by Judy Blume
She would not think.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
She would not feel.
“I’ll leave it here, on your table, in case you change your mind.”
And no one could make her.
She closed her eyes.
34
IT WAS NO LONGER AN AFFAIR, Margo thought. It was no longer just a live-in situation. It was a merging of families, a merging of histories. She had wanted Andrew. She had wanted him to share her life, but she had not given enough thought to sharing his. She should have considered the possibilities earlier in the relationship. She should have sorted out her feelings in advance, so that they would not come spilling out now, when she needed to remain clear-headed. She had never expected Sara to move in with them. She had had no time to prepare, no time to get used to the idea, yet she wanted it to work. She had helped Andrew paint Sara’s room—which until a few weeks ago had been Stuart’s room—a soft violet color, hoping to make Sara feel more at home. But she was not sure that Sara would ever feel at home here.
Every time Margo approached her Sara put up a barrier. She was polite to Margo, but she did not relate to her.
“Sara, I know this is a hard time for you,” Margo had said once, “but if you ever feel like talking . . .”
“That’s okay,” Sara had said. “Where’s Dad?”
Another time Margo had begun, “Sara, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
“That’s okay,” Sara had answered, and then she had quickly changed the subject. “Do you have an old shopping bag? I need to take a project to school tomorrow.”
“Sure, under the kitchen sink,” Margo had said.
Sara reminded Margo of the windup mouse that Stuart had loved as a baby. He would watch it travel across the room, waiting for it to bump into a piece of furniture, shrieking with delight each time it changed directions.
Margo was not at all sure that she would make a good step-parent. She thought of Aliza and what it must be like for her, trying to build some kind of relationship with Stuart and Michelle. She warned herself to go slowly, to be patient, not to expect too much.
WHEN MARGO AND ANDREW had first talked about B.B.’s breakdown, Andrew had cried, blaming himself. Margo had held him in her arms, comforting him, telling him over and over that it wasn’t his fault, that his guilt wasn’t going to help B.B., wasn’t going to help Sara, wasn’t going to help any of them. He began to have nightmares. All through that long week when they’d been sick, he had dreamed about Bobby. He had cried out in his sleep, reliving the accident—the sound of the glass shattering, the bodies tossed at impact, the children screaming. Margo had urged him not to confuse B.B.’s breakdown with the accident. “This is her problem,” Margo had told him, “and the answer to it is somewhere inside of her.”
She’d sounded so reasonable then, so perceptive, so certain, she had almost convinced herself. But the feelings of guilt did not belong exclusively to Andrew. There were moments when Margo blamed herself for B.B.’s breakdown. If only she hadn’t met Andrew, hadn’t allowed herself to fall in love with him, hadn’t invited him to move in with her. Everyone has a breaking point, Margo thought. Everyone.
On the night Margo had told her children about B.B.’s breakdown she’d said, “This is going to be very hard on Sara. I hope you’ll both be understanding.”
Michelle, who had come down with the flu that morning, spoke in a whispery voice. “You don’t have to tell us how to behave. We can appreciate how it would feel to have your mother go bonkers. We came pretty close ourselves.”
Stuart had shot Michelle a poisonous look.
“Well, we did,” Michelle said, coughing. “Mother was just hanging on by a thread when Leonard’s wife came over with the gun. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“It was a difficult time in my life,” Margo said.
“You can’t count on anyone or anything,” Stuart said, his voice breaking. “Life is shit . . . this proves it.”
“Stu,” Margo said, going toward him. It was not like Stuart to break down, to show emotion, although Margo wished he would more often. “Is everything all right with Puffin?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I just thought . . .”
“This has nothing to do with Puffin.” He had spun on his heels and left the room.
Two weeks later, when they had all recovered from the flu, Andrew came into the bathroom one night while Margo was brushing her teeth. He sat down on the edge of the tub and said, “Do you think I should take Sara home and stay there until Francine comes back?”
Margo dropped her toothbrush into the sink. “Is that what you want to do?”
“Don’t get defensive.”
“I’m not getting defensive. I’m just asking a simple question.” She looked into the mirror at his reflection. He had dark circles under his eyes.
“What do you think I should do?” he asked.
“Stay here.” If he left now Sara would never take them seriously, and neither would Stuart or Michelle.
“For better or for worse?”
“Yes.” She picked up her toothbrush and rinsed out her mouth.
“It’ll complicate your life.”
“My life’s already complicated.”
“What about your kids . . . I don’t want them to become resentful.”
“My kids will handle it.” She turned to face him.
“I like the idea of Sara seeing us as a family,” he said, pushing his hair away from his face. “And she’ll have a better chance of adjusting away from Francine’s house . . . won’t she?”
Margo nodded.
“There are too many memories over there.”
“Don’t worry,” Margo said softly. “We’ll make it work.”
He stood up and she rested her face against his flannel shirt, which felt warm and soft and reassuring.
BUT NOW MARGO REALIZED it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. Andrew was overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility toward Sara. And Sara, understandably insecure, had become clinging and withdrawn. Margo thought she should see a therapist, someone to help her through the trauma of her mother’s breakdown. But Andrew believed she needed only love.
They did not agree on what Sara should be told. Margo felt she should be told the truth, about everything. That it was important to learn to deal with reality.
“Since when are you an analyst?” Andrew asked angrily.
“I’m not, but you don’t want Sara to grow up like B.B., do you, denying reality?”
“Sara is nothing like Francine.”
“Good. Then tell her about the marriage. Tell her about Lewis.”
“There’s no reason for her to know about that now.”
“It happened, didn’t it? It’s real . . .”
“It’s not my place to tell her . . . it’s Francine’s.”
“Oh, sure. And it’s Francine’s place to explain about the breakdown too . . . right?”
“I’ll talk to her about Francine and her illness, but I don’t see any reason to discuss the marriage and I’m asking you not to either. I’m not even sure, when Francine comes out of this, that the marriage will be intact.”
“Is that what you’re hoping?”
“I’m hoping she’ll come out of it . . . that’s all.”
“Suppose someone else tells Sara about the marriage?”
“Who?”
“Lewis.”
“I’ll ask him not to.”
“I don’t like secrets, Andrew. Secrets always backfire.”
“Just this one time,” Andrew said. “Please.”
“All right,” Margo sighed. “All right.”
She felt a growing distance between herself and Andrew, which frightened her. She missed him. Missed the closeness they had developed. Intellectually, Margo understood. Emotionally, she was having trouble. She would not allow herself to compete for Andrew’s attention with a twelve-year-old. How could she possibly resent the time he needed to devote to Sara? She was his child and she had serious problems of her own. Yet, at times, Margo did feel resentful and she was ashamed.
She needed to talk to Andrew about her feelings. But right now there was so much going on that they weren’t talking about anything except Sara and B.B. and what to have for dinner. They fell into bed exhausted each night. They had not made love in weeks.
“Darling . . .” her mother said over the phone, “are you sure you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”
“I’m taking each day as it comes,” Margo said.
“It’s a big responsibility, another child.”
“It’s temporary.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, I’m not sure of anything.”
“You have to do what’s right for you, and for your children.”
“I’m trying, Mother,” Margo said, choking up. “The funny thing is, all I ever wanted is what you and Dad have.”
“No, darling . . . you wanted more.”
“Are you saying that you and Dad don’t have what I think you have?”
“We have closeness and respect and love, if that’s what you mean, but none of it happened overnight.”
Clare told her, “You look like hell, Margo. Are you sure you’re not walking around with pneumonia or something?”
“I don’t think it’s physical,” Margo said, but she had pains in her stomach and a rash on her neck.
“I could take Sara for a while if that would help,” Clare said.
“No. She belongs with Andrew . . . with us.”
“Is she giving you trouble?”
“No, not at all. She keeps to herself. I’m worried about her, but Andrew thinks she’s okay.”
“You should get a checkup, Margo. It’s not going to help if something happens to you too.”
“I’ll be okay,” Margo said.
At the office the next day, Michael Benson said, “Is there anything I can do?” They’d been discussing the Danish Plan—designed to limit growth in the city by restricting the construction of residential units for the next five years. Michael had said, “I don’t think it’s going to hurt us that much. We’ve established a reputation for creative renovations and that’s where the business is going to be.” He’d paused for a minute to look at Margo and out of nowhere she had started to cry.
“That bad?” he had asked.
“I feel overwhelmed, Michael. I feel like I’ve lost control of my life.”
“I warned you, didn’t I? I tried to tell you about my own mistakes.”
“This isn’t a mistake,” she said. “I love him.”
“Enough for all of this?”
“I hope so.”
“You know, Margo . . . you’re a really fine architect . . . a really talented person. You can’t toss it all away for some guy.”
“I’m not tossing anything away.”
Several times, before B.B.’s breakdown, Andrew had talked about tossing it all away and going to the Virgin Islands. He would start a salvage business, working when he felt like it, living the easy life. Margo would turn away, angry and frightened, when he talked that way, partly because she wasn’t sure there would be room for her in his carefree island life. But more than that, she still had responsibilities—to her children, to her work, to herself. She did not want to drop out, to sleep in some bare room on a mattress on the floor. As much as she wanted to be with him, she did not want to live that way.
Other times he would be full of plans for their future. After the kids were out of school they would travel—to New Zealand, to South America, to the Orient. Maybe he would write travel books, maybe she would do architectural photo essays. She would play along with him for a while, then she would say, “I like what I’m doing now . . . you know that, don’t you?”
And he would hold her tightly and say, “I’m only talking maybes. Don’t take it all so seriously.”
MARGO WENT TO SEE HER DOCTOR.
“Are you tense?” he asked.
She laughed. “You might say so.”
“A difficult time?”
“Yes, but I’m trying to work it out.”
“Are you exercising?”
“I do Jazzercise,” she said, thinking that B.B. had also done Jazzercise.
“Good,” Dr. Kaplan said. “Go easy on the diet for a while . . . stick to bland foods. I’ll give you a prescription for those patches of eczema. Looks like you’ve lost weight too.”
“A few pounds . . . with the flu.”
“You need rest, Margo. Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I sleep.”
“A change of pace wouldn’t hurt either. Are you getting out enough?”
“Come to think of it, probably not.”
So, when they were invited to Early Sumner’s house for dinner, Margo accepted without asking Andrew first. She knew that if she asked him, he would find an excuse not to go, not to leave Sara. But Sara seemed pleased that they were going out and invited Jennifer to spend the night.
Before the party Margo lay in the bathtub, soaping herself, thinking back to the night last fall when she had calmly made a mental list of the qualifications her steady man would have to have.
He would be divorced and have kids at least as old as hers, maybe even older. She was not interested in merging families. She had only one more year, after this one, with kids living at home. Then it was to be her turn. She wasn’t about to give up that kind of freedom for some guy with kids.
She laughed aloud, unable to believe she had been so naive, and not very long ago. She, who had vowed to simplify her life, had certainly complicated it. Andrew was right about that. She rinsed herself off and unplugged the drain, but did not get out of the tub. She lay there watching the water run out. Suppose B.B. did not get well? Suppose Andrew decided he should have custody of Sara? Five more years with a child at home. A child at home changed everything. She would be forty-five when Sara graduated from high school, almost forty-six. She began to sing, “Me and Bobby McGee.”
That song had once been her Bible. She had wanted her freedom so desperately then. But she hadn’t understood the meaning of the lyrics. That freedom is a myth. That sharing with another person is more important.
She stood up and reached for a towel. Tears stung her eyes. Why couldn’t life ever go smoothly? Why couldn’t you live happily ever after just for a little while?
35
MICHELLE WAS HOME ALONE, devouring a box of Dutch pretzels and reading The Bell Jar, when someone knocked at the front door. She jumped off her bed and went to see who was there. It was Puffin. “Stuart’s not home yet,” Michelle told her. “I think he’s at tennis practice.”
“I came to see you,” Puffin said.
Michelle was surprised. She and Puffin were not the best of friends.
“Can I come in?” Puffin asked.
“Sure.”
Puffin followed Michelle down the hall to her room. She sat on Michelle’s bed.
“Want a pretzel?” Michelle asked, passing the box.
“Thanks.” Puffin took one and nibbled on it. Then she said, “Guess what . . . I’m pregnant.”
“I can’t believe it!” Michelle said, shocked. “How did you get pregnant?”
“You know . . .” Puffin said coyly.
“I mean,” Michelle said, “weren’t you using something . . . some method of birth contr
ol?”
“Well, yes, but we wanted to try it one time without a rubber, to see what it would feel like. So I picked a time I thought was safe.”
“There is no safe time,” Michelle said.
“I know that now.”
“I thought you were on the Pill, or that you had a diaphragm.”
“The Pill made me nauseous and the diaphragm’s so icky. You have to . . .” She paused, lowering her voice. “You have to touch yourself to get it in and I very nearly fainted trying to pull it out.”
“Does Stuart know?”
Puffin nodded.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Puffin shrugged.
It was amazing, Michelle thought, watching Puffin, that Clare had produced this air-brained creature. Which proved that you never knew what you were going to get when you decided to have a kid. You tossed up the genes and took your chances. Margo and Freddy had been really lucky. She wondered what this baby of Stuart’s and Puffin’s might be like. She wondered if it might be anything like her. But finding out was out of the question. Puffin had to have an abortion. And it was up to Michelle to make her see that. “I don’t think you’re ready to have a baby, Puffin,” she said.
“But I’d get ready. There’s plenty of time to order the cradle and buy the clothes and all that.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean you’re not emotionally ready and neither is Stuart. If you two get married now it’ll be a disaster. It’ll be over before you’re twenty.” She sounded wise, she thought, but not pushy.
“You probably don’t know this,” Puffin said, “but I’ll be eighteen in August. I’m a year older than my class. I repeated seventh grade.”
“I didn’t know,” Michelle said, trying to figure out what that had to do with anything.
“I switched schools in seventh grade and the headmistress thought it would do me good to take the year over again. Since no one there knew me anyway it didn’t really matter, although I did cry about it at the time.”
“Look, if you think that was hard,” Michelle said, “picture yourself at twenty, divorced, with a two-year-old kid. You and Stuart would wind up hating each other, blaming each other. It would be really bad, not just for you, but for the kid.”
