I had to prove my love for Bruce by calling Henry? Fine. I called and didn’t let my voice quiver once. In that weak moment I called the guy who cruelly broke my heart and left me for the society girl he was sleeping with when we were engaged (though that’s not how the New York Times described her in their wedding announcement). I called him and begged to get my sloppy three-year-old kid into a preschool with a chapel day. A school named Fifth Avenue Preschool that isn’t even on 5th Avenue.
To his credit, Henry was beyond helpful. His secretary passed me on to him after I meticulously spelled out my name. Twice. Our conversation was short and direct, like business associates who talk every day. He never even acted surprised to hear I was on the phone. Instead of asking me about my life he asked me the spelling of Kevin’s name. (Spell Kevin? What was up with his office and the human spell-checking?) He asked me for my last name. (He really couldn’t not know that, right?) “It’s Cassidy,” I reminded him. “Not sure if you remember me, but I think we used to date?” I joked, but he didn’t laugh.
“Belle?”
Here it comes, I thought, the big apology, the one where he admits to being the lowliest crapper on the earth and that now this favor would make us all good. I’d waited a long time for this one.
“Isabelle, it’s nice that you still use Cassidy, I guess, but—”
“Well, yes, that is my name, Henry.”
“No. I mean you don’t seem like the type to change your last name to your husband’s, right?”
“I didn’t know there was a type or that you had me pegged, but yes, I haven’t changed it.”
“So maybe for this application we can call you Mrs. ummm . . .”
“McElroy? I can only apply to your school if I have my husband’s last name?”
“Yes. Sounds weird, but okay. Can you spell that for me?”
And that’s how my ex-fiancé changed my last name to my husband’s.
In three days Kevin gained admission to a preschool so elite it had no name on the door, no website, no listing in the phone book. It was the beginning of a new legacy, allowing my other two kids to eventually go there too. Of course, payment for this favor is very severe. Besides being committed to paying $31,000 per year for a three-hour-per-day school, and fake changing my last name when I wasn’t ready to do that, I had just groveled to the guy who left me on the sidewalk holding my wedding gown in the rain. Now I was committed to seeing either Henry or his silicone-enhanced wife each time I dropped a child at school. Snap.
? ? ?
This Thursday morning I’m feeling the love. Bruce took Kevin to his school, leaving enough time for Brigid, Owen, and me to walk to preschool. I feel the postholiday euphoria of not having to buy and wrap gifts, write cards, and drink every night. Even though I don’t know what my bonus will be, the numbers are in and I can relax a little. January is my July.
Brigid is on her scooter, Owen in his stroller, and me in midsized heels, briefcase slung over the stroller handles, walking, not running, to chapel. The sun is shining and I’m the picture of the woman who has it all, all at the same time—the babies, the job, and the body that can still rock, though in dim light.
We seat ourselves in the back of the chapel room. I silence the electronics, breathe, and consider that all is right with the world. The very fact that we are early is a routine break, and kids like routine. Owen uses this mindful moment to decide he’s done sitting in the back and wants to be closer to the music. I try to distract him with some pathetic bribe, murmuring a ridiculous story about the time that God made Superman. He isn’t swayed in the least.
“Wanna sit in front,” he says, and not in his “inside” voice.
“Let’s stay here and wait for your friend Riley,” I say. Riley is always ten minutes late and would be the perfect reason for staying put.
“No.”
Brigid likes Owen’s idea. “Yes, we should sit in the front, Mama. We never go sit in front.” She seems to marvel at the fact she has never considered a different spot on the floor. Her brain just trips with the possibilities. “We SHOULD.”
With no further discussion Owen bolts for the front, and Brigid follows close behind, excited to do something she has never considered. My two assertive children plant themselves squarely behind the happy family of Henry.
I awkwardly step between tiny hands and crossed legs on high-heeled shoes, excusing my way to the front. Once there, I squat, suit and all, while giving an apologetic shrug to the PA Ladies in back of me. One gives a knowing half smile while the other clearly smirks. She smirks! Henry turns to give me a weirdly cheesy grin. As if to say, Belle you are clearly overstepping the bounds of our agreement—you know, the unspoken truce where I get your motley family into preschool and you do not bond with my family in any way.
I’ve been really good about keeping this agreement we never made, and so has he. Besides Bruce, nobody at this place knows I even went to college with Henry, never mind lived with him. I’m no longer euphoric. Now my heart is seized with the anxiety of keeping two young children contained for forty minutes.
The music begins, a banjo riff, followed by a song about sowing seeds, growing a garden . . .