“Erin, it’s Dad. Give me a call when you get in. I want to talk to you about something important. Nothing bad, I know how you worry. Just something—important.”
I didn’t return the call.
I wanted Doug.
Chapter Sixteen
Erin—got $, txs. how are you? will be out of touch for a while, going into jungle. ever think your ma wld be an explorer?
I hadn’t wanted to know exactly when my father was taking Abby out on their first date. The entire concept was disturbing enough; the last thing I needed was the opportunity to dwell on what might be happening during the specific hours of their rendezvous.
However, not wanting to seem a bad sport, I hadn’t asked either my father or Abby to keep the details to themselves. So, they hadn’t, at least the detail of day of the week. So, during the evening of the twenty-first, between the hours of seven and eleven—the time I deemed appropriate for a first, Thursday night dinner date—I dwelt and stewed, indulged in self-pity, and was bombarded by unbidden scenarios of debauchery.
I don’t know which fantasies were more disturbing: The very creepy ones involving my father and my best friend, or the ones involving me and Doug and the unexpected arrival of his irate wife.
It was not an enjoyable evening.
I called JoAnne, ready to rant and rave about the travesty of Abby’s dating my father, but JoAnne didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with their behavior.
“They’re adults, Erin,” she’d said. “And they’re single. What’s the big deal?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” I snapped childishly.
Then I called Maggie. Her reaction was not much more comforting than JoAnne’s.
“Sure,” she said, “I can see why you might feel a bit uncomfortable about it. But there’s no point in wasting your time over something you can’t change. Just wait and see what happens.”
Maggie can be infuriatingly reasonable at times.
I finally went to bed at eleven-thirty but could not get to sleep no matter how many relaxation techniques I tried. Morning dawned and I was a mess, eyes puffy from lack of rest, head hurting from tension.
If this was going to be the result of my father dating my best friend, the dating had to stop now. At this rate, I thought, I’d be dead in a year.
Getting ready for work, I knew the worst was yet to come. More than likely, Dad wouldn’t call with a report. It was not what men did; it was not what my father would do to his daughter. But Abby was sure to call. She was naturally discreet; I knew she’d never give gory details, especially in this situation. Still, I dreaded the call.
By midmorning, Abby’s call had not come and visions of my father and Abby rolling around under the sheets, playing hooky from the office, rampaged in my head. There was only one way to put an end to my morbid curiosity. I picked up the phone and dialed Abby’s number at the BSO.
She answered on the first ring. She sounded harried.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, hi, Erin. God, what a morning.”
Gulp.
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook and we have a bit of a crisis brewing, never mind what it’s about, but I haven’t even gotten to my coffee yet. Ugh. It’s cold!”
This boded well. John, my father, was not the uppermost topic on Abby’s mind this morning. Maybe the date had been less than spectacular. Maybe they’d agreed it had been a mistake, going out, and that they’d just “see each other around.” Maybe ...
“Oh, but Erin, I had such a wonderful time with John last night!”
Crap. Abby’s tone of voice had changed completely. From stress there’d come happiness.
“Really?” I squeaked. “That’s, uh, great.”
“First we went to dinner at Anago ...”
First? There was more?
“And then we went to Limbo, that fabulous jazz place downtown, to hear this singer your father likes. She was wonderful. The whole night was wonderful. John is such a gentleman.”
“Wonderful,” I said lamely.
“We’re seeing each other again tomorrow night,” Abby said.
I didn’t respond.
“Erin? Are you okay?”
No. No, I was not okay.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “Just ... Maureen’s motioning to me. Maybe another call I need to take. Sorry.”
“What is it about Fridays?” Abby said with a laugh. “It’s supposed to be a slow day but it never is.”
“Yeah.” I laughed, too. “Look, I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you soon. Gotta go.”
I hung up. I didn’t hear Abby’s final good-bye, though I’m sure there was one. I put my head in my hands and felt desolation overtake me.
I had to talk to my father about his behavior. I couldn’t have both my parents acting irrationally, now could I? Someone had to be the reasonable, responsible parent. If not, that left me—where? Emotionally orphaned? The thought embarrassed me so I shoved it away.
Shove harder, Reason suggested. In fact, abandon this train of thought entirely. You’re a big girl now.
Whatever. I arrived at my father’s apartment at about seven that evening.
He’d just gotten home and was, naturally, surprised to see me.
“Erin, hi. Why didn’t you return my call the other day? Did you get it?”
There was no hint of nervousness or guilt in his voice or manner. I looked hard for them and found none.
I followed him into the living room and remained standing when he gestured toward a seat.
“Erin, is something wrong?” he asked, clearly concerned. And then, his eyes changed. “Ah, I see what this is about. Abby and me.”
“Dad,” I blurted, “why are you doing this?”
“Why does any man ask a woman to dinner?” he answered.
“You know what I mean. Why are you betraying me like this?”
Well, that was a little stronger than I’d intended, but the words were out there now.
Dad looked at me with the eyes of a surprised but entirely rational man.
“How is my dating Abby a betrayal of you, Erin? You’re my daughter. Abby’s my—my girlfriend. Okay,” he admitted, “that’s a word that makes me feel creepy, but ...”
“But, Dad, why can’t you date someone closer to your own age?”
“I don’t mean to be harsh, Erin, but it’s really none of your business whom I date.”
“Even when it’s my best friend?”
“Even then.” Dad sighed. “Sit down, Erin.”
I did, sullenly.
“Let me amend what I just said. Of course I appreciate that you’re concerned about me. I know you don’t want me to get hurt. And to that extent, yes, it is your business whom I date. But in this case, you know Abby, you know she’s got a heart of gold. You know we both can trust her.”
But I can’t trust you, I thought at him. You’re a poacher. You stole my best friend. Abby and I will never be quite the same.
Change is inevitable, Reason reminded. Would you rather grow or stagnate?
Don’t ask me that right now! I cried. My best friend is a bitch. She stole my father!
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“No, I have to go. Thanks.”
My father didn’t try to stop me with word or gesture.
When I got home a half hour later, I sat down with Fuzzer and cried.
My mother was traipsing through the wilds. My father was dating my best friend. Both were truly lost to me.
More than anything else—more than anyone else—I wanted Doug Spears.
Chapter Seventeen
June, Boston
A Boston June opens enticingly with a lovely, long-awaited warmth and goes out with full-blown haziness, heat, and humidity.
At least, that particular June did.
JoAnne asked me to come over to her house in Charlestown late one Saturday afternoon. I hadn’t seen her
all week, hadn’t even had a conversation with her. Her usually busy schedule had seemed extraordinarily so. I welcomed the chance to spend an hour or two just hanging with her. Maybe we’d go to the Warren Tavern for some lunch. And not talk about Abby dating my father.
I took the Orange Line out to the Bunker Hill Community College stop and walked up to Bunker Hill Street and JoAnne’s house. The weather was getting sticky. I stopped at a bakery for a half dozen donuts, even though I knew that JoAnne’s eating habits were far healthier than my own. Oh, well, I reasoned, more for me.
I knew something was up immediately. JoAnne grabbed the bag of donuts, peered inside, and inhaled deeply.
“For me?” she said.
“For us, greedy. Since when do you crave donuts?”
“Since when do you care?”
Huh?
“I don’t care. I mean ... Okay, whatever. Eat them all if you like.”
While JoAnne bit into a jelly donut and chewed consideringly, I noticed that her hair was unwashed. And that her sweatshirt—which ordinarily she would rather be caught dead wearing anywhere but the gym—was stained.
Oh, yeah. Something was up.
I sat down in one of the high-backed chairs in the living room and waited for JoAnne to come up for air.
“How was your week?” I asked finally. “Busy?”
“Mmm.” JoAnne poked her finger into the bag again and frowned. “Only one jelly donut?”
“They were out. No new batches until tomorrow. Sorry.”
JoAnne tossed the bag onto the coffee table and dropped onto the couch across from me. Where she sat staring at a Miro print on the wall over my head.
“So,” I began again.
JoAnne looked down from the print and straight at me.
“So, I might have breast cancer,” she said.
“Jesus Christ, JoAnne,” I cried, “your presentation sucks. And, damn it. I’m sorry. How ... what made you suspect something was wrong?”
JoAnne laughed.
“What do you think? I was doing my usual self-examination in the shower and I felt something—odd. So, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor. Typical story.”
“Oh.” God, I thought. When was the last time I examined my breasts? Had I ever?
“I’d have been so scared,” I said uselessly.
JoAnne shrugged and poked now at the stains on her sweatshirt. “It happens. Knowing is better than not knowing. The sooner you find out something’s wrong, the sooner you can start to fix it. The sooner you can start to kick its ass.”
I laughed weakly. “I think that when it comes to my health I’m more into ignorance being bliss.”
Suddenly, JoAnne’s face hardened into a mask of anger.
“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
I was—stunned.
“What? Sorry, I ...”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I ... it’s just ...”
“JoAnne, what?”
She rubbed her forehead, sighed, rolled her eyes.
“Look, don’t go telling anyone about this yet, okay? The only reason I’m telling you now is ... I don’t even know why I’m telling you. So, promise, all right?”
“I promise to keep my mouth shut until such time as you see fit to lift the injunction.”
JoAnne eyed me. “Not funny. Here goes. When I was six I was diagnosed with leukemia. I ...”
“JoAnne, I ...”
“Don’t interrupt, Erin. Let me just get it out.”
I nodded, chastened.
“I was pretty sick for a while. Two years, in fact. You know, the whole bit, drugs, chemo, radiation. Long story short: I got well. My parents didn’t. They were financially ruined by the whole thing. I mean, my father was a forklift driver in a warehouse. He didn’t exactly have fabulous, comprehensive health insurance. My mother raised me and my brother, so she brought nothing to the table in terms of money. They had no savings, just a huge fifty-year mortgage on the house. Which they lost. The house, not the mortgage. Two years after my remission, they split. It was just too much for them to handle. My almost dying, the lack of money ... They were good people but they had no real emotional skills, you know? And nothing to fall back on, no rich parents, no trust funds. They tried, they just ...”
“It must have been horrible,” I mumbled. What does one say?
“I guess ... I guess I’ve always felt it was my fault, their getting divorced, losing the house. I mean, intellectually I know I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t ask for cancer. But . . . still, it was because of me that my family fell apart.”
“And you’ve been living with that guilt all these years?” I said. My heart was breaking. “Guilt for something you had no responsibility for? Oh, JoAnne. Have you ever talked to anyone about this, a professional, I mean?”
JoAnne laughed and it wasn’t happy. “No. Please. I was too busy catching up in school and working part time as soon as I could to help out at home, and then getting scholarships so I could go to med school because there was no way anyone could help me with tuition. I was always just too—busy. Look, if you keep busy you don’t have time to dwell on your problems.”
“So they fester. Problems don’t go away just because you ignore them.”
“Thank you, Dr. Laura.”
“That’s mean. I brought you donuts.”
“Whatever. The point is ... Okay, I know it sounds weird but hell, I’m spilling my guts so ... I can’t help but feel that if I ever got married and had kids I’d ruin that family, too. I wouldn’t do it on purpose—I don’t think I would—but I’d ruin it all the same. It’s better—and safer—for me to stay single and concentrate on my work.”
This was amazing. JoAnne revealing true, deep feelings. I ventured. “Like somehow by keeping other kids alive you’re . . . I don’t know, healing yourself? Repairing the damage you thought you caused?”
“I haven’t thought it all through, Erin, but please, feel free to. Just let me do what I do. I’m fine. I always have been and I always will be.”
That point could be debated, I thought, but said nothing. After a long silence in which JoAnne grabbed her bag from the floor, removed every card and scrap of paper from her wallet, examined them, tossed a few, and put the rest back into her wallet—all with what seemed like an enormous amount of concentration—I again ventured to speak.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I said.
JoAnne snapped her wallet shut. “Yeah, there’s an ice breaker. Hi, my name is JoAnne and I had cancer as a kid. How about you?”
“It wouldn’t have gone like that.”
“No? And what would you have said? Immediately I’d have been setting myself up as an object of pity. No thanks.”
“That’s not fair. I would have felt sorry but I wouldn’t have pitied you.”
“What do you feel now?” JoAnne challenged.
I thought for a minute. “Frankly, a bit hurt you didn’t trust me enough to talk to me about this before. Sorry, too. Sorry that you were sick and that you felt you couldn’t say anything. I mean, jeez, JoAnne, I’ve told you about ...”
“About what?” she snapped. “What’s more horrible than a sick kid? Your best friend’s making out with your boyfriend in college? Your grandmother’s heart attack?”
That was low, even for JoAnne.
“Are you saying my life isn’t as valid as yours because I didn’t almost die when I was six?”
“No, no. No, of course not. It’s just that ...”
“When will the test results be in?”
“Tomorrow. Or the next day. A friend’s pushing them through.”
I hesitated. “If ... if something needs to be done ...”
“Then it needs to be done. I’ve researched options. I’ll talk to my doctor. I’ll do what it takes. What else can I do?”
Tears glittered in JoAnne’s eyes but I knew they would not fall.
Chapter Eighteen
Erin—Am back from expedition. Tell yr.
father hi for me. M. P.S. how’s yr job?
JoAnne’s bombshell had given me a lot to think about. That night I begged off going to a movie with Damion and hunkered down with Fuzzer and my thoughts.
I’d never given my breasts much thought, except in terms of how a jacket fitted or a blouse hung because of them. I mean, I’d never consciously associated my breasts with my own sexuality or womanhood. Maybe because I’d yet to have a baby. Maybe because my mother bottle-fed me. Maybe because I’d been told by so many men that my legs were my best physical feature, apart from my smile. Maybe because my Catholic upbringing had condemned the consideration of one’s body as other than a faulty vessel for the soul. Whatever.
Now, with JoAnne facing the awful possibility of losing a breast to save her life, I became suddenly aware of my breasts as part of me, as integral to my womanhood—if more for their potential than their current function.
As considering my breasts was still not a particularly comfortable exercise, I allowed my thoughts to drift on to related topics. Women and men; perception and projection; image, reality, and fantasy. Flesh and blood versus fairy tale.
I thought about how not long before I’d made an interesting discovery. Well, it was more that I’d had a revelation, really, a putting together of information in a new way that caused an “Of course,” a “Eureka!” in my head. Recently, I’d realized that I was All Women to all men.
And that, quite possibly, every woman was All Women to all men.
What did this say about me? About women? What did this say about men?
Here was my own case: In the years since I turned seventeen, I had been said to look like and/or remind a man of Grace Kelly, Uma Thurman, Goldie Hawn, even the ill-fated Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. God, someone even mistook me for Sissy Spacek a long, long time ago while on line for the bathroom during the intermission of a ballet. Could be why I never quite took to ballet. And, now that I think about it, it was a woman who made the Sissy Spacek observation so that example, thankfully, doesn’t count in this scenario.
Living Single Page 11
