More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  “What you’re not factoring into your ‘ball of need’ theory is that you’re not the only one,” I say.

  “ ‘Ball of need’ theory?”

  “It has a ring to it,” I say with the slightest smile. “All of us went through something that day and none of us have really been comfortable with who we are these past few days.”

  “All of us?”

  “Hm.” I let the littlest defiant laugh go. Jill looks away for the briefest second. I watch her.

  She continues. “I never really talked about anything. And then . . . Emma. I never thought about why I’m so competitive. If you don’t want my life then there’s something wrong with me. I just . . . I don’t know when I started thinking like that, I just did. I’m not making any sense.”

  “No, it makes sense,” I say.

  “It’s funny, but knowing you need me right now . . . it makes it better,” Jill says.

  “So, you’re codependent. That’s comforting,” I say, laughing just a bit.

  “Ha!” Jill laughs and then . . . it breaks, into a million pieces. The deeply lined furrow of her brow and the twisting mouth that looks as if it’s holding back a tsunami.

  I ask, “What?” I take her hands in mine, gripping tighter and tighter.

  “I thought I lost you and I did . . . I thought I lost everything,” Jill says, her voice catching as she pulls me into her, holding me, tight . . . tight . . . tight. My breath catches as I grip her, feel her shake in my arms. This is what it feels like to love someone. The fear that they could be harmed and you’d be helpless keeps you up at night. It’s a rift in your logic. It turns you from sensible into someone who’s inside out. A shirt worn backward.

  “It seems you’re not the only ball of need on the premises,” I say, quiet and in her ear.

  “Balls of need unite,” Jill says, smiling. Laughing.

  “You just couldn’t help yourself,” I say, holding her tighter.

  “I’m pregnant,” Jill says in my ear.

  “What!?” I say, breaking from the hug. I don’t wait for her answer. “Oh my god, congratulations!” I say, hugging her again.

  “You’re hurting me,” Jill yelps from beneath my squeezing.

  “Oh my god,” I say, pulling back.

  “Are you crying?” Jill asks, wiping away a tear that’s traveled down my dampening cheek.

  “Yeah, I guess, I didn’t even . . . ,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “How far along? How long have you—”

  “My doctor says I’m almost six weeks along,” Jill says.

  “How long have you known?” I ask.

  “Since last Wednesday,” Jill says.

  A chill.

  She continues. “Exactly.”

  “Light from dark!” I say, pulling her into me again. She’s limp in my arms. I break from the hug.

  “Is something wrong, I mean . . . with the baby?” I ask.

  Jill is quiet.

  “Honey?” I ask gently.

  “No, the baby is healthy.”

  “Have you told Martin?” I ask.

  “He couldn’t be happier,” Jill says, rolling her eyes.

  “This is good, right? This is a new life. This is a baby. This is—”

  “The end of my marriage.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “We can say good-bye to ever putting whipped cream on each other. Who’s going to want to put whipped cream on aaaall this?” Jill motions to her perfect figure with disgust.

  “I don’t want to trivialize what you’re feeling right now, or really want to know where you heard about this whipped cream business, but—”

  “But nothing!” Jill looks terrified. Fighting back tears, her face reddening.

  “Okay . . . I understand that this seems very real to you, but, honey, Martin is crazy about you,” I say.

  “Yeah, now.”

  “You get that people only do the whipped cream thing as a means to an end. Women want Whipped Cream Dude to marry them and maybe . . . father a child with them? A little happily-ever-after that, you know, starts with a really gross form of objectification,” I say.

  “You’re only saying that because I won’t ever be objectified again,” Jill sniffles.

  “Shit, I’ll put a dollop of whipped cream on you right now,” I say.

  “You would?” Jill asks. I pull her in for a tight hug and she crumples in deep, heavy sobs.

  “Okay . . . it’s going to be okay . . . shhhh,” I say, smoothing her long, red hair.

  “I’m . . . terrified. What if I’m not good at it?” Jill says as she pulls away.

  “You don’t have to know how you’re going to be at this. You don’t have to put on any act about how you feel. But for you to think that you’re not one of a kind, someone utterly remarkable . . . That’s . . . that’s a lie,” I say. Jill reacts to every word. Softening. Tears streaming down her face as I say remarkable. She grips my hand.

  “I don’t know what kind of mother I’m going to be,” she finally manages to say.

  “None of us do.”

  “I need to be perfect.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I don’t know how to . . . I . . .”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “What if . . . what if . . .”

  “All you can do is love this baby with everything you got. All the rest is gravy,” I say, wiping her tears.

  “I love gravy.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart.”

  “We need to go somewhere where there’s gravy.”

  “We will.” Jill hugs me again, her body still shaking as she cries.

  It’s not even nine A.M.

  Chapter 17

  A Proper Home

  Frannie, so good of you to come,” Clara says, opening her front door that Thursday night. John Henry peeks his head around the door; his head cocks to one side as he looks up at me. I give him a smile and we walk into Clara’s home.

  The house is a classic Los Angeles Spanish-style home in the hills just below the Greek Theater. A large archway leads into the great room with dark hardwood floors underfoot. The barrel ceiling boasts rich, almost black beams. Paintings and sculpture abound. Tapestries hang on the walls; there are gilt-framed portraits of long-ago royalty next to a piece of modern art that resembles some kind of balloon animal. Clara watches me take it in, my hand tight around John Henry’s leash.

  “The girls are out back,” Clara says, walking through the great room. John Henry and I follow, taking in the rest of the house. We walk through the busy kitchen, pots boiling, tables set with place mats and the good china. For someone with a black-sheep past, she’s certainly turned into quite the hostess. At the other end of the kitchen are a pair of French doors that lead out into the backyard.

  I can hear the girls before I see them. Bursts of laughter, shrieks of delight and the occasional toneless singing. I can hear a man’s voice guiding them, easing them . . . parenting them. Bliss. Utter bliss. Clara gives me a quick smile, I give John Henry a gentle pet and we’re through the French doors.

  “Girls? Honey? Frannie’s here,” Clara says, walking out onto the patio.

  “And John Henry?!” they shriek. John Henry braces himself. Sits. His eyes dart from me to the herd of pigtails and pink clothes coming at us right now.

  “Girls, you need to take it down a notch. You’re going to scare him,” Clara says, a smile just under her words. “This is my husband, Bruce, and these are the girls: Maude, Gertie and . . . Emma,” Clara says, pointing to three little matryoshka-doll girls.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking hands with Bruce, a slight man with dark cocoa skin and salt-and-pepper dreadlocks. His entire demeanor radiates a melty calm. His voice is silken and his handshake is gentle but firm. He smiles and tells me it’s nice to meet me. I just nod. I’m already getting choked up. This is going to be a long night.

  I continue. “And nice meeting you guys.” I look from one girl to the next. They couldn’t be less interested in
me. They’re all staring at John Henry.

  “He’s so cute!” Gertie blurts, her hands extended as if she’s already squishing his face.

  “He looks like mercury!” Maude says. I don’t even know what that means.

  “She’s really into science. It’s his coat. The silver,” Clara says. I nod. Smiling. Smiling.

  “Dogs have blue eyes,” Emma says. I find myself just staring at her. Delicate features. The set of the jaw. The mannerisms. Clara notices.

  “I know. She just . . . well, I just had to name her Emma,” Clara says, clearing her throat and looking away.

  “I imagine there’s a bunch of dog stuff that needs to be transported?” Bruce says, setting down his mug of tea.

  “Oh, yes please. It’s in the back of my car,” I say, passing him my keys. The girls never take their eyes off John Henry.

  “Now, if Frannie takes John Henry off his leash, can you guys promise me something?” Clara asks.

  “Yes!” the girls shriek in unison.

  “You need to let him be for a bit. He has to smell everything and maybe pee somewhere and you have to promise me that you will let him come up to you. You guys can’t do your thundering horde thing, okay?”

  “Yes, Mama,” they say as one. Clara gives me the nod. I can see the girls vibrating with excitement from here. This is killlllling them.

  “I want him to sleep in my room!” Maude “whispers.”

  “He’s going to be my dolly!” Gertie says.

  “I looooooooooove him!” Emma blurts.

  “Girls?” Clara says gently.

  I let John Henry off the leash and he doesn’t go anywhere. He sits next to me.

  “I saw on Sesame Street that you have to get down at their level,” Maude says, pushing her glasses farther up her nose. A girl after my own heart. The girls sit. Immediately. On the brick patio. Putting their hands out to John Henry. Gertie sings, “Get down at his level . . . get down at his level,” as she flicks her hands in rhythm.

  John Henry inches over to the girls, sniffing and smelling. The girls giggle and squirm as he inspects them. His tail begins to wag. Just the tiniest bit, but there it is. Clara and I both notice.

  “Sit, John Henry,” I say. He obliges. Right next to an extremely excited Maude. Her entire face lights up as the dog settles in next to her.

  “What are you going to doooooooooo?” Emma whispers.

  “I. Don’t. Know,” Maude says, not moving her mouth.

  “Have they ever had a dog before?” I ask.

  “Obviously not,” Clara answers with a smile. She says to Maude, “Honey, why don’t you try petting him?” Maude lifts her tiny hand up and pets John Henry on the side of his body. John Henry turns and watches her. And then smells her face. Sniff. Sniff. And then a biiiiiiig lick.

  “Hahahahahahahahahah!” Gertie and Emma are in hysterics. Maude hops up onto her knees and pets John Henry with confidence. His ears. His neck.

  “What a good boy, John Henry,” Maude says soothingly. John Henry leans into her, his eyes closed, his tail wagging. I’m officially crying. It’s fine. We were all ready for this.

  “My turn!” Gertie says, inching over closer to John Henry. She pets him and talks to him and tells him that she loves him and that he’s her dolly and that she has tea parties every morning and that he’s invited, but that he can’t eat any of the cookies because they’re not real, that Mama says they’re not real even though they look real, but he’s a good boy. Clara and I are fighting to keep a straight face during her passionate monologue. John Henry licks Gertie and wags his tail and lets her pet him. Leans into her tiny touch. And then it’s Emma’s turn. Because she’s so tiny, she walks over to the silvery dog and holds her hand out. He nuzzles into the palm of her hand. Now we’re both crying. Clara passes me a tissue.

  And then they’re off. The thundering horde. Running around the backyard, playing, chasing, falling over into a pile of tiny pink clothes and silvery limbs. John Henry is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. He’s alive and . . . in a proper home.

  “How long did you think you were going to have that dog?” Bruce says, handing me my keys.

  “I know, I went a little overboard,” I say, smiling.

  “I see things have taken a turn for the worse out here,” Bruce says, picking up his mug of tea and taking a long sip.

  “Yes, as you can see they hate each other,” Clara says, giving him a snuggle. He kisses the top of her head and tugs her closer.

  “Oh, clearly,” Bruce says.

  “Hon, can you watch them while I show Frannie some of Emma’s paintings?” Clara asks, resting her hand on his arm.

  “Sure,” he says with a quick check-in. Is she okay? Emma’s paintings. Clara gives him a soothing smile and a quick peck on the cheek and motions for me to follow her through the French doors and back into the house.

  “Thank you,” Clara says as we wind through the majestic archways of the Spanish house.

  “For what?” I ask, following Clara down a narrow staircase.

  “John Henry. I actually . . . I don’t think you can know what he means to us,” Clara says, not looking back. I run my hand along the cold plaster wall of the staircase as I bite back emotion. So much emotion. How long have I been tamping this stuff down? Is there an end to it?

  Clara and I turn a sharp corner and she flicks on a light. And at once I’m in another land. The majestic Spanish arches continue in this lower floor, but instead of being chopped up into smaller rooms, this is one large room worthy of a gothic novel.

  “No natural light. It helps with the paintings,” Clara says, walking farther into the room. I look up: The same vaulted ceilings and dark wood beams. But, on the walls. . .

  “Holy shit,” I say. Taking it all in. I can’t . . . the tears roll down my cheeks as my mouth hangs open.

  “Emma played with the idea of the ‘Grand Style.’ You see it in all of the English portraits of the eighteenth century that you’d find in the National Gallery,” Clara says, moving through the room. Huge gilt frames around masterpieces, but. . .

  “They’re different,” I say, stopping in front of one.

  “It was an entire style based on the idea that you should not paint the subject as they are physically, but more as they are historically. So, short men became tall and mean men became handsome simply because they were in positions of power. What Emma did was, well—”

  “She pulled the mask off,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  The portrait is of a couple. Exactly as Clara described. Eighteenth century, right out of the National Gallery. The pastoral backdrop and the young wealthy couple on a stroll. But what Emma did was paint the moments before the couple thinks they’re being watched. The woman is uninterested, looking elsewhere, her entire body bored and limp. The man is fussing with his clothes. Trying to suck in his gut, with a quick glance at his wife. She clearly wants nothing to do with him. He manages to look disdainful yet snubbed and insecure at the same time. And Emma captured it all.

  “It’s brilliant,” I say, walking to the next painting.

  “This one is actually a play on real painting. Miss Bowles was by Sir Joshua Reynolds; it was one of the masterpieces of the Grand Style. The original is of the little girl sitting in the woods and she’s clutching the dog, like around the neck. It’s one of his most famous . . .” Clara says, trailing off as I get lost in the painting. In Emma’s version, the little girl is standing, a very prominent stain on the front of her dress. You can see the portrait painter in the background, the easel, the paints. He’s annoyed the little girl had the audacity to be a kid and stain her dress. Her mother is red-faced as she disciplines the little girl, with just the littlest glint in the mother’s eye that shows she’s aware that someone is watching. That she’s holding back and playing to a crowd. The little dog is walking past, not part of the portrait at all. The mother sees an opportunity to move on with the portrait and save face. Thus, as Emma painted it, the little girl clutchi
ng the dog in the original masterpiece is now given a darker backstory.

  “When did she do these?” I ask, walking around the room from one brilliant painting to the next.

  “In college. This was when she was in her late teens and early twenties,” Clara says, shaking her head.

  “Unbelievable,” I say, my voice a whisper.

  “It’s hard not to wonder what kind of painter she would have become,” Clara says through gritted teeth.

  “I know,” I say, the hardwood floors creaking beneath my feet. The joyous bursts of laughter coming from upstairs waft down the staircase and into this magnificent gallery.

  “I’ve decided to go to her memorial service,” Clara says, stopping in front of yet another one of Emma’s masterpieces.

  “Good.”

  “I talked to the country club and I’ve decided to donate one of Emma’s paintings to them. They’re going to unveil it at the service,” Clara says, looking back up at the painting looming over us. The painting is of a trussed-up young woman, taking a moment in between modeling sessions to flirt with the painter. It’s bawdy, wry and utterly dazzling.

  “I love that.”

  “Her work should hang where people can appreciate it. Know her. Know what she wanted to say,” Clara says, her voice distant.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Yes. Me and a couple of other women from the school. I’m originally from Mill Valley, so we’ll be staying with my parents,” I say.

  “That’ll be nice,” Clara says, still distant.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “It’s my turn to ask for what.”

  “For this,” I say, motioning around the room.

  “Don’t thank me,” Clara says.

  I nod.

  Clara continues. “It’s not right. She should’ve . . . it’s not right.”

  “I know.”

  We’re quiet. Another burst of laughter from upstairs seems to jerk Clara out of whatever dark memory she’s lapsed into.

  “Shall we?” she asks, motioning for me to head upstairs.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  Dinner is a circus. The girls comically “sneak” food under the table to John Henry. He’s being spoiled within an inch of his life. I can’t stop smiling. We languish over a banquet of saffron rice, roasted chicken and fresh green beans. The girls drink milk and Clara pours me red wine. We talk about politics, art and life. The night is beautiful, but before long it’s time for me to go. To say good-bye to John Henry.