Chapter 24
The next day, I called in sick to work. I couldn’t face Rebecca—or anyone, really—knowing the rank things being said about me online.
And apparently at the office. And I had no way to disprove any of it.
After dropping Lucy at tennis camp, I retreated to my bedroom, where I proceeded to DoorDash three pints of ice cream and spend the entire day in bed bingeing The Great British Bake Off.
I staggered into the tennis shack twenty minutes late, as I’d needed to see who won the season, my outfit violating the country club dress code six different ways.
Coach Tyler was sprawled on a black leather couch focused on his phone, while the campers still waiting to be picked up were glued to a large-screen TV showing The Office.
Super appropriate, Tyler. At least Lucy wasn’t the last one, but she was the only one sitting under a table.
“Oh hey, Ms. Packer,” Tyler said, jolting up from the couch. “I put Lucy’s lunch box in the fridge because she ate with Mrs. Packer today. I’ll grab it for you.” I knelt and coaxed Lucy out from under the table.
“Sweetheart, did you have lunch with Grandma today?” I asked.
“And Grandpa. I got to go to the dining room and eat french fries.”
As I stood up, Tyler handed me Lucy’s Star Wars lunch box. “I think they were trying to give Lucy a boost,” Tyler said. “I mentioned to Mr. Packer the other day that Lucy’s been eating alone a lot. It’s been tough with Mirabelle gone for most of the summer.”
Though I was hardly surprised by William’s back-channel communication with Tyler, I bristled that William had failed to pass on this important tidbit about my daughter.
Especially when I had voiced my concerns to him countless times that one of the unintended consequences of starting Lucy so early was that her tennis peers were mostly eight- to ten-year olds.
They might be equals on the court, but the moment lessons ended, she was a five-year-old little girl no one wanted around.
The only exception being six-year-old Mirabelle, whose parents had unfortunately (for us) decided to spend most of the summer in Europe.
William and Rebecca had assured me Sam experienced the same treatment and came through it a more resilient player.
That did little to allay my concerns, seeing as I was more focused on avoiding permanent damage to her self-esteem than tending to her ranking.
Lucy was unusually pensive the entire way home. As we walked in the door to our apartment, she said, “Mommy, I don’t want to go to tennis camp anymore.”
I reached down to tuck some hair that had come loose from her pigtails behind her ears. “Why? Did something happen?”
Her sweet little face crumpled. “The older kids call me ‘baby baby suck your thumb.’ And they say my tummy is fat and I should eat zen-pic like their mommies.”
“Excuse me? They told you to eat what?” I said, incredulous.
“Zen-pic! Mommy, am I fat?” She lifted up her shirt and pinched her navel with a pout.
“Oh, honey,” I said, folding her into my arms. “Ozempic is a medication for people with a disease called diabetes. It’s not meant for healthy and strong little girls like you.”
“I don’t want to go back to tennis camp without Mirabelle,” Lucy whispered in my ear. “But I don’t want Grandpa and Grandma to be mad at me.”
“No more tennis camp this week for you, Jellybean,” I said. “And don’t worry, Grandpa and Grandma will not be mad at you. I promise.” Which was the truth. They’d figure out a way to blame it on my poor judgment instead.
In the morning, I texted Tyler that Lucy would be taking the rest of the week off.
And then I texted Mirabelle’s mom, Eloise, to find out when they were returning and invited Mirabelle for a sleepover.
Within minutes I received texts and calls from both William and Rebecca demanding that I explain myself.
But there was nothing to discuss. I’d been clear with them that if Lucy ever said she wasn’t enjoying playing tennis, she would take a break.
They probably never expected that I would follow through.
Lucy was five years old. It was summer. As far as I was concerned, everything in her life should be fun.
At least one of us should be happy. And it gave me a great excuse to work from home all week so I could continue my campaign of avoidance.
So my response to William and Rebecca’s inquiries, which seemed to increase in volume and intensity each day, was one proof-of-life photo per day of a normal little girl living her best life.
Lucy playing in the waves at the beach. Lucy with ice cream dripping down her face.
And Lucy on the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier.
But I adamantly refused to indulge in a conversation.
Lucy needed a break. I was her mother. End of story.
Rebecca and William weren’t the only people craving answers from me.
Harper and Emily were waging their own campaign in the form of incessant and increasingly frustrated calls, emails, and texts begging for me to produce the astronaut.
Trucrimehunter213 had lit the match and, from the shrill tone of Emily’s messages, the internet was on fire with speculation about me and my fake astronaut boyfriend.
But I couldn’t provide any evidence of Max or the guy pretending to be him.
So I deleted everything, and hoped the flames would burn out if deprived of oxygen.