Seven Year Switch Read online

  As soon as the caffeine kicked in, I allowed my eyes to wander around the kitchen. I mean, just because there was a note didn’t mean I had to read it. I could always simply cut to the chase and burn it right away.

  The kitchen turned out to be note-free. I checked my bedroom—under the pillows, on top of the dresser, even the back of the door. Nothing. Nothing in the bathroom either.

  I knocked on Anastasia’s door. “Time to get up, Sweetie,” I sang in a fake cheery voice.

  And the whole time I was thinking: This time I didn’t even get a note.

  OF ALL DAYS, Cynthia had to pick today to be on time for the bus. She was already sitting on my front steps when I opened the door. Anastasia ran right past her to join the kids on the sidewalk.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Cynthia crossed her spray-tanned legs at the ankles and pulled her tennis skirt down until it was only a mile or two from her knees.

  I crumpled my way down and landed on the top step beside her in my ratty T-shirt and sweats.

  “Woo,” she said. “Late light over here last night. Looks like you partied till the cows came.”

  “Yeah, well, at least I got the kitchen sink installed.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Do you mind sharing the plumber?”

  “Actually,” I said, “he’s all yours if you want him.”

  “Thanks, girlfriend,” Cynthia said.

  The bus pulled up. Anastasia checked her Purple People Reacher Phone flamboyantly as she climbed up the steps. She’d probably double, if not triple, her cool quotient by the end of the day, though she’d have to keep everything but the GPS and the emergency button on the phone turned off while she was at school. I remembered this from glancing at Rules for Cell Phone Use at Fraser Elementary School in the back-to-school packet, right before I pitched it. At the time I remembered thinking: What kind of crazy parent would let her fourth grader get a cell phone? Ha.

  Anastasia disappeared without a glance my way and took a seat at the far side of the bus. I had the feeling I could disappear just as casually, and she’d never even miss me. She’d been daddy’s little girl from the moment she’d heard Seth was back. It was as if all the time I’d been there for her had simply evaporated the minute he showed up. Hey, I wanted to yell after the bus, remember me? The one who’s been taking care of you all these years?

  Cynthia was already halfway back to her house by the time I noticed she was gone, so I dragged myself inside and jumped in the shower. I turned the hot water up until it was almost scalding and shampooed twice. The old song about washing that man right outta my hair floated into my head, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to sing it.

  I was trying not to think, to stay numb, but waves of anxiety kept rising from my stomach to my heart, and a little voice inside of me wouldn’t shut up. Just when you were finally moving on, it moaned. What were you thinking? it groaned.

  The last thing I needed was another faux trip to Thailand to trigger a few more flashbacks from last night, but I had neither the time nor the energy to come up with a Plan B for Lunch Around the World. I added Anastasia’s krathong to the shopping bag on the counter. I’d already filled it with Styrofoam, paint, and brushes, and other supplies, as I’d multitasked for Monday’s class while Anastasia and I were getting ready for Sunday dinner with Seth. I grabbed a handful of pennies on my way out the door.

  I stopped at the supermarket for the ingredients for chicken and eggplant curry, plus some jasmine rice and mango sorbet. Since there was room in the bud get, I also added a bunch of cellophane-wrapped flowers as an upgrade to last night’s dandelions. Then I wandered up and down the aisles, not really sure what I was looking for. Some essential ingredient that would make my mind stop racing?

  I was late getting to the community center.

  “There she is,” T-shirt Tom said as I walked in. Today’s shirt said I’M NOT GETTING SMALLER, I’M BACKING AWAY FROM YOU. I thought there might be a message there about my life, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  Ethel and one of her friends took the shopping bags out of my hands and placed them on the counter.

  “Okay,” I said, once the class was clustered around me in the kitchen. “So, well, today we’re going to Thailand. Um. Thai food is all about the blending of four basic flavors that all start with the letter s.” I counted them off on my fingers. “Sweet, sour, salty…”

  I wracked my brain for the fourth one.

  “Soy?” T-shirt Tom said.

  I shook my head.

  “Sugar?” one of his sidekicks said.

  “That’s the same thing as sweet,” Donna said. Or maybe it was Bev.

  “Shrimp?” someone said. “Don’t they use a lot of shrimp in Thai cooking?”

  Everybody was looking at me. I was lost. Completely and ridiculously lost. I wondered what would happen if I just picked up Anastasia’s krathong and the pennies and left. Wait, music. I’d forgotten all about finding some Thai music.

  “Spicy!” Ethel yelled.

  “Thank you,” I said. I opened the community center cupboard, took out a glass, and filled it with water. I drank it.

  “Looks like somebody had a spicy night last night,” T-shirt Tom said.

  “Leave her alone,” Ethel said. “Did you get back together with your boyfriend, honey?”

  I had this sudden crazy urge to sit them all down and give them the long answer. I’d start at that first meeting at the Tanabata festival and tell the whole story of Seth and me, fast-forwarding a little through the bedroom scene last night, and ending with my note-less morning. I mean, between them all, they probably had centuries of experience in things like this. They could probably give me some really useful advice. They might even be able to tell me what the hell had happened. There might even be a name for it, other than stupidity.

  When I put the empty glass on the pitted stainless steel counter, it made a metallic ping. I forced myself back into teaching mode again. I ignored the question and smiled at the class.

  “Many of the dishes of Thailand combine all four of these flavors,” I said. I thought about trying to repeat them for reinforcement but decided not to risk another brain freeze. “And, ideally, the flavors are harmoniously blended both within each dish and across an entire meal, which might consist of soup, a curry dish, and a dip with vegetables.”

  “Aren’t curries from India?” somebody asked.

  “Curry means gravy,” I said, “and the origin of the word is from southern India, but curries are also made in Africa, the Pacific Islands, and throughout Southeast Asia. Thais are particularly known for making foreign recipes their own, and that’s certainly true with curries.”

  A couple of them yawned, so I cut to the chase.

  “Today we’re going to make chicken and eggplant curry with nam prik gaeng ped, or spicy red curry paste, which is the most common of the curry pastes. It’s a mixture of”—I picked up a tube of red curry paste I’d bought and read the ingredients—“dried chili pepper, garlic, shallots, galangal, lemongrass, coriander, peppercorn, cilantro root, salt, shrimp paste, and Kaffir lime zest.”

  I reached into the grocery store bag and pulled out a bunch of basil, some cans of coconut milk, a bottle of fish sauce, a family-size package of boneless chicken, and two enormous eggplants. I handed them out, and the students started passing them down the line, as if the community center was on fire and we were the bucket brigade.

  “Ideally,” I said, “you should use bai horapah, or sweet Thai basil, but any basil will do in a pinch. And in Thailand, the chicken wouldn’t be boneless, because they would use the bones to add more flavor. Also, it’s best to use Thai eggplants, which are about the size of golf balls, but they’re hard to find, so we’re going to use regular eggplants and just cut them into bite-size cubes.”

  I was back on track. I’d tell the story of Loy Krathong while half the class was cooking and the other half made a Styrofoam krathong. We’d wish on some pennies, eat, and then I’d pack up and ge
t the hell out of here.

  I reached into the other bag, the one I’d brought from home. When I pulled my hand out, instead of a piece of Styrofoam or some paint, I was holding a little white piece of paper. I turned it over to look at it, thinking I really needed to be more careful about saving my receipts to get reimbursed.

  It was a note from Seth—fully formed letters, open loops, slanting optimistically to the right.

  J—

  I want us to be a family. See you and Asia tonight.

  Love, S

  25

  I CALLED SETH THE MINUTE I GOT OUT TO MY CAR.

  “Hey,” he said when he answered his cell. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  “About last night,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “It was amazing. I hope I didn’t wake you up when I left this morning. I had an early appointment, and I needed to drive all the way back to my parents’ house to shave and shower and all that stuff.”

  It occurred to me that I had no idea what Seth did for a living. He was practically a stranger.

  “Can I pick up something for dinner?” he asked.

  I leaned my head forward and conked it lightly on the steering wheel. Even in the throes of passion, I would have remembered dinner plans if we’d made them. I wondered if Seth had already packed his bags and loaded them into the trunk of his car.

  There had to be a way to back things up a little, like maybe to the point of discussing the possibility of going out for coffee together sometime.

  “Jill? Are you still there?”

  That was a question to be pondered. Considered, contemplated, even brooded over at great length. It’s not that I necessarily wasn’t still there, but I needed to be sure I was moving forward and not backward in my life. And I definitely didn’t want to feed Anastasia’s burgeoning fantasies about her parents getting back together. I wanted her completely out of the loop until I knew for sure what was going to happen.

  And, of course, there was also the matter of what to do about tomorrow’s bicycle ride with Billy, which I had to admit, with or without The Datenic, was essentially a date. And I also had to admit, shameful as it might be for a woman who’d just slept with another man, I kind of wanted to see him again. At least I thought I did. And if I did, what a despicably disloyal thing I’d done by sleeping with Seth.

  “Listen,” Seth said. “One of us must be out of range, so I’m going to hang up now and try again in a minute.”

  I hung up, too, and just sat there and closed my eyes. Half a minute later the phone rang again.

  I opened my eyes and answered on the first ring. “Dinner won’t work to night. I’m tired, and I have a lot to do, and I also have to work a GGG shift later. So, I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

  There was a pause. “Sure. Tell Asia to call me when she’s ready for her spelling, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay, well, bye.”

  I clicked my phone off. I drove home. I tried not to think.

  Heading straight for Anastasia’s diary as soon as I walked in the door was probably not the smartest thing to do, but I did it anyway.

  A my name is Asia

  Seth and me and Jill went up the hill

  In a spill we

  All fell down

  “GREAT GIRLFRIEND GETAWAYS,” I said into my headphone.

  “Washed,” Anastasia said into her Purple People Reacher cell phone. “This morning I washed my hands in the beautiful new sink my dad put in for us. Washed.”

  “Feisty and fabulous man-free escapes both close to home and all over the world,” I said. “When was the last time you got together with your girlfriends?”

  “Hamster,” Anastasia said. “If I can’t get a cat right away, I would settle for a hamster. Hamster.”

  “Can you tell me more about your tour of Egypt?” a woman’s voice was saying in my ear.

  “Always,” Anastasia said. “When my dad reads me a bedtime story, I always have a good night’s sleep. Always.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore, so I pushed myself away from the kitchen table.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “But I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

  “Egypt,” the woman said. “I asked about your Egypt tour. Is that something you’re qualified to discuss? If not, I’ll wait while you put me through to someone who is.”

  I rolled my eyes while I walked into the living room. I entertained myself along the way by making the angular arm movements from the old Bangles song, which somehow I still remembered from the mid-’80s.

  I flopped down on the couch. “You’ll be happy to know my qualifications are impeccable. Take it from me, our Walk Like an Egyptian trip is not to be missed. You and your girlfriends will cruise the Nile with a certified Egyptologist—”

  “What’s a certified Egyptologist?”

  Actually, I had no idea, but I took a stab at it. “It’s a tour guide who has studied Egypt for a very long time.”

  “You mean like centuries?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “That was a joke.”

  “I knew that,” I said. “Funny. Anyway, you’ll also visit the temples of Luxor, Horus, and Karnak, and you’ll even take a camel ride.”

  I stretched back on the couch and closed my eyes.

  “Do you have to have riding experience?”

  I opened my eyes again. “You mean like camel-riding experience?”

  The woman laughed. “No, I meant do you have to know how to ride a horse before you take on riding a camel?”

  I thought about it. “I’m pretty sure they’re mutually exclusive skills,” I said. “Previous llama-riding experience might be a plus though.”

  “That’s a good point,” the woman said. “I’ll look into that.”

  I tried to imagine what life would be like if the biggest problem I had was where to find a llama-riding class. Maybe I’d save up to buy a few llamas and start my own llama farm. Anastasia could pretend they were oversize hamsters.

  The woman cleared her throat. I jumped. I’d totally forgotten about her.

  “It probably sounds like I’m overthinking this,” she said, “but it’s just that I’m the planner in the group, and I find that the more prepared we are for each trip we take, the more my friends and I get out of it.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “How often do you take trips?”

  “At least once a year. More if we can swing it.”

  “Wow,” I said. “So, I guess none of you has kids, huh?”

  “Sure we do. It takes some juggling, but it’s worth it. And if you don’t spend time with your friends, where are you going to be when your kids grow up and leave you?”

  “Can I come with you?” I heard myself say.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Kidding,” I said. “I was just kidding.”

  As soon as I hung up, I peeked into the kitchen. Anastasia had her Purple People Reacher Phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder and was still writing away with her fluffy pen.

  “Missed,” she said. “I missed seeing you at my house when I got home from school today. Missed.”

  I turned around again. I wasn’t going to think about it. I was going to go into the bathroom, wash my face and brush my teeth. With luck, Anastasia would be off the phone when I got back, and we’d both be asleep by nine o’clock. I’d be the one with the covers over my head.

  It had taken Seth seven years to show up again, and even if it hadn’t taken me much more than a couple of seconds to jump into bed with him, there was no rush to figure out anything else. Dinner on Sundays was plenty for now.

  I pictured myself sitting at a sidewalk café one day, telling this story to a friend I traveled with, at least once a year, more if we could swing it. So, I’d say, just when I’d finally met this cute guy who owned a bike company, my ex-husband, who had completely broken my heart when he abandoned me and my daughter seven years before, shows up. I mean, I’d had one date with the new guy and even kissed him,
but then suddenly I found myself in bed with my ex.

  I’d sip my tea, flip my hair back, and laugh.

  My friend would lean forward, all ears. So, she’d say, what happened?

  And by then I’d know.

  26

  I MADE SURE I WAS WAITING ON THE FRONT STEPS WHEN Billy pulled into my driveway. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I let him into the house, he’d somehow know about Seth. Not that I owed him an explanation. Not that what I did on my own time was any of his business. Not that I was feeling guilty as hell. Not that I had a clue how to handle any of this.

  I stood up, pulled down my T-shirt, yanked up my jeans discreetly, and walked toward the red pickup truck. I watched Billy put it into park. Even through the tinted window, I could see that he was smiling.

  I gave him a little wave. He started to open his door.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I can get my door.”

  I kept walking. Billy climbed out anyway. He was wearing jeans and another short-sleeved knit shirt with a collar, this time blue. I thought shirts like this were best left to golfers, and on Billy they looked incongruous, even borderline geeky. I wondered if he’d bought one in every color, and called it a wardrobe. Or maybe his kids gave him another one every Father’s Day, now that he and their mother were divorced and he no longer had to wear ties.

  Billy reached around me and opened the passenger door. He even smelled outdoorsy. Either he’d just finished mowing the lawn, or spending so much time outside had seeped into his pores.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. He leaned in for a kiss.

  I turned my head and kissed him on the cheek. “You, too.”

  Just as there is no graceful way to avoid a kiss on the lips, there is no graceful way to get into a pickup truck. I grabbed the doorframe with both hands and hoisted myself up. I felt Billy’s hand on the small of my back. I focused on ignoring the little shower of sparks his touch set off while I found the seat belt. He shut my door and walked around to his own.