MaryAnne took a deep breath, then a long sip of lemonade.
“I don’t know why I’m OK with shit but not asshole,” she said finally. “Do people even consider shit a swear word these days? Esme says it on the phone to her friends, like, every other sentence, even when I make her put her allowance in the swear jar.” She paused. “Maybe I need to lighten up a little.”
“I guess we kind of are who we are, even all these years later.” Cleo grinned, and then they both fell silent.
“I’m sorry I took out that ad,” MaryAnne said.
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not sorry for writing the op-ed, but the ad was a little too far. Well, actually, I’m sorry for the op-ed too—bringing Lucas into it was wrong. I hate that I did it,” she said. “This wasn’t just about you. My husband leaving me for a woman in his office, Esme needing me less and less.” She shook her head. “It’s hard to redefine yourself after so many years of knowing who you were. Maybe we aren’t always who we are. Or can’t be. Or shouldn’t be.”
“Well, God knows I understand that,” Cleo said. “I think we used to think we’d have it all figured out as adults. Didn’t we used to think that? We were in such a rush to be grown-ups.”
MaryAnne nodded, then shook her head.
“We didn’t know shit,” she said, and Cleo couldn’t help but laugh. Then she quieted.
“Do you really think I’m a bad person?” Cleo asked. She realized that maybe that was also why she’d come. She thought it was to apologize, but it was also for penance.
“For a long time I did,” MaryAnne answered. And it was honest, so Cleo didn’t protest. “But I suppose that life is long, and sometimes it is a really stinking slog.” She shook the ice in her lemonade. “And maybe it would be nice to believe that people can change. Because if I don’t or we can’t, then what’s the point of any of this anyway?”
Then the two former best friends sat in MaryAnne Newman’s kitchen, and they drank their lemonades in silence, but together.
It was better, they each thought privately, than drinking them apart.
It wasn’t that everything was smooth for the rest of that late afternoon with MaryAnne. You don’t make up for two decades of pain and betrayal over a glass of lemonade and with a simple apology. They made inconsequential small talk and gossiped about Oliver and Gaby, of course. Soon MaryAnne noticed the time, and Cleo stood to go.
At the door, Cleo didn’t know if she should hug MaryAnne, so instead she said: “Hey, listen, you know our kids are . . . dating or something?”
“Esme says she prefers not to label it.”
“Right, what does that mean?” Cleo said.
MaryAnne rolled her eyes and laughed.
“Well, I was thinking. I’m running for president—”
“You are?” MaryAnne gasped. “I mean, you really are?”
“I’m going to.” Cleo nodded. “We’ll announce it next week.”
MaryAnne held her hands to her cheeks like she couldn’t believe it.
“MaryAnne, I thought you were pretty aware that this was in the mix,” Cleo said. “Wasn’t that the point of the op-ed that started this whole thing?”
“Oh, I was aware, but to think that I might know someone who will be president . . .”
“So, I mean, you can think about what I’m suggesting . . . but back in high school, you were one of the smartest people I knew,” Cleo said. And she wasn’t being conciliatory, because it was true. It was the two of them, best friends and sidekicks and established intellectuals, and one of them was now running for president, and Cleo thought that what she was about to propose was the least she could do to make up for all the ways she’d stepped on MaryAnne to get a leg up. “What if you and Esme came for a visit? Sat down with my team, figured out how we could put you to work?” She hesitated, realized she was being presumptuous. “Um, if you’d want to support me. I can see now why this sounded extremely arrogant. I offered it only with the best of intentions. But I was thinking—maybe you could work for the Seattle field office or the West Coast division. I don’t know. I don’t mean to imply that you have to launch your career by working for me. Uh, if you prefer one of my opponents, maybe I can make some calls too.”
Cleo stopped talking because she worried she was only making her proposal worse. She hadn’t meant to make it sound like a handout. She was only trying to give MaryAnne whatever power back she could.
“I don’t have any experience,” MaryAnne said.
“You are so smart, MaryAnne, and you work hard, and maybe it could have been you, not me. I don’t know. There’s no way to know any of that now. And you’re ruthless; that’s probably the quality you need most.”
MaryAnne laughed. “Well, I mean, Cleo, I’ve been pissed for twenty years.”
“Will you think about it?”
MaryAnne nodded. “I will.”
“I’d love to have you. I’d be honored. That was the only reason I asked. No motive other than it would be nice to be a team again.”
“Madam President,” MaryAnne said, shaking her head. “To think I can say I knew you fucking when.”
“MaryAnne!” Cleo mock gasped.
“Oh, I watch all those political shows on HBO,” she said. “If I come on board, I’m going to need to learn how to swear and not apologize for it.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
In the end, the plan had been a compromise among Georgie, Cleo, and Lucas. Cleo didn’t think it was prudent to fly all the way to Seattle and risk Doug Smith being out of town or unreachable, so Friday, just before Arianna bought their plane tickets, she had asked Matty to track down Doug’s email, and she wrote four drafts, none of which was her best work, and then sent off the one she found most acceptable and prayed. (And Cleo never prayed. Plenty of her detractors were happy to point this out.)
Dear Doug-
I don’t know if you remember me, but we were acquainted at Northwestern our senior year. I am planning to be in Seattle for the weekend, where I have heard you now live. I was hoping to find some time to sit down. Perhaps I could take you to coffee?
Sincerely,
Cleo McDougal
Cleo hadn’t mentioned the intention of the visit. She knew it was selfish and probably not fair to blindside Doug completely, but she at least wanted to fulfill her promise to Lucas and give him a fighting chance of meeting his father.
Doug wrote her back within the hour.
Dear Cleo-
What a surprise! I, of course, remember you and have watched your career ascend with pride, even though I didn’t really know you well. I’m hoping, perhaps, this is about cybersecurity, which you must know is my specialty, since you tracked me down at work. (Damn you, government!) (Ha ha.) (I’m only partially joking. My whole purpose here is devoted to firewalls, so I must admit I’m surprised you got my email . . .) Anyway, yes, I am in town this weekend and happy to meet. I live in Queen Anne. Will you be nearby? Or I can come to you.
All best,
Doug Smith
Cleo didn’t know why he signed his first and last name, since she clearly knew who he was by emailing him in the first place, but she didn’t want to be nitpicky. She also didn’t want to correct his assumption about why she was reaching out. She was intent on being truthful, but she was still a politician and knew that sometimes obscuring the full facts led to the better end result, even if it made you feel a little dirty while you were doing it.
Cleo had proposed the vegan restaurant where she and Gaby and Lucas had eaten just weeks before—it was at least one less surprise, familiar ground, and besides, now that Cleo was dabbling in new things, she thought maybe she’d like a vegan omelet after all. Cleo sat in the back of the Uber with Lucas, who was fidgety and nervous but trying not to act like it by ignoring his mom and otherwise being snappish, and she marveled that it had been only a few weeks since their prior visit. She’d read that it took several weeks of consistently drilling down a habit to ensure real change, and
she wondered if this couldn’t also be true for her: if by practicing being more open and asking for help and welcoming support when she genuinely needed it (and eating a healthy breakfast), it wouldn’t just become second nature by the time her campaign was in full swing this summer. She hoped so. Even with all the recent upheaval, she felt more settled than any time since her parents had died. And twenty years was a long time to be unconsciously spiraling.
Her leg jittered in the back of the car, and her underarms were clammy, and her eyes felt like they were sinking into the back of her head. She hadn’t slept well for obvious reasons, and she rehearsed her script in her mind because what she was about to say mattered. She didn’t care if Doug Smith hated her forever, but she cared for Lucas, and for that reason, this speech felt more critical than anything she’d ever delivered on the Senate floor or on her reelection trail.
Too soon, they were there.
She’d discussed the plan with Lucas—let her go in first, explain the situation, as if she could possibly explain the situation over a cup of coffee. She wasn’t sure if she’d even recognize Doug Smith. That’s how vague that night was for her; that’s how poorly she knew him. But then she saw him through the vegan restaurant window, and she didn’t know if she recognized him from back then or if she recognized him because he was so familiar—he was honestly a snapshot of who her son would be in two decades—but there he was, hunched over his table, scrolling through his phone.
“Hey, Doug.”
He peered up and stood, a grin on his face. Cleo went to shake his hand, and he went in for a hug, so she tried to act casual and laughed and accepted his arms folding around her. He was still athletic; Cleo now remembered that—his broad back, the way he could absolutely kill it at beer pong, which was of course not a sport but gave you an indication of hand-eye coordination—and he had Lucas’s eyes and jawline and brown-black hair. Now that she was staring at him, it was hard to believe that she’d ever thought Lucas looked like her at all.
“I didn’t know what to get you,” he said. “The choices for lattes are almond milk, oat milk, cashew milk, or soy milk.” He shrugged. “I went with cashew. I don’t know why. I think I was intimidated by the choices.”
Cleo’s gut roiled, and she couldn’t imagine drinking a cashew milk latte, so she asked the waitress if they could just bring her a plain drip coffee, which they could not—they did not offer plain drip coffee—so she agreeably opted for cashew milk because her brain was racing too quickly and she just wanted this to be over, one more disaster behind her. “Only Forward!” she thought, though she also realized that they were going to have to change this campaign slogan in light of the past few weeks.
“It’s great to hear from you!” Doug said. “I can’t believe that all these years later, you even remembered me!”
Cleo thought that it was best to probably just rip the Band-Aid off. She didn’t know how you showed up and told someone that he had a kid who had been living on this planet for fourteen years and the conversation didn’t turn out terribly. MaryAnne was right in many respects—she could see this now. She was a bad person. Or had been. Good people didn’t unilaterally make the decision to conceal their pregnancy under their graduation gown and then flee like hell to law school. And then indignantly tell the media during her first congressional run that the father was not involved by choice and perpetuate that lie to her son until he discovered otherwise.
Doug wore a wedding ring, and Cleo didn’t know if this made it better or worse—that he likely had a family and a wife who had to make this adjustment too. And she and Lucas had discussed it last night—that it was Doug’s prerogative not to be as gracious as they hoped. These were the ramifications of making bad decisions, Cleo knew. As a lawmaker, she had established a well-earned reputation of making people bend to her will. In her personal life, she was now seeing that the same wasn’t true, nor should it be.
“He has the right to be very upset with me,” Cleo said to Lucas as they were getting ready for bed. “All I can do is try.”
Despite her script, Cleo fumbled for words, which she’d suspected would happen, which was the point of the script in the first place. The waitress brought her the cashew milk latte, and it left a weird film on her tongue, so she grimaced and tried to just jump in. It occurred to her that perhaps Doug had seen photos of Lucas online—from time to time, he was photographed with her, though she tried her best to keep him out of the fray, and the press was usually respectful. (And surprisingly had taken her at her word early on that she had full custody, and it was the dad’s decision.) She didn’t think there were many recent public pictures, though, and Lucas had changed so much in the past few years, and besides, what are the chances that you see a child of a woman you once slept with and make the leap that he’s yours? Cleo could feel herself spiraling now, and she told herself to say it, just fucking say it! she screamed inside her brain.
She met Doug’s eyes, and then she watched his gaze drift over her shoulder. Something changed about his demeanor, like when an animal goes into fight-or-flight. His already good posture straightened up even more; the lines on his forehead folded. He returned to Cleo’s eyes and then back again, and Cleo knew, even before she swiveled around, that she never should have trusted a teenage kid to follow his mother’s instructions.
Lucas was standing by the hostess’s table, staring at Doug, looking more vulnerable and terrified than Cleo had ever seen. And she didn’t mean to and she didn’t fucking know what was happening with her, but she felt the swell of tears rush forward, and there was nothing she could goddamn do to stop them. She knew that Doug knew, because how could he not? Seeing the two of them together was like slipping back in time or, for Doug, like looking in the mirror at his younger self.
“I don’t . . . ,” he started, and Cleo watched his face go slack and then turn a very deep shade of red, which she prayed wasn’t rage.
Cleo stood, wiped her damp cheeks, and walked to Lucas, pulling him tight. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. She had to absorb his terror; it was the very least she could do and also the most she could do. This was what parenting was.
“Come on,” she whispered. “We can do this.”
Doug rose, then sat again, his face moving from Cleo to Lucas to Cleo to Lucas. Cleo reached for a chair from the abutting table and slid it across the floor and offered Lucas her seat, then sat in between them.
“I didn’t email you about cybersecurity,” Cleo said. She tried to draw on the confidence she used whenever she made a public speech. It didn’t work as well as she hoped, but at least she had stopped crying, though her voice still shook. She blew out her breath, tried to steady herself, and Lucas, the love of her life, now reached for her hand too. “I emailed you about Lucas.”
In her script, she had followed this with some line like He’s your son or He’s our son, but she knew that she didn’t need to. Doug’s stunned silence conveyed everything she needed to know.
“I left Northwestern and didn’t tell you,” Cleo said. “Obviously. And you can hate me, and you may, and I can live with that. But please, I hope you won’t hate him. And I composed a whole script to justify what I did, but there really isn’t any excuse.”
Lucas glanced toward his mom then, their hands intertwined and his eyes wet, and she said, “How you could ever think you were a regret—” Her nose stung, and her chin quivered again. “You’re the best accomplishment of my life. And I’m sorry that I have made a mess of this for you.” She looked at Doug now. “For both of you. I’m sorry.”
Doug really didn’t know how to react, which was both reasonable and justified. But he asked Cleo to give him some time alone with Lucas so they could talk, and though her instinct was to stay and protect her son, she realized that maybe her instinct was to stay to protect herself. Lucas was now the age where he could see how deeply flawed she was, and she couldn’t shield either of them from the mistakes she made and the ripple effects that she passed on.
“I’ll t
ext you when we’re done,” Lucas said, and Doug looked at him, bewildered, as if he couldn’t believe he had a teen who could text his mother and also had the fortitude to sit in a café and drink a cashew latte with the man he just learned was his father. Doug probably couldn’t believe it, actually. If he had, Cleo might have been more alarmed.
She tried to calm herself by walking around her old neighborhood, where she and MaryAnne used to roam after school. She peered into shop windows and occasionally wandered in. She turned a corner and found a store devoted exclusively to mirrors, which she thought was a little niche, but she was no longer this area’s target market, so what did she know?
She stepped inside and squinted: the light from the sun outside was bouncing off the dozens and dozens of mirrors—the brass-framed ones, the antique warped ones, the bold floor-to-ceiling ones. She was inclined to slip on her sunglasses but reconsidered; she thought she’d be missing the point.
“Let me know if you want something,” a disinterested twentysomething with dyed black hair and too much eyeliner said without looking up from her phone.
Cleo peered closer at herself in a giant mirror in the shape of a star. She had lines around her eyes now, and she was going to have to do something about the stray gray hair or two before they launched the campaign. Women couldn’t be perceived as old, she knew. Through the mirror in front of her, she saw her reflection all around the store, from every unflattering angle, and from the well-lit good-looking ones too.
Cleo McDougal Regrets Nothing: A Novel Page 30
