by Lian Dolan
I think I can say with complete confidence that my father had very little interest in my childhood life, which was filled with school theater productions, books about history, and long sessions in front of the mirror, wondering why Bumble got the bouncy blond hair and I got the straight brunette stuff. We never really clashed, he and I, because we had so little in common.
But over the last decade, we’d found a connection, mainly because of our shared admiration for Roger Federer and my improved backhand. Best of all, even though I was at a community college and he taught at one of the most elite schools in the world, we had become colleagues of sorts.
“Hello, Elizabeth. Am I late?” Never, but he asked every week anyway.
“No, I was early. I’m ahead of you on iced teas, so order up.”
He laughed and gestured over his shoulder. “Your mother’s right behind me. She stopped at the desk to take care of reservations for some dinner months from now, that sort of thing. Probably telling the dining room what to serve that night. She’ll be joining us today apparently. I’ll flag down Ursula and have her move us to a bigger table.”
Perfect. My mother. Or, as I thought of her, the Community Volunteer/Dynamic Faculty Wife/Self-appointed Arbiter of All that Is Right and Good. I wasn’t in the mood. An encounter with Anne Lancaster required me to be on my A game emotionally and sartorially. I was only at about a B-minus on this particular Wednesday. The FX situation had disturbed my sleep, and I wasn’t ready to go public with his offer or my decision.
Add to that my newfound Pierce DeVine relationship, which would annoy my mother to no end, because she’d been trying for a year to get me to meet with her “lovely and tasteful” decorator Chantal, a woman in her mid-sixties whose devotion to chinoiserie far outweighed any consideration of comfort, practicality, or her clients’ actual design preferences. My personal style didn’t exactly scream, “Yes, I need more cane and bamboo chairs and a tufted ottoman!” I thought that was obvious to even the casual observer, but not to Anne Lancaster. I’d been dodging her offers to have Chantal swing by for a consultation, but now I’d have to come clean.
Plus, I was wearing Frye boots, and I knew my mother would surely comment on them.
Ursula, a server with decades of experience, moved us quickly, resetting my iced tea. “There you are, Doctors Lancaster. I assume you’d like the lunch buffet, but if you need anything off the menu, just let me know. I’ll direct Mrs. Lancaster to your table.”
“Let’s go get our lunch,” my father said gruffly. “It could take your mother an hour to make her way across the dining room. She’ll stop at every table.”
I knew he was right, especially when I spied the Caltech president, his impressive wife, and the mayor of Pasadena lunching together in the path of Hurricane Anne. That was twenty minutes right there, while she roped them all into one of her causes. She was chairing the Showcase House for the Arts this year, the mother of all local charities. My guess was that she’d sign up the trio to attend the opening reception, as all the proceeds went to music education—and really, who could object to music education? Well, Bumble’s husband wasn’t a fan of the arts, and he voted that way whenever he had the chance, but other than Congressman Ted, most citizens could agree that music education was a worthwhile cause.
By the time my father and I returned, my mother was seated and waiting, a trio of buffet salads in front of her. Ever since my father won the Nobel, she’d used her celebrity status to entice the servers to go through the lunch buffet for her and compile “a mélange de trois salades” rather than wait in the five-minute line herself. It drove me crazy, as the Ath was noted for its egalitarianism, but my father pretended not to notice.
“Hello, Elizabeth dear. I thought I threw those boots out when you went to grad school,” she said, because she just couldn’t help herself, and then she added with glowing eyes, “At least you’re wearing shoes. Which is more than I can say for Sarah’s twins.”
Here we go again. My big sister Sarah is literally one of the finest people on the planet. She’s a pediatric oncologist and researcher who works tirelessly to cure freaking cancer. She married the cute boy who sat next to her in calculus class in high school, Steven Chen, who is also a doctor. Sarah then gave birth to two wonderful daughters, Hope and Honor, names that would under most circumstances be considered highly pretentious. Except that Sarah is one of the finest people on the planet.
But in my mother’s eyes, Sarah was committing an inexcusable offense by sending her kids to Redwood, the private school favored by Pasadena’s moneyed artsy crowd who shunned test scores, dress codes, and mandatory footwear. The school and their child-rearing philosophy was a complete affront to All That Was Right and Good according to Anne Lancaster.
“I was at one of their pagan celebrations today. …”
“I think it’s called Earth Day, Mom.”
“That’s it. And none of the children were required to wear shoes. Never mind the uncombed hair and the pajamas that most of them seemed to be wearing. I just don’t understand. Is proper footwear so awful? Did I ruin you girls with Stride-Rites? Richard?”
My father had stopped paying attention about the time he heard “pagan celebrations,” so he resorted to his fallback conversational gambit. “Hmmph.”
“I would just think that as a medical doctor, Sarah would be more concerned with her children’s arch support and less concerned with free-form and, frankly, awful poems about trees,” she summed up before moving on. “So, did your father tell you?”
My mother specialized in a verbal gambit I’d come to describe as the Hanging Tease. In short, it was as if every fact my mother had at her disposal was part of some gigantic galactic secret that she was the first to know. Did you hear about the dean of admissions? Can you believe what happened at the committee meeting? I suppose you know about the new girl at my salon? My answer to every Hanging Tease was always, “No, why would I know about that?” But what I really meant was, “No, why would I care about that?” My clear disdain never stopped her from teasing me anyway.
“No, Dad didn’t have a chance to tell me much of anything yet.”
“Richard?” She looked at him with mounting excitement. Richard did not respond in kind.
“My old college roommate is now the president of Redfield College,” he admitted with some trepidation. “If you wanted to send him your resume. …”
Aha. That’s why she’d shown up uninvited. To remind me once again that teaching at a community college was somehow beneath the Lancaster family. Oh, my mother believed in equal education for all, but some education is more equal than others. And clearly Lancasters should be teaching/attending/being honored by the more equal schools.
My mother had been the smartest girl in her class at the Eastmont School for Girls in Pasadena. She went on to graduate summa cum laude from Scripps with a degree in biology. Having never been in a classroom with boys until grad school, she was shocked to discover that women were not held in universally high regard. She met my father, then a doctoral candidate at Berkeley, when she was completing her masters as the token female in her department. In another time and place, like if she’d been born twenty years later, she herself might have been the Nobel laureate. But the women’s lib movement didn’t make it into the sciences early enough to get her off the faculty-wife track and onto the faculty. She taught middle school science for several years before “succumbing to motherhood” (as she liked to say when we were in earshot) when my father’s postdoc took him to Oxford. Now, she spent an inordinate amount of time on worthy community projects in the sphere of education, science, and children. But it wasn’t quite the same as actually being a professor.
Hence her focus on my career.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it, Dad,” I responded, turning to face him directly. There, addressed and tabled. Moving on?
No such luck. “Why would you not at least explore the possibility? Redfield is a very fine school where they appreciate Shakespeare.
” Anne Lancaster would not be silenced with a “thanks, but no thanks” response.
Of course, she was right about Redfield, a small liberal arts college outside of Portland, Oregon, that had seen its ranking rocket up the charts in recent years, thanks to hefty donations from moneyed alumni in the Pacific Northwest, which allowed the school to attract high-profile professors in the math and writing departments, not to mention a very good lacrosse coach. It was now on the radar of prep-school guidance counselors and savvy East Coast parents looking for a West Coast alternative to Middlebury and Colby. A decade ago, Redfield might have been a dream school for me, but now I was too entrenched in my job and my life in Pasadena to seriously consider a move.
“My students appreciate Shakespeare, and so does the administration. I like what I do and where I do it. I have a chance to teach kids who will go onto some very fine schools themselves. They’re smart kids, too.” This was my broken-record answer to her frequent queries about my “stalled academic trajectory.” “Plus, do you know how many women with doctorates in English are wandering around looking for work? I’m lucky to have this job.”
“I know. It’s just that you’re always fighting to keep your classes on the schedule. You have to teach those remedial writing classes just to earn a living. The whole community college system is a mess because of all the budgets cuts. Maybe a private college would be a more stable environment. Not so much scrapping for respect.”
“I like scrapping,” I said, taking a swig of iced tea for emphasis.
“Atta girl,” my father said, clearly eager to change the subject himself. “See, Anne, I told you she wouldn’t go for it.”
“You act like I’m suggesting she fly off to Timbuktu. It’s just that you could be so much more…never mind. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
“As a matter of fact, I got a fantastic job offer this week to work in Ashland all summer with a top-notch director and cast on a very exciting new production of Midsummer. And I’m in discussions to write a book. I have an agent who’s very interested.” I regretted my words a nanosecond after they were out. Why did I weaken?
My father perked up and my mother looked about ready to burst. “How wonderful!” Anne Lancaster was on the offensive already.
I could see the wheels spinning inside her head. This was a month’s worth of Hanging Teases to use while gossiping with friends at her salon. I suppose you heard with whom Elizabeth is working this summer? I assume you’re familiar with the Taz Buchanan production of Midsummer in Ashland? You know my daughter Elizabeth has the book coming out?
“Let’s get Ursula to bring us some champagne!” she announced, waving over the server with the grandest of gestures.
Yes. Let’s.
“What you need is a husband or a dog,” my sister Sarah offered the next day while tossing her yoga mat into the back of her Volvo. Our weekly Saturday-afternoon class at Yoga Haus had managed to fully relax her and fully rile me up. I’d filled her in on the FX situation and the aftermath. “You need a distraction so Mom doesn’t focus on your work. Bumble and I have other people in our lives that she can criticize, so it’s like a career-discussion buffer. She never comments on my work choices because. …”
“Because she’s so busy commenting on the twins’ footwear choices,” I finished. “Or the fact that your children attend an inferior version of Hogwarts.”
Sarah laughed. “Exactly. Sometimes I do that stuff on purpose to throw her off. Like the paper napkins at family dinners. I know that makes her nuts, but I do it anyway so she doesn’t talk about my mediocre cooking.” Sarah had the right amount of perspective. I felt I was losing mine on almost all fronts. “You know, you don’t have to go to Ashland just because you panicked and told Mom and Dad that you were. You are a grownup, Elizabeth.”
That was the problem. Ever since FX had shown up uninvited and put the Ashland offer on the table, I felt my emotional age regress to about twenty-two. An age, I might add, at which I made some spectacularly bad decisions, like getting married. The outburst at lunch with my parents was just another example of my maturity regression. I hadn’t felt the need to prove myself to my mother in years, and then all of a sudden, boom! Look at me! I’m going to Ashland. I’m writing a book! What was next? A repeat of the Rachel haircut?
“What do you think I should do?” I asked with all sincerity. Sarah always had good solid advice. She was a good-solid-advice machine. Sign the divorce papers and come home, she’d told me. And that’s exactly what I did. Teach what you love wherever you can get work, she’d said. The next month, I landed a gig at PCC teaching Shakespeare. Stop drinking all that diet soda or you’ll pay for it in twenty years. I switched to green tea and have never felt better. Sarah would know what I should do.
“About Mom? Or FX?”
“FX.”
“You said you’d already decided not to do it, then you had lunch with Mom. So you’ve made your decision, right?”
Had I? I had, but it didn’t feel quite certain anymore. When I told my parents about my mostly fictional groundbreaking Midsummer/book deal, I’d failed to mention FX. As a result, I’d started to get excited about the prospect of actually working on a groundbreaking Shakespeare production and possibly getting a book deal. It all sounded so good in the FX-free version that I felt my resolve wavering.
“Well. …”
“Elizabeth, if you want to go to Ashland, go to Ashland. You’re a totally different person now than you were when you lost your mind and married your college boyfriend. You’re a professor, your students love you, you have tons of friends and family who care about you. You can handle FX.” Sarah rattled her keys in her signature I’ve-got-to-go-and-cure-cancer move, signaling the end of the conversation.
“So you think I should do it? Take the job and go to Ashland?”
“I don’t think you’re as vulnerable as you think you are.” See, there was that super-solid Sarah advice. So I felt compelled to confess, “I had a dream last night and FX was in it. And he was naked.”
“Oh, that’s not good. Maybe you should just stay home and get a dog.”
There were two packages at my front door when I got home, which wasn’t unusual due to my Etsy addiction. But both of the boxes appeared to be hand delivered, which made me suspicious. Ever since my short fascination with all things Unabomber in college, my delight over unexpected mail was forever changed. I approached with caution.
Nothing was ticking or emitting a pungent odor, so I decided to bring them inside to extend the opening process. I enjoy practicing delayed gratification whenever I have the chance, and this seemed like the perfect occasion. The sun was setting, signaling another Saturday night alone. If I milked the gift-opening process, it could practically be considered a date. I made the most of my post-yoga glow, brewed a cup of tea, and poured a glass of wine as backup. I turned on some music and found my kitchen shears, though the ribbons looked too pretty to cut.
The first box was metallic silver with a pure white bow and a small card tucked under the ribbon. I opened it slowly. Let’s light up the stage. Come to Ashland. – – FX. Also in the envelope was his agent’s card again, as if I’d lost the number.
Inside the box was a beautiful hand-blown votive in a deep rose color with accent stripes of orange. Clearly, the votive was one of a kind, as evidenced by the signature on the bottom. The artist had even included a tea light. I dug some matches out of my junk drawer and lit it immediately. The votive glowed, throwing long pink shadows on my walls.
FX was wooing me. I liked it. In a professional sense, of course. But dash-dash FX? What did that mean? In a professional sense, of course.
I turned my attention to the larger, rectangular package and got excited when I saw the small logo in the corner: PDV in embossed gold. What could Pierce DeVine be sending me? My mind raced as I carefully untied the miles of gold ribbon. Antique tea towels? Heirloom tomato seeds? A photo album of himself? Unfortunately, none of the above. It was his estimate for the work.
And it was astounding.
Like fancy-sports-car astounding.
But underneath the estimate were his drawings of what my little casa would look like after it received the Pierce DeVine treatment. And those, too, were astounding. Just what I’d asked for, only better, because it was impeccable and rendered in three dimensions. A tasteful addition, a few opened walls, and a new window to look out over my garden. Plus, the almighty dishwasher I longed for. He’d sketched in my furniture, artwork, even the antique quilt. In a short note, he wrote: We will make La Casita de Girasole bloom. You’ll never want to leave home. As it should be. XOXO PDV
Ah, as it should be, PDV. Pierce had managed to capture my vision completely.
All for the price of a luxury automobile.
I went through the drawings again and again by the light of the rose-colored candle. By now, I’d settled onto the couch and moved onto the wine. I wanted to live in those drawings, to grow old in those drawings. My life would be a Nancy Meyers movie, and I’d age as gracefully as Meryl Streep. I’d spend convivial evenings in my kitchen with my attractive family and friends, who were also aging well. We’d cook elaborate meals and drink wine out of oversized goblets. We’d have erudite conversations and listen to Mozart, even though I really preferred music with words. Maybe FX would co-star in my Nancy Meyers movie, as the charming ex-husband who forever carries a torch for me. And because I was so grounded, like Meryl, I could handle his attention and still attract a swarm of charming gentlemen callers. Life was good in those drawings.