Time of My Life

by Allison Winn Scotch

  Today, looking at my mother, I couldn’t help but remember those early days with Katie, when I wondered if I’d made a mistake that now couldn’t be undone. And it was hard not to see how closely our cloths were cut.

  We chew on our sandwiches thoughtfully, silently.

  Finally, I say, “So why now? It’s been eighteen years. Why now?”

  “Well, that’s where there’s more to tell.” She swallows.

  I nod and wait, as she reaches down into her purse and slides out a photo, then pushes it across the table.

  I shake my head. “What’s this?” The shot is of my mother on the nose of a sailboat, a younger girl sitting below her, and a man, whom I presume is my mother’s husband, with his arm thrown over her shoulder.

  My mom clears her throat and speaks carefully. “This is your sister.” She waits for a response but I have none: I feel as if I’ve been pierced in the gut, like an ice pick is jutting over my skin, then through it, so she continues. “She’s nine now, the same age you were when I left you.” She pauses, and I see her searching for a way to make this right, though rage is creeping into my gut, and I want to tell her to quit, to stop now because there’s no possible way, in fact, to make this right. “I see her now, and how precious she is, and Jill . . .” Here she reaches across the table to my sweaty hand, which I immediately pull back from her grasp. “I look at her, and I can’t believe that someone as young as her, with all of her innocence, might have to endure a life without her mom.”

  I stare at my mother for a beat too long and realize with the force of a flying fist that this was a mistake, that all of the healing that I thought this might bring, all of the wisdom that I assumed I missed out on the first time around by spurning her, well, fuck that, I think, surprising even myself with my vitriol.

  “So you’re sticking around for her, but couldn’t bring yourself to do it for me? Protecting her fragile nature while leaving me and Andy to fend for ourselves abandoned on the roadside?” I finally spit out. I reach for my bag. “You know, we’re done here, Ilene. I don’t know what you were hoping to gain from this, but whatever it was, I don’t want to be part of it.” I stand to go, holding back furious tears.

  “Jillian, please, let me explain. Please don’t leave like this.” Her voice is pleading. “I’m trying to make it up to you.”

  “There is nothing you can make up to me now,” I seethe. “Nothing.”

  She flops her hands helplessly, and I race to the door before she can see me crumble. That’s the thing about the people I love and me: One of us is always leaving the other, even when our intentions promise otherwise.

  Chapter Twenty

  That is it, that’s the one,” Ainsley says from the cream chenille chair at Vera Wang. She picks up her cup of decaf. “That is definitely the one.”

  “You think?” I swivel in front of the three-way mirror and arch my neck to see the back. Dozens of hand-sewn buttons trickle down the spine of the gown, and the flesh of my back is naked and exposed. “Meg? You like it?”

  “Uh-huh,” she answers, though she seems noncommittal.

  I turn and face front again. “I do like it,” I say, running my hands over the beaded bodice and the rich, heavy silk organza. “But shouldn’t I, like, know know, when it’s the right dress?”

  Ainsley shakes her head. “I think you just find one that you love, and that‘s that. You don’t have to break down in tears and have an epiphany or anything like that.” She cocks her head. “I’d tried on about five dozen dresses when my mom and I just said, ‘Enough, this one is beautiful, so let’s go for it.’ ” She shrugs. “Worked well enough for me.”

  “Thanks again for coming, you guys,” I say for the tenth time that afternoon. Vivian had tried to insert herself into the plans, but I wouldn’t have it. Somehow it was as if now that I’d committed to marrying Jack, she was willing to embrace me as her own, and in doing so, I was expected to forgive all of her previous affronts and sins. And though I tried to do so in many ways—answering her daily phone calls, humoring her grotesque wedding plans—mostly, I did this for Jack or, more honestly, mostly I did this so that Jack and I could move forward rather than explode in the way that we did the last time around. But regardless, while I greatly understood the irony that now I had two women who longed to be my mother, neither of them was welcome to accompany me in search of the perfect gown. In fact, I’d shuttered any last thought of my own mom out of my mind; thinking of her on a day such as today gave her more weight than she deserved.

  “Let’s try on a veil,” suggests Deidre, the polished brunette salesgirl. “That will help complete the look.”

  Ainsley and I nod, as she darts to the back, and as Meg flips listlessly through a look book.

  “Meg, you okay, sweetie?” I hike up the gown and step down from the pedestal.

  “Fine,” she nods, then arranges her face into what I suppose is a smile, though she shows no teeth, nor any happiness. “You look beautiful, J, just beautiful.”

  I sit on the ivory love seat next to her. My gown poufs on both sides of me.

  “You sure?” Is she pregnant? Is this when it happens again? I try to shake a memory free, but nothing comes. The truth is that seven years ago, I was so lost in the haze of mending my wounds from my breakup with Jack and falling into the heady swirl of love with Henry that I lost track of Meg. We would meet for the occasional drink and swap e-mails peppered with relevant details of our lives, but time got away from me, and in fairness, I suppose from her, too. And so, I have no recollection of the exact date she lost her second baby. I knew back then, but it isn’t permanently embedded in me the way that, as her closest friend, it certainly should have been.

  “I’m fine,” Meg says, then flaps her hands in front of her face, as if that can stop an onslaught of tears. “I just got my period this morning, that’s all.”

  “Oh, Meg.” I pull her into me, and the dress crinkles.

  She shakes her head and moves back. “No, no, come on, this is a big day for you. I don’t want to ruin it. I’ve waited twenty-seven years to go wedding dress shopping with you!” She grins compassionately, selflessly, and I can see the truth within it.

  I squeeze her hand, just as Deidre returns, holding forth a fluttering floor-length veil. I step back on to the pedestal, and she expertly combs it into the crest of my neck.

  “Oooh,” Ainsley claps. “It’s perfect.”

  “It is,” Meg says. “You look exactly how I’d pictured you would when you walk down the aisle.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Really,” they both say simultaneously, as Deidre nods her elegant head behind them with vigor.

  For my wedding to Henry, I’d dress shopped alone. Not intentionally but because I stumbled upon what would become my wedding gown in a vintage store in Sag Harbor where Henry and I were weekending. He had gone to the farmers’ market two streets over—this was back when he still had the time to grill—and I ambled through the quaint streets, in and out of kitschy shops that sold tackle and kites and handmade blankets. Eventually, I wandered into Rock of Ages, and as I filtered through the racks, I uncovered a simple, timeless sheath. I ducked behind the Asian divider that served as a dressing area, slid it over my head, and emerged to size myself up in the mirror.

  It was, as Ainsley and Meg said today, perfect. The spaghetti straps curved against my collarbone, and the silk clung to my breasts and glided over my stomach. I looked at myself and knew, just knew, as they say. It was, in retrospect, one of the last things I had a firm grip on in the coming years of my marriage.

  And now, standing in front of the mirror at Vera Wang, everyone else, it seemed, knew, too. Only they knew that this one, beaded and buttoned and strapless and regal and so distinctly different from the gown I’d worn when I’d betrothed myself to my other love, was the one for me.

  So I turned to Deidre and told her that I’d take it. My instincts had proven wrong the first time, and now, it was a relief for someone else to de
cide.

  MY MOTHER HAS called me three times at work, but I haven’t called her back. I tried to seek advice from Jack but he offered little clarity.

  “Do you think I’m making a mistake?” I asked him two nights ago. Jack was hovered over his laptop, attempting, I guessed, to eke out his manuscript, but mostly relieved that I’d wandered into the bedroom and interrupted.

  “Jesus, I don’t know,” he said, and spun his chair in a circle. I flopped on the bed and pulled a pillow over my head.

  “I just want someone to tell me what to do!” I said, my voice muffled. Tell me what to do, Jack! I’m surprised by the thought, given my resentment at Henry when he tried to do just that.

  “Well, you know, it’s a tough situation,” he answered. “That whole sister thing . . .”

  “Right,” I said, sitting up. “I mean, she’s had a daughter all this time—I have a sister—and she expects me to just roll with it?”

  “Well, to be fair, what else was she supposed to do?”

  “Um, I don’t know—tell me?”

  “But she did try to tell you,” he echoes. “And now you won’t talk to her. Maybe it’s not black and white.”

  “Duly noted,” I said. “So you’d return her call?”

  Jack plopped on the bed and kissed the underside of my elbow as an answer, and then he worked his way up to my neck. And from there, that was as far as we got on my mother.

  Later, while Jack slept, I replayed his passing comment. Black and white. I remembered how I left Jack seven years earlier, after one fight too many, and turned it off completely, as if someone flicked a switch in me, and then I thought of how I ended up back here to begin with: tired and lonely and fed up with my stale, crusting life, such that I might have literally willed myself out of it. Black and white. Maybe there was something to it.

  And now, today in my office, my mother’s number is once again displayed on my caller ID, her fourth call since I left her with her minisandwiches and cooling tea and the photo of my button-cute half-sister who, if I’d peered at any closer, might look a little too much like my own daughter for me to stomach.

  I consider Jack’s words, and make a small movement to pick up the phone, but just as I do so, the ringing stops. She’s flipped into voice mail where, surely, she won’t leave a message. I know this because I’m learning that my mother and I aren’t so different, and while she might be brave enough to punch in my digits, she’s not so sure of herself as to leave a lasting reminder that she was there.

  I sigh with both relief and a small amount of regret, and then notice the time. Shit. I am way behind approving graphics and copy for the Christmas print ads. My hands scramble over my desk, rooting through old memos and half-eaten granola bars, to find the images and layouts. I squeeze the bridge of my nose and exhale, urging myself to find the mental space for this but still feeling mostly depleted. I don’t remember resenting work in my old life as I’m slowly growing to in my new one. I am in the office nearly round the clock, helming the team and reporting to Josie. Every moment that doesn’t circle around my wedding seems to circle around ad copy and new ideas and storyboards and Photoshopped images and “finding the quintessential Coke models,” as an exec put it to me recently, as if certain people literally bubbled this stuff from their noses.

  Half a decade ago, I remember thriving on the camaraderie and the joy of launching a new idea and the thrill of the occasional late night when the team pulled together like Olympic relay racers, working to cross the finish line before the buzzer ran out. But like so many things, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve remembered wrong, if I’ve recast my past in a better light because it’s so much easier than considering that while the present isn’t a cheery Rockwell painting, neither was my history. That, in fact, it was just life, nothing glorious, nothing shabby, and while I like work well enough, it was still work, and that, perhaps, when I got pregnant and Henry suggested I quit, that I welcomed the chance, rather than resented it.

  Or perhaps not. The edges are so blurred these days between reality and fiction, between this life and the other, that nothing seems linear anymore. Nothing seems concrete, and I often find myself trying to decipher what is real, as if I might have dreamed or imagined all the rest.

  I am arched over my desk, my shoulder blades cramped and deep into comparing a gray-hued font with a grayish-silver-hued font, when Gene buzzes from his desk.

  “Cute boy here to see you,” he says, masking his enthusiasm to let me know that he’s still annoyed that I kept him here until 11:30 the night before.

  “Jack,” I answer. “Send him in.” I reach my hand over my shoulder to massage a throbbing knot.

  “Not Jack,” Gene answers. “Definitely not Jack. And I already sent him back.”

  Before I can reply, knuckles rap on my doorjamb, and Henry pokes his head inside. I jolt like a rat away from a trap. Even when we dated the first time around, Henry didn’t make office calls, so seeing him here, out of his element in so many ways, is both disconcerting and welcome. Not that in my prior life, Henry needed to stop by: Back then, I was home by 7:00, and he was never later than 8:00. The balance, at least for the first few years, was still there.

  “Hey.” He smiles and his entire face illuminates. It’s a smile that I barely remember. When did you lose that? I think. Did I stop noticing or did I seep the happiness right out of you? “I was in the building at a meeting and remembered that you worked here. Thought I’d stop by.” He saunters in and sits, that loopy grin still splashed across him.

  “Hey,” I say back. “Sure, of course, I could use a distraction.” I gesture to the mountains of work stacked atop my desk. “Er, it’s nice to see you.” Too nice, I realize, as my blood pressure noticeably skyrockets.

  “You, too. How’s your couch?” Is that a euphemism for my boyfriend? I wonder. My forehead wrinkles.

  “Good,” I say. “Comfortable. Yours?”

  “Oh, well, I wasn’t looking for one that day. Celeste was. But she didn’t end up getting anything.” Is that a euphemism for they broke up?

  “Too bad.” I shrug. “They had nice couches.”

  “Yes, they did,” he answers and grins. Is that a euphemism for you want me? My eyebrows dart down. This coding system was beginning to confuse me.

  “So how did things go with your mother?” Henry asks.

  I can’t believe that he remembers! The Henry I married wasn’t nearly this thoughtful.

  “Oh, I can’t believe that you remembered,” I say aloud.

  “Of course.” He folds his hands underneath his chin, as if his remembering were the most natural thing in the world.

  Then why couldn’t you remember to bring home fucking milk when I asked you to? Why couldn’t you remember when I had a goddamn girls’ night out, which I so desperately needed to reconnect with my old self, and you’d schedule a work dinner anyway?

  “I met her for lunch, and . . .” I pause. “It was complicated.”

  “How so?” he asks.

  “In a lot of ways, but, you know, I’ll manage,” I say, as I feel myself slipping into my old married patterns with Henry. Talking about a lot of things, revealing very little.

  “Hit me with ’em.” He shifts his legs in the chair. “Come on, spill.” Who are you and what have you done with the man I married?

  I sigh. “My mother has a daughter, which I guess means that I have a sister. And this girl is the same age now as when my mother left . . .” My voice drifts. “She told me about her, and, I don’t know, it all seemed like too much. Like she was maybe trying to repay her debt to me because of this girl whom she looked at every day and felt guilty about, not because it was the right thing to do by me.”

  “Man, I’m sorry,” Henry says. “That must have been hard.”

  “What are you gonna do?” I shrug. “That’s life.”

  “I guess, but it’s still hard. So what now?”

  “Now, I deal with Coke’s shiny new Christmas campaign!” I throw my hands
in the air in mock celebration, but Henry doesn’t laugh.

  “I’m serious, Jill. What now?”

  This is not what you do! You are not a prober! You don’t ask the hard questions; you don’t crack the facade that our life is anything less than perfect. Stop it this very second! We forged an entire marriage without asking each other for deeper explanations to an entire bevy of problems! You never stopped to ask me what I wanted with my mother! It was only “do this, do that,” or “this is what I think is best,” as if you were the one who had to deal with the carnage of your decisions.

  “Oh, Jesus, I don’t know.” I clear my throat. “I just wish someone would tell me what to do. . . . I’m not, it seems, very good with figuring out what I want, what’s best for me.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to assess.” Henry nods. “Instant gratification versus long-term reward.” There’s my old Henry! Rational to the bone.

  “What would you do?” I ask, surprised at how easily it slips out when I’d rebelled against his advice on the subject for so long, more surprised at this quiet confidence that we have found in each other. Between Katie’s demands and Henry’s work and my need to create a crisp, perfect household, I can’t remember the last time one of us leaned on the other in this manner.

  “Oh, shit, I don’t know. I’d probably take a hard look at what matters more: getting to know my mother or risking that she might hurt me again.” He pauses. “I’m analytical, though—I try to find the most logical solution possible, you know? Both my parents are scientists, so that’s probably why.” He shrugs.

  I know! I want to scream. Enough with your backstory! I know that they’re both professors at George Washington, and that, barring our wedding and a few other choice moments, much of your energy is spent compartmentalizing your emotions, buffing them down to “the most rational point,” as you used to say whenever we would devolve into a screaming match, and you’d inevitably tell me to stop being irrational and “get a grip.” So I did stop being irrational and I did get a goddamn grip, which is why we stopped fighting and eventually stopped communicating and why I ended up seven fucking years in the past, all to get away from the haunting and suffocating silence that comes with being perfect.