My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

25.

After more than a month’s hiatus, I’m back at Seaside Fitness. The first time I walk into Jax’s class, he greets me with a bear hug and a smile, but he doesn’t ask me out or engage in conversation. I’m like yesterday’s forgotten business idea. He’s moved on to someone—or something—else without a backward glance. Perfect. Now I can enjoy hip-hop with no unwanted distractions or hidden agendas. In fact, I can enjoy all my favorite classes again. All except yoga. Because I am still compelled to avoid Charlie.

When I walk into the women’s locker room for the first time since July, the girls welcome me back. They all exclaim at once, “Howdy, stranger. Haven’t seen you in ages.” “Hi there. Were you traveling?” “I hope you haven’t been sick.” “I’ve missed seeing you in power sculpt.”

“Thanks, it’s good to be back,” I say, gratified by the warm greeting. “I was . . . taking a break. Wow, you got new hair,” I say to Amazon Lady, who has abandoned her strawberry-blond tresses for a pixie cut.

“Yeah, I couldn’t stand wearing it long during that heat wave,” she says. “Now I’m not sure I made the right choice.”

“I think it’s cute. But it takes some getting used to.”

“It sure does,” she says with a sigh. “I think I’m experiencing cutter’s remorse.”

Some of the women are seated on benches, others are changing their clothes or stashing items in the lockers. “Ladies, I have a request,” I say in a loud voice. The women stop what they’re doing to give me their attention. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I am terrible with names. I should know you all by name, but I don’t, so could everybody please say your names now, and I promise I’ll try my best to remember?”

“I’m Susie,” says Amazon Lady.

Patch’s name is Carolyn. Dame Donut is Diane – at least that one should be easy to recall, given the alliteration. One by one, they recite their first names. “I think you all know me, but anyway, I’m Judith,” says my former organizational consultant. “By the way, did you finish downsizing to a smaller mini-storage unit?” Leave it to Judge Judy to follow up with clocklike precision on the deadline she’d set for me.

“Yes, I did,” I say, experiencing a flutter of guilt over this fib.

“I am so glad you asked us to do this,” says Diane. “Susie, I’ve been chatting with you in this locker room for two years, and I never knew your name till now. I was too embarrassed to ask.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t know your name either,” Susie says.

“They ought to make us wear name tags in this place,” says Jill.

“No kidding,” says another woman whose name I’m already struggling to recall.

Then Amazon Lady—I mean, Susie—turns to me. “Wait—you haven’t told us your name.”

“My name is Mar . . . garet. Yes. Please call me Margaret.” Mar Meyer never had a good ring to it, anyway. I’m not sure why I was so insistent on changing my name to something that sounded like barbwire. Margaret may be old-fashioned, but it’s kind of pretty. Was it really necessary to make such a drastic break with everything that came before? Instead of throwing away my past, maybe this can be more of a winnowing process. Maybe I can find a way to sift through the good and bad parts of my previous life and hold on to the things that are worth keeping.

. . .

Benny is turning four, and I receive an Evite to his birthday party from Michael and Heather. I RSVP online, declining the invitation as I did last year. It would be much too uncomfortable to spend two hours in the same room with Henry, Alice, and the kids, wearing a phony smile and feigning enjoyment in front of all the guests. Heather calls me after seeing my “No” response. This is unusual – she only initiates contact when I’m coming over to watch Benny, and when she does it’s always via a text exchange. Perhaps she wants to chastise me for my continued boycott of Schuyler family celebrations?

But no.

“Margaret, I get why you don’t want to be there. But Benny’s your only grandchild. Why don’t the three of us plan our own little celebration? I thought we might take him for lunch one day next week at the fish and chips place he likes down on the pier.”

“That’s a great idea, but it doesn’t sound like much of a celebration. How about both of you come to my club before lunch and Benny can swim in the pool?”

“Perfect,” she says. “He’s started morning preschool now, but I can take him out early.” We agree on the Wednesday after the birthday party. It occurs to me how lucky I am Robert doesn’t care when I get my work done as long as I meet all my deadlines. I’ve been AWOL more than usual during business hours, what with the Mrs. Ostrowski business and my renewed enthusiasm for Seaside Fitness, but I shoot him an email every hour or two to reassure him I’m still plugged in, and I burn the midnight oil at my computer to make up for my daytime absences.

I expect a warm, sunny day for our birthday outing as is almost guaranteed in September, and I’m not disappointed. Heather and I take turns playing games in the adult pool with Benny, after which we watch him from our lounge chairs as he splashes around in the kiddie pool and makes tentative friends with a little blond girl around his age. Every five or ten minutes, Benny trots over to our chairs to assure himself we haven’t forgotten him.

“Look at my hands,” he says, showing me how his fingers have pruned up at the tips. He practically shoves them in my eyes, so close I can’t focus. He does the same thing with his mother, then runs his hands through her short curls before hurrying back to the pool as Heather cautions him not to slip and fall.

Amazon Lady/Susie walks up to greet us. “Is this your daughter?” she asks.

“No, but everyone thinks so because of our curly hair,” I say. “This is my daughter-in-law, Heather.” They shake hands. Heather is several inches taller than me and more buxom, almost matching Susie in height. She is also attractive, though not in a conventional way, with high cheekbones and narrow but animated eyes.

Though I’ve belonged to this club for the better part of a year, it’s Benny’s first time in the pool. But I can’t take all the blame for that, with Michael refusing to allow unsupervised visits. He continues to treat me like some paroled criminal who can’t be trusted to interact with the child unless chaperoned by a social worker. Heather pulls out her phone and shows me pictures from last weekend’s birthday party. Among the photos are several close-up shots of the cake, which is in the shape of a firetruck. It’s covered in bright red icing, with windows, doors, and headlights outlined in white piping, and the cake is decorated with miniature plastic bells, ladders, and little firemen. It looks like a dessert you’d see featured on the cover of a cooking magazine.

“That’s one helluva cake. Which bakery did it come from?” I ask.

“Alice made it.”

I glance at the cake photo again, my eyes popping. “Well, fuck me.” Damn. There I go again.

But Heather laughs – a deep, appreciative laugh. “I hear you,” she says. “Alice can be kind of annoying.”

I return the laugh.

“I mean, the woman never stops with the giving and the doing. She’s just so perfect all the time. How can I keep up with that?” says Heather.

“My advice? Don’t even try.”

Heather nods.

“So, is she perfect?” Maybe I can coax a few more details out of my daughter-in-law.

Heather wrinkles her nose. “That’s what we’re expected to buy into. There’s a widely circulated theory that everything Alice does is terrific.”

“Who originated the theory?”

“Oh, that would be Alice herself . . . with a hefty assist from Henry.” This mean-spirited discussion warms the cockles of my heart. Whatever that means.

It’s time to lure Benny out of the pool and get him dressed for lunch, but he threatens a tantrum. “I’m big now. You can’t tell me what to do anymore,” he says to his mother.

I consider giving Heather a quick tour of the Seaside Kids area before we leave, but I think better of it since Michael made it clear he didn’t like Benny going there. Anyway, if the child sees the bounce house, he’ll demand to play there, potentially unleashing another tantrum. Instead, we entice him out with the promise of fish sticks, fries, and ice cream, after which he will open my birthday gifts. I’m kind of glad Heather isn’t too into the health craze.

At lunch, Heather regales me with amusing stories about Benny’s summer soccer camp and the antics of four-year-old boys. Halfway through lunch, my cheeks aching from all the grinning, I say, “I gotta tell you, I’m having such a fun time with you today.”

In response, Heather reaches out to squeeze my hand, causing me to tear up a little to my surprise. I’ve always liked Heather, finding her even-tempered demeanor to be a good counterpoint to Michael’s edginess. Caught up in my own turmoil, I lost sight of my affection for this young woman. Now I see in her a friend and a possible ally. And I see Benny continues to love me, even though I am a non-baker of firetruck cakes who does not spend as much time with the boy as I should.

If I’ve caused any damage with that, at least I’m confident it’s reversible.