“Oh, sorry, Hilary. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“You’re such a space cadet,” she says condescendingly. I try not to judge her too quickly. From what Rachel has told me, she’s one of her best mom friends. And Rachel wouldn’t be friends with someone who treats her like crap, right? From my experience in her body so far, she’s got John and the kids doing that.
John. I made the mistake of trying to talk to her about him on the phone this morning, but she wasn’t having it. “Casey, please don’t start judging my marriage. You’ve been there for one day, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m not judging. I just want to know if he’s going to lift a finger while I’m here.”
“Don’t count on it,” she said, and quickly changed the subject back to how we could get our lives back. After her conversation with the bartender, we were no closer to figuring out how to do this and we were both starting to panic that we might be stuck in each other’s lives—and bodies—for the long haul.
“Remember when Jamie Lee Curtis let her daughter miss their engagement party to go be in that band contest and then her daughter gave her blessing for Jamie Lee Curtis to marry Mark Harmon? That’s how they got to change back.”
“Yes, but this is real life, not some crappy remake of a crappy movie.”
“True,” she replied.
“Plus,” I continued, “what’s the lesson here? Being in your body, in your role as supermom, is just reinforcing why I haven’t had kids.”
“Okay, they’re not that bad,” she said defensively.
“Oh really? Does Audrey scream at you like that every morning, or was it just my lucky day? And when did Sophie decide she wants to be the next Britney Spears?”
“She wants to be like you, Casey.”
“Even worse!” We both laughed.
? ? ?
I sit down on the colorful quilt Hilary spread out and try to relax. Keep the topics simple, Rachel warned.
“So how was your reunion?” Hilary jumps right in as she carefully unpacks the applesauce I’m quite sure she pureed herself. “I’m dying to hear every last detail!”
“It definitely had its share of ups and downs,” I say truthfully as I set Charlotte down on the blanket.
She lowers her voice and leans in. “Oh, what did Casey do this time?”
I’m taken aback. Had Rachel talked about me to Hilary? Why would she assume that I’d be responsible for the ups and downs? “Why would you think Casey was involved?”
“Oh, come on. I know sometimes you get frustrated with how obsessed with work she is. A reunion is a place that can bring out the worst in people. Especially a D-list celebrity with something to prove.”
I try to react calmly. D-list, my ass! “Well, first of all, since she mainly only interviews A-listers, I’d put her on the B-list at least, especially considering her Emmy win. And I know she’s a workaholic, but she still really cares about me, about what’s going on in my life.” And that was true. Rachel was still the most important person in my life. But did I ever stop and tell her that? Or was I as bad as John and the kids were? Taking her for granted. Even being Rachel for just one day, I was realizing how out of touch I had become with her. And how little I’d been there for her over the past few months. How Destiny had been right, yet again. God, I hated and loved that about her.
“Well, you’ve really changed your tune about Casey.” She adds formula to a bottle and shakes it up. “Good for you.” Her words seem empty.
I’m about to ask her specifically what the hell Rachel’s been saying about me when I smell something foul. I look over at Charlotte, who has a very serious look on her face. Like she’s trying to come up with the answer to something really complicated, like how to solve global warming or understand why Paris Hilton is still considered a celebrity.
“Oh, someone’s got poopy face!” Hilary sings in a high-pitched voice.
There’s a face?
I pick up Charlotte carefully and quickly realize that this is not any ordinary poop. It’s like a nuclear explosion that seeped all over the Burberry outfit I bought for her a few months back and fished out of the back of her closet this morning.
“Oh, shit!” I shout.
“Rachel!” Hilary cries out and covers her baby’s ears. “Language!”
“Sorry,” I stammer as I frantically dig through the diaper bag to find the wipes. I pull them out and lay Charlotte on the quilt quickly, remembering too late that I should’ve put a changing pad down first. As I pull her pants off, poop spills out onto Hilary’s blanket and Charlotte’s poopy face has turned into a full-fledged grin. I smile, remembering Rachel’s warning that I’d better not let anyone see me sweat when it came to handling a number-two situation. Especially not a mom friend.