Not Quite A mom Read online

  A few minutes earlier, Tiffany had been pretty convinced her life couldn’t possibly get any shittier. Her mom and stepdad were dead and the person who was supposed to become her guardian had hidden her in the coat closet. Although Buck had denied it, Tiffany had gotten the feeling that her “aunt” Lizzie wasn’t exactly thrilled to be reunited with her long-lost best friend’s daughter. This had created a fair amount of apprehension on her part, but Tiffany had done her best to relax.

  The meeting at Lizzie’s office hadn’t gone well, but Buck had been a real sweetheart and the day in Los Angeles had turned out to be a lot of fun. They’d gotten Starbucks at the same place Courteney Cox does, sat on the beach, and had a sushi dinner. Then things had taken a turn for the worse. They’d arrived at Lizzie’s house and instead of the warm welcome that Tiffany had convinced herself would be waiting, Lizzie was there with a girl she claimed to be her attorney in order to get out of being her guardian altogether.

  This would have been bad enough, but the girl had taken Buck and left Tiffany alone with Lizzie. They sat there in a horribly awkward silence until Lizzie realized that her boyfriend was outside and stuffed Tiffany into her tiny coat closet. There she stood between coats that smelled heavily of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle—a perfume she knew well by the samples ripped out of every magazine she could get her hands on. Dizzy from the scent, Tiffany listened as Lizzie unsuccessfully tried to get rid of her boyfriend and then as Courtney and Buck returned and the entire story—which Lizzie had apparently been trying to keep from the man—came out.

  Suddenly, the closet door was thrown open and there she stood, cheeks burning with humiliation. It was the second most embarrassing time she had been discovered in a closet. The first had been at Rachel Roman’s fourteenth birthday party. There had been a game of spin the bottle and Tiffany had been more than happy when her spin landed directly on Ryan Quinn. The two were herded into a closet almost as crowded as Lizzie’s, but smelling of mothballs instead of expensive perfume. Ryan had his tongue down her throat and his hand under her bra when Rachel’s mother had thrown open the closet door. Apparently during their “seven minutes in heaven,” Rachel’s parents had caught on to what eight fourteen-year-olds do in a furnished basement and had broken up the party.

  It was Courtney who pulled open the closet door with a look of horror upon actually finding Tiffany standing inside. Tiffany stood as still as a statue, her checks scarlet red. Courtney whispered, “Oh my God,” as she pulled Tiffany by the wrist out of the closet and into the hall. By the time Tiffany arrived and her eyes adjusted to the bright light of the hall after being in the closet’s blackness, Lizzie and her boyfriend were halfway down the hall and Lizzie was crying. What felt like a split second later, he was gone. He’d dumped Lizzie—broken off their engagement—and Tiffany stood motionless in the hallway, knowing it was all her fault, as Courtney went to the sobbing Lizzie and Buck looked on in shock.

  As Courtney put her arm over Lizzie’s shoulders and guided her inside the apartment, Buck turned to Tiffany.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice a combination of concern, confusion and what, oddly, sounded like hopefulness.

  “Yes,” she said, her own voice heavily laced with humiliation.

  Tiffany wished she could be anywhere in the world but at Lizzie’s apartment. The room was frighteningly perfect. It literally felt like walking into a page of the Pottery Barn catalog. It was clear that no drink had ever been set down without a coaster and no foot had ever made its way onto the couch. She thought back to the ugly plaid couch in her own living room; like almost everything in that house, she despised it. Like the stupid doormat, it was another item that Chuck adored, and while even Tiffany would admit that it was comfortable, it was not comfortable enough to make up for how hideous it was. At this moment, though, Tiffany longed to sink into the burgundy velour and cover herself with the itchy blanket her mother had made during a crochet phase.

  Buck put his hand sympathetically on Tiffany’s shoulder, but the kind gesture almost made her feel worse. Really, things were bad enough without people pitying her—more than they already were anyway. A feeling of hate for Lizzie swelled through her and Tiffany enjoyed a small moment of spite where she silently congratulated the man who had stormed down the hall for getting away from such a bitch. But then almost as quickly as it came, it went away, and the feeling of guilt returned. Tiffany was the reason that Lizzie’s life was in shambles, and while Lizzie certainly wasn’t the only one, Tiffany felt responsible. Buck’s hand stayed on her shoulder and gently guided her into the apartment, where she could see Lizzie and Courtney sitting on the pristine sofa.

  Courtney looked up from consoling Lizzie and rose from the couch to meet them halfway between the door and where Lizzie continued to sit, sobbing. There the three of them stood, in a little huddle in front of a small, round bistro table that sat in the apartment’s entrance/dining room.

  “She’s ready to sign the papers,” Courtney said quietly, looking up at Buck.

  “Are you sure?” Buck countered, sounding uncertain that this was the right time.

  Tiffany silently prayed that Lizzie would refuse to sign the papers tonight—or maybe altogether—and she could go back to Victory and stay with Buck. Maybe Buck Platner would agree to be her guardian? Tiffany was positive that her mother would have been perfectly happy with the idea. I mean, who wouldn’t want their child raised by a celebrity in their absence? “Please don’t make me stay,” Tiffany silently begged whatever higher power might be listening.

  “There’s no time like the present,” Courtney said lightly, slowly blinking her long eyelashes at Buck.

  Buck shrugged, still looking very unsure, but he turned and lifted his worn old briefcase onto the empty bistro table. He opened it and handed a stack of white papers held together with a large binder clip to Courtney. Sticking out from the papers were a number of red “sign here” tabs stuck on to ensure that Lizzie didn’t forget to dot an i or cross a t.

  “Do you have a pen?” she asked.

  Buck reached back into the surprisingly well-organized case and retrieved a blue Bic, which he handed to Courtney. She crossed back over to where Lizzie was holding her head in her hands. Tiffany noticed the pretty diamond on her left ring finger and immediately recalled Lizzie’s boyfriend instructing her to send it back. His words stung in Tiffany’s memory so harshly that she couldn’t even imagine how they must feel being played on repeat in Lizzie’s.

  Only once in her fifteen years had Tiffany had the displeasure of being dumped (rather than doing the dumping). The dumper was Scott Marshall. He was actually the boyfriend Tiffany had before her current boyfriend, Red. Red was undoubtedly a rebound and Tiffany didn’t have any real feelings for him. Scott had been another story. He was a senior, captain of the baseball team, and without a doubt the most handsome boy at Victory High. He and Tiffany dated for nine months, at which point Tiffany’s “everything but” policy became an impassable problem.

  It was the night of Scott’s homecoming dance (coincidentally the same dance night that her mother had gotten pregnant fifteen years before) where he laid it out: have sex or break up. Unlike with every other boy who had laid down the same ultimatum, Tiffany seriously considered Scott’s case. With the others, Tiffany had either walked away or simply refused and the ultimatum had gone away without being enforced. It was different with Scott, though, because Tiffany actually thought she loved him and that he might in fact be “the one.”

  Obviously, it was pretty unrealistic to find “the one” as a high school sophomore, but in her head she had it all figured out. She could get a promise ring after Scott’s graduation and would wait for him while he went away to college (an ambition he never actually held), then upon her own graduation they would get engaged and have their wedding after she finished college. It really could have worked, and she tried to explain it to Scott, including the pledge to go all the way with him once she had the promise ring on her finger. Scott p
retended to agree to the plan and in exchange received a blow job. Before she could even swallow, Scott harshly said that her plan was actually incredibly stupid and that if she wasn’t willing to put out, he would easily find someone who would.

  Five months later, she still felt the sting of Scott’s words and the sick feeling of beer and his cum sitting in her stomach. Two weeks later, Scott was already dating Amanda Ruth, a girl well known for being an easy slut. Every time she saw the two of them together, Tiffany felt the sickness surge, so when Red Richley sweetly asked her to get a Coke after school one day, she readily accepted and had been with him ever since.

  Lizzie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and took the pen in her right hand. Without reading, or even really looking, she signed next to every single red tab until the end of the thick document had been reached.

  “Okay,” she said weakly putting the cap back on the pen and laying it across the stack of papers.

  Courtney gave Lizzie a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before picking up the bundle and crossing back to Buck, who stood frozen in front of his open briefcase. His face registered shock, and perhaps a little disappointment.

  “Okay,” Courtney echoed as she handed the stack to Buck.

  He nodded stiffly in response and then turned and looked at Tiffany. The girl could only blink rapidly in an effort to hold back tears. Lizzie had signed the papers and was now officially her guardian. That meant she had to stay here…here with a person who did not want her, with a person who probably hated her, since she had just ruined Lizzie’s relationship with her fiancé.

  “So we should go,” Courtney said to Buck, and if Tiffany had not known how wildly inappropriate it would be, she would think that there was a suggestive tone to Courtney’s statement.

  “I guess so,” Buck said tiredly, looking sadly in Tiffany’s direction. “Will you be okay?” he asked her.

  “I guess,” she managed to squeak out, her throat straining from holding back tears.

  Buck crossed to Tiffany and gave her a warm hug. “I’ll come down this weekend to see how things are going.” He almost whispered the promise into her ear. She only nodded and buried her head against his hard chest. Strange to think that forty-eight hours ago, Tiffany Dearbourne and Buck Platner had been strangers and now she felt so close to him…and yet he was leaving and she was staying.

  Buck acted like he didn’t want to leave. He was looking from Tiffany, who was screaming, Don’t go! at top volume in her head but standing silently looking at her feet, to Lizzie, who sat silently on the couch with fat tears rolling down her thin cheeks while she looked at her own feet. Then Tiffany heard a soft coughing sound from the door and all three looked up to see Courtney looking directly at Buck and holding the door open.

  He looked surprised but quickly took his hand off Tiffany’s shoulder and crossed to his open briefcase. He snapped it shut and then looked again in Tiffany’s direction.

  “Bye, Tiff,” he said softly, and then he looked at Lizzie. Awkwardly, he turned and took a step toward her, then decided against it and took the step back. “Uh, good-bye Lizzie—Ms. Castle. Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said stiffly. Then he shook his head as if disappointed with himself as much as with the situation and walked out the door, followed by Courtney.

  Tiffany just stood there in horror as the door closed behind them and she was left alone with “Aunt” Lizzie and her new life.

  17

  It is pitch black in my room, it must be the middle of the night, but I can hear my cell phone ringing from my bag in the living room. It’s probably a wrong number…no way am I getting out of bed to answer a wrong-number caller in the middle of the night. Finally, the ringing stops and I close my eyes to go back to sleep. A split second later, the house phone starts ringing.

  “Unbelievable,” I groan to my empty room.

  Before I can coordinate my brain and my limbs to get out of bed and answer the phone, the house phone goes silent and the cell phone starts ringing again. I get up, realizing that there must be a terrible emergency to evoke so many middle-of-the-night calls, but in the pitch blackness of my room I trip over something and land in a heap on the rug. Before I can get my balance and stand back up, the ringing stops and I hear a soft and hesitant “Hello?” in the hallway.

  My heart stops…there is an intruder. Someone is in the house—probably to kill me. The caller is probably the intruder’s partner, calling to coordinate the murder. Before I can rationalize that a murderer probably doesn’t receive calls on the victim’s house and cell phone, I hear the person who answered my phone say, “Actually, I think she’s sick,” and it all comes back to me.

  It’s not an intruder in the hallway—it’s Charla’s daughter, Tiffany. Still in pitch-blackness, I climb back onto my bed and across to where the alarm clock sits. It’s 9:13 a.m., not the middle of the night; and I bet my life that the caller is from work, not the murder’s accomplice, since I was supposed to be in Renee’s office thirteen minutes ago. I throw my head facedown into the soft down pillow and for a split second wish that someone had come during the night and killed me.

  I hear Tiffany promise to have me call whoever is on the other line as soon as I’m able and then sets the old-fashioned Pottery Barn phone’s heavy handset back on the base. It’s probably the third time the phone has ever been used. I bought it because it completes the look of my living room. It sits at the corner where the living room becomes the hallway to the bedrooms and looks perfect, but with its spiral cord and no nearby seating, it never ended up being very practical for everyday use. I sit like a statue in the darkness as I hear Tiffany’s footsteps getting closer and closer to my room, and then she knocks very, very softly three times. My heart races, and I scoot myself silently under the fluffy down comforter. “Lizzie?” she whispers, and I concentrate on shallow, silent breathing. After a few seconds, she gives up, and I hear her footsteps disappear down the hall back toward the living room.

  I roll onto my back, my chest rising and falling heavily as I try to regulate my breathing to its normal speed. My life has completely fallen apart. My plan has been destroyed. I try for a few seconds to figure out a way to put all the pieces back together, but there isn’t one…it’s impossible. I turn onto my side, my back toward the door, and I silently cry until I am asleep again.

  My life continues like this for four days. I keep my blackout shades drawn to ensure round-the-clock pitch-blackness and I sleep off and on all day. When I wake up, I sometimes turn on the television and watch talk shows where people complain about their crappy lives. I have yet to find a show with a person whose life is as crappy as mine. I sneak out of my room in the middle of the night to get food (mostly dry cereal and ice cream) from the kitchen. By only leaving my room in the still of night, I make sure that I will not run into Tiffany. As I silently tiptoe across my apartment, I notice that she has been neatly stacking my mail on the dining room table, but she has also been sitting on the living room couch and not fluffing the pillows when she gets up. Obviously, I hate her.

  I know I have sat in the dark for four days because I have watched Meredith Vieira and Matt Lauer happily banter four times and Friends sixteen times. I liked Katie Couric better on Today, and I hate all the episodes when Ross has the stupid monkey. I have also heard the phone ring four mornings in a row and Tiffany explain in a low voice that I was still very ill, too ill to come to work or even to call in. The phone has also rung five other times, but Tiffany’s side of the conversation was always too one-sided for me to figure out who the caller was. On the fifth morning, the phone doesn’t ring because it’s Saturday, but at 10:06, Tiffany cracks the door. The sunlight from the hallway cuts across the blackness of the room, landing directly in my eyes from the spot at the head of the bed where I am curled around a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats.

  “You’re blinding me!” I shriek. “Shut the door.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Lizzie,” she says quietly, but she doesn’t make any motion to shut the half-
open door.

  “I’m not your aunt and nobody calls me Lizzie,” I snap nastily.

  There is a long beat of silence…long enough that a surge of guilt pulses through my body.

  “Call me Elizabeth,” I say, trying to lighten my tone a little.

  “Look, Elizabeth,” she begins, and now that my eyes have adjusted to seeing light for the first time in almost a week, I can see that she is wearing a black tank top and black knee-length skirt. As she talks, she stares at her toe digging into the pile of the carpet. “Obviously you and my mom weren’t quite as close as she thought.”

  My first instinct is to snort, “Ya think?” sarcastically, but the mention of Charla sends a reminder flashing through my brain that this kid’s mother just died. Obviously, I still hate her for ruining my life, but really it’s more Charla’s fault.

  “Yeah, not really,” I answer, also looking at her toe in the carpet.

  “You’ve had some phone calls,” she says, producing a pile of light pink Post-it notes that I recognize from my desk drawer.

  “Did Dan call? You should have gotten me!” I say, suddenly certain that every single message is from Dan, begging and pleading to get back together.

  “No,” she says quietly, “he didn’t call.” Tiffany’s words squelch my dream, but she doesn’t seem to catch on because she starts flipping through the little slips of paper. “Courtney, Courtney, Hope, Renee Foster—that was kind of cool to talk to a celebrity—Hope, Courtney, Court—”