by Hazel Yeats
Cara frowned. “What the hell is the metaphorical shrimp?”
Inge pointed a finger at her. “You think about what that is, okay.”
Cara tried, but nothing came to mind. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve never really been that good at getting your food metaphors.”
“The thing is…” Inge sighed, “…you love Jude. You may not want to hear this, but you do. I’ve always known that. I could tell.”
“Oh, really? And how, oh great one, could you tell that?”
“The sheer…I don’t know…excitement in your voice when you talked about her. Like you’d found a treasure. Or even better, a passion. A destination.” She rested a hand on Cara’s arm. “I know you think you can live your life without all that nonsense, honey. I know that we’re all on our way to our graves and that girls just wanna have fun, yada, yada, yada…but the truth is, that no matter how cynical you are about the human condition, you have to understand that none of us can live without a sense of purpose. We need to bring meaning to our lives. And she was helping you do that, Cara. She changed you. She made you a happier, more fulfilled person.”
Cara didn’t speak. Or move.
“Oh, and she made you giddy. But I guess that was the sex.”
“Sex hasn’t made me giddy in ten years,” she lied.
“All I’m saying is that you’re not a naturally giddy person.”
Cara shook her head. “You got me there.”
The dog whimpered in his basket. “It’s okay, Boy,” Inge said soothingly. “No one’s going to harm you, and no one’s going to steal your food. Not on my watch.”
The dog sighed contentedly, as if that was all the reassurance he needed, and went to sleep.
“Want to talk about your commitment issues now?” Inge shoved Cara teasingly. “While I make tea?” She checked her watch. “Or shall we have wine? I might as well reap the benefits of being barren.”
Cara flinched, but she didn’t say anything, being among the few people who could certainly appreciate both cynicism and drinking as a way to deal with hardship.
“I thought we were going to see Myra?”
Inge shrugged. “There’s time.”
“Then can I have a Coke?”
“You sure can, ma’am.”
When Inge came back with the drinks, Cara had settled comfortably in the recliner that was her usual spot. “I decided no,” she said, taking the glass from Inge. “I don’t want to talk about my commitment issues now. Or ever.”
“Why not?”
“Because, and I say this in the most loving way possible, you guys tend to think in absolutes.”
“Huh?”
“To you, people are either commitment phobic, for whatever reason, or they’re not. But it’s not that simple. I, for instance, am more than able to commit to someone. What about my relationship with you and Myra? I see you guys like a hundred times a week.” She smiled. “When we’re not fighting.”
“Let’s forget about that now, okay?” Inge said.
Cara nodded. “We’re always there for each other, day and night. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.”
“That’s different,” said Inge. “We’re family.”
“You also seem to think that I have a problem with monogamy. And I don’t. I’ve never cheated on anybody, or felt the need to. Ever.”
“So then…what was it?”
Cara didn’t know what to say. She twirled the glass in her hand. It was a good question. Good enough to keep her up at night. It was probably what Alice had suggested; she would have disappointed Jude. She wasn’t up to par. She tried to forget the fact that Jude hadn’t thought she was up to par either. Not by frowning at her career choices, which would have been annoying but tolerable, but by creating an inner sanctum that she could never ever reach.
“What was it,” Inge continued, “that made you run when things got serious with Jude, while it was obvious to everybody that you were completely crazy about her?” She put her feet on the coffee table again. “I’m not judging you. And I’m not above admitting that I might be wrong, or narrow-minded. I’m just curious. You find the person who is arguably the love of your life, and you react by freaking out and dumping her. Is that not…unhealthy behavior?”
“Probably.”
“Do you suppose it has something to do with Mom and Dad? With Mom’s breakdown after the divorce? I mean, you were fifteen! Kids are pretty susceptible at that age. Maybe what you got from that, even subconsciously, was that people can’t be trusted. And that you’re better off not giving them the power to hurt you.”
Cara shrugged. “I don’t know, Doctor Phil. Maybe you’re right. But I have always known, no matter how much she victimized herself, that Mom was just as much to blame for the breakup as Dad was. I do think it was harder for me, being the only one still living at home and actually having to watch Dad leave, but kids go through that kind of thing all the time.” She shrugged. “I don’t think it has anything to do with that. I really don’t want to be looking for childhood traumas. I simply like my freedom. Because that’s just who I am.” It wasn’t the truth, or at least not the entire truth, but it was all she could handle right now.
“You’re a very loveable person,” Inge insisted. “It seems like such a waste.”
“Or it’s the opposite. Instead of giving my love to just one person, I’m spreading it around.”
“Excuse me, but what you’ve been spreading around is not love. It’s a ride on a merry-go-round.”
Cara wasn’t happy being compared to a carnival attraction, but she let it pass, since she was also strangely relieved that their fight hadn’t prompted Inge to be a little more careful with her comments. She did, and would forever, speak her mind. And Cara realized that she wouldn’t want it any other way. Especially since she was obviously given the same rights—her own rant and subsequent silence were clearly forgiven and forgotten.
“But you did love Jude, right?” Inge insisted. “You do love her.”
Cara shrugged. “What do you want me to say? That I spend my nights writing cheesy rhymes about her, where I compare her to a summer’s day?”
“That sounds kind of sweet,” Inge said, “comparing someone to a summer’s day.”
“It’s from a sonnet,” Cara said.
“That you wrote?”
“No, that William Shakespeare wrote, actually.”
“And you just called that a cheesy rhyme?”
“If he wrote it today—”
“Never mind that,” Inge said impatiently. “My point is, you love her. You do love her, right?”
Cara nodded. “I do.” She produced a wry smile. “I do indeed.”
Inge gulped down her Coke and then shook her head. “You know what your problem is, baby Sis?” she said. “You’re an idiot.”
CHAPTER 11
Life went on. That, after all, is what it does best.
Cara was more than ready to move on in the old, familiar way, wanting to leave behind her the feeling of childish excitement at simply being alive that Jude had given her. She had finally landed back on earth, and she had understood the true origin of her bliss—a simple surplus of oxytocin.
But she soon became aware that something had shifted on a level, or in a way, that she couldn’t quite control or write down to hormones. The familiar patterns seemed to have lost their pull. Instead of giving her freedom, the way they always had, they now felt restricting, like a wrong-sized piece of clothing she was tugging and pulling at to try and make it fit. She tried to steer herself back on the old track, convinced that the detour she had obviously taken didn’t necessarily mean she had to change destinations, too. She was reluctant to surrender to any new way, assuming that what she felt was temporary.
But it wasn’t.
Too much had happened. Maybe it was the b
irth of Ede, and of her strange connection to the child, or maybe it was the arduous project that her sisters were to embark upon. Maybe it was her own reconciliation to them. Maybe it was the memory of Jude, and the pain of losing her. Or maybe it was simply a question of age—of shedding the skin that no longer fit and replacing it with a new one.
Whatever the reason, Cara took a deep breath and started applying herself to being an adult—not so much a different, but a slightly more responsible person, who was willing to embrace, albeit hesitantly, the complexities of life rather than run away from them. There was a mundane level to her transformation too. She opened her bank statements and stored them in a binder. She opened a savings account. She bought throw pillows. And she bought houseplants that she watered with military precision. She researched all she could find on surrogacy, wanting to know exactly what her sisters were up against in the long road to making Inge a mother and Bart a father.
She stopped dating, ignoring the cloaked invitations to one-night stands from the women in her little black book, failing to understand their sudden lack of appeal, and mourning it, but eventually accepting, for now, that casual sex was off the table.
Before she knew it, something she could only describe as a pleasant stability that she refused to acknowledge at first, but that she eventually embraced, was starting to color her days. It earned her a new sense of self-respect.
At night, after a day’s work at the carwash, she began to scour the Internet for information on teaching. Her old dream from college mysteriously resurfaced, as she thought about ways to have a grown-up job that she could be passionate about. The longer she thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. She knew there were drab sides to the teaching profession, but the thought that bestowing a love of literature in young people’s minds could be her core business was strangely exhilarating.
“Good for you, honey,” Myra said, on one of the many visits Cara paid the Koopman household to see baby Ede. “You’re going to be great at that. And I know just the place for your internship.” Myra was routinely feeding her youngest daughter, the formula bottle loosely in hand, tipping it slightly as it became emptier, adjusting it to the child’s needs without even looking.
“What do you mean, an internship?” Cara said. “I need an internship? I know I need a teaching certificate, but I’m a college graduate, so that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“No matter how you do it, practice in dealing with young people is of the essence, if not required,” Myra said. “And I have young people. So come babysit next week, okay? I’m taking Arend out for his birthday. I’ve got tickets to the Ajax game, and I’m going to make dinner reservations at some place that serves those horrible, ten-pound steaks.” She stuck out her tongue. “I don’t know what it is with men and meat.” She put the bottle on the table and draped Ede up over her shoulder, gently patting her back.” It’s not exactly my idea of a stylish celebration, but this is his party, after all.” She smiled. “And he deserves it, my guy. Because he’s great.”
Cara frowned. “How is babysitting four infants going to prepare me for a teaching position?”
“Young minds are eager minds.” Myra rolled her eyes as Ede burped and then spit up on her shoulder. “Rookie mistake,” she said. “Forgot the bib.” She picked up the baby, holding it in her arms, and turned her head, looking at her shoulder in disgust.
“Hold her, will you?” She gently lowered the baby into Cara’s arms and walked out of the room.
“Hi there.” Cara placed her niece comfortably in her arms. “Aren’t you a little stinker?”
Ede eyed her curiously before a big smile lit up her entire face. “You’re Aunt Cara’s little, itty-bitty, tiny stinker, aren’t you?” Cara went on talking and smiling at the child until she began to giggle, but then Ede lost interest. Cara held a teething toy in front of her face that Ede grasped and put in her mouth immediately.
Cara looked around the room, cradling the little girl in her arms. Myra’s house was similar in style and size to Inge’s, but even though six people were living here, four of whom were under the age of seven, it was dramatically less cluttered than Inge’s. Inge liked that homey, lived-in look. She would fill up every bit of available space with trinkets and knickknacks: souvenirs, scented candles, framed pictures, rugs and pillows, and hand-picked flowers in tiny vases. Whereas Myra not only ran her household with rigid discipline, but showed a strong dislike of every item that would gather dust without being of any practical use. Even her family room was spotless; the walls a gentle beige; the carpet a sensible, stain-resistant orange; the furniture expensive, but practical. She would allow toys on the floor, but only as long as the children were playing with them. As soon as they were outside, at school, or had gone to bed; the rooms were cleared, the toys neatly gathered in toy chests and boxes that were kept behind the doors of a huge, white-washed cabinet dominating the family room.
The door opened. Myra came back with a clean shirt on and her hair in a ponytail. It seemed that she had reapplied her makeup. Subtle though it was, it transformed her face. The slightly shabby look she tended to allow herself when pregnant, always disappeared right after the baby was born. Sometimes as soon as the next day, she turned back into her old, preppy self.
She undid the top button of her blouse. “So do we have a deal? About the babysitting?”
“You make it kind of hard to say no,” Cara said. “And I’ll do it, as long as it’s clear that it’s a favor I’m doing you, and not the other way around.”
“Right.” Myra sat down next to her. “I can see how I may have been a tad transparent there. Although, I do maintain that being around children of any age is good practice for people in the teaching profession.” She smiled at her baby daughter, who seemed very content lying in the crook of Cara’s arm, happily playing with her toy.
“So what brought this on?” Cara said. “You’ve never asked me to babysit before. In all honesty, I thought you didn’t quite trust me.” She moved her fingers across Ede’s tiny hand. The child grabbed hold of Cara’s thumb with her free hand and held it tightly. “And I was fine with that,” she said. “Taking care of four children without any experience seems like quite a challenge. Frankly, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Myra said. “I just never thought babysitting would be your thing. Now that you come over so often, I see that you’re great with kids, no matter how much you deny it.”
“Ede’s the only kid I’m great with.” Cara stroked the child’s cheek. “She’s my soulmate.”
Myra shook her head. “You can’t be good with just one kid. You either have it in you, or you don’t. And I say you’re a natural.”
“I wasn’t great with Jude’s kid,” Cara said morosely.
“You never gave that a chance. How many times did you even meet her? Three? Four? You’re not supposed to run the first time they show you their cranky, bitchy side. You know? They can be pretty fickle at that age. One day they spit you out, the next, they adore you. They don’t have to be civil, like grown-ups. They need to be disciplined and taught in an age appropriate way, how to behave. That doesn’t happen overnight, and that’s okay. Cut them some slack. They have eighteen years to get the hang of it.”
Cara nodded. She wasn’t about to tell Myra that she’d ran the very first time she’d met Zoe. In fact, she didn’t want to discuss the subject at all, even though she’d brought it up herself.
“It’s not rocket science anyway.” Myra shook her head. “There won’t be much to do. We’ll make sure they’re in bed before we leave. All you need to do is to keep an eye on things. And an ear. We have baby monitors for that. And you may be requested to read the twins a bedtime story.”
Cara nodded. “That, I can do.”
“You’re a life saver,” Myra said. “I know that turning forty-two is not really a big deal, and Arend doesn’t care about hi
s birthday, but you have to be careful about these things. It’s not always easy to find even a moment to be together. In fact, it’s downright impossible, but I’m simply making the time. I want us to be more than just parents. It’s so easy to slip into that sweatpants rut where you both stop making an effort.”
Cara nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Do I ever. You guys have a great time and don’t worry about a thing.”
“You do realize,” Myra said, taking back the baby, who was starting to whimper, “that reading the twins a story…” Her voice trailed off as she pushed a pacifier in her daughter’s mouth.
“What?” Cara said.
“Will mean reading them a Bunny story.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is that…a problem?”
“Jesus, Myra! I’m not going to have a nervous breakdown every time I see a Bunny book.”
“Well, I don’t know, do I?” Myra rolled her eyes. “You never talk about her. I don’t know if you’re completely over her or if you spend your days sitting in a darkened room, pining for her.”
“I’m completely over her.”
“I know you’re lying, Cara. Why don’t you give her a freaking call?” Myra shook her head. “For God’s sake. You’re so horribly pigheaded.” She took one of her daughter’s tiny feet in her hand. “It’s so simple, you know. This is why I can’t bring myself to let it rest, because it’s so very simple, and you two fools just don’t see it. Believe me when I say that no couple is a match made in heaven. I know it sounds horribly unromantic, and it is, but relationships require work. Maintenance. They’re like living organisms—they wither if not properly tended to. Everybody over the age of sixteen should know that. You and Jude, without wanting to, have done everything wrong. You both pushed the very buttons that made the other person run like hell. You, my dear, are not so much afraid of commitment, as of not being a part of that commitment. You can’t handle living by rules and structures that are carved in stone. Which is why you need someone who’s willing to communicate with you and to make changes when things don’t work. And what does Jude do? At the first sign of trouble, the first time her kid has the runs, the first time her ex sends her an angry e-mail, she shuts you out and stops talking. Ergo, you run.” She shrugged. “Jude, in turn, is afraid to become dependent on someone’s support, because every time she was dependent on someone’s support in the past, she didn’t get it and crashed to the ground. Don’t ask me how I know.” She frowned when she saw the inquisitive look on Cara’s face. “I just do. And because this is Jude’s experience, she needs to convince herself that she can deal with any crisis without your help. You, wanting to show her you’re there for her, keep shoving that help in her face. Ergo, she runs.” She sighed and smiled, obviously content with her analysis.