“I know.”
He stared into the kitchen through the screen door. We could both see the dim outline of my mother, sitting at the kitchen table. She was singing to Marilyn; I thought I remembered the melody.
My father put his arm around me, squeezed. “I have to say she looks pretty damn good in a slip, though, don’t you think?”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
“When you look that good in a slip, why not wear it outside, huh?”
“Right.”
“Am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
He kissed my forehead, told me quietly, “What keeps her going now, honey, is just the living itself. You know? Just the living itself.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess that’s true for all of us. I mean, I would hope that it would be.”
My grandmother, my mother’s mother, had a certain platter she prized. She’d bought it at a department store—put it on lay-away and made monthly payments of a dollar—thinking that if she ever got married, she’d display it in her china cabinet, bring it out on certain holidays. It got broken one Easter by my sister Phyllis, who had volunteered to carry it into the kitchen to be washed. There was a terrible moment of silence when it happened, and then my grandmother, who had her priorities straight, came and put her arm around Phyllis and said, “Now don’t you feel bad. We’re going to fix this, you and I, and when it is fixed, it will be even better than it was before.” Not strictly true, actually, and we all knew it, especially Phyllis. But it was true enough, and the platter did get glued together and continued to be used year after year. It may not have been better than it was before in the most literal sense, but it gained a kind of dignity and worth from the way it was loved despite itself. Because of itself, actually.
I kiss the top of Marilyn’s head, relish the silky feel of her hair, the sweet smell of her baby head. She has fallen asleep, but I continue to hold her anyway. Outside, the sky is a pale blue, the holy color of a fresco. I look up into it, rock and stare, remembering a whimsical belief I’d once enjoyed. I imagined I’d had a choice about whether or not to be born, that I was a perfectly happy angel in heaven and then my turn for The Conversation came up and God and I sat with crossed legs in his office full of clouds and He said, “So? You want to go?”
I said, “I don’t know. What’s involved?”
“Well,” He said, “you’d go to Earth.”
“Earth,” I said.
“Yes,” He said, “Earth. It’s quite beautiful there. And of course you’d be living with human beings.”
“What’s ‘human beings’?” I asked, and He sighed deeply, but He smiled, sighing, and there was so much tenderness there you knew His love far outweighed His regret.
“Human beings,” He said. “They are the ones with the most important job. They are supposed to make what they want out of what they are given.”
“Do they do it?” I asked, and He said, “Sometimes not. But sometimes so.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll go. I want to see.”
I can’t remember when I stopped entertaining this notion. Maybe I never did, really.
I put Marilyn down in her crib, pull her blanket up to her small ear, which has been reddened by our closeness. I pull down her shades, tiptoe out of her room. I need to start dinner; Elaine, Mark, Ethan, and his lover, Louis, will be over later. I think Ethan has found his someone; they’re very happy together. And I know, I know, I know; but I really believe that what I have is enough, at least for now. Perhaps later I will find a someone, too. For now there is the creak of the rocker, the luscious fact of my sleeping daughter. There is the sound of the rushing waves, the sight of the ocean from nearly all the windows—I watch the water sparkle in the morning when I wash the breakfast dishes, and I see it moving under the stars every night before I sleep. I have friends and family whom I love in a town I love living in; I have wild roses climbing up the side of a house that belongs to me. The blossoms are a deep pink color, beautiful beside each other. Or by themselves.
A Conversation with Elizabeth Berg
Q: In an early moment of Until the Real Thing Comes Along, Patty identifies a similarity between artistry and motherhood. How similar—or different—have these pursuits been in your experience?
EB: The similarity is, I guess, obvious. Despite our desire to control them, children and books turn out to be what they have to be, namely, themselves. Also, they—both children and books—are what live on after you, hopefully. I do think that there’s an art form to parenting, and I have nothing but admiration for those who do it well. I think it’s harder—much harder—to be a good parent than to write a book.
Q: Once characters start leading their own lives, do you ever want to make them behave as you might make a child behave?
EB: I can’t really do that and be true to the way I write. I have to let characters develop in a way that’s rather apart from me, or at least from my consciousness. I have to let them go in directions they dictate. And I’m always interested in them, even when they’re “bad.” It’s kind of like coming upon someone in a store who is behaving terribly. You may disapprove of the behavior, but it’s so interesting you want to stand there and watch. I don’t feel compelled to interfere with my characters’ actions. I let them go because I trust that where they’ll bring me is the place the book needs to be.
Q: Does writing—like mothering—change with its object? Is your experience of writing different with each novel?
EB: Some aspects of writing are always the same. Each time, I start with a vague idea and then, through the writing of the thing, realize what it is that I’m really trying to get at, to say. With every novel, I learn things about myself as well as the world at large. There are differences, too, of course. Some books are more difficult to write than others. Talk Before Sleep was hard because I’d lost a good friend to breast cancer and writing the book brought back some pretty painful memories (though the book was very much fictionalized). Durable Goods was hard because my mission was so important to me—that of bringing compassion to a character for whom a lot of people might not have much sympathy.
Q: What was unique to your experience of writing Until the Real Thing Comes Along?
EB: This novel was harder to write because it was so foreign to my own experience. I got married at twenty-five and had children right away, so I didn’t have the worry that I would never get to have children. I do understand baby lust, though—I’m one of those people who are drawn to babies like magnets to iron—in stores, in restaurants, in parks…. Like Patty, I prefer the company of children. But baby lust wasn’t the only thing that inspired the writing of this novel. What I care most about was the notion of coming to terms with what we get versus what we want. And that’s the lesson Patty learns. She may not have gotten everything she wanted, but what she did get is enough. I think it’s a real gift to be able to say that what’s in your life is enough. It seems most of us are always wanting more.
Q: When you began to write did you know that it would be a baby that would “come along” for Patty?
EB: I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen. I did want to write about a delivery, though.
Q: You write about Patty’s delivery with real sympathy and humor and insight—just as you write about so many vital moments in women’s lives. Is it your intent to address these moments systematically?
EB: It’s not at all that contrived. It’s been said about me many times that I deal with “the real issues in women’s lives.” The first time I heard that, I thought, Well, maybe that’s true. Then, when I looked back at the books I’d written thus far, I thought, Huh. I guess it is true. I focus on women and their relationships in large part because I find women so interesting. And because we continue to get short shrift in so many ways, I’m glad to be part of something that draws attention to us. I’m really thrilled, too (honestly!), by the men who come to my readings or write me letters saying that my books help them understand their women, or those men who say t
hey simply enjoy my work for its own sake.
Q: One twist of character that makes Patty so interesting a woman is that despite her longing for a “husband, a house, children, and a decent oven,” she fearlessly embraces her relationship with Ethan. Were you surprised by her decision?
EB: Well, she’s a stubborn woman, isn’t she? No, I wasn’t surprised by that decision. She says right off the bat that she is intractably in love with Ethan, despite everything. She wants to have a baby, and live in a home with the man she loves. The fact that he’s gay … well, maybe they’ll be able to work that out.
Q: Doesn’t even Patty’s career have a stay-at-home element to it?
EB: Yes, her longing, for a home is part of her character. She plays the house game; she sells real estate. Her fixation with houses is just another side of her domesticity. This is a woman who really cherishes the idea of someone caring for a house and a family.
Q: Haven’t houses been important in many of your novels?
EB: Definitely. That’s probably because they’re so important to me. After all, you can’t leave yourself entirely behind when you write—you show up in all of your work, one way or another. My house is my refuge. It’s the place where I keep the things that I find beautiful or meaningful—even sacred. Things that are comforting and things that are powerful. Spiritual things—coins for the I Ching and fetish stones. I have rocks on window ledges, seashells in the bathroom. I have quilts on the wall and other forms of art that I just love—a painting of a woman looking out of a window, a print that was used to make the jacket for the hardcover edition of Talk Before Sleep. I like clocks a lot, like their ticking sounds, and I have a few of those. There are books everywhere, and places to read everywhere. My favorite place to read is a chaise lounge that is situated by a window where I can watch birds come to my feeder. I like my house to feel like a place where I can just lie back and say, Ahhhhh, I’m home. I like a house to look orderly—I can’t stand messes—clothes thrown on the floor, stacks of old newspapers, unmade beds just bug me. I’m not really a terrific housekeeper—you wouldn’t want to look behind furniture or in the back of my refrigerator. But I like there to be an appearance of order.
Q: Is your feeling about your house complicated by the fact that you work there?
EB: Oh, no. I like to work in my house. I like to move between writing and domestic details. Knead the bread, write a few pages. Put in a load of wash, write some more. Make a tuna sandwich and eat it while I read what I wrote. I do have a shed in my backyard where I write in a very focused way—no distractions out there.
Q: Do you ever play the “house game”?
EB: All the time. Unlike Patty, though, I get pissed off if I find another house I like a lot better than the one I chose.
Q: Patty suggests that the “house game” reveals the characteristic that she likes most about herself. Is this the characteristic that you most admire in her?
EB: Well, I admire people who are loyal, but I think there is a lot of frustration in seeing someone cling so hard to something that is just never going to work. So, no, I wouldn’t say that it’s the characteristic I most admire.
Q: For a moment it seems that Patty won’t have to give up her love for Ethan. For a moment Ethan thinks that he “might try to act a little … straight.” Did you ever think he would succeed?
EB: Absolutely not. No. He was just overwrought because so many of his friends were dying. He alludes to that when he talks about all the funerals he’s been to, the weight of deciding what to do with all his friends’ things…. He just wants away from that. There is the fact that he and Patty were once lovers, as Patty is constantly reminding him. Still, he knows he’s not straight and never will be.
Apart from that, I think there’s a lot of excitement around a pregnancy. Two of you are on a pretty amazing ride. I think what Ethan wants is to lose himself in that, at least for a while.
Q: What made you think to investigate a relationship between a straight woman and a gay man?
EB: Part of the reason is that I had that experience. In college, I was madly in love with a boy who didn’t admit to his homosexuality for a long time. He finally came out to me one night when I was over at his apartment for dinner. He had moved on to another girlfriend by then, so it wasn’t as devastating for me as Ethan’s coming out to Patty was. At that point, we were just good friends, and I was actually very glad for him that he could finally tell the truth about something that caused him such anguish. I felt sorry for his girlfriend, even though I was still mad at her for taking him away from me. The character of Ethan was very much modeled on that boyfriend, who was a study in elegance. What a wardrobe that guy had! What style! We remained good friends until he died recently. I miss him.
Q: Until the Real Thing Comes Along investigates many serious themes. Patty, though, seems to resist the difficulties that surround her—not only Ethan’s sorrow, but also her mother’s Alzheimer’s disease. Is this a defense?
EB: Not a conscious one. I think we all resist such hard things as a diagnosis of serious illness. We find it very difficult to bear that kind of information, so we disguise it for as long as we can. If you admit to a problem, you’ll have to deal with it. And you may feel unprepared to deal with it for a long time.
Q: Was it difficult for you to write about Alzheimer’s disease—a disease that destroys an individual’s ability to use language?
EB: I drew from the knowledge I gained working as a nurse to patients who had various kinds of senility. I know what it’s like to be in a conversation where there’s an eerie feeling that something is a little bit off. It’s very seductive, in a way—I mean, you’re having a normal conversation (even the most profoundly confused patients can sometimes say things that make a lot of sense) and then all of a sudden it’s crazy talk. And yet sometimes you can still feel right with them. As though you’ve been led into this fog with them, as though you’re standing there together, holding hands. And there are some people who, in their senility, are sort of normal but for the fact they can’t remember anything. I had one patient, years ago, whom I cared for for several days in a row. Each day, I would wake her up and she would see the flowers beside her bed and she would say, “Oh, did someone send me flowers?” And she’d be so happy. She was a gentle woman, continually delighted. I used to think, well, if I have to be senile, let me be like that.
Q: Until the Real Thing Comes Along investigates the complexities of intimacy. How is it that Patty establishes intimacy so effectively in unexpected moments—with her clients and manicurist—but struggles to be intimate with her dearest friends and family members?
EB: That’s part of her character. And a characteristic she shares with a lot of people. They say that they can’t find someone with whom to be intimate, but it’s almost as if they don’t really want to. You begin to wonder if they really want a relationship. They fulfill their need for intimacy in different ways. Some may have an ability to be intimate up to a point, but not beyond. Just like some people can perform so beautifully in front of a large crowd, but they’re shy one on one. Of course, characters don’t always reveal themselves to me. If I were to know Patty as a real person, that’s something I would wonder about. She says she really wants this, but where’s the evidence? She stays in love with a gay man. She turns down perfectly reasonable suitors. She meets her needs for intimacy in other ways.
Q: Patty is concerned not only with intimacy but also with privacy. She worries, for instance, about the headlines that might be written about her most private concerns and posted on women’s refrigerators across the country. Are women watching other women’s lives that carefully?
EB: People are watching other people’s lives. It may be that women are the most careful observers, that they watch more intently than men do. But is watching enough? It is a mission for me to break down the barriers between the public and the private because I think it makes for terrible loneliness when we hold these intimate concerns to ourselves. If we could admit t
hings to each other, if we could say them, wouldn’t we lead more satisfying lives? For instance, I don’t like parties, but I would go to parties if there were a corner where individuals were revealing their deepest truths. I’d be right there. It’s superficial chatter that I can’t do.
Q: Doesn’t that sound just like Patty?
EB: Yes. And I guess that’s what I always go for in my books, a kind of deep intimacy. I like when the Berkenheimers get stoned and get really honest. In my own life, what I prize most and aspire to are intimate and honest relationships. That’s reflected in my work.
Q: In your novels, such relationships occur most often between women. Do you think women are better at that kind of intimacy?
EB: I’ve had this discussion so many times! I was once complaining about a man to a really good woman friend of mine who’s very wise. She said, “Oh, honey, you can’t ask men for that kind of thing; they don’t have it in them. They’re wired differently than we are. For some of the things you want, you need to ask another woman.” This is a woman who’s been married a long time, by the way. I think she’s right. I think men and women are very different, and it makes for problems when we ask each other for things we simply can’t provide. Women are talkers and processors, pretty thorough and careful. Maybe we’re naturally better at intimacy. On the other hand, a lot of times I think I should lighten up and watch more football.
Q: What is the “real thing”?
EB: For me, the “real thing” is whatever it is that makes you feel you can stop looking, now. You feel a sense of satisfaction even if the thing isn’t perfect. (And let’s face it, nothing is ever perfect.) You feel at home, in the most profound sense of the word.
Q: Is that what you hoped your reader would understand by your title?
EB: Actually, I changed the title. It was going to be called Ms. Runner-Up, and then it was going to be called Life on Earth. But when the book was optioned for film by Goldie Hawn, the screenwriter called it Until the Real Thing Comes Along. I liked that title, so I used it, too.
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