“No,” I said. “I’m hoping to close a deal, but not that one.”
“What then?”
“Well, I believe I’m overdue in getting you to sign my five-year renewal.”
The five-year renewal was a joke from our wedding day. As the story goes, right after Meg reached the altar and the bridal march began to play, Maddy whispered to her dad that she intended to stay committed to the marriage for five years. He broke into a stunned sweat, doing the math on how much the wedding would cost per year the marriage lasted. Then Maddy added that everyone should feel like they come up for renewal and I was on a five-year plan. Her father snorted and asked what plan I put Maddy on. “If he’s as smart as I think he is,” Maddy said, “it’ll be monthly.” They laughed the whole way down the aisle.
“I don’t know if I’d be inquiring about that with your current status,” Maddy warned. “You’re still so far in the doghouse, I should paint your name on it.”
I directed her to the bedroom, where a black cocktail dress from Saks was laid on the bed. It was a sexy, perfect fit. She came out saying, “Just because I look amazing doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.” I laughed, thinking we were making progress. She didn’t join me.
She loosened up a bit when she noticed I not only remembered her favorite entrée but drove thirty minutes to the North End to get it. It was scallop risotto from the place she requested to go to on her birthday, but I failed to get a reservation in time. Just as her anger subsided, she asked whether Paula helped plan the evening. “I intend to live to my next birthday, Maddy, so no, Paula had nothing to do with this.”
“Good,” she said, finally offering a genuine smile. “At least it appears my message was received.”
I raised my glass for a prepared toast. “You are my rock, Madeline Starling. I don’t know what this world would look like without you by my side, and I hope I never find out. I’m sorry I made you feel like a chore. I promise, if you opt to renew for another five years, I will spend every day proving my devotion to you.”
She balanced her hands back and forth like a scale. “Okay, fine,” she conceded, “I’ll keep you. But Brady?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be such a prick ever again.”
“Yes, dear.”
The thing is, I was a prick again after that. And after that. And after that. I lost touch with our rich history. I forgot what made Maddy special. I assumed she’d be there to renew for another five years.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Madeline
My vantage point continues to diminish. There is a cosmic hourglass counting down my time to have impact, and I intend to get the better of it.
The dinner served its purpose: Rory has my family on the brain. She thinks mostly about me, questioning what she’s missing. The house, the good-looking husband, the smart kid, it all seems so perfect looking in. She can’t figure out what I had to escape.
Rory gracefully transitions from downward dog to pigeon. Her mind is clear of activity, so I softly recite Brady’s name. In the steady hum I’ve now mastered I say, Brady … Brady … Brady. I do it slowly, salaciously, trying to evoke the specific frame of mind I’m after. The image that pops into her consciousness is of Brady sipping his wine while maintaining deep, direct eye contact. There was something intimate about the exchange that she ignored at the time. Her cheeks blush with the recollection.
In her stretch pants and fitted tank, Rory’s sex appeal multiplies. Gone is the childlike spunk she brings to the classroom. Her firm shape will be an upgrade for Brady; I was thin but soft. Rory is solid and sweats the perfect amount. After a hot yoga class I looked like I’d been put through the heavy towel cycle in the dryer. Rory looks like she’s been sitting out by the pool on a hot day.
When class ends, Rory’s effeminate yoga instructor asks if she wants to grab coffee sometime. “Thanks for the invitation,” she demurs. “But I think we should stick to yoga.”
His shoulders drop a bit. “Boyfriend?”
Rory bites her lip. Lying is the easiest way to end the conversation without offense and this is the only hot hatha flow class that works with her schedule. “Um hmm.”
“Is it Frank? I notice you two always put your mats next to each other.”
Rory wasn’t expecting him to dig deeper. “Ah, nope. Not Frank. Definitely not Frank.” Frank has nipple rings. “His name is Brady. You wouldn’t know him.”
Rory tells herself to shut the hell up and offers a silent prayer that Brady doesn’t have time for yoga. It’s not exactly a common name and Wellesley is a small town. Once in the privacy of her car Rory sighs, wondering where that tall tale came from. I’ll never tell.
Just as my capacity starts to dwindle, I’m getting good at being a ghost. I enlisted Meg to reach out to Brady about dating again, which wasn’t easy since each message now takes a herculean effort to convey and she’s against the idea of it. To Meg, Brady remaining abstinent for the rest of his life seems a reasonable consequence for missing my depression. I used Eve as bait, forcing my sister to admit she won’t be Eve’s go-to person in life. Meg manages a global department of a thousand people. She’s on a plane more than she’s in a car. Over time, Eve will be pushed down her to-do list along with dusting the fans. My message to Meg was that Brady needs someone so Eve has someone.
My sister couldn’t bring herself to have the conversation outright, but she sent an email: It’s none of my business, she began, so there’s no need to reply. In fact she prayed he wouldn’t. But when Eve leaves for school this fall, no one would judge you for seeking companionship. They both knew that’s untrue; you can’t change babysitters in Wellesley without being judged. There will be times in life when Eve needs a woman she trusts. Maybe it will be Paige or me, we both hope so, but maybe we’re too intertwined with Maddy. Maybe deep down Eve can’t look at any of us without thinking we failed in some way. I appreciate you don’t need permission but, for what it’s worth, you have it.
Brady read it once and deleted it, but the message served its purpose: the idea that my replacement will inherently be linked to Eve is floating around. Have you ever noticed what happens to your house the moment you consider moving? Suddenly the rooms turn claustrophobic, the kitchen cabinets look outdated, and sharing a bathroom sink with your spouse becomes intolerable. The power of suggestion is real, and I’m becoming a master at leveraging it.
I even got through to Brady’s friend Bobby, who was so loaded when Brady called about tracking down Marie that he completely forgot to follow up with his brother. Eve keeps asking about it and I want Brady to get closure. It was wrong not to show him the letters when I found them. I thought I was saving him distress, but now I see it wasn’t my call to make. I had a bad habit of protecting Brady and Eve from life, which has left them with unreasonable expectations and poor coping skills.
Although Bobby’s brain isn’t in overdrive like Brady’s, his limited attention span made him a challenge. My first attempt was as a reminder: Brady asked a favor. He’d catch two words before being distracted by a billboard or good-looking passerby or the directions on a shampoo bottle. It doesn’t take much to grab Bobby’s eye.
My next tact was simpler: Call your brother. The hope was that Bobby would remember Brady’s request when they connected. I got him to make the call, but Bobby started describing a NASCAR crash and then said, “Christ, I can’t remember why I’m calling.” His brother laughed and asked Bobby to hold on for a sec. I took the break to remind him: Help Brady, I said, again and again. Help Brady.
When his brother returned, Bobby enlisted his assistance and I did the equivalent of a ghost jig. Watch out, Casper, here I come.
Eve
I assess how the journal was left in the drawer so I know how to leave it when I’m done. I do this all the time; I don’t know why it’s making me nervous today. I check the clock again. My father won’t be home for two hours. I need to chill the hell out.
I’ve started drinking tea, like my mother.
I like to sit at the kitchen table with a glass of sweetened rooibos and read her heavy script. I pretend she’s in the chair next to mine and we’re in a real conversation where she’s choosing to share her deepest thoughts. Sometimes I swear I hear a voice-over like they do on soap operas when someone leaves a note before ditching town.
June 29, 2013
We had book club (aka wine and cheese club) tonight, and I was shocked to discover how often people sleep with their husbands. I was the one to start the conversation, saying how sad I found it that the heroine only had sex once a month. The conversation snowballed into everyone divulging their averages. Paige was the only one smart enough to remain silent. Christie Anderson claimed she couldn’t possibly keep track. (There were a few giggles at that—she and Todd are believed to be swingers, although I can’t imagine such a thing.) The lowest was Heidi, who said she and Grant were down to once a quarter, but the average of everyone’s average was once or twice a month. Apparently, Brady and I are rabbits at once or twice a week. Who knew?
What started as a lighthearted conversation turned intense. People became insecure over what the number implied about the quality of their marriage. Including me. At one point, Mary asked how on earth Brady and I find the time and I reconsidered how long it takes us. I mean, how do we find twenty minutes, twice a week? It’s not that hard. Is twenty minutes not normal? Maybe Heidi and Grant have three-hour sex marathons once a quarter. Is that normal? It was clear everyone’s relationships had evolved differently. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.
Holy shit. TMI. I could do without the twice a week visual for sure. I assumed a book club run by moms would stay pretty on task, but this makes it sound like books were a total afterthought. Where would they find time to analyze the author’s intent between kinky comparisons on how much everyone on the block fucks? And I totally can’t believe my saintly mother was in on the rumor that Kara’s parents are swingers. The guys at school say it when they’re going on about what a MILF Mrs. Anderson is, but I seriously thought it was wishful thinking. If it’s true, I feel sorry for Kara. Having parents swapping lovers around town might actually be more shocking than a mother who commits suicide out of sheer boredom.
“What the hell are you doing?” Dad asks, slamming down his briefcase.
I look to either side as if the question might be directed at someone else, then put the journal on my lap like it isn’t too late to hide it. “Wh-why are you home?”
“You have no rights,” he says, yanking the journal from me and pressing it to his chest.
“She was my mother.”
“There are things in here … you-you have no business … I cannot even—go to your room.”
His total failure to pick a sentence makes me nervous and somehow what comes out is laughter. “This is funny to you?” he shouts. “Get upstairs now, Eve.”
The delusion burns me. “Ahh, no, Dad, it’s not funny that I don’t have a mother, and it’s not funny that this journal is, like, literally, the only way I have to get to know her.”
“Don’t pull that crap with me. This is a violation of your mother’s privacy. Her death does not give you the right to invade our bedroom and take something that isn’t yours.”
“Our bedroom?” I push. “Still? Really?”
He throws the journal against the kitchen wall. We both cringe as it hits the floor, a few pages detaching. Dad runs to it like a hurt child while I slip upstairs. He cares more about the damn journal than his own daughter.
I push through the door in a rage, and it’s like I’m seeing my room for the first time. I’m repulsed by how childish it looks. Posters cover every inch of wall, mostly cutouts from magazines I spent hours gluing into collages; a colossal waste of time. Models, bands, Hollywood gossip headlines—maybe my father treats me like crap because I care about crap. I rip it all down as if it’s my room’s fault I got caught. When I get to the first store-bought poster, I pause. Mom would take these down carefully so she could donate them. She gave everything to charity. A couple years ago she dropped off my old skis at the Salvation Army. I ragged on her for it, questioning how skis would help people in need when they couldn’t afford a ticket to get on the slopes. She goes, “You never know, Eve. On the news last week I heard about a homeless man who fended off attackers with a tennis racket. I’ll bet he was glad he had it.”
I take a last look at the three posters before tearing them in shreds. I can’t spend my whole life copying my mother. Her plan obviously wasn’t so hot in the end.
Eventually Dad knocks, then opens the door without waiting for a response. Why bother pretending to care about my privacy? How is barging into my room different from me barging into his? I almost point out the hypocrisy, but instead whisper, “I’m sorry.” I don’t know where the apology came from, but as soon as it’s out there I wish I’d stuck to that line from the start.
“You should be.” His eyes are distant. He doesn’t acknowledge the state of emergency my room is in. I could have blood spewing from my wrists and all he’d care about is her journal. My life is a competition with a ghost. I’ll never win.
“So, do you forgive me?” I ask.
I can’t remember the last time he was up here. I think it was freshman year when he set up the desk I got for Christmas. He eyes the framed pictures on my bookshelf. They’re mostly friends, but there’s a few of Mom and me. None of my dad. Shitty time for him to notice.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Eve.”
“So, what then?”
“So nothing,” he says, shaking his head at the impossibility of me ever making this right.
I collect trash from the floor, unsure what to say. He watches me, fists clenched. What the hell? What kind of parent says they won’t forgive their kid?
“I’m heated,” he finally says. “Even more than the journal, I’m disappointed in the things you said.” He turns his back, but not before I see tears in his eyes. “I thought we were done with all that-that … blame. I’m considering canceling the trip to Paris. I haven’t decided yet, but that’s the way I’m leaning.”
Oh my God. He’s serious. It’s the only thing he can take away that I care about. Car, cell phone, clothes, laptop, even the TV—it’s all meaningless to me and he knows it. I bet he never even planned to go. He probably created the trip to have something to hang over my head.
“Please don’t,” I say, hating the desperation in my voice.
“After your performance downstairs … I don’t see the point in spending all that money and missing work for a trip I’m no longer excited about.”
“It’s three weeks away. Don’t you think we will be past this?”
He walks to the door. “I don’t know. Look, I’m not canceling anything tonight. Let’s see how next week goes.”
“Fine,” I say, searching for a way to get the upper hand, “but it’s not like you’re a saint. People make mistakes. Mom said to practice love, compassion, and forgiveness.”
His grip on the door handle is so tight his knuckles turn white. He leaves without responding.
My eyes water. It isn’t only the trip. I’m down to one parent and I screwed it up. For what? Why didn’t I just apologize, hand him the journal, and walk away?
* * *
The next morning I beat him downstairs and scrawl I’M SORRY across the whiteboard in huge letters. In small print underneath I add that I’m going to the library to study calculus. He’s more of a pushover when I’m quote-unquote prioritizing academics. I might have to work for it, but I’m going to freaking Paris.
I pull into the library parking lot, recalling why I’d pushed back when Rory suggested we meet here for tutoring. I haven’t stepped in a library since Mom died. I park the car but don’t get out. Instead, I roll down the window and light a smoke, picturing my mother offering a mental farewell to her favorite books as she headed toward the roof. She always told me, “When the world gives you a hard time, pick up a book and join another.” Why didn’t she ta
ke her own advice that day?
After she died, people couldn’t get over the fact that the building was only four stories. They questioned her intelligence and said terrible things within earshot like, “She could’ve just turned into a paraplegic—then she’d actually have a reason to be depressed.” They were confused by her choice, but I understood. Of course she picked the library. She referred to the library, any library, as a sanctuary. She made a point of visiting them when we were on vacation, as though they were a common tourist attraction. The only time I ever heard her talk politics was when she found out Laura Bush was a librarian. She was so excited. “Think of how much funding they’ll get,” she gushed.
When I was little she took me to story time every week. “Isn’t it amazing? All these books are at our disposal. Anyone can come in here and borrow them for free. It’s the coolest thing the government has ever done, bar none.” After story time, we’d pick new books for the week. My mom always approached the librarian for recommendations. She’d stand in line if she had to. Librarians carried celebrity status in her mind. “There’s not enough time to read everything written,” she’d whisper as we waited, “so it’s important to be discerning.”
She always spoke to me like an adult. People were wowed by my crazy vocabulary when I was a kid. My mom claimed it was all the books we read, but really, I had to learn big words if I wanted to know what the hell she was talking about. Language, expression, new ideas: these were things that made her heart race, and they all came to life at the library. So I get why it was her location of choice. If you’re where you feel the most understood and still can’t find peace, it’s time to move on.
Brady
I’d tucked away the mystery about my mom as another unknown on a mounting list of life unknowns when I got Bobby’s call with Marie’s phone number and address. She lives in Reston, Virginia. My next meeting isn’t for forty minutes, so I dial the number. A woman with a heavy smoker’s voice answers.
I Liked My Life Page 20
