by Hazel Yeats
Cara stared at the people passing by their table and suddenly, out of the blue, she realized that her sisters, Alice included, were nothing but caricatures. They had adopted a role, a way of looking at the world, a way of talking down to her that freed them from the burden of having to think about their own lives. They were stuck, all three of them. And she would get stuck with them, always be the victim of their need to control her, if she didn’t make some long overdue changes to her life, right now. They were the ones having a problem, not her. They were all jealous of her, of her courage to remain free spirited, of her sense of adventure, of her refusal to live her life by anybody’s rules but her own.
“You know what?” she said, sitting up. “I’m sick and tired of always getting the third degree from you guys. If I do have a fear of inadequacy, it’s because you three are constantly shoving my inadequacy in my face!” People were beginning to look at them, but she didn’t care. She took a sharp intake of breath. “For the record, I live my life my way, and if you have a problem with that, and if you think it’s okay to vent your frustrations about your own failed lives by criticizing mine, then bite me! Go find someone else to kick around.”
They stared at her, mouths open.
“And while we’re at it,” she said, feeling her face getting blotchy with pent-up anger, “I might as well tell you that I’m seeing Kelly again.” She gave them a second to process this information, but she didn’t wait long enough to let them speak. “That’s right,” she said, “she was the one who almost got me kicked out of my apartment. Turned out that it was all a misunderstanding. I ran into her, we talked, and now we’re seeing each other. And yes, we’re having fun, if you guys even remember the meaning of that word. Deal with it!”
She jumped up, knocking over her chair, and trotted off.
Cara spent a lonely night in her apartment, pacing the floor in sheer frustration and not answering her phone, until the incessant beeping and ringing got on her nerves so badly that she picked it up and hurled it across the room. It went skidding down the hall and crashed against the bedroom door. She wasn’t going to talk to either of her horrible sisters. Or Alice. They were so respectful, so careful, when it came to judging each other’s choices, so why were hers constantly scrutinized and blatantly rejected, as if her life wasn’t her own, but some kind of shared hobby? Why wasn’t Alice the subject of their scorn? Wasn’t it far more logical to pass moral judgment on someone who’d been involved with a married man for more than a year, than on someone who was admittedly good at screwing things up, but who at least screwed with her own things instead of someone else’s? Shouldn’t they all take a good, hard look at themselves first? Were any of them perfect enough to have earned the right to throw the first stone? Look at them! One was miserably obese and barren, one was hopelessly superficial and terrified of growing older, and the other one was so afraid of silence that she filled every corner of her home with screeching little brats. And they thought they were in a position to tell her what to do with her life!
She was doing the right thing. As the hours went by, she was able to convince herself over and over again that she was doing the right thing.
She’d been observing Jude’s life from close up, and while she was very sure of her love, she knew that they were bound to fail each other bitterly if she didn’t put a stop to things right now. Because the thought that she too would have to adopt the same life, made her choke.
Cara knew that if they continued on this road, she would end up juggling the same responsibilities Jude did. She pictured herself taking care of Jude’s manipulative little shrew while Jude was on tour. She imagined Jude and herself as a couple, arguing over whose turn it was to load the dishwasher, struggling to make their mortgage payments, slowly losing interest in each other. Cara had a vision of herself as an administrative assistant in a pantsuit, spending her days on the top floor of one of the impressive, glass office buildings uptown, wondering if a fall from the fifteenth floor would guarantee a quick death. And then there were the angry ex, the Bunny deadlines, and the scumbag currently suing Jude—all the insecurities and the pressure that came with her career. Jude may have been telling the truth when she said she wanted to be both free and in a committed relationship, but what did that mean when each day of the life you shared together was nothing but a drab repetition of the one before? Cara knew, that it was only a matter of time before Jude, organized as she was, as she had to be, insisted they synchronize their datebooks, no doubt appalled to find that Cara didn’t even own a datebook. Jude would get her one that would fill up with boring obligations: taking the kid to the dentist and the car to the shop, cooking wholesome meals, visiting the in-laws, going to bed at nine p.m., filing tax returns together. They might even be audited. Weren’t writers being audited like all the time? Would she have to get rid of her shoebox full of unopened bank statements and get used to filing every bill and ticket she ever got in the appropriate binder, categorized by subject? Would she have to enter every penny of the household budget she spent in a spreadsheet? She didn’t even know how to work a fucking spreadsheet! They would have stopped talking and stopped loving long before then, and what else was there? Without love, what was the point?
She broke out in a sweat. She began to feel queasy. She thought it might be the flu.
But it wasn’t.
Jude’s voice oozed despair. Cara gritted her teeth and wiped her eyes. She forced herself to listen to the messages over and over again, torturing herself by imagining Jude’s lovely face, blotchy and tear stained, needing Cara’s comfort, her reassurance, her loving arms around her. She stood firm, because she knew, that as heart wrenching as this was, they’d both be better off in the end if she stood her ground now. It was an act of love more than anything else.
It went on for weeks. Jude would call and call, leaving messages in a half-smothered voice, asking for an explanation, begging for another chance, pleading to get together and talk. Until finally, she just cried. And then, all was silent.
CHAPTER 10
At the beginning of May, on a gentle spring day, Myra gave birth to Ede, who had managed, despite living in the cramped womb she’d called home for so long, to balloon up to an impressive eight pounds.
Cara went to the hospital, guilt ridden because she hadn’t been in touch with Myra for weeks. She bought two ridiculously large stuffed animals and a heart-shaped balloon in the hospital gift shop. Her heart was heavy—there was no way of knowing if Myra even wanted to see her. She tried not to think about the possibility that she wasn’t welcome, that she’d be sent away. She opened the heavy door to Myra’s room just a crack in case her sister hurled a bedpan at her. But as she came closer and saw Myra’s gentle gaze, she realized that there was nothing to worry about.
Myra was alone, visiting hour was almost over.
“These,” Cara said, putting the stuffed animals, one pink, the other blue, on the bed, “are not necessarily meant to be handed out according to any gender biased rules.” She tied the balloon to the bedpost and kissed Myra on the cheek. There was an IV drip in her hand. She looked pale and disturbingly fragile.
There was a transparent hospital bassinette next to her bed. Cara bent over and peered inside at her newborn niece, who looked tiny, despite her considerable birth weight. She was pale more than pink, silently recovering from the arduous task of being born. She was dressed in white, the only color in her wardrobe an impossibly small pink hat. She was fast asleep, her tiny fists resting next to her head. Her eyelids quivered, but she didn’t wake. Cara didn’t know if this child was somehow different than the others, more special, or if maybe she was extra sensitive these days, but she felt a sudden rush of love for the infant wash over her. Something profound had happened here, something to do with the essence of everything—something that she was somehow a part of. Realizing this made her realize, also, how utterly irrelevant her reason for distancing herself from her sisters, the most im
portant people in her life, had been. Because not only was it a sister’s prerogative to give unsolicited advice, but as it turned out, they had been right. Breaking up with Jude really was the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
When she sat down by the bed, and Myra stroked her hair, she couldn’t stop the tears from welling up. None fell, she made sure of that—not because she was embarrassed to cry in front of her sister, but because she knew that once she allowed them to fall, they would never stop.
“I’ve turned into a weepy old woman.” She smiled through her tears.
“It’s alright, you know, everything is fine,” Myra said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Cara hung her head. “I’ve been a crappy sister.”
“Or maybe I’ve been a crappy sister,” Myra said. “I’ve been going over this in my mind time and again. And you definitely had a point. We do tend to give you a hard time. And we should butt out of your life a little more. I know we only have your best interests at heart, but that’s not really an excuse.”
Cara nodded, not sure how safe it was to talk about this now. “So how about the baby? Is she okay? Are you?” She put her hand on Myra’s arm. “You look drained. And what about the drip? Is that routine?”
Myra nodded. “They’re keeping us overnight, but there’s nothing to worry about.” She nudged toward the bassinette. “The baby’s fine. And I’m fine too. Hell, we’re all fine. I’ve done this before, you know?”
“But you sure as hell aren’t going to do it again, right?”
Not a sound came from the bed, at least not the ‘oh God, no’ Cara had been expecting.
“Right?” she repeated. “Jesus, Myra, don’t tell me you’re considering having more.”
“Well, yes and no.”
“What the—“
“It’s Inge.”
A cold fist closed itself around Cara’s heart. “Inge? What about Inge?”
“She’s had another miscarriage.”
Cara’s heart sank. “Damn,” she said softly. The thought that she hadn’t been there, that she hadn’t even known, made her feel horrible. She had done wrong by all of them.
“It’s killing her, Cara,” Myra said. “It’s going to be the death of her.”
Cara nodded, hanging her head.
“And I can’t let that happen. Arend and I have been talking about this for a while now, gathering information and consulting people who’ve been through it. And we’re totally on the same page.”
“About what?”
“Surrogacy.”
Cara’s jaw dropped to the floor. “Sur—“
“That’s right!” Myra said. “I’ve decided that I’m going to carry their child. Inge’s and Bart’s. If they’ll let me. If we can make that work. I’m telling them tonight.”
It was Bart who opened the door. He seemed surprised to see her, but he didn’t say anything. Once she was inside, he took her coat and gave her a bear hug, the same way he always did.
“I’ll be in the den,” he said, “if you need me.” He turned to walk up the stairs.
Inge was sitting on the couch, her feet resting on the coffee table. The dog, Boy, an adorable mutt they’d rescued from the pound, was lying next to her, his head resting in her lap. The television was on, but she wasn’t really watching. She was leafing through a magazine, but she wasn’t really reading. Cara knew, even from where she was standing, that Inge was determined not to look in her direction, though she was very aware that her sister was standing there. Cara looked around the room, which was as colorful, cozy, and warm as it always was. Inge and Bart had arranged their lives around having no children so meticulously that it was almost unnatural—a desperate attempt to drown out the darkness and the silence by making a lot of noise and splashing color everywhere. They were socially active, throwing casual dinner parties and hosting informal get-togethers almost every weekend. They were constantly planning and taking trips. They spent a huge chunk of money on making their home welcoming and comforting. But for those who knew, what was missing was always more prominent than what was there. There was simply nothing that would compensate for, or make one forget about, the void in the lives of this couple.
Cara stood there, watching her sister lying under her padded quilt, trapped in a cloud of sorrow. Her heart swelled with a feeling of compassion so strong, it made her gasp for air. And as she recalled Myra’s words, the thought that there might just be one last chance to see a bouncer seat in this room, a playpen, a floor littered with toys, made her realize that there was nothing in this world that she wanted more than for Inge to have her baby.
She cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said, hoping for an invitation to come closer.
It didn’t come.
“Hi,” said Inge.
“I heard what happened.” Cara took a few careful steps. “Myra told me.”
Inge turned to her, hugging the quilt closer around her. She was looking old and hopelessly forlorn.
“Oh, honey.” Cara practically ran toward Inge. “I’m so sorry.”
Inge pushed the dog out of the way, threw back the quilt, and got up, meeting Cara halfway. She practically threw herself into Cara’s arms. “I know you are,” she sobbed. They stood like that for a while and then sat down, close together, holding hands.
Inge turned her tear-stained face toward her. “We had such high hopes this time, Cara.” She shrugged. “What kind of failed woman am I, if I can’t even do the very thing that women were put on this earth for—to have babies?”
Cara cleared her throat and stopped herself, with some difficulty, from protesting against the depiction of all members of her gender as glorified incubators.
She took her hand out of Inge’s, resting it on her knee instead. “Now listen,” she said. “Don’t go there. This is simply a medical problem. It has nothing to do with you as a person. Or as a woman.”
“I know.” Inge hung her head. It was clear that countless people before Cara had told her the same thing. “It’s just that…I’m a mother, Cara. I am a mother. I just don’t have the child to prove it.”
Cara didn’t know what to say to something quite so sickeningly sad. She sank her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood to stop herself from crying.
“But this was it, you know?” Inge sniffled. “This was our last try. Bart is insisting, for my sake, that this is where we give up. And I think he’s right.” She shook her head, slowly, as if she had a lingering hope of being persuaded otherwise. “No more.”
“So now what?” Cara realized that Myra hadn’t talked her plan over with Bart and Inge yet.
“There’s a new road ahead of us. The road to acceptance. And we’re going to meet that challenge head on, Bart and I. We’re going to leave it behind us. The hope, I mean. And I’m actually looking forward to that. No hope, no disappointments. Peace.”
“Have you…talked to Myra lately?”
“Of course,” Inge said. “She left the hospital with the baby yesterday. In fact, I was supposed to see her this afternoon. She said she wanted to talk to me about something. To us, but Bart’s leaving in an hour, and he’ll be tied up at work the rest of the day.” She eyed Cara. “Why don’t you and I go together?”
“What if she wants to talk about something private?”
“So? I don’t keep any secrets from you.”
“Honey…uh…did you happen to notice that we had a big fight and haven’t talked in weeks?”
Inge nodded. “Sure. So what? We’re family. We fight. And then we make up. It’s no biggie, right?”
“Uh…right,” said Cara.
Inge brought her face closer to Cara’s, studying her. “So how’ve you been? You look a little pale, but it suits you.” She sighed. “It actually makes you even more attractive, in a Scarlett Johansson sort of way. Where are your glasses?”
“I
left them at home,” Cara said. “I got sick and tired of seeing everything so clearly.”
Inge nodded. “Tell me about it.” She sank down into the cushions. “But anyway, how’s the Jude situation?”
“It’s…uh, the same, actually. Over and done.”
“And Kelly?”
Cara shook her head. “Not my brightest hour.”
“It wasn’t the first time around either, honey,” Inge said gently. “I figured the second wouldn’t be all that different.” She seemed to come back to life a little now that she had steered the attention away from her own problems and onto someone else’s. This was charted territory to her—telling other people what to do.
Cara nodded. “Still, it was something I seemed to need to get out of my system. It’s made me realize and accept that my Kelly days are behind me. I’m too old to get drunk in some sad, dimly lit gay bar anymore, making out with a twenty-two-year-old girl behind a dumpster after closing time; all the while trying to forget that her mascara’s run from crying, because someone named Ashley has just told her that she’s getting back together with her boyfriend.” She sighed. “Too old and too lazy. Or maybe tired is the better word.”
Inge pulled a face that might express anything from loathing to admiration—Cara couldn’t tell.
“Did you ever do that?”
“Sure.” Cara smirked. “Didn’t you?”
Inge shook her head. “You’re odd, Cara. You’re a drifter. This is how I see it…” her hand drew a wide circle in the air, “…life is a veritable smorgasbord of tasty experiences, one more delicious than the next. It’s a whole spread for us all to enjoy, and you refuse to try the metaphorical shrimp.”