The Leftover Club (22 page)

November 2
2, 1982

I made a face as I looked in the mirror. Ugly red blotches covered my torso, and the pink lotion my mother was applying didn’t seem to do much to quell the itching. I whimpered and she gave me a broad smile. “Hang in there, kiddo. You’re doing great.”

Great, she said. I didn’t consider it great to come down with chicken pox the week of Thanksgiving. Sure, I got extra days off from school, but this wasn’t how I wanted to spend one of my favorite holidays.

The Moms always made a big deal of Thanksgiving, opening their home to other SoCal orphans who couldn’t make it home for the holidays. We shared a festive pot luck dinner with a handful of friends and neighbors, both new and old, and then that night we’d all decorate the house for the final six weeks of the year, which just happened to be my favorite holiday season.

Christmas was a time of hope and expectation. Anything could happen. Any wish could come true.

Now all I wished was that I would stop itching. And stop looking like a human version of Connect-the-Dots.

I crawled back in bed with a book, but it barely kept my attention. The radio was on low, so my pop heroes kept my company in my lonely room.

Neither Bonnie nor Dylan had ever had chicken pox, so my mom was my only company. No school. No friends.

No Dylan.

With a sigh, I pulled my diary out from under my mattress. Some days, when nothing special happened to me, I would write about the things that I wanted to happen. I had gotten a lot of mileage out of the playground memory, embellishing it so that it didn’t end on such a humiliating note, with Dylan leaving me high and dry and denying that he had ever wanted to kiss me.

Thanks to the daytime TV that kept me company while I was quarantined, my fantasies grew ever more
salacious. Some of my fantasies had even progressed to second base. There was no hope of anything like that happening now, of course. Not while I looked like I’d been peppered by a blister gun.

It made my confinement bittersweet. I couldn’t be a part of the festivities beyond my bedroom door, which smelled divine from all the baking the Moms were doing in preparation for their big day. But I didn’t have to brave seeing Dylan either. I was mortified by the thought.

He was used to me being fat. But scratchy and blotchy? I shuddered as I pulled my covers over my head to read my diary under my tent of humiliated solitude.

I was feeling a bit more human by Wednesday, so I ventured out to the kitchen while the Moms were at work and Dylan was at school.
I snuck some cookies and even watched some TV in the den. But the antihistamine I took to help soothe the itchy rash knocked me plumb out. Dylan found me dozing on the couch when he returned from school just after noon.

I had forgotten that Wednesday was an early release day.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he gently shook me awake.

I jolted upright in a panic. “You shouldn’t touch me,” I shrieked. “You’ll get sick.”

He laughed. “I’ve been trying to get sick all week so that I wouldn’t have to go to school. Lucky,” he added, but I turned my face from his. It was still blotchy and gross.

I scooted off the sofa and made a mad dash for my room. Five minutes later, he was knocking at the door. “Go away,” I said through the door.

“Open the door,” he said. “I brought you something.”

I opened the door and there he stood, holding some of his prized, handheld games in his hand.

“Figured you were bored,” he said.

In 1982, we both nursed a significant addiction to the
Atari he had received for the previous Christmas, but I hadn’t been out of my room in days, and had been suffering through withdrawals. The handheld games were cold comfort, but at least they were something.

I took them with a grateful, “Thank you.”

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“You’ll get sick,” I warned.

He shrugged with the nonchalance of a thirteen-year-old. He had only been a teenager for a couple of months, but I could tell Dylan had already decided that most rules didn’t apply to him. He had always been the golden boy with the good grades, the ease of making friends and the early adoration of the opposite sex. Everyone had wanted to “go with” Dylan from the time we were in grade school, even when “going with” someone meant you did little more than sit together at lunch, or walk home together after school.

And of course, his father made sure he had all the new and cool toys and accessories, as well as the best clothes. He couldn’t be bothered to travel across country to spend any real time with him, so he assuaged his guilt with his pocketbook, hence why I had an armful of video games to amuse me during the last leg of my confinement.

I crawled back into bed and my diary flopped out onto the floor. I gasped, which drew Dylan’s attention. He pounced before I could. “What’s this?”

“It’s nothing!” I insisted, dropping everything to snatch the book back from his hands.

He grinned. “Then let me see it.”

I shook my head, pulling at the book with all my might. He refused to let go. “Dylan, please! That’s my private property!”

“What’s so private about it?” he wanted to know. “We’re best friends. We don’t have secrets.”

It was then that it hit me. We hadn’t been best friends since 1979, simply because there was one secret between us. And it was a big one.

I cared more for him than he cared for me.

My serious case of puppy love for my mother’s roommate’s son had driven a wedge between us. I couldn’t share my feelings with the one person I wanted to tell the most.

“Bobby is your best friend,” I argued.

“And who is yours?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

I thought about it. “No one,” I finally said.

Dylan was so shocked by my sad admission that he released my diary at once. I cradled it to my chest and turned away. “I’m kind of tired,” I lied.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Feel better, Roni.”

I didn’t turn back around until I heard my bedroom door close behind him.

The next day I could hear our house fill to capacity with all our guests. I desperately wanted to be a part of it, but Mom had been adamant. So I resigned myself to playing some of Dylan’s games while the smells and sounds from the other parts of the house tormented me.

When someone knocked at the door, I assumed it was my mom. It creaked open and there stood Bryan Dixon, a classmate of mine.

We had just met that year, our first in junior high. Like me, he was an acne-prone and awkward geek, so we immediately gravitated towards each other when the cliques around us began to form. I smiled at the familiar face. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged as he shut the door behind him. “Your mom invited my mom
to stop by. Dad’s out of town, so we thought this was better than eating TV dinners while watching the Macy’s parade.”

I laughed.
“Fair warning. I have chicken pox. I’m highly contagious.”

He plopped on my bed. “Infect away, it won’t do any good. I had chicken pox when I was five.”

It was a Thanksgiving miracle.

Bryan stayed with me most of the afternoon. He crawled up next to me in my tiny twin bed and we played Dylan’s games together. That was, in fact, where Dylan found us when he brought me a plate of goodies from the kitchen.

He was stunned silent when he saw there was another person in my room, notably a boy, even more notably in my bed. “Oh,” he finally said. “I thought you were alone.”

“Bryan is keeping me company,” I explained unnecessarily. “He’s already had chicken pox, so…,” I trailed off, as though he deserved any explanation at all what I was doing.

“Cool,” Dylan said. “I just thought I’d bring you some food in case you were hungry.” He put the tray on my chest of drawers. “I should get back to the Moms,” he said quietly before he departed.

“What’s wrong with him?” Bryan asked.

I shrugged, but inwardly I knew it was probably the same thing that was wrong with me.

This episode of chicken pox just illustrated, painfully, that Dylan and I had missed yet another crossroad
. We operated on two completely different planes. Coincidence had rendered our lives parallel, with fewer and fewer chances to intersect.

The red welts made me look like on the outside what I felt like on the inside: a social pariah only those who had gone through my challenges could fully understand.

He belonged with Bobby and all the popular kids at school, including a score of girls who wanted to do more than just “go with” Dylan Fenn. Deep down I knew that they could.

I
, on the other hand, belonged with the outcasts, the weirdoes and people on the fringe. People like Bryan, who was the closest thing to a best friend that I had now.

I leaned on Bryan’s shoulder and watched him defeat the game.

The next day I threw away my diary and gave up on my dream of landing a boy like Dylan Fenn.

November 16, 2007

The weeks leading up to Thanksgiving were some of the most idyllic I had ever known, even with my whirlwind romance with Wade in my early twenties. As it turned out, daydreaming of a longstanding unrequited love was way more exciting than being wined and dined in the finest restaurants in Orange County. I was giddy as a teenager and finally free to enjoy it.

I even splurged on new clothes and tried some new makeup, trading in my ponytail and my stretchy pants f
or something more stylish. Meghan contributed her fashion expertise on an impromptu trip to the mall, where I ended up buying more things than she did.

It was a first.

Another, more important, first was that we managed to actually have a good time. There was no snarling, no eye-rolling, no ‘whatever’-lobbing. It was a girls’ day out, just like we used to have when she was little.

“You should try this,” she said as she lifted up a thin white sweater with a daring neckline.

“You think so?” I asked.

She nodded with a smile. “
Oo, with this skirt!” she exclaimed as she thumbed through the rack of clothing at the specialty store for fuller figures. By the time I made it to the fitting room, she had to help carry the bounty. She sat on the upholstered chair to inspect each new look. And she was honest without being overly critical. She shook her head immediately when I walked out in the taffeta formal. “Taffeta is not your friend, Mom,” she said as she fussed over the outfit.

“Yeah, I learned that lesson a million years ago,” I muttered.

“You had a taffeta dress?” she asked. “When?”

I preened in front of the mirror, but even my daughter’s prowess wasn’t helping this outfit. I disappeared behind the slotted white wood door.
“Just a dance. I was your age.”

“I didn’t know you danced,” she said through the door.

“I don’t,” I said, stepping into the new outfit. “It was for a grade.”

I emerged in a cobalt blue chiffon number with a flowing skirt, empire waist and rhinestones sewn into the bodice. “That’s much better,” she said with a curt nod. She turned me around to face the mirror as she adjusted the top over my boring white bra. “You seriously need new underwear, Mom.
Especially now that someone might actually see it.”

I laughed.
“Interesting conversation to be having with one’s daughter.”

She shr
ugged. “I help Dad’s girlfriends pick out stuff all the time. He likes his women out shopping to get us out of his hair,” she added with a knowing smile. “And like he’s going to go with me to buy my own underwear, right?”

I searched her face in the mirror. “I guess you are quite the young woman these days,” I said softly. “I’m sorry if I don’t always recognize that.”

She shrugged and looked away. “I’m sorry I don’t give you the chance to.” She reached for the next set of clothes on the rack.

Things were going so well that I allowed her to drag me through a lingerie store. “Nothing in here is going to fit me,” I warned but she just shook her head.

“You’re not as big as you think you are,” she said. “In fact, you can be really pretty when you want to be.”

The compliment was so unexpected I think I might have swallowed a bug. “You think?”

She held up a pastel pink babydoll nightie in front of me. “You just need to care,” she said. “Ever since Dylan has come along, you care more. You fix your hair. You polish your nails. You wear makeup. It’s like… somewhere along the line between Dad and Dylan you forgot you were a woman.”

“There didn’t seem to be a point,” I said as I slipped the silky fabric between my fingers. “It wasn’t like I planned to get married again. Been there, done that. I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.”

My beautiful daughter looked me right in the eye and said, “Bullshit.”

I was too stunned to correct her.

“You keep trying to convince everyone that you’re this cynical old maid, but I think you’re the most hopelessly romantic of all of us. You held out for the boy of your dreams and never settled. You still believe in that happy ending somewhere deep down. I can respect that,” she added softly.

I nearly wept for joy. I had been waiting years to hear her say that.

“You always say I can do anything I want and be anyone I want. But I never believed you until you decided to be your own person. With Bry and with Olive and Dylan… you’re finally you.”

I smiled. It was the best compliment of my life. I reached for a hug and she was generous enough to indulge it, even in the middle of a crowded mall. We were both a little embarrassed and awkward as we pulled apart. This was an entirely new direction for our relationship.

She picked up a nightie for herself. “In fact, I’m kind of going to miss everyone while I’m in Phoenix for the holiday.”

“We’re going to miss you, too,” I assured. “But I know this time away with your dad will do you good.”

She didn’t look convinced. She’d been resentful of Wade ever since he brushed her off on Halloween, and he only made it worse skipping two of their weekends together so far so that he could begin relocating to Arizona. “He already warned me that I won’t see him much. Like that’s new,” she added.

I bit my tongue. Sure, I could rail against Wade and reaffirm all her complaints, but that wasn’t fair to either of them. While I didn’t particularly give a shit about being fair to Wade, I wasn’t going to further upset my child by attacking someone she loved. “I’m sorry, babe,” I said.

She shrugged before trudging along to the cosmetics counter.

By the time we left the mall, I was about
five hundred dollars poorer. I had buyer’s remorse all the way to the car, while Meghan was patting herself on the back for all the bargains we found.

When my kid shopped, she meant business.

Time inched by as Thanksgiving approached. Meghan got more distant and sullen as the weekend loomed. Her dad was supposed to pick her up on Wednesday, which was the same day Dylan was going to pick me up for our getaway at Big Bear.

By Tuesday night, we got the call that Meghan had been
subconsciously dreading. “Hi, Dad,” she said into her cell phone. I kept busy on my computer while I listened. “But I thought we were going to spend some time together,” she said. “No, actually, it’s not okay. Okay?” I looked up in time to see her eyes water with unshed tears. “I’ve needed to see you, to talk to you.” She paused again. “Fine,” she finally snapped. “Whatever. Happy Thanksgiving.”

She disconnected the call and threw the phone on the sofa. I started to reach for her but she wasn’t ready. She shook her head before jumping up and racing off to the privacy of her bedroom to cry.

I was incensed. I grabbed my purse and my keys, and I was in Costa Mesa within the hour. I dodged movers as they carried what used to be my furniture from the four-story house I had forfeited to live a life of my own. But I stalked inside like I still owned the joint. I found Wade in the downstairs study, where he packed up his personal files and papers.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, Wade,” I snapped as I slammed the door behind me.

He barely looked up. “I don’t have time for this, Roni. We’re leaving for Phoenix in the morning.”

“I know,” I gritted. “You were supposed to take Meghan, remember?”

He shook his head as he packed more files. “Impossible. I’ve got a major client coming into town to golf over the extended holiday weekend. I need to concentrate on landing this account. She’d just be stuck in the new house all alone. She’d be miserable.”

“Or you could take her with you,” I suggested.

“Golfing?” he chortled. “Roni, be serious.”

“I am being serious. This is your child.”

His eyes met mine. “This is my career.”

I scoffed. “Isn’t it ironic how you can tear me apart for years on how mediocre I am, and how much of a dismal failure I am, but I’ve managed to work full time
and
raise our daughter without pawning her off on everyone else? What are the fucking odds?”

“You don’t have a career,” he corrected. “You have a job.
And a shitty one at that.”

“
No, I had a shitty marriage. My job is a piece of cake. And it pays every bill and gives me time with my kid, which is my real career, by the way. That’s what happens when you’re a parent. Everything else comes second.”

“Spare me the melodrama,” he sneered. “We both know that your saintly motherhood comes second to your libido.”

I started laughing, because I could react no other way. I was stunned that he still believed that after all these years. And he fully expected me to be stupid enough to agree. “Well, I tell you what, Wade. Take me to court and make that allegation stick. I’m not the one who keeps flaking out on visitation. You have a horrible track record with your end of the custody agreement, and you also have had more relationships than I could have had the energy to muster, just because I’ve been the one raising our kid day in and day out. In fact, I’m the one who always has to change my plans and stop my world on a dime just to compensate for you.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at me. “No judge in the country would agree with this scarlet-letter bullshit you’ve been selling for a decade. You’ve poked holes in your own stupid story, pal. Repeatedly. And arrogantly. Best of all? Meghan knows it,” I said in a slow, evil voice. “You’re tarnishing your own armor, big man. You keep this up and she’ll never bother inconveniencing you again. And you’ll be the one who loses everything.”

With that, I swung on my heel and stomped out of the study, slamming the door as hard as I could.

I was still pumped with adrenaline by the time I got back to Torrance. I couldn’t wait to tell Bryan, who would shout to the rooftops how I finally stood up to that jerk and told him what was what, calling him on his bullshit and demanding he show his bluff at last.

But first I had to call Dylan.

Once again I had to put him off before we could take the next step. I worried what it would mean for our relationship, but I also knew I had no choice. Romance and dating were fun, but my daughter needed me. She had, and would always, come first.

“So bring her,” he said after I explained.

It was the last thing I was expecting.

“What?”

“The cabins are big enough. She’d have her own space and we’d have a private bedroom. These are not big problems, Roni.”

I shook my head. This would turn his romantic weekend into family time, and I figured nothing would scare him away faster. “You say that now but you’ve never spent time in close quarters with a
n emotional teenager. By Thursday night you’ll be searching for the door.”

“I haven’t yet, have I?” he said softly.

With that I was effectively shut up.

As it turned out, Meghan was just as hard to convince. “I don’t want to get in the way,” she dismissed with a shake of her head.

“Don’t be silly. We want you there. Besides, you really don’t want to stay here alone, do you?”

More importantly,
I
didn’t want her left in the house alone. Kyle was still chasing her, and I knew she was vulnerable enough to make some impulsive choices.

That night we changed her suitcase from summer wear appropriate for pool time in Arizona to winter wear for a ski trip in Big Bear.