“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” said Cord. He rolled down the car window, hoping the fresh air would help. Rye’s Purchase Street rolled past: June & Ho, Crisfield’s Prime Meats, Rye Eye Care, Royal Jewels of Rye. Giovanni had grown up walking to the Smoke Shop to buy his parents cigarettes, he’d told Cord. Rose had always given Giovanni an extra dime for Swedish Fish candy.
“I don’t know what you’re so ashamed of,” said Giovanni now.
Cord looked at him. Giovanni’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I…” said Cord.
“This is a happy occasion,” said Giovanni. “I’ve been to eight thousand wedding showers for my sisters and cousins and tonight it’s about me. Sorry, us. I find it pretty disturbing that the only person who thinks we’re doing something wrong, Cord, is you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cord.
“Get yourself sorted out,” said Giovanni, pulling into his parents’ driveway.
Cord felt a sense of dread; there was no other way to put it. The lonely voice was his father’s, telling him to focus and get your act together, for Christ’s sake when Cord couldn’t catch the baseball in the backyard.
“We’re here,” said Giovanni.
“I’m sorry,” said Cord. He had a hard time getting out of the car. He felt foggy, disoriented, as if he might pass out.
“What is it?” said Giovanni, his face pained. “Why can’t you just be proud of who you are?”
Before Cord could answer, the door to Giovanni’s childhood home opened, and Rose came running out. She was overweight, wearing polyester slacks, a T-shirt, and an apron. She had shoulder-length gray hair and wore Pan-Cake makeup and fabulous fake eyelashes. Right in the driveway, she enveloped Cord in a hug that smelled of floral perfume and tomatoes. Cord relaxed in her embrace. The lonely voice was silent. “I made ziti for you, Cord,” said Rose. “I made ziti.”
How wonderful it felt to be held by a mother who knew you.
REGAN WOKE IN HER daughter’s bedroom. It wasn’t uncommon for her to sleep next to Flora—Regan was an insomniac and she just felt safer snuggled next to her sweet-smelling daughter than next to her husband.
For a moment, Regan lay still, watching Flora breathe. The curve of her nose, her lashes against her impossibly milky skin! For a moment, Regan questioned her plan. She promised herself that she would make sure Flora was okay, even afterward.
Regan rose, stretched, and padded down the hallway in her silk pajamas. Matt was fast asleep in the master bedroom, one arm tossed out, as if reaching for something. His mouth was open and he snored loudly, without shame. What must it be like, wondered Regan (not for the first time), to access such abandon? Regan thought that her insomnia likely had roots in her fear of losing control. Her high school art teacher, Alphonso Ragdale, had once told her she was most beautiful while she slept. Besides the obvious-in-retrospect creepiness of the comment, Regan wondered if it had made her feel (on some unconscious level) that she must always be lovely in sleep, a belief that kept her from being actually, messily, at rest.
Regan’s mind whirred. Her mother had called the day before with the bizarre news that she had won a Mediterranean cruise. Charlotte wanted Regan to join her on the cruise, along with Regan’s siblings. “Please, honey,” said Charlotte. “Please, let me fly you to Europe before I’m gone.”
Regan’s mother loved theatrical pronouncements.
“Please!” cried Charlotte.
“I don’t know what to say.” The last thing on earth Regan wanted was a trip without her children and with her mother and siblings.
Five sessions with an online therapist had taught Regan how toxic her family was. She should, said the online therapist, accept that they were estranged. She should make peace with it. And she was trying. But Regan missed them; she just did. Sometimes she dreamed of playing with her sister and brother on a giant trampoline while Charlotte watched, pouring lemonade. They were so happy, jumping and jumping! In the dream, Regan didn’t even pee a little the way she did in real life when she jumped on a trampoline.
“Come on, honey,” said Charlotte. “Come on, cute little Regan-doodle!”
Something in Regan relaxed when her mother called her “Regan-doodle.” After Winston died suddenly of a heart attack, Lee and Cord were always too busy to spend time with Charlotte. When they moved into a rental home, it was Regan who hung out in the tiny kitchen when Charlotte got home from work; Regan resting her elbows on the butcher-block table, settling on a tall stool and swinging her legs.
“What would I do without you, my Regan-doodle?” Charlotte would say, easing off her high heels and pouring a glass of wine, poking through the refrigerator for a snack.
Regan would flush with a ten-year-old’s happiness, telling Charlotte to sit down, arranging a vegetable platter with hummus, refilling Charlotte’s drink. Sometimes, Regan would make up stories about imaginary mean-girl friends. Charlotte loved to hear that Regan was happy and very popular, though in truth she was lonely and embarrassed by her used clothes and wrong-side-of-the-YMCA address.
Every weekend, when her mother and siblings slept late, Regan gathered their discarded laundry and washed it in the basement, placing baskets of folded, clean clothes outside their rooms.
Regan sighed, missing being a barefoot ten-year-old with French braids and freckles. What would that girl do in Regan’s situation? Regan winced, understanding how pathetic that girl would think the adult Regan was: so passive! And a housewife? That girl, Regan knew, would jet out of town.
Regan had tried to make Matt love her again. For years, she had tried. And then she gave up slowly, and told herself it was enough to live as roommates, as friends. But Regan would never let a friend treat her the way Matt treated her. Worse: the girls saw him treat Regan badly, and he had begun to make comments about the girls as well. Regan had broached divorce only once, after a few glasses of wine. “Maybe we’d both be happier…” she ventured, “if we tried a separation…”
He had turned toward her, his face cold. And then he’d thrown his glass to the floor, where it landed with a very scary thud. “Shh,” said Regan. “The girls.”
“The girls?” said Matt. “Now you’re worried about the girls?”
“Matt, I just—”
“If you leave me,” said Matt. “You’ll have nothing. I promise you.”
“But, Matt…”
“No!” he said, grabbing Regan’s upper arm so hard that she gasped. Matt stared at her and then released her arm roughly. “I am not a fucking failure,” he said.
Neither am I, said Regan, to herself.
* * *
—
“ARE YOU READY TO be a jetsetter, Regan-doodle?” said Charlotte.
“What about Flora and Isabella?” said Regan.
“Send them to sleepaway camp,” suggested Charlotte. “You loved sleepaway camp!”
“No,” said Regan. “That was Lee. I went to day camp.” A memory surfaced: standing in a giant gymnasium, realizing that she was the only girl at basketball camp. The smell of boys’ armpits and socks. She’d taken her sketchbook from her backpack and hidden under the bleachers, drawing mermaids in underwater kingdoms until it was time to go home, wincing at the sound of dribbling basketballs and piercing sneaker squeaks.
“That’s right. Well, anyhoo,” said Charlotte.
“I don’t have a passport,” said Regan.
“Mine is expired,” said Charlotte. “We’ll expedite them. We can figure out the paperwork together!”
“Is this really happening?” said Regan.
“Yippee!” said Charlotte.
* * *
—
REGAN HAD FOUND A horseback riding camp in eastern Georgia. The girls were thrilled. All that remained was telling Matt. She watched him sleep. He was tall and stocky, with thinning black hair and a bit of a paunch. Regan co
uld still remember him as a teenage football star, Lee’s impossibly wonderful boyfriend, the one person Regan had thought of to call when she changed her mind about running away with Mr. Ragdale. And Matt had come, rescuing Regan from her art teacher, bringing her home on the back of his Harley-Davidson. Lee was gone by then, having ditched Matt to move to Los Angeles. Matt came by some evenings to sit on the porch swing with Regan.
Their romance had developed slowly. Matt had helped Regan talk about Mr. Ragdale, had insisted it wasn’t her fault. Matt thought they should press charges. But Regan just wanted to forget the whole episode, and Charlotte agreed they should never speak of it again. Regan transferred to a different high school for her senior year. Matt, who had enrolled in the premed program at Savannah Technical College, worked in town at a bar called Pinkie Masters. When Regan stopped by with her friends, he gave her free drinks. (She was partial to Alabama slammers, as her fake ID said she was from Montgomery, Alabama. Never a big drinker, she’d have one and then switch to Sprite.)
One night, Regan came on her own. It was karaoke night, and Regan nursed a soda and studied for her English final exam. She was stunned when she heard Matt’s voice through the speakers. “This one goes out to my angel from Montgomery,” he said. Regan looked up and saw that he was smiling at her. His voice singing the Bonnie Raitt song was smooth and low. Regan couldn’t breathe. It was the first moment she glimpsed the possibility of her greatest dream coming true.
“Just give-a me one thing,” crooned Matt, “that I can hold on to.”
Regan bit her lip. She nodded.
They made love soon afterward, on the night of her eighteenth birthday, just weeks before she was accepted to NYU. As Matt looked deep into her eyes and entered her, moved inside her gently, saying her name, she knew she would never leave Savannah. He was her love; he was home.
Regan stared at her sleeping husband. For a moment, she regretted what she had done at Bonna Bella Yacht Club. But it was too late.
Matt opened his eyes. “Hey,” he said.
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to.
“My mom won a cruise,” said Regan. “I told the girls they could go to sleepaway camp and I’m going. With my family. On the cruise.”
“What?”
“I’m going away for a while,” said Regan. Her voice wavered.
“Mmm,” said Matt. He closed his eyes. Regan thought he had fallen back asleep, but then he opened his eyes. His gaze locked with hers.
“I’m coming with you,” he said.
LEE CERTAINLY HADN’T THOUGHT she’d take her first flight to Europe with her mother. But one of the joys of social media was its ability to obfuscate. For example, a shot she made her mother take in the airport waiting area would show Lee looking serene, one leg crossed in front of the other, showing off her beautiful shoes. (As soon as she made sure her photo was postable, she could switch them out for the flip-flops in her bag.)
Lee’s mother was having a hard time hefting her old suitcase, which she’d refused to check. As soon as Charlotte had gotten the news that she had won the contest, she had begun digging around in her condo crawl space, unearthing a suite of old luggage, repeating that she had so much to do to prepare for the trip. When Lee asked what was making her feel so overwhelmed, Charlotte wrung her hands and just said, “Everything! Hand sanitizer! Peanut butter crackers!”
Lee had taken the golf cart to Publix and loaded up on mini hand sanitizers, travel-size cracker packs, women’s magazines, and wine. She’d slowed next to a small refrigerator labeled FLORAL SECTION and grabbed a bouquet. “I love you, Mom,” she said, when she got home, handing Charlotte the flowers.
“Oh, my,” said Charlotte, visibly moved.
The timing was rushed, but Lee was glad for an adventure to take her mind off the incessant tabloid coverage of Jason and Alexandria. Their romantic days biking in the Los Angeles sunshine; entering and exiting gyms; walking a new puppy they’d adopted from the ASPCA. (A “schnoodle” puppy, a cross between a schnauzer and a poodle that could not be any cuter.) Their sultry nights: sushi for two; Lionel Richie’s birthday party; ice cream cones after dark as they walked Noodles the schnoodle.
When asked about the adorable pup’s name, Alexandria’s laughter rang out. “I guess I just love noodles!” she confided.
Her smitten hunk added, “She really does love noodles.”
“Who doesn’t love noodles?” Lee had cried, throwing her phone across Charlotte’s guest bed.
“What’s that, dear?” Charlotte had called.
“NOTHING!” Lee had screamed.
“You want noodles for dinner?” Charlotte had said, appearing at the door in a golf visor and bathing suit.
Lee, tears at the corners of her eyes, had nodded sadly.
* * *
—
AT GATE C-22, LEE rushed to help her mother with her circular suitcase. What was this thing? A hatbox? “I’ve got it, Mom,” said Lee. She grabbed the handle and it came off in her hand.
“My bag!” cried Charlotte.
“We’ll just have to get you a brand-new one in Europe,” said Lee.
“But these were the bags I had last time,” said Charlotte. “They’re French.”
Last time? Lee’s mood darkened. She had read that older people sometimes became hoarders. It was a way of maintaining control or something. Lee had, in fact, played a hoarder on an episode of CSI. She’d been a prostitute-hoarder and they’d made her wear a red wig and a maroon negligee. She and Jason had hosted a big party to watch the episode, and everyone had lifted their champagne glasses when she said her two lines: “I thought you were coming tomorrow. I haven’t had time to tidy up.”
Clink, clink! Life had been good.
Lee slumped next to her mother in the boarding area. Charlotte was examining the torn luggage handle, looking utterly lost. Where was Cord when they needed him? He had always been the one to placate Charlotte, taking care of her, soothing her. He’d become the man of the house at fourteen. But they wouldn’t see Cord until they arrived in Athens.
Lee, at her brother’s behest, had called and changed Cord’s ticket so he could fly directly to Greece. Lee and Cord had a text stream going about jetsetting fashion. Every time one of them saw someone with a fanny pack or awful sunglasses, they texted each other an image with the hashtag #jetsetter. Lee loved texting with her brother. It was so much better than having to speak. In some ways, she was closer to her brother than to anyone else—they texted many times a day! She figured he was as lonely as she was, and was similarly looking forward to sharing stories about how their lives had dead-ended over cocktails in some weird cruise ship bar.
“I’m really sorry about your bag, Mom,” said Lee. Charlotte seemed bewildered, and Lee felt a bolt of fear. Any sign of weakness in her mother made Lee feel completely unmoored. Charlotte’s frankly appraising looks, her bad wine and wonderful dinners, the absolute fact of her, and knowing what she was doing every night (watching Brian Williams with Godiva, the cat) were things Lee depended on. It was honestly embarrassing how much Lee still needed Charlotte. As long as her mother was around, Lee could still be a child messing up, knowing that Charlotte would come along behind her, pick up after her, and make things right. Oh, how she’d loved as a teenager the way Charlotte had gathered her dirty clothes and returned them, perfectly folded, in a basket outside her bedroom door!
“Mom,” Lee said gently. “You know we’re going to Europe, right?”
Charlotte looked up, her face almost childlike. “Europe,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Lee,” said Charlotte.
“Yes?”
“You’re too old for a skirt that short.”
And just like that, the bitch was back. Lee was filled with relief and familiar anger. “I am not,” she said, sounding in her own ears like a petulant teenage
r. How she missed being a petulant teenager! Adulthood was the worst.
“I beg to differ,” said Charlotte. “Here’s your phone, dear.”
Lee felt hurt, dejected, and frustrated that she felt hurt and dejected. When would her need to win Charlotte dissipate?
Lee scrutinized the photo of herself, applied a filter to brighten her face, and cropped. Then she instagrammed, facebooked, tumblred, snapchatted, and tweeted, captioning the shot, #jetsetter #offtoeurope #jimmychoos #bonvoyage!
For a moment, Lee savored the fact that she was living the life she’d imagined when she cut out magazine pictures during a vision-board workshop. She had actually visualized world travel. She’d meditated upon these very hashtags, when Jason had made her meditate every morning for three mornings in a row. And now they were hers.
Maybe everything was going to be okay. Lee did feel calmer after two weeks of home-cooked meals, Tylenol PM, and a captive audience (Charlotte) who hung on her every word and trusted Lee when she said she was on a hiatus before a big film project. The more Lee bragged about her career, the more she almost believed herself. Her stomach had stopped cramping, her racing thoughts had slowed a bit, and she’d bought a neon bikini at T.J.Maxx with Charlotte’s money that had been an absolute sensation when she waltzed around Marshwood Pool. The attention of men: Lee knew it was a makeshift and ultimately useless ice pack held to the burning fact that her life was a mess, but comfort was comfort, no matter how fleeting.
Lee had been afraid she’d run into Regan around the Landings—pass her on the golf cart path, spy her splashing down the waterslide with her girls at Franklin Creek Pool—but it never happened. She thought of stopping by the Willingham McMansion, but it just seemed easier to put off their inevitable reunion. They hadn’t spoken in ten years. Ten years! Lee had called Regan dozens of times in the months after the prewedding blowout, but Regan hadn’t answered, and eventually, Lee had been hurt enough to give up. This mess wasn’t her fault! Well, not entirely.
The Jetsetters Page 5
