Page 26 of A Happy Catastrophe

“You know,” she says to a little boy who has come over to see the hamster, too, “I think we should let him out and see how fast he can run. Do you want to?”

“No,” says the little boy.

“Come on. We could see if he runs into the coat closet or out the door, or maybe he’s going to run under the radiator.”

I’m about to intervene, but the little boy moves away, giving Fritzie a strange look. She shrugs and starts fiddling with the latch on the cage, and I go over and shake my head at her. I do the Mom Microscopic Head Shaking, nothing that would embarrass her. She looks down at her shoes and her cheeks get two bright pink spots on them, and I want to hug her and tell her I’m so sorry.

Just then Josie claps her hands for attention, and she gets the class to come forward and sit on the circular rug in the front of the room. “Parents, you can leave now, since you probably already completed third grade,” she says, and everyone laughs.

I go out in the tide of people leaving, waving to Fritzie, who looks at me with big, round blue eyes as I’m departing.

Is she unhappy? Are those eyes about to fill with tears? Or is she going to have liberated a hamster by the end of the day, and be expelled?

I do not think I’m going to be quite the same until twelve o’clock comes when I know for sure she’s survived the first half day.

Tessa and I walk back to the subway together. She is tromping along in her high-heeled boots, lugging her carpetbag and being exceptionally quiet, staring down at the sidewalk while she walks.

“Well, I think that went really well, and I think she’s going to be just fine,” I say. “I found myself actually getting kind of emotional, you know? Leaving her there? She looked for a moment like she felt emotional, too. What did you think of the school?”

“Yes. It was all fine.” Her face is unreadable, especially since she’s walking slightly faster than I am.

“Do you want to go and get some breakfast? There’s a funny story about the class hamster I want to tell you.”

“I can’t.” She stops walking, so I stop, too. The sun is blazing in a very early September way, filtering down through the green maple leaves. Tessa’s face is in shadow.

“What is it?” I say.

When she looks up at me, her eyes are opaque. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not going back with you.”

“You’re not? Where are you going?” I think she means maybe she’s going for coffee somewhere by herself, or to buy something for Fritzie for school.

She looks from side to side. “Richard is here. And I’m going to meet him.”

“Richard . . . came here? But that’s great!” I say. I immediately start thinking of a nice dinner up on the rooftop, with all of us. I’ll have time to make lasagna and I can get some of Paco’s snowflake rolls and the Irish butter. Maybe a cake. It will be so civilized, us getting to wish them well. “We can all get to meet each other, and—”

I stop talking because she has closed her eyes. I think she’s so embarrassed for me.

“Oh,” I say, getting it. Then I look at the carpetbag and say, “Ohhhh.”

“We’re leaving this afternoon.”

“For Italy.”

“Yes.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder.

“But why are you doing it this way? You could have brought Richard around—wait, why is he here anyway? How long has he been here?”

“He showed up day before yesterday with a ticket for me. He said he didn’t think I was really going to come so he wanted to come get me.” She takes out her scrunchie and tosses her hair in a way I’ve never seen her do, like a woman in a shampoo commercial.

“Of course he didn’t think you were coming. Because you’ve done nothing but say you were coming.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“It is sarcasm. Yes. It’s the way I’m choosing to express my dismay at what you’re doing. Wow. You’re just . . . you’re sneaking off, and Fritzie is going to be devastated, and you know it.”

“No, she’s not. You don’t know her. She doesn’t care.”

“She does care. You’re her mom.”

“Well, but it will pass quickly. I know her. I’ve left her a thousand times before, and she gets over it.”

“Not like this time, you haven’t. Not for months. Come with me right back into that school, and let’s tell her together. Come on.”

“No. I’m not going to. Trust me. It’s better this way. She’ll be better off, not having some long, drawn-out good-bye scene. That doesn’t do anybody any good.” She reaches into her bag and hands me an envelope. “Here’s this. Her birth certificate. In case you need it.”

“I can’t believe you would do this. I can’t get over it.”

“Listen, I’ll call her tonight. My Uber is here.”

Sure enough, almost as if by magic, a black Lincoln Town Car slides up to the curb, and she holds up her hand to the driver.

Then she turns and looks at me, and her eyes look just the slightest bit guilty—or maybe I am merely hoping she looks guilty. “Really. I didn’t know he was going to do this,” she says. “But maybe it’s best because I suck at good-byes.”

“Everybody sucks at good-byes,” I say.

The driver has gotten out of the car by now. “Are you coming?” he says. When she says yes, he opens the car door, and she puts her bag on the seat and then scoots in next to it.

She looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry you’re so mad at me. But I want to say thank you. The other night, when you said you would love her—that meant everything to me.”

The driver walks around to his side and gets in, starts the car, and puts on his turn signal, and after a moment the car pulls away, into traffic.

She’s gone. And everything that comes next is going to be up to me. Tears are pressing behind my eyes. I could honestly sit right down on the curb and start crying.

A slight breeze kicks up, sending some leaves spinning in a circle. I text Patrick. She left! LEFT WITHOUT SAYING GOOD-BYE TO FRITZIE. She freaking just got in an Uber and went to the airport. Said she sucks at saying good-bye.

I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say—a full expression of outrage over this? Maybe he’ll suggest getting in an Uber himself and racing to the airport to yell at her.

Instead, after a few minutes, he texts: Marnie. We are not and never have been dealing with an intact human being. That is why we’re in this situation to begin with. What did you expect? We’ll deal with it. Somehow.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MARNIE

Around eleven thirty, after stomping around and ranting and raving about Tessa’s poor decision-making skills to the Best Buds crowd for nearly two hours before settling down to fill flower orders, I head back to Brooklyn Kind School.

Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, I say on the way, like a mantra. I need these two to be everything and more. We may need to get a whole team of psychologists and social workers and playdate moms to help this little girl not feel like an abandoned child. I get off the subway and walk the three blocks to the school crossing, and uncrossing my fingers, smiling at the other moms, sizing them up for possible friendships later on. Emily Turner catches up to me when I’m about a half block away.

o;You know,” she says to a little boy who has come over to see the hamster, too, “I think we should let him out and see how fast he can run. Do you want to?”

“No,” says the little boy.

“Come on. We could see if he runs into the coat closet or out the door, or maybe he’s going to run under the radiator.”

I’m about to intervene, but the little boy moves away, giving Fritzie a strange look. She shrugs and starts fiddling with the latch on the cage, and I go over and shake my head at her. I do the Mom Microscopic Head Shaking, nothing that would embarrass her. She looks down at her shoes and her cheeks get two bright pink spots on them, and I want to hug her and tell her I’m so sorry.

Just then Josie claps her hands for attention, and she gets the class to come forward and sit on the circular rug in the front of the room. “Parents, you can leave now, since you probably already completed third grade,” she says, and everyone laughs.

I go out in the tide of people leaving, waving to Fritzie, who looks at me with big, round blue eyes as I’m departing.

Is she unhappy? Are those eyes about to fill with tears? Or is she going to have liberated a hamster by the end of the day, and be expelled?

I do not think I’m going to be quite the same until twelve o’clock comes when I know for sure she’s survived the first half day.

Tessa and I walk back to the subway together. She is tromping along in her high-heeled boots, lugging her carpetbag and being exceptionally quiet, staring down at the sidewalk while she walks.

“Well, I think that went really well, and I think she’s going to be just fine,” I say. “I found myself actually getting kind of emotional, you know? Leaving her there? She looked for a moment like she felt emotional, too. What did you think of the school?”

“Yes. It was all fine.” Her face is unreadable, especially since she’s walking slightly faster than I am.

“Do you want to go and get some breakfast? There’s a funny story about the class hamster I want to tell you.”

“I can’t.” She stops walking, so I stop, too. The sun is blazing in a very early September way, filtering down through the green maple leaves. Tessa’s face is in shadow.

“What is it?” I say.

When she looks up at me, her eyes are opaque. “Listen,” she says. “I’m not going back with you.”

“You’re not? Where are you going?” I think she means maybe she’s going for coffee somewhere by herself, or to buy something for Fritzie for school.

She looks from side to side. “Richard is here. And I’m going to meet him.”

“Richard . . . came here? But that’s great!” I say. I immediately start thinking of a nice dinner up on the rooftop, with all of us. I’ll have time to make lasagna and I can get some of Paco’s snowflake rolls and the Irish butter. Maybe a cake. It will be so civilized, us getting to wish them well. “We can all get to meet each other, and—”

I stop talking because she has closed her eyes. I think she’s so embarrassed for me.

“Oh,” I say, getting it. Then I look at the carpetbag and say, “Ohhhh.”

“We’re leaving this afternoon.”

“For Italy.”

“Yes.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder.

“But why are you doing it this way? You could have brought Richard around—wait, why is he here anyway? How long has he been here?”

“He showed up day before yesterday with a ticket for me. He said he didn’t think I was really going to come so he wanted to come get me.” She takes out her scrunchie and tosses her hair in a way I’ve never seen her do, like a woman in a shampoo commercial.

“Of course he didn’t think you were coming. Because you’ve done nothing but say you were coming.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“It is sarcasm. Yes. It’s the way I’m choosing to express my dismay at what you’re doing. Wow. You’re just . . . you’re sneaking off, and Fritzie is going to be devastated, and you know it.”

“No, she’s not. You don’t know her. She doesn’t care.”

“She does care. You’re her mom.”

“Well, but it will pass quickly. I know her. I’ve left her a thousand times before, and she gets over it.”

“Not like this time, you haven’t. Not for months. Come with me right back into that school, and let’s tell her together. Come on.”

“No. I’m not going to. Trust me. It’s better this way. She’ll be better off, not having some long, drawn-out good-bye scene. That doesn’t do anybody any good.” She reaches into her bag and hands me an envelope. “Here’s this. Her birth certificate. In case you need it.”

“I can’t believe you would do this. I can’t get over it.”

“Listen, I’ll call her tonight. My Uber is here.”

Sure enough, almost as if by magic, a black Lincoln Town Car slides up to the curb, and she holds up her hand to the driver.

Then she turns and looks at me, and her eyes look just the slightest bit guilty—or maybe I am merely hoping she looks guilty. “Really. I didn’t know he was going to do this,” she says. “But maybe it’s best because I suck at good-byes.”

“Everybody sucks at good-byes,” I say.

The driver has gotten out of the car by now. “Are you coming?” he says. When she says yes, he opens the car door, and she puts her bag on the seat and then scoots in next to it.

She looks over at me and says, “I’m sorry you’re so mad at me. But I want to say thank you. The other night, when you said you would love her—that meant everything to me.”

The driver walks around to his side and gets in, starts the car, and puts on his turn signal, and after a moment the car pulls away, into traffic.

She’s gone. And everything that comes next is going to be up to me. Tears are pressing behind my eyes. I could honestly sit right down on the curb and start crying.

A slight breeze kicks up, sending some leaves spinning in a circle. I text Patrick. She left! LEFT WITHOUT SAYING GOOD-BYE TO FRITZIE. She freaking just got in an Uber and went to the airport. Said she sucks at saying good-bye.

I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say—a full expression of outrage over this? Maybe he’ll suggest getting in an Uber himself and racing to the airport to yell at her.

Instead, after a few minutes, he texts: Marnie. We are not and never have been dealing with an intact human being. That is why we’re in this situation to begin with. What did you expect? We’ll deal with it. Somehow.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MARNIE

Around eleven thirty, after stomping around and ranting and raving about Tessa’s poor decision-making skills to the Best Buds crowd for nearly two hours before settling down to fill flower orders, I head back to Brooklyn Kind School.

Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, Josie and Karen, I say on the way, like a mantra. I need these two to be everything and more. We may need to get a whole team of psychologists and social workers and playdate moms to help this little girl not feel like an abandoned child. I get off the subway and walk the three blocks to the school crossing, and uncrossing my fingers, smiling at the other moms, sizing them up for possible friendships later on. Emily Turner catches up to me when I’m about a half block away.

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