New Attitude

Chapter 1

Done.

That's what the note says. One blippin' word. Done. He doesn't even give me the courtesy of a pronoun. Would it have taken that much more effort to say I'm done? No, it wouldn't. But for Stan, the lazy turd, perhaps it was just too much.

You know, like being married to me.

Lots of colorful words run through my head right now. And if my five-year-old weren't standing next to me, believe you me, the expletives would be flowing like hot lava right now.

I should have guessed this was why Stan dropped Fleur at my mom's. Silly me. I figured he was working to support our family. I didn't realize he was done with our family. Done.

Mommy, did you change my room too?

I'm stuck in the kitchen, staring at his incredibly verbosely written note. Amazing how one word can rivet my attention so completely.

Fleur breaks my concentration by tugging on my arm. Mommy, why did you change the house? I don't like it.

Huh? I struggle to focus on her. My mind is spinning and whirling. What are you talking about? I just walked in. I haven't been home in ...

Well, crap.

Fleur's pulled me into the living room. Or the space formerly known as the living room. Now it's an empty shell. I cannot believe he did this. Now it makes sense. Obviously, he was so busy emptying out our stuff that he couldn’t possibly have found time for more than a one-word explanation. The only thing he left were the pictures on the walls. Except for the large Kandinsky reproduction. Now a large blank space occupies the long wall in the room. Above where the couch used to be. Opposite the void left by the TV. Stan gave it to me for our first anniversary because I loved Circles in a Circle. How could he take that?

Oh no, what else did he take? Where did Fleur go?

She's contentedly playing in her room, happy to be home. Relief fills my body, making me go slack against the doorway of Fleur's intact bedroom. Oh thank goodness. I don't think I could have taken it if he took her stuff. Speaking of stuff ...

You have got to be kidding me.

Our—my—bedroom looks like a tornado went through. A tangled pile of blankets on the floor. A deserted pillow. An overturned lamp. My clothes, in a heap. Gone is the bed. The nightstands. The dresser. The TV. Why does he need both TVs? He always hated the bedroom TV—said it was too small. Yeah, if only I’d complained about things that were too small ...

Who does this?

Why? Why would Stan do this to me? Sure we fought over stupid, married couple stuff. Nothing major though. Frankly, I always thought I was lucky because Stan was easy going. He was the most laid-back Prince Charming ever.

Until the contest, that is.

I wish I could say my partner was the super-supportive type, but that'd be a lie. He wasn't exactly unsupportive either. He simply, well, he didn't care. But it was a purposeful not caring. A passive aggressive non-acknowledgment. You know, it's not every day that you audition and make it through three rounds of cuts to make it onto a reality TV design show. Heck, I didn't even think I'd make it.

Maybe I saw Stan's jaw set a little when I told him I made the show and would be gone for at least eight weeks. But it's not like he objected, or said anything at all. And it was about time I got to go away. With him on the road all the time, I'd certainly done my time as a single parent over the past five years with Fleur. Not that I mind, because my baby girl is my whole world. I didn't think he'd mind, really. Apparently I was wrong. And here I was, so impressed at how he'd stepped up into the primary caregiver role for Fleur.

Fleur. Oh my God, how could he do this to her? Is he going to want to see her? Am I even going to let that happen? How can I? How can I not?

Well, let's face it— he left me, not her. Not yet, at least.

He'd better not have left her. On the other hand, I sort of want to inflict bodily harm on him, so it might be better if I don't have to see him all the time.

Mommy, where are you going to sleep? Fleur's tugging on my shirt hem. I'm so focused on the bazillion thoughts racing through my mind, most involving ways to torture Stan, that I didn't even hear her come in. I look down at her, too flummoxed to even put together an answer.

Mommy, what happened to your bed?

I ... um ... I guess Dad must have needed it.

You can sleep with me if you want. Her voice is so little, so sweet, so innocent. Oh, to see things through the eyes of a five-year-old. I don't know how to tell her there's no way my size fourteen rear end is going to fit in the daybed with her. And her sixty-five hundred stuffed animals. Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, but the last time I counted there were over thirty in her bed. That doesn't even account for the ones in the toy box. Either way, it doesn’t leave much room for me. Not that I’ll be sleeping much tonight.

Where could he have gone?

I need to call him and find out what’s going on, I mean besides the obvious. Mommy, what are we going to do about this mess?

I don’t know, honey. I don’t know. I need to sit down, but short of Fleur’s bed, there’s not much left in the house to sit on. How could he have done this?

Does Daddy know what happened? Should we call the police and tell them someone took all our stuff? Why didn’t they take my stuff? I’m just happy they left my things. Miss Sparkles is very valuable, you know. And my dollhouse. That’s the most valuable thing.

Normally, I adore my little girl’s bright and inquisitive nature. However, today it puts me over the edge. The tears I’d been holding back spring forth, gushing and wracking my body with sobs.

Fleur rushes me, throwing her tiny body on top of me. Oh, Mommy, don’t cry. Daddy will help find your things. Call him to come home.

The irony of her statement makes me laugh. Not a happy little chuckle but that maniacal laugh that comes with insanity. Sort of fitting at the moment. With the back of my hand I brush the tears from my face and stand up.

We’re going to Grammy’s. I try not to notice the disappointment in Fleur’s face. I can read her like a book. I know she was looking forward to being in her own room tonight. Me too. I don’t know what else to do though. After eight weeks filming Made for Me, all I wanted was my own bed. Now I don’t even have a bed. Stan. That bastard.

Our bags are still by the front door where I’d dropped them. Once they’re loaded back in the car, we head back to my mom’s. I don’t even know what I’m going to say to her. This is so mortifying. It’s bad enough that he left me. Cleaning out my stuff is over the top. Oh gosh, if that’s what he did to our things, what did he do to our bank accounts? The pit in my stomach grows to epic proportions, and I sort of want to vomit. Actually, no sort of about it. My grip on the steering wheel tightens in a near futile attempt to maintain control of my vehicle.

Once I pull into my mom’s driveway, I send Fleur into the house, while I pull up our banking information on my phone. My only hope is that since Stan is technologically challenged, he won’t know how to access our bank accounts. He doesn’t use the computer and can barely work his smartphone. A minute amount of relief rushes through my body. A smartphone is only as smart as its user. Stan hasn’t touched the bank account. I go in and reset all the security information, this time using information from the TV show, rather than my normal passwords and background questions. That’ll show him.

I have no doubt Stan will come for the money next. Let’s face it, the majority of it is his anyway. I haven’t worked much since Fleur was born. It was too hard to hold down a nine-to-five with him on the road all the time. I know driving a truck is hard work. I appreciate the sixteen-hour days he put in so that I could be home with our daughter. He never seemed to mind the long hauls. It didn’t bother him to be gone for three or five days at a time. I used to joke that he could have another family out there, and I’d never know since he was gone all the time.

Son of a—

Ten bucks says I could now be the subject of a Dateline Mystery or 20/20 show entitled His Secret Life.

Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. He’s got some chippy somewhere. She’s probably a size two and doesn’t have blue hair. Even though he always said he liked my brightly colored hair, I bet he has a secret fetish for a cookie-baking Betty Crocker of a wife.

To be clear, that’s never been me.

Oh gosh, what if he has a bunch of kids too? They’d be Fleur’s siblings. I guess that would come in handy if she ever needs an organ or something, but otherwise, I don’t want her to have anything to do with those lowlifes who stole our life.

Wait— what if we’re the ones who stole their life? What if they came first, and then we’re the scum who took him away? No, that couldn’t be. It wouldn’t make sense for him to clear out my stuff if we were the new family. Unless, of course, he had a family before us, and now he’s setting up with another family. Cripes, we’re going to end up as the next Sister Wives show. Nope, I won’t participate. Of course I won’t. Because my mind is getting ahead of me. This can’t be the reality. I’ve known Stan too long. We dated for five years before we got married and then were married for five years before we had Fleur. And now she’s five. Fifteen years this man has been in my life. No way he has another family, let alone two. That’s just too unrealistic, even for my warped mind.

There’s got to be a logical explanation.

Chapter 2

Y ou know, I never liked him. My mom slides a tumbler of something alcoholic into my hand. Well, it’d better be alcoholic. I can’t tell yet, because I haven’t lifted my head from her kitchen table in about two hours. She’s been entertaining Fleur, which has been a godsend. On the other hand, the constant berating of my husband—that I could do without.

Huh. Didn’t seem that way at my birthday. You two sang a pretty karaoke duet, if I remember correctly.

I, ah, well, I mean, I always thought you could do better.

Jeez, that’s funny because I sort of remember you telling Stan at our wedding that you never thought you’d find anyone to take me, and you couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have found such a wonderful man.

Oh, for Pete’s sake Kira, I’m trying to be supportive!

With a huff, she walks away, and I’m left to continue my wallowing. I haven't heard from Stan, not that I'd expected to anyway. And no way on God's green earth am I calling him. Heck no. It’s day two of the wallow. I’d like to keep on this schedule for about, oh, two more months, but I have to fly out to Montabago in three days for the royal wedding. I’ll be there, helping Michele with any last-minute details. It was nice of her to invite me. I thought for sure she’d take her new boyfriend, but she asked me to be her date for the festivities. I so don’t feel like going. I mean, wasn’t it enough that I spent an extra three weeks helping her out to win the finals?

Three days ago, I was excited to be going to a royal wedding. I couldn’t wait to get home and see my family for a few days and then be off again for a few more. One last hurrah before life settled back into our old routine.

Ha. As if.

There’s no routine. There’s no home. There’s no husband. No nothing. Just me, my daughter, my nagging mother, and alcohol. Praises be for that. I lift my head enough to down the contents of the glass.

I splutter out the contents. Water? Why would she give me water? I need vodka. Lots of vodka. All the vodka. On the other hand, I have been either drunk or hungover since I got to my mom’s house. I probably should get myself together and spend some time with Fleur.

I cannot believe Stan did this. Still. It’s not getting any easier. Frankly, it’s getting worse. I can’t imagine things ever getting better. My husband walked out on me. I just lost the biggest career opportunity I’ve ever had, and the whole world knows because I did it on TV. I weigh more now than I ever did pregnant. And to top it all off, I have to go be happy to watch people get married.

All I want to say is bah humbug, and it’s spring time, not Christmas. Bah humbug.

Are you done?

Oh yeah. Mom’s back.

Done with what?

Your pity party. You’ve got stuff to do.

I’m not doing anything besides getting myself another drink and eating myself into a stupor.

Can you eat yourself into a stupor?

Okay, now I think she’s doing this just to get on my nerves. Mom, don’t test me. You know what I mean.

Don’t be snippy. I get that you’re in a bad mood. You’ve made that plenty obvious to me and your daughter. Are you going to let that be the rest of your life?

It’s only been two days, Mom. I’m allowed to be miserable.

But two days to your child seems like an eternity. She can’t watch you be like this day after day. Dang. She’s got me. I sit up and take another drink of the water. Maybe it is time to sober up. I have to leave Fleur in a few days again. What if she starts to get a complex about being abandoned? Maybe I shouldn’t leave her.

Mom, do you think I should stay? It’s probably not the best idea to leave Fleur right now. I don’t want to mess her up permanently.

No, Kira. You need to go. You worked so hard for this— you need to see it through.

It’s not like they’re my designs though.

No, but Michele picked you to help her. Without you, she wouldn’t have won. You know it. I know it. She knows it, which is why she invited you to the wedding. I’ll keep Fleur. I would have even if Stan were still in the picture but had to leave for work. Fleur will get to see her beautiful mommy on TV, hopefully, and will know how talented and wonderful she is.

When did my mom get so smart? I’m almost positive she wasn’t this smart when I was a teenager. I would have remembered that.

I hope Fleur thinks I’m smart someday. Of course, she’ll probably spend most of the next thirty years thinking I’m an idiot because, well, you know what they say about payback.

Okay, then, well, what do I do first? I don’t know even where to start.

My mom chews her lip for a minute. It’s her manipulation face. She’s processing how to present the information so that she basically is telling me exactly what she wants me to do but in a way so I think it’s my idea. She’s done it all my life. Sadly, I only figured it out about ten years ago.

Well, let’s see. Where do you think we should start?

I tell you, this woman is a master manipulator. She should have been in hostage negotiations or at the U.N. or something. She missed her calling.

Mom, just tell me, okay? Tell me what to do. How do I plan for a trip when my life is in shambles? Where do I begin? I pause. Oh crap, I set her up. She’s going to start singing a Julie Andrews song. I cannot handle The Sound of Music right now. I have to nip this in the bud. And yes, I know I start at the very beginning. Please don’t sing.

What’s the deal with the house?

He took a large majority of the furniture. You know that.

What’s the status of your lease?

Oh, um, I’m not sure.

Then that’s number one. You need to put on a low-cut top and cry some good tears and see if you can convince your landlord to let you break the lease.

Normally I’d say it would be too sad to give up my home, but it’s not home anymore. Stan made sure of that. It’s a place that I used to call home. Even if I got all new things, I would never feel the same about it. Mom’s right. I need to cut ties and start as fresh as possible as soon as possible.

Over the next three hours—oh wait, it only felt that long—Mom outlines a plan for what I need to do in the next few days. She’s got her legal pad and extra-fine-point pen, jotting everything down. She’s a list maker. I’m not, but if it gives her some perverse pleasure, she can have at it. She’s been single for twenty years. She needs something that gets her rocks off.

I’m sort of dozing off when I vaguely hear her say something that doesn’t sound quite right. What was that? I try to open my eyes a bit wider, hoping it will help me wake up.

I’ll call Melissa and see if I can get you a hair appointment. It’s going to take a long time to get it to where it needs to be, but I think she’s up for the challenge.

Um, yeah, no. I cannot believe we’re going to have this conversation. Again.

Kira Marie, it’s not like you can go to the wedding of ... whoever those people are, looking like that.

Oh. My. God.

Mom, I’ve been dying my hair for how long now?

Through gritted teeth she spits, Twenty years.

And what did I tell you?

The muscle in her cheek twitches under the tension. That I would get your wedding and that’s it.

And what color was my hair for my wedding?

Brown.

That’s right. I lived up to my end of the deal. End of discussion.

But your hair—

"Is gorgeous. I will need it touched up. Should I stay in this color palette? I call it peacock. I saw the next thing I’m going to try. It’s actually a silver-gray base with pastel colors running through it. It reminds me of a unicorn. But I don’t know that it’s formal enough for the wedding. What do you think? Let me see if I can find a picture