I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  She’s fifteen! I couldn’t help but ask if she needs to be on birth control. Her face contorted with disgust. “You don’t get me at all,” she said. But she was wrong. I admired her point; I just had to be a mother for a second before continuing the conversation. But, being a mother for a second abruptly ended the conversation.

  That’s it. A book report. It’s what I wanted—confirmation we were normal—but now I’m irritated. Blame doesn’t stick well to the deceased; they can’t fight back. I need Maddy to have a skeleton big enough to exonerate me, like a stash of cocaine in the laundry room, or a lover threatening to expose the affair. Something I played no part in, an offense larger than my offenses.

  I’m haunted by her laugh. The first time I heard it was when the hospital receptionist requested my name and I blanked. I could describe Maddy’s lemony smell. I could recall that her favorite color was yellow, her favorite movie was Revenge of the Nerds, and her favorite pair of socks were old and torn with little pigs jumping over the moon and jealous cows looking up from a field below, but I could not remember my goddamn name.

  “Not trying to trip you up here,” the receptionist said, giggling. Then Maddy joined, her laughter echoing in my mind. They hadn’t yet discharged her body from the morgue but she was already with me. I cupped my hands over my ears to focus on the sound. This confirmed for the receptionist I was crazy. It was Eve who ultimately answered.

  The second time I heard Maddy laugh was when Susan Dundel stopped over with a casserole after the funeral wearing a tight Red Sox tee that read BAT GIRL over the chest. Susan is a shameless flirt. At a neighborhood gathering when we first moved to Wellesley over a decade ago, Susan cornered Maddy and said, “You better take care of him. He’ll have plenty of takers in this town, myself included.” That same night Todd Anderson made a bizarre comment about how hot Maddy was—in front of his daughter Kara—then added he sometimes wished marriages had short time-outs. Maddy and I were shocked by their audacity, and she joked I should consider Susan a prime suspect if she ever mysteriously disappeared.

  When Susan showed up at the door, it crossed my mind that she had something to do with Maddy’s death. The thought triggered Maddy’s casual laugh. It was exactly the sort of paranoid conspiracy theory she always teased me for. The sound of her laughter left me flustered, and I dropped Susan’s dish onto the large Spanish tile Maddy redid a couple months ago. It shattered, spewing sticky chicken everywhere, the perfect excuse for Susan to come inside. She headed straight for the kitchen, grabbing a roll of paper towels and disappearing under the sink to collect cleaner and a trash bag. Susan looked so comfortable, like she’d staked out our kitchen with this exact scenario in mind. Soon she was splayed in front of me, collecting the mess. She looked up and in an absurd attempt at a seductive voice said, “Brady, you and Eve need a woman around to help with your grief or you’ll become overwhelmed by it.” I couldn’t muster a response, so I walked out the front door and kept going, a move I’ve resorted to a few times with Eve.

  It’s horrible, I know. But I have no choice. When the reality of my new life hits me, my response has to be physical—flee or fight. My instinct was to backhand Susan; it took great restraint to simply exit. It’s Maddy’s voice that calms me in those moments. Leave, her memory tells me, and so I do. I probably walked seven miles that night, mostly wondering why my wife went through the headache of changing the foyer tile when she planned to kill herself.

  Things aren’t as bad when I hear her laugh. It’s far worse when people invade my grief and Maddy doesn’t come to the rescue. That’s when my anger clots and detonates. It started a week after the funeral when Eve hightailed it to school. Maddy’s best friend Paige offered to work with the guidance counselor and homeschool Eve the last two months of the year, but Eve rejected the idea outright. She glared at us—chin jutted out like Maddy’s—and said, “So you think it’s a stellar idea to isolate me even more?” Paige and I cowered.

  The next day Eve left for school, so I went to work. What else could I do? Paula greeted me outside my office door with a rehearsed look of sympathy. Maddy loved that my assistant was old enough to be her mother. “How are you holding up?” she asked, patting my back.

  Each time her hand connected with my shirt my jaw clenched tighter. “Fine,” I replied, realizing I’d be answering that question all day. “Is everything rescheduled? Can Jack catch up this afternoon?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Paula said with the curt smile of a flight attendant. “I was talking to Sally this morning … we agreed you probably aren’t ready just yet. Maybe spend a little more time with Eve? Work some half days?”

  Sally is the CEO’s assistant and evening companion when he’s not with his wife, an interesting person to dole out family advice.

  I clenched my fists, willing them firmly by my sides, and enunciated every word as if English was Paula’s second language. “Something tells me the auditors won’t care about my wife’s death, and I still have a daughter to support with a career of some sort. Reschedule. My. Goddamn. Calendar.”

  Paula stood there, stunned, expecting an immediate apology. I’d never been terse with her or anyone else at the office. But given the giant pile of shit that recently became my life, I enjoyed the power of it. I shut my office door and got back to work.

  There is nothing Maddy in my office. Not even a family picture on my desk. There never was. I treated the two separate: there was my career and there was my family. Now, there’s work and there’s my daughter. Buying and selling companies is infinitely easier than communicating with a pissed off sixteen-year-old. And being wronged is easier to accept than being made a fool.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Madeline

  It’s hard to keep track of time here. I suppose I’m negative one month. The stunted scale reminds me of when Eve was a newborn and people asked how old she was. (Or he if they were unable to piece together basic gender clues from the color of her clothes and bow in her hair.) At first I kept track daily. “Two weeks tomorrow,” I’d say with pride. When Eve was a month I acquiesced slightly, moving to fifteen-day increments. “One and a half months,” I’d report, marveling at the speed of time. After her second birthday it jumped to years and from there it’s a haze—Eve went from three to five to sixteen in what felt like one season. Wherever the hell I am now, time holds me accountable for every minute. It’s slow going when there’s no laundry and all you can do is watch.

  “Look at me please, Toby,” Rory prompts.

  “Okay, but don’t freak.”

  A pudgy boy with impressive bedhead turns to face her. Rory covers her mouth to stifle a laugh at the raisin lodged in his nose. “Oh my … how did that get there?”

  “I wanted to know what raisins smelled like.”

  Rory gives a doubting look. “You don’t need to put something in your nose to smell it.”

  “Yeah huh. I did! I couldn’t smell a thing until it got up there, but now I can.”

  Rory smiles. “Before you head to the nurse, I have to ask: What do raisins smell like?”

  “Like raisins,” he says, exasperated.

  I’m addicted to watching Rory in action. Earlier a little girl tugged on her skirt to say she lost a pencil. “Okay, ready?” Rory replied. The girl nodded. Rory swooshed her hands in a circle, then flung them toward her desk shouting, “Abracadabra!” The girl looked, wide-eyed. “Did it work?” She shook her head no. “Then I guess you’ll have to handle this the old-fashioned way and go look for it.”

  As the kids line up for music, Rory reflects on the simplicity of Toby’s answer. He’s right, she thinks. Life is not as complicated as adults make it. I remain singularly focused so I can intercept her thoughts, which flow from one to the next like notes in a symphony. Rory’s musings leave me certain she’s the answer to my mess. I just need to get her to step in it.

  I relish my newfound ability to mind-read. I now know Brady can hear my laughter and exit prompts—abandonm
ent is better than battery—and the song lyrics do reach Eve. With practice, I’ll be able to influence their actions.

  Though I’d rather keep Rory’s lighthearted company, there’s work to be done. I turn my attention to Eve as she moves my things to her closet. I find myself oddly flattered. When my mother died, nothing tempted me. Her color palette was extensive, the woman never met a hue she didn’t like. Meg and I packed her entire wardrobe into moving boxes and dropped them off at Salvation Army. The chore was completed in an efficient, no-nonsense manner, which my mother no doubt applauded from the grave. Even wasted, she pooh-poohed sentimentality. Her intoxicated breath smothered any hint of it by reminding everyone the moment would not be remembered. Eve and I had more in common. We wore a similar preppy style, though I splurged on nicer brands. My wardrobe will be an upgrade for her.

  She transports the clothes with a luggage set I bought after my Christmas wish list was ignored in place of cashmere sweaters I didn’t need. It was a routine I didn’t mind. My friend Paige and I got what we really wanted during postseason sales, so what did it matter that our families were the world’s crappiest present pickers? It became a running inside joke. I looked forward to seeing what Eve and Brady came up with, knowing Paige and I would howl about it later over a glass of wine: fancy moisturizers for oily skin I didn’t have, holiday-themed clothing I’d never wear in public, IOUs scribbled on note cards we all knew would never be cashed in. I found their disregard for detail amusing, but as Eve comes across the forgotten gifts of celebrations past she rues her carelessness.

  Her remorse is constant. She wears guilt like a jacket on a cold day, clutching it. She’s unable to eat a meal without lamenting that she never said thank you after I cooked. She can’t watch TV without chastising how frequently she cut me off mid-sentence when a commercial break ended. Eve was central to everything in my life, so from her limited view, she’s inherently culpable for my decision to leave. If only she knew what I really went through. I can’t stand the emptiness of her expression. I need to make her smile. It will be fuel for us both.

  I focus on the old duffle bag tucked behind my long dresses. It was my go-to hiding place for gifts, and my baby girl needs a pick-me-up. I struggle to call her attention to it. If only there was a hit song with the chorus open the bag at the back of your mom’s closet.

  Nothing I do draws her in, but once the clothes are gone, Eve notices it in the corner. The rectangular outline inside sparks her curiosity. Her train of thought makes me laugh: Oh my God … it’s like in the movies when old people have secrets stashed in a forgotten shoe box. Eve thinks she’s going to unzip the duffle and uncover my dirty laundry. Instead, she finds the Tory Burch flats she’s been pining for since November. I’d planned to give them as a Christmas gift, but she threw a teenage fit over waiting a month. One month. For two-hundred-dollar shoes a sixteen-year-old has no business owning. Her display of entitlement made me uneasy, so I decided it’d be a good lesson to hold out until her birthday.

  Eve squeals the way she did a decade ago when Cinderella strolled by during our first trip to Disney. For a tenth of a second she indulges the self-absorbed teenager she has every right to be. The sight of it leaves me giddy. Yes, I need to solve the escalating tension between Eve and Brady by putting a buffer between them, but I also need to bring moments of peace.

  It takes four trips to get my things upstairs and several hours to unpack. When the work is done, Eve puts on my favorite springtime pink polo and pulls her hair back with one of my old silver clips. She looks in the mirror. Tears gather. She watches them fill her eyelids and overflow, imagining it’s me she’s looking at. Our resemblance will be a curse for her now, an inescapable reminder.

  Wearing my outfit comes with an urge to play house. She heads for the kitchen and, donning my yellow rubber gloves, starts in on the dishes. There aren’t many, but she’s acting a part, so she takes time scrubbing each one, ignoring the efficiency of the dishwasher. I’m horrified to realize this is how Eve pictures my days. No urgency, no goals, just a series of tasks to scroll through on autopilot like an indentured servant. There’s no room in Eve’s version of my life for personal pride, which explains why she hasn’t questioned my intent that night.

  Brady enters the kitchen as Eve absently swirls a sponge around a stubborn ring at the bottom of a coffee mug, her back to the doorway. He gasps. It isn’t only my clothes; it’s the way Eve stands with her weight to the right, her left foot barely touching the tile. He blinks twice before processing it isn’t me. They’re kryptonite to each other right now; what helps one hurts the other. Remembering me at my best is cathartic for Eve and hell for Brady.

  Eve senses a person behind her and drops the mug in the sink, startled. “S-sorry,” Brady stutters, still shaken by the mirage. He continues his course to the fridge.

  “Did you see?” Eve asks. “I emptied Mom’s closet.”

  He stops mid-step. Brady worked most of the day, as he does most Saturdays, and hadn’t yet noticed. Eve senses his irritation. “I mean, I figured, what do you need with a bunch of women’s clothes? And we’re the same size. Well, not in dress pants, but when do I ever wear dress pants? So, I moved it all upstairs. That’s okay, right?”

  “It’s fine,” Brady manages, wishing he meant it.

  There’s nothing more to say. Subject change, I encourage.

  “Did you see the info on Exeter?” Eve asks.

  Did she receive my suggestion or change subjects on her own? I can’t tell.

  “Yeah.” He flipped through the folder at work to check how much it cost. I tried to sway his decision, but got nowhere. Brady was too busy assigning an honorable justification for why boarding school makes sense—it’s what she wants; she’ll have more supervision; I travel all the time. The menacing truth is that, for Brady, Eve leaving would be a relief. Without even asking the distance of the school from our house, he gives his answer. “If that’s what you want, go ahead and apply.”

  Wonderful: my life’s work compromised after fifteen seconds of deliberation.

  Boarding school is for the von Trapp family pre-Maria. Eve needs unconditional love staring at her twenty-four hours a day, massaging her stubbornness. Without attention, her sarcasm will turn to cynicism, her independence to isolation, her grief to depression. She’s too young to process the complexities and nuances of the world, but she’s astute enough to think about them and puerile enough to assume she understands—a dangerous combination. Everyone expects Eve to mourn dramatically like the teenager she is, but Eve mourns intellectually, trying to understand why it happened and what it means and how to move on. She needs to stop picking a fight with the future when there’s plenty to mend in the present. Who will help her with that in the middle-of-nowhere New Hampshire?

  Eve smiles at Brady, holding back tears. It’s the answer she wanted, but she didn’t want him to make it that easy. She craved a fight, even for show, so it wouldn’t be obvious he’d rather her gone.

  My husband has never been one to catch the subtleties of a situation. He called every Valentine’s Day to ask if I wanted him to stop on the way home to get a card. Every year I said no, don’t bother, and he’d say something like, “Okay, but I want to go on record I asked, so you can’t say I’m not romantic.” I never did point out that any chance the gesture had of being romantic was lost when he asked whether he had to do it.

  Eve

  “Massage is a documented remedy for sadness,” Mrs. Simpson says, handing me a gift certificate and patting my shoulder like I’m a household pet. Lindsey beams with pride over the incredible generosity of her family. How freaking annoying. I look at a crack in the ceiling until I can open my mouth without informing them a back rub won’t cure shit.

  Getting out of this town can’t come soon enough. The only person I’ll miss is my mom’s friend Paige. She at least has the balls to admit this whole thing sucks and leave it at that. Everyone else is either a moron or offensive. Usually it’s adults who piss me
off and my friends I find stupid. Lindsey and her mom just managed to accomplish both with one sentence. I know they mean well, but I’m starting to see that the high-school social scene is a math formula. What you look like + athleticism + the clothes you wear = who you hang out with. I’m pretty enough, MVP of the tennis team, and wear mostly J.Crew, so I date the cocaptain of the soccer team who wears mostly Abercrombie and we hang out with the other athletes as long as they don’t buy clothes from Target. Lindsey and I are about equal in where we fall on this plastic equation, so we’re besties. It’s lame.

  I shove the gift certificate in my backpack and beeline to the parking lot. It was another miserable day in my new miserable life and I just want to go home and sleep through the rest of the school year. But John is at my car.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says, certain I’m happy to see him. Before Good Friday I would’ve blushed and given him a peck on the cheek, but you can’t fake blush and I don’t have the energy to get on my tippy-toes.

  “I paid for our share of the limo today. What time do you wanna meet at Lindsey’s for the preparty?”

  “Preparty?”

  His eyes bug out. “Prom? Next Saturday?”

  Now my eyes bug out. How does he expect me to go from dead mom to the prom? Or dead mom to kissing? Or dead mom to anything at all? If I go with John, we’ll probably win Junior Court and I’ll have to pretend I actually care. It’ll be impossible to look grateful for the honor of wearing a fake tiara, sitting on the back of a Jag convertible on loan from Kara’s dad’s dealership, and waving to a crowd of people who are all wondering what horrible, unmentionable things happened during my childhood. If I don’t go, the guidance counselor will consider it a “red flag” and pull me from class for another progress report on where I am at “dealing with my grief.” I decide to play both sides. I’ll buy a stupid dress so people assume I’m going and then claim pinkeye like my mom did the night she bailed on her twentieth high-school reunion. She claimed it was the perfect excuse because it’s highly contagious but only lasts a day.