“What are you up to today?” Lana asks through a stretch.
“I was thinking about meeting Vivian for lunch,” I say.
I really had been thinking about it, but wasn’t going to act on it because I knew Lana would just whine. Complain. Threaten to kill herself.
“Mmm, that sounds nice.”
Well, this is weird. She’s okay with me leaving the house without her to do something fun, not something like getting a mammogram to make sure I’m not dying. (We can’t have half of Lana’s only support system dying now, can we?)
I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. This is uncharted territory.
“What time? I need to get ready.”
“Where are you going?”
“Oh,” she tilts her head, softening her look, though the evil glow in her eye remains. “Am I not invited?”
Nooo! I want to scream. You are twenty-seven. You should have your own friends, your own life. But I don’t. I’ve said things like that before. This is not a new conversation. Whether I’m good cop or bad cop, the outcome is always the same. Nothing changes.
“Oh, of course you are. I’ll just text Viv to make sure of the time.”
“Okay,” she chirps.
I text Vivian to see if she’s available at all. I hadn’t planned on having lunch with her today because I’m typically kept prisoner in my home by my own daughter.
I debate with myself over whether I want Vivian to be able to go or not. A day out would be nice, but a day out with Lana typically isn’t. I debate for just a second over whether to text Vivian at all. I could just tell Lana she’s not available. But then there’s always the chance that Lana will check my texts and find out it was all a lie. That wouldn’t end well.
I text Vivian. “Want to do lunch today with me and Lana?”
Just a few seconds later, she writes back, “After dr appointment. How about 12:30?”
“Sure,” I send back, before heading inside to tell Lana and go get ready myself.
A day away from the house I am beginning to hate can only be a good thing, even if Lana is tagging along. I used to love our house, but ever since I started feeling like I can’t escape it, it makes me claustrophobic. It suffocates me with its blinds that remain dusty no matter how many times they are cleaned. It makes me crazy with the doorknobs that fall off no matter how many times Dave fixes them. I only see flaws like a woman does when she wants to divorce her husband. Though Dave is far from perfect, I’d much rather divorce the house than him.
I also used to truly love Lana. Maybe I still do, and it’s just buried under her laundry and bills.
“Oh, Viv, do you have any pictures of Tommy?” Lana asks, seemingly completely interested in looking at the photos as Vivian pulls out her phone and scrolls through the never-ending stream. Either Lana has learned tremendous people skills in the past two hours, giving her the ability to pretend she’s interested in Vivian’s ugly grandchild, or she’s actually interested. That thought sends a shiver down my spine.
I recover quickly and ooh and aah at the pictures myself. Even if my nose starts growing like Pinocchio’s, I want to make Vivian feel good. It’s only a matter of time before dear Tommy heads off to school, where he will no doubt be ridiculed day in and day out.
“He’s so cute,” Lana exclaims.
“Oh, and he’s so smart,” Vivian says. “He already knows his ABCs, and he can count to twenty. I’m gonna have him reading in no time. He’ll be the smartest kid in preschool.”
“It’s nice you spend so much time with him.”
“I’m lucky they live close. I can’t imagine living far away from them.”
“That’s why I had to move back,” Lana explains as I roll my eyes. “Mom and Dad missed me too much, and I missed them.”
“Awww.”
Vivian is practically crying over how sweet she thinks Lana is.
“You must be so proud, Maggie. I’d give anything to have my kids still living with me.”
Oh you would? Really? You just keep telling yourself that, Viv.
“We’re very lucky,” I say, almost choking on my words.
I look around for the waitress and don’t see her. I’d like to order a martini, so it’s probably best I can’t find her. I still have to drive home, because after living in New York and not driving for so long, being behind the wheel makes Lana nervous. We wouldn’t want to push her out of her comfort zone.
The way Vivian calls me Maggie, too. I’ve known Vivian since high school, which if you ask me is too long to be friends with someone. We know too many things about each other, and though neither of us will admit it, we’ve grown apart over the years. We keep pretending like we’re the best of friends, because I suppose any friend is better than no friend at all—especially once they start dying off.
For the record, I would have more friends if it wasn’t for Lana. She makes me feel so guilty every time I leave the house that I’ve started shunning my friends to the point where they’ve stopped asking me to take a walk in the park or go to lunch, or inviting me to parties, or, God forbid, to go on vacation with them. They have friends who actually do things, so they focus on those people.
When I get to leave the house, it’s Vivian or nothing, so I put up with her, even if I’m secretly making a voodoo doll of her and her perfect life in my mind every time we meet. Today it’s an extra big voodoo doll, since she and my daughter are hitting it off so well. Instead of Lana being the third wheel, here I sit, barely part of the conversation,
