Mrs. Everything

by Jennifer Weiner

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Lila. “It’s over.”

  “It matters,” Bethie said. “It matters to me.”

  Harold steered the car around a curve, humming a little under his breath, the way he did when he was nervous. The silence stretched, so long that Bethie didn’t think her niece would answer. But, finally, Lila started to talk. Her tone was arch and cynical, but Bethie could hear the hurt underneath.

  “Lester’s imprint or whatever was moving offices. Two floors down. They needed people to help pack up the books, and people’s desks, and whatever. It was a three-week temp job. Missy got them to hire me.” Lila hissed in discomfort. Bethie heard the leather creak as her niece shifted in the back seat. “Lester figured out right away that I wasn’t a book nerd. I can’t even remember how. I probably pronounced some word wrong, or didn’t know who Thomas Pynchon was, or I mixed up the Jonathans. But he figured it out. All the other editors and interns, he’d ask them what they read over the weekend. He’d ask me what I did. Where I went. He said he valued my connection to the real world.” Lila’s voice was becoming bleak. “Then he’d started inviting me into his office by myself, and asking me about my personal life. Who was I dating; were they treating me right. He’d ask about . . . you know, personal stuff. Was I happy. Was I satisfied.”

  “Oh, boy,” Bethie said. She knew where this was going.

  “We had a pantry in the office, with snacks and a fancy espresso machine. He’d come in to fix himself a coffee, and he’d always find a way to bump into me, or he’d give me a squeeze with his arm around my waist, only his hand would be up near my boob. Sorry, Uncle Harold.”

  Lila sighed. “Everyone in the office hated me, because Lester liked me so much. They were all jealous, except Missy. She was thrilled. I guess Lester would tell her how glad he was that I was there. How I was his conduit to millennial culture or whatever.” Lila shifted, giving another pained hiss. “I didn’t want to get Missy in trouble. But I didn’t want to have to, you know . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rain had started pattering against the sunroof and the windshield. Harold flicked the windshield wipers on. “Anyhow. The first Friday of every month, Lester would take everyone for drinks at the King Cole Bar in the St. Regis. The martinis cost, like, twenty dollars. Lester would run a tab. Sometimes, writers would come, or agents, or other editors, or book scouts. Important people. At least, Melissa said they were important. They all looked like schnooks to me. One Friday, I was coming out of the ladies’ room and Lester was there waiting for me.”

  Bethie swallowed hard, remembering her uncle, his smelly breath, his scratchy face. She was old now, so old that sometimes her own face in the mirror startled her. She’d attended her thirtieth high school reunion; she’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday; she’d survived the deaths of both of her parents. In all those years, she’d forgotten all kinds of things, names and faces and tastes and sensations, but she knew that she would never forget how it felt to be in Uncle Mel’s car, the stench of his breath, the foggy windows, that feeling of being trapped, of how nothing she could do would free her.

  “So Lester kisses me. He jams his tongue down my throat, and I push him off me, and he laughs, like it’s some game. He says he likes feisty women, and I tell him if he ever touches me again I’ll go to HR.” Lila was talking fast and breathing hard.

  “Did you tell your sister?” Bethie asked.

  “Not until tonight.” Lila’s voice was tiny. “Missy worships him. She would talk about how great he is all the time. How he was Philip Roth’s first editor, how he and John Cheever were drinking buddies. How everyone who’s worked for him goes on to have a great career because of his connections. Lester knows all the publishers, all the agents. I didn’t want to get her in trouble or, you know, make her choose. So I just left.” Lila sniffled. Bethie couldn’t see her niece’s face in the darkness of the back seat, but it sounded like she was crying. “He probably found someone else to move the rest of the books the very next day, someone from Smith, or Vassar, or one of those places. He’s probably grabbing some Seven Sisters boobs in the pantry.”

  Bethie heard the echo of her mother’s voice in her head. But you can forget about those East Coast colleges, those Six Sisters. Seven Sisters, Jo had said. That’s okay. The U of M is fine.

  “You remember something like that happened to me,” Bethie said.

  “I remember,” Lila said. “You told me about it. The summer I came to Atlanta.”

  In the back seat, Bethie saw Lila push herself upright. “So, what?” she asked. “I’m supposed to tell Missy what happened? You think Missy’s going to save me?”

  “I think you should give her a chance to do the right thing.”

  Lila gave a sigh. “Yeah,” she said as Harold pulled the car underneath the portico by the entrance for the emergency room. “Yeah, that’ll happen. Because I matter just as much as her career.”

  “Of course you do!” said Bethie. Lila snorted again and didn’t say another word until they helped her out of the car.

  In the waiting room, Lila hobbled over to the receptionist, waving Bethie and Harold over to the seats along the wall. “Do you know if she has insurance?” Harold asked, his voice low.

  “No idea,” Bethie whispered back, so Harold went up to the counter, telling the woman behind the desk that they’d pay for whatever Lila needed. Bethie sighed, thinking about how much she loved Harold, and that he would take care of her, of Lila, of whatever he could. She’d gotten so lucky with him.

  Lila filled out forms on a clipboard and sat with her uninjured leg pulled up against her chest. She leaned against the wall, underneath a poster about food-borne illnesses, and closed her eyes. Bethie called her sister to give her an update, and she and Harold sat with Lila as the television set played overhead and the room filled and emptied with a procession of the walking wounded: men who’d cut themselves carving the turkey or gotten their noses broken during family fights, a little boy who’d shoved a walnut up his nose. After an hour, Lila was finally loaded into a wheelchair and taken away. Bethie took out her phone, intending to call Kim’s house again, when Jo, with Shelley behind her, came hurrying into the room.

  “Everything okay?” Jo asked.

  “They just took her back. How are things at Kim’s house?”

  “Everything’s fine but that painting,” Jo said. “Or the artwork, I guess you call it. It’s not a painting. Matt was extremely clear on that point.” From the capacious tote bag that she carried instead of a purse, she pulled a Tupperware container, paper plates, paper napkins, and a fistful of plastic forks. “You guys missed dessert, and, I have to say, all things considered, the bourbon pecan pie was amazing.” Jo took the lid off the container. There was pecan pie, pumpkin pie, apple pie, fresh whipped cream, and even a few chocolate-chip cookies.

  “Hey,” said Bethie after Jo had distributed the plastic forks, and she’d savored a mouthful of pie. “Did Lila ever talk to you about what happened with Lester Shaub?”

  Jo shook her head. “Not a word. But I think I can fill in the blanks. Missy’s furious.” Jo lowered her voice. “She said Lila came to work looking like she was dressed for the club, and that she flirted with everyone.”

  “So she’s saying that it’s Lila’s fault?”

  “Not exactly.” Jo shook her head, looking miserable. “She said she isn’t sure that anything even happened. She said that Lila exaggerates. Which, unfortunately, is true. Or at least it’s been true in the past.”

  “Do you think that Lila’s exaggerating?”

  “I don’t know.” Jo shook her head and raised her hands to her temples. “She’s my daughter, and I love her. But if I’m being honest, I can imagine her coming to work dressed inappropriately. I can imagine her flirting. But coming on to a seventy-two-year-old man? A guy who’s her sister’s boss, too?” Jo shook her head. “Lila’s judgment isn’t always great, but I have a hard time thinking she’d do that.”

  “So you think Lester tried somethin
g inappropriate.”

  Jo sighed, twisting her hands. “Maybe. Or maybe Lila misinterpreted. Or maybe she’s exaggerating. Maybe he did make a pass at her, which would be gross, not to mention inappropriate, because he’s her boss, only maybe—”

  “How’s the patient?” asked Harold, his voice loud and hearty. Bethie looked up and saw Lila coming toward them. She had crutches under her armpit, a boot on one foot, and a loopy grin on her face. “Guess who got Vicodin?” she singsonged, pulling a plastic bottle out of her pocket and rattling it happily. Beside her, Bethie heard her sister give a long, resigned sigh.

  “Hey,” Bethie said, remembering. “Don’t you need to tell Lila something?”

  “Oh,” Jo said, looking stricken, shaking her head. “We can do that later.”

  But Shelley surprised her. “No,” she said. She put her hand on Jo’s shoulder, and Bethie saw Lila roll her eyes. “No, I think you need to tell her now.”

  “What’s happening?” asked Lila. It came out like Wuss happnin. Bethie watched as Jo smoothed her short hair, quickly touching her fingertips to each earring and then her chest.

  “Well,” she said. “It turns out I’ve got a little touch of breast cancer.”

  Lila didn’t say anything, but her eyes got big. Bethie took her sister’s hand. Shelley started talking about upcoming appointments, chemotherapy and radiation and long-term survival rates. Harold said, “We’re all here for you, Jo,” and Bethie said, “Anything you need,” and Lila, finally, in a small broken voice, said, “Oh, Mom.” When Jo stretched her arms open, Lila closed her eyes and leaned against her, resting her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  PART

    seven

  2016

  Jo

  The Avondale fitness trail had been demolished in 2012, the trees cut down and the path paved over to make way for a neighborhood of McMansions, each one bigger than the last, but in Jo’s dream, she was running on it again, underneath the canopy of the oaks and elms and silver maples that flaunted their abundance of glowing-green leaves. She could smell the cedar chips under her sneakers, could feel her heart pounding, pushing oxygen-rich blood to her muscles, and she could hear her own breath, steady as she ran. Jogging around a corner, the trees gave way to a clearing, and Jo could hear a baby crying, even though she was alone on the path. The cries swelled, then receded, then grew again, but no matter which way she turned or how fast she went, Jo could never manage to find the baby, or give it comfort. It means something, she thought as she opened her eyes.

  Shelley was sitting in the seat beside her, the in-flight magazine open in her lap. When Jo sat up, Shelley took her hand.

  “Hi,” Shelley whispered.

  “These drugs are amazing,” Jo whispered back.

  “I’m glad you think so.” She reached over and adjusted the silk scarf Jo wore over her head, tucking in the edges without meeting Jo’s eyes. Shelley hadn’t been happy about Jo’s decision to stop treatment. They’d had what was, by far, the worst fight of their relationship about it. There’s an experimental protocol they’re doing at the Menninger Clinic . . . or we could try Avastin again. No, Jo had said. The first time she’d been diagnosed, after a mastectomy, the exhausting, nauseating rounds of radiation and chemotherapy had left her bald and eyelash-less and so weak she could barely stand up long enough to fry an egg. She’d had ten years, ten good years, and she had no desire to go through that again, especially when the doctors told her that treatment might buy her maybe another year, but no more than that. She wanted to be comfortable; she wanted to say goodbye while she was clearheaded. She’d had wonderful years with Shelley, her partner, the love of her life; she’d done her best with her girls. It would have to be enough.

  “Please fasten your seat belts as we begin our final descent into Atlanta,” the pilot said. Jo closed her eyes. Around the time that the fitness trail had been demolished, Blue Hill Farm had been completely redone, converted into a five-star bed-and-breakfast, a place that had been booked solid as soon as it had opened, where you had to call six months in advance to get a room. Bethie had worked some magic so they could all stay there together. Jo didn’t like to think about what it must have cost her sister to buy out the place, and get the customers who’d made their reservations to agree to leave. Let me worry about it, Bethie had said, and Jo had agreed to let her sister take care of everything, from coordinating with Jo’s doctors and arranging nursing care to buying first-class tickets to Atlanta for Jo and Shelley and the girls. She’d wanted to hire a private jet, but there Jo had drawn the line. All she wanted was to see her girls, all together, once more before she went—and Bethie had promised that she’d try.

  * * *

  A plush limousine that seemed to glide over the highway took them forty-five miles from the airport to the farm. Jo was directed to the living room, where, once upon a time, Bethie had gone crawling, naked, through a vaginal canal made of pillows. They’d transformed it into a bedroom, complete with a hospital bed that could be raised or lowered at the touch of a button and a side table for Jo’s medications, the bottles arrayed on an antique silver tray. A miniature refrigerator in the corner held the emergency pack: a shot of morphine, for breakthrough pain; a shot of Haldol, in case she began to hallucinate. There were DNR posters taped to the door, to the end of her bed, and to the wall above her. Can’t be too careful, the hospice nurse who’d met her there had said, adding grimly that there were always paramedics who wanted to rush in and be heroes.

  Jo napped as soon as she was lying down and woke in the late afternoon. With her back propped up by pillows, she could look through the windows, out at the rolling fields, the grass a green so rich and deep it almost glowed.

  “We used to grow the best dope out there,” Bethie said. When Jo laughed, Bethie touched her hand. On the television, Hillary Clinton, in a sapphire-blue pantsuit, was chatting with supporters before turning, giving a practiced wave, and climbing the steps to her plane. “Preparations are under way for the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, where Hillary Clinton will make history, becoming the first female presidential nominee from a major party,” the news anchor said.

  “Can you believe it?” Bethie asked. “Did you ever think we’d see the day?”

  “Now she just has to win,” said Shelley, knocking on wood, and Jo waved her hand, knowing that Hillary was practically a lock, feeling sad only that she wouldn’t be alive to see it.

  Bethie was holding a pot of lotion, Blue Hill Farm’s latest product line, a rich cream scented with lavender grown a few hundred yards away. “How about a hand massage?” Gratefully, Jo let her sister put a dollop of lotion into the center of her palms and spread it up her wrists and over her fingers, rubbing gently. She let her eyes drift shut, thinking that during these last few weeks she had been more moisturized than she’d been in all her life. Someone was always offering to rub her hands, her calves, her feet. She could feel the pain, down deep, but it was muffled and distant, far away, for now.

  “Mom.”

  Kim was first, of course. Kim was always early; Kim hated people who were late. It’s disrespectful, she’d say. Jo opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Hi, honey.” She hoped that she didn’t look awful. She’d lost weight, and her hair again, of course, but she was wearing a light-blue linen tunic and, under her blankets, a pair of loose pale-gray pants. She’d insisted on real clothes, not a hospital gown, and had even allowed Shelley to smooth foundation on her face and brush some color on her cheeks and lips, and she’d hoped she looked all right, but she could see the truth in Kim’s startled expression, the way her eyes had briefly widened with shock. There was a couch on one side of the hospital bed, a daybed on the other. Jo had imagined the girls and Bethie sitting there, reading to Jo, sometimes talking or telling her stories, the way she’d told them stories when they were girls.

  Kim came over and stood by the side of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad, considering. How are y
ou?” Jo looked at her daughter’s face, searching for signs of tension or sadness, the way Kim would press her lips together tightly, like there were words she didn’t want to let out. Kim’s daughters were behind her, Flora, tall and lanky, with her spill of honey-blond hair and the lips that she kept closed over her braces, and solid, dark-eyed, curly-haired Leonie. Soon, Flora would have her bat mitzvah, and Jo wouldn’t be there. Jo inhaled slowly, trying to think of all the time she’d had with her granddaughters, and not everything that she’d miss.

  Kim and Matt had gotten divorced when the girls were six and three years old. “I can’t be the kind of wife he wants,” Kim had said when she’d showed up on Jo’s doorstep with her suitcase and her girls. Jo got the story in pieces, learning that Kim had planned on going back to work full-time after Leonie started full-day nursery school. Matt had wanted her to stay home. “He wanted to take care of me. And I feel awful, because that was what I wanted when we got married. A man who’d take care of me. A man who’d never leave. And a life where I’d never have to worry about money.” Jo had nodded, keeping quiet, thinking about how Kim must have chosen in reaction to her own parents’ divorce. Matt, unlike Dave, would never leave her, and he certainly wouldn’t leave her scrambling for money, living in a condo with flimsy walls and fraying carpet, paying for her kids’ education with loans while he whooped it up with her neighbor. “But I don’t want that anymore,” Kim said. Kim had cried, and Jo had comforted her, had told her that she was a wonderful mother to her daughters, that people changed, and sometimes, marriages did not survive those changes, in spite of everyone’s best intentions. “You’re allowed to want to use your education,” Jo said. “You’re allowed to want to be more than a mother.”

  So Kim had gone back to work, first at the U.S. attorney’s office and then as a public defender for young women, frequently young mothers, who’d gotten lengthy sentences selling or even just possessing quantities of pot that wouldn’t have gotten a white kid anything more than a warning. Kim had needed Jo, and Jo was happy to be needed. For years, she would spend a few nights each week in New York City, where Kim had moved to be closer to work and to her sisters. Jo and Shelley helped with the cooking and cleaning and shopping. They’d become pros at riding the subway, escorting the girls to swim team and Hebrew school and cooking classes. Kim worked and struggled and stretched herself thin, the way all working mothers did. She felt guilty for enjoying her job, and she felt guilty when she missed some milestone, or when Jo and Shelley had to attend a choir concert or a parent-teacher conference or a doctor’s visit in her stead. You’re doing the best you can, Jo would tell her, over and over, and refrain from pointing out that Matt never seemed to torment himself when he was golfing the first time Flora rode her bike on her own, or reading the paper during Leonie’s first successful dive into the deep end. Women had made progress—Jo only had to look as far as the television set to see it—but she wondered whether they would ever not try to have it all and do it all and do all of it flawlessly. Would the day ever come when simply doing your best would be enough? Her generation hadn’t managed it, and neither had her daughters. Maybe Flora and Leonie and their classmates and cousins would be the lucky ones.