Suburban Secrets

Friday, 7:17 a.m.Weird Eggs "Kevin, let's move! It's 7:17." From the bottom of the stairs, Grace Becker heard the telltale thump of a body rolling out of bed. Jesus. They had thirteen minutes. She'd better find something he could eat on the way to school. Megan and Callie were already in the kitchen, poking the food around on their plates. "Finish your eggs," Grace said. Callie stuck out her tongue. "What's in them?" "Camembert and shallots," said Grace. "Why? Don't you like it?" "What's wrong?" said Megan. "What do you mean, what's wrong?" Grace grabbed a Pop-Tart from the pantry and stuck it in the toaster. "You always cook weird stuff when you're upset," Megan said. "So, what's wrong?" Grace bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to say? Well, girls, I'm upset because your father left me for his older, less attractive assistant; he's been a complete dirtbag about the divorce; we're probably going to lose our house; and the closest thing Mommy's had to a date in the last ten months was drinking a Dixie cup of warm Gatorade with your field hockey coach, Ludmilla? She sighed. "Nothing's wrong. Eat your breakfast." "Mom, nobody eats breakfast. And I mean nobody." Megan, at twelve, had some sort of detailed list in her head about what everyone did or did not do, which she checked with agonizing frequency. "They especially don't eat eggs for breakfast," Callie added. "Yeah?" said Grace. "When I was your age, I would have killed to have eggs for breakfast. But it was cold cereal and a vitamin pill everyday for me. Grandma actually had a job." "You could get a job," Callie suggested. "Be careful what you wish for." Grace tried to draw a deep breath, but it got stuck halfway down. She was going to have to get a job. But where? She hadn't held a position outside her yoga class in thirteen years. Everything in her life had revolved around Tom, his career and their kids. His bosses had loved her, his coworkers' wives had envied her, and his clients had jockeyed for invitations to Becker parties. She'd been the events coordinator, secretary, moral support beam, taxi service and butt kisser extraordinaire, all without ever drawing a paycheck. But it was time to face facts. Tom was gone. He was making a new life, with a new woman who would be all those things. So who would she be now? She forced a smile. "If I get a job, who'll take care of you guys?" Megan rolled her eyes. "Please, Mom. I'm almost thirteen. I think I can get my own breakfast." "What? A handful of grapes and a Diet Coke? I don't think so. You're going to have a decent breakfast if I have to give it to you through an IV. You're not going to end up looking like Lara Flynn Boyle." "Who?" said Callie. "The walking corpse on Twin Peaks." "Twin what?" "Never mind. Eat your eggs." "I'm with Callie. I think you should get a job," said Megan. "You need a change. Don't you want some excitement?" "There's plenty of excitement around here," Grace said. "Just yesterday while I was folding towels in the laundry room, I saw Mrs. Pollack's dog bite the mailman in the crotch." "Mother!" Megan jerked her head in Callie's direction. "Was that really an appropriate thing to say in front of the child?" "Who are you calling a child?" Callie shouted. "I'm almost nine!" The Pop-Tart started smoking in the toaster just as Kevin flew into the kitchen and slid across the floor in his socks. "Four minutes!" he said, breathlessly. "Wow, you can hardly tell," Megan said. Grace examined her son. His hair stuck out from his head like he'd spent the night in electroshock therapy. His shirt was wrinkled, and she was pretty sure he'd taken the jeans he was wearing out of the hamBirdsell, Donna is the author of 'Suburban Secrets', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373881109 and ISBN 037388110X.