by K Larsen
“Angie. Nothing is wrong, nothing at all, my love. I was just excited and I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a long jog. But the jog woke me up and now I’ve been pacing and sketching and I’ve got some amazing ideas and I just couldn’t wait any longer to share them with you!” I say it enthusiastically and hold up a now dampened bag of yesterday’s croissants I picked up at the deli. Andrew runs his hands through his handsome long hair, shakes his head and marches back to the bedroom.
“Okay, Mom, what is this? Midlife crisis? Perimenopause? Dad is involved in a political scandal? You caught him cheating? Because I know you didn’t come over here at—two in the morning—to talk about wedding decorations.”
“You are the only person I can call at two in the morning. The only person, Angelina, so I’m using that card,” I say. I make a pleading face. Angelina shuts the door, just like that, practically in my face.
This is what it’s going to be like, I guess. She’s getting married, she’ll have Andrew. She won’t need me anymore. I turn on the rich carpet, back toward the elevator. I can’t help but hang my head. I really should have called her first. What was I thinking?
Then the door swings open and there is Angie in her anorak. She’s pulling on her L.L. Bean duck shoes and passing me an umbrella, one we bought together at The Met. An umbrella with Monet’s Water Lilies on it and when I take it from her, my face breaks out into a full, genuine smile.
“This better be good, Mom. I’m expecting really juicy stuff. There’s a twenty-four hour diner on Amsterdam—the potato pancakes are good. Did you bring a car or are we walking?” She asks and then throws her arm around me.
“You are everything I’d always dreamed you’d be and so much more.”
“And this better not be about the fated night when you almost left Dad for some mysterious guy who appeared out of nowhere.”
Shit. She knows me far too well, this daughter of mine. There goes the dramatic retelling and anchor story I had planned for our night.
“Only exciting wedding stuff, Angie. How about the best wedding ever, for my very best girl?”
“Save it, Mom. You are coming to the hospital to hold my hand through contractions and even spending the first few nights to get up and do feedings,” she huffs, feigning anger.
“Lovey, are we having a shotgun wedding? You failed to mention that to me.”
“No, Mom, not yet. Like I could keep that kind of news from you for a second.”
“Angelina, if that were the case, your father would show up to the wedding with a shotgun.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice. Mom, what do you think of blue lights?”
“Honestly, depressing. Almost tacky.”
The wind whips our blond hair up as we step into the street. I squeeze Angelina’s hand in mine and she smiles at me. She is an exact replica of myself, when I was her age. Thick, naturally blonde hair and big, sparkling blue eyes. A spattering of freckles that travel down her neck and chest and generously dot her shoulders. Somehow, seeing her in the rain, tromping along to an all-night diner, becomes one more piece of evidence in tonight’s overwhelming puzzle. My memory is waking up and somehow coming back to life. I remember everything about that night, down to the smallest detail. How he drank his coffee black and used one finger to guide his thimble of creamer over to my side of the table when he saw I liked mine light and sweet, an intuitive gesture. I remember thinking, as I poured the second creamer into my steaming mug, this is not a man who would ever do me wrong. There was tragedy in his eyes and it was clear that he was hurting, but he was inherently good, it was simply written all over him.
Then I see his kind eyes, almost as if they were right there in front of me; I remember the snow, the awkward weight of the ridiculously soaked dress. I can almost taste the bad coffee, hear the soothing sound of his voice. I swear I can feel his hand, how it clasped mine across the divide of the cheap, laminate table. It was only a few hours we spoke but they left such a deep impression. God, I remember the grounding effect he had on me, how he seemed to pull me down to earth and put me back in my body. That’s what made me draw it before I ran out, on the matchbook that sat in front of me on our table. He was a stranger but somehow he drew me in, like a ship that drops anchor to steady against stormy weather.
I make a decision not to let Angelina get away without hearing the real reason I came. The memory is growing and expanding and suddenly becoming a real thing. It’s breathing life into me and everything around me. Something is happening and I’ve never felt so simultaneously scared and excited.
I’m supposed to take the post down today. I told myself I would. I want to, yet every time I sit down at the computer, I find a reason to stand back up and do something else. It’s as if my desk is repelling me. I can’t live like this, though. Distracted. Checking my inbox is my new religion. Crushing disappointment when it’s full of messages from everyone but her—the norm. I can’t focus on much. I’m a slave to my phone, tethered to it on the off chance that one of the notification dings is going to be an email response from her. I might as well be nineteen again, at the level of ridiculousness happening. I don’t have the stamina for this much longer.
A loud frustrated cry fills the house. Luke must be under the gun for homework. He only yelps like that when he’s stressed about schoolwork.
“Luke?” I call upstairs. There’s no answer. Needing to avoid my desk anyhow, I make my way to his room, picking up stray laundry and shoes as I go. This place needs a good scrubbing. It’s obvious that two men live here with no woman to keep them in line.
“Luke? Bud, everything okay?” I yell through the door. It flies open and Luke rushes out like a hurricane.
“My laptop crashed again and I have a report due tomorrow, Dad!”
“Use my computer.”
“All my notes and stuff are up here and it’s not quiet downstairs. You know I need to be alone to focus.”
I want to laugh and tell him to settle down but when he’s this worked up, that never works. “Your Mom’s laptop is under my bed. I’m sure it works perfectly still, just plug it in, since the battery is probably long dead by now.”
Luke stares at me for an extended moment. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yup,” I answer. “Just don’t delete anything, please,” I add as an afterthought. All the family photos are on Rory’s laptop. Videos. Memories. It’s a comfort knowing they’re there, if I ever wanted to crack it open. I don’t, though. Or haven’t yet. I just like knowing I can access them, if I want to.
“Um, yeah. Okay.”
I watch as Luke goes into my room and drops to his knees before gingerly pulling out the laptop. He carries it back to his room tenderly, as if it’s fragile. I squat, arms full of dirty clothes and swipe up another sock from his doorway before walking to the washer and dropping all the clothes in. I don’t separate colors or fabrics or any of that crap. If you own it, you risk it going in with anything else in the house. My system’s only failed me twice. One load ruined when Luke left a package of gum in his pants pocket. I pulled the sticky mess from the dryer and put everything right in the trash. And one load half ruined because I left a Chapstick in my pants pocket. I isolated all the Chapstick stained clothing and tossed those, too.
My phone buzzes and I’m instantly on it. “Larry! Can you tell the crew lunch is in ten?” I yell across the frame of a new house. I swipe my screen and turn away before he answers. An email from Jessica someone at something-or-other. My heart picks up its pace.
There is no way.
It can’t be.
I open the email and step into the shade so I can see the screen better.
Dear Mr. 1995,
Damn. Right there I know it’s not her. She didn’t use my name, but then again, maybe she doesn’t remember my name. Maybe the effect I had on her wasn’t what she had on me. It’s entirely possible.
I am not your green dress beauty. Sorry. I simply wanted to tell you that your post touched me deeply. I thoug
ht it brave and bold and sweet. It’s evident from your writing that you are a kind and thoughtful person. I posted the post on Facebook to help spread the word because I found myself unable to leave it. I felt compelled to help out somehow.
Anyways,
Best of luck
Jessica
Facebook. Damn. I’m not on it and don’t care to be. I’m plenty connected to everyone I want to be, at this point in life. A chill runs through me. This Jen person could have endless contacts, friends. If my post goes viral, then surely it will make its way back to her. Right? I can’t determine if I’m jacked up from the idea of that or terrified.
“Hey! Ty. Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet,” Larry shouts to me. I look up and see a pretty redhead standing next to him. I let a sigh escape before plastering a smile on my face and making my way over to them. I holster my hammer.
“Hi. Ty,” I say extending my hand to the redhead.
“Emily,” she answers and shakes my hand firmly. She has the lightest brown eyes, almost like they’re clear with just a tint of golden brown to them. She’s a good foot and a half shorter than I am, but most people are, when you’re over six feet tall.
“Larry, care to fill me in on why this pretty lady is standing in the midst of a job site with no hard hat on?” I say.
He laughs and his gut bounces with the sound. Like Santa. “Emily is here from Custom Builder Magazine. Remember? The article you’re being interviewed for?”
My eyes go wide. How could I have forgotten the Titan Homes feature in Custom Builder Magazine? “Emily! Right. God, I’m so sorry. It slipped my mind,” I offer. She smiles and bats her lashes at me. Larry backs away slowly. He knows that look, as do I.
“I think all can be forgiven, if you can help a girl out with where to have dinner in this town.” Her front tooth is chipped but it sort of makes her cute instead of homely. It’s been too long since I’ve had dinner with a woman.
“This a date or an interview?”
“Does that matter?”
“Well, sure, how am I supposed to know which kinda restaurant to pick?”
“Date,” she interjects quickly. “With a little shop talk, of course.”
“Of course. What hotel are you staying at?”
“The Staples Inn.”
“Nice place. I’ll pick you up at six. Nice to meet you, Emily,” I say and give her a wink. She blushes and backs away a step or two before turning her back to me. It’s little moments like these where I am reminded how much fun flirting can be. I love making a woman blush.
A day later, I’ve got my phone cradled to my chin as I organize dried flowers into color-coded bins in the basement. Angie is worried about me and has called twice already this morning.
“I don’t like how your eyes look, too animated or something,” she told me as she dragged a large bite of waffle through syrup last night at the diner. She’s as overprotective as her father is when it comes to my mental health. And sometimes it drives me crazy and I want to rebel like a kid, kick my feet, pound on the floor, scream until my face turns beet red. Why is it that every time I’m even a little bit off, “Did you take your meds, Jessy? When’s your next scheduled appointment?” It’s what he says every time, it’s what he’s always said.
That’s what I’m referring to as “maintaining the façade,” Mrs. John Van Buren, Jesenia, designer extraordinaire, married to a state senator, also suffers from bipolar disorder. But no one can ever know it because it’s too scandalous for politics. I’m “susceptible to migraines” is the reason we use for meds and all the doctors’ appointments. I was misdiagnosed for decades, all through my teen years and I’ve had my fair share of experimental therapies and trials. In my first year of college, my psychologist tried to tell me I had borderline personality disorder, which felt like a personal insult. When I was finally diagnosed, it was like coming home for the first time. I’m bipolar II, the supposedly more depressed kind. I regulate my moods with a small dose of lithium and sometimes a strong cup of coffee or a simple glass of wine.
But with the way John acts, you’d think I was stark-raving mad. Yet, I’ve never had any inpatient stays, never suffered an episode that’s put me in danger or ended me up in the hospital. I’m not the kind of manic depressive who has unstable behavior, I don’t get reckless during mood swings or violent or do things that I regret later. Sure, mania delivers me some sleepless nights. But I’m not out roaming the streets or engaging in questionable behavior. Mania makes me craft—and craft I do, like a motherfucker. I once spent forty-eight hours without any sleep. I refurbished two armchairs in the garage that I’d bought at an estate sale. I figured out how to reupholster the velvet myself, read a whole book on upholstery in one single sitting, without even a trip to the refrigerator or bathroom. During those same two days, I alphabetically organized every bookcase in our English Tudor style home in Albany, the state capitol. I planted tulip bulbs through the permafrost and made collapsible scrapbooks of every sport Angie ever played from kindergarten through the eighth grade. I vacuumed all of the drapes, after laying them out in early spring, on top of the pool cover, in order to get every edge. John woke up to the sound of the vacuum in the back yard and he thought I’d totally lost my head. He dragged me back to bed by pulling me by the arm. I cried for three hours after he fell back asleep, then I tiptoed down the stairs and righted myself by baking four different rum cakes.
I didn’t hear John complain as he slid his fork through the dense, buttery, golden slice. He didn’t once reprimand me as he washed it all down with a fresh brewed cappuccino I’d foamed and frothed with the espresso machine.
“This is incredible! They’ll think I’m drunk at the press conference.”
“The alcohol evaporates during baking. There are three more of those beauties on the counter in the pantry.”
“Come here, Jessy,” he said as he pulled me, standing in my apron, over to his seat at the eat-in kitchen breakfast table. He rubbed my hip and my thigh through my robe. “No vacuuming after ten. The neighbors will talk. Okay?”
“The Dyson is amazingly quiet,” I whispered in my defense, as I slipped another perfect slice onto his empty plate.
“I’ll call Dr. Fitzpatrick today. You might need a slight adjustment.”
I’ve never adjusted my low dose of lithium ever since they started me. Only one occasion ever called for that and the result was my life’s greatest accomplishment. See, I stopped my meds when I found out I was pregnant with my daughter. The situation forced me to open up to John—to tell him there was something wrong with me. And to tell him I was pregnant. He didn’t know because I was too afraid to tell him. John would be furious if Angelina were pregnant. The only shotgun wedding in our family was the one we had right before I’d finished my last year of college. It was our one and only scandal and we kept it as quiet as it possibly could be.
The pressure to stay together after the wedding was extreme. We had to save face and at the same time, prove any naysayers wrong: my parents, John’s political allies, our peers who had respectfully waited until graduation and beyond. We had to get married, survive the pregnancy, have Angie and never look back. We had to pull it all off, so that no one would ever even question that it hadn’t been our plan in the first place. The Van Buren’s don’t make mistakes, they are a perfect family and they set the bar high.
Except for one fateful night, when an impressionable Jesenia escaped like Cinderella from a dreadful New Year’s Eve party; she was just twenty-two, six weeks pregnant and wearing an emerald ball gown. Her fiancé was impeccable in a tux as he announced their engagement. Jess, on the other hand, was far from okay, her emotions swirled around her like a tempest threatening to steal her plastered-on smile away. She was off her meds, drowning in pregnancy hormones. She wasn’t sure if she was in love, if she was doing the right thing. As John spoke and lifted his champagne flute high to the whole room, Jess cowered and felt fear run through her instead of the cheer everyone else seeme
d to relish in. She had a sudden vision of the rest of her life, a fancy, shining exterior with nothing substantial inside, a giant, luxurious balloon, filled up with nothing but lies.
It was then that she took off running in the slush of the on-coming Nor’easter, her hand pressed to the almost imperceptible rounding of her belly. Come fly away with me, my child and we will find honesty and beauty someplace in this world. But she only made it a measly mile away, where she crept into a doorway to find shelter from the wet snow that just wouldn’t give up. She splayed her hands across her belly and tried to peer into the future. Just give me a sign that it will be okay and I will stay anchored in the place where you put me—forever.
Then out of nowhere, there was a gentle hand lifting her up. She was lost in the doubt of tomorrow and whether or not she could force herself to go on or to even stand up.
“Mom, are you there? Are you listening to me?”
“I’m here, Angie, I am. I just got lost in some memories.”
“Well, tomorrow, after the podcast, I thought if you’re up for it, we could hit the flea markets. Do Chelsea first and then head over to that newer one in Brooklyn.”
“Oh, honey, I’d love that so much.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Mom? You sound kind of distracted?”
“I’m good, Angie. I’m excited for tomorrow, they just dropped off the spools at the studio this morning.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“Me, too, Honey. So much.”
So we come to find out that the princess wasn’t perfect, that the clock struck midnight and she still had a whole slew of real life problems to deal with. And those problems would remain and she’d dedicate so much energy to covering them up—to pretending to be what she wasn’t—so that no one got offended or thought less of her and her family. But Jesenia never wanted a fairy tale, she was okay with reality.
