“They’re fine. They’re with me,” he said defensively.
“Where are you?” she asked, almost lightly. It suddenly occurred to her that the best way to handle this scene was to throw him off by going counterintuitive, acting like nothing at all was wrong.
“We’re in Palm Beach,” he said, sounding slightly confused. “We came down to look at some ponies . . .”
“That’s nice,” she said, thinking that by now he must be completely flummoxed, wondering where she was calling from and if her plane had been delayed and if she’d even gone home yet to discover what he’d done.
“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “My parents came down too . . .”
“That’s great,” she said enthusiastically. “A real family outing. I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it.” There was a sarcastic edge in her voice, but she gasped inwardly, suddenly grasping the significance of the situation. They had all gone off without her. They didn’t want her, didn’t need her, didn’t care about her, didn’t want her around. It was like being the one kid in the class who wasn’t invited to the birthday party, but about a thousand times worse. The hurt shocked her; it drained all the fight out of her.
It had never crossed her mind that they would all conspire to alienate her.
She sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting to compose her feelings enough to be able to speak. “So where are you all staying?” she asked, with a self-conscious brightness.
“Mom found a special rate at the Breakers,” Shane whispered. He sounded sad.
“Oh. The Breakers. It’s supposed to be beautiful there,” she said.
“They have three pools,” he said helplessly. Pause. She inhaled stuffily, her nose filled with mucus from impending tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her mouth as if trying to keep the sorrow in. “Wendy?” he asked. “Have you, uh . . .”
She wasn’t going to let him get into it, not when she felt so utterly defeated. “Is Magda there?” she asked quickly. “Can I talk to her?”—thinking how pathetic it was to have to beg your husband to talk to your own children.
“She’s probably asleep . . .” Her heart hardened in despair. “I’ll go see,” Shane said, taking pity.
She waited anxiously, like a teenager whose life is ruled by fear of rejection.
“Hello?” Magda’s voice, velvet with sleep and yet surprisingly grown-up.
“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?” Her voice intimate and gentle.
“I’m good. We saw the best pony today. He’s fourteen hands and dapple gray.” This delivered with the prideful discovery of expertise.
“Are you all right? How are Tyler and Chloe?”
“Tyler says he wants a pony too, but he’s too young, isn’t he, Mother? He should have to wait until he’s at least twelve. Like me.”
“I don’t know, Magda . . .”
“And Grandma and Grandpa are here.”
“Where’s Chloe?”
“She’s sleeping in the bed with me, and Tyler’s sleeping with Dad . . . Where are you, Mother? Are you home?”
“I’m in New York.” She hesitated, then went on. “I’m in a hotel. Daddy changed the locks to the apartment and I couldn’t get in.”
“Oh,” Magda said. And in the tone of that one word was everything, Wendy thought. It was sad and understanding and sympathetic and frightened and helpless and yet removed. She knows, Wendy thought. She knows exactly what’s going on, and doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do about it.
“Everything is going to be just fine, though,” Wendy said confidently, conquering the urge to lean emotionally on her twelve-year-old daughter, to cajole her for information, to make her a co-conspirator in this drama against her daddy—or, more realistically perhaps, against herself. She felt so vulnerable, but that was her problem; a child shouldn’t have to comfort its parent.
“Is it, Mother?” Magda asked.
“Yes, sweetheart, it is,” Wendy said, with a false bright note of optimism. “When are you coming home?”
“Tomorrow,” Magda said. And then, as if she really had been reassured, added, “Oh, Mother. I can’t wait for you to see my pony!”
A small noise involuntarily escaped from the back of Wendy’s throat, like the surprised squeak of a mouse at the moment the trap is sprung. She swallowed heavily. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning . . .”