Chapter Twenty-Six: Metamorphosis
Monday, May 25, 1987
Tony stood over the range scraping the sauté pan with a wooden spoon to ensure nothing burned over the high heat. Homemade sauce simmered on the back burner. "What choices do they give you?" he asked his daughter. She had procrastinated until the last hours of Memorial Day weekend, finally divulging her plans after a late-afternoon threat from Mona.
Sam read from the instruction packet, projecting her voice over the din of kitchen work. "Here's the first one."
Reflect on a time when you faced a challenge, setback, or failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?
"Alright," he said. "I think you got a few good ones to choose from, honey. What else could you write about?"
"Prompt number two," she read.
Discuss an accomplishment, event, or realization that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of yourself or others.
"You are a very accomplished young lady, Samantha," Tony said with fatherly pride.
"The last one is kind of a catch-all."
Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
"What do you think?" he asked, avoiding undue influence. If Sam wanted to go away to school so badly, she would have to do the work of applying.
"I think I can use all of them," she said with naïve optimism. "You think they'll really count the words?"
"No, but you should."
The back door opened, and Angela carefully stepped sideways over the raised threshold. She cursed the fact that she couldn't see the ground immediately in front of her without bending over. "Well, Linda and Natalie must be almost home by now." She'd dropped their visitors off at JFK at noon and then put in a solid half-day's work at the agency with Jack. "Something smells good!" she said, bumping Tony softly with her belly as she looked over his shoulder. He twisted back to give her a quick smooch.
"I'm making stuffed peppers. Why don't you take a load off?"
"I've been sitting," she protested with a chuckle. Every time she sat down, she committed to hoisting herself back to a standing position at some point. She needed to stay off her feet for at least fifteen minutes to make it worthwhile.
"Sam has something to tell you," Tony insisted.
"What is it, sweetie?" Angela asked, dragging a chair back from the table. "You need some help with your homework?" She looked over at the familiar seal on Sam's application form. "You're applying to Taft?" she asked in shock.
"It's a really good school!" Sam said defensively.
"I know. It's top tier," Angela said. "It's just a long commute."
"They have dorms," the teen said quietly. Angela's heart skipped a beat. "I could come home every weekend!" Sam stressed.
Angela nodded, taking in the implications. "How long have you known about this?" she asked Tony accusingly.
"Ay-oh, I just heard about it," he asserted. Admitting that he had eavesdropped the day before last would serve no purpose other than to make himself the focus of female rage. "Sam, you wanna fill her in? Please?" He wanted to hear his daughter tell the story again. Would she manipulate the details for her new audience or give a rehearsed explanation? He listened for an ulterior motive.
Sam took a breath. "I went to the library and found a book on all the prep schools in Connecticut. Then I wrote to my top choices and requested information on applying. Taft was the only school that addressed a packet to me, and not to my parents." She had taken that as a sign of respect for students.
"I never saw anything in the mail," Angela said.
"Neither did I," Tony realized.
"I used Bonnie's address," Sam explained. She caught her father's disapproving glance.
Angela turned her body and stretched one arm over the table. "Why do you want to go to prep school, honey?" she asked gently.
Tony was more agitated. "Yeah, Samantha. What's so bad about being home with us and going to Fairfield High?"
"I love living here with you," she said sincerely, "but Taft has a three-year accelerated program. I want to focus on school and get into a good college." Her frustration came through. Hadn't they noticed she was growing up?
"I should have known my kid would end up there," Angela said under her breath.
"What?" Tony pressed. He tweaked a knob to quiet the whistle of the gas.
His wife ignored him. "Sam, you happen to know a Big Red Rhino."
"A what?" Tony asked impatiently. He shut off the burner altogether and turned around to participate in the discussion.
"That's the Taft School mascot, Dad," Sam explained.
"I thought you were a Montague Unicorn, babe," Tony said to Angela. He distinctly remembered finding the school's pennant in the attic, with its motto in large capital letters next to the seal. Thankfully, she no longer prized Virtue Above All.
"Yes, that's right, honey. Michael graduated from Taft."
Tony was torn about letting his wife's ex-husband help their daughter. He didn't want Sam to become a snob. He didn't want to cede any more control of his kids to other people. Mostly, he didn't want to be away from his first baby. It was ironic that he had taken a housekeeper job partly to keep a close watch on her. And now their lives had changed enough to make living in different towns a real possibility.
Tuesday, May 26, 1987
Wendy hummed to herself as she deadheaded the rose bushes in her back yard. When a woody stem refused to yield, she exchanged her delicate clippers for the heavier pair standing by in the pocket of her gardening smock. The ringing began just as the stalk snapped. By the end of the second ring, both the clippers and her leather-reinforced gloves were stowed away. She extended the long metal antenna of the cordless phone and pressed the button to answer. "Hello?"
The line was staticky and garbled. "May I speak with Wendy Wittner?"
"Speaking," Wendy responded as she walked briskly toward her house. It was difficult to maintain a conversation more than twenty feet from the phone's base on the kitchen wall.
"This is Monique at Fairfield General Hospital."
Wendy's mind began spinning with possibilities. Jenny was in school and Geoffrey was at work. Could one of them be hurt? Was Angela or Isabelle in labor? Perhaps Herb was on life support and only she could make the call to pull the plug. "I'll do it!" she cried.
Monique laughed at her eagerness. "Well, that was easy! Would you like to hear the job description?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. What is this about?" Wendy backpedaled. She was too relieved at the lack of emergency to be surprised that she was being recruited.
"Dr. Corrinda Williams recommended you for a Training and Events Manager position that I've been trying to fill for the past month."
One of Isabel's friends. That was interesting. Maybe she had misunderstood Wendy's background or mixed her up with someone else. "How considerate of her, but I don't know the first thing about medical training," she protested.
Monique chuckled. "That's alright. You would just be coordinating with the instructors and attendees, making sure that the right space and materials are available, setting up coffee and donuts—"
"I can do that!" she burst out.
"So I hear. Dr. Williams says you're President of the PTA and a great party planner."
Wendy refused to take all the credit when she had such great helpers. "Oh, I couldn't do it all by myself."
"We wouldn't expect you to do all the work, but you would have to plan and be responsible for the execution. Why don't we sit down in person and chat some more? I have availability tomorrow at ten in the morning."
"An interview?" Wendy asked.
"It's a conversation," Monique answered. "We'd like to see if we can get you to come aboard."
"OK!" After two months of dead ends, Wendy was elated to have a job prospect. She took down Monique's information and hung up, then tore her gardening smock off and threw it on a patio chair.
Friday, May 29, 1987
Metamorphosis
By Samantha Micelli
I was afraid of cockroaches when I was little. By the time I started school, those vermin were afraid of me. My Brooklyn neighborhood was tough, and I thought my mom's street smarts and my dad's mean left hook made me tough, too. After my mom died, I bounced around between my Grandpa Matty, my neighbor Mrs. Rossini, and my dad's one-bedroom apartment. Then my grandfather died and I started getting into fights and skipping school. Those first eleven years of my life were just my "egg phase," I later realized.
I became a larva when my dad got a new job and moved us to Connecticut. Suddenly, I picked up a different accent and started dressing like a girly girl instead of a tomboy. I made new friends. The family my dad worked for started feeling like our family. My family. There was a little boy who looked up to me as the older sister he'd never had. His grandma shared her wisdom and zest for life with us. And my dad's boss spoiled me whenever she could get away with it. She wasn't my mom then, but I gladly soaked up her maternal affection.
My real mom's dad, Grandpa Nick, wasn't a rule follower; he was a criminal. It was a shock, but not a surprise when he was killed by one of those "connected" guys. Believe it or not, most Italians are law-abiding citizens. Even the ones who aren't are usually just trying to get by. Grandpa Nick was different. He liked getting away with his crimes. And yet, he wasn't a bad person. Not in my eyes, at least.
After Grandpa Nick died, I entered my pupa stage, along with my dad, his boss, and her mother and son. Our cocoon was a pair of adjoining rooms in an Iowa roadside motel, and our only communication with the outside world happened through a federal agent. We emerged and migrated to Phoenix with new identities and a shared last name. Our year in witness protection made us a real family, and that is how we returned to Connecticut.
This is where my little brother's suggested metaphor breaks down. You see, insects only have four stages in their life cycle. I believe there are still several transformative experiences ahead of me. Everyone in my family has gone through major changes later in life. My dad was a professional baseball player before he was injured. Now he's in college and planning to teach. His old boss, now my stepmom and adoptive mother, lost her executive position before founding a brand-new business. My grandma was widowed, became an independent, educated woman, and then eventually learned to love again.
As for me, Taft could well be my second cocoon, where I am safe to question my identity and transform into a young adult. Whether I am accepted to the accelerated program or not, I fully intend to take advantage of every opportunity for metamorphosis, whenever and however it arises.
"Well, what do you think?" Tony asked impatiently as Michael put the typewritten page down on the kitchen table and bit his thumb thoughtfully.
"It's a little disjointed. She wrote this all herself?" he inquired, starting to pace.
"My Samantha ain't disjointed!" Tony disagreed.
"It's a personal statement. We thought she should do it on her own," Angela said defensively. "Is it bad? Should I rewrite it for her?"
"Angela," Tony growled. He had been herding her away from Sam all week, insisting that their daughter be accepted or rejected on her own merits. Getting in and washing out was worse than never making it there at all. He would know.
Michael picked up the page again. Admissions consultants all over the northeast had made a living crafting the perfect essay for their clients' prep school and college applications. Sam was an honest-to-God teenager with a real young person's way about her that came through in the five hundred words she was allowed. "It's authentic. I think the admissions panel will like it. They'll have plenty to ask her about in the interview."
"There's an interview, too?" Tony whined. He wasn't counting on Sam having a chance to showcase her personal charm.
"Unless things have changed," Michael answered. "I won't lie and say she's a shoo-in, but I think she's got a good shot."
Sam and Jonathan stepped back from the door they'd both had their heads tilted against. "Well, squirt, what do you think?" she asked, unintentionally echoing her father.
"I'll miss you," he said, sulking away.
"Wait! Jonathan!" she hissed, running to catch him at the base of the stairs. "I'm not gonna be gone that much. I'll be home every weekend. Well, almost every weekend."
"If you come home every other weekend and I go to my dad's every other weekend, I'll never see you!" he complained.
"I promise that won't happen! We can figure it out, OK?"
"If you say so," Jonathan said, not quite believing her. He headed up to his room to get his backpack ready for a second weekend in a row at his dad's. After that, he'd be with his mom for two weeks in a row. Once school was out, it wasn't clear what would happen to his routine of shuffling between homes.
"She's only fourteen. I'm not ready for her to move away," Tony said. He was curled up in the blanket trying to shield himself from the jet blast of the fan at the foot of their bed. Angela was in the middle of another hot flash. She rested against the pillows and the headboard with her tank top tucked under her breasts absorbing sweat and the band of her shorts pulled under her belly.
"I don't want her living away from home either," she agreed. "We can't stop her from growing up, though."
"No, we can't." Tony scooted further down and kissed Angela's bare side. "Don't get any ideas, Callista," he warned. "In fact, you're grounded. Stay in your womb for the next four weeks."
"Could we make it three?" Angela begged. "I'm sick of being pregnant."
"You talking to me or her?" he asked lightly.
"I don't know. After this next week of work, I won't have to go into the office anymore. The Sturdy Boy account is really the only thing keeping me there."
"Look, I've got two more weeks of school, but the moment I'm done with my finals, you can go ahead and pop this kid out."
"Yeah?" she asked excitedly. One week early sounded perfect to her, and her doctor had already reminded them that thirty-nine weeks was considered full term. "You gonna help me kickstart labor?" she teased.
"Absolutely. We'll walk as much as you want. I'll feed you spicy food..."
"Oh, those are good, but I had another method in mind."
"Oh," he said. "Yeah, we'll do that as much as you want, too," he promised.
"You're a sex camel," she reminded him with a laugh. "Almost time to fill those humps!" An audible shiver ran through her.
"Cold?" he asked. "I'll turn down the fan," he said, jumping to his feet.
"Get this off!" she demanded, pulling at her damp tank top.
He dutifully assisted her. "Want a nightgown?" he asked, unfazed by her bare state.
"The stretchy white crop top," she said. Anything longer was just going to be bunched up as soon as her belly started itching again, which it always did.
Saturday, May 30, 1987
"Jonathan is sound asleep," Michael said, sitting back down on the couch after half an hour of shadow puppet instruction in his son's bedroom. "He's got the moose down now. I promised to teach him the rabbit in two weeks."
Frankie sighed and put her book down. "It's just hard to believe someone as sweet and loving as you has monstrous parents."
"I wasn't always such a catch. I had to go through a midlife crisis first," he reminded her, sliding her feet into his lap.
"I thought you were supposed to get a toupee and a convertible with your midlife crisis," she teased.
"Didn't need to. I still have my hair and the blonde bimbo I married on the rebound had a convertible." Heather may have still had the car, but she had certainly switched out the personalized license plate by now.
"I'm not marrying you until I know you're not on the rebound," Frankie warned.
"You'll have my baby, but you won't marry me?" he prodded.
"Not yet. And I'll never change my last name."
"Really?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Really," she replied, scooting closer.
"Don't tell my parents that," he said, pulling her fully onto his lap and brushing his lips over hers.
Sunday, May 31, 1987
"Hi, uh yeah. We're meeting, um, Mr. and Mrs. Bower?" Michael's statement came out as a question. He wondered how his parents could make him feel like an insecure child again when he hadn't even set eyes on them. His starched shirt and carefully knotted tie were strangling him. Frankie's hand smoothed comfortingly over the back of his suit jacket and she hummed only loud enough to remind him that she was there for support.
"I'll seat you now. Will you be requiring a child menu for the young man?" the maître d' asked. The inquiry was directed more toward Frankie than Michael, and he realized that it was only natural for him to assume that the woman was the boy's mother.
"No thank you. I have a sophisticated palate," Jonathan bragged. He was slightly overheated in his suit and bowtie. A dark blond cowlick threatened to pop out of its gel prison.
"Right this way." The man pulled a chair out for Frankie while Michael got Jonathan settled. The table was already set for five, with paper menus tucked into heavy leather holders. A server sidled up to the table. "Waiting on two," the maître d' told him quietly.
"My name is Ben, and I'll be your server. Could I start you with anything to drink while the rest of your party is en route?"
"Could I get a decaf, please?" Frankie asked.
"Can I have a Shirley Temple?" Jonathan piped up. This was the kind of fancy restaurant where he had enjoyed the kiddie cocktail with his mom in years past. Now she couldn't stomach them for some reason.
Michael caught the server's eye and nodded his assent. "You have Glenmorangie eighteen?" he inquired without requesting the liquor menu.
"Of course, sir. How would you like that?"
"Neat. Water back." Just the way his dad took his whisky he thought with a wince. He recalled being caught drinking beer with his friends at school just before winter break of his junior year. As punishment, he was forced to consume an entire rocks glass full of Lagavulin. It made him sick to his stomach and gave him a three-day headache, but it didn't deter him from drinking. He simply made better choices when picking his poison.
"Only one," Frankie advised in a quiet voice after they were left alone.
"Dad, do you think they'll recognize me?" Jonathan asked.
"Of course they will," Frankie assured him. "You're unforgettable!" she chirped. "That's what Papa told me after he met you." Actually, he had said Jonathan was "some kid" but she could tell he was already thinking of the boy as a grandson.
"They're here," Michael whispered in terror. He reached for Frankie's hand and squeezed it tight while an older couple was led to the table.
"Hello, dear," Mallory Bower said to her son, as though she had just seen him earlier in the day instead of a decade ago.
"Mother," he said, standing and stooping enough to allow her to air kiss him on each cheek. She stepped aside for her husband's greeting.
"Son. Good to see you." The elder Jonathan Bower offered a handshake. "This beautiful young lady must be Francesca."
"Hello, sir," she squeaked out. "Ma'am," she said with a nod. These two were more intimidating than Judge Kaplan.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Francesca," Michael's mother said in a perfunctory tone. "Call me Mallory."
"Oh, you can call me Frankie. If you want to. You don't have to," she rambled.
"It's your name, my dear," the older woman replied with a hint of condescension.
The maître d' hung back during the awkward introductions. He signaled the server to hurry over with his tray of beverages so he could get back to his station at the entrance."
"Decaf, cream and sugar, Shirley Temple, Glenmorangie, still water," the server recited as he placed the vessels. "Anything to drink for you?" he asked the Bowers.
"Earl Grey."
"Grapefruit juice."
"I'll be right back," Ben promised.
Michael sipped his dram and cursed himself for ordering alcohol while his parents abstained. In fairness, he had perhaps never witnessed both completely sober at the same time.
"What grade are you in, Jonathan?" Mallory asked.
Frankie realized he was mirroring his father's anxiety. She spoke for the temporarily mute child. "He'll be going into sixth grade in the fall."
"What's your best subject, son?" the elder Jonathan asked.
Young Jonathan looked to Frankie for strength. "Go ahead," she encouraged him.
"I like science. And math. And computers."
"A chip off the old block," Michael's father told his son warmly. He turned to his grandson. "Your dad was always a jack of all trades. It's no wonder he's been such a successful filmmaker."
"We were so proud when he finally figured out what he wanted to do," his mother added.
"Tell me, how do you spend your time, Frankie?" Jonathan asked his son's girlfriend.
"I told you, she's an attorney," Michael griped.
"It's ok, honey," Frankie said. "I follow sports when I'm not working," she said with a shrug. "And I try to get back to the old neighborhood when I can. My Papa owns a restaurant."
"Is that where you met Michael?" Mallory asked.
"It was at Mrs. Rossini's!" Jonathan said. "She's like Tony's mom."
"Tony is Angela's second husband," Michael informed his parents. "He and Frankie knew each other as kids."
Both of the elder Bowers took a moment to process the odd connection. They didn't press for details.
"Sorry that took so long," Ben said breathlessly, serving tea and juice. "Have you had a chance to look at the menu?" he asked, glancing around the table. The answer was a low chorus of laughter and shaking heads. "I'll give you a few more minutes," he offered.
"So they were actually nice?" Sam grilled her brother in their shared bathroom. They were supposed to be brushing their teeth, and it was their first chance to debrief in private since Jonathan had come home. "It's so weird that you never met them before today!"
He shrugged. Everything about his family was weird as far as he was concerned.
"Maybe they've changed," she suggested. "Your dad used to be a giant asshole and now he's cool."
"He was always cool," he argued.
"Nah-uh. He sucked," Sam maintained, shaking her head. "I'm not saying that to be mean."
Jonathan sighed. "He wasn't as cool as your dad. You think he'll be around for Frankie's baby?"
"Yeah, don't you?" she pressed. She hadn't seen any sign of trouble from the couple. Then again, she wasn't around them as much as her brother.
Jonathan nodded with tears shining in his eyes. The overwhelming day was catching up with him. He grabbed a toothbrush and ran it under the faucet. Sam took his lead and did the same. She spent the next ninety seconds stealing glances in the mirror and considering how she would feel if her dad favored Callista. After she spit and rinsed, she waited for Jonathan to do the same, then spoke up.
"It's not because of you, and it's not because of Mom. He was an idiot to leave you guys, but I'm glad he did. Otherwise, my dad would never have started taking care of you and we wouldn't know each other."
The tears finally fell across Jonathan's cheeks as he received Sam's uncharacteristic tenderness in the form of a clumsy hug. "Thanks," he mumbled into her shoulder.
"Don't mention it," she said, "or you'll be sneezing out your ears." He let out a small laugh and pulled back to show her a weak smile. "Wash your face, kid!" she said, leaving the room.