I run into her room, hoist her out of the crib, and awkwardly change her diaper, resisting every urge to call for someone, anyone, to help me. I think it may be on backward, but decide it will have to do. “Shush, shush, I’m getting your bottle right now,” I mumble as I carry her down the stairs and make a mental note to Google “how to change a diaper” later.
John saunters into the kitchen as I’m trying to make Charlotte’s bottle with my left hand, my right wrapped tightly around her. “Coffee?” he asks, watching me as I spill formula onto the counter. A little help, please?
I perk up. At least he’s offering to get me the caffeine I desperately need. “Why, yes, thank you. Venti bold with sugar-free vanilla, please,” I answer as I attempt to lower Charlotte into her high chair, her chubby legs refusing to bend.
He starts laughing, still watching me as Charlotte kicks the tray, clearly not wanting to sit in the damn chair. “I’m not offering. I’m asking if you’ve made any. And when did you start drinking Starbucks?”
My patience wears thin. “The other day,” I snap, but collect myself quickly, looking around for the coffeemaker. Clearly Rachel does this for him each morning. Does everything around here, it seems. And when did she become so subservient to him? “And I guess that’s where you’ll be going this morning if you want coffee. I’ve got my hands full here.” I make a wide sweeping gesture with my hands for dramatic effect.
“Fine, but you don’t have to be rude about it.”
I sit down at the kitchen table and look up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m just feeling really overwhelmed. I need help.”
“Well, that’s a first. You never seem to want my help when it comes to the kids.”
“Really? I don’t?” I ask. Why doesn’t Rachel ask for help? Why does she think she can do it all herself?? No wonder she doesn’t have time to get highlights.
John puts his hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You’ve been acting really strange since the reunion. Are you still thinking about that award?”
I stand back up and smile brightly. “No, I’m fine, I promise. Just tired, that’s all.”
We’re standing face-to-face and for a second I wonder if he’ll kiss me. Isn’t that what husbands do when they’re concerned about their wives? But he turns away and grabs his briefcase by the door. “See you tonight.”
“See you tonight,” I echo quietly as he walks out the front door.
“Hey.” Sophie comes bounding down the stairs dressed in a skirt so short it barely covers her butt.
“You’re not thinking of actually wearing that to school, are you?” When did my sweet little Sophie start dressing like a whore? I know Rachel warned me about this, but I thought she was just exaggerating.
“What’s the problem? Aunt Casey wears stuff like this on her show all the time.”
“She does not! I mean she may wear a few short things that she can totally pull off, by the way. But she’s an adult and you’re a child.” I think back to the minidress I wore to the reunion wondering if I really did pull that off.
Sophie rolls her eyes at me. “Mother, I told you, I am not a child anymore. I’m fourteen!”
“Well, child or not, you’re not wearing that skirt to school. Go up and change right now.” I look at the digital clock on the microwave. “You guys need to leave soon or you’re going to be late.”
“You are so uncool!” She huffs out of the kitchen. “I wish you were more like Aunt Casey! I want to be just like her one day.”
Oh, if you only knew.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve pushed both girls out the door, wearing semiappropriate clothing, having eaten a somewhat nutritious breakfast, and with only three meltdowns between them. How have I only been awake for an hour?
Charlotte crawls over and pulls up on my legs. I pick her up and scroll through Rachel’s checklist on my phone. “When exactly do I get a shower, Charlotte?” And I swear I hear her laugh at me.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
rachel
I stare up at the GossipTV offices, petrified to go inside. I begged Casey to let me call in sick, but she told me it was not an option, unless, of course, I wanted to be responsible for getting her fired. With frightening detail, she described to me how cutthroat the television business is, that even though she’s been hosting the show for three years and it brings in the highest ratings for the network, there’s always some twenty-one-year-old with fake boobs waiting to steal her spot. In her case, it’s a bitchy little tart named Fiona. The insecurity in Casey’s voice threw me off as she described how far she’d gone to prove she wasn’t replaceable, once even hosting the show with a stomach flu so bad she had to run to the bathroom between every take.