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mother from the plane, her infant strapped to her chest like a suicide bomb, gives me a snide look as she pushes past me, rolling suitcase in tow. Even the baby seems to be glaring at me. I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at it—uh, her .
    Tom Petty’s voice alerts me to an incoming call. I swipe the screen to unlock it.
    “Are you here?” My brother’s voice booms in my ear before I can say hello.
    “Hello to you too, jerk,” I say.
    “Sorry, my darling sister. Hello . ARE YOU HERE???”
    “I’m at baggage claim as we speak,” I tell him, although I’m starting to suspect that I will not be ‘claiming’ anything any time soon.
    “Great.” He blows out a relieved sigh. “When will you be here?”
    “As soon as this cut-rate airline finds my suitcases, Danny. Couldn’t you have gotten me on a better flight? Sheesh, I paid for the ticket, not you. I would have been happy to cough up a few extra bucks to fly an airline whose name I recognize. What the hell is BiCoast anyway? It sounds like the official airline for bisexuals.” I realize that yelling at my brother is causing my temples to throb, so I stop.
    “It was the best I could do at the last minute, Meg,” he says, his tone unapologetic. “So, you’re renting a car, right? I mean, since Caroline’s is in the shop, and obviously I need mine. Just make sure it’s a seven passenger, not a mini, okay? Because the kids’ car seats have to fit—”
    I turn off my phone right in the middle of his sentence because I’m not quite ready to face the reality of the situation. I stow the phone in my purse, adjust my Hermes scarf, then sling my purse over my shoulder and head for the information desk. A squat Hispanic woman wearing a blue polyester suit jacket sits perched on a stool behind the counter. She looks up at me and arches her pencil-thin eyebrows.
    “No luggage?” she asks knowingly. When I nod, she jerks a thumb toward an office on the far side of the terminal.
    As I make my way to the office, I start to count. This is a calming technique I learned from my shrink, one Dr. Hershel Rabinowitz (at a hundred and fifty bucks per forty-five minute session). As usual, it’s not working. When I push through the office door, another clerk in a blue polyester suit—this one a scrawny male with tortoise-shell glasses—heaves a world-weary sigh and holds up a form without meeting my eye.
    Instead of reaching for the form, I shove my hand into my purse and root around for my Motrin. I pop open the plastic vial, shake three pills straight into my mouth, and swallow them dry.

 
    Three
    Barry: I agree, caller. Kids make life worth living. What do you think, Meg?
    Meg: (horrible choking noises)
    Barry: Um, my co-host seems to be trying to impale herself on her microphone. Anyhow, we’ll be right back after the break! At least, I will!
    * * *
    Thirty minutes later I’m behind the wheel of an electric blue Camaro with only a teensy little ding in the left fender. It’s not the seven-passenger my brother requested—unless a gang of really skinny people squeezed inside—but whatever. Meg Monroe would never purposely rent a minivan. The booster seats Danny mentioned will fit just fine, thank you very much.
    Traffic on the freeway is pretty much what you’d expect on a Monday at three o’clock in the afternoon. Bumper to freaking bumper. I sit breathing in exhaust fumes, trying to find a radio station that doesn’t play Latin hip-hop. Finally, I give up and shut off the radio.
    My cell phone vibrates on the passenger seat and I roll my eyes. It’s either Damien or my brother. Either way, the conversation will suck. But since traffic is moving at half the speed of growing grass, I know I have loads of time to kill. I pick up the phone and answer the call, holding the phone against my ear.
    “Meg Monroe.”
    “Deserter. Traitor. West Coaster. ” The last barb is delivered with the same venom as one might use when saying child