“Yeah, Dad . . . yeah, I’d like that . . . the circus would be great . . . Yeah, I’ll be a good boy for Mommy . . . yeah, bye . . .”
He handed me the phone. We didn’t speak for a long time. Finally he said, “I’m hungry.”
We stopped at a McDonald’s outside of New Paltz. Ethan sat quietly, eating his Chicken McNuggets and french fries, fingering the cheap plastic toy that accompanied his kiddie meal. I sipped a styrofoam cup of rancid coffee, looking at him anxiously, wishing I could somehow make everything fine for him . . . and knowing that that was impossible.
I touched his face.
“Ethan, darling . . .”
He suddenly jerked his head away, and started to cry.
“I want you to live with Daddy,” he said between sobs.
Oh God . . .
I reached out for him, but he pulled away, his sobs escalating.
“I want my mommy and daddy to live together.”
His voice was now piercing—heartbreakingly so. An elderly couple at a nearby table glared at me as if I was the personification of everything that was wrong with contemporary womanhood. Ethan suddenly threw himself against me. I gathered him up in my arms, and rocked him until he calmed down.
When we finally got back on the road, Ethan promptly fell asleep. I stared ahead at the dark highway, trying to maintain my concentration, trying not to fall apart behind the wheel, my eyes clouding up, a low fog rolling in over the road, my headlights trying to pierce its cotton candy veil. I felt as if I was driving into a vacuum. A void to match my own.
When we reached the hotel I had booked in Saratoga Springs, Ethan was still conked out. So I carried him up to the room, got him into his pajamas, and tucked him into one of the room’s two double beds. Then I sat in a bath for an hour, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Eventually I dragged myself out of the tub and ordered a Caesar salad and a half bottle of red wine from room service. I picked at the romaine lettuce. I downed the Bordeaux. I attempted to read an Anne Tyler novel I’d thrown into my bag—but the words swam in front of me. I put down the book and stared out the window at cascading snow. As hard as I tried, my mind couldn’t let go of one repetitive thought: I have fucked it all up.
The snow had stopped by the time I snapped awake. Morning dawned clear and cold—a promising day. I felt rested. Ethan seemed brighter, and excited about the trip north. He devoured a stack of pancakes. He asked all sorts of questions about the journey ahead. He wanted to know if we’d see bears in Canada. Or moose. Or wolves.
“Maybe a wolf, if we’re lucky,” I said.
“But I want to see a bear too.”
“I’ll see if that can be arranged.”
It took nearly seven hours to reach Quebec City—but Ethan seemed to enjoy the ride. Especially as I had thrown a Game Boy into his bag—and was relieved to discover that he could play it in a moving car without getting sick. He read books. We chatted about a wide variety of topics (whether Godzilla really was a good monster who’d simply lost his way in life; which Power Ranger Ethan planned to emulate when he grew up). He loved crossing the border—and charmed the woman customs inspector at Canada Douanes by asking her where we could buy a wolf. He was fascinated by all the road signs in French. We bypassed Montreal and took Highway 40 north. It followed the St. Lawrence—and Ethan was riveted by the sight of a major river that had become a solid chunk of ice. Night was falling. It was another two hours to Quebec City. Ethan slipped off to sleep, but woke when we pulled into the driveway of the Château Frontenac. The cold air jolted him awake immediately. Our room was poky, but it had a fantastic view over the city. Ethan stared out at the fairy-tale lights of Vieux-Québec.
“I want to go downstairs,” Ethan said.
We threw our coats back on, and went out. A light snow was falling. The faux gas lamps of Old Quebec cast the cobbled streets in a spectral glow. The city’s gingerbread architecture looked edible. Ethan held my hand, and was wide-eyed. Seeing his unalloyed pleasure lifted me for the first time in weeks.
“I want to live here,” Ethan said.
I laughed. “But you’d have to learn French.”
“I can learn French. And you and Daddy can learn French.”
I tried to fight off a wave of sadness. “Let’s go back to the room, Ethan. It’s cold.”
Back upstairs, we ordered room service. After Ethan finished off le hot dog et pommes frites (and I picked at a truly bland coq au vin), Ethan said, “Next time we go away, Daddy will come with us.”
“Ethan, darling . . .”
“And then we can all go to Disney World at Easter.”
“You and I are going to Disney World, Ethan,” I said.
“And Daddy will come too.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. I reached for Ethan’s hand.
“Ethan, you know that Daddy now lives with Blair . . .”
“But he’ll live with you again.”
“No, Ethan, he won’t be living with me again.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Daddy and I have both told you this before.”
“But it’s not fair . . .”
“You’re right. It’s not fair. But it’s what’s happened. We can’t live together.”
“You can . . .”
“No, Ethan, we can’t. We never will again. I know it’s sad, but it doesn’t mean . . .”
I didn’t get to finish that sentence, as Ethan went running into the bathroom, slamming the door after him. Then I heard him sobbing. I opened the door. He was sitting on the top of the toilet seat, his face in his hands.
“Go away,” he said.
“Ethan, let me try to explain . . .”
“Go away!”
I decided not to push the issue, so I returned to the bedroom, turned on the television, and aimlessly channel-surfed. My stomach was in chaos. I didn’t know what to do or say to make the situation better. After two minutes I tiptoed back to the bathroom door and listened. His crying had subsided. I heard him lift up the toilet seat and pee. I heard him flush the john, then run some water. I heard him walking toward the door, so I dashed back to the armchair by the television. Ethan came out of the bathroom, his head bowed. He walked over to his bed and climbed in under the covers. I turned around to him and asked, “Would you like to watch some cartoons?”
He nodded, so I flipped around stations until I found Cartoon Network. Only, of course, it was dubbed into French.
“Want me to change it?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s funny.”
So we sat watching Tom and Jerry à la française. Ethan remained lying on his side, huddled under the covers. After around five minutes he said, “I want a cuddle.”
Instantly I went over and lay beside him on top of the covers. I put my arms around his shoulders and drew him close to me.
“I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m sorry.”
But Ethan didn’t reply. He just stared straight ahead at the cat-and-mouse fight on the screen. His silence said it all. Though we’d never given him false hopes about a possible reconciliation, an ongoing fear of mine was now confirmed. The fear that, ever since he had been aware of his parents’ separation, he had been convincing himself it was merely a temporary situation; that, one fine morning, Daddy would move back in with Mommy, and Ethan’s once-secure world would be restored to him. But now, the reality had finally hit. As I held him tighter in my arms, I couldn’t help but think that, thanks to the combined efforts of both his parents, Ethan had just been given a premature introduction to one of life’s fundamental truisms: when it comes to giving you a sense of security, people always fail you.
Ethan didn’t bring the subject up again for the rest of the trip. We spent the next day exploring Vieux-Québec’s back streets. We took a cab to the rural outskirts of town and went on a horse-driven sleigh ride through snowbound woodlands. Early that evening, we attended a children’s puppet show in a tiny theater. It was Peter and the Wolf, in French (naturellement)
, but Ethan knew the story by heart (he had the CD at home), and delighted in being able to follow it in a foreign language. We ate dinner in a restaurant that featured a wandering accordionist, playing what I gathered were old Quebec favorites. The music was deeply resistible, but Ethan seemed to enjoy the novelty of it—especially when the accordionist approached our table, asked Ethan what French songs he knew, and then serenaded him with Frère Jacques.
All in all, it was a good day. Ethan never appeared glum or preoccupied (and, believe me, I was monitoring his moods carefully). He fell into bed that night tired, but reasonably happy. He kissed me goodnight and told me he wished we could stay another day in Quebec.
“So do I,” I said, “but Allen-Stevenson might object if I keep you out another day.”
“You could tell them I got sick.”
I laughed. “My boss might also get a little grumpy with me if I didn’t show up on Tuesday. But, hey, Easter’s not far off. And Easter means . . .”
“Disney World!”
“You’ve got it. Now get some sleep.”
As soon as Ethan had conked out, I picked up the phone and called Meg.
“Where the hell are you?” she asked.
I told her.
“Quebec in the middle of January? You must be a masochist.”
“Hey, why should old habits die hard.”
She laughed. “You sound a little better.”
“We had a good day. And since ‘good days’ have been in short supply recently . . .”
“I hear you . . .”
“I also managed to see Mom’s lawyer yesterday.”
“And?”
“Well, the trust didn’t turn out to be depleted.”
“Really?”
“In fact . . .”
And then I told her the exact sum involved.
“You’re kidding me,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Jesus Christ. You’re certainly buying lunch the next time.”
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“Quite something? It’s unbelievable.”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“I tell you, sweetheart—your mother was some operator.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I suppose she was.”
“Don’t tell me you’re unhappy about this windfall?”
“I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . just bewildered. By everything.”
“I know. But don’t be bewildered by this. It’s good news.”
“Yes, I suppose it is . . . though I do feel kind of strange about Charlie . . .”
“Fuck him. You were the one who was there for your mom.”
“But he was the one who lost his father.”
“You did too.”
“But, unlike Charlie, I never knew my dad. And unlike Charlie, Mom never made me feel as if I had stood in the way of . . .”
“Hang on,” Meg said. “She really did love Charlie.”
“I’m sure. But did she ever like him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Face fact: if Charlie hadn’t come along, she would never have married Jack Malone. And her life may have been happier.”
“Don’t count on that. Your mother did have a talent for martyrdom.”
“Tell me about it. All that money sitting there, and she still had to nickel-and-dime herself.”
“She never got over it, Kate. Never. It was the great tragedy of her life.”
Unlike Sara Smythe. It may have been her great tragedy too . . . but at least she came to terms with it. Or, at least, she learned how to live with it. My mom also “lived with it,” but it haunted her every move. I saw that now. Just as I also saw that I never really understood her. When did I ever see her courage in raising two children alone? When did I ever glimpse the mettle with which she coped with life? Never. She cut corners and wore twenty-year-old dresses and refused to recover her threadbare sofa and lived in a cramped apartment—all so, one day, I wouldn’t have to repeat her story . . . so the second half of my life would be comfortable, secure, well upholstered. But I was too wrapped up in my own griefs; my own sense of having been betrayed by men, by circumstances, by life. Unlike my mother—who stayed silent for four decades about the betrayal that fractured her life and sent it on a difficult trajectory. No doubt, she also wanted to scream: me, me, me, me, me. But she never would have dreamed of articulating such a self-centered complaint. She remained silently stoical. Not realizing that, in her own undemonstrative way, she was heroic.
“You okay, Kate?” Meg asked, registering my silence.
“I’m trying to be.”
“You’ll be fine. I know it. And if you’re not, at least you can now be a rich, miserable pain in the ass.”
I laughed. And said, “I’m going to bed.”
“Lunch next week?”
“Of course. And this time, I really am picking up the tab.”
Ethan and I both slept well. I was relieved to see that the threat of a snowstorm failed to materialize in the morning. We were on the road by nine a.m. Three hours later—just after we had crossed the border back into New York—Ethan turned to me and said, “I want to spend tonight with my daddy.”
I bit my lip and said nothing, except: “Whatever you want, big guy. Let’s call him right now.”
I reached for my cell phone and rang Matt’s office. His secretary put me through. We had a reasonably civilized conversation. Then I turned the phone over to Ethan.
“Daddy, can I come and stay with you tonight?”
They chatted for a few minutes, Ethan sounding really enthusiastic as they bantered away. Of course, I felt envy. Of course, I knew this was wrong—but when a child is shared between two parents, there is always this ongoing worry that your ex is showing him the better time, or relating to him more positively than you. No matter how you try to dodge it, a competitive climate develops between you and your ex. You’ve taken him to the circus? I’m bringing him to The Lion King on Broadway. You’ve bought him Nikes? I’m getting him his first pair of Timberlands. It’s grim, this aggressive game of who’s the better divorced parent? And totally unavoidable.
Ethan finished talking to Matt, and handed the phone back to me.
“You sure you don’t mind letting him stay with us tonight?” Matt asked.
Yes, I minded. But I knew that, somehow, I had to stop minding. Otherwise I would be flagellating myself forever.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Honestly.”
“Great,” he said, sounding surprised. “Thank you.”
We sped south. With a stop for an early dinner, we arrived in northern Manhattan just before eight. I called Matt again and told him to expect us in around twenty minutes. As I’d had Ethan’s school clothes cleaned at the Château Frontenac (and his book bag was also in the trunk of the car), there was no need to stop by our apartment. Matt was waiting outside his building on West 20th Street. As soon as I’d stopped the car, Ethan was out the door and in his father’s arms. I went around to the trunk. I opened the duffel bag containing Ethan’s clothes. I transferred some toilet supplies and a clean set of underwear into his schoolbag. Then I lifted out the cleaned uniform (still wrapped in the hotel’s dry-cleaning cellophane) and handed it to Matt. Ethan took his schoolbag.
“He’s got a change of socks and jockeys in his bag, along with his toothbrush. And here’s his school uniform.”
“You know, he does have a spare set of all that stuff here,” Matt said.
“I hadn’t thought of that . . .”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, then nudged Ethan forward. “Thank your mom for a great weekend.”
I bent down. Ethan planted a kiss on my right cheek. “Thanks, Mom,” he said simply.
I stood back up.
“Well . . . ,” Matt said.
“Well . . . ,” I said, thinking how awkward we now were with each other. You meet. You couple. You get to know each other very, very intimately. You make a baby together. Then it all goe
s wrong. So wrong that it gets reduced to terse exchanges, terse handshakes, a child with divided loyalties.
Matt proffered his hand. I took it.
“That was a dumb argument the other day,” I said.
“Very dumb.”
“It’s always been something of a specialty of ours, dumb arguments.”
“Yes,” he said with a light laugh. “We definitely have a talent for fighting. But . . . it happens, I guess.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “It happens.”
A slight smile between us, then the handshake ended. I bent down and kissed Ethan, saying, “See you tomorrow after school, darling. I’ll be home from the office around seven.”
Ethan nodded, then turned with his dad and entered the building. I got the car back to Avis. Then I went home. The silence of the empty apartment was huge. But I reminded myself that it was just for tonight.
The next morning, I returned to the office. I had such a backlog of work that I had lunch sent in. But I did set aside a few minutes to call Peter Tougas.
“You feeling better, Kate?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Like I said last week, it’s going to take a lot of time.”
“Doesn’t everything?”
“You might have a point there. So . . . are we ready to proceed with the probate?”
“Absolutely. But I first need to ask a question: as the sole beneficiary of the trust, I am free to do whatever I like with the money?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding wary. “As I mentioned the other day, there were no stipulations in the will about the use of the funds.”
“Good. Because I’ve decided that my brother should be cut back in.”
“What?” Mr. Tougas said, sounding genuinely shocked.
“I want Charlie to have half the trust.”
“Hang on a minute, Kate . . .”
“It’s what . . . ? Nearly seven hundred and fifty thousand? Give him three seventy-five.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I am aware of that.”
“At least take a couple of days to reflect . . .”
“I have taken a couple of days to reflect on it.”
“Take a couple more . . .”
“No. I’ve made my mind up. I want him to get half the trust.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 62
