Mating for Life

by Marissa Stapley

  And that was all it took to set her off. She rolled her eyes, tossed the remote to the floor, shouted, “Thanks a lot, blame it all on me!” and stomped up the stairs. When she reached her room, she slammed her door, and Beatrice, of course, began to cry again. For a moment Liane thought Laurence was going to cry, too, there was such despair on his face—and also anger; his jaw worked with it, she could tell he was holding it in. But she deserves it, she wanted to say. You can’t be the nice guy all the time. You’re not doing her any favors.

  Liane wasn’t the mother, though. What did she know? Gillian and Laurence had been talking a lot lately about how to handle Isabel, and apparently disciplining her, for anything, wasn’t an option just then.

  “I can go up,” Liane offered, but they both knew Beatrice would just cry harder, probably start crying for her mother again if she saw Liane. So instead she sat back down on the couch and watched Laurence walk away, then turned her attention to the TV, where the man was wiping up spill after spill after spill.

  • • •

  Their beginning was now a story they passed back and forth when people asked. “I would check her out every day from the end of the dock,” Laurence would say. “I lost my nerve several times as I drove,” Liane would say. “Once, I stopped at a rest stop and almost decided to turn back—” “I actually thought for a moment I was dreaming, that it couldn’t really be her . . .” Then Liane would start blushing and they would both falter. Really, it was almost too personal. She had stepped onto the dock, walked toward him. He was in a sweater, looking out at the lake. The sun was setting fast, because it was fall. He had heard the creaking of the dock and turned when he had seen her. She was holding the beat-up literary magazine in her hands, but of course it was practically mush at that point, so she had to explain what it was. She had faltered, thinking, This is crazy, so she had red hair, maybe it wasn’t me, but he had stopped her and said, “It was you, I wrote that because of you. I know I don’t know you, but I want to.” It was the culmination of every single fantasy, every single make-believe crush she had ever had. But despite their relationship happening quickly, despite it feeling exactly right, they had agreed that they would wait before introducing Liane to the girls.

  “Maybe we should even wait a year,” Liane had suggested at the start. It seemed like a good time limit back then, mostly because she was a little intimidated, and also because she wanted her relationship with Laurence to remain insular, to be able to grow the way other relationships did without the pressure of a family. She wasn’t sure if this was fair. She didn’t say this to him.

  But after just a few months it became clear that it didn’t make sense to keep Liane and the girls in two different compartments. The first step had been to meet Gillian, Laurence’s ex-wife, who had insisted that she meet anyone Laurence introduced the girls to. (There had not been anyone else.) Liane had dreaded this, but Gillian hadn’t been as bad as she had thought she’d be. She seemed defensive, a bit jumpy, and very much like she didn’t want to like Liane, but Liane could tell she didn’t hate her. For Liane’s part, she felt relieved. Gillian was pretty enough, almost frenetically skinny—Laurence had once mentioned that she ran obsessively—but she wasn’t gorgeous, as Liane had dreaded. Not like Ilsa, for example. Not sexy, not namelessly alluring, not the kind of woman a man could never get over. Liane wouldn’t have been able to handle an Ilsa. In some ways, she supposed, Gillian reminded Liane of Fiona, but she wasn’t quite as together, not as solid. Plus, she’d cheated on Laurence. Fiona would never do that.

  That night, after meeting Gillian, Liane lay beside Laurence on his bed and asked him questions she had been afraid to ask before, about his marriage, his relationship with Gillian, their parting. And he said things to her that she always carried with her. “Did you love her?” Liane had asked, hating herself as soon as she had said it. “Of course you did, sorry. She was your wife.”

  “I loved her at first more than I did later, and I loved her later because I felt like I had to try. But I didn’t know, Liane. I didn’t know what love could be. And now I do.”

  “Do you miss her?” she’d asked. “Like, when you’re taking care of the girls, and you’re tired, and maybe you . . . just feel alone. Do you miss her?”

  “When I feel alone, it’s because I miss you.”

  “But what about before me, before us?”

  He had rolled over on his side to face her. “It feels like there was always you. You on the dock and then you not on the dock. That’s all I remember about feeling loss and longing during that time. When you were gone, I missed you. I never missed her the way I missed you, and I didn’t even know you. I only knew who I thought you might be.”

  They’d made love then, and the next day, barely four months in, Liane had met Isabel and Beatrice—and unfortunately, on nights like this one, Liane found herself wishing they’d waited.

  • • •

  “Maybe I should just go home,” Liane ventured when he came back down.

  “Do you want to go home?” He sounded hurt.

  “Well, no, but . . . I can’t help you. I mean, I can’t go up there if she cries again, and Isabel clearly doesn’t want me around, and—”

  “Why would you say Isabel doesn’t want you around?”

  Liane’s heart was pounding. They’d never had a fight. Is this a fight? Or are we about to have one? “Well, look at the way she behaves when I’m around. It’s pretty clear she’s not thrilled that I’m here. And sometimes I think . . . it’s probably not fair to her for me to be here, kissing you on the couch, when she gets home . . .”

  “You think that’s because of you? She’s thirteen, almost fourteen. Teenage girls are like that. And yes, the split hasn’t helped but we’re trying to keep things as stable as possible and work through this.” Now he sounded exasperated. “Maybe if you’d actually talk to her, instead of acting like you didn’t want her around—”

  Liane gasped. “I don’t act like I don’t want her around. I do want her around!”

  Another sob from Beatrice, above them. Laurence turned and stomped up the stairs, much in the same manner his ­thirteen-year-old daughter had moments before.

  Of course he knew the truth about how she was feeling. It was one of the reasons she loved him: because he knew her thoughts and feelings sometimes better than she did. Liane listened to his heavy footfalls and wondered for the first time, Is this going to work? Because what if her thoughts continued to go in this direction? How could a man love a woman who didn’t truly accept his children? They had a connection, they loved each other deeply, this couldn’t be denied. But they were his children. That was a different kind of connection. Liane could never compete, and if she started wanting to, if she started feeling envious, she knew she was probably going to have no choice but to end it, for all of their sakes.

  • • •

  She did go home, even though as soon as she walked through the door of her apartment, she knew she’d done the wrong thing. She had wanted to avoid a fight, but her departure had drawn a line in the sand she hadn’t meant to draw. She felt panicked. What if she had ruined everything? She called him. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed and talked to you.” “I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t fair for me to say what I said. Parenting isn’t always easy, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.” He lived in Riverdale and she lived on Queen Street West, but still, she said, “I could come back,” and he said, “Part of me wants you to. But it’s far and it’s late and Bea is still out of sorts, and—well, Isabel and I are going to watch a movie.” He sounded like he felt guilty to admit it, and this made her feel terrible. “You shouldn’t have to sound like that. It’s fine. It’s good. She needs that time with you. It’s your last night together for a week. Maybe we need to respect that a little—respect that during the weeks you have them, they might need a little space. With you.” And also, that I m
ight be part of the problem. “Please, try not to worry so much,” he said. “Gillian is picking up the girls from school tomorrow. I’ll come to you?”

  After they talked, she tried to enjoy being home alone. Helen had always told her, told all of them, that being able to be alone was an important life skill. But it wasn’t working now. She didn’t want to read, she didn’t want to watch television, she didn’t want to take a bath, and she certainly couldn’t sleep. She wanted to go back in time and not have left Laurence’s. But she knew she probably shouldn’t have been there in the first place, that she wasn’t wrong: her presence really was throwing the girls off. She wasn’t sure what to do about this.

  She called Ilsa.

  “You’re a stepmom,” she said when her sister answered. “How do you do it?”

  “What do you mean? There’s not much to do. They were practically grown when I came along, and Michael seems to only sire perfect children, so we’ve never had any problems.”

  “True,” Liane said, feeling miserable.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m probably just overthinking it.” She explained what had happened that night. “It’s hard, because we’re at that phase in the relationship where all we want to do is be together, and I don’t want to overlook that, because it probably doesn’t last forever, right?” Ilsa didn’t respond. “But at the same time, I know I need to be fair to his daughters. It’s just so hard. I feel resentful. Maybe even a little bit envious. And I really don’t want to feel that.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure it’s completely normal. Back when Michael and I were in our first blush of passion, I probably would have been a bit annoyed if there was an almost three-year-old around. And a thirteen-year-old. Jesus. You do sort of have it bad, you know.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Just being honest.”

  “You always are.”

  “It’s funny you called, because I was thinking of you tonight. I was considering paying you a visit, but I didn’t want to interrupt all the excitement. Sounds like you could use a visitor, though? A weekend to do your own thing, while he does his?”

  “I would love that.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you bringing the kids? Maybe they and Bea can have a . . . what are they called, play appointments? And that will solve everything, because what can’t your adorable kids solve?”

  “They’re called playdates. But no. I think maybe I’ll just come on my own.”

  • • •

  On the day of Ilsa’s arrival, Liane ended up telling Laurence she would look after Beatrice alone for the first time. It was a Saturday morning and Gillian was away for the weekend with her boyfriend. Isabel had simply said no, that she had a school assignment to work on and had to go to the library for the entire day—which Liane didn’t buy but Laurence clearly seemed to. “My sister is coming,” Liane began, but then she stopped. Fear gripped her—I can’t be alone with Beatrice. But she had to. Laurence needed her. He didn’t have anyone else. And Ilsa would be there after the first few hours to help her.

  She texted her sister. I’m sorry, I can’t pick you up at the airport, I’m babysitting Beatrice. Take a taxi to my apartment and I’ll pay for it.

  This was how she ended up on the subway with Bea’s stroller and all her stuff, which seemed an extreme amount for a person so small. The subway had been Liane’s idea. She had imagined Bea would find it fun, that it would be a diversion for them—and, more important, that it would kill some time. And true, Bea was entranced with the movement, sound, and people on the train, chatting softly to Liane, making her feel like it was all going to work out. But then on the subway platform, Bea screamed in fear when the wind coming through the tunnel hit her in the face. On the escalator, juggling stroller and child, Liane nearly cried with exhaustion; how did people do this on a daily basis?

  Finally, she made it outside, and with a diaper bag slung over the back handle of the stroller, a diaper bag that Laurence had packed, with Pull-Ups (Bea was in the process of being potty-trained) and wipes and snacks and toys and extra clothes and all sorts of things Liane never would have thought of, Liane plodded up Queen Street, trying to think of a way to shelter Bea from the cold February wind. “We’ll be there soon. Five more minutes.” But in truth, it was at least a ten-minute walk from the subway to her apartment. She longed to take the streetcar, but couldn’t imagine how she’d manage to get the stroller up those stairs.

  She continued to worry about the cold on Bea’s face and leaned her head forward to make sure Bea’s hat was still on and her blanket was still covering her legs. She felt like a mother, and knew she must look like one—except for the fact, of course, that Bea looked nothing like her, with her dark hair and dark eyes, and also for the fact that she had just started screaming, “I want my mommy!”

  Liane continued to push resolutely, until Bea chucked her sippy cup and Liane had to brake the stroller and chase the cup as it rolled down an invisible hill. She gave the cup back to Bea without thinking. It was empty but Bea had been insisting on carrying it around for days, chewing on the spout. “It’s BPA-free,” Laurence had said. “It’s probably fine.”

  Liane continued to push and Bea continued to cry and chuck her sippy cup. Liane would retrieve it and give it back, thinking each time that perhaps she needed to stop giving the sippy cup back, especially since it had fallen on the sidewalk so many times it was likely riddled with bacteria. But when she tried to withhold it, tucking it into the side pocket of the diaper bag, Bea screamed even louder.

  Finally she was home. Her apartment. The stairs. “Shit,” she said under her breath, parking the stroller just outside the door, grabbing the diaper bag—she could feel her shirt, underneath her jacket, soaked with sweat, despite the chilly temperature—and then picking up Bea. The child was quiet for a moment, but then she screamed, “No! I want my mommy. I don’t want you!”

  The taxi pulled up while Liane was still standing there. When Ilsa got out, she didn’t say anything, just rolled her suitcase up to the curb, took the diaper bag, and somehow expertly folded the stroller and began to carry it, and everything else, up the stairs. When Ilsa was like this, it always surprised Liane. She was still Ilsa—unpredictable, lackadaisical—but when it came to being a mother, she was one of those women who was so relaxed she made it look easy.

  Ilsa looked over her shoulder. “Come on, just walk. She’ll keep screaming, but she’ll get over it.”

  Liane carried the wailing Bea up the stairs, and managed to unlock the door and get them all inside. “See? I’m a terrible mother,” she said.

  “You’re not her mother.”

  “I know that, but still. I’m a terrible whatever. Step-­nothing.”

  “Step-something. You and Laurence are clearly going to get married, or at least be blissfully together forever.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t even met him.”

  “Instinct. And I’ll meet him this weekend, and it will just confirm it. Now put her down. Let her calm down for a second.” Liane put Bea on the couch. “I’m Ilsa,” Ilsa said to her, speaking to her the way Helen always had, like she wasn’t a sobbing child but rather an adult. Bea gulped in air, but she didn’t sob again. “I’m Liane’s big sister. You have a big sister, too, don’t you?”

  Bea just sat silently, watching Ilsa and then glancing at Liane.

  “What should we do?” Liane whispered.

  “Take off her coat. Then pour a glass of wine for each of us. Quickly.”

  “But it’s not even noon!”

  “Oh, come on! We’re babysitting.”

  “I’m going to try to pick her up again.”

  “I’d leave her for now,” Ilsa warned. But Liane tried again, and again Bea wailed.

  “Seriously. Wine. Do you have some?”

  “Of cou
rse.” Liane went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of white. Then she washed the sippy cup with hot, soapy water and filled it with milk, finishing the small carton she always kept on hand for coffee and the odd bowl of cereal. She brought the drinks out to the living room. She gave Bea the cup, fished some toys and books out of the diaper bag, and sat on the couch beside her sister. Bea continued to watch them silently, then picked up her cup and started to drink. She sighed contentedly after a moment, picked up a book, and began to study the pages intently.

  “My best advice to you would be not to try,” Ilsa said in a low voice.

  “Not to try?”

  “I don’t mean don’t try with her, I just mean don’t try to be her mother. You’re not. You never will be. Same with the other one, what’s her name?”

  “Isabel.”

  “You’re not Isabel’s mom, either. I did make the same mistake, when Michael and I were first together. I was certain Alexa and Shane were going to despise me, because I was so much younger than their father and they were already almost teenagers. so I tried to act like a second mom, draw a line, be . . . I don’t know, kind of strict. I tried to force it, and that really didn’t work. It didn’t last long, I can tell you that. You just need to try to find another angle.”

  “Like . . . like what? I’m supposed to try to be their best friend?”

  “No! Cool aunt. Trust me, it works.”

  “But I’m not cool at all. And anyway, I’ve been reading articles. I think I’m supposed to be trying to transition into the role of coparent.”

  “Is that what Laurence is asking you to do? Does he use that word, coparent?”

  “He’s not asking me to do anything. He’s just asking me to be around, I guess.”

  “Then that’s good. It’s still up to you. Choose your role. And don’t let it be coparent because that just sounds lame and clinical.”

  Liane sighed. “She won’t even let me pick her up.”

  “A cool aunt wouldn’t even try to pick her up. A cool aunt would sit on the couch drinking wine in the morning and ignoring her, which is exactly what you’re doing.”