Goddess of Suburbia Read online

  So, when after a mere six months together that stick—you know the one—turned up with two pink lines, I didn’t panic. I thought, well, now I have an excuse to be with this person forever. Oh, that was the other reason I married him. He was my “baby daddy.” That stemmed from the sex, though, didn’t it?

  Sure, I was nervous he would bolt. Who wouldn’t be? But I just felt like it was fate that made the condom break. Fate that made his sperm leak out and join my egg. I still feel that way when I look at my daughter, the most amazing accident ever—even now, when she’s a bundle of teenage hormones, when she is so tightly wound that I swear I can see her vibrate. She wears her new body like armor. I wish I was that confident as a teenager. I was all Farrah Fawcett wings, braces and jutting elbows and knees. I was so scrawny; my nickname was “Stick.”

  Emma carries herself like she’s twenty-five: hips swaying, it’s almost a strut. It scares the crap out of me. It’s one thing to get accidentally pregnant on the doorstep of thirty; quite another thing entirely to get knocked up at sixteen or, god forbid, younger. I ask her about boys—silence. I tried to have the talk with her when she got her period. Now you are a woman. She slammed the door in my face with the chilling words, “I know all about it, Ma.”

  “How?” I wanted to yell. “You’re my baby.” She was barely eleven. I got my period at that age too, and I knew nothing. When my mother gave me the Now you are a woman talk, I was completely horrified—sure I would never do that. I wanted to know where Emma got her information. I knew that health class didn’t cover the topic until the next semester. I never did find out, but it kept me awake at night wondering how much she knew and how she felt about it—horrified, as I was, or intrigued?

  I had become so obsessed thinking about Emma’s burgeoning sexuality and what kind of trouble might be in store that I was neglecting my own a bit. When Nick made his request before one of his many trips, whispering, “I need something to keep you near,” I thought, this is our glue, we need this. And then, What if I don’t and he strays? He held his cell phone in his palm, so harmless. “No one will see it. Come on, it’ll be fun,” he pleaded. “I’ll just hold it up over us and take a quick video. Then I can look at it when I’m lonely in Boston or Baltimore or wherever it is I’m heading next.”

  “I’m all cottage cheesy,” I protested.

  “You look phenomenal,” Nick soothed. “Seriously, Max, why can’t you just realize how beautiful you are and how much I love to look at you?” He ran his hands down the length of my body, from neck to feet as he murmured, “Would I love to do this if I didn’t find you beautiful? Loosen up. Let go of all of your crazy hang-ups. Just be. Come on, how often do we get to do this?”

  He was right. It was a rare morning that all the kids were in school and we were both home with nothing on our agenda but a little canoodling. After my fourth I got my tubes tied. I seemed to get pregnant from just a look, and now we didn’t even have to worry about birth control. Nick gave me his best puppy dog look, the one he reserved specifically to ask for very special favors.

  “Believe me, most forty-four year olds would kill to look like you. Most twenty-five year olds would kill to look like you. I bet you still weigh what you did when I met you.”

  Nick could believe whatever he wanted. He could think I bounced back like Heidi Klum, but the truth was that after four kids, the weight had rearranged itself. I may weigh the same (OK, what’s a pound, or five?), but a greater proportion of that weight has settled around my hips and butt—sort of an evolutionary nod to when mothers needed a shelf to perch their young on while they wandered in search of berries.

  No matter what changes pregnancy and birth had wrought, though, my husband always had a voracious appetite for my body, standing at attention at even the slightest indication that I was ready for a little recreation. A glance could make that man hard. And I was always grateful, really grateful, except after delivering my babies when my breasts were leaking and sore, my bottom felt like a Mac truck had passed through it, and my mind was on one thing—sleep. For years it seemed like an endless round of diapers, nursing, toddler tantrums and toilet training. We’d finally emerge from the haze briefly, rediscover each other and boom, I was pregnant again. We did have a longer break in between the third and fourth, though, and, believe me, I was elated each time. I truly loved being pregnant, but each kid widened the quickly growing chasm between us. When our youngest hit four last spring, we finally got back in the saddle, so to speak. It was good, really good, to be there—at least until our getting back in the saddle was shared with an international audience.

  Honestly though, there have been times when I wondered if Nick only loved me when I was naked. We argued so much out of bed about petty things like who unloaded the dishwasher more often, or why there were four loads of laundry in baskets at the foot of our bed. It infuriated Nick when I couldn’t manage to get the clothes folded, even though I didn’t go to work. Our arguments were like the tiny cracks that will eventually crumble a foundation. We almost collapsed many times, saved only by falling into bed, falling into each other. Even after four kids; a dog, a cat, a guinea pig and countless fish; a house; a minivan—we still connected, still stoked each other’s desire.

  So how could I say no to his request to just make a little video—a tiny short video? The thought that he would be alone in his room with just my image comforted me. It eased my worry, valid or not, that he might satisfy his sexual cravings with some anonymous person during his many travels. He didn’t seem unhappy on the surface, but sometimes I had this vague feeling that there was something brewing just beneath his veneer of perfection. Sadness? Restlessness? Frustration with all of our little fights? I wasn’t even sure. It was just my intuition and nothing I could put my finger on, but it made me nervous as hell.

  Nick was still, at forty-five years old, in amazing shape. He jogged three nights a week after the kids were in bed and shunned sweets for fruit. If he wanted to get a little something on the side, it would be no problem for him. Sometimes it seemed like he had so many opportunities, especially with the young hostesses who guided him into the kitchen to peddle his wares. I did believe him when he said he’d never stray, and this little video just seemed like insurance.

  I said, “Okay, I’ll do it. If it’ll really keep you company while you’re away and make you less lonely.” I told myself it would stay on his phone. In that way it was safer than using a video camera—no worries that a babysitter would pop in a DVD for the kids and find something X-rated, gasping as he or she raced to find the stop button. No worries that my children would be in therapy for the rest of their lives after having glimpsed their parents’ naked forms plastered across the flat screen. No, it would be fine. It might even give a little jolt to our marriage. It will stay on his phone, I told myself again as he raised the camera eye over us. Only, it didn’t.

  ***

  I was at the kitchen table immersed in writing out checks, cursing myself for not setting up online payment accounts for the stack of bills in front of me, when I heard the blood-curdling scream. My mom-locator told me it was coming from Emma’s room. I bounded up the stairs two at a time. Okay, so I took the first two at once, then walked gingerly up the rest rubbing my hamstring. Grim scenarios darted through my mind. Emma had fallen while dancing around to music on her iPhone and cracked her head open on the desk. Masked kidnappers were pulling her out the window, never mind that it was broad daylight and her bedroom is on the second floor. I tried to calm myself as I reached the last step. Maybe it was just that the wrong boy texted her. I threw open the door to hear another scream, this one even more bone chilling. “Motherrrr!!!!!”

  Emma has never called me “Mother.” First it was “Mommy,” then “Mom.” Now, I’m lucky if I get a “Ma.” I was filled with dread. I’ve committed some faux pas—of that I was sure—for which it will take Emma days to get over, possibly weeks, if there is no retail apology. “Yes, Sweetie? What’s wrong?” I asked brightly. First ru
le of parenting: never let them smell your fear.

  She swiveled in her desk chair, her face white as the loose-leaf paper in her open binder, her clear blue eyes narrowed in the death stare I’ve perfected—the one that gets my kids to stop cold in their tracks. Grainy images flashed on the computer monitor behind her. I leaned over her shoulder to look a little closer. My mouth dropped open. “Emma! Are you watching what I think you’re watching?”

  In response, Emma spit, “Look a little closer, Mother. You’ll know exactly what I’m watching.” I really truly wanted to smack her. I wanted to put her in her place and tell her how disrespectful she was being, but something caught my eye. That something was my face. My face plastered across the monitor, mouth open, tongue darting over my lips, eyes closed. Now it was my turn to scream, but no sound came out. Nothing.

  I quickly reached over and clicked the little “x” at the top of the screen. I clicked it about ten times before turning back to Emma. I said nothing. “Care to explain?” she asked. A page pulled right out of my playbook, just like the death stare. It’s my one size fits all question for failing grades, cell phone overage, broken vase. “Care to explain” throws the ball back in their court. Makes them own up to their actions.

  Emma was tapping her foot, staring me down. It’s truly bittersweet when your kids are taller than you are. She must have gotten her height, like those azure eyes, from Nick—five feet, seven inches at fourteen and a half. She wouldn’t grow much more, but already she was a head above me. “Well?” she breathed. “Why, why, why would you ruin my life like this? What kind of sick people are you? How was I even born into this family?”

  I had no answers. I want your father to love me, sounded too desperate. “Where did you get this?” I asked quietly.

  “Ashley e-mailed it to me. You know, Ashley? The one you said was ‘too fast’ and I shouldn’t be friends with her, because she wore eyeliner in sixth grade? Like half the girls didn’t wear eyeliner by then. Ashley’s the most popular girl in my grade. She probably sent this to everyone.”

  Emma started pacing and running her hands through her ridiculously shiny, perfectly coiffed hair. She never touches her hair once it’s done and snaps at anyone who does, yelling, “Causes frizz! Hands off!” She ran her hands through it so much that it started to look like it had when she was a little girl coming in from playing in the snow. I’d take her hat off and her hair would stand straight up. Every time she’d run to look in the mirror as soon as that hat came off and laugh so hard – rolling giggles. My heart ached from missing that little girl. Now she won’t even wear a hat, no matter how cold. “It’ll wreck my hair,” she hisses if I even suggest it.

  “Ohmigod—what if she sent it to Jack? Ohmigod!” It came out as one word that Emma kept saying in a whisper—a mantra, “Ohmigod. Ohmigod.”

  I moved slowly and put my arms around her. She threw them off and snarled, “Get out of my room. I never want to see you again. Really, I don’t. I’ve heard of kids who divorce their parents. It can be done.”

  Walking down the stairs, I realized that I was so concerned with Emma seeing the video, so completely horrified that she’d seen me like that, I didn’t stop to think how it even got on the Internet. I didn’t even ponder why it got on the Internet and how I was ever going to fix this situation. In the annals of parental embarrassment, this was off the scales. Even I knew that. This was going to take more than a trip to the mall to fix, even with a stop at Nordstrom’s.

  Did Nick lose his cell phone? Did he leave it somewhere that someone, anyone, could have seen the video and sent it to himself or uploaded it? No, I would have known if he lost his phone. Plus, he’d told me that he decided to upload the video to his laptop right away, so he could delete it from his phone. This way there was no chance the kids could accidentally click on the video while looking at his camera roll or even playing a game. Did he leave his laptop somewhere? Maybe the creepy guy from accounting Nick always told me about logged on and saw it. That was really unlikely. It had to be Nick. No one else had access to his laptop. He had a password to get on it. The creepy accounting guy could never even get near the video.

  I looked at my watch. I had half an hour, forty minutes tops, to figure this out before having to pick up Will and Trevor from Hebrew school. If I slipped in a Thomas DVD for Sam, I might actually get to use most of that time. “Sam,” I called. “Do you want to watch Thomas?”

  Sam bounded into the room excitedly, shouting, “Thomas! Thomas!” I settled him in the den with a bowl of Goldfish crackers and headed down to the basement. What would I do without Thomas, my faithful friend?

  Sam had so many varied interests and was so ahead of his age cognitively, but I loved that he still got excited for Thomas. I knew I would mourn the day when it started to bore him.

  Nick would be home soon, I realized, so I had to hurry. My half hour was whittled down even more. He had left his laptop in his basement office—a rarity—because he had a dentist appointment and was running late. He always took it everywhere with him, so this was probably my only chance to snoop around. I had heard of guys sharing videos with friends, although, honestly I couldn’t imagine Nick posting it. I thought it was mostly twenty-somethings who did things like that, but maybe men in their forties did it to prove their virility. Nick certainly didn’t need to do that, but maybe it was some strange, swaggering thing and he sent it to his single buddy, Pete. Smarmy Pete, who has Internet sex and probably would know exactly how to distribute a video.

  I opened his laptop, clicked on “administrator” and typed in the password that Nick had given to me when my laptop was dead and I needed to use his to write up a PTA flyer. There was that bright blue “e” for Internet Explorer, just waiting for me to click and snoop. I prided myself on not being a snoop. I had never checked Nick’s e-mail before this. Quite honestly, I didn’t want to know if there was something questionable. I used to be a snoop when I was young and the memory of walking in on my boyfriend cheating was still fresh, but my snooping had caused more pain than it was worth, so I swore off of it. This begged for snooping, though. I would be furious if he forwarded the video to Pete. Furious and a tiny bit flattered. He wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t think I looked at least a little hot. No! I was a feminist. My self-esteem was not so low that sharing that video—objectifying me—would ever be okay.

  I took a deep breath, went to “favorites” and clicked on his e-mail. I didn’t know what I would find in his sent messages or even how long he saved them, but I needed to know how that video got out there and circulating if I had any hope of trying to stop it. Of course the horrible realization that was winding its way around my insides, setting my cheeks aflame, told me that once it’s out there, it’s out there. And, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to take it back.

  Chapter Two

  IT’S A TERRIBLE FEELING, like you’re free falling, knowing that your husband is lying to you and not knowing why. Not knowing if it’s a cover-up of epic proportions or simply a little white lie. Nick is an accomplished liar. I’ve witnessed lies of all shapes and sizes slip over his silver tongue. That he finished college is a big one. He was six credits short—just two classes, but he never got around to doing it. He started working, and that was that, but he tells everyone that he graduated early. Lying is second nature to him, but the lies he told me were always sandpaper lies—smoothing out the roughness of life. They were lies designed to avoid confrontation, not malicious lies. Sure he bought me a birthday card on time—he just left it at work. No, he didn’t forget to pick up milk; he just planned on stopping home first. Little things. But, in snooping around, I knew I had stumbled upon something big—a great big fat lie that would likely destroy us.

  When I clicked on Hotmail to check his sent messages, the air just left me. There were at least twenty messages to “hotmama77” in just the past few days. Who the hell was “hotmama77” and why was my husband writing to her? I was about to click on the last message when Sam wailed from
the top of the stairs, “Mommmmy, I hurt myself! Ow, ow, owie, ow!” Of course my fear of Sam falling headfirst down the basement steps outweighed my burning need to ferret out exactly who “hotmama77” was.

  I closed Hotmail, snapped the laptop shut and climbed the rickety basement steps slowly, calculating my next move. How would I find out without screaming or accusing? More importantly, would he even tell me the truth if I asked? Could I ever give him the benefit of the doubt? If it was really bad, wouldn’t he have deleted the messages? I reasoned. I had to get back on his e-mail from my laptop, hopefully before he got home. There didn’t seem to be any point in asking him, especially if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  I tended to Sam’s stubbed toe, kissing his little pork chop feet. I knew I would miss those feet when they slimmed down and stretched out. Emma’s feet were bigger than mine already. Trevor’s were about the same size and Will’s were getting pretty close. One tear rolled down my cheek. “What’s the matter, Mommy?” Sam asked in his sugar voice, his hand wiping away the tear.

  “Oh, that tear? That’s just a tear of joy. Your feet are so cute, they make me happy.” Sam looked at me as if I had three heads and for a moment I panicked that he knew my tears had nothing to do with feet at all, but with his possible cheating bastard dad. And, of course there was the fact that there was a sex video of me floating around the Internet that my daughter had seen, virtually guaranteeing a lifetime of therapy. But, then in his sunny four-year-old way he nodded his head and ran off as if my crying over his feet made all the sense in the world.