And since my plan had always been to go back to work once James started school, that plan just kind of took on a life of its own, first with the Weekly and then with Well in Westchester. I never really examined it carefully. It was just what I was going to do. But now that time is here and, maybe, instead of just being on autopilot I should think about why it’s important to me to go back to work. If it’s important to me.
Come to think of it, I’ve always run on autopilot, conformed to the norm: high school leads to college, college graduation leads to a job, serious boyfriend leads to marriage, marriage leads to babies. Never once did I picture myself taking a gap year after high school and traveling through Europe, moving to Colorado after college to teach skiing for a year, staying single, and choosing not to have children. Conforming is just what most mainstream girls do. I sometimes envy the frizzy-haired, hemp-wearing, child-free rebels sitting in their airy, light-filled outer-borough brownstones with their life partners leafing through photo albums of all the wonderful adventures they’ve embarked upon, stopping only to take a call from their agents letting them know that their debut novel has just topped the best-seller list.
Yes, there is a sense of fulfillment and identity I can only get by engaging in productive and stimulating work that is outside the realm of my children and their school. And there is something affirming about dressing in dry-clean-only clothes and sitting at a desk in an office that’s not in my home. Something that I felt distinctly when I first graduated college and went off to work that first day in an Ann Taylor suit with the good leather work bag my sister bought me for graduation. Sure, after I exhausted the new wardrobe and all its iterations (white blouse with the navy skirt, white blouse with the khaki trousers, navy skirt with the grey blazer, ivory dress with the grey blazer) and I got comfortable with my job, that initial feeling faded and then I just became another drone trying to figure out if I’d already worn the navy skirt suit that week, packing myself into an already-packed subway car, trying to be happy with a paycheck that was in no way fair remuneration for all the hard work I did. But I felt important. And feeling important is magnificent.
I want to feel important again. Unfortunately, I don’t know how many kids have the ability to make their mothers feel that way. Sure, my kids can make me feel proud, and loved, and needed in a way that prickles with pain and pure love at the exact same time. But they don’t make me feel important.
Which leads me to wonder (overthinker at work) why it’s so important for me to feel important. Is it the praise I covet? Is it the pat on the back from a person of authority when I do a good job? Well, maybe partly. Mostly? Yes. If I could I would mainline praise. So maybe it’s not the bachelor I want. Maybe I just want the bachelor to think I’m the prettiest, nicest, smartest, most desirable of all his suitors, and then have him go off with second-best and let her deal with all the crap that comes with getting chosen. And if I could muster enough of my self-esteem to realize I already am important, whether or not an eight-year-old or a highly respected boss tells me so out loud, then maybe I can finally let myself off the hook and relax for the first time in thirty-nine years. Maybe I can finally stop trying so hard to get everyone else to tell me I’m so damn special and just realize that I am.
“Do you want to hear the rap I wrote last night, Mom?” Henry asks me as he comes into the kitchen on Friday morning while I’m trying to bust out a few eggs-in-a-hole—the boys’ favorite breakfast. I’m leaving for the airport the moment they get onto the bus, so I’m feeling a little rushed.
“Sure, buddy,” I say. Henry has been into writing raps lately. There was the one about basketball (get it in the hoop/throw it for a loop/when you swoop) and the one about homework (math is tough/the carpet is rough/enough is enough). But I am not prepared for the masterpiece he is about to unleash. He opens with a beat-box intro.
“Oh fuck/you shuck a buck/and you got some good luck/some roses you pluck/oh fuck. . . .”
“Whoa! Whoa! Henry!” I say, and I can’t help myself from cracking up. Here in the exact moment I should be stern and formidable, I am laughing so hard the pee is starting to leak out. “You can’t say that,” I say, trying to regain my composure as I frantically wave my spatula about.
Henry smiles. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? I’m not gonna sing it at school.”
“Seriously, Hen?” Again, I’m pleased I’m not losing my shit here. I’m handling this calmly, and he’s actually listening. Or at least pretending to. “Why don’t you write another rap about basketball or something? Or about Legos? You know if you sang that at school or told any of your friends about it, you would have gone straight to the principal’s office, and I can’t have you go to the principal’s office today, because I’m going to be on an airplane, and I can’t pick you up from school. So please, please, don’t tell anyone at school about this.” Then I bring on stern. “Plus, this is completely inappropriate. You may not use bad words in your raps or even out of your raps. It’s not okay,” I say, wondering if he’s been sneaking a listen to the “explicit” songs on my iPod. I know I sound like one of those holier-than-thou parents who says, “My little Billy doesn’t even know any bad words,” but I honestly didn’t know he knew the word fuck. Not a word Darren and I toss around. At least not in front of the boys. I guess that’s what recess is for.
Disaster averted and little brother’s ears thankfully not corrupted (James was still in the mudroom putting on his shoes during Eminem Jr.’s concert), I proceed with the breakfast prep and imagine Darren’s face when I tell him. He’ll laugh harder than I did. For some reason, fathers take it as a point of pride when their boys swear, perform arm farts, or burp the alphabet. Man training has begun.
“When are you coming home from California, Mommy?” James asks as he punctures the yolk with his fork and dips the crust in the ooze. He’s not asking because he’s sad. He likes to know what’s coming next and when exactly that’s going to be.
“I’ll be home late Sunday night, but you’ll be asleep, so I’ll see you Monday morning. What should we have for breakfast on Monday?” I ask, trying to distract him from my impending absence.
“Chocolate-chip pancakes!” Henry shouts.
“Well, I’m in for the pancakes, but we’ll see about the chocolate chips. Depends on how well you guys behave for Daddy this weekend.” Who am I kidding? They’re going to be angels. Kids save their best behavior for their dads. It’s the moms who seem to always bear the brunt of their kids’ disorderly conduct. Part of me hopes Darren has to deal with at least one meal refusal or a sock tantrum. I’ll settle for a door slam. It’s only fair.
As the boys collect their sweatshirts and backpacks, I don’t tell them that I’ll miss them or that I’ll be so sad while I’m away. Because I don’t think either will be true. I love my boys to the depths of my soul and beyond, but I can be away from them for a few days without self-combusting. I’m actually excited to be going away. It always makes the coming back so sweet and joyful. Like what working fathers get every single night they get home from work when their children rush the door and hang on them like they’ve been gone for a year fighting a war instead of in midtown Manhattan for twelve hours. I can’t wait to feel that. That feeling of an unexpected gift, the first buds on my magnolia tree in April, the gold-sequined, top-hat finale of A Chorus Line.
“One more hug,” I tell them both, squeezing them tight before they rush away to get on the bus. I inhale their little boy smells of laundry detergent, toothpaste, and sleep, and tell them that I love them. I wave till the bus is out of sight, then I rush inside, grab my bags, and get into the taxi that’s waiting in my driveway to take me to the airport.
This is admittedly and embarrassingly lame, but when I get on the plane, in an effort to use my time wisely, I make a list of all the topics I want to ponder during the flight: Darren (with a subtopic of Jake Doyle), job, life goals, and how to help Cameron. True to form and order, once the plane is at cruising altitude, I get bus
y thinking about Darren. I’m big on attaching soundtracks to my life experiences, so I put on my “reflective” playlist which contains everything from “Fix You” by Coldplay (I cry when I think about how Chris Martin wrote that for Gwyneth when her dad died) to “Lovely Day” by Bill Withers (a guy I worked with eons ago turned me onto that soul-stirring classic), from “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield (totally corny, but the words are inspiring) to “Superman” by Five for Fighting and “Superwoman” by Alicia Keys (both self-explanatory).
It’s now been almost two weeks since the big revelation, and I realize that the emotion now making its debut in my limbic system is anger. Anger that takes over my body like I’ve freebased it. Over the last few days, I was strangely ambivalent about the whole thing, a position almost bordering on acquiescence. I just felt too tired to fight it. The basic facts are that he loves me, that we have a solid marriage and a great family, that he did something stupid, and that I should just move on. Simple. Done. Get on with my life.
I had moments of even forgetting the whole thing had ever happened. Like I’d be in a conversation with Darren and everything would be normal until I got some strange pang somewhere near where I imagine my gallbladder to be, and then I remembered that he did the dirty with another woman. But those blissfully blank moments around the pang made me realize that maybe the pangs are temporary, and when they go away, I’ll only be left with the parts that don’t ache. And then someday, memories of The Bandit will appear only once in a while, like when we’re checking into a hotel on a family vacation and I glance over to the lobby bar or when we’re away, just the two of us, and we come back to our hotel room after a few drinks, laughing in the hall, trying not to wake the conventioneers. Then as Darren slides the key card into the door, I’ll imagine his expression when he brought her into his room instead of me.
But, here, 35,000 miles into the ether, the pangs have resurfaced, maybe even multiplied, and I’m angrier now than I have been since he told me. In a way it seems as if I’ve stepped out of myself and am viewing the situation as if it’s happening to a friend. No longer is the affront personal, in varying shades of grey. Now, my friend is under attack, it’s all black and white, and I’m pissed.
It is not okay that Darren had a momentary lapse and just happened to have sex with a stranger. Just like it wouldn’t be okay if I did that. So not okay. And then his admission is supposed to lead smoothly to exoneration? Like a baby’s smile leads to a mother’s laugh, despite the projectile vomit all over the living room drapes? Forgive me Grace, for I have sinned, but I wore a condom and it didn’t mean anything and I feel really badly and I’m telling you so can you absolve me now?
I’m not saying that the divorce attorney has made his way into my speed dial. I’m saying that the initial shock is over, and now I am mad. Plain old mad. Getting a notice for jury duty mad. Having to get root canal mad. And I don’t know what to do with that feeling, except to let it fester for a while and then try to push it aside, so I can be grown up and try to figure out what the hell to do next.
I also feel like Darren’s become a little complacent about the whole thing and is taking my ambivalence for granted. I’m not interested in receiving more flowers, more compliments, or more invitations to fancy restaurants. I’m interested in expressions of remorse, perhaps some groveling. Maybe some appreciation for my withholding severe bodily harm.
When Elton John’s “Your Song” starts to play, I think of Jake. When Danielle died, somehow we all decided that would be her memorial anthem. I rarely hear that song on the radio, but when I do I immediately think of Danielle, and I smile, because I know she is with me. Now, I think of that motorcycle ride with Jake. My hair (at least the part sticking out from the helmet) blowing in the wind, my arms wrapped around a back I had longed to touch, my usually on-edge nerves completely numb, unafraid of the speed, unafraid of the true possibility that the sixteen-year-old boy who was operating this careening piece of steel could in any moment lose control and make my mother grieve and howl anew. The loss of two daughters in one week reducing her to absolute poignant nothingness.
Memories of my feelings for Jake rush back. I realize how trivial it is to even legitimize those feelings. I was a child. It was unrequited lust. There is nothing mature, meaningful, or lasting in those feelings. But here they are, camping out in my stomach, and I have a hunch they’re going to hang out there for at least a few days. I didn’t even realize I was missing that feeling of being adored until Darren started adoring me anew two weeks ago in the hopes of winning me back. And because it feels so forced with Darren, the recent genuine and, I believe, innocent (am I naive?) interactions with Jake make me feel young and unburdened. I am not a fool. I don’t believe that Jake is trying to start something with me. He’s just having a little fun, and so, goddamn it, am I.
These aren’t emotions I’m proud of feeling when they’re induced by another man. But I feel a bit entitled to them, especially because no one has to know about them, and I’m not going to act on them. Had Darren not cheated, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea of allowing another man to make me feel like this. I have no interest in starting a relationship with Jake or any other man. The thought makes me shudder.
I am incapable of doing to my husband what he did to me. Incapable of doing that to my children. But I am capable of sticking my toe into the water, just to see how it feels because I know I’m able to pull it out and resist the temptation to do a full-on swan dive into the sparkly blue inviting pool. And possibly, if I get an ego boost from Jake, it might make me feel even with Darren; I might be more inclined to take him back. So I’m giving myself permission to flirt innocently with Jake this weekend, to smile and blush when he tells me I look pretty (he better tell me), and to feel a little dangerous—as if I’m back on that motorcycle again, but this time I’ve taken off my helmet.
When the pilot announces we’ll be at LAX in thirty minutes, I wake with a start. I hadn’t thought I’d sleep on this daytime flight, but the motion has a way of doing that to me. I regret not having had the time to address the other items on my list. At least I’ll have things to talk about at lunch with my mom.
As I gather my bags and prepare to get off the plane, I’m struck by feelings of excitement (to see my old friends); calm (to be embraced by the care and love of my mom and sister, despite the fact that there will be a hefty amount of getting-on-nerves in the mix); freedom (to have an entire weekend of not having to discipline my children); and an intoxicating sense of anticipation at the thought of seeing Jake Doyle.
I check my phone as I make my way through the terminal. emails from Darren and Cameron asking about the flight, an email from Eva with a tentative itinerary for our “fabulous” day tomorrow, and a text from my mom saying she’s waiting for me at baggage claim. My phone vibrates as an email arrives from Jake.
chapter fifteen
i can’t believe your actually coming. so cool. 2morrow nite will be great. don’t look 2 pretty. that would be torture for me.
I blush and smile as I follow the throng down the escalator. I notice people are looking all around. And that might be the main difference between L.A. and New York. In L.A., people are constantly giving themselves whiplash trying to spot a celebrity or see who’s looking at them. In New York, people keep their heads down so they don’t make eye contact with someone who could potentially get the wrong idea.
I make a pit stop, and as I wedge myself into the stall with all my stuff I try to figure out Jake’s agenda. Knowing Jake, there is no grand master plan. He’s all WYSIWYG, like the simplest 1980s computer: What You See Is What You Get. I’m not saying he’s stupid. He’s actually not. It’s just that he’s the type to operate on instinct. The caveman gene in Jake is still quite intact.
Do I think he wants a relationship with me? Well, if I weren’t married, if I lived in L.A., if I liked to surf, and if I were really laid back, then I’m sure Jake would consider me. But I’m none of those things. It’s simply that Jak
e is lonely, Jake had a crush on me a long time ago, Jake likes my Facebook photo, and Jake’s just being Jake. I shouldn’t read into anything, I shouldn’t make assumptions, I shouldn’t do all the things that come naturally to me when I analyze a situation. For once, I’m just going to try to be.
“Gracie!” I hear my mom shout and see her perfectly manicured hand waving to me.
“Hi, Mom!” I say. I’m really excited to see her. It’s been a few months. When things are stable in my life, periodic phone conversations with my mom give me all the connection I need with her. But when things are unstable, like they are now, I regress, and being under my mom’s care feels really comforting. As I make my way toward her, I am struck by how beautiful and healthy she looks. I’m sure the perfectly highlighted hair and gently tanned face have something to do with it. But she looks vibrant, and it makes me feel happy. And proud. She’s wearing a bright yellow blouse and white capris. Her face is, of course, perfectly made up and her light pink lip gloss is glistening. This is another reason why women in L.A. look healthier than their counterparts in N.Y. They’re not always in black.
I give my mom a big hug and she pulls back to take a look at me. And though I haven’t touched up my lip gloss (in a few years), and I’m wearing sweats and sneakers, she gives me a big smile and tells me I look beautiful. Only a mother.
We don’t have to wait for baggage because I carried on, so we make our way to her car and then to her condo. After I left for college, my mom pulled a George Jefferson. She sold the modest house in Encino and moved “over the hill” to Westwood, to a fancy, high-floor condo in a doorman building on Wilshire Boulevard. Her own deluxe apartment in the sky. I settle into her guest room and change into a sundress for lunch. It’s strange that I don’t have a childhood room anywhere. No place where my trophies, Judy Blume books, and Rob Lowe posters collect dust. Now, I sleep in a land of blue toile: blue toile on the bedspread, on the slipper chair, on the drapes, on the throw pillows. On the fucking tissue box holder. As if the award-winning Beverly Hills decorator ate a five-course blue toile dinner and puked it all over my mother’s unsuspecting guest room.
On Grace Page 13
