to them."

It was Ruth's turn to raise an eyebrow. She had lost track of how often his gaze strayed to that blasted phone in any given five-minute period. She did not want Melanie insulted.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Because if I catch you doing any of those things, I'm going to find a sledgehammer and smash that stupid phone to smithereens."

MELANIE FLITTED AROUND the house adjusting furniture, fluffing pillows, and wiping down surfaces that were already clean. Normally, New Year's Day brunch would have included the whole family as well as Evangeline, who would cook greens for health and black-eyed peas for luck, both of which were served with her justifiably famous cornbread. But her parents weren't invited and therefore Evangeline wasn't available. In an apparent effort to remain neutral, Ham and Judy and their kids had accepted an invitation from Judy's parents in Macon.

Because they were a small group-just her and the kids, Vivi, Clay, and the Melnicks-she'd decided that they might as well sit together at the dining room table and had gladly accepted Ruth's offer of bagels and a blintz souffle. If ever a year demanded to be different, it was this one.

Checking her watch, Melanie got out pans for the cheese eggs she planned to make and preheated the oven for the sausage ca.s.serole she'd already prepared. Not exactly a kosher meal, she thought with a smile, but Ruth had a.s.sured her it didn't matter.

Occasionally she glanced up the back stairs or paused to listen for sounds from above. Vivien had gone up to wake Shelby, who'd already been asleep when Melanie got home last night. But Vivi had been in Shelby's room for some time now and there'd been no clanging of pots and pans. In fact it was weirdly quiet, and neither of them had come out.

Melanie pondered this as she put the coffee on, added fresh water to the teakettle, and took out a selection of tea bags. The front door opened and Trip appeared back from his sleepover; he was wearing the clothes he'd left in yesterday, there was stubble on his fifteen-year-old jaw and cheeks, and his eyes were only partially open.

"Happy New Year, sweetie," Melanie said, having to reach up to give her baby a peck on the cheek, a fact that never ceased to surprise her. "Why don't you jump in the shower and wake up the rest of the way? I put out khakis and a polo s.h.i.+rt for you. Clay and the Melnicks will be here in about twenty minutes."

He yawned and nodded and went upstairs. A few moments later she heard his shower come on. But there was still that strange silence up in Shelby's room.

Walking upstairs, she hesitated in front of Shelby's closed bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood. She could hear Vivien's voice, quite emphatic, but not what was said. Curious and unsure whether there was cause for concern, she was taken by surprise when the door against which she was leaning opened inward.

"I was just getting ready to knock," she stammered, stealing a look at her daughter, who was still huddled under her blankets though clearly awake. She turned to Vivi. "Is everything all right?"

Shelby gave a half moan and curled up on her side. "What's wrong? Is she sick?" Melanie started to rush into the room and over to the bed, but Vivien stopped her.

"She's just overtired from staying up so late last night. And I think she has a bit of a headache. I gave her a couple of aspirin. She's fine."

Melanie glanced at her daughter.

"I don't feel good," Shelby said, looking at a spot somewhere between Vivien and her mother. "I don't think I can-"