Once back in the dubious sanctuary of her bedroom, she took another ten seconds of overdraft to stop, breathe, calm down. Her hands were gratifyingly steady as she found and put on a new pair of hose, a white blouse, and a dark green pinstripe suit that not only looked professional but also, she hoped, played up her eyes. The skirt was a bit snug but would do; she’d go easy on the Danish this morning, and leave the sugar out of her coffee – if she got the chance to eat at all. She slid into mocha pumps, pinned on an opal brooch and put in the earrings that went with it, and checked the effect. Not bad, but she was late, late, late. She still had to get the kids dressed, put on her makeup, and maybe even grab breakfast for herself. She was past morning mode by now, past even Panic Overdrive, and into dead, cold calm.
Kimberley knew she didn’t want to wear the Magic Mountain sweatshirt Nicole had picked out for her, but had no idea what she did want. Nicole had hoped to hold onto her desperate calm, but that drove her over the edge. “You figure it out,” she snapped, and left Kimberley to it while she went to deal with Justin. He didn’t care what he wore. Whatever it was, getting him into it was a wrestling match better suited to Hulk Hogan than a working mother.
After Nicole pinned him and dressed him, she went in search of Kimberley. Her daughter hadn’t moved. She was still standing in the middle of her pink-and-white bedroom, in her underwear, staring at a tangled assortment of shirts, pants, shorts, and skirts. Nicole felt her hands twitch in an almost irresistible urge to slap. She forced herself to stop and draw a breath, to speak reasonably if firmly. “We don’t have any more time to waste, young lady.” In spite of her best efforts, her voice rose. “Here. This shirt. These pants. Now.”
Sullenly, Kimberley put them on. “I hate you,” she said, and then, as if that had been a rehearsal, found something worse: “Daddy and Dawn never yell at me.”
Only four, and she knew just where to stick the knife.
Nicole stalked out of her daughter’s bedroom, tight-lipped and quivering with rage she refused to show. As she strode past the nightstand on her way into the master bathroom, she glared at Liber and Libera – especially at Liber. The god and goddess, their hair cut in almost identical pageboy bobs, stared serenely back, as they had for… how long?
She grasped at that thought – any straw in a storm, any distraction before she lost it completely. The label on the back of the limestone plaque said in German, English, and French that it was a reproduction of an original excavated from the ruins of Carnuntum, the Roman city on the site of Petronell, the small town east of Vienna where she’d bought it. Every now and then, she wondered about that. None of the other reproductions in the shop had looked quite so… antique. But none of the Customs men had given her any grief about it. If they didn’t know, who did?
As a distraction, it was a failure. When she stood in front of the makeup mirror, the modern world came crashing back. Fury had left her cheeks so red, she almost decided to leave off the blusher. But she knew what would happen next: the blood would drain away and leave them pasty white, and she’d look worse than ever. When she’d done the best she could with foundation and blusher, eyeliner and mascara and eyebrow pencil, lip liner and lipstick, she surveyed the results with a critical eye. Even with the help of modern cosmetology, her face was still too round – doughy, if you got right down to it. Anyone could guess she was a schnitzel-eater from a long line of schnitzel-eaters. She was starting to get a double chin, to go with the belly she had to work a little harder each year to disguise with suit jackets and shirtdresses and carefully cut slacks. And – what joy! – she was getting a pimple, too, right in the middle of her chin, a sure sign her period was on the way.
‘Thirty-four years old, and I’ve got zits,” she said to nobody in particular. God wasn’t listening, that was plain. She camouflaged the damage as best she could, corralled the kids, and headed out to the car.
The Honda coughed several times before reluctantly kicking over. If Frank had got the last child-support check to her, or the one before that, she’d have had it tuned. As things were – as things were, she gritted her teeth. She was a lawyer. She was supposed to be making good money. She was making good money, by every national standard, but food and daycare and clothes and insurance and utilities and the mortgage ate it all up and then some.
House payments in Indianapolis hadn’t prepared her for Los Angeles, either. With two incomes, they were doable. Without two incomes…
“Yay! Off to Josefina’s,” Kimberley said when they pulled out of the driveway. Apparently, she’d forgotten she hated her mother.
Nicole wished she could forget as easily as that herself. “Off to Josefina’s,” she echoed with considerably less enthusiasm. She lived in West Hills, maybe ten minutes away from the splendidly multicultural law offices of Rosenthal, Gallagher, Kaplan, Jeter, Gonzalez Feng. The daycare provider, however, was over in Van Nuys, halfway across the San Fernando Valley.
That hadn’t been a problem when Nicole was married. Frank would drop off the kids, then head down the San Diego Freeway to the computer-science classes he taught at UCLA. He’d pick Kimberley and Justin up in the evening, too. Everything was great. Josefina was wonderful, the kids loved her, Nicole got an extra half-hour every morning to drink her coffee and brace herself for the day.
Now that Frank didn’t live there anymore, Nicole had to drive twenty minutes in the direction opposite the one that would have taken her to work, then hustle back across the Valley to the Woodland Hills office. After she got off, she made the same trip in reverse. No wonder the Honda needed a tuneup. Nicole kept wanting to try to find someone closer, preferably on the way to work, but the kids screamed every time she suggested it, and there never seemed to be time. So she kept taking them to Josefina’s, and the Honda kept complaining, and she kept scrambling, morning after morning and evening after evening. Someday the Honda would break down and she’d scream loud enough to drown out the kids, and then she’d get around to finding someone else to take care of them while she went about earning a living.
She turned left onto Victory and headed east. Sometimes you could make really good time on Victory, almost as good as on the freeway – the freeway when it wasn’t jammed, of course; the eastbound 101 during morning rush hour didn’t bear thinking about. She hoped this would be one of those times; she was still running late.
She sailed past the parking lots of the Fallbrook Mall and the more upscale Topanga Plaza. Both were acres of empty asphalt now. They wouldn’t slow her down till she came home tonight. Her hands tightened on the wheel as she came up to Pierce College. Things often jammed there in the morning, with people heading for early classes. Some of the kids drove like maniacs, too, and got into wrecks that snarled traffic for a mile in either direction.
Not today, though. “Victory,” Nicole breathed: half street name, half triumph. Victory wasn’t like Sherman Way, with a traffic light every short block. Clear sailing till just before the freeway, she thought. She rolled by one gas station, apartment house, condo block, and strip mall with video store or copy place or small-time accountant’s office or baseball-card shop or Mexican or Thai or Chinese or Korean or Indian or Armenian restaurant after another, in continual and polyglot confusion. They had a flat and faintly unreal look in the trafficless morning, under the blue California sky.
Six years and she could still marvel at the way the light came down straight and white and hard, with an edge to it that she could taste in the back of her throat. Good solid Los Angeles smog, pressed down hard by the sun: air you could cut pieces off and eat. She’d thought she’d never be able to breathe it, gone around with a stitch in her side and a catch in her lungs, till one day she woke up and realized she hadn’t felt like that in weeks. She’d whooped, which woke up Frank; then she’d had to explain: “I’m an Angeleno now! I can breathe the smog.”