My spirit shoots out of my body and hovers somewhere around the ceiling. I’m seriously experiencing aTwilight Zonemoment here. “I had a hit television show for six years, Brett. I assure you a good deal ofmymoney has gone into this house as well.”
“What about the kids?”
It’s a question that hits so close to the cavity of my heart that I feel an almost electric shock of pain course through me. “Do you mean the two innocent children currently playing in the yard? The ones who could easily have walked in to watch as you dogged the nanny?” I’m pulling outallthe unsavory terms now.
“I knew they weren’t going to come in,” he says, sounding surprisingly offended for someone still sporting a chubby.
“Because kids are so predictable?”
“Because I told them if they got an hour of fresh air, I’d buy them hoverboards.”
In lieu of launching myself at his neck, which, let’s face it, is just begging to be snapped, I let out a long, disgusted sigh.
“Sounds like an absolutely fool-proof—and highly premeditated—plan. Not to mention, stellar parenting there, Brett. Now get the hell out before I bludgeon you to death with my Emmy.”
“You’re being unfair. I have an addiction and you know it.” His eyes narrow as thoughI’min the wrong.
“Oh, please, that’s about as plausible as every celebrity who’s ended up in the hospital for ‘exhaustion.’” I do air quotes for good measure, then glance at my Emmy–my fingers itching at the sight of the heavy statue. If I don’t get out of here now, I’m going to have some impulse control issues of my own.
Turning around and walking out of the room, I lay some truth on myself—my lying sack of crap husband isn’t worth one night in prison for misdemeanor battery, let alone several years for murder.
I somehow manage to make my way through the enormous white kitchen, stopping at the French doors that lead to the backyard. Taking a long deep breath, I realize the nightmare is just getting started. It could be months, if not years, before any kind of normalcy comes back to my life. But right now, I have to get through the next few hours until my kids go to bed so I can eat an entire box of truffles and process what just happened.
Putting on my best “everything is wonderful” smile, I open the door and call out, “Hey, munchkins!”
My sweet four-year-old, Lily, spots me first and shouts, “You’re home!” She runs at me like I’m a quarterback with the ball and she’s a three-hundred-pound front lineman. “I missed you! What did you eat for lunch? Did you bring me a double-chocolate chunk cookie? Did you know it’s impossible to lick your own elbow? Did you know Charlie likes to eat his own poop?” Charlie is the neighbor’s black lab and Lily is known for her machine-gun fire ability to shoot out questions. She rarely waits for the answers.
My son Liam, on the other hand, is the quiet type. At eight years of age, he reminds me of a tiny grandpa, with his love of socks in sandals and his collection of WWII memorabilia. He also prides himself on being far more grown-up than his “way younger” sister. “Hi, Mom. How was lunch?”
“Great, buddy. Auntie Kay said to give you each a big squeeze from her, but I know how much you don’t like big squeezes, so I’m just telling you instead.”
“Thanks,” Liam says with a serious nod. “I appreciate you respecting my boundaries. I know a lot of moms aren’t comfortable doing that.”
I chuckle while ruffling the back of his blond hair. Across the yard, in our hen house, our four chickens cluck away to each other. The chickens were one in a long stream of attempts to give my kiddos a “regular life,” back when I was certain that emulating the simplicity of farm-living would help counterbalance the oddities of growing up with famous parents.
My heart squeezes again. “I thought maybe you and your sister might be in the mood for some ice cream.”
“From the freezer or the Purple Cow?” he asks, like it will make any difference. Liam will eatanyfrozen sweetened milk product put in front of him, any time of day, in any kind of weather. I’m pretty sure he’d suck on frozen milk cubes if I made them for him.
“The Purple Cow, of course,” I say, as though any other option would be insane. “I don’t think I can get through the rest of the day without one of their root beer floats.”
“Ooh! Let’s see if Daddy can come! And Justine!” Lily says, her blue eyes sparkling with
love for the man who has just humiliated me for the last time.
“You know what?” I ask, somehow managing to keep my tone light. “Let’s make it just the three of us. Your father has to get back to the studio and I told Justine she could have the afternoon off. But you’ve got me for the rest of the day.”
For longer, actually. Now that the nanny has been fired, I’m going to have to cut back on my commitments. I can’t stomach the idea of another person moving into my home. Especially at the same time the whole world finds out Brett and I are separating.
We’ll have to get our PR people together to come up with some benign blanket statement that says, “While we love and respect each other and will always remain great friends, we’ve simply grown apart.” That’s about as honest as the exhaustion BS they try to sell people, but it’s all I’ve got. I would like to retain a modicum of dignity during what is sure to be a horror show chapter of my life.
If Brett and I didn’t have kids, I would have pulled out my camera and filmed him banging Justine, then sold it to TMZ to pay for the divorce lawyer. I have no desire to protect his image for his fans. As far as I’m concerned, they should know the truth about the man they worship—that he’s a cheating lothario. But I will walk the walk and safeguard his sorry hide for the sake of my kids. Liam and Lily shouldnothave to hear the sordid details of their parents’ split.
“Come on, guys, what do you say we hoof it?” I ask with a bright grin that could not be more forced.
“Allthe way to the Purple Cow?” Lily asks. “That’s a far way, Mommy. Can we drive instead?”
“We’ll make it, baby,” I say, tearing up a bit. “We. Will. Make. It.” Of course, I’m not talking about ice cream.