Time of My Life

by Allison Winn Scotch

  “Don’t be silly,” Jack says, rubbing my back. “It’s set for April 9! Save the date! We’re inviting everyone we know.”

  “Not everyone,” I demur.

  “The country club seats four hundred,” Jack says to Henry and Celeste, as if this were a hard-won bragging right.

  “Sounds like fun,” Henry finally manages.

  “I’m hoping it might be a bit more intimate,” I say, too awkward to meet his stare. Mostly, I gaze at the floor.

  “Oh, when I get married, I want it to be the biggest, most decadent thing anyone has ever seen!” Celeste says.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Jack laughs. “It’s only once, so to hell with it!” He pauses. “So how long have you two been dating?”

  Henry shakes his head almost imperceptibly, but Celeste answers for them both. “Oh, just a few weeks. We met on a blind date, and we couldn’t believe it, right, Hen?” She pokes him. “I mean, finally! A date that I don’t have to bail on halfway through.”

  “It’s true,” Henry says, seeming to regain his composure and slinging his arm over her shoulders. “Been on enough bad ones to finally deserve a good payoff. Paid our dues and all of that.”

  I smile roundly, pressing my cheeks into themselves and pushing my dimples in as far as they can go.

  “That is just wonderful!” I say. “Wonderful!” I clap my hands for emphasis.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Celeste looks at me conspiratorially, as if I’m in on the secret. “I’m so over dating at this point.”

  “So you’re already shopping for furniture together?” I can’t help myself.

  “No, nothing like that,” Celeste flits her free hand about. Her other one seems firmly entrenched on Henry’s ass. “I just need a new couch, and we were hanging out this weekend, so Hen came with me.” If she weren’t so casual about it, I decide, I’d have to hate her.

  She’s probably one of those free spirits who turns into a wild monkey in bed, I think, then nearly audibly heave at the thought. I glance around to make sure that, in fact, I haven’t retched out loud, but none of the three seems to have noticed. Then Celeste removes her hand from his pocket (about fucking time!) and rises on her toes to kiss him.

  “Come on,” she says, tugging on his belt loop. “We have to find my dream couch before it gets too late. We have Darren’s party, remember?”

  Darren? Who the hell is Darren?

  I smile wider and suspect that I might now resemble a mentally unstable chimpanzee. The creases of my underarms and elbows feel sticky and warm.

  “Congrats,” Henry says, leaning in to peck my cheek. My pulse throbs through my neck so fiercely that I’m certain we can both feel it. “And I’m sure that I’ll see you soon.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “No matter where I go, I just can’t seem to dodge you, Jillian Westfield.”

  “I could say the same of you,” I reply, unconsciously moving my fingers across my cheek.

  He and Celeste round the corner, and I see him lean over to whisper something in her ear. She tosses her ginger hair around and giggles, the sounds of her mirth spreading their wings all the way back to where Jack and I now stand.

  “Okay, so, back to business,” Jack says, pointing at the golden leather couch in front of us. “Is that the one you want?”

  Without pause, I sit down and tuck my clammy hands beneath me.

  “Yes,” I answer, unable to meet his eyes. “This is the one for me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I have picked up the phone to call my mother at least eleven times before I can bring myself to punch in one of the numbers. The truth is, I don’t know what to say and I don’t know how to begin saying it. I’m not even sure when something shifted in me such that I decided to lower the bridge to forge our peace.

  Most likely, it had something to do with Katie.

  Katie, whom I now dreamed of nearly every night; Katie, whom I sometimes searched for in passing strollers; Katie, whom I so palpably missed, I felt wounded without her. I wondered if she’d forgive me for being gone, for being as selfish as I needed to be to safeguard my sanity, and for abandoning her to do so. And when I thought about that, and then thought about the firm grip of my mother’s embrace that bright summer day in the garden, it was nearly impossible not to soften.

  But now, with a dial tone in my ear and her letter pressed on my desk, I have nothing to say. How do I open? Do I call her “Mom”? Where has she been all this time? The questions felt heavy, insurmountable, and I wasn’t sure I had the fortitude to hurdle them. A sturdy backbone, I could see now, was never my forte.

  Just as I’m about to dial again, holding my breath as if I’m diving under frigid water, Josie ambles into my office. I quickly hang up, relieved for the excuse that isn’t of my own making.

  “I’m thinking about sleeping with Bart,” she says, so fast that the sentence tumbles out like one consecutive word.

  “What? You can’t, Jo!”

  “I absolutely can,” she says, casually crossing her legs, like we’re discussing something as mundane as ordering turkey versus tuna salad for lunch. “And I think I might.”

  I noticed that her hair is better highlighted than in weeks past and her skin flawless. The circles beneath her eyes have receded, and whether it’s new makeup or just a new outlook, she looks fresher, happier even.

  “Look, Jo, you can’t. You’re happy with Art.”

  “I’m not.” She shrugs.

  Yes, you are! You’re fucking happy in seven years with Art!

  “It m-might seem that way now,” I stammer. “But with some perspective, this will pass.” I try for something more convincing. “In fact, I read a study that said that when asked about their unhappy marriages five years later, nearly 82 percent of couples said they were now happy” (Redbook!).

  Josie shifts. “It doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like this will ever turn around. Art wants to move to San Jose, and . . .” Her voice drifts, and she flops her hands helplessly.

  “I understand.”

  “I appreciate that, Jill, I do. But until you’ve been married, I don’t know . . . it’s a tough row to hoe. And some things . . . well, sometimes people grow apart.”

  I understand! You don’t get it! I really freaking understand!

  “And you think that sleeping with Bart will make it all better?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs again, but doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

  “Well, maybe it will,” I agree. “But, you know, maybe it won’t. Maybe your relationship with Bart will be as screwed up as your marriage.”

  “So you’re acknowledging that my marriage is screwed up?” Jo laughs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.” She sighs. “I probably shouldn’t be saying all of this to a newly engaged woman. I hope I’m not disillusioning you.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know what I’m in for.” I lean back in my chair and massage the nape of my neck.

  “That’s the thing,” Jo says. “You think you know what you’re in for. I mean, you tell yourself that, of course, it’s not going to be wine and roses and all of that bullshit for the rest of your life, but then, one day, you wake up, and your fucking husband has morphed into someone whom you barely recognize. And you sit there and you stare at him while he scratches his balls through his underwear at the kitchen table, and you think, ‘This is totally not what I signed up for. I mean, who knows if I even love this ball-scratching, foul-breathed man?’ And then you wonder if you love him more out of habit than out of anything else.” She chews the inside of her lip and considers. “And I guess from there, all bets are off.”

  “And you don’t think that one day you might wake up and think the same thing about Bart?” I ask. “That he might disappoint you in the same ways?”

  “He couldn’t disappoint me in the same ways,” she says, her solemnity ringing clear.

  “Well, then maybe in different ones,” I say, pawing my engagement ring until I realize the symbolism and stop
abruptly.

  “Maybe,” she says. “But I already know that Art’s going to let me down, and with Bart, there’s still the possibility that he won’t.” She heaves herself from the chair. “Anyway, it’s just food for thought. Nothing I’m going to do anything about just yet.”

  I watch her go. “Be careful what you wish for,” I call after her, and she pokes her head back into my office. “You just never know what you might end up with.”

  She nods and then darts away.

  I reach for the phone once again to finally and firmly dial my mother. And as I do so, I try not to think of Jack. Or Henry. Or the disappointment my wishes might bring.

  MY MOTHER AND I have agreed, in a stilted two-minute conversation, in which my heart nearly exploded from my chest cavity, to meet at a tea emporium on Eighteenth Street at noon on Saturday. Which means I have to cancel a trip to Saks with Leigh, Meg, and Ainsley, in search of the quintessential bridesmaids’ dresses, and leave Vivian none too pleased.

  “Could you please just explain to her why I canceled?” I say to Jack the night before, after fielding her third message in two days. We’re splitting Chinese food after begging off plans with Jack’s coworker Austin and his wife because I am too emotionally exhausted to cope with small talk and martinis. Like so many other things about my old life, I’d forgotten that the nonstop social whirl was only so much fun, and that you can gorge yourself on too much of anything.

  “Why don’t you call her yourself?” he says. “I know that she wants to get closer to you.” I realize that he’s trying to offer a remedy, but coupled with the weight of my anxiety over my lunch the next day, mostly, I want to throttle him.

  “Because,” I spit out, and a sliver of broccoli flies out of my mouth, “I have bigger things to deal with than unleashing all of my various family issues and insecurities with your mother right now!”

  “She might surprise you,” Jack says, completely unaware of my mounting panic. “She’s pretty good at stuff like this.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jack!” I slam down my chopsticks, and one skips right off the table, like a cartwheel in gymnastics class. “I know that your mother is your personal shrink, but I’m not looking for her to be mine. I just don’t want to explain to her why I can’t go goddamn bridesmaid dress shopping tomorrow.”

  His face clouds. “Suit yourself. Just trying to help,” he says, with no malice behind it.

  He probably was, I think today, as I push myself up the subway stairs and head eastward toward the tea shop. He probably seriously thought that his mother could fix this, just like she fixes all of his shit. I snort out loud, unsure of whom to feel sorry for: me, Jack, or Vivian.

  Soon, too soon, I’m in front of the quaint bakery that I chose on the phone—neutral ground, I remember thinking, as if the tea emporium were Switzerland and my mother and I were lords of war.

  The scent of baked butter floats through the air, and classical music that I can’t quite place but that I should know because I played every goddamn famous composer for Katie when she was a baby, lilts in the background. The brunch crowd has descended, so while I’d envisioned recognizing my mother in an instant, I find myself scanning the tables, my stomach nearly rising up through my throat, partially hoping that she didn’t show, partially hoping that she wouldn’t let me down yet again.

  My eyes are darting from table to table, booth to booth, when I see a hand wave toward the back. I turn toward it, and there she is. I’d know her anywhere, even though it’s been two decades and even though I’d convinced myself that I’d bleached her from my memory. Her black hair spills over her shoulders, her skin is unlined and lightly tanned, and her face, though tight from the unavoidable tension of the situation, seems calmer than I remember, as if she’s softened over the years.

  My first instinct upon seeing her is to flee. My foot rotates and I can feel my legs spinning around, propelling my body in any direction other than toward my mother, but I clamp down. No. We’ve done that before. We know how that version ends. Besides, remember Katie.

  So I push out my breath, swallow deeply, and forge my way through.

  “Jillian,” my mother says, her voice welling, as she rises to greet me.

  We flank each other, each unsure what to do. I extend my right hand, but she pulls me in for a nearly claustrophobic hug. I inhale and search for soil, for the scent that for so long reminded me of her, but there are no notes that smell familiar.

  “I took the liberty of ordering some tea and sandwiches,” my mom says once we sit. She pauses, as awkward as I am. “You look beautiful. And thank you for calling.”

  I nod and avert her eyes.

  “I have a lot to explain.”

  I nod again but say nothing. Mostly, I am trying not to cry.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know where to begin, really. It’s a lot of years . . . there’s so much . . . I just . . .” She stops and composes herself. “I should start by apologizing. What I did then . . . well, I see now, for reasons I’ll explain, what that must have done to you and your brother.”

  “Thank you,” I offer quietly, just as a tear spills down from my left eye. I want to be bitter, angry, furious, but I’m also tired of carrying around the weight of that rage, and now, seeing her, in this moment, nervous as a cowering mouse, and terrified and repentant, it feels easier to let it go, like air slowly ebbing from a balloon, until there’s nothing left to buoy it. To buoy my rage.

  “It’s all very hard to explain,” she tries again, then corrects herself. “No, it’s not. That is my excuse, but it’s not hard to explain. I’ve been telling myself that it’s complicated so I don’t have to face up to the guilt of the situation, but it’s not complicated. I made a horrible decision. Period.” She manages a laugh. “My therapist would be so proud of me. Accepting responsibility.”

  The waiter arrives with our pots of tea and minisandwiches. I reach for one and peel at the crust.

  “What happened?” I say finally, forcing myself to ask but repressing it, too, so fearful of her answer. It’s because you didn’t pick up your goddamned room!

  “I just . . . you know, this is going to sound awful, and it’s okay, you can hate me and judge me for it; I expect that.” She drops her eyes down to her hands. “But I just wasn’t ready for all of it—for motherhood and the obligations that it brought, and for my marriage and the complications that we had . . .”

  I wipe two tears off my cheek. They are sprinkling down at random, so I look not so much as if I’m crying, rather that I have something lodged in my eye.

  “None of this meant that I didn’t love you. Or Andy,” my mother says firmly. “I was just young . . . and I didn’t . . . I didn’t know how to cope. Your dad and I married at twenty, and when . . .”—she clears her throat—“when I left, I wasn’t even thirty, and I had it in my head that there was so much more life out there, just so much more to do than sit at home and be a mother . . .” Her voice drifts off, then she rights herself. “This is all coming out wrong. I’d prepared it all, but now, it’s not coming out the way I want.”

  “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “I know,” she responds. “I know. But, take this however you need to, but my love for you and your brother . . . it never wavered. I missed you every day of my life. I just didn’t know how to juggle both of those things: my love for you and my need to get out of what felt like chains.” She shrugs, though there’s nothing casual in the movement. “I was young. It’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

  The first time that I held Katie, after an anguished, brutal labor that was nothing like they described in the copious magazines that I’d read, after I pushed what I believed was an impossible push and I felt her head and then shoulder and then legs roll out of me, I was so beaten down that my body had nearly gone numb. Then they placed this alien, swollen, bloodied being on my chest and said, “Here you go, Mommy,” and rather than drown in a flood of love, I felt nothing. I didn’t say this to H
enry, who was seeping tears of joy from behind his video camera; I didn’t, in fact, breathe mention of this to anyone. Not to Ainsley, who was wallowing in the dredges of postpartum depression and who might have understood, not to my new mommy friends whose lives seemed as shiny as their tricked-out thousand-dollar strollers.

  But I held Katie underneath the harsh hospital lights and smiled and cooed, and she squirmed and wailed, and I looked down at her and waited for that rush of emotion to come. And yet it didn’t. I was relieved when the nurses came to gather her for her first bath.

  We swaddled her up and took her home, and still, I waited. I pressed my nipple in her tiny, greedy mouth, and I rocked her to sleep and I sang to her when she woke. And still, I waited for the tidal wave that everyone describes as unconditional maternal love. From the first moment, Henry, the most logical, stoic being I’d ever encountered, was smitten, and yet, here I was, the picture of motherly perfection, with a void where my adoration should be.

  Finally, when she was six weeks old, I heard her stir in her crib, so I dragged myself in to begin the routine: diaper, nurse, burp, sing, nap all over again. Katie was staring at her pink floral bumper guard and must have heard me enter. She startled and started to wail, and my insides curdled at the sound of it. But then, I poked my face over her crib, and she shifted her head and our eyes locked. She can see me! I thought. She hushed immediately, and a tiny smile crept across her pink rosebud lips. And I felt it: that rush akin to a drug-fueled high that mothers explain as indescribable, that tug of love that knows no boundaries. Once I stumbled upon it, it would rest like a bass note inside of me: always there, but occasionally blending into the rest of the medley of my life, such that at times, I’d have to press my ear up and listen closely to ensure that it was still there, still keeping rhythm.