I look over at them. They have my beauty and David’s drive. Ash and Ty lift their eyes from their phones just long enough to roll their eyes at me, in that way that teens do, the way teens always have, in that there-couldn’t-be-a-more-lame-uncool-human-in-the-world-than-you-Mom way. And it’s always followed by “the sigh.”
“I like to do it this way,” I say.
“NO ONE writes anything anymore,” Ashley says.
“NO ONE, Mom!” Tyler echoes.
“Cursive is dead, Mom,” Ashley says. “Get with the times.”
I stare at my children. They are often the sweetest kids in the world, but every so often their evil twins emerge, the ones with forked tongues and acerbic words.
Did they get that from me? Or their father? Or is it just the way kids are today?
The sun shifts, and the reflection of water from the pool dances on the white walls, making it look as if we are living in an aquarium. I glance down the long hallway where the pool is reflecting, the place David has allowed me to have my only “clutter”: a corridor of old photos, a room of heirlooms.
My life flashes before me: our family in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree in New York at the holidays, eating colorful French macarons at a café in Paris, lying out on Barcelona’s beaches, and fishing with my parents at their summer cottage on Lake Michigan. And then, in the ultimate juxtaposition, there is an old photo of me, teenage me, in a bikini at Lake Birchwood hanging directly next to an old Sports Illustrated cover of me. In it, I am posing by the ocean where I met David. I am crouched on the beach like a tiger ready to pounce. That was my signature pose, you know, the one I invented that all the other models stole, the Tiger Pose.
I was one of the one-name girls back then: Madonna, Iman, Cher, V. All I needed was a single letter to identify myself. Now V has Vanished. I have one name.
“Mom!”
“Lunch. Please!”
My eyes wander back to our pool. I would be mortified to wear a bikini today. I am not what most people would deem overweight. But I have a paunch, my thighs are jellied and my chin is starting to have a best friend. It was that photo in all of the gossip magazines a year or so ago that did it to me. Paparazzi shot me downing an ice cream cone while putting gas in my car. I had shuttled the kids around all day in 110-degree heat, and I was wearing a billowy caftan. I looked bigger than my SUV. And the headlines:
Voluminous!
V has Vanished Inside This Woman!
If you saw me in person, you’d likely say I’m a narcissist or being way too hard on myself, but it’s as hard to hide fifteen pounds in LA as it is to hide an extra throw pillow in this house. I get Botox and fillers and do all the things I can to maintain my looks, but I am terrified to go to the gym here. I am mortified to look for a dress in a city where a size two is considered obese. The gossip rags are just waiting for me to move.
My eyes wander back to the photos.
I no longer have an identity.
I no longer have friends.
“Earth to Mom? Can you make me some lunch?” Tyler looks at me. “Then I need to go to Justin’s.”
“And you have to drive me to Lily’s at four, remember?”
I shudder. A two-mile drive in LA takes two hours.
“Mom?”
Ashley looks at me.
There is a way that your children and husband look at you—or rather don’t look at you at a certain point in your life—not to mention kids in the street, young women shopping, men in restaurants, David’s colleagues, happy families in the grocery.
They look through you. Like you’re a window.
It’s as if women over forty were never young, smart, fashionable, cool...were never like them, never had hopes, dreams and acres of life ahead of them.
What is with American society today?
Why, when women reach a “certain age,” do we become ghosts? Strike that. That’s not an accurate analogy: that would imply that we actually invoke a mood, a scare, a feeling of some sort. That we have a personality. I could once hold up a bag of potato chips, eat one, lick my fingers and sell a million bags of junk food for a company. Now I’m not even memorable enough to be a ghost. This model has become a prop. A piece of furniture. Not like the stylish one my kids are stretched out on, but the reliable, sturdy, ever-present, department store kind, devoid of any depth or substance, one without feeling, attractiveness or sexuality. I am just here. Like the air. Necessary to survive, but something no one sees or notices.
I used to be noticed. I used to be seen. Desired. Admired. Wanted.
I was the ringleader of friends, the one who called the shots. Now, I am Uber driver, Shipt delivery, human Roomba and in-home Grubhub, products I once would have sold rather than used.
I take a deep breath and note a few more grocery items on my antiquated written list and stand to make my kids lunch.
They are teen health nuts, already obsessed with every bite they consume. Does it have GMOs? What is the protein-to-carb differential?
Did I do this to them? I don’t think so.
Even as a model, I ate pizza, but that’s back in the day when a curve was sexy and a bikini needed to be filled out. I pull out some spicy tuna sushi rolls I picked up at Gelson’s and arrange them on a platter. I wash and chop some berries and place them in a bowl. I watch my kids fill their plates. Ashley is a cheerleader and wannabe actress, and Tyler is a skateboarding, creative techy applying to UCLA to study film and directing. Ashley wants to go to Northwestern to major in drama. They will both be going to specialty camps later this summer, Ashley for cheerleading and acting, Tyler for filmmaking and to boost his SAT scores. My eyes drift back to my photo wall, and I smile. They will not, however, spend their days simply having fun, singing camp songs, engaging in color wars, shooting archery, splashing in a cold lake, roasting marshmallows and making friends. A kid’s life today, especially here in LA, is a competition, and the competition starts early.
There is a rustling noise outside, and Ashley tosses her plate onto the sofa and rushes to the door. In LA, even the postal workers are hot, literally and figuratively, and our mailman looks like Zac Efron. She returns a few seconds later, fanning herself dramatically with the mail.
“You’re going to be a great actress,” I say with a laugh. Ashley starts to toss the mail onto the counter, but I stop her. “Leave the mail in the organizer for your dad.”
Yes, even the mail has its own home in our home.
“Hey, you got a letter,” she says.
“Who writes letters anymore?” Tyler asks.
“Old people,” Ashley says. The two laugh.
I take a seat at the original Saarinen tulip table and study the envelope. There is no return address. I feel the envelope. It’s bulky. I open it and begin to read a handwritten letter:
Dear V:
How are you? I’m sorry it’s been a while since we’ve talked. You’ve been busy, I’ve been busy. Remember when we were just a bunk away? We could lean our heads over the side and share our darkest secrets. Those were the good ol’ days, weren’t they? When we were innocent. When we were as tight as the clover that grew together in the patch that wound to the lake.
How long has it been since you talked to Rach and Liz? Over 30 years? I guess that first four-leaf clover I found wasn’t so lucky after all, was it? Oh, you and Rach have had such success, but are you happy, V? Deep down? Achingly happy? I don’t believe in my heart that you are. I don’t think Rach and Liz are either. How do I know? Friend’s intuition.
I used to hate myself for telling everyone what happened our last summer together. It was like dominoes falling after that, one secret after the next revealed, the facade of our friendship ripped apart, just like tearing the fourth leaf off that clover I still have pressed in my scrapbook. But I hate secrets. They only tear us apart. Keep us from becoming who we need to become. The dar
k keeps things from growing. The light is what creates the clover.
Out the cabin door went all of our luck, and then—leaf by leaf—our faith in each other, followed by any hope we might have had in our friendship and, finally, any love that remained was replaced by hatred, then a dull ache, and then nothing at all. That’s the worst thing, isn’t it, V? To feel nothing at all?
Much of my life has been filled with regret, and that’s just an awful way to live. I’m trying to make amends for that before it’s too late. I’m trying to be the friend I should have been. I was once the glue that held us all together. Then I was scissors that tore us all apart. Aren’t friends supposed to be there for one another, no matter what? You weren’t just beautiful, V, you were confident, so funny and full of life. More than anything, you radiated light, like the lake at sunset. And that’s how I will always remember you.
I’ve sent similar letters to Rach and Liz. I stayed in touch with Liz...and Rach...well, you know Rach. For some reason, you all forgave me, but not each other. I guess because I was just an innocent bystander to all the hurt. My only remaining hope is that you will all forgive one another at some point, because you changed my life and you changed each other’s lives. And I know that you all need one another now more than ever. We found each other for a reason. We need to find each other again.
Let me get to the point, dear V. Just picture me leaning my head over the bunk and telling you my deepest secret.
By the time you receive this, I’ll be dead...
My hand begins to shake, which releases the contents still remaining in the envelope. A pressed four-leaf clover and a few old Polaroid pictures scatter onto the tabletop. Without warning, I groan.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Tyler asks without looking back.
“Who’s that from?” Ashley asks, still staring at her phone.
“A friend,” I manage to mumble.
“Cool,” Ashley says. “You need friends. You don’t have any except for that one girl from camp.” She stops. “Emily, right?”
The photos lying on the marble tabletop are of the four of us at camp, laughing, singing, holding hands. We are so, so young, and I wonder what happened to the girls we used to be. I stare at a photo of Em and me lying under a camp blanket in the same bunk. That’s when I realize the photo is sitting on top of something. I move the picture and smile. A friendship pin stares at me, E-V-E-R shining in a sea of green beads.
I look up, and water is reflecting through the clerestory windows of our home, and suddenly every one of those little openings is like a scrapbook to my life, and I can see it flash—at camp and after—in front of me in bursts of light.
Why did I betray my friends?
Why did I give up my identity so easily?
Why am I richer than I ever dreamed and yet feel so empty and lost?
Oh, Em.
I blink, my eyes blur, and that’s when I realize it’s not the pool reflecting in the windows, it’s my own tears. I’m crying. And I cannot stop.
Suddenly, I stand, throw open the patio doors and jump into the pool, screaming as I sink. I look up, and my children are yelling.
“Mom! Are you okay?”
I wave at them, and their bodies relax.
“I’m fine,” I lie when I come to the surface. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
They look at each other and shrug, before heading back inside.
At least, I think, they finally see me.
I take a deep breath and go down once more. Underwater, I can hear my heart drum loudly in my ears. It’s drumming in such perfect rhythm that I know immediately the tune my soul is playing. I can hear it as if it were just yesterday.
Boom, didi, boom, boom... Booooom.
Rachel
TALKING POINTS
CONGRESSIONAL CANDIDATE RALPH RUDDY
DISTRICT 47/MICHIGAN
–Do NOT engage anchors if angry
–Always say “As a woman” to humanize yourself
–We must be seen as equals to men! We do not need a “handout,” we need “hands clapping”!
–Women CAN and DO do it all!
–Small business CANNOT afford paid maternity leave; how can we raise a family when we don’t have a job?
“How’s my hair?”
“Perfect.”
“Makeup?”
“Ditto.”
“Teeth.”
“Clean.”
“Thanks, Lisa.”
I check my notes, stand, tug my jacket and then sit on its tail so it will appear taut on camera, my clothing streamlined and unwrinkled.
Like me.
“Are you ready, Rachel?”
I look into the camera.
“Hold on! Hold on!” I say. “We specifically stated that I was to be shot in front of the turquoise graphic with Ralph’s logo.”
Dana, the director, looks at me, checks her notes and nods. She talks to production, and a few seconds later I’m surrounded by the color that research has proven not only is most appealing to women but also perfectly complements my eyes and outfit.
“Thanks, Dana,” I say.
She gives me a faint nod.
“Remember Sorority Sisters?” I ask.
An imperceptible smile crosses her lips.
“Fun times, huh?”
She doesn’t respond.
Dana doesn’t like me. In our early twenties, I was cast in a comedy about a group of very different college students who join the same sorority and become friends. I still don’t know if I was hired because of my audition or the fact that the summer camp I attended became a Life magazine cover story and they used that backstory—and all the retro Polaroids—as publicity.
It certainly wasn’t because of she who has no name, I think. My mind wanders to the recent tabloid photos of her, and part of me feels a sick sense of satisfaction and part of me feels sorry for her.
Even after everything she did.
Sorority Sisters was so low-budget in the beginning that viewers could see the sets move when we slammed a door. I was just thrilled to get a real acting job right out of college. And then the show took off. How we were able to remain in college and the same sorority until our early thirties was beside the point because we had a cult following. It ran for nearly a decade, before two of us got a spinoff, In A New York Minute, that followed our lives as hard-partying new career gals in NYC. It lasted only one season. Dana was a production assistant on Sorority Sisters who eventually worked her way up to directing the show. We all made a lot of money, but the show made us Hollywood jokes. My career was over, pardon the pun, in a New York minute. Dana moved to broadcast news, and I moved into politics. My good looks and girl-next-door persona made me a great spokesperson for conservative male politicians who had difficulty wooing suburban, independent women voters.
Dana was a hard worker, driven and passionate. We used to sit up late at night and talk about how we were going to change television by creating and promoting content by and about women.
A jagged pain jolts my brain, and I take a sip of water.
Dana may not like me now, but she knows I make damn good TV.
“Gotta love Hollywood.” I grin.
“This is news,” Dana says.
“Keep telling yourself that.” I wink, my false eyelash fluttering like a butterfly.
A commercial about a new heart drug with happy balloons comes on the air, and I take a deep breath to steady myself and check my notes one last time. The anchor, Chip Collins, takes a seat and nods at me, and a trio of makeup artists powder his face, spray his hair and adjust his tie. Chip’s hair is a work of art, a waterfall of arcing jet-black waves. Chip used to be one of America’s best investigative journalists. Now he hosts a UFC match that pretends it’s a talk show.
If I were a betting woman, I would
estimate that I’ve made over a hundred appearances on Red, White & You, Chip’s national TV morning show that discusses politics. But I am not a betting woman. You can’t change your odds when you bet. They are what they are. No, I am a magician. People can watch me and truly believe they understand how my act works, but then—voilà!—I fool them. I make them believe. I change the odds.
“Okay, everyone,” Dana says, getting the attention of the crew as the news station returns from commercial break. “Three, two...” Her finger signals one and then she points at the host.
“Welcome back!” Chip Collins says. “I hope you haven’t had too much coffee yet, because our next guests are sure to get your heart racing. Joining us from Washington, DC, is Tanya Nebling, an attorney and professor focusing on women’s rights, and live in studio is one of our regular political commentators, Rachel Ives, who is currently serving as spokesperson for Michigan’s Ralph Ruddy. Let’s start there, if we may? Rachel, Ralph has come out strongly—very strongly—against paid maternity leave for women. Why is that?”
“Good morning, Chip! It’s nice to be back. First, let me start by saying that you really are a chip off the old block, spouting the same ol’, same ol’ Fake News. Ralph Ruddy is pro-woman...”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let me stop you right there, Rachel,” Chip says, his blue eyes blazing. “Can we put up the quote your candidate just made yesterday about paid maternity leave? There it is, Rachel, right in front of you. Mr. Ruddy said, and I quote, ‘Men already pay enough when women are pregnant.’”
“That was a joke, Chip. And you know it. No one has a sense of humor anymore.”
“But Mr. Ruddy has not only voted against paid maternity leave for women every single time, he’s voted against women’s rights at every turn, from equal pay to job protection to health care.”
“As a woman, I wouldn’t support a candidate who didn’t see women as equals, Chip. Ralph believes women don’t need a handout, we need hands applauding for all we do!”
“Can I say something please?”
“Go ahead, Tanya.”
“The United States is the only industrialized nation without a paid leave policy. Twenty-five years ago, President Clinton signed the Family and Medical Leave Act, which included a provision giving eligible workers twelve weeks of unpaid leave to care for a new child. Emphasis on unpaid. The United States remains the only country in the developed world that does not mandate employers offer paid leave for new mothers.”
The Clover Girls Page 2
