Mrs. Everything

by Jennifer Weiner

  “So what’s your rescue plan? You think I’m just going to move down here? Me and the girls? We’ll just ditch Dave back in Connecticut and move in with you?”

  Said out loud, in Jo’s scornful, big-sister voice, it did sound kind of silly. Bethie lifted her chin and mentally spat on her fists, preparing for battle. “Whether you stay here or not, you should know that you have options.”

  Jo ran her hand through her hair. Her gold studs gleamed in her ears, and her wedding band shone on her finger. “I know I have options. I’m just not sure why you think I need them. Because I’m happy.”

  Oh, here we go, Bethie thought.

  “I have two beautiful daughters, I have a husband who loves me, who’s finally making enough money so that we can afford some nice things. I have friends . . . and classes . . . and a job. I have a life.” Her voice rose on the last word, trembling with emotion. “I have a life,” Jo repeated. “A life that I like very much. So, while I guess I’m grateful for your concern, it’s completely misplaced. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” said Bethie.

  “Why do you think you know me better than I know myself?” Jo asked.

  “Because you’re in denial! Or you’re paralyzed! Or you can’t be honest with yourself. You’re sitting in Connecticut, making dinner, folding laundry, reading a zillion books and newspapers every day. You’re not writing, and you always said you wanted to write. You’re not really doing anything.” You’re not being true to yourself, Bethie thought, but she couldn’t say that yet.

  “Bethie.” Jo’s voice was low and calm and full of warning, but Bethie didn’t stop; couldn’t let herself stop. I’ll say it, she thought to herself. I’ll say it out loud, once and for all, and if she can’t hear me, if she won’t hear me, then at least I’ll have tried.

  “I know you loved Shelley. I know you loved Lynnette. I know you love your daughters.” She pulled in a breath. “But I don’t think you love Dave. And I feel responsible. I think I’m part of the reason you married him.”

  Jo’s eyes were narrowed, her color high, and her voice was cool when she spoke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You came home from your trip because of me. If you hadn’t come home, you wouldn’t have met him.”

  “Then it would have been someone else,” Jo said.

  “Why?” Bethie demanded. Her voice had gotten loud. She wondered if her fellow Blue Hill Farmers were listening, if Ronnie or one of the other women might jump in and back her up. “Why did it have to be any guy? What happened to you? You used to be so brave.”

  Jo looked down at her hands, clasped at her waist. Her lips trembled, then firmed. “I got tired,” she finally said. “I had to come home, to take care of you. Mom made that very clear, that it was my job, cleaning up your mess. And when that was over, I couldn’t buy a ticket back. And I watched Shelley get married. And I just got tired of fighting all the time. I wanted things to be easier. I didn’t want every single day of my life to be a struggle.”

  Bethie’s mouth felt very dry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s not your fault.” Jo shrugged, and tried to smile.

  “I’m at least partly to blame that you came home.” And gave up. “And I just want to own what I did. I hate carrying all this guilt around. I want to tell you I’m sorry that I hurt you, even if it wasn’t on purpose.” Bethie paused expectantly. Jo stared.

  “Am I . . . supposed to be apologizing for something?” she finally asked. Her face was puzzled. Bethie felt her temper flare. “What did I do to you?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I know I didn’t get you pregnant,” Jo said. “Or make you drop acid in a crowd of a few thousand strangers.”

  Bethie felt her face flush. Part of her must have known that Jo blamed her for getting pregnant, and for everything that had happened because of it, but hearing Jo say it felt like being smacked in the face. “You left me,” she said. Her heart felt like it was swelling, hammering against her ribs. She hadn’t planned on bringing this up, but now it felt like she couldn’t have stopped talking, even if she’d wanted to. Her voice rose with every word. “You and Mom.”

  “What?” Jo had the nerve to look confused. “Left you where?”

  “Left me alone,” Bethie said. “With Uncle Mel. Remember? After Dad died? You were off at summer camp playing kissy-face with Lynnette Bobeck, and Mom was selling Better Dresses at Hudson’s. I was all by myself.”

  “Okay, but as soon as you told me what was going on, we figured out what to do. Mel gave you that money, and we never saw him again after that.”

  “But you let it happen,” Bethie said. “Both of you. All those weeks. Uncle Mel would drive me home, and the house would be empty, and he’d drive all the way to the end of the street and just sit there and paw at me. And if you’d been around, or Mom had been around, maybe it wouldn’t have gone on that long.”

  “I was working!” Jo said. “Dad was dead, we were broke, and I was working! All summer long! How can you think that what happened to you was my fault?”

  “You were with Lynnette all summer long.” Bethie’s heart was hammering, and her stomach was lurching, as if she was on a boat in the high seas. “And he was giving me ten dollars a week, and all Mom ever talked about was how much everything cost, how expensive everything was, and you weren’t even there . . .” She stopped, trying to calm down and breathe. Talking about it brought it all back, the stink of Uncle Mel’s breath, the feeling of his flabby, sweat-damp cheek pressed against her neck, his thick fingers on her skin. The sound of the vinyl car seat squeaking underneath his weight, the way the windows would fog up from his breath. The way the ten-dollar bills he’d press into her hand were always limp, greasy, warm from contact with his body. They always felt used and dirty, just like her.

  “Bethie . . .” Jo reached out her hand, fingertips brushing her sister’s shoulder. Bethie shook Jo’s hand off, stepping quickly backward until the heavy wooden kitchen table stood between them.

  “You think that I ruined your life? Well, I think you ruined mine.” Bethie riffled through her purse until she found the station wagon’s keys, and threw them down on the table. “Go home, Jo. Go home to your girls and your husband. Go be happy.” Bethie watched as her sister looked at her, then shook her head, picked up the keys, and her pocketbook, and walked upstairs to collect her things. Bethie was sitting in the kitchen when Jo walked out the door, leaving without even saying goodbye. And what did I expect? Bethie asked herself as she heard the station wagon’s engine start. When you give someone hard truths, you can’t expect them to thank you.

  She got to her feet, filled the pot, brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea. Give her time, she told herself. Maybe she’ll come round right.

  Jo

  Dave was asleep in his La-Z-Boy when Jo unlocked the door at just after two o’clock in the afternoon. She’d left Atlanta right after the fight with Bethie, had driven until two in the morning, stayed at a Days Inn outside of Durham, North Carolina, and had gotten back on the road at five the next morning, hoping to make it back before her girls came home from school. In all of those hours, she’d been forced to admit the truth to herself, and she’d come up with a plan. She would tell Dave that she wanted a separation, that she needed some time by herself. We’ve grown apart, she would say. She would tell him that he deserved to be with a woman who loved him, who could give herself to him completely, the way Jo never had, and never could. She would say that they both deserved to be happy.

  She’d expected the house to be empty, so that she’d have time to prepare herself. She hadn’t thought that her husband would be home, or that Melissa would be sleeping in his arms. “Ear infection,” Dave whispered, getting to his feet without waking her up. Jo could see Missy’s flushed cheeks, the way her fine brown hair was plastered to her forehead. “Not to worry. We already started the amoxicillin. She’ll be fine.” Dave carried Missy through the kitchen, past the remain
s of Kim’s homework, spread out on the table: a diorama of George Washington crossing the Delaware. Snips of construction paper and cardboard littered the floor; a bottle of Elmer’s glue stood, uncapped, next to the shoebox. Kim had drawn a credible version of Washington, with his blue coat and curly white wig, and had propped the figure in the center of a construction-paper rowboat, with one of its arms extended, a finger pointing forward, toward the enemy lines.

  Jo’s heart twisted. She forced herself to lift her feet, to follow Dave down the hall and watch as he settled Missy into bed. Missy murmured something as he pulled up the covers and smacked her lips as he bent and planted a kiss on her cheek. I can’t, she thought, and those two words formed a counterpoint to the booming refrain of Tell him that was thumping through her head. Tell him. I can’t. Tell him. I can’t. I can’t live like this, Jo would think. It’s a lie, just like Bethie said. That thought would be followed by another one, just as insistent. I can’t make my girls live without a father.

  Back in the kitchen, Dave uncapped a pair of beers and handed one to Jo. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you.” She sipped, feeling Dave’s eyes on her.

  “Good trip?”

  “Interesting,” Jo said. Her head and her heart were both pounding, the picture of Dave kissing Missy’s fever-flushed cheek contrasting with an image of Margot at the kitchen sink in Philadelphia; the sound of her husband’s voice mixing with the memory of Bethie’s accusations. I could be happy, Jo thought, and then wondered, But am I so unhappy now? Was she unhappy enough to tear up everything they’d built; unhappy enough to take her girls away from their daddy?

  Dave shuffled his feet. Jo looked and saw something in his expression, something furtive and shamed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Dave set his beer down on the butcher-block table. The overhead light shone through his thinning hair and gleamed off his scalp. “Well, as to that,” he said. Another woman, Jo thought. It felt like a bolt of lightning striking her, illuminating her, not with pain but with a terrible kind of joy . . . because if Dave had cheated, if Dave was preparing to announce that he’d fallen for someone else, then Jo would be free. She wouldn’t be the one to break up the family. Dave could carry that guilt, and she’d take her girls down to Philadelphia, to the big sunny house with its fireplaces and its kitchen full of plants and its shelves overflowing with books.

  “Do you remember those papers I asked you to sign last fall?”

  Jo had a vague recollection of Dave handing her some forms and asking for her signature. She’d scribbled her name on the line that said SPOUSE without even reading what she’d signed, feeling guilty that she didn’t pay better attention to the family finances, hating how stereotypically female that was, knowing what Bethie would say about the way she’d just handed all of the money management over to her man. But Missy had been trying to find her shin guards for soccer, and Kim had announced that she was Snack Kid for her Brownie troop and would need brownies or muffins for twelve girls by that afternoon. Jo had signed her name and had gone on with her day.

  “I think so. Why?”

  “I took out a loan,” Dave said. In her absence, he’d started growing a beard, bristling dark-brown hairs that provided patchy covering to his cheeks and chin. “And a second mortgage. I was trying to get the West Hartford store up and running. I figured I’d use the income from the first store to cover the interest.”

  Jo watched him. A heaviness was gathering in her chest, as if her body had started to absorb the bad news before Dave even finished saying it.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Dave said, with an expression suggesting that he didn’t quite believe it. “It’s just that we’re going to have to file for bankruptcy, to restructure the debt, and set up a schedule so we can—”

  “Wait.” Jo held up one hand like a traffic cop, hearing an echo of her mother in the sharpness of her voice. “Wait. Back up. Go back to the part about bankruptcy.”

  “It’s just a word.” At least, Jo thought, feeling dizzy and sick, he had the good grace to look sheepish. “I know it sounds scary, but really, it’s just a way of putting all our debt in one bucket, and then setting up a schedule so we can pay it off.”

  “Our debt?” Jo asked.

  “The debt from the businesses,” said Dave.

  “How is that our debt?” Jo asked. “How is that personal? I haven’t taken out any loans.” But even as she spoke, she was thinking about those papers, how one of them had gotten splashed with coffee on top. Look in the hall closet, she’d been saying to Missy, trying to remember where she’d seen the shin guards, and whether Kim would be embarrassed if her snack wasn’t homemade.

  “I should have explained it better. I should have told you what you were signing. And, really, I know it sounds like the end of the world, but it isn’t.” He kept talking, but Jo knew that she’d already gotten the salient piece of information. Dave had bankrupted them. Not only was there no money, but there probably wasn’t even credit that Jo could use to start a new life.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said, interrupting Dave, who was saying something about nonexempt assets and five-year repayment plans. She walked past him, catching a whiff of beer and the concentrated essence of unbathed Dave. He reached for her hand.

  “Jo.” He grabbed her arm before she could pass. When he looked at her, she felt like he could see everything she’d thought about, everything she’d hoped for. “Hey. Are you . . . Did something . . .”

  Happen, she thought, filling in the blank. He’s going to ask if something happened when I was away, and I will have to decide if I should tell him.

  But Dave didn’t finish the question. He looked at her, and she looked back, feeling something inside of her crack open and spill, something dark as ink and toxic as venom. Resignation, Jo thought. That was what it was, the feeling of knowing that this was it for her—this house, this man, this life. There would be no escape, no second act. Just this. “We’ll get through this,” he said after a long moment. Jo knew that he meant more than their financial woes, more than this crisis. He knew that something had happened—not what, but something—and he wasn’t going to ask. And, in return, she was going to stay. It was a push. Dave, who’d spent a lot of time in Canadian casinos during college, who’d run a poker game in summer camp and who’d managed to find a game in every town in which they’d ever lived, knew all about gambling, and he’d explained it to her once. A push was a tie between the bettor and the bookmaker, a game that concludes precisely on the point spread or in a draw. A game where nobody wins, but no one loses, either.

  Push, Jo thought that night when they were in bed. Dave’s whiskers scraped at the side of her face as he sent his palms gliding over her skin, skimming along her thighs, her hips, along the dip of her waist, then up and over her breasts. Over and over, slowly and deliberately, until she felt a heaviness gather between her legs and heard her breath come faster. When he touched her, she was wet, and when he entered her, she sighed, feeling pleasure, dim but palpable, and—she had to be honest—familiarity and comfort. When he buried his face between her neck and her left shoulder, she let the tears spill down her cheeks. Down the hall, she could hear Missy tossing in her fevered sleep. At the moment of his climax, Dave gasped out Jo’s name. You don’t love him, Jo heard her sister say . . . but she did. After a fashion. At least a little. Besides, she was old enough to know that love wasn’t all that mattered. There were other things. Habit and routine. Comingled finances. Children. Letting someone else keep your secrets.

  That was the night that their third daughter was conceived. Dave wanted to name her Dora, after Doris, his mother, but Jo insisted, telling him that there was a name she’d always loved, with maybe some small part of her realizing that a girl named Lila would end up with a nickname that sounded like lie.

  Bethie

  On a sunny June morning, Bethie put on a dress and one of the three pairs of pumps that the women of Blue Hill Farm traded back and forth, a
nd arranged a pair of tortoiseshell combs in her hair. She’d taken the shoes and the combs with her when she’d left Blue Hill Farm and moved into her own place, the apartment above the shop on Peachtree Road. Rose of Sharon was supposed to meet with the bankers, but she’d gotten bronchitis, and so Bethie went to the ten o’clock appointment at the First Bank of the South all by herself, to see if the members of the Blue Hill Farm Collective could secure a line of credit, just in case the month ever came when they couldn’t cover the rent or the payroll.

  The fight that had brought her to this point had been terrible. “I refuse to be a cog in the capitalist war machine,” Wren had said at the collective’s monthly meeting. “Why are we even selling anything? Shouldn’t we just barter?”

  “Believe me, if I could trade jam for two-ply toilet paper, I’d do it,” Bethie said.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is about toilet paper,” said Phil, tugging at his beard, and Bethie said, “Of course you don’t, you’re not the one wiping with it.”

  “Hey! I wipe!” Phil said, and Bethie said, “Not like we do.”

  Wren stood up and said that she’d come to Blue Hill Farm to escape the hierarchies of capitalism, a world that arbitrarily assigned value to things and to people, and Bethie said, “So should we just give our jam away at the farmers’ market?”

  “Maybe,” Wren said, her voice serene. Her straight brown hair fell down to her shoulders; her gauzy Indian-print skirt had bells sewn to its hem and jingled when she moved. “Why do we have to have more money? Don’t we have everything we need right here?”

  Bethie had to struggle not to shout. “Look,” she said. “Every Sunday, we sell out at the farmers’ market. Every week, we sell out at the shop. I’ve had three different restaurant owners ask if we can be their condiment supplier. There’s a demand, but we don’t have a supply. We need more people, and probably a commercial kitchen . . .”