Part 19 (1/2)
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.