“So, am I packing my bags?” Natasha teased, putting a suggestive finger on Freddy’s chest. “I am very anxious to meet this family of yours. If they’re anything like your niece, I think we’ll have a great time.”
“They’re not,” he said, though he realized he didn’t know his nephew at all. Rachel complained about Darius a bit, but in a generic “my little brother is annoying” kind of way. The trip could be a nice way to get to know him, if Elise would let him hang out with the “black sheep” of the family, as even he’d taken to describing himself when anyone inquired about his upbringing. Some black sheep, an investor of his—a big shot from New York City—had recently joked at a closing lunch celebrating a major import deal. You’re more like a cash cow. Rachel had mentioned that Darius wasn’t the superstar student that she was and that her parents didn’t like the kids he hung around with. Maybe he and Darius could compare notes on what it felt like to disappoint people just by being yourself. He could show Darius that not all genetic Feldmans were as uptight as his mother. There. Now he had another reason to go on the trip. He found that he was arguing against himself, half of his brain mounting more reasons to present to the other side of him that knew going on a ship with his family, where the only way off was to plunge into the freezing morass of the Atlantic, was a very bad idea.
“Yes, I think you should pack your bags,” he said, giving Natasha’s waist a gentle squeeze.
“Yippee!” She bounded off his lap.
Natasha looked so elated, obviously thrilled to be moving their relationship to the meet-the-parents level, that even Freddy caught himself smiling. How bad could it be? He’d spend time with Rachel. Get to know Darius. Make his mother and girlfriend happy. And, over the course of five days and four nights, make sure every member of his family realized he was no longer Freddy the Fuckup. He was successful, living the life he wanted in spite of them, and he’d be damned if after a week on the high seas every Feldman didn’t see it that way.
THREE
Was there anything more ironic than being forced to buy a new wallet because all the credit cards you ordered and maxed out and paid down and reordered didn’t fit into your original wallet anymore? If there was, Elise couldn’t think of it.
If everything wasn’t such a big secret, she’d have loved to share that observation with Mitch, who always found her very clever and quick—a “keen observer of daily life,” he’d proudly described her. She was quite taken with any compliment that reinforced that she still had a brain in working order, especially from her wordsmith husband. Once upon a time, in another life, she used to memorize peptide chains and chemistry formulas with relative ease. Now she rarely remembered a complete grocery list without writing it down.
She was at the mall for the fourth time that week, ringing up a black leather wallet priced at nearly three hundred dollars. Maybe the exorbitant cost would make her hesitant to wear it out and she’d stop reaching all day long to play eeny-meeny-miny-mo from her lineup of credit cards and hope the selection wouldn’t be declined. By that logic, she should buy an even fancier wallet—a real brand name like Gucci or Prada. If one were clever enough, it was possible to rationalize just about anything.
Three days, punctuated cruelly by three restless nights, had passed since her mother called about the trip. Since then, a peppy travel agent named Marlene had reached out to retrieve everybody’s passport numbers and arrange flights to Miami. This vacation had to be costing her parents a fortune. She’d been on the website of the company operating the cruise, Paradise International, and studied the boat’s impressive features. The Ocean Queen, the ship they would be taking, was truly a floating city. It had eighteen floors (decks, to be precise), twelve restaurants, an ice-skating rink, a bowling alley, a thousand-seat live theater, and an IMAX cinema.
When she got lost in the pictures (the travel agent had also overnighted a forty-page glossy brochure), inserting herself side by side with the middle-aged models, silver foxes, and wrinkle-free ladies in white linen getting “pampered,” “spoiled,” and “indulged,” it was possible to imagine that she could actually have a good time. More than a good time, really. An amazing time.
The people in the catalog were better versions of her and Mitch: throwing dice, dancing the salsa, laughing with smiles so wide it seemed toothpicks were holding up the corners of their mouths. When had she last seen a live show? (The Ocean Queen brought Tony-winning performers to serenade the passengers.) When had she last sat by a pool with a good book, even though she and Mitch lived in California? (The Ocean Queen had six different swimming destinations to choose from, with dreamy names like the Serenity pool, Festive pool, Tropical pool, Lounge pool, and Lazy River pool.) She wondered if Rachel and Darius would avail themselves of the Teen Scene pool, with its twenty-four/seven DJ and waterslides so “thrilling” you were guaranteed not to miss your PlayStation (the brochure’s words, not hers). Both her children could use some vitamin D and time away from their devices. If she were in medical school today, Elise would choose to study neuroscience instead of endocrinology. She worried about how all that constant connectivity was altering the way the brain’s neurons fired. In forty years, when she’d need her children to care for her, she suspected their minds would functionally be mashed potatoes. They already barely looked her in the eye. Maybe it was because she couldn’t be filtered or swiped right or left.
She hadn’t told Rachel or Darius about the trip yet and she could barely guess how they would react. They were mysteries to her, these teenagers of her own flesh and blood, who shared her eye color, high-pitched laugh, and protuberant lips. She’d only mentioned the trip to Mitch yesterday, carrying it around with her for two days like a shopping bag she needed to keep hidden. Her husband had only two weeks’ paid vacation from the Sacramento Bee and she was shocked when he didn’t grumble about wasting his precious time off on a trip with her parents. Instead, he’d looked at the brochure with a glazed expression, doing the same mental calculations she had done, and said simply, “Love it.” The marketing materials that Paradise International produced really were extraordinary, as vivid as virtual reality glasses. If you stared at the pictures long enough, you could feel the fluffy bathrobe envelop you, taste the lobster dinner, smell the therapeutic sea air. And best of all? Her parents were footing the bill for the all-inclusive trip and she would have no need to spend a cent on board. Just a little shopping before the trip for essentials only: seasickness patches and sensible boat shoes. And maybe a few new bathing suits, since with her new ClassPass membership, she’d probably shed a few pounds before departure.
She wondered whether Freddy had consented to the trip. Even she hadn’t given her mother the official green light yet, telling the travel agent not to make any arrangements until she was sure Mitch could get off work. It was a lie, but she needed a few more days to consider whether the prospect of sandy beaches, five-course dinners, and something called a “towel concierge” was worth the mental anguish of being under the thumb of her parents. Freddy had to be making a similar judgment call, although he wouldn’t have the extra burden of worrying about how his children would perform. “Behave” was probably a better word. Rachel and Darius weren’t circus animals!
The last time she’d heard from her brother was probably about six months ago. He had called her while she was on safety patrol outside the high school and she could barely focus on a word he was saying while the aggressive car pool moms were gunning for position and a newly licensed junior nearly impaled her despite the neon orange vest. It had almost sounded like Freddy said he was selling pot, but she knew that was ridiculous. One—he would never cop to that. Two—why in the world would he have called her to tell her a thing like that? However he was scraping by, she was pretty sure he would be hard-pressed to turn down a fully paid vacation, even if it meant scrutiny, criticism, and all-around stress from the parental units.
Elise headed toward the parking lot, feeling like if
she didn’t leave the mall within the next ten minutes, she would break her solemn vow to treat her new wallet as though it was Krazy-Glued shut. As she neared the exit, dangerously close to an easy detour into Bloomingdale’s, her cell phone rang. It was her banker from Wells Fargo, Michelle Shapiro, the mom of a girl in Darius’s class whom she’d been forced to ask recently if there was such a thing as banker-client confidentiality. There wasn’t, not in a strictly legal sense, but Michelle had assured her she wouldn’t breathe a word of what she knew about Elise’s situation. Still, Elise avoided meeting Michelle’s gaze at the PTA meetings and in the school parking lot, whereas at the bank, squeezed into Michelle’s small office midway down a long, soulless corporate hallway, she did the opposite—looked into her banker’s heavily made-up eyes and pleaded for a lifeline.
“Hi, Michelle,” Elise said, dashing outside. She feared some announcement over the mall loudspeaker that would reveal her whereabouts and didn’t need to give any more reasons to Michelle to be unsympathetic to her plight. “How’s everything? I saw in the Teen Bee that Caroline was awarded a scholarship from the mayor’s office.” Michelle was a single mother with one child, Caroline, who was a star student, a superb athlete, and the recipient of more awards and accolades than any single child’s bedroom could hold. Elise had never been to Michelle’s home, but she imagined the line of trophies started outside the front door, next to an unsightly garden gnome, and snaked its way through the kitchen sliders and out to the backyard. Caroline would have countless offers from colleges thrusting academic scholarships at her, but even if she didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Michelle had scrimped and saved and invested and done all the things responsible parents do to safeguard their child’s future. She hadn’t tapped into her child’s fortressed college fund to buy closets’ worth (correction: closets plus a cage at U-Store 4-Less in Folsom) of things to fill the bottomless void cratering inside her. Things. They were everywhere. Always available for purchase, sating her in the short term, their long-term benefit leaving her in a slow ooze.
“Yes, I’m so proud of her. Is this a good time to talk?”
Why did people ask that before they told you something that you didn’t want to hear? As if there could be such a thing as a “good” time for upsetting news. She and Mitch used to talk about similar mundane aggravations: waiters refusing to write down complicated orders, limp handshakes, pedestrians with zero umbrella etiquette. Now everything Elise thought about had to do with shopping: frustration when the UPS guy showed up late, getting home with packages and seeing the salesperson never removed the antitheft sensor, being forced to pay twenty-five cents for a shopping bag because California was a state of die-hard environmentalists with clearly no sympathy for shopaholics. These observations, a trough of petty grievances, were all related to her private world, so deeply connected to her shame that she feared that sharing even a single anecdote—like when the Home Depot clerk forgot to ring her up for two packages of tulip seeds so she got one free—would give her away. So instead, around her husband she vacillated between uncharacteristic silence—treating his questions of “What did you do today?” as accusations to which she’d defensively respond, “Nothing!” all the while picturing the trunkload of goods in her car that she’d later transfer to the attic—and creating elaborate alternative versions of her day, like the car nearly running out of gas or badly tripping on the steps outside Darius’s school. No wonder she sometimes found Mitch looking at her like a stranger.
What would become of them when (if!) Darius left for college and it was just the two of them padding around the house? Creaky steps and whistling appliances the only audible sounds after twenty years of tears, laughter, bickering, and all the other ambient noise created by children? Dr. Margaret said the first year would be tough for both of the new empty nesters, with both her and Mitch trying to find a satisfying equilibrium after so much chaos. They would need to relearn who they were to each other when they weren’t just coparents. But what the hell did Dr. Margaret know anyway? It wasn’t as though she came via recommendation from Elise’s general practitioner. No, no. Elise had latched onto Dr. Margaret while her body was slicked in cold sweat and she had four shopping bags digging into the crooks of her elbows. She had been at Walmart twenty minutes earlier and run into Vicki Lancaster, her next-door neighbor.
“You got a cat?” Vicki had asked innocently enough.
“Huh?” Elise had responded, genuinely confused. “Mitch is allergic. No cat for us.” A dog was a possibility. Elise had already considered whether a Goldendoodle might be just the thing to ease the pain of Darius leaving home.
“Oh. You have a massive bag of Fancy Feast in your cart,” Vicki said, looking worried.
Elise glanced down at her cart.
“Ah, that. Checking in on a friend’s Persian while she’s away,” she said, recovering quickly. “Anyway, Vic, I’ve got to run. So good to see you.”
Elise had dashed into the next aisle and nearly collapsed. She had zero recollection of lifting the seven-pound bag of cat food off of the shelf and loading it into her cart. It was like it must have happened in a blackout state. It was the first time she said out loud to herself: I HAVE A PROBLEM. Back home, still shaken and with Mitch watching the 49ers in the next room, Elise quietly Googled “online therapist” and was matched with Dr. Margaret within minutes.
“Sure, it’s a good time,” Elise now lied to Michelle, as carefree shoppers tumbled past her toward their cars. She sat down on the steps of the parking lot, cradling her cell phone closely as if to keep the conversation from leaking into the universe, making it real, a fact to be reckoned with. If the particles of her secret spilled out, it would become something with mass that Mitch could hold in his hand and consider from every angle, and that was simply terrifying.
“I’m afraid I don’t have great news for you.”
Michelle cleared her throat in that way meant to humanize her. She was about to let Elise know that she couldn’t help her because the favor well had run dry. So she did that throat-clearing thing to convey that she was just another tired mother, dealing with a sore throat or a bit of food stuck in her windpipe. They could relate to each other over these small irritations even if they didn’t share Elise’s tremendous financial plight. She pictured Michelle bent over a microwaved thermos filled with leftovers, because she was a frugal parent who didn’t waste money on dining out.
“I can’t extend you another line of credit. And given the state of the local real estate market, I’m not sure efforts to take out a second mortgage would be at all fruitful. I’m afraid as far as the bank is concerned, there’s nothing more we can do. Regarding Darius, there are many community colleges in the area that might suit him. Or perhaps you want to think about applying for a scholarship? I remember he was the most talented writer when he was little.”
Many moons ago, Darius Connelly had won a literature prize in a competition sponsored by the local library. Mitch had encouraged their little third grader to enter, claiming he saw in Darius the same creative spark he’d had as a child, the very one that led him to his career in journalism. Darius had written the most wonderful story about a brother and sister trapped in their elementary school after hours, and how the wily kids had used what they’d learned in their math, science, and physical education classes to break out. He’d been motivated primarily by the cash prize (twenty-five dollars), but when Darius stood up on a footstool to have his picture taken with the mayor and school principal, wearing his medal around his neck, there wasn’t a prouder child on the West Coast. For the rest of the school year, Elise practically crowed when she went into the school for pickup. But in June, when she and Mitch attended the final parent-teacher conference with their feathers in full plumage, the teachers barely mentioned their boy’s achievement. Instead they focused on him roughhousing at recess and routinely failing to turn in his homework on time. Hearing what Michelle just said about Darius’s writing ability,
well, it only proved what Elise had been thinking for the past decade. That when people looked at her underachieving son, especially compared to Rachel, they wondered what went wrong, trying to trace Darius’s failings to a particular misstep they themselves could avoid.
“Considering I can’t even get him to write his college personal statement, I don’t see him tackling any scholarship essays.” She didn’t mean to take out her anger on Michelle, who couldn’t help that her daughter was a regular Tracy Flick and that Elise was a PTA mom gone off the rails.
“I’m sorry, Elise. I really am.”
“I know,” Elise said. “And I’m sorry that I avoid you at school.”
“You’d be surprised by how many others do the same,” Michelle said, with a guffaw. It was as though the banker had suddenly handed Elise a life buoy, she took that much comfort knowing there were other parents lurking the halls of Sacramento High with clandestine problems, possibly more salacious than hers. Gambling, prostitution, second families. The sky was the limit when you pondered other people’s depravity. Maybe that was how Elise had let things get so bad. Because she knew it could always be worse if she let her imagination truly roam.
“I know community college doesn’t sound that appealing to you and Mitch,” Michelle continued and Elise felt her pulse quickening. Did Michelle think she was an academic snob? Or know that she was at the top of her class at Columbia Medical School? Was Michelle also aware how Elise felt that moment during her third year of med school when she saw the double pink lines on the stick and was so thrilled that she could no longer focus on peptides and amino acids and molecular bonding because there was a person growing inside her? And did Michelle know that when Rachel was born at thirty-three weeks, she was only four pounds, would have fit in the palm of Elise’s hand if the NICU nurses would have let her hold her? That going back to school, leaving this true peanut of a child in day care, was unthinkable, and that by the time Rachel caught up in all her physical and intellectual milestones (and then some), Elise was already pregnant with Darius? Michelle couldn’t possibly know all of these pieces of her, things she rarely spoke about, even with Mitch.
The Floating Feldmans Page 5
