Mrs. Perfect

I try to fall back asleep, but a little voice inside my head is yapping at me. If I don’t get up right now, the girls are going to be late. They’ll miss their bus. I’ll end up driving them. They’ll get tardies.

I don’t care.

Let them be late. Let them miss school. It’s just elementary school. They’re just children. And I’m just falling apart.

I must have fallen back to sleep because I’m suddenly being shaken awake by Brooke. “Wake up, Mom. School started a half hour ago. . . . Mom, get up. We’re late.”

I roll over onto my back and squint at her. “Is everyone else up?”

“Jemma’s still asleep. Tori’s watching TV.” Brooke cocks her head and studies me. “You look sad, Mom.”

I’m about to deny it, about to put on my happy mom face, when I can’t do it. Can’t fake it. Not now, not again. “I am.”

“Is it about the house?” she asks carefully.

I nod a little. “And other things.”

“Like Dad living in Omaha.”

I nod again. “He’s too far away.”

Brooke reaches over to smooth my hair. It’s a strangely maternal touch from my middle wild child. “I love you, Mom. You really are the best mom. Even if you do have too many meetings.”

I catch her hand, kiss it. “Do I have too many meetings?”

“Yeah.”

“If I worked, I’d have a lot of meetings.”

“But I like that you don’t work. I like that I can see you every day.”

“If I worked, you’d still see me every day. You’d see me before school and after school.”

Her small shoulders shrug. “But it wouldn’t be the same, and most of the moms don’t work. In fact, no one’s mom works.”

I roll into a sitting position and drop another kiss on the top of her head before sliding from bed. “Go wake up Jemma. I’ll get dressed quickly and drive you girls to school. Tell Jemma to hurry and grab a Pop-Tart on her way to the car because we’re leaving soon.”

Brooke runs out and I strip in the bathroom, tie up my hair, and pull a shower cap over my head. I don’t have time to wash my hair today, and even if I did have time, I don’t think I could.

The old blue feeling is back, and it’s stronger than ever. I turn on the shower full blast, but it doesn’t seem to help. I’m so sad, and I work so hard to not be sad. I work so hard to be up, on, optimistic, strong. I work endlessly at keeping a positive attitude when the truth is, I want to give up sometimes and give in to whatever it is dragging me down, pulling me under.

This morning I feel heavy with it, heavy and dark and slow. I can’t tell anyone, not even Nathan, because people expect more from me, and now it seems Nathan expects the worst.

But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how it is to lose one’s self, lose one’s mind. Or at the very least, fear losing one’s mind. And the mind is a tricky thing to lose. Lose your keys or your hat and you’re a silly, head-in-the-sky dreamer. Lose your wallet or passport one too many times and you’re careless. But lose your mind . . . ? It’s really not socially acceptable. Issues of mental soundness tend to make people uncomfortable. I have yet to hear mentions of nervous breakdowns in cordial cocktail chatter.

Somehow I end up dressed in a smart Ralph Lauren cashmere-and-tweed jacket and matching skirt, brown Wolford tights, and high-heeled Jimmy Choo brown buckle boots. I brush my hair hard before drawing it back in a low ponytail. I smile robotically at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I still look good on the outside. No one will know I’m cracking.

I park in front of the school in the No Park zone. I’m running into the office for only a moment, and I’m not the only one who does it. All the moms leave their cars there if they need to dash into the school office for something.

I walk all three girls into the office. “I overslept,” I tell Alice Dunlop with a shrug as my girls take their tardy passes and dash off to class. It’s not a good excuse. The girls’ tardy will be unexcused, but I don’t have it in me to lie.

“Not feeling well?” Alice asks.

“I didn’t, no, not last night,” I answer.

“We have to sell our house,” Tori announces, standing next to me.

Alice’s eyebrows lift. “You’re selling your house?”

I wasn’t ready for the news to go public, and while Alice isn’t the type to gossip, walls in the school office do have ears.

“Nathan’s taken a job in Omaha,” I say lightly. “It doesn’t make sense to have two big houses.”

Alice leans on the counter, concerned. “Is this a permanent position, Taylor?”

“We don’t know yet.” I’m still smiling. “It was such a great opportunity for Nathan that we thought let’s just go for it. See what happens.”

“We don’t see Daddy anymore,” Tori volunteers helpfully.

I put my hand on top of her head. “Tori, Daddy was just home this weekend. He can’t come home every weekend. Not from Omaha.” I look at Alice, careful to keep my expression perfectly light and comfortable. “There aren’t any direct flights from Omaha,” I add for Alice’s benefit. “It’s a long trip back and forth.”

“I can imagine.” Alice tut-tuts. “It’s got to be hard on all of you.”

“It’s a challenge, but we’re doing fine. The girls are troupers.” With my hand still on Tori’s head, I steer her toward the door. “Now I better get this one to school before she’s late, too.” I wave good-bye and we leave the school office, Tori holding my hand, skipping next to me.

My BlackBerry beeps at me as I leave Tori’s preschool. Auction meeting today at one p.m. That’s right. The meeting is in three hours, but I’m not prepared. Haven’t followed up on anything on my to-do list. I consider canceling the meeting, but I can’t do that. The auction is in March. It’s nearly November. Now is when we have to really get serious.

Sliding behind the steering wheel, I shut the door and then start the car. As I back out of the school parking lot, I get that crazy lost feeling again, as though I’m not here, not real, not going to make it unless I do something fast. Like take something, drink something . . . No, I’ll just go shop. Shopping always makes me feel better. When I shop I get to be someone else: someone more interesting, more together, more powerful.

People wonder how you can get addicted to shopping, and it’s like this: When you’re making decisions—even decisions about what to buy—you feel strong. In control. I want this. No, I don’t think so. Or, give me two of that, one in each color. As you make decisions, as you take charge, you feel empowered. You feel as though you matter. It sounds ridiculous, but when I’m at Nordstrom’s or somewhere else, the salesgirls look at me, they listen, they hurry to help me.

But with only $1,200 in the checking account and no credit cards left, I can’t shop.

I guess I’m going to have to live with this heavy blue fog until it lifts.

I’m at Tully’s early to push tables together. Patti arrives just after me and offers to put in our drink order. “That would be great,” I answer, dragging a few empty chairs from other tables to our cluster.

“The usual? Short, skim, no foam latte?”

“Yep.”

While she stands in line, I go to the ladies’ room to wash my hands. My face catches me by surprise. I look hard. Brittle.

Old.

&n

bsp; Little lines web my eyes. More lines frame my mouth. A deeper line is there between my eyebrows.

I practice a smile. I look marginally better. Next I rummage in my purse for my makeup bag and run warm autumny copper lipstick over my lips and add a similar copper blush to my cheeks. I darken my eyeliner. Smile at myself again.

Better. Younger. Brighter.

No wonder the cosmetic industry is so huge.

I put away my makeup bag, feeling like a faker. But faking it isn’t all bad. In Los Angeles, fakers are called actors and they get paid big bucks.

After leaving the ladies’ restroom, I discover Patti at the table with our coffee. A couple of the other moms arrive. Within another five minutes, everyone else shows up.

Unfortunately, five minutes into the meeting, Patti shares that she’s moving Thanksgiving weekend and, regrettably, this will be her last meeting.

She turns to smile at me. “We’re all lucky Taylor’s the co-chair. She’ll do a great job. She’ll make sure this year’s auction is the best ever.”

My lipstick smile threatens to fall. I wish Patti had waited until the end of the meeting to share her big news. After her announcement, we never really get back on track, and the next ninety minutes slide by in one conversation after another.

I try halfheartedly to steer the discussion onto procurement and how we need a mix of items to generate the most interest, explaining that some auction attendees want to go home with an item that night, while others would rather bid on a future event; but when no one on the committee bites, I give up, sit back, and let everyone talk.

I so wish Patti weren’t leaving. I don’t want to chair the auction by myself. It’s not that I can’t do it, but it won’t be the same. It was fun sharing the work, having someone else to bounce ideas off. And Patti always had a way of making me feel smart, clever. Without her I don’t feel very accomplished at all.

Worrying about the auction, I watch people come and go, including the beautiful blond mother with thick Kim Alexis hair and a Christie Brinkley smile who walks through the doors with her towheaded preteen and her graying husband. The mother and daughter sit at the conference table while the dad waits in line. Soon he’s with them again, and they enjoy their snacks and talk.