“I hope so. My mother certainly deserved one. It was sweet of Eve to attend.”
The conversation is too personal for a first-time dinner guest, so Brady defuses it by asking Rory what grade she teaches. He has an extraordinary talent for controlling conversations. He explained to me once that people mistakenly presume the person talking is in control. “It’s the one asking the questions, Maddy. That’s who’s running the show.”
The discussion rolls back to normal with Brady at the reins. He learns a little about Rory—she loves to read, swim, and eat Indian food—and a lot about his daughter. Continuing in her spirited frame of mind, Eve is uncharacteristically forthcoming. She tells them both about camp, how good it felt to be needed and how the experience changed her career aspirations. She talks about breaking up with John, which is news to Brady, declaring that they “no longer see the world from the same point of view.” She then shares her excitement for school in the fall, claiming it “cannot come soon enough.”
Rory registers Brady’s hurt and graciously asks whether Eve plans to come home on the weekends. “Probably, to check up on my dad,” she says. “I mean, I only got him to start eating dinner again like a month ago.”
Brady is visibly injured by Eve’s admission to the mere acquaintance sitting across from him. He’s unable to rebound a fourth time. He stands. “Well, it’s been a great night, ladies, but it’s late.”
Rory stands too. “I’m so glad we did this,” she says, extending a hand. Their touch is soft, comfortable. “Thank you for having me.” There’s something playful about her, like she’s too cute to be a grown-up.
“Thanks for coming.” They lock eyes briefly before he turns to Eve. “Good night,” he says, not hiding his agitation.
“Night,” she replies, unabashed by her behavior. They both like Rory, but they didn’t seem to like each other in her presence.
Rory stays to help with kitchen cleanup.
“Sorry about my dad,” Eve says. “He bails a lot lately.”
I nudge Rory to defend him. It doesn’t take much; she respects Brady. “Your father did nothing wrong,” she says, setting down the dishrag. She almost stops there, but I push her further. “The thing is, Eve, it’s easy to see that it’s wrong to be judgmental when you’re the one being judged, but harder when you’re sitting with the jury. Everyone grieves differently. Some want to be left alone, some want to be insanely busy, some gain weight, some lose weight, and some don’t change their eating habits at all. It’s not fair to critique people’s reaction. I lost a lot by taking too long to learn that.”
Eve can’t catch the words before they’re out. “You mean after your daughter died?”
Rory is surprised—it was a long time ago on a different coast—but doesn’t ask how Eve knows. “Yeah,” she admits. “After Emma, I assumed my husband blamed me for what happened, but he didn’t blame me. I blamed me. And I pushed him away. He just missed her, same as me, same as everyone, but I turned it into a personal attack. I’ve seen mourning bring people closer, but only when they both accept that on any given day the loss feels different.”
Eve’s posture relaxes. The teenage arrogance on display all night attenuates. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that, about my dad’s eating and stuff.”
“If you wish you hadn’t said it, you should tell him that,” Rory says, turning to the door. Eve lights up at Rory’s words, knowing it’s the exact response I’d have offered. Ever since Paige handed her that Butterfinger, Eve is on the lookout for my messengers.
“Do you still miss Emma?” She wants so badly for Rory to say no, that time really has healed the wound. From Rory, Eve might believe it.
Rory knows what Eve is fishing for—she remembers asking more tenured grievers the same question—but she won’t set a false expectation. “Every single day,” she whispers. “It’s there, and it hurts, but it does become … I don’t know … familiar.” Rory slings her bag over her shoulder and extends her arms in a timid hug. “Thanks for tonight. You and your dad are wonderful people.”
Eve
Today would’ve been my mother’s birthday. The word bittersweet comes to mind. There’s a part of me, the part Dr. Jahns refers to as exceptional, which can’t help but love August second. It’s the day she arrived; the day her life was celebrated every year; a day she looked forward to, at least when she was younger. But there’s another part of me that resents the day and its forgotten importance to most people. For those who do remember, her birthday now marks the end of her life instead of the beginning. She died at forty-five. Every year I’ll think of it that way: She would’ve been forty-six or forty-seven or forty-eight today. Her birthday left with her.
What really makes me feel like shit is how little we celebrated the years she was here. Sick as it is, this is the most attention I’ve ever given her birthday. Last year we went out to dinner. I gave her a card I filled out on the way there, literally behind her back, as if she didn’t know what I was doing. We ate at Dad’s favorite steakhouse where Mom always ordered whatever fish was the special. How did we miss that that meant she didn’t care for anything on the menu? For a present I bought her one of those prepackaged spa baskets from the grocery store. She never used it, as I should’ve known she wouldn’t, since she didn’t like products with heavy fragrance. She never wore perfume, used only unscented deodorant, and bought fragrance-free laundry detergent. Yet damn-near-genius Eve Starling got her a basket full of peach extreme soaps, bubble bath, and lotion. My mom didn’t even take baths. I only ever saw her use the tub to soak our dirty white laundry in bleach. The basket is still wrapped in cellophane, shoved in the back of her bathroom cabinet. How did she hide her disappointment?
I can’t remember what I got her the year before that, but my father was out of town. I heard her crying that night. She’d told him the business trip was no big deal; work is work. But when the day came, she was bummed. Paige took her out to lunch because her twins share the same birthday, so that night it was just Mom and me. She made a simple soup, nothing fancy, and immediately after we ate she retreated to her room with a glass of wine. The next morning I noticed the bottle was gone. I didn’t think to make a cake or anything. I never told my dad how sad she was, and he never asked. I wonder if he’s as angry with himself for taking the business trip as I am for giving her a thoughtless card and crappy present, but we’re avoiding each other. This is a day we’ll suffer through alone.
As I think about everything I didn’t do for her birthday, I’m reminded of everything she did do for mine. I had celebrations that took place everywhere from hibachi restaurants to amusement parks, and ended in slumber parties with like ten girls running around the house. I don’t remember my dad being there, although I’m sure he was, but my mom is in every birthday memory I have. Taking pictures, cooking, cleaning, doing my hair, carrying presents, making gift lists for thank-you notes, picking up wrapping paper, finding batteries, driving kids home, ordering cakes, lighting candles, singing “Happy Birthday” …
And every year, on the day after my birthday, when all evidence of chaos was magically cleared away except for one or two helium balloons floating around the house, my mother would ask what I wished for. Once, I think after I turned ten, I said I wouldn’t tell her because I wanted it to come true. “Whispering it only to me,” she replied, “is your best chance.” She winked as she said it, but I didn’t get the joke until I recalled the conversation today. She was right; she made my wishes come true. And I got her a shitty peach extreme gift basket.
I’ve been making stupid mistakes all day, like squeezing body lotion onto my toothbrush and shutting off the car while it’s still in drive. If I weren’t so totally depressed I’d find it funny how your brain can completely shut down. When the phone rings, I stupidly answer without checking caller ID or processing the fact that I have no desire to talk to anyone. It’s Aunt Meg. Of course. Our chats have been strained since my birthday, but she sounds grateful when I answer. “I’ve been t
hinking about you all day, sweetie. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know what to feel. I’m thinking about her death more than her life, and I hate myself for it.”
I wait for a serving of unhelpful advice. Take a run. Get a manicure. Have a friend over. Something positive. Instead, she says, “I owe you an apology, Eve. Before, on the other calls and even when I was in town for the funeral, I wanted to make this better for you. Your mother could always do that for me. No matter what it was, she fixed it. I figured you’d be used to someone in that role, and I thought that someone could be me. I see now that I can’t solve this for you, or me for that matter.” She lets out a disturbed laugh. “You know what I did last week? I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but whatever, something inside tells me you need to hear it … I intentionally rear-ended the car in front of me.”
I can’t believe she’s telling me either. I ask the obvious question of why.
“It’s not what I told the police—I said something about leaning to stretch my back and my foot slipping—but the truth is, I had an overwhelming urge to hit the damn thing. It looked at me like a target, like something that’d be great to smash.” She sighs. “The horrible part is that it did feel great, for a couple seconds. I was in control, and you know how I love to be in control. And afterward, when the crazies wore off, I realized something: We all have to forge our own path in dealing with your mother’s death. The path you take isn’t, and probably shouldn’t be, the same as mine. I mean, I certainly don’t want you out there instigating traffic accidents.” Her voice cracks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”
I recall what Rory said the other night. On any given day the loss feels different. “I’m sorry too, for my birthday. I know how close you guys were, and I had no right to say my pain was worse or whatever. It’s just such a nightmare.”
“It truly is.”
Her confession and apology give me courage to ask a bold question. “Aunt Meg, do you feel appreciated?”
“Appreciated how?”
“By Uncle Dan and Lucy.”
“Sure I do. We all love each other. You know that.”
“Yeah, but knowing someone loves you and feeling appreciated are two different things, right? I’ve been thinking about it. My mom knew she was loved. I know it. So why’d she do it? That’s the big, impossible question. But I’m beginning to think it had something to do with, like, the gap between being loved versus feeling appreciated, and I’m wondering if it’s different for you since you have a job?”
The line goes so quiet I think she hung up. “Aunt Meg?”
She clears her throat. “These are tough questions, Eve, and my answer probably isn’t as clear-cut as you’re hoping for. First off, your mom had a bigger job than I have in a lot of ways. When things don’t go perfectly in our house, I’m more forgiving of myself because I can hide behind the to-do list of my career. Your mom … well … she didn’t feel like she had an excuse for her household to be anything short of perfect.
“Now, do I feel like Dan and Lucy appreciate, or even comprehend, every thing I accomplish in a day? No, I don’t. But I probably don’t appreciate every thing they do either. And I don’t need them to understand every sacrifice; neither did your mother. We talked about it a lot, actually. Your mom told me once that she gets enough nuggets. That’s what she called them, nuggets. What she meant was, and I agree, we get these moments of validation from our family, and it’s enough. I think—”
“But it wasn’t enough. My dad shows me some of her journal, and there are whole sections where she talks about how no one noticed this or that, or no one asked her opinion. I’m telling you, she was pissed. A lot.”
I’m taking a risk saying this. Dad never shows me anything negative. I don’t even think he’s read the ones where Mom questions whether she did enough to help Gram, or the creepy one where she imagines what her life would be like if she hadn’t quit her job. But I think I’m safe because Dad and Aunt Meg haven’t spoken since the funeral. It’s like they both blame each other.
“Pfft. She was venting. Big deal. I’m sure your diary has all kinds of stuff about your mother that you didn’t mean generally, stuff you wrote in the thick of it. I found a note last year in one of Lucy’s pockets when I was doing the laundry. It said, ‘My mom is such a bitch. She won’t let me go Saturday because she gets some weird high off torturing me.’”
“Eek. What did Lucy say?”
“I didn’t talk to her about it. Your mom advised me not to. She said, ‘Come on, Meg, what do you expect Lucy to say to her friends? My mom won’t let me go because there’s no parental supervision, and she loves me too much to put me in such a high-risk situation. No. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know it’s the truth.’ And she was right. You have to take everything you read in that journal in the context of the moment she wrote it. She was writing for herself, so she could process things. She was an adult who spoke her mind. When things got pushed too far, when she felt squeezed or unappreciated, I guarantee she spoke up to your father.”
For the second time this summer, I ask the obvious question. “Then why’d she do it?”
Aunt Meg lets out a deep exhale. “God. We don’t get to know, honey. I’ve been writing out all the advice she gave me over the years, and it is becoming this mammoth list of truths. That’s what I’m going to focus on instead of why she’s gone—who I know she was.”
Aunt Meg agrees to send a copy of the list when she finishes. I wonder how many pages I could fill if I wrote everything my mother ever taught me. It would be longer than the Bible. And just as sacred.
Brady
On my run today even my sweat felt culpable. Right now I’m commemorating Maddy’s life by getting drunk, and I’m doing a stand-up job. I’m at war with her birthday. I cannot remember what I got on her forty-fifth aside from the token flowers I sent every year. I think I had Paula make an appointment for a spa day, unless Meg or Paige had gotten her that. I know for sure Maddy went to the spa. Hell, maybe she booked it herself.
The gift wasn’t the worst of it. We argued that night after dinner. Maddy thanked me again for the flowers, then casually asked what the note in the card said. It was a test I’d fail, so I led with a defense, asking why it mattered. Maddy combed her fingernails over her eyebrows, the way she did before deciding whether something was worth a fight. “It matters because I want to know if you picked up the goddamn phone to order me flowers with a nice note, or if you had Paula do it.”
Like an idiot, I didn’t back down. “What’s the difference if I made the call? I remembered; I wanted you to have flowers.”
“The difference is significant if you’re me, and you might be the boob in that cliché movie scene where the assistant reminds her boss of his wife’s birthday and he says, ‘Send the usual.’”
“That’s ridiculous, Maddy. No one had to remind me it was your birthday. Yes. Fine. I asked Paula to call the florist. So what? I was in meetings all day, trying to get everything done in time to take you and Eve out to dinner. And I was able to do it, with a little help.”
“Well, tell Paula ‘thank you’ for me—”
“For making a phone call?” I interrupted. “I would, but that’s her job. I work my ass off, and she helps me juggle everything. You have no concept of what my day-to-day is like.”
“This isn’t about the phone call,” Maddy said flatly. “Thank Paula because it was the sweetest damn note I’ve gotten from you in a long time. Maybe ever. That’s how I knew you didn’t write it, Brady. Not because you were busy today and not because I’m some bumbling homemaker who has no memory of the working world. I knew you had nothing to do with it because the note was sweet. Too sweet. Sweeter than you actually are.” She handed me the card. “When I blew out the candles tonight, I wished for my next birthday to not feel like such a goddamn chore to my immediate family. I would’ve rather been alone. Again.”
I threw my hands in the air, surrendering. “Mad
dy, look, I’m sorry you felt that way. I am. I thought we had fun. Jesus Christ, if I knew you wanted a card, I would’ve written a card. Why didn’t you say so?”
She looked right at me and said, “I’d rather slit my wrist than have to tell you I want a card on my birthday.”
She’d rather slit her wrist. That’s what she said. I thought she was being dramatic.
After she left the room, I read the note:
Happy birthday, my Maddy! I look forward to celebrating your life every year because you are the best thing that ever happened to me. You deserve the world for all you do for Eve and me. Cheers to another great year … Yours, Brady
I bowled over. This four-sentence card was the sweetest thing she’d gotten from me in years. But did I learn a lesson from that? No. No, I did not. Not one bit. All it did was leave me ticked at Paula. I didn’t ask for a goddamn love letter, I asked for flowers.
Every year for my birthday Maddy did something special. Sometimes a party, sometimes a surprise weekend guest, twice a little getaway, but always something. She’d pair a beautiful card with a thoughtful gift—the kind you didn’t know you wanted but afterward can’t imagine living without. She had the windows of my car tinted because I always complained of the glare from the sun. She had my favorite leather briefcase repaired because she couldn’t find a new one that had the same depth to the outside pockets. It never crossed my mind these were grievances I could address. Maddy was resourceful in a way that left other people scratching their heads.
I did make it up to her the following Saturday while Eve was overnight at Lindsey’s. I waited until Maddy left for the gym to get everything ready. When she got home, smelling of the coconut soap from the locker room, I was in a tux, pouring champagne. She laughed. “Someone wants to get laid after being a shithead, huh?”
I Liked My Life Page 19
