by Jane Porter
“I’m not going.”
“Taylor—”
“I’m not going.” I reach for the beer, grab it back. “I have commitments here, Nathan. I have friends here. I never agreed to move. I never agreed to any of this.”
As I walk out, I drop the beer in the trash. It shatters in the metal garbage can, but I don’t care. The can at least has a plastic lining.
We eat dinner in different rooms and sleep apart, the first time we’ve slept apart in the same house in years. Sunday morning, Nathan wakes early and grabs his clubs and heads to the golf course. He doesn’t call, and I won’t try to phone him. After feeding the girls lunch, I let them invite friends over.
Now I sit on a lounge chair and watch the little girls play on the lawn while the older girls are in the house on the computer. I hope they’re not on MySpace. Or Facebook. Or any of those other Internet places. Too many perverts hang out there.
Friday, Raine e-mailed with the title of the new book club selection, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, which we’ll discuss at Jen’s, although I wish Raine had picked an Amy Tan novel, since Jen is hosting. Jen’s Chinese. Her parents were both immigrants, and she’s living the immigrant dream. I’d very much like to hear more about life, particularly life in America, from someone who isn’t white.
But The Memory Keeper’s Daughter it is, and I give the opening chapter thirty minutes of undivided attention before I close my eyes. The writing’s beautiful. It’s going to be depressing.
I don’t think I can do depressing right now.
I’ll wait. I’ll read it later. I’ll just look at magazines now.
Fortunately, I’ve brought some magazines out with me, so I drop the book and leaf through the newest issue of 425, a glossy quarterly magazine devoted to the upscale lifestyle we enjoy here on Seattle’s Eastside.
There are new reviews of spas and restaurants, including a review of the Redmond location for Lori’s restaurant, Ooba’s. I’ve been there only a couple of times, but everyone raves about the chicken enchiladas, grilled salmon soft tacos, and shrimp quesadillas.
Just reading the reviews makes me even more determined to remain here. I love Bellevue. This is home. It’s everything I ever wanted in a city, too.
I’m reading a profile of a Seattle Mariner player who has chosen to live in the area in the off-season when I hear Nathan’s car. He’s back. I’m suddenly a ball of nerves again.
However, I nonchalantly continue to read my magazine for another half hour. Then Kate calls to say she’ll come pick up her daughter, who has been playing with Brooke. “I’m out in the back,” I tell her. “Come have a drink with me.”
I fix Kate our favorite drink, the good old gin and tonic, a drink she lovingly refers to as “mother’s little helper.”
Outside, we curl up on two padded lounge chairs. Kate is usually sunny and poised to tell a wicked joke. But she’s pensive today, and for a moment we just sip our cocktails and sit in companionable silence.
On the lake, a motorboat speeds by. Pretty girls laugh from the back of the boat as it hits a wake and bounces hard.
“Do you ever go out on your boat?” Kate asks, watching the sleek speedboat disappear.
“Not as much as we used to.”
She sighs. “Isn’t that the way it goes? You spend a fortune on second homes and toys, and one day you wake up to realize you’re tired of your vacations and your toys.”
“Thinking of selling one of your homes?” I ask. Kate has vacation houses scattered all over the world. Over the years, they’ve either bought or built houses in Cabo, Sun Valley, and Scottsdale, a condo in Maui, a time-share in Las Vegas, and something in Carmel or Monterey so Bill can fly in and golf for a day.
“I don’t know. It just seems like a lot of work lately. I’m tired of fielding phone calls from staff regarding the need for repairs. It gets expensive and time-consuming. Sometimes I think we’re better off just selling everything and going back to staying in resorts.”
I make a sympathetic noise even as I wish I had Kate’s problems. Her husband has a stable job. Her husband is worth millions, maybe even a billion by now. “You’d have to pack suitcases again that way, and you hate packing, remember?”
“That’s true.” She takes a long sip from her cocktail. “This is just what I needed. You know, you now make a better gin and tonic than I do. What’s your secret?”
“Lots of lime.”
Kate’s daughter spots her from the upstairs bonus room and leans out the window to shout hello. Kate waves back. After her daughter’s head disappears back into the bonus room, Kate says, “I’ve been so upset all day. My mother has invited herself, and her husband’s entire family, to Sun Valley for Christmas. Twenty more people to feed and entertain.”
I guess this isn’t the time to bring up the fact that I’d hoped we could stay with Kate and Bill in Sun Valley for the holidays, too.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” she continues, “if my mom would even ask me. Instead she assumes I’m dying to host all of Larry’s children. They’re so ungrateful, too. Just because their dad married my mom doesn’t mean I owe them anything. We were all adults when Mom married Larry. I wasn’t looking for another father or another family.”
I nod and concentrate on listening. Sometimes we just need someone to listen to us. Men don’t seem to understand that. They think we want them to solve our problems when we just want to share.
“Don’t you have a stepfather?” Kate asks.
“Yes.”
“Is he as bad as Larry?”
I think of my mom’s husband, Ray, the trucker convict. Mom’s been married to him for fourteen years now. Almost as long as she was married to Dad. “Worse.”
“Where does your mom live?”
“All over.” I make a face. “Ray’s a truck driver,” I add delicately. “They pretty much live out of Ray’s cab.”
“That must be interesting,” she answers just as delicately.
I’ve never really talked about my mom before, and I’m not sure why I shared what I did just now. I’m sure we all have our family skeletons, but they’re safest in the family closet. “It is.” I pause, wondering how to close the topic and smooth it over. “We don’t have a lot of contact. The children haven’t seen her in years.”
“Not much in common?” Kate guesses.
I nod, and we move on to other subjects, but the shame lingers. Shame is a heavy burden, too, which is why my kids don’t see my mother.
The girls don’t really understand why not, either, as Mom sends a card with checks for the girls every birthday and Christmas, but I don’t try to explain. I deposit the checks in the girls’ savings accounts, have them write a brief thank-you, and that’s that. The girls don’t need to understand everything now. It’s enough that they know I don’t approve of her and that I don’t believe she’s someone they need in their lives.
After another drink and another half hour of chatting, Kate leaves with Elly, and I start dinner.
Dinner the next night is nearly unbearable. It’s been a terrible Monday and I’m so upset with Nathan that I can’t even look at him, can hardly tolerate being in the same room with him.
He’s not who I thought he was, and I thought I knew him well.
If it weren’t for the girls’ silly chatter about their day at school, there would be no conversation during the meal. I couldn’t talk if I tried. I feel as though I’m losing my mind. Nathan can’t be serious. He can’t be. Move? Move to Omaha?
My throat seals shut, and I battle the threat of tears. Can’t cry in front of the girls. Can’t. Can’t. Must maintain control. Must keep it together.
But later as I wash the dishes, my throat gets that horrible squeezed feeling again. I can’t go to Omaha. There’s nothing for us in Omaha. We know no one there, either. Bellevue’s home. This is where we live. This is where the kids go to school. Besides, I’m committed to co-chairing this year’s school auction, and there’s no way I can leave the auction in the
lurch. It’s the school’s biggest fund-raiser, and it’s a huge job. I couldn’t walk away now. It wouldn’t be fair.
I go to bed first tonight, and when I wake in the middle of the night to use the restroom, I discover Nathan’s sleeping in bed with me. He’s not lying close, though. He’s practically sleeping on the edge on his side.
Good. He can stay there. In fact, I hope he falls off.
In the morning, Nathan gets the girls breakfast and I dress so I can walk them to their bus stop. When it’s time for Jemma and Brooke to leave, I fill the tall red thermal cup I’ve bought from Tully’s with coffee and carry it with me as I escort the girls to their stop.
It’s chillier this morning than it has been, the late September morning a misty gray. Standing at the bus stop with the other moms, I chat about everything and nothing, and it’s comforting. They’re all as frazzled and frustrated as I am. At least, I think, I’m not alone in my mountain of worries. All women seem to worry about being good enough, doing enough, trying enough.
I kiss Brooke good-bye as she climbs on the bus. Jemma allows me to blow her a kiss. I watch the bus chug down 92nd Avenue as it heads toward school.
Back at the house, I dress Tori and then pack my workout gear in my gym bag. I’ll do the Pilates class today. God knows I need it.
Nathan sees me with my gym bag. “Where are you going?”
“Taking Tori to school and then to the Bellevue Club.”
“What about the Bekins rep that Charlotte’s arranged to come meet us today?”
I shake my head disbelievingly. “Why won’t you listen to me? I’m not moving to Omaha, and if I did move, I guarantee it wouldn’t be until you’ve been on the job at least six months. Maybe this summer I’d consider moving. Maybe once we get through this year—”
“Taylor, you’re the one not getting it. We can’t afford to live separately. Hell, we can’t even afford to live here. We have no money.”
“But what about our money?”
“What money?” He laughs.
I pull the gym bag strap tighter on my shoulder. “The rest of our money.”
He pauses for a split second before answering. “There is none.”
“But our savings?”
“We’ve never had a formal savings account. We’ve had stocks, real estate, investments.”
“So we do have something more.”
“I’ve liquidated what I could. The rest is gone.”
I look at him, trying to process this but failing. Nathan’s rich. He comes from money. He made good money. What is he saying? That we have no money? That we’re . . . broke? “Our house must count for something.”
“No.”
His flat, hard answer leaves me stunned. “Nathan, it’s a five-million-dollar house—”
“Mortgaged to the hilt. We can’t get any more money out of it. Not without selling it.”
I laugh. “Sell the house?”
He just looks at me, deep lines etched at his eyes and mouth.
I abruptly stop laughing. “Is that the real reason we’re moving? Because we’re broke and might have to sell the house?”
He doesn’t answer, and I feel a terrible lump fill my throat. It grows and grows and presses down so that I want to gag. Gag and throw up.
I’ve been through this before. I lived this as a kid. I refuse to live this now.
But Nathan isn’t my dad. I’m not my mom. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening again.
“You’ll get another job here, a great job,” I tell him low and clearly. “But until then, we’ll cut back. We’ll cut back on whatever we can—”
“It’s too late for that,” he says. “It’s . . . unfixable.”
Tori wanders into our room, her thumb popped in her mouth, her eyes wide and a frightened blue. I haven’t seen her suck her thumb in at least a year. It means she’s heard us arguing and she’s nervous. Scared. That makes two of us, baby.
I scoop her into my arms. “Let’s go to school,” I say with false cheer, and step around Nathan without looking at him.
I try my best to focus on the exercises and lengthening and breathing during the Pilates class, but my mind races and I keep turning the same thought over and over in my head. What does unfixable mean?
Nathan said the situation is unfixable, but I don’t understand what unfixable is. I don’t accept unfixable. I believe things can be fixed. I believe. I believe.
It’s not until I’ve showered and dressed and am leaving the club that I check my BlackBerry calendar and remember I’m hosting the auction meeting at my house tonight.
Nathan’s going to have a fit.
Wearily, I call him to give him fair warning. He’s definitely not happy. “Can’t you at least wait until I’m gone?”
“The date’s set, Nathan. Everyone’s made arrangements for child care. I can’t change it now.”
“Why is the auction so much more important than your family?”
Stung, I fall silent. My mouth opens and closes before I manage to find my voice. “How dare you say such a thing? I only volunteered to chair the auction to help the girls—”
“Oh, please, Taylor. You can fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me. The auction is nothing but a huge ego booster and we both know it.”
My eyes feel gritty. A lump fills my throat. “How long have you hated me?”
“I don’t hate you, Taylor, but I know you and I know your games.”
Games? What games? “I have to go,” I say thickly. “I’m supposed to be helping in the computer lab.”
“Of course. Taylor Young, queen of everything.”
I’m shocked at his bitterness. I’ve never heard him speak to me like this. How long has he felt this way?
Shaken, I stop by Starbucks on my way to school and get my usual latte, but instead of passing on the sweets, I buy a pumpkin scone with the maple glaze. I scarf down the scone sitting in my car. I eat as fast as I can, eat until every crumb is gone. And then I pound the steering wheel.
I hate myself.
I hate myself.
I hate what’s happening all around me. But I feel so helpless. I want to fix this. I want to make things better. But moving to Omaha isn’t the answer. It can’t be the answer. This is home. This is where we live. We have to find a solution here.
Nathan takes the girls out to a movie while I host the auction meeting. He doesn’t say good-bye when he leaves. Brooke and Tori give me a kiss. Jemma shouts from the doorway that she loves me. Thank God. I couldn’t bear it if the girls turned on me, too.
The meeting is set for seven p.m., and everyone arrives promptly. I’ve opened bottles of good Chardonnay and Merlot, believing that a fund-raising meeting is so much more civilized with a great glass of wine.
We spend ten minutes socializing before I call the meeting to order. “As you know from my e-mail, we need to come up with a new theme, as Enatai took ours. Patti and I met last week to brainstorm ideas, and I sent you all our top three. Can I have some feedback on the new suggested themes?”
“I’m not crazy about any of them,” Louisa says candidly, “but of the three, my favorite is the Côte d’Azur.”
“Do you really think the Côte d’Azur is a good theme?” asks Carla, leaning back in her chair, her pen pressed to her chin. “Will everyone get the whole South of France thing?”
“Everyone knows about Cannes,” I answer firmly. “The film festival is renowned. We can decorate with palm trees and white tents and red carpets, really working the glamour of the film industry. Big spotlights, select live auction destinations blown up and framed like movie posters.”
“Or we track down vintage travel posters depicting some of our destinations like Greece, Paris, Sun Valley,” Patti adds. “Honestly, I think it would be fun and glitzy, kind of a holiday party in the middle of March.”
A debate ensues and then turns heated, as it often does. So many of us are strong women and opinionated. Give us all leadership roles and there’s bound
to be conflict.
Patti eventually calls for a break. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some more wine,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
She takes my arm as we all rise and head for the dining room, where wine and appetizers wait. “Are you okay, Taylor?”
I nod briskly. “Of course. Why?”
“You don’t seem like yourself. You’re sure everything’s all right?”
My chest squeezes tight, and I fight the most ridiculous urge to burst into tears. I would love to confide in her, but I can’t. This isn’t something I can talk about, isn’t something that can be shared. “I’m fine. Just concerned about the auction.”
“Don’t be concerned. We’ll do the Côte d’Azur theme, everyone will have a ball, and we’ll raise buckets of money, okay?”
I struggle to smile. “Okay.”
Patti offers to top up my wine, but I cover my goblet. One glass is enough. I have to be careful about drinking. It’s not just the calories. If I drink too much in one week I sometimes feel more blue, and I have enough trouble not being sad as it is.
The others aren’t holding back, though. The two bottles are nearly empty, and I go to the kitchen to retrieve a third. As I return to the dining room, I overhear part of a conversation taking place between Patti and Barb, one of the new first-grade moms.
“There’s definitely a mystique about Sun Valley,” Patti says with a laugh. “Maybe it’s because there are four distinct groups that gather in Sun Valley at Christmastime. The locals, the Seattle people, the L.A. people, and the celebrities.”
“Celebrities?” Barb asks curiously.
Patti glances at me before answering. “Well, you don’t talk to the celebrities—that’s a definite no-no—but they all go during the winter holidays. Bruce Springsteen, John Kerry, Bruce Willis, Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher.” Patti glances at me again. “Who am I forgetting?”
This should be easy—I’ve been going to Sun Valley for the past ten years. But I can’t think of anyone. My brain doesn’t seem to be working. I frown hard, concentrating, trying to picture faces I’ve seen the last few years. “Um, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver last year, and oh, Clint Eastwood and Robin Williams, too.”
