Mrs. Perfect

“I’ll be right there.” I hang up even as I dash out the door. “Alice,” I call to Mrs. Dunlop, “the bulletins aren’t finished. My youngest wasn’t picked up from school, and I have to go get her.”

“Not to worry, I’ve got it covered,” Alice answers.

I’m flooring it as I drive to Tori’s preschool. It’s actually not that far from Points Elementary, but my guilt is making the distance worse. There is no Annika today. I’m Annika today. I’m in charge of picking up Tori and meeting the school bus.

Thank God the school office is understanding, and after apologizing profusely, I buckle Tori into her seat.

“Annika forgot me,” Tori says quietly.

I can lie to the school staff, but I can’t lie to my own daughter. “No, she didn’t. Mommy did. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

At home we meet the girls’ school bus, and after making them snacks, I get them started at the dining table on their homework. Jemma argues for the first ten minutes that she doesn’t have any homework, and when I go online to the school Web site to show her that she does, she complains that she’s too tired; and when I tell her she’ll feel better when it’s done, she says she wishes Annika were here instead of me.

“That’s nice,” I say, and shove her reading book in front of her face. “Now read. I’m going to quiz you on your reading when you’re done.”

Jemma howls with frustration, and I ignore it, offering Brooke a tight, overly polite smile. “Need Mommy’s help?”

She looks at Jemma and then me and shakes her head. “Noooo.”

“Great, then I’ll just get my book and read in here with you two. It’s book club tonight, and I haven’t finished the book, either.”

I’ve been reading off and on the last few weeks, but I haven’t made great progress, and I’m honestly not sure I want to keep reading. I know it’s the author’s debut novel, but it’s even more depressing than I anticipated, the story of a family torn apart over a husband’s lie and how their lives all unravel, and I can’t stop thinking about Nathan and us. How Nathan’s lie—which became a secret—has pulled us apart whether he’ll admit it or not. Nathan can be angry with me, but he’s in this marriage, too.

I do like that the wife in the novel gets stronger. She was too broken for me in the beginning, made me uncomfortable. I know what it’s like to be so broken, and it hurts. Books seem to be full of hurt. Fortunately, the wife does find herself. She develops a career and gains confidence. Only drawback? Her son now hates her.

I look at my girls. If I end up with a career, will my children hate me?

What a thought.

Fortunately, the phone rings. I’m happy to set down the book and take the call. Soccer practice has been canceled because the fields are too wet. The girls are thrilled to have an unexpectedly free afternoon. I’m not as happy. Now I have no excuse not to keep reading.

I pick up the book, try to concentrate on the story, but the rain drums on the windows and scatters my focus all over again.

I think about Nathan constantly. Obsessively. If only I could talk to someone about what’s happening, but I’ve never had that deep confession kind of relationship with my friends here. To be honest, I’ve never had that kind of friendship with anyone. As a teenager, I was so embarrassed by my family that I dealt with problems by pretending they didn’t exist and keeping everyone but my Christian friends at arm’s length, and even my Christian friends didn’t know about my life at home.

The idea that I could be someone else came to me my senior year. I’d somehow—miraculously—made the Rose Bowl court, and in interviews I became “Taylor” instead of Tammy. It was easy enough. People believe what they want to believe.

When I applied to colleges, I put my name down as Tammy Taylor Jones, and then once accepted to USC, I just quietly started dropping the Tammy off of everything until I was simply Taylor Jones by the time I graduated.

If I’d had close friends in high school, maybe there would have been someone to question my new identity—Taylor being far thinner, blonder, and more sophisticated than Tammy—but I had no one close. I’d never allowed anyone to get close. I couldn’t, not with Mom moving in and out of our lives.

For the first time in a long time, I wish I had good friends, old friends, friends who could listen, counsel me.

Patti’s my closest friend here, but I’m reluctant to open up to her. It’s not a matter of trust. I know I could trust her. It’s just that my Bellevue friends don’t have “real problems.” Lucy was the only one with a real problem, and look what’s happened to her.

The kids are delighted to go to Patti’s house and even happier when Don announces he’s ordered boxes of Papa John’s pizza and garlic breadsticks for dinner. Since Nathan left, the kids haven’t been out much, and pizza is suddenly a big treat.

“Don’t you feed your kids?” Don teases me. He and Patti have been friends with Nathan and me forever. We’ve practically raised our kids together. Don’s another native Californian. He and Nathan grew up in Hillsborough together, went to different colleges, and then ended up in Seattle for work.

“You’d think not, huh?” I answer.

“So what’s your husband up to? Haven’t seen him lately.”

Nathan hasn’t told anyone about his new job. But then I’m not surprised. He didn’t tell even his closest friends about being let go from McKee.

“He’s working. Traveling.”

“Well, tell him to call me. I’ve got some news to share.”

“I will.” I kiss the kids good-bye, and Patti and I head out the door.

I ride with Patti to book club. Patti’s unusually quiet during the drive. I shoot her a worried glance. “You okay?”

“Yes.” She hesitates. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “I have news to tell you, too. I’m just not sure how to tell you.”

“You’re not getting divorced, are you?”

“No! God, no.” Horrified, Patti shakes her head. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

She frowns as she drives the short distance from Clyde Hill to Medina. “What if we talk after book club? Get a coffee and sit down. I just hate to spring it on you and then not be able to discuss everything properly.”

I’m not at all reassured, but I can’t force the issue. As we pull up in front of Jen’s glass-and-steel home, one of those modern marvels that become features in architectural design magazines, I try to relax, but it’s hard. I haven’t read the book all the way through. I’m stressed out about things at home. And now I wonder what it is Patti wants to discuss with me. It sounds serious. I just hope it’s not health related.

Jen’s kids don’t go to Points Elementary. Medina children go to Lakes, and if you think the Points parents are perfectionists, you should meet the Lakes parents. Seems like most of the moms are blond and fit and wear size 0.

Jen opens the door to her house. She’s on a small lane tucked off Evergreen Point Road just a hop, skip, and jump from Bill Gates.

Although Jen’s fit and an itty-bitty size 0, she’s not blond, she’s Asian—Chinese, actually—and of all the Medina moms, she’s my favorite. First, she’s smart, and second, she’s funny. She has a proper laugh, too, the kind of laugh that makes a room happy. Her husband’s a sexy surgeon who grew up in California’s farmland. Even though they’re both in their early forties, they look like lithe twenty-somethings.

“Welcome,” Jen says, giving Patti and me each a kiss as we cross the threshold. “You know where everything is. Help yourself to wine, Anthony’s pomegranate martinis, and the nibbles.”

Patti and I go with the pomegranate-tinis and snack on baked Brie, crackers, and delicate clusters of red grapes while catching up with Raine and Suze. Across the room by floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, Lucy is having a heart-to-heart with Kate and Ellen. I’m glad to see Lucy here, although she doesn’t look well at all.

Monica arrives moments later, but tonight she’s not alone. She’s bro

ught—God forbid—Marta Zinsser.

My jaw drops as Monica and Marta enter the sunken living room decorated in grays, pewter, and shots of icy lilac. I crumple the cracker in my hand.

What is Monica doing? Doesn’t she know about the bad blood between Marta and me? Or is Monica too immersed in her younger son’s world at $15,000-a-year Little Door, a point she used to work into almost every conversation?

Monica introduces Marta around the room, leaving Patti and me for last.

“Girls,” Monica says with her too wide smile, “do you know my friend Marta Zinsser? She’s a Points Elementary mom, although I think she would have loved Little Door.”

As Monica talks, I keep thinking that something about her looks different. She still has my hairstyle, but her teeth aren’t the same. They’re huge. Long. She’s had them capped. But the veneers are a little too big. They look like—gulp—horse teeth.

“It’s nice that you’re able to join us,” Patti greets Marta.

I nod my head, my smile fixed. “Hello, Marta.”

Marta’s smile is just as superficial. “I didn’t realize you were in a book club.”

My eyebrows lift. Does she think I can’t read? “I just show up for the wine,” I answer coolly.

“That’s not true,” Patti contradicts. “Taylor started the book club. It was her idea. Then she enlisted me and I enlisted Kate, and the group grew from there. We’ve been together for how long now? Four years? Five?”

“I think Taylor likes the idea of being in a book club more than she actually likes reading book club picks.” Monica laughs. “She thinks most of our selections are depressing.”

I shrug. “I do. Sad stories of the poor and working class.”

Monica laughs again. “Taylor can’t relate to blue-collar America.”

I wish I really were mean. I’d spill my drink on Monica’s slouchy pale gold knit tank, a tank that looks suspiciously like one hanging in my closet. In fact, the whole outfit—tank, wide gold belt, and long gold skirt—is Chanel, or knock-off Chanel.

“Is that a new ensemble?” I ask Monica, shifting gears.

She preens. “My personal shopper located it for me after I told her about an ad I saw in a magazine.”

Or on my body, I think sourly. “I have the same top, but I didn’t buy the skirt. It was just a tad too glitz for me.” I walk off to refill my pomegranate-tini.