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Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
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skin under her neck. I check my own. Suddenly I’m envisioning a rhinocerous. Maybe Mom was right.
I tear my eyes away from the mirror and boost myself onto the counter, leaning my back against the wall, knees drawn up, feet on the counter. My mind flashes to Penny in just this position in our booth at dinner. “So like I said,” I say, changing the subject. “Penny acted as if I were invisible. She’s devoted to Josh, and he dotes on her. I felt like such an outsider. I mean, I am an outsider.”
I stare at the toes of my little black suede flats, unseeing. Franklin and I are heading back to Swampscott in a minute. We decided to make it a casual day. The power reporter look can work in the corporate world, but high heels and Armani are sometimes too daunting when you’re trying to extract info from cautious—and potentially suspicious—neighbors. But first I needed to talk to Maysie. And not just about my face.
“So you didn’t study to be a mom, did you? Seems like Molly arrived and you somehow knew what to do next. Sleep, diapers, crying. You just—”
“There was no sleep,” Maysie says with a smile. “For about two years. Then Max arrived. And there was even less sleep.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, waving away her digression. “Do I have a heart-to-heart with Penny? Am I her friend? Do I tell her what she can and can’t do? Do I always have to agree with Josh? What’s my attitude about Victoria? What if Penny, I don’t know, hates me?” I twist my gold-linked bracelet, a three-month anniversary present from Josh, around my wrist. “I hate surprises,” I say. “I’m better at things I can control.”
“You want a real answer?” Maysie asks. She sits across from me in her black director’s chair, leaning toward me, her face earnest. “I didn’t plan on little number three here. Talk about surprises. But I love her. Him. Already. Love is not about control, that’s one of the joys of it.”
She stops, and it seems as though she’s considering her own words. “You’ll never know unless you have your own child.”
My eyes turn teary, emotion unexpectedly washing over me. Of course I’ll never have my own child. Those days are gone.
Maysie jumps up, throws her arms around me. “Ah, my hormones, I’m so sorry,” she says. She steps back and holds her arms out, apologizing. “I sound like one of those Chicken Soup books, I know, and I didn’t mean…”
“Oh, honey, you know I’ve crossed that bridge,” I say, reassuring her. “Years ago.” At least I hope I’ve crossed it. I swing my legs down from the counter and brush the wrinkles out of my black slacks. “But that’s Victoria’s connection to Penny, you know? And Penny’s to Victoria. And I don’t want to change that. Couldn’t. I just hoped I could be Penny’s best friend, confidante, role model, or something. And maybe stepmom. But if last night proves anything, it ain’t gonna happen.”
From inside my tote bag, my cell phone begins a muffled rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Franklin’s and my theme song. He must be ready to leave for Swampscott.
“I’ve gotta disagree with Mick Jagger this time,” Maysie says giving me a quick hug. “Sometimes you can get what you want. Just let yourself love her. And she’ll eventually love you back.”
Y OU CAN TELL it’s summer at Swampscott High School even with your eyes closed. No footsteps from packs of students giggling down the halls. No bells insistently clang for classes. No muffled unintelligible public address voices proclaim the day’s schedule over the teenage din.
Not only is the reception desk at SHS deserted, the halls are empty. Some lockers flap open. Hand-lettered “Good luck to the Big Blue graduates” and “Go Seagulls 4-Evah” posters are beginning to untape themselves from the institutional beige walls.
On the counter in front of us, the Swampscott Chronicle ’s headlines blare what’s fast
I tear my eyes away from the mirror and boost myself onto the counter, leaning my back against the wall, knees drawn up, feet on the counter. My mind flashes to Penny in just this position in our booth at dinner. “So like I said,” I say, changing the subject. “Penny acted as if I were invisible. She’s devoted to Josh, and he dotes on her. I felt like such an outsider. I mean, I am an outsider.”
I stare at the toes of my little black suede flats, unseeing. Franklin and I are heading back to Swampscott in a minute. We decided to make it a casual day. The power reporter look can work in the corporate world, but high heels and Armani are sometimes too daunting when you’re trying to extract info from cautious—and potentially suspicious—neighbors. But first I needed to talk to Maysie. And not just about my face.
“So you didn’t study to be a mom, did you? Seems like Molly arrived and you somehow knew what to do next. Sleep, diapers, crying. You just—”
“There was no sleep,” Maysie says with a smile. “For about two years. Then Max arrived. And there was even less sleep.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, waving away her digression. “Do I have a heart-to-heart with Penny? Am I her friend? Do I tell her what she can and can’t do? Do I always have to agree with Josh? What’s my attitude about Victoria? What if Penny, I don’t know, hates me?” I twist my gold-linked bracelet, a three-month anniversary present from Josh, around my wrist. “I hate surprises,” I say. “I’m better at things I can control.”
“You want a real answer?” Maysie asks. She sits across from me in her black director’s chair, leaning toward me, her face earnest. “I didn’t plan on little number three here. Talk about surprises. But I love her. Him. Already. Love is not about control, that’s one of the joys of it.”
She stops, and it seems as though she’s considering her own words. “You’ll never know unless you have your own child.”
My eyes turn teary, emotion unexpectedly washing over me. Of course I’ll never have my own child. Those days are gone.
Maysie jumps up, throws her arms around me. “Ah, my hormones, I’m so sorry,” she says. She steps back and holds her arms out, apologizing. “I sound like one of those Chicken Soup books, I know, and I didn’t mean…”
“Oh, honey, you know I’ve crossed that bridge,” I say, reassuring her. “Years ago.” At least I hope I’ve crossed it. I swing my legs down from the counter and brush the wrinkles out of my black slacks. “But that’s Victoria’s connection to Penny, you know? And Penny’s to Victoria. And I don’t want to change that. Couldn’t. I just hoped I could be Penny’s best friend, confidante, role model, or something. And maybe stepmom. But if last night proves anything, it ain’t gonna happen.”
From inside my tote bag, my cell phone begins a muffled rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Franklin’s and my theme song. He must be ready to leave for Swampscott.
“I’ve gotta disagree with Mick Jagger this time,” Maysie says giving me a quick hug. “Sometimes you can get what you want. Just let yourself love her. And she’ll eventually love you back.”
Y OU CAN TELL it’s summer at Swampscott High School even with your eyes closed. No footsteps from packs of students giggling down the halls. No bells insistently clang for classes. No muffled unintelligible public address voices proclaim the day’s schedule over the teenage din.
Not only is the reception desk at SHS deserted, the halls are empty. Some lockers flap open. Hand-lettered “Good luck to the Big Blue graduates” and “Go Seagulls 4-Evah” posters are beginning to untape themselves from the institutional beige walls.
On the counter in front of us, the Swampscott Chronicle ’s headlines blare what’s fast
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