“I did, too! I took a class in college!”
I bowed my head. “My mistake.”
“A baby,” Laura said, “is going to love me.”
Poor Laura. “Sure,” I said, “he’s going to love you at first because he has no choice. He has to rely on you for everything: food, shelter, changing his diaper. But he might not love you when he grows up.”
Laura waved her hand dismissively. “Maybe other people’s children don’t love their parents. That’s their problem. Those parents probably did something wrong in the first place. My child will love me for his entire life. Or for her entire life.”
“It sounds exhausting,” I quipped. “Poor little kid.”
Jess leaned in toward my sister. “Really, Laura, what do you want from a child? Be careful not to load an awful lot of responsibility onto a very small person. You can’t ask a child to save you from loneliness or whatever it is you want to be saved from.”
“I don’t want to be saved from anything,” Laura snapped. “I just want a baby. Does there have to be some deep dark reason?”
“I’m sorry, Laura,” Grace said. “We’re just trying to understand.”
My sister threw her napkin on the table. “Why do you have to understand? It’s my life, not yours. Why does everyone have to be so mean?”
“I’m sorry,” Jess repeated. “It’s just that we like Duncan. We love you. We thought you two were good together. This situation is just a little hard to absorb.”
I don’t know why I can’t leave well enough alone with my sister. But I can’t.
“And,” I said, “it’s a little hard to believe you really want another husband. You had a perfectly good one and you tossed him away. If you really just want a baby, you can have one without a husband. Without a boyfriend, even. It’s done all the time.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “Of course I want a husband. I want a traditional, two-parent family.”
“And adoption is out of the question?” Jess asked.
“Absolutely. I don’t want someone else’s baby. I want my own.”
Maybe, I thought, Laura’s baby would get Duncan’s brain. I hoped so.
“But first you have to get pregnant,” Grace said, “and that’s not always easy. Really, Laura, would it be so horrible if you don’t—if you can’t—have a child of your own? Do you really think your life would be empty and meaningless if you don’t give birth?”
Laura stared at her discarded napkin. I wondered if she’d considered the actual giving birth part. Laura had always been squeamish. The sight of even a drop of blood sent her swooning.
“I know it’s hard,” Grace went on in a gentle tone, “but try to imagine not getting the one thing you want more than anything—and then try to imagine surviving. Lots of people don’t get what they want. But they survive. And they find creative ways to make their lives feel rich and meaningful.”
Laura looked away from the napkin. “What do you want more than anything?” she challenged us.
Jess and Grace were silent.
“I don’t know what I want now,” I admitted. “I know what I wanted when I was a girl. I wanted to meet my Prince Charming, fall madly in love, get married, and live happily ever after. And I got that. My wish was fulfilled. At least, most of it was. At least, I thought it was. Now? I just don’t know.”
“Well,” Laura said, and it was impossible to miss the note of triumph in her voice, “unlike you all, I have a goal. I have a dream and I’m going after it.”
“Good for you, ” Jess murmured.
Grace leaned forward. “I’ve read about women who have a baby because their relationship with their husband is lacking in emotional depth or on shaky ground. They believe a baby will cement their union somehow, you know, by providing a common topic of concern. They believe a baby will provide the emotional stuff they really need from their husbands.”
“They’re just being silly,” Laura said self-righteously. “I would never do something so dumb.”
Add self-delusional to the list of my sister’s flaws.
“Let’s get off the topic of babies,” Jess said. “I’ll be dreaming of diapers and formula all night.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “Grace, what’s been going on with you since Simon’s banishment?”
A grin came to Grace’s lips. “I’m seeing someone.”
“Not Simon, I hope!”
“No, Laura, of course not! Not anymore. I am completely over him.”
“So?” Jess said. “Tell us about him.”
“Well, his name is Alfonse and he was born in Germany and he’s a graphic designer.”
“Is he divorced?” I asked. “Does he have children? How long has he been in the U.S.? Is he a citizen?”
“No, no, a while, yes.” Grace grimaced and hunched her shoulders, as if bracing herself against a blow. “Here’s the thing. He’s only twenty-one years old.”
Laura clapped. “Cradle robber! I didn’t know you had it in you, Grace.”
Neither did I.
“Well, this is a little weird,” I said, “considering I have an eighteen-year-old son and the thought of him with a woman in her thirties is a tad disturbing. But I’ll get over the weirdness. I always do.”
“The sex is fantastic,” Grace blurted. “Sorry, Nell.”
“No, no, go right ahead. I’m already adjusting. Just because I haven’t had sex in over a decade doesn’t mean that you have to be celibate.”
That dampened the mood for about a second.
Grace sighed. “It’s just that I’m having so much fun. I feel kind of ashamed, kind of dirty, but—there it is!”
“How Sex and the City of you,” Jess said. “How Samantha Jones.”
“Am I a cliché?” Grace asked worriedly.
“Who cares if you are? I suppose I was a cliché by having an affair with Seth. He’s only twenty-five.”
“So,” I said, “you’re fully aware this relationship isn’t going to last?”
“Of course I’m aware. But I don’t get the sense that Alfonse is going anywhere soon. I think he’s going to be my summer companion.”
I wondered.
“I hope you have some other activities planned,” I said. “Just in case the young man disappears before Labor Day. Besides, you can’t stay in bed all day having sex.”
Or could you? I wouldn’t know.
Grace frowned. “Actually, I’m not sure what I’m going to do this summer. Now that I don’t have Simon to babysit.”
“Make sure you keep it that way,” Laura admonished. “Don’t let him come sneaking back.”
“Simon doesn’t sneak. He barges in. He’s not subtle.” Grace turned to me. “What about you, Nell? What do you have lined up for the summer?”
Ah, the first step of my new life.
“I’m hereby letting it be known that I am an available single woman. I’ve already notified my colleagues on the museum and symphony committees and they’re on watch for an eligible man.”
“Good for you,” Jess said.
“Why don’t you sign up with a dating service?” Laura asked.
How could my sister begin to understand the horror I felt at the prospect of letting strangers arrange my romantic life?
“I am absolutely not putting an ad in a paper or signing up for an online dating service or going through any other channel but my friends,” I said. “I’m willing to be introduced to a man through a friend or colleague. It’s the only way I can handle this—this whole new world.”
“Okay,” Jess said. “So, what are your requirements? You know, in case I meet anyone in my vast and exciting travels on the T.”
“Just a few,” I said. “He can’t be too old.” I looked pointedly at Grace. “And he can’t be too young. Can you imagine what my children would think of me if I went out with a twenty-one-year-old?”
“This is not about your kids,” Jess pointed out. “This is about you.”
I sighed. “There is no real me apart fro
m my kids. Not entirely. But I know what you mean. Anyway, he can have kids of his own, of course. He can be divorced. Who isn’t divorced these days? I would be happy to go on a first date, gather some important details, and then decide if I want to see him again.”
“What kind of details?” Laura asked.
“Well,” I said, “for example, does he talk about his job incessantly? Does he consider his children more of a burden than a joy? Is his ex-wife horrid? And if she is, does he take the high road and keep his mouth shut, or does he talk badly about her to anyone who will listen? Things like that, important things. Widowers are fine, too, again, depending on the details.”
“Like an obsession with his dead wife,” Jess suggested.
“Yes, like that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Financial solvency. I am absolutely not supporting a man. Good health, within reason. Good grooming habits. I refuse to teach a man how to trim his nose hair. Intelligence is a must. A sophisticated sense of humor is also a must. No little-boy toilet humor for me. Good moral character, of course. Brown eyes would be nice.”
Jess laughed, finally. “Is that all? Piece of cake. I meet a million perfect men every day of the week. You’ll be married before the end of the month.”
“Oh, I’m not saying I want to get married. Yet. Maybe ever. I just think I should go on a few dates. I just think I should see what it feels like to have dinner with a man other than Richard.”
Laura beamed. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Are you nervous about being back in the game?” Grace asked.
“Ladies,” I announced, “I’m terrified.”
Chapter 11
Jess
Is the judge a man? How old is he? Is he married or single? Does he have children? Find out the answers to these questions and dress accordingly.
—What to Wear to the Divorce: How to Influence the Judge in Your Favor
It was called Women of Divorce. I found it online. The group met on Wednesday mornings at ten o’clock, which was not really convenient for me as I was usually in my office by nine, but I went anyway.
At the foot of the stairs leading from the sidewalk to the church basement there was a door. On it was posted the name of the group and a wiggly WELCOME. One last chance to run. I opened the door and went inside.
A ring of folding chairs had been set in one corner of the large, recreation-type space. Three women were already seated. One rose and waved me over.
“Women of Divorce?” I asked.
“That’s us!” The woman handed me a blank name tag and a pink marker. I should have known right then that this group was not for me. Pink has never been my color. But I’d promised my friends to give it a try. And I always try to keep my promises. Except when I don’t.
“I’m Patty,” she said, tapping her own name tag. “And this is Marianne and this is Heidi.”
I smiled tentatively at the other two women and took a seat across from them, a wee bit closer to the door.
Over the next few minutes the rest of the group gathered. It was a motley crew: a few women seemed to be in their fifties; one woman looked no more than twenty-five. Everyone was nicely dressed; after all, the meeting was taking place in the Back Bay. No underprivileged here.
I looked down at my five-year-old suit; it had been an expensive purchase for an academic. I wondered what I had in common with these women, other than our sex and being divorced. I thought again of fleeing but before I could take action, Patty introduced me as the newest member of the group. The women nodded or released tight, inquiring smiles.
“Jess,” Patty said, “would you like to tell us about yourself?”
No, I thought. I would not. And then, words, unrehearsed, just came pouring out of my mouth.
“One day,” I said, “I looked in the mirror; I was brushing my teeth, no big deal; and suddenly, I realized I didn’t know who I was any longer.”
I looked at Patty. Her smile remained fixed and she gave a slight nod.
“Everyone’s heard that cliché,” I went on. “‘I looked in the mirror and I realized I didn’t know who I was.’ I’ve seen ads for recovery programs that use that phrase or something like it. Well, that morning I learned the scary truth behind that cliché and I started to think about the strange process of alienation. It’s slow and subtle and sneaky and you just aren’t aware of it happening, until one day you look for yourself or for the person you’re supposed to love and you can’t see them without squinting. Instead of right next to you, they’re miles away, little dots on the horizon, and receding ever farther. You shout, ‘Hey, come back!’ but most times they can’t hear you and maybe, used to silence, they aren’t even listening.”
I felt a flush coming to my cheeks. I sat a bit straighter in the folding chair. I didn’t see the women around me anymore; I saw my face in the bathroom mirror that important morning.
“And then,” I said, “I began to wonder if there was a way to recognize this process of alienation early on. I began to wonder if there was a way to stop it. I began to wonder if we’re all doomed to live and die alone, apart even from ourselves.
“Right then, right at that moment, standing at the sink, toothpaste dribbling down my chin, I vowed to start paying attention—to me, to other people, to everything. It might, I realized, be my only hope of—of happiness.”
As abruptly as the words had come, they were gone. I looked around the circle of the Women of Divorce. No one was nodding sympathetically. No one was smiling encouragingly. The woman named Heidi looked angry.
I was puzzled. Weren’t we here to talk things through, even if we didn’t make complete sense?
Finally, Sally offered a practiced smile. “That’s—nice. But let’s get down to business.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
A woman named Ellen spoke. “What Sally means is, what did your nasty ex do to you? Mine left me for my sister. He destroyed my family and tainted my past. Just so you know.”
“Mine developed a cocaine habit.” Diane snorted. “So retro! We lost the house and I barely got out with the few pieces of antique furniture I’d brought to the marriage.”
“You won’t believe this,” a woman named Aggie said. Her eyes glittered with anger. “My creep of an ex-husband had a second wife and kids in New Hampshire. Evil bastard.”
Oh. I felt my shoulders slump just a bit. I folded my hands on my lap. What had my nasty ex-husband done to me?
Matt was obsessed with football. He didn’t laugh much. He spent too much time at the office. But you couldn’t blame the end of a marriage on sports or a poor sense of humor or even workaholism. Could you? I shot a look at Sally, who seemed to be the leader of this gang.
“So?” she urged. “Tell us.”
Here it was. The moment of truth.
“Well,” I began, looking at no one in particular, trying for a casual, yet not a flippant tone, “actually, the long story short is that I . . . I had an affair. When I told Matt, he demanded a divorce. So . . . we got divorced.”
There was dead silence. Really, everything felt dead, heavy. And then the woman named Ellen leaned forward, her neck stretched like that of a starving baby bird, eyes blazing.
“What gave you the right?” she demanded. “Here we are, so many women being betrayed by their husbands and you have a perfectly fine husband and you cheat on him!”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. “Um,” I said finally, “are you saying that because you were unhappy, I didn’t have a right to be happy? That’s like saying . . . That’s like your mother telling you to eat all your vegetables because there are starving kids in Africa.”
“It’s about being grateful for what you have,” Aggie snapped. “You should have been grateful to have a husband in the first place. You should have been grateful he wasn’t a jerk.”
I felt a surge of anger like a wave of boiling oil in my head. I probably should have left the room right then rather than subject
myself to further abuse, but I was far beyond sensible thinking.
“First of all,” I said, voice trembling, “you know nothing about me, not really, so how dare you lecture me on my personal happiness! And how do you know my husband wasn’t a jerk? For your information he was a jerk, just like every other man can be a jerk. And, and, I should have been grateful? What is this, the days of Queen Victoria? A woman has a right to be happy, not just grateful.”
Eyes rolled but no one argued my point.
“What did he ever do that was so bad?” the woman named Aggie suddenly challenged.
What, indeed?
“He changed the access code to one of our joint accounts to CHEATER,” I said. “That was uncalled-for.”
Sally glared at me. “You are a cheater. He was just telling the truth.”
Clearly, she hadn’t accepted Jesus as her personal savior. “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
My self-preservation instincts kicked into higher gear.
“You’re preaching pick-and-choose morality,” I said, fixing Sally with a glare of my own. “If I had been an abused wife, no one would blame me for cheating. Are you saying it’s acceptable to cheat because you have a black eye but not acceptable because your soul is bruised?”
“So,” Sally said, with a wicked gleam in her eye, “now that we know Matt’s not a wife beater, can we have his number?”
A few of the women laughed uncomfortably. Sally, I realized, wasn’t kidding. I felt stunned.
“I don’t have it,” I said. “It’s unlisted. We’re not in touch.”
Sally turned to her neighbor with a smirk. “Who can blame him?”
By the time I got home that night—after a long departmental meeting, after a stalled train—I was wiped out, a dishrag, a wet noodle.
The women’s message had been clear. Men who cheat are despicable but normal. Women who cheat are whores. Worse, they are potential threats to all other women, especially those who are married. After all, if you’ll cheat on your own husband, what’s to stop you from stealing another woman’s husband?
I tried to eat something but had little appetite. At eight-thirty I got ready for bed. In the bathroom I saw Matt’s shaving equipment on the sink. It wasn’t really there but I saw it anyway, like an accusation.
Back In the Game Page 6
