walks in, looks at me, raises a brow and heads for the sink.
“You hate the stuff I like,” Taylor continues. “You put out a vibe that either I have to go along with you or I get nothing.”
“Taylor Jane Logan! When was the last time I denied you anything? Hmmm?”
Not realizing I’m watching her, Myra rolls her eyes, then picks up a sponge and turns on the faucet.
A blush heats my face as I press the phone tighter to my ear and lower my voice. “You’re imagining things, Taylor. But if you feel that way, then you’re perfectly free to pay for everything yourself.”
A laugh sputters out of Myra. She glances at me, sobers, coughs.
“Yeah, right, Mom. Pay for it with what?”
“I guess redecorating isn’t such a good idea, after all.”
“So now you won’t pay?” Tears fill her voice. “Fine. I’ll just get a prescription for Paxil, then. This dump is so depressing I can barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings.”
I close my eyes. “You couldn’t drag yourself out of bed in the mornings when you lived here, and this house is certainly no dump.” Tapping my foot, I ask, “Have you talked to anyone at WT about their graduate program?”
“Not yet.”
“They aren’t going to come to you and beg you to apply, Taylor.”
“Very funny, Mom. I know I’m not as smart as Troy. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”
“I’ve never said that! Anyway, Troy’s scholarship was for basketball, not academics.”
“Oh, yeah. Just another thing he’s got going for him that I don’t. Athletic ability.”
“Taylor…quit feeling sorry for yourself. Get out of bed and do something.” With a start, I realize I should take my own advice. This morning, Myra rang the doorbell at eight-thirty and woke me. Yesterday, I slept until ten.
“So you won’t call Elaine?”
I count to five. “You call her, Taylor.”
“And you’ll pay for her time?”
“I’ll pay for three hours.”
“Three hours? That’s not long enough to decide on anything. How about six?”
“I said three.”
“Five, then.”
“Four,” I say.
“Okay.”
Proud of myself for not letting Taylor have her way, I send Myra a smug smile. She shakes her head, squirts Soft Scrub onto the stainless steel sink, and it occurs to me that I really didn’t stand my ground. Taylor managed to weasel an extra hour out of me. Once again, I’ve been manipulated by the master.
“What about the stuff we pick out?” Taylor asks.
Because I know my own weaknesses, I turn my back to Myra, disgusted with myself. Why do I always give in? “Get prices and give me a total. Then I’ll decide.”
“Okay.” Taylor sniffs but doesn’t argue, and I think to myself, She knows I’ll pay, whatever the price. She knows I’m a pushover when it comes to her and Troy. Everyone sees right through me. Even my housekeeper.
After hanging up, I consider calling my mother to ask if she wants to have lunch with me; that’s when I know just how desperate I am.
I need a walk. Fresh air to clear my mind, to give me perspective and revive my energy and enthusiasm. To help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER 4
Fifteen minutes later, I stand on the curb across the street from the high school my children attended. Classes are in full swing. Vehicles pack the student parking lot. A black Chevy Tahoe pulls into the visitor’s section, followed by a white minivan. Marliss Crocker and Vicky Avery. I remember it’s Tuesday and check my watch. After ten. They’re late for the first PTA board meeting of the year. I know the schedule by heart. Last year and the year before, I chaired the fundraising committee. Since my kids started school, I have served in every position at least twice, including president.
Atop a pole at the school’s entrance, the American and Texas flags billow and pop in the breeze as Marliss and Vicky climb from their vehicles. The greetings they call out to one another, their laughter, drift to me. They meet and start toward the building, side by side.
I feel thirteen again, as if I’ve arrived at my best friend’s house and discovered she’s having a party, and I wasn’t invited. Marliss is president this year. Vicky took over my position. I nibble my thumbnail cuticle. Marliss couldn’t organize a kindergarten homeroom party, and everyone in town knows Vicky’s careless spending habits bankrupted her husband last year. When those two were elected, I almost choked. They’ll squander all the money I worked so hard to raise for the school; I just know it.
Before they enter the front doors, Marliss glances back toward the lot. I scurry behind a car parked at the curb where I’m standing. Too late. She sees me and waves, then turns and says something to Vicky. Pausing to squint my direction, Vicky waves, too. Despite the distance separating us, I see the shock and pity in their expressions as they exchange a glance, then disappear into the building with their heads together.
I kick a tire. Why would they feel sorry for me? Squaring my shoulders, I straighten my wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt. So what if I look like I just climbed out of bed? I deserve a leisurely morning now and then, don’t I? I raised my children. I served my time as a volunteer. I’m retired. No shame in that. They’re just jealous that they aren’t free to do whatever they want to do.
Pushing tangled hair from my face, I step off the curb and jog across the street. Maybe I’ll take up running. Buy some of those cute little shorts and spandex tops with built-in bras and sail by here every morning looking toned and lithe and smug while they’re dropping off their freshmen and nibbling a doughnut, sipping their four-dollar five-hundred-calorie lattes with hazelnut syrup and wishing they’d worn elastic-waist pants instead of jeans.
When I reach the corner, a sharp pain stabs into my side and I have to stop to catch my breath. In the past two decades, the extent of my exercise program has been chasing kids, a daily leisurely walk and an occasional Kathy Smith fat-burning video. And the latter only if I had a special occasion coming up, such as a wedding or a class reunion, and I wanted to squeeze into something slinky and impress somebody. The truth is, I’ve been guilty of frequent doughnut and latte breakfasts myself. It’s no wonder that, right now, my throat aches, my shins and calves hurt, and I feel as if I might puke.
Clutching my stomach, I cut across the parking lot, then lean against the building next to a bush, panting. A flash of color on the other side of the window catches my eye. I peek in.
Even though they sit with their backs to me, I recognize all but a couple of the ten or so women inside. My former fellow PTA moms. Why are they meeting in the cafeteria? We always met in the auditorium. Leave it to Marliss to make waves.
I
