Dirty Little Midlife Disaster by Lilian Monroe
Trina
I wakeup to the mother of all hangovers and a godawful smell. What the—
Vomit. There’s vomit on my carpet.
Did I…?
I blink. No. I didn’t get that drunk. I had five drinks. I counted! I remember everything, including a certain kiss that feels like a universe away from where I am now, and I know for a fact I did not vomit on my carpet. I left not long after the kiss, swept away by Candice in Mom Mode, who insisted we’d regret it if we stayed out for one more drink.
I didn’t puke.
Which means…
“Mom…” Katie is at the foot of my bed looking pale, sweaty, and ashamed. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come to bed with you, and then I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and—” She interrupts herself, clapping a hand over her mouth.
You know when you hear those stories about mothers lifting cars off their babies with superhuman strength? Well, my hungover ass moves with superhuman speed. I throw my blankets off and don’t even blink when I realize I’m wearing a pajama shirt and nothing else. I scoop Katie up under her armpits and sprint to the en-suite bathroom just in time for her to spew all over the toilet.
“Get it all out, honey,” I say, pulling her hair back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Her little body shakes as another retch convulses through her. Oh, jeez. Leaving my hand on her back running small circles over her, I reach for a washcloth and run some cool water. Then I run it over her head, her neck, trying to soothe my little girl.
After washing her up and tucking her in my bed, I get to work cleaning the vomit-soaked carpet, glancing once every few minutes at my daughter, fast asleep in a pile of blankets on my bed.
It’s hard not to feel guilty about going out last night when I have a pounding headache and a sick little girl. Watery light starts brightening through the curtains as dawn approaches while I spray some carpet cleaner on the stain to soak.
Giving Katie a kiss on her clammy forehead, I go out in search of my son.
He’s usually up by now. Toby is a morning lark through and through, just like me. But when I push open his bedroom door, I find him burrowed in a nest of blankets and pillows of his own. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, I push hair off his clammy forehead as he groans, looking so young it makes my heart squeeze.
“I don’t feel good, Mommy.”
Uh-oh. He hasn’t called me mommy since he was a toddler. He must be feeling really ill. My son curls himself around my hip, putting a hand across my thigh.
I stroke his hair for a few moments, then grab a bucket to set it near the bed. Then, my morning is swallowed up by sick kids and lots of vomit. My mother wakes to the sound of Toby retching into his bucket. She gives me a horrified look and gets to work helping me.
All those times I complained—either out loud or in my head—about being a grown woman living with her mother? Yeah, just…forget about those. Lottie is a superhero right now.
It’s not until the sun is well and truly up, the kids have had a bit of juice for hydration, and I feel worse than I did when I awoke that I’m finally able to sit down at the kitchen table. Mom puts a cup of coffee in front of me and feeds the cat while I sit, listening to birds titter as a beautiful day unfolds just out the window.
“You think they caught a bug at day camp?” I ask as my mother joins me with a coffee cup of her own.
“Who knows?” She leans back and lets out a long sigh. Then she blinks and glances at me. “How was your girls’ night?”
I let out a huff. Girls’ night feels like eons ago. Did I really half-drunkenly kiss Mac? Calling it a kiss doesn’t exactly feel accurate. It felt like sex. I shake my head. “It was fine. I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t drink like that. I had five drinks and I feel like garbage.”
My mother chuckles. She tilts her head. “Was Mr. Pottery there?”
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.
“Yeah.” My cheeks heat. Damn it.
She holds my gaze. “And…?”
“And what?” I play dumb, knowing it won’t get me anywhere with her.
I’m saved by a knock on the door, and that’s when I realize I’m still not wearing any panties. My T-shirt hits high on my thighs, so I sprint—well, hobble—upstairs to grab a pair of old pajama shorts.
Candice is in the entryway when I come back downstairs, frowning at me. “You’re not dressed.”
“The kids are sick.”
Her reply is automatic. “Oh, no! Can I do anything?”
Have I mentioned I love my sister? Why the heck didn’t I move here ages ago? I haven’t had this much help with the kids, ever.
I shake my head.
“I was coming to get you to go glaze our pottery, but I’m guessing you want to stay here.”
“Yeah.” Does it make me a terrible mother that I’m partly glad my kids are sick? Not glad they’re sick, but glad I have a decent excuse. The thought of seeing Mac when I look and feel the way I do…
“I’ll tell Mac you say hi.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“You do that, honey,” my mother interjects. “Tell him to stop by here sometime during the week too. I’d like to see him again.”
“Mom, no,” I practically shout, then frown. “Wait. ‘Again?’ What do you mean by ‘again?’”
Lottie, in classic Lottie style, totally ignores me. Why is it that I feel like a kid any time she’s around? I’m a grown woman! I’m forty-two!
“This Mac boy might be just what she needs. Don’t you think, Candice?” She shuffles back to the kitchen for more coffee while I swing my gaze to meet Candice’s laughing one.
My sister shakes her head. “Now you know what I went through for the past three months. She was insufferable when Blake and I first started seeing each other.”
“Careful!” Mom calls from the kitchen.
Grinning at Candice, I say goodbye, then go check on my kids again.
I don’t seeanyone until the next day. I’m too busy taking care of two sick kids, and when Candice and Fiona stop by with big platters of food, soup, and a box with my mediocre pottery, I give them a grateful smile. “I haven’t eaten in forever. Thank you. The kids are sleeping, but the soup will be great.”
“Fallon made it from scratch,” Candice says, opening the fridge and propping it with her hip while she puts the food away.
Fiona lifts my slightly misshapen bowl, glazed in bright pink. “It was supposed to be green but somehow turned pink when it was fired in the kiln. Don’t ask me how.”
I snort. “That’s fine. I’m not exactly going to frame it or anything.”
“You should see what Mac made. It was gorgeous. He brought a few samples of different glazed pots and mugs to show us what was possible, and I think I’m going to order all new crockery for the café,” Fiona says, running her fingers over the uneven edge of my new jewelry tray.
“Apparently he’s famous in the pottery world,” I say, putting my new bowl in the cupboard.
“It shows. I think his stuff would fit the Four Cups’ aesthetic.”
“Definitely,” Candice says. “And with the extra money we made with the catering contract at the beginning of the summer, I’m fully supportive of upgrading.” Without me having to ask, my sister starts cleaning. She glances at me over her shoulder and nods to the messy mop of hair on my head and grubby athletic clothes I’m wearing. “Go shower. We’ll clean up and check on the kids.”
What would I do without them? Sometimes, I worry that moving the kids away from Kevin was a bad decision, but I’d discussed it with him prior to the move, and he seemed almost relieved that he wouldn’t have to take care of them fifty percent of the time. When we were married, he could barely manage a few hours without calling me to rescue him. He was happy enough to get a weekend a month with them.
Still, I worried that it was a bad decision.
Now, though, when I have more of a support system than I’ve had in years—decades? Ever?—I know coming to Heart’s Cove was the right thing to do. I take a long, hot shower, and come out feeling like a new woman.
Then I dress and head downstairs to find my mother, Candice, and Fiona lounging in the living room with tea and cookies laid out.
Fiona points to the plate of treats. “Jen made these. New recipe. Double chocolate with salted caramel. Amazing.”
I haven’t eaten a vegetable in forty-eight hours, but whatever. I pour myself a mug of chamomile tea and grab a cookie, curling up on the couch next to my sister.
“How are you holding up?” Candice asks.
I glance at her and shake my head. “I was just thinking how grateful I am for you guys.”
Candice pats my leg. “We’re family, Trina. It’s what we do.”
I lean my head back on the sofa. “Yeah, but I’m still grateful for you all. I haven’t had help in a long time.” Staring at my tea, I shake my head. “I remember when Katie was born. Toby got some sort of stomach bug at the same time. He was nineteen months old and sick as a dog. Katie was three weeks old. It was totally overwhelming.”
Candice’s face scrunches up. “I remember that. I should have gone up to help you, but Paul was in the hospital, and…”
“It’s fine.” I wave a hand. After taking a sip of my tea, I let out a snort. “I remember this one specific day: I was breastfeeding Katie on the sofa. Toby was lying next to me, so sick I was considering taking him to the emergency room. Kevin walks into the house with his mother, and—”
I have to stop myself from talking, because the anger and shame well up inside me without warning. Tears build behind my eyelids, and I swallow them down with a gulp of tea. I meet Fiona’s eyes across the room.
“What happened?” she asks.
“His mother walked in,” I repeat, “and saw me on the sofa with Katie at my boob, and made this big song and dance about turning away in shock. Then Kevin—my fucking husband—told me I needed to cover up. In my own house! I was feeding our daughter and taking care of our sick son, and he had the nerve to tell me I needed to cover my own boob up. I wasn’t sunbathing topless for the whole neighborhood to see. I was on the couch in the freaking living room! My own living room! But his mother wouldn’t shut up about it. She even told Kevin’s sister, and the whole family made me feel like I’d done something wrong. I was postpartum and sleep-deprived and totally overwhelmed, and they made me feel ashamed for feeding my own daughter.”
“That dick,” Candice says with more vitriol than I’ve ever heard from her. “And his mother! How fucking dare she? She’s a mother herself!”
Seven-year-old anger boils inside me. I snort and shake my head. “I should have known then that he wasn’t the man for me. I probably did know, but what was I supposed to do with two young kids?” My finger toys with the edge of my mug. “The worst thing is, I felt so, so ashamed. It was like a burning lump of coal in my chest. He kept badgering me, and his mother made so many snide comments about me covering up, and I was actually convinced that I was in the wrong.”
“I’m going to kill him,” my mother says before taking a vicious bite of her cookie. She masticates violently while shaking her head. “He’s coming next weekend to be with the kids, right?” When I nod, she points her half-eaten cookie at me. “Well, he’s going to get a piece of my mind.”
“Mom,” I protest, even though I can’t keep the smile off my face. “It was a long time ago.”
“He deserves to get chewed out.” Fiona shakes her head, gritting her teeth on my behalf. “What an ass.” Getting up, she moves to sit next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders. Then Fiona—a woman I just met a few months ago—squeezes my shoulders until I soften against her. Emotion clogs my throat. Fiona holds me close as she says, “Divorce sucks, and it’s painful and messy and awful, but you’ll get through it. You’ll be happier in a few months’ time than you thought possible. I promise. Simone can attest to that too.”
I don’t know why I burst into tears. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been so alone for so many years, and I didn’t even realize it. I lived in Seattle with Kevin and drifted away from most of my friends as the years wore on. I knew his friends. The only person I could lean on was my mother, but Kevin didn’t get along with her, so I ended up avoiding her too. I was so damn alone, and the man who was supposed to be my partner wasn’t there for me. Ever.
I guess I’m crying because I never realized it. I didn’t see what was right in front of my face until just now. With two sick kids, no job, the divorce finally done, and more external stress than I’ve had in years, I still feel better than I did when I was married to Kevin and withstanding his belittling comments day in, day out.
I’m sad for myself. I’m sad that I actually put up with that. That I thought I was wrong. I’m sad that I felt ashamed for feeding Katie on my own damn sofa. I’m sad that when Kevin cheated, I blamed myself. I’m sad that I wasted so much fucking time on him.
But with Fiona on one side of me and Candice on the other, with my mother calling out threats against Kevin like it’s her job, I let out a little teary laugh. My kids are sick, vomiting, and my life is a mess…but I have support. I have a family.
“There,” Candice says when I let out a sigh. “See? We got you.”
I look at my sister and give her a smile. “Remember a few months ago when you asked if Iliana was the one who had it all figured out?”
Our younger sister is a free spirit. She’s been traveling for years, and always seems to land on her feet. I think she’s had about a thousand boyfriends and none of them have stuck, but she’s been happy. Free.
Candice smiles. “Iliana is different from you and me, Trina.”
“I know,” I reply, resting my head on her shoulder. “But I was just thinking that actually, she might be the one who’s missing out by not being here with us.”
Candice clicks her tongue, squeezing me tight, and my mother comes over to wrap all three of us in a big, motherly hug. When she backs away, she’s got tears in her eyes.
Mr. Fuzzles, who has been out of sight most of the day, appears from under the sofa. With a surprisingly powerful jump, he leaps into my lap and curls up on top of me, promptly falling asleep. My heart nearly gives out at the feel of his little warm body snuggled up against me.
Maybe I am a cat person.
After a few minutes, conversation drifts to more neutral topics. Candice’s house will be ready for me, my mother, and the kids to move into in two weeks, just in time for the start of the school year. Fiona is helping Clancy choose colleges to apply to, and she’s brimming with pride for her stepdaughter. Her wedding preparations are well underway. My mother bought a new outfit from a local shop and can’t wait to wear it when she’s out with Margaret and Dorothy next week.
When I ask where they’re planning to go, she grins. “Well, a certain Scottish bar owner seems to have taken a liking to a certain hotel owner, and she seems to be enjoying the attention.”
“Hamish?” I ask, not sure how to feel about that. “And…Margaret?”
My mother smiles wide. “Dorothy wants Eli to meet him.” Eli is Dorothy’s partner. They met a couple of years ago, when Simone and Wes started dating. They’re perfect for each other.
Then Candice glances at me. “Mac was asking about you today.” Her eyes twinkle. “He offered to deliver your pottery in person.”
I stare at her, horrified.
My sister cackles. “I figured that would be your reaction, which is why I said it probably wasn’t the right time to come visit you.”
“Thank God.”
“Do you think he’d let me ride his motorcycle?” my mother asks, reaching for another of the admittedly addictive chocolate-caramel cookies.
I freeze. “Mom…”
“Trina, I’m in my seventies, and there’s a sexy younger man with a hot bike. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t ask him to take me for a ride?”
“Um, the normal kind?”
Candice snorts, then throws me a sideways glance. “Pick your battles, Trina. If Mom wants to ride on Mac’s bike, I’d put money on the fact that she’ll end up on it.”
The worst part is, I know it’s true.
“I just need to get through Kevin’s visit this weekend. Can we leave the motorcycle riding until after that?”
“I’m not making any promises,” my mother announces.
Then, the four of us hear movement upstairs, and my mother—nutty, thrill-seeking, but incredibly loving and supportive—puts out a hand. “My turn. I’ll go check on them. You relax, Trina.”
Having moved to stand up, I pause, glance down at the kitten in my lap, and lean back again. After a brief hesitation, I help myself to another cookie. Mr. Fuzzles purrs against me, lifting his head to demand more scratches. I oblige, and finally let a smile curl over my lips.
“What?” Fiona sips her tea, arching a brow.
“I was just imagining the look on Kevin’s face if he saw my mother riding a motorcycle.” I laugh, shaking my head. “He’d be horrified.” When the two of them don’t answer, I give them a grin. “That’s a good thing.”
“I’m sure it can be arranged,” Candice says, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “Or better yet, he could see you riding on the back of Mac’s motorcycle. I’d pay good money to see that expression on his face.”
“Asshole,” Fiona mumbles.
And maybe this makes me a bad person, but hearing Fiona calling my ex-husband nasty names puts a great big smile on my face.
