I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  Everything about my childhood was aloof—no one was drunk all day, but no one tucked me in at night either. I know only the most basic facts about my mother. She deferred to God, even when parenting. She never explained the why of anything—whether something was unsafe or impolite or cruel—she just hoped I inherited her fear of the Lord. I remember her grabbing me by the arm on prom night and saying, “God will not forgive you if you get some poor girl pregnant.” As if prom was the only night that was a possibility.

  What bothers me now, though, as I ruminate, is that I know all my father’s opinions from politics to the best fertilizer, but only the most rudimentary facts about my mother. She was a good cook; she liked to sew; she never complained. Never complaining, I recently learned, is different from having no complaints. For all the time I spent with her—eighteen years of daily conversations and another twenty in weekly contact—that’s all I can come up with. In the argument over whether knowledge is power or ignorance is bliss, it seems I’ve always come down on the side of ignorance. And when that’s the side you fall on, you don’t realize it until it’s too late. Maddy, Eve, my mother—the carousel of women I’ve disappointed. It’s as if I’m running because they’re chasing me.

  I’m almost back to the house when Susan Dundel pops out in one of those skimpy, expensive Lulu-whatever outfits and starts running next to me like we’d arranged it. Maddy’s laughter pops into my head and I grin. Susan misinterprets this as an encouraging sign.

  “I could tell you wanted companionship out here,” she says, matching her pace to mine. “You pass every night, and even sometimes again in the morning, and yesterday I thought, ‘You know, there’s no reason I couldn’t change the time of my run to give poor Brady some company.’”

  Poor Brady. My new, least-favorite popular phrase.

  “Frankly, Susan, I don’t.” It’s not difficult to shut her down, which says a lot considering I haven’t been laid since April. “I’m training for a marathon next month, and I need to do these runs on my own.” I say it with authority, but when I look her way to ensure the message was received all I see are her fake breasts flopping with each stride. I immediately lose all credibility.

  She giggles. “I know, isn’t it horrible? There’s not a sports bra made that provides enough support for these things. My ex loved them though. Good for some things, but definitely not working out.”

  Eve drives by on her way home from therapy right as Susan makes an elaborate gesture to her chest. I shake my head at the bad timing. Susan giggles again. “It’s hard for kids to see their parents moving on, but as you get out more, she’ll come around. My son flipped the first time a man spent the night after the divorce, but now he’s good about it. He’ll eat breakfast with a smile on his face no matter who I bring home.” She winks.

  Her pride at that statement brings me to a halt. “Listen, I’m not moving on and I prefer to run alone.” She jogs in place as I walk away.

  When I get to the house, I brace myself for a sassy comment about Susan, but it’s immediately apparent Eve has her own agenda in mind. Something is up—the kitchen is too clean, Alicia Keys is playing, and I smell rack of lamb, my favorite, in the oven.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want,” I quip, “so we can enjoy dinner without me wondering how much it’s gonna cost.”

  Eve gives an innocent smile. “I don’t want anything.”

  “Sure you don’t.” I grab an ankle to stretch my quad. I’m up to fourteen miles on my long-distance days.

  “Really, I just need to, um, tell you about something I did.”

  My stomach tightens. Money is a quick fix. There are plenty of teenage mistakes that don’t have a fix at all. “What?”

  “Time-out … first I have a question. Is there anything I could do that would result in you not paying for college?”

  I run through the list of things that engulf parents’ nightmares: drugs, stealing, eating disorders, pregnancy. I carefully word my response. “No, I’ve committed to that, but there are things that could delay going.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, Eve. Like if you need time to take responsibility for your actions. Or get help.”

  “I’m not pregnant, Dad,” she says with a laugh.

  “Jesus, Eve, this isn’t a fun game. What already?”

  “I got a tattoo,” she blurts.

  I hadn’t considered that possibility. “What? When? Why would you—”

  “Three days ago. ’Cause last week I was at Rory’s mom’s funeral, and Rory was saying how after her father died she did something symbolic to help her move on.”

  She crosses her arms as though that explains everything, when in fact it leaves me with more questions. I didn’t know Eve left the house last weekend, or that she was close enough with her math tutor to attend a family funeral. But I’m not about to get distracted.

  “Am I missing something? That doesn’t equate to being seventeen and getting a tattoo. Is that even legal?”

  “It’s small.”

  “That’s all you have to say? It’s small? Damn it, Eve, it’s permanent.”

  She tries again. “It’s symbolic.”

  “So are lots of things that don’t come with a lifetime commitment. Christ. Did you stop to think about what it will look like when you’re my age? Or what you’ll tell your grandchildren?”

  Her head slumps to her chest. We wait to see who’ll speak first. It’s a game I usually lose, but not this time. I’ve given this day all I have to offer. A full minute passes.

  “It’s that quote you said Mom liked,” she murmurs. “About learning from pain.”

  My daughter could earn a degree in surprising me. “You tattooed that quotation to your body? Where?”

  “On the right side of my stomach, by my hip. I can hide it, even in a bathing suit, even in a bikini.”

  I have her show me. It’s written in plain, black script. As tattoos go, it isn’t that bad. I try to keep a stern face, hiding my relief, but my second thought makes me laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I’m picturing how it will balloon out unevenly when you’re pregnant someday.”

  “Huh. I didn’t think of that.”

  I point a finger at her. “That’s why you should’ve involved me beforehand.”

  She bites her lower lip. “Am I in trouble?”

  I read the quotation plastered to my daughter’s abdomen. If we could learn to learn from pain even as it grasps us. The answer comes to me. “No,” I say. “You’re the one that has to live with it. But don’t go showing it off like it’s cool. It’s not. And don’t do anything this over-the-top for a while. You’ve hit your reckless teenage behavior quota for the year.”

  Eve produces a closed-mouth smile she learned from Maddy. It was my wife’s I-won-but-I’m-not-going-to-rub-it-in-since-you’re-being-a-good-sport face.

  “Did it hurt?” I ask.

  “Like a bitch,” she says, forgetting to filter. A hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry.”

  I think back to the drink on the Fourth of July and shake my head. Maddy can’t kill herself and still make all the parenting decisions. “No, you know what, don’t be. Swearing was your mother’s battle, not mine.”

  “Really?”

  I don’t know why I chose to take a stand on this particular point. I backpedal slightly, “As long as it’s used intelligently relative to the discussion, I’m fine with it.”

  “All right. I’ll intelligently swear my ass off from now on.”

  I massage my temples. When will I learn to shut the hell up?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Madeline

  Watching, always watching, I’m reminded of a conversation I had with Meg about whether to become a stay-at-homer. It was what Brady wanted. Of his buddies from Harvard, he was the only one with a working wife. I admired his brain while we dated; it wasn’t until Eve arrived that I understood it was powerful enough to put me out of a job. I never intended to march
in the footsteps of a mother I pitied at best, but Brady’s success and Eve’s neediness beat the ambition right out of me. I was certain I could avoid my mother’s weaknesses. Depression never had a grip on me, and alcohol was like a fun cousin I visited once in a while but never planned a trip around. That its tentacles are often invisible until it’s too late never crossed my mind.

  Part of my hem and haw was that people counted on my effort to hit the annual number. Without me, my team wouldn’t get a bonus. My sister in her I-can’t-believe-I’m-younger-than-you voice said, “I find that arrogant, Maddy. Everyone is replaceable. People are, by nature, resourceful and resilient.” She was right. I left Viking, and yet people still found their way to stores across New England to buy over-priced refrigerators and ovens.

  I wish the truth of her wisdom would show itself once again, but replacing a sales manager is different from replacing a primary parent. Brady is a bulldozer; he sees only what’s directly in front of him. For the past two months, with my persuasion, that’s been Eve, but now he’s craving a release, something of his own, and his attention has shifted to qualifying for the Boston Marathon. My ability to influence is waning. He’s a man obsessed. He has retreated inward, at the expense of our daughter who was just starting to come around.

  As he runs, he vacillates between being angry with me for abandoning the privileged life he provided and being at war with himself for not being more present while I was there. He’s as astounded my priority wasn’t ultimately them as he is horrified to realize his priority was never us. His internal battle is ironic because in death I have finally found clarity on the subject: Brady attempted to engage at home; I’m the one who pushed him away.

  When we first married, Brady did little things to help like set the table, stop at the grocery store on his way home, or comically chop onions wearing sunglasses for protection. On several occasions he offered to cook, simple things like burgers or salad, but still, he offered. I always found fault in his approach. In my mind, I could have done it better, faster, cheaper, and so I did. Eventually, he settled for a few simple household duties like putting on music, taking out trash, and lighting winter fires. We joked they were safe chores. Brady-proof, he called them.

  I encouraged this self-deprecation. I hadn’t intended to be a stay-at-home-mom, but as soon as I walked down that path my domestic instincts took over. I bartered to only be a homemaker if I could be some kind of holy matriarch, the homemaker of homemakers. My mother had approached her days with the detachment of a minimum-wage employee denied overtime. I was going to prove motherhood was more than that. In my lofty execution of creating an emotionally sound, intellectually stimulating, health-conscious home, I left my husband very little room to prove himself. To an unwholesome degree, it was important to me he be inferior at home. He had enough to hang his hat on at the office. I needed a stage.

  What I’m saying is, Brady had no training for the pool he’s been tossed into. He’s selfish because, as Eve got older, he became an outlier in the household. The two of us lovingly, but relentlessly, teased him. We didn’t mean anything by it. He was a chief executive at a Fortune 500 company! He was living the life I’d sacrificed, or at least that’s often how it felt. I didn’t understand that our needling had worked its way into his core and convinced him of his domestic incompetence.

  I continue trying to build his self-confidence with Eve through positive interactions, but that strategy is slow going and my surges upward continue. Time is limited. I need Rory to step in before I ascend too high to help.

  * * *

  It’s Rory and Eve’s first session since Linda’s funeral, and chapter four looks to be as boring as chapters one through three. About halfway through they break for a soda. Rory notices the whiteboard Brady hastily hung to document phone calls and whereabouts after learning Eve attended a random funeral. Today it reads: Insurance guy called to say our house is no longer covered and no one is returning his calls. Brady read it on his way out this morning with a grunt. I managed that stuff. It was a detail I always threw out at holiday parties because his colleagues found it entertaining that the CFO didn’t manage his own finances. From Brady’s perspective, he dealt with that shit all day and deserved a break. From my perspective … well … no one ever asked my perspective, and once you take on an undesirable marital job it’s yours till death do you part. A small part of me will enjoy watching him get quotes today. He’ll have no idea whether we live in a flood zone, if the foundation is a slab, the year the house was built, or any of the other random tidbits he’ll need. On certain matters I’ll always be missed.

  “Did you get to the practice problems?” Rory asks, recapturing my attention.

  “Un-huh,” Eve says. Your tattoo, I remind her. She takes a bag of chips from the pantry. “Oh, so I took your advice and did something symbolic to celebrate my mom.”

  Rory smiles. “Wonderful. What?”

  “I got a tattoo.”

  Rory puts her Pepsi down (I love that she doesn’t drink diet) and studies Eve’s expression to gauge whether she’s serious. “Well, for heaven’s sake, Eve, that’s not what I meant.”

  “My mom didn’t like ballroom dancing.”

  Rory snorts. “But she was into permanent body art?”

  “The tattoo is symbolic of her. See?” Eve lifts the corner of her shirt. Rory reads her stomach, reluctantly fascinated.

  “Hmm. That’s a beautiful saying.”

  “Isn’t it?” Eve’s posture inflates with the compliment.

  “Where did you come across it?”

  “My mom,” she says without further explanation.

  Rory wonders if I wrote it in a suicide note. “That’s going to inflate funny when you’re pregnant,” she points out.

  “What is it with old people and obsessing about pregnancy?”

  Rory laughs. “Gee, thanks. Can I ask what other ‘old people’ you’re clumping me in with?”

  “Just my dad.”

  She winces. “Oh, dear. What’d he say about the tattoo?”

  “That a tattoo wasn’t what you meant.”

  Rory’s eyes expand. “You told your father I told you to do it?”

  “No, of course not. You didn’t. I just told him about our conversation, and-and that it … well … inspired me. Anyway, he called to say he’s getting off work early, so he can finally meet you in person this afternoon.”

  Of course, after all my effort, it’s Eve’s tattoo that sparks their introduction.

  “What?” Rory looks alarmed.

  “He’s not mad. I mean, he doesn’t blame you or anything. I think he was a little weirded out I went to your mom’s funeral, and I guess he wants to introduce himself since I talk about you sometimes.”

  Rory sighs, reaching back for the calculus book. “I haven’t had to meet a parent who thinks I’m a bad influence in a long time. Could we at least finish this chapter so I can attempt to rebuild my reputation.”

  Brady arrives right before their time is up. Rory stands to greet him with a self-conscious wave. She’s in lightweight jeans and a white V-neck cotton shirt with a braided belt. Her hair is pulled back with a pink and brown polka dot scarf revealing simple diamond studs on each ear. I’m not claiming love at first sight, but he definitely notices her.

  “So you’re the infamous Rory Murray.”

  Rory tucks her chin toward her shoulder, mortified. “I had no intention of being infamous. Eve told me about her interpretation of our talk last week.”

  Brady chuckles with more levity than he feels. “Yes, well, what can you do?”

  “Glad there’s no hard feelings.”

  He shakes his head. “This sounds crazy, but you look familiar.”

  “I was so hoping you wouldn’t piece it together,” she says, laughing. “You saw me trip and fall at CVS a few months ago.”

  Brady smiles. “That’s right! That was you.”

  “The one who falls always remembers the witnesses.”

  Brady runs
a hand through his hair. “Can I admit something terrible?” No, I coach. Don’t. But he’s such a Boy Scout he can’t help himself. “I’m the jackass who left the basket in the aisle.”

  Why? Why? Why? She never would’ve known. All my work and— wait. She’s laughing. Hard. I would have been mad, but Rory is laughing.

  “You totally pawned it off on someone else!” she says.

  He slaps his palm to his chest. “I know. That was awful. It happened so fast and the words flew out of me and … honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  “But here we are.”

  “Here we are.”

  Eve is equal parts fascinated and horrified by what appears to be her father flirting. She hands Rory a check. While they confirm their next session, I question Brady on whether he knows enough about Rory given Eve’s clear attachment. Keep her close, I coach, working my agenda. It isn’t difficult to coerce him.

  “Listen, I’m heading out for a run,” he says, “but I’d love if you’d join us for dinner next Wednesday.”

  Rory steps back, put out by the idea that she’s being asked on a date in front of Eve, but relaxes when I convey Brady’s intent. He’s a single parent. His daughter went to a random funeral for the mother of a woman he’s never met, then got a tattoo based on her words of wisdom. It’s not a date. It’s an interview. Rory accepts the invitation.

  Hopefully Brady takes this interview a little less formally than ones at the office. I’d like Rory to have a fighting chance and Brady to not come across as a complete ass, if that’s at all possible. Rory seems to have a knack for bringing out his lighthearted side, a gift I never had.

  Eve

  My relationship with John is the equivalent of a brother and sister stuck on family vacation. Dad has more of a bond with my math tutor than I have with my boyfriend.

  I made the mistake of telling John I sometimes sense my mother watching me. I meant it generally, but he thinks of it every time our clothes are off. Nothing like doing it with a guy who’s totally wigged out. I tried to point out she wouldn’t care anyway, but he stopped me mid-sentence, which was probably for the best.