Nell shrugged. “Your butt will be uglier after a pregnancy, you know. Your whole body will change for the worse.”
“Probably,” I said, thinking of all the cottage-cheese thighs you see at the beach and how I’d always sworn I’d never have those thighs, but of how now I did. “But I’ll have my baby. What’s an ugly butt compared to a bundle of joy?”
“And a husband to pay the bundle’s bills. Or child support once you get tired of the husband.”
“I won’t get tired of Matt,” I said. I almost believed myself.
Nell’s tone suddenly turned angry. “How can you know? No one can know anything for sure, other than that they’re going to die.”
“You’re not in a very good mood,” I said.
“Should I be?” Nell demanded. “My ex-husband, the love of my life, is getting remarried in a few months. Excuse me if I’m not jumping up and down with glee.”
I looked closely at Nell, really closely, for the first time in a long time. She looked so sad.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’m really so sorry.”
Nell shrugged and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Don’t be. No one ever said life was going to be easy.”
No, I thought, finishing my glass of wine. They certainly didn’t.
I couldn’t sleep that night. There was too much on my mind, what with Nell being so unhappy and my body getting fat and all.
At eleven o’clock I watched the late local news. It was more of the same, some leak in a tunnel, some fight over a cop who shot into a rowdy crowd outside some bar after a ball game, a fire in one of the suburbs with a lot of old wooden houses. And then there was this segment about this little boy living in foster care. Every week the news ran this segment, about a different child, of course.
Usually, I just tuned out or went to the kitchen for a soda. But that night I had my soda already in my hand, so I found myself paying attention.
This little boy was two and very cute. He couldn’t really speak for himself, of course, but the announcer talked about his personality and stuff he liked to do. She said he had a sister, five, in another foster home and that it would be great if someone would adopt them both. They showed a picture of the little girl. She wore glasses and looked very solemn, way too serious for a five-year-old.
When the segment ended, I didn’t turn off the TV. I just sat there, thinking.
Maybe, just maybe, I had been too quick to dismiss the idea of adoption. There were all those adorable babies and toddlers just begging to be taken home by some nice couple, or by some nice single person, someone with a lot of money for childcare or a live-in nanny.
Besides, some of the stuff I’d learned in that mommies-to-be class and from reading magazines was pretty scary and disgusting. Pregnancy wasn’t all rosy glow and eating lots of ice cream. It was hard. And don’t even get me started about childbirth!
Maybe, just maybe, it was all too hard for me?
No. I changed the channel. No more thoughts about adoption. I was going to get pregnant and have my own child and if all sorts of women could do it, women out in the fields of, you know, wherever, then why couldn’t I?
Still.
If for some reason I couldn’t get pregnant . . .
No. I changed the channel again. Nell had had no problem, so why should I? Okay, she had been in her early twenties when she had her children, but at thirty-four I wasn’t exactly ancient! I wasn’t exactly dried up.
Right?
I turned off the TV. In a kitchen drawer I found my phone book and flipped to the Ls. I’d gone to Nell’s gynecologist once, a few years back. She was nice. Dr. Lakes. I left the open book by the phone. I’d call in the morning for an appointment. She would tell me that things were okay.
As long as she didn’t try to fix me up with an eighty-year-old!
Chapter 49
Grace
The first thing to remember is that your kids will hate his kids and vice versa. There’s nothing you can do about this but to let the kids figure it out. Over time the shoving matches will become less bloody and the sobbing will quiet down. Remember: this is your life, not theirs.
—Introducing Your Kids to His: Let the Fireworks Begin
“Let me help you with that.”
Evan reached for the large cardboard box I was lugging across the room to a worktable.
“Oh,” I said, “thanks. It’s heavy, be careful.”
I felt Evan’s hands slip over mine and linger as he took the box from my arms. For a long moment we shared the burden and looked into each other’s eyes. We spoke no words; none were necessary.
A slamming door brought us back to the moment. Probably one of the kids arriving early for class.
Evan smiled and took the box from me. I smiled back, a bit dizzy with desire.
Oh, yes. There was something happening between Evan and me. Now I knew for sure.
The message light was blinking.
I knew, somehow I knew before even playing the message, that it was from Simon. Things had been too quiet recently; my life had been going too nicely. It was time for Simon to enter with a flourish and wreck it all.
It was time for the old routine to revive.
I put down my bag and got a cold glass of water. I drank the whole thing before walking to the machine. I pressed the playback button and Simon’s harried voice was; in my apartment.
“Gracie, pick up! Pick up if you’re there; this is important.”
Wasn’t it always?
“Oh, man, all right. Listen, Gracie. I’m locked out of my place. The idiot landlord changed the locks and I can’t get my work; it’s all in there, Gracie. I’m two lousy months behind on rent and he changes the freakin’ locks.”
I almost laughed. Simon’s entire being was absurd.
“I need those paintings, Gracie. I’m supposed to start mounting them at the gallery on Thursday.”
There was genuine panic in my ex-husband’s voice. I almost enjoyed it. Almost.
“Gracie, you have to help me, you have to. I am royally screwed this time; everything’s all fucked up.”
I thought: Whose fault is that? Not yours, certainly. The landlord’s, the president’s, the postman’s, even my fault, but never yours.
“Call me at Rob’s. My cell isn’t working. Call me, Gracie.”
That was the end. No please or thanks. Not that I was expecting gratitude.
And then the full meaning of Simon’s latest predicament hit me.
If I didn’t help him, if I didn’t come up with the money for rent, Simon’s paintings would remain locked in the apartment. His show would be cancelled. Simon would never get another offer from Evan. Evan’s reputation would suffer; he would lose money.
I went into the kitchen and poured another glass of water. In a cabinet I found an almost-empty bottle of aspirin. The expiration date was some time the year before, but I took two anyway. I felt the headache sneaking in like a cat burglar, swift and dark.
I didn’t want Evan to suffer.
But if I did help Simon, if I did bail him out, would this time really be the end? I’d sworn, I’d promised myself not to ride to his rescue ever again, and here I was considering doing just that.
But it would be for Evan.
Save Simon, save Evan, save myself.
I stretched out on the couch; I tried to relax.
It was hopeless.
Chapter 50
Nell
It’s a fine and noble thing to trust your husband to organize and manage your finances. Good luck to you. But it’s a far smarter thing to hide as much money as you can against the day when he decides he’s fallen in love with his secretary. Consider an offshore account, a strongbox buried under the rose bushes, even cash stashed in a place he’ll never look, like the closet full of cleaning products.
—A Penny Here and a Penny There: Planning for Your Single Future
“I need some advice.”
I laughed. Poor Grace. “We
ll,” I said, “you’ve come to the right place. We three have made such huge successes with our lives, I’m sure we can be of some help.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “You guys are doing wonderfully. Unlike me, you seem to be able to keep your exes out of your lives.”
We’d met for brunch at a popular spot in the South End. I don’t particularly like the idea of brunch; it seems somehow renegade and disruptive to the day. But Saturday morning was the only time the four of us were free to meet, so I made the sacrifice.
“So, what’s your problem?” I asked.
Grace told us about Simon’s predicament and about the predicament in which it had landed her.
“Simon is the proverbial bad boy,” she said finally. “I fell for him absolutely. And I kept taking him back and helping him financially because I believed in his work. I still believe in it. That’s why I want the show to be a success.”
“You didn’t take him back because of love?” Jess asked. “Or because of sex?”
“Love, of course, for a while. But even after I fell out of love with him, I still believed in his talent.”
“And?” I asked. “The sex?”
Grace laughed. “Honestly? The sex wasn’t so great. Simon is very self-centered. It was usually about his pleasure. But for a long time I didn’t mind that. Simon was somehow ‘worth it.’ Just being with him felt worth—I don’t know, felt worth being ignored, mostly.”
“I can’t stand to be ignored,” Jess said. “I don’t mind being alone because there’s no one around to ignore me. But if I’m with a man, I want him to know I’m there. And I want to know he knows I’m there.”
“I agree. Now. But in the old days? Like my mother always told me, ‘Grace, you’re a pushover.’”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.” I laughed. “Now, how about teaching me how not to be a pushover?”
“We never got that far in the conversation. My father would holler for something and off she’d scurry.”
“Let’s get back to your current problem,” I suggested.
Grace considered before speaking. “I think the real question I have for myself is this. Can I ever have a real relationship with a real man if Simon’s still in my life? Is it fair to Evan—or to whomever—to rush off to Simon’s rescue every time he has a problem?”
“If you’re really involved with Evan,” I said, “you won’t have the time to be at Simon’s beck and call. I think the real question is, do you really and truly want to build something with Evan, knowing it will mean cutting Simon loose?”
“Yes,” Grace said promptly. “I wasn’t sure of my answer for a while, but now I am sure. I want an adult, healthy relationship. Hopefully I can make one with Evan. If not, I want to find another man, not a boy like Alfonse, not a leech like Simon.”
“Talk to Evan,” I said. “Tell him what it’s been like between you and Simon. Avoid too many gory details, but make sure he understands you don’t want to be Simon’s mommy any longer. You want to be Evan’s partner.”
Jess nodded. “Right. Work this out together. You’ll learn a lot about Evan and about yourself and about how you might function as a couple.”
“I’m scared,” Grace admitted.
“Of course you are,” I said. “Most things really worth doing are hard and scary. It stinks but it’s the truth. Like my having to deal with Richard’s wedding.”
“Is he still asking you to be there?” Laura asked. “Why doesn’t he just take no for an answer?”
“Yes,” I said, “he’s still asking. It seems to mean a lot to him, but I’m just not sure I can handle watching him marry someone else.”
“I thought you liked Bob,” Jess said. “I thought you said he was nice.”
Very nice and, according to Richard, also exciting.
“Oh, he is nice and I suppose I do like him. It’s not about Bob. It’s all about me.”
“Have you seen Oscar again?” Jess asked.
I shook my head. “No. I haven’t really been in the mood to socialize. Except with you all, of course, because with you I can be grumpy or dull and it doesn’t matter.”
“So, he’s called?” Grace asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He asked me to dinner last Saturday, but I lied and told him I already had plans. I suppose I should go out with him again. I did have a wonderful time that night.”
“It might take your mind off the wedding,” Grace suggested.
“By ‘it,’” I asked, “do you mean sex?”
“Well, I meant the whole date, starting with dinner, but I suppose you could boil my meaning down to sex.”
I grinned. “We shouldn’t talk about sex with Laura being a virgin and all. It might upset her delicate sensibility.”
“Ha, ha,” Laura replied. “It’s just that I’m not obsessed with sex the way you three are. I can do without it.”
“She’s master of her domain, all right,” I said.
“How are things going with Matt?” Jess asked. “And I’m asking as a friend, sincerely.”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” Grace asked.
“What? No matter what I say, Nell will make fun of it or twist it somehow to make me look bad or silly, so I’m just not going to say anything.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
It took about thirty seconds before Laura burst out with: “This is so unfair! I wanted to ask Jess about Matt’s family and now I have to wait until we’re alone and—”
I raised my hand. “Laura, calm down. You have my word of honor, on our parents’ graves, that I won’t say a word. Really.”
Laura eyed me with suspicion. I suppose she had a right to.
“On Mom and Dad’s graves, Nell, remember.”
I nodded. I didn’t even say, “Okay.”
Laura turned to Jess. “I guess I just want to know, you know, what to expect from Mr. and Mrs. Fromer. When I meet them, that is. Assuming I’ll meet them someday. Like, are they nice?”
Admirably, Jess answered my sister’s question without mockery. “Yes, Laura, they’re nice. They are very average people, completely unpretentious. I can’t say I ever found their conversation stimulating, but that’s me.”
Laura, I thought, will probably think they’re rocket scientists.
My sister smiled and seemed relieved. “Okay, but do you think they’ll like me? You know, assuming I meet them someday.”
Jess looked to Grace for help.
“Well,” Grace said, in her careful tone, “given their son has been through a divorce, I think you should be prepared for them to be a bit—cautious—in welcoming another woman into the family.”
“But I’m nice!”
Grace considered. I stuck a nail in my palm to kill the grin dying to break out. Jess took a long sip of wine, no doubt to hide her own grin.
“You’re very nice,” Grace said then, ever the diplomat. “But that’s not the point. Their son was hurt. They’re going to want to reserve judgment on his new girlfriend until they get to know her some. It’s very normal.”
What isn’t normal, I thought, is my sister wanting to marry someone she doesn’t love, just to have a baby.
Laura frowned. “I want Matt’s parents to like me. I want them to accept me.”
“They will,” Jess said. “Just be patient, Laura.”
Patient? My sister? The woman who tossed her marriage in the garbage can without even taking the issue to therapy? Not happening.
“It’s Matt’s brother Mike you want to stay away from,” I said.
Laura whipped her head around to me. “I thought you weren’t going to say anything!”
“Don’t be mad. I’m showing concern here. Jess said he’s bad news.”
“He’s a bum,” Jess confirmed. “He’ll try to weasel money out of you the first time you meet, just to see what he can get away with. Don’t give it to him. You’ll never see it back.”
Laura nodded. “Okay. I’ll remember to stay far away.”
I finished my gla
ss of wine. Now, I thought, if only I could convince my sister to stay far away from Matt.
Chapter 51
Jess
Just because you were married once before doesn’t mean you can’t look fresh and beautiful on your second wedding day. Spend the money on a gown. No full skirts, short sleeves only if you work out regularly, and remember, white can be harsh but ivory is universally flattering.
—Fashion Advice for the Second-Time Bride
I slid the notebook toward me and opened to the next fresh page. Only five or six fresh pages remained. The writing had become a habit; the notebook went with me everywhere, even to the office. I began to write.
In the early days of a romance, how do you distinguish love from lust? Maybe you can’t. Maybe they are inextricably bound together in a symbiotic relationship, each helping the other to survive.
There is nothing so energizing as desire, and nothing so exhausting. I need to feel desire. For me, desire isn’t a luxury. Maybe if I’d never experienced it so intensely, I wouldn’t be this way. You don’t miss what you’ve never had. Right?
Have I ever really been in love?
Yes, I have been in love. And eventually love is distinguished from lust in that when you’re in love, you want and need to look deeply into a man’s eyes. You need his eyes to hold your own, you need absolute connection—
Absolute. The word made me stop for a moment and think. What did I mean by absolute? Completeness, entirety, something undivided.
I don’t remember ever, not once, looking deeply into Matt’s eyes or wanting him to look deeply into mine. I do remember smiling brightly and blandly, then looking away, and then, after a time, avoiding even the sight of him walking through the room. That’s not love, it’s—what? Disgust? Indifference? A combination of the two, an impatience to be done with the person, to be alone again. An irrational feeling? But are any feelings rational?
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