Tanner the waiter had apparently filmed the whole thing, but on his phone, not hers. Then he posted it, which, according to Google’s definition of copyright, he was allowed to do.
It went viral, all right. Seven million views in twelve hours. At least he didn’t tag her, but it was already being shared by a few Lillie-loyal Wellfleeters, and apparently one or two of them had become Facebook friends with one or two of the New York housewives, and it was everywhere. Tanner had entitled it You and Your Stupid Oysters. The next morning, Jimmy Kimmel’s people saw it, shared it, and by the afternoon of Day Two, it had been watched twenty-one million times and shared tens of thousands of times.
Melissa didn’t know if she’d ever recover. She hadn’t left the bedroom since she’d gotten home last night, nor spoken to Bradley, the cause of this mess. He’d left for work already, and she hoped he’d stay late. Or never come home.
Sitting in bed, tears leaking out of her eyes, Melissa watched it again.
So humiliating.
A knock came on the door. “Melissa?” It was Ophelia, backpack on, ready for school, her hair still snarled.
“Come in,” she said, sitting up in bed.
“I saw the video,” she said.
“Oh.” Humiliation washed over her again. “Well, shoot. I wanted to tell you myself.”
Ophelia bit her lip. “It’s pretty funny. Sorry, but I mean, it’s hilarious, Melissa.”
“Not to me.”
“So . . . how far along are you?”
“About thirteen weeks.” Even Bradley didn’t know that, because she’d been too mad at him to talk last night.
“So . . . springtime?”
“Yeah. April.”
“How are you feeling?” Ophelia asked, fiddling with her backpack straps.
“Not great.”
“I guess that’s normal, right? I mean, everyone feels like garbage when they’re pregnant, right?”
“Not everyone. But yeah, lots of people.” She looked at her niece. “The . . . the nurse said everything looks perfect.”
“That’s good.” There was a pause.
Ophelia’s head was bowed, those snarled curls a cloud around her face. Melissa took a chance and reached to touch the back of Ophelia’s hand. “What are you thinking, Phee?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I never had a sister or brother before. But Mama lived with this guy? And he had a baby, like a year old? She could walk and talk a little. She was really cute. I liked her.”
“How long did you live with them?” Melissa asked. Ophelia had never mentioned this. Nor had Kaitlyn in their infrequent phone calls.
“I don’t know. But it was nice. Like a family, you know?”
It was so rare that Ophelia offered anything personal to her. Melissa felt like she was holding a bubble, and any movement would pop it.
“Why did you leave?”
“I don’t really remember. They started fighting, I guess. I was, like, four or five. I just remember the little girl. Bitty, we called her. We slept in the same room.”
“Do you think . . . Well, how do you feel about me having a baby?”
She looked down at their hands, then up again at Melissa. “Guess it means we’re stuck with Doofus.”
“Other than that, I mean.”
Another shrug. “Does it matter?”
“It does.” And it did. It was surprising how much it mattered.
“It’d be nice to have a . . . I don’t know. Cousin, I guess?”
“Almost like a brother or sister.”
Ophelia gave her a look, warning her not to push it. “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?”
“Not yet.” Melissa paused. “Do you want to come to one of my appointments? You can already hear the heartbeat.”
“Sure!” Then, as if embarrassed by her enthusiasm, she added, “I mean, I guess.”
“Great.” Melissa smiled at her.
“I gotta go to school.”
“Okay. Thanks, Ophelia.”
“For what?”
“I felt like a jerk because of last night. Now I feel better.” She smiled at her niece again.
“Whatever. Bye.”
The bubble popped. But it had been there, even so.
CHAPTER 21
Lillie
I had watched You and Your Stupid Oysters seventeen times, and I wasn’t even a little bit ashamed. Beth had called me moments after the vomit explosion happened, then again an hour later when Tanner uploaded it.
It truly was a thing of beauty, because I knew—I knew—Melissa had planned the entire evening to be set up as the #MostPerfectMoment of #OurBliss #BunInTheOven #OurBabyStory. Oh, yes, I followed her on Instagram. Of course I did. It was a public page, and I’d made an account under a fake name. Just because I’d seen her as a patient didn’t mean I couldn’t look at her pictures. Ever since I’d learned she was Brad’s mistress, I followed her, just to see how incredibly shallow she was.
Her photos had started in New York with a zillion pictures of her and her father—sorry, husband. Their apartment. Their vacations. Her perfect body in designer workout clothes, #selfcare #fitnessjunkie #workout. Of her beautiful face, #playingwithmakeup #chanel #skincare. Her incredible clothes. Her stunning view, NYC and Wellfleet editions. The beautiful dinner she’d made. Her beautiful closet, for God’s sake. Then we moved on to Ophelia . . . #niece #fostering #girlpower #fostercare #fosterchild #fostermom #lovemygirl. Once she moved here, it was #StellaMaris #CapeCodLiving #sunset #beachlife #SandBetweenMyToes, and the hashtag I hated most in her case, #blessed.
Then came engagement photos of her and Brad frolicking on the beach, in the long golden grass, Brad down on one knee. (And please, you know it was all staged. She probably had Steven Spielberg directing the whole thing.) More nauseating hashtags . . . #ISaidYes! #MyTrueLove #CapeCodJoy #InSicknessAndInHealth. Sure, lady. Wait till he gets a cold. You’ll want to smother him with your $200 pillows.
The wedding photos had just appeared (minus me, alas). #MarriedMyBestFriend. #HappilyEverAfter. #Bralissa #Bride #brideandgroom #wedding #weddingday #weddingdress #weddingcake #weddingveil #couplegoals #celebrate #celebration #cloudnine #happiness #FairchildsForever #HappilyEverFairchild.
So you could see how watching them both vomit up their dinners, hearing her screech at Bradley . . . Well, let’s say I was quite pleased with karma today.
But my first thought had been Dylan. After Beth had called me last night to say the video was online and going viral fast, I texted Bridiot. Tell your son the news before he sees it on YouTube. Brad hadn’t responded, and when I’d called Dylan this morning and then again at four, the call had gone to voice mail. He’d texted me later, saying only, Everything’s fine, studying for a big test, TTYL.
Did that mean he knew already? Or was Brad going to force me to tell him before he saw the video? What if he’d already seen it?
God, I missed Dylan. Things we would have once talked about over dinner, or in the car, or sitting on the porch were now reduced to a few brief words in a text, sometimes sent hours and hours after I reached out. It was so hard, wondering if your kid was okay, not being able to tell.
In a few days, he’d be going to someone else’s house for Thanksgiving for the first time in his life. I’d have my dad over. Hannah, if she wasn’t seeing the Moms, which, given Beatrice’s plans to move, she probably was. Wanda, Addo and my beautiful goddaughter, Leila, always came. It wouldn’t be like I was home alone all day.
Maybe I’d ask Ben, if he didn’t have other plans.
Ben had been living in the studio for a week. It wasn’t horrible, seeing his light on when I came home. He’d fed Zeus on Wednesday, when a labor had gone long at the hospital. He was quiet; he left early, came back after dark and didn’t have much stuff. But I was wary . . . I knew he was reporting to my father. Not that I had anything to hide.