Been There, Done That Read online

  I nodded.

  “Are you insane?” she said. “I am a fat, suburban housewife—”

  “You’re not fat; you’re pregnant,” I obediently interjected. “You’re a grown-up with a grown-up life, and my life is going nowhere. I slept with Jeremy.” Her eyes popped wide. “Twice.” Her mouth dropped open, and she started to smile. I shook my head. “He’s twenty-one years old, and he thinks I’m eighteen. It’s not enough for me to mess up my own life, I’ve got to mess up someone else’s as well.” I gazed at her cherry cabinets, her granite countertops, her stainless steel refrigerator plastered with Jacob’s artwork. “You are so lucky,” I sighed.

  She stared at me for a moment, and then shook her head wildly. “You’ve got it all wrong! You are this cool, funky, creative type who’s doing this undercover story and sleeping with young studs, and, and, and living instead of just cleaning up a big goddamn house day after goddamn day! All I do is give baths and wipe butts and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that always end up pulled apart and facedown on the rug. I get up to pee five times a night, and if I actually manage to fall back to sleep, it never lasts long before one kid or another screams that he’s wet his bed or pooped in his pants, and my husband’s never goddamn home because he’s too busy trying to make partner so maybe I can have an even bigger house to clean!”

  Now she was the one crying. I was so shocked that my tears had stopped, and I hugged her tight and rocked her as she sobbed. When she finally quieted down, I asked where the boys were. Jacob had gone to a friend’s house after preschool; Joshua was asleep in the minivan.

  “Why don’t you go lie down?” I suggested, stroking her frizzy hair. “I’ll listen for Joshua.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said miserably, smearing tears down her cheeks with her palms. “My cleaning woman will be here any minute.”

  thirty-three

  I spent the rest of the week holed up in my apartment (the superintendent had a key), conducting phone interviews with a bunch of interior designers who I could count on to give a good quote. Normally, I’d work out of the office and interview in person, but this was quicker. Also, it meant I could remain in my bathrobe all day and break into tears without warning. There were two phone messages from Tim (“Where the hell are you?”), both of which I ignored. I had admitted defeat to myself, but I was not yet ready to admit it to Tim. Staying in Boston meant missing precious final days of the investigation, but my job was on the line. Besides, I’d come up empty during the previous six weeks; what made me think this week would be any different?

  I sent Jeremy an e-mail: “Out of town for the week. I’ll explain later.” I hadn’t yet decided whether I would tell him the truth or concoct another set of lies upon my return. Maybe I could just sneak my stuff out of the dorm without seeing him. I sent Tiffany the same message, omitting the promise of a later explanation.

  By Friday morning I’d sent the articles to Sheila and was back on the Mass Pike. I spent the drive back to Mercer thanking God I was nobody’s wife, but just my own person, free to do as I like, responsible only for myself. I almost had myself convinced when I arrived at my dorm and almost gasped aloud when I saw him, there on the bench: the man God intended for me. Why else would he have made me wait so damn long, if not for the chance to begin each day looking at this flawless specimen? Judging from his salt-and-pepper curls, he was forty-something, though his golden skin was smooth, save for crinkles around his brilliant blue eyes. He was conservatively dressed, in a striped Oxford shirt, windbreaker and khakis, but perhaps his tennis shoes hinted at the soul of a free spirit. Or something. I’d never seen him before, yet I felt this immediate connection, this oddly exciting familiarity.

  He smiled at me, and my throat constricted so I could hardly speak, and I half expected him to come out with some Harlequin-inspired line like, “I was wondering when you’d turn up in my life.”

  Instead, he asked if I lived in the dorm, and I thought desperately of a way to tell him that I wasn’t really a college freshman, that I was a suitable woman in my early thirties, a touch young for him perhaps, but I could work on discovering my inner trophy wife. But when I said that I did, indeed, live there, he smiled even more warmly, and I panicked, wondering what kind of a pervert goes trawling for teenagers.

  But it was even worse than that. “Then maybe you know my son?” he asked, standing up. “Jeremy?”

  I gawked in horror before finally squeaking, “I do,” as far as I’d get to saying those words in his presence. Next thing you know, I was leading Jeremy’s father up the stairs to his room.

  Jeremy practically ran over when he saw me. “I missed you,” he said under his breath. I pretended not to hear him.

  His mother was already there. Apparently, they had had an hour to kill until Jeremy got out of classes. So his father (“Call me Mr. Dunbar”) had eaten lunch alone while his mother (who, as far as I could tell, preferred that I not call her anything) browsed in the “quaint shops” on Main Street (which, unless she had discovered some other Main Street that had heretofore eluded me, meant a hardware store, a discount tire center, a liquor store, and the college bookstore). Then again, the situation still seemed weird; couldn’t they spend an hour together?

  Jeremy’s mother was not what I expected. Or, rather, she was not what I would have expected had I ever expected to meet her at all. By Jeremy’s account, she was well groomed and brittle, a WASP wannabe. I’d have expected pearls and silk, manicured nails, sleek hair. But while she’d mastered the icy, brittle routine, Mrs. Dunbar’s hair was too blond and too big—in fact, all of her was a little too big. Her navy blue dress was conservative but cheaply cut. She’d worked hard on her diction, though, resulting in an accent that landed halfway between Audrey Hepburn and the Kennedys. Apparently, no one had ever told her that the Kennedys weren’t Protestant.

  “Well, boys,” she said, pointedly looking at just the “boys.” She tightened her mouth into something that resembled a smile. “Ready for lunch?”

  “I thought Dad already had lunch,” Jeremy mumbled, scuffing his sneaker on the carpet. He looked about twelve, which would be cute if I didn’t already have enough reservations about our, er, thing.

  “Yes, but I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast,” she said, tilting both of her chins up. “Just because your father couldn’t suppress his appetite doesn’t mean the rest of us should suffer.”

  Mr. Dunbar crossed his arms and gazed at Jeremy calmly. “Your mother wants lunch. So we’ll have lunch.”

  “But you ate already,” Jeremy said, with a hint of a whine.

  “I can have a beer,” Mr. Dunbar said gamely.

  “At one o’clock in the afternoon?” his wife asked.

  “A nonalcoholic beer,” he said evenly. Then, to his son, “With a shot of whiskey in it.” They both guffawed.

  I started for the door. “It was really nice meeting you all.” I held my hand up in the perkiest good-bye wave I could manage.

  “Aren’t you coming to lunch with us?” Mr. Dunbar said, sounding truly baffled.

  “Oh, I don’t want to get in the way of your, you know, family thing.”

  “But Jeremy has been talking about you for weeks,” Mr. Dunbar said. “We’ve been looking forward to getting to know you.”

  I looked desperately at his mother, hoping, I guess, for some confusion on her face, some indication that he’d been exaggerating, that Jeremy had not, in fact, mentioned me before today. The look I met was filled with such hatred, though, that I knew Mr. Dunbar spoke the truth.

  “Surely Katie’s own parents are coming,” Mrs. Dunbar said, dismissively. “It is Parents Weekend, after all.”

  Oh, crap: it was, wasn’t it? I’d completely forgotten. I blurted out something about how my parents were in Europe to celebrate their anniversary. Jeremy gawked at me. Shit. “I mean, my dad and my stepmom. And there was no way she was going to miss out on a trip to Europe.” I rolled my eyes. “My mom lives in Santa Fe, b
ut she’s in Romania. She’s on a, like, spiritual journey.” I shrugged as if to say, Just another dysfunctional family.

  Because there weren’t a lot of options, we went to The Snake Pit. Except it wasn’t The Snake Pit, technically, because the restaurant half was called The Spit. I think that was supposed to refer to a cooking technique, but it never failed to make me look twice at my water glass.

  Gerry left his perch behind the bar to take our order. When he saw me, he raised his eyebrows and smirked. He squatted next to the table in that overfamiliar way some waiters adopt so they can be at eye level with you, as if you’re some three-year-old they are trying to befriend. But the glint in Gerry’s eye was anything but friendly. “Glass of white wine?” he purred. “A nice chardonnay, perhaps?”

  I stared at him. His shiny skin gave off the yeasty smell of beer. “Diet Coke,” I said.

  Still smirking, he wrote down my order and continued through the table. He didn’t suggest wine to anyone else.

  “They’ll sell booze to anyone around this place,” Mrs. Dunbar huffed when Gerry had left. “You aren’t even twenty-one, are you?” she asked without looking at me.

  “No,” I answered truthfully. “I’m not twenty-one.”

  I called Marcy as soon as I got back to my room. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured me. “I’m hormonal. And I think I’m starting my midlife crisis a little early.”

  “You always were an overachiever.” I sighed. “It’s Parents Weekend, and everyone else has someone coming.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “On a barge on the Rhine.”

  “Not your real parents.”

  “Oh, right.” I screwed up my face, trying to remember what I’d told Jeremy’s parents. “Mom’s in Romania, consulting with a shaman.”

  There was a moment of silence. “I don’t think they have shamans in Romania,” Marcy finally said.

  I sighed. I hardly even cared whether I got caught anymore. Sunday I’d be packing up. Monday I’d be back in the office, admitting defeat. “Dad and his second wife have left their horse farm in Virginia for a trip to Europe. I keep getting the feeling that it’s a last hurrah, and that the step-monster is pregnant. Horrible to think I could have a sister who’s almost thirty years younger than me.”

  “Twenty years.”

  I paused. “Oh, shit.” I didn’t think I could make it through the weekend.

  Tiffany’s parents were due to arrive at six o’clock. They showed up at five-thirty. Mrs. Weaver, who was all edges and angles, skipped right over hello and moved on to, “You should really wear makeup, sweetheart.”

  “I do,” Tiffany shot back. “I just got out of the shower. I haven’t had time yet. You said you’d be here at six.”

  “Six-ish,” her mother replied evenly, smirking at me and rolling her eyes.

  Mr. Weaver, a short heavyset guy, kissed Tiffany on her cheek and then just stood there with his hands shoved firmly in his pockets, while her younger sister, Brittany, walked around the room examining our crates, posters, bedspreads and—I couldn’t even believe it—closets. “Brittany!” Tiffany snarled. “Privacy?”

  Brittany rolled her eyes. “What. Ever.” She was thirteen, but she looked more like sixteen. She wasn’t pretty—heavy makeup covered an obvious acne problem—but she was tall and had inherited her mother’s metabolism. She was all breast and no butt. I had always wondered who size 0 jeans were meant for. Now I knew.

  “Stand up and let me look at you,” Mrs. Weaver commanded her oldest daughter. Tiffany did so, reluctantly. She wore a fuzzy long-sleeved powder blue sweater and a peasant skirt. Her feet were bare, her toenails unpolished and overgrown. Mrs. Weaver forced a smile. “When you complained about the cafeteria food, I guess I thought—” She shook her head dramatically. “Never mind.”

  Mr. Weaver rolled his eyes. There was a lot of eye rolling in this family.

  “What?” Tiffany asked.

  Mrs. Weaver flicked her hand. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Weaver tilted her head to one side. “I just thought you might have. You know. Taken off some of your baby fat.”

  “I’ve lost ten pounds,” Tiffany muttered.

  “Are you sure?” her mother asked, squinting.

  Brittany poked though the plastic mesh carryall that held Tiffany’s toiletries. “Can I try some of your scented lotion?” she asked, unscrewing the cap before Tiffany had a chance to answer.

  “It was nice to meet you all!” I chirped, backing toward the door. “I’ve really got to get to the, um, library.”

  “Won’t your parents be here for dinner?” Mrs. Weaver asked, suddenly full of warmth.

  “They couldn’t make it.” I shrugged. “They’re divorced.” I figured that would be enough to convince the self-satisfied and still-married Mrs. Weaver that my parents were too busy with their own lives to think about me rather than make her wonder why I wasn’t missing just one but two sets of parents.

  “I understand,” Mrs. Weaver said with equal amounts of sympathy and smugness. “Then you must have dinner with us.”

  I stared at her, truly caught unprepared.

  “I only made the reservation for four,” Tiffany hissed. Wow—she really disliked me.

  Mrs. Weaver and Tiffany argued over whether or not I’d be welcome at dinner. “I’m not hungry, really!” I insisted. “I had a late lunch.”

  Tiffany and I had just about lost out to Mrs. Weaver, who kept saying, “I insist you join us! I insist!” when Marcy poked her head through the door. “I couldn’t leave my little sister all by herself on Parents Weekend!” she squealed before I had a chance to say anything. She swept into the room and gave me a suffocating hug. Someone crept in behind her.

  “Dennis!” I gasped, stopping short of “What the hell are you doing here?” He turned red.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Marcy chirped. “You wouldn’t expect me to leave my husband at home, would you?”

  thirty-four

  In honor of Parents Weekend, a gourmet buffet was being served in the dining hall. But it was basically the same swill as always along with some really tough roast beef accompanied by horseradish sauce and “o juice.”

  Marcy explained herself while Dennis searched for some rolls that hadn’t been fossilized from too much time spent under heating lamps. “The twelve-year-old from next door came over to watch the kids until Dan gets home. Eight bucks an hour! Is that obscene, or what? I told Dennis you were doing an undercover story about dorm decorating,” she said, slurping mashed potatoes covered in sludgy gravy.

  “And he believed it?”

  She shrugged. “People generally assume you’re telling the truth if you don’t give them reason to think otherwise.”

  I smiled. She was right. “You know, my gig here is almost up, anyway. It really would have been okay if you had told Dennis the truth.”

  She blinked twice and then laughed with relief. “Oh, thank God. I did tell him the truth. I just didn’t want you freaking out on me.” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her oversized belly.

  Dennis returned with breadsticks. “At least these are supposed to be crunchy.” He took a noisy bite. “I can see why you’ve lost so much weight. The food here is really revolting.”

  “Did you think I was fat before?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Of course not,” he said soothingly. “You’ve always looked great. You’re just skinnier now, that’s all.” He settled into a plastic chair. “So tell me about your story, Kath. I love the idea, by the way. Cheap chic, posters beyond the Saint Pauli girl and all that.” I remained silent and let him dig further in. From the corner of my eye, I could see Tiffany eating with her family. What was it she had said about reservations? True, there had been a presale for the buffet, but it was covered under the meal plan. She really wanted to avoid me. I should have felt relieved, but I felt oddly slighted, as if the geekiest boy in school had refuse
d to dance with me. I slunk lower in my chair, lest her mother command the family to haul their trays over to us.

  “I really admire the way you used a bedsheet to make a curtain,” Dennis continued. “It’s a very loose look, very contemporary. I’m really looking forward to your article.”

  Marcy was squirming. I sighed. “She told me, Dennis.”

  “What?” he asked disingenuously.

  “This has nothing to do about decorating,” I said under my breath. “As you know. We’ll talk about it later.” I took a bite of the roast beef and chewed for a really, really long time until it was soft enough to swallow. “Uck,” I said. “Dennis, where did you come up with those breadsticks?”

  At the salad bar, I snagged a few packets of breadsticks and crackers. On my way back to our table, I stopped short. Troy sat at a table with an older, yellow-haired woman and a bald, gray-haired man in a blue blazer. Troy had parents? I guess I’d always assumed he had just hatched or something. As I stood there, they threw napkins on their chunky plates and pushed back their chairs. Troy’s mother hauled on a long, red wool coat. They left their trays on the table in a most horrendous breach of cafeteria etiquette. If ever I’d doubted that evil lurked in Troy’s heart, this sealed it. Maybe he was the key to this thing, after all. There was only one way to find out.

  I scurried back to Dennis and Marcy. “Let’s move!” I commanded.

  “What?” Marcy asked, looking generally perturbed about leaving her food.

  “I’ll tell you in the car. Bus your trays!”

  I don’t know that a white minivan is the most innocuous of vehicles, especially in a college town where every other kid drives a spiffy little Volkswagen or mini SUV, but I worried that Troy had seen my car before (which also stood out, in that it was far crappier than the roadsters preferred by most Mercer students), so I suggested we take Marcy’s instead. Besides, with all the parents in town, there were more minivans around than usual. Marcy, winded from walking across the dining hall, waited on the steps of the dining hall while Dennis and I scurried down the street, keys in hand. When we arrived at the vehicle, we both made our way to the passenger door. We blinked at each other. “I’m used to driving a Civic,” I said, cowering in the van’s massive shadow.