Allison Winn Scotch - Time of My Life: A Novel

Time of My Life

CONTENTS

Chapter One

D ing. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Somewhere in the tunnels of my left ear, I hear my car alerting me to the fact that my door is open. I take vague notice of my brain accepting the message, then I quickly ignore it. The dinging, to which I am now immune, as if someone were pinching me on my arm over and over again until that same spot becomes numb, continues.

I run my hands over the cool wood of the steering wheel, then onto the buttery leather seat below, flicking my hands underneath the sweat-basted backs of my thighs. The brochure to this carthe one that was filled with a couple who so closely resembled Bar-bie and Ken that my daughter actually pointed to them and said, Barbie, which my husband and I applauded to the point of revelry (such that people in the dealership craned their necks to see if wed been given a free car or something), because my daughters vocabulary consisted of, to date, approximately seventeen words, so Barbie was another milestoneactually made you believe that if you bought the car, you could also buy the life. As if on the weekends, wed be careening down sides of mountains or hurtling through white-water-filled rivers or picnicking in a dewy, crisply green meadow at sunset with a field of sunflowers just behind us.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Mama.

More.

Dog.

Dada.

No.

Yes.

Kiss.

Milk.

Ball.

Up.

Balloon.

Hi.

Bottle.

Cup.

Bye.

Down.

Sleep.

I run the list of Katies words over in my mind. I have them down cold, of course, because I was the mother who knew these things. I was the mother who dutifully jotted down every milestone (4 months, 3 weeks: Katie rolled over today! Far ahead of the 6-month target!), who nursed her until her first birthday exactly, per the American Academy of Pediatrics recommendation (Im so sad to give it up, I told friends as wrinkles washed across my forehead to note my air of sincerity), and who, as I have mentioned, tallied up Katies vocabulary to ensure that she was on track to fulfill her potential. Seventeen words. A gasp ahead of other eighteen-month-olds.

And now, we also had Barbie.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Splat.

My eyes whip over to the upper corner of the windshield, where mildew-colored bird shit slowly oozes down. Great, I think. Just fucking great. Theres never any bird shit in the goddamn brochure. I inhale and try to release the stress, as my Pilates teacher had taught me to do every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning from 10:00 to 11:00, after my nanny had arrived, and just before I went to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner. I feel the air fill my chest, and it expands like a helium balloon.

I count to five and try not to gag. Its hard, after all, to clear my mind when the scent of fetid milk is wafting from the backseat. On the way home from a playdate yesterday, Katie had dumped her sippy cup on her head, for apparently no reason whatsoever, and since Id already exhausted myself pretending to dote on the kids at this seemingly never-ending excruciatingly boring playdate, during which all the moms discussed diaper changes and nanny problems and potential preschool applications, I opted not to clean her car seat. Fuck it, I told myself, as I pulled my darling daughter and her crisp near-black curls from her saturated seat and called her a silly willy for dousing herself despite knowing better. Just fuck it.

And so I did. Which is why my Range Rover, which should have still smelled like a fine blend of lemon cleaner and shoe polish, now reeked like petrified puke.

The bird shit is snaking its way into the crack between the windshield and the side of the car when I notice that Mrs. Kwon is waving at me from inside of the dry cleaner. She is frantically, frantically flashing her hand through the air, with an alarmed, toothy smile that she wears just about every time I see her. Sometimes the alarm fades into cunning, but the toothiness remains the same.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

I heave myself from my car and make the steep step down to the pavement. I turn and look at the backs of my legs: They glisten from the perspiration and are pocked with marks from the seat, such that they form the perfect illusion of sheeny cellulite. I slam the door shut.

Suddenly, there is quiet. I couldnt hear the dings. But now, I do hear the quiet.

Y OU NO LOOK so good, Mrs. Kwon says to me. The rack of clothes that hangs across and throughout the ceiling is snaking its way forward until she presses a button, and it stops abruptly. She grabs a pole and reaches up to unhook Henrys, my husbands, shirts. You not sleeping? Because you really no look so good.

I press my lips together and morph my face into something like a smile. I can feel my cheeks digging into themselves, my dimples cratering.

No, I say, and shake my head. Not sleeping too much, I guess.

What wrong? Mrs. Kwon asks, as she wrestles the shirts down to our level.

Nothing. I shrug. My face muscles are starting to tremble from the weight of the forced smile. Nothing at all.

You not being honest, Mrs. Kwon chastises. When you no sleep, something is always wrong. She lands the shirts, much like how I imagine a fisherman lands his catch, and splays them across the counter.

I dont answer. Instead, I sift through my purse for my wallet.

Have you talk to husband about it? Mrs. Kwon is relentless. You always picking up his things, but I never meet him. Why? Where is he? Why he never pick up his own shirts?

Hes working, I say.

Eh, she responds. Men always working. They not realizing that the women are working, too. She gestures behind her. My husband think that because I am wife, I have to clean, cook, and still do dry-clean business. What does he do? Nothing! She shimmies her hands even more exuberantly than normal.

I smile with what I hope to be sympathy and wait for my change, as she punches the cash register with fervor.

You know what you need? she asks, as the drawer to the register bounces open. More sex. I feel myself turning a hue of purple, which she quickly detects. Dont you be embarrassed! Every woman need more sex. You sleep better. Your marriage better. Sex make all things better.

Well, unfortunately, I say, trying to swallow the mortification that comes with your dry cleaner giving you advice on your carnal activities, Henry is in London. And will be for at least another week. I dont mention that Henry is nearly always in London or San Francisco or Hong Kong or somewhere that isnt our quaint, homey suburb tucked away thirty miles from Manhattan, where people flee from the city life like fugitives who arent sure what theyre outrunning. Henrys constant travel was the price we paid for his success as the youngest partner at his boutique investment bank.

Oooh, that too bad. Mrs. Kwons eyes grow small. You do look like you need some good sex. She shrugs and flashes her teeth again. Maybe next week you look better!

Maybe, I think, as I plod out to my sure-to-make-my-life-rosy new car. But, then again, probably not.

R IGHT THERE, I nearly moan out load. Yes, harder right there.

Garland must have intuited my angst because at that very moment, I feel his fingertips knead into my upper shoulders like a baker might bread.