“Mom, I don’t cook and I don’t wear lingerie,” I remind her.
“Just pretend,” she says. “We’re good at that.”
Sage’s mother approaches. She wears a gingham suit in the softest of pinks. Her ashy blond bob just grazes her delicate shoulders. “Quinn, dear,” she says, her Southern accent thick and guttural. She stumbles as she always does on the one syllable of my name. She hugs me with all her might, which isn’t much, momentarily displacing Mom. She frames my face with her fingers, cold, bony, meticulously manicured. “How are you, darling?” she asks, pinning me down with her doe eyes.
“Fine,” I say. “Good.”
And here they stand: my two mothers, more or less the same vintage, but still worlds apart. Their interaction is genuine, if strained, and they acknowledge each other with a polite nod and mumbled pleasantries. Despite their differences, these women have one important thing in common; each wishes I would get over the Quinn thing. Of course Mrs. McIntyre wishes this. Far from a closet Beatles fan, Mrs. McIntyre is a religious creature. Prudence is such a beautiful name and such a wonderful virtue, she’s told me more than once. I’ve never taken the bait.
The moment Sage told his parents about me there was trouble. Not because I was a Yankee, a city girl headed for a high-wattage career, not because I didn’t spend my Sundays at church. There was trouble because this little woman thought, if only for a few terribly confused moments, that I was a man. I’ve met someone, Mother, Sage told her, three short weeks after we met, as I curled up on his lap and listened in. Sage’s mother, hungry for grandchildren, had been waiting for this proclamation from her only child for almost a decade. You’re going to love Quinn. Quinn O’Malley. His mother was quiet, very quiet, so quiet Sage feared a lost phone connection. I’m not gay, Mother, he assured her mere moments later, knowing his mother and her primal fears. She has a beautiful and unusual name. Plus, her real name is Prudence. This fact, it seems, rejuvenated his wilting mother; there was hope.
Kayla stands in the corner with her own mother, a slight woman clad in pale purple. Thanks to Botox, her face is devoid of wrinkles and expression. Mrs. Waters has always liked me, or so Kayla says, because she thinks I’m a good influence on her wayward daughter. The fact that I’m within a week of marriage surely confirms my utterly sensible nature; the fact that I, unlike her daughter, do things in order, abiding by the schedule society has for us.
Kayla sees me and seizes the opportunity to escape her mother’s orbit. Unlike the others, she’s dressed for the season, in the brightest of oranges. This notorious color, which washes out the vast majority of its wearers, only brightens Kayla’s complexion and highlights her slight bump. In the sunlight-filled Mexican restaurant, the dark circles have disappeared and the color has returned to her cheeks. The ten pounds she swears she’s gained is suddenly nowhere to be seen, except maybe in her breasts, proudly displayed by a brazen dip in her bold sweater. She pours a tall glass of sangria and walks over.
“Well if it isn’t the bitch of the moment,” she says, as always a bit too loud, and hands me the sangria. She grabs at my black sweater. “What, are we mourning the death of your freedom?”
Mom smiles and Mrs. McIntyre looks stunned.
“I’m afraid you’re going to need some booze to make it through this frilly fest,” Kayla says.
“Amen,” I say, and take a big swig. Outside, children dressed in costumes race by, and parents, as if on invisible leashes, half jog behind them, and race ahead when they get to a crosswalk. Sometimes, the parents join the fun wearing a witch’s hat or mask. One day, I’m going to be one of these fun parents.
Avery and her mother walk in. Avery looks exhausted, and holds the sleeves of her shirt over her hands.
“Has someone developed insomnia?” Kayla says.
“Has someone developed a fetus?” Avery says, and flashes a smile. “Nice to see you, Kayla.” Her eyes drop to Kayla’s ample cleavage.
“Just doing my best to steal the bride’s thunder by going the push-up bra route,” Kayla says, shrugging. “I figured I’d test drive one of Quinn’s gifts. Admittedly, a bit tacky, but who’s counting?”
Avery hugs me, but avoids my eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Of course I am,” she says, nodding. It’s then that I notice the reservoir of tears in her eyes. “I will be.”
Avery’s mother appears and throws a protective arm around her daughter, who’s downed her first drink. “Everything’s going to be fine,” her mother says. “Just a hiccup for my beautiful daughter.”
“Your beautiful daughter, it seems, needs another drink,” Kayla says, appearing with a fresh glass of sangria, and hands it to Avery.
Avery doesn’t try to hide her tears. “Thank you, Kayla.”
“Not a problem,” she says. “Alcohol can cure most anything. I wonder what my dear mother over there is trying to medicate with the sauce.” Kayla’s mother talks to a waiter in the corner and convinces him to bring her a glass of Chardonnay.
“I’m not a fan of the fruity cocktail,” she explains to the man in an audible whisper. “Keep them coming.”
Avery laughs and wipes her eyes. I grab her hand and interlock my fingers in hers. Her palms are clammy and cold. We sit down just as a waiter places a pot of fresh guacamole between us. The wooden table is blanketed in pastel candy corn. We each grab a handful.
“Time for the tricks and treats,” Kayla says, standing by the piles of gifts. “Stop feeding your face, Q. Don’t you have a wedding dress to fit into in a few days?”
“She’ll fit her dress fine. It’s you I’d be worried about,” Kayla’s mom mumbles over her disappearing glass of wine.
I abandon the guacamole.
Everyone pulls chairs into a circle around me.
In no time, I’m buried under boxes, holding up nonstick pans and thong panties, twirling spice racks and sheer teddies. A graceful pretender.
Leave it to Mom to give me books. I open the first; it’s a cookbook. The Practical Woman’s Guide to Cooking. The final book is not a cookbook, but The History of Lingerie.
“Forgive me, I’m a professor,” she says. “I think it is nice to know the history behind things. Fascinating to know the genesis of those little strings you girls wear between your butt cheeks.”
Sage’s mother blushes and smiles.
“Brilliant, Mrs. O’Malley. Are there instructions on how best to burn a bra in there too?” Kayla says.
Next, Kayla hands me her gift, two boxes. I open the first and pull out four pairs of thong underwear with Sage’s name on the crotch. “Just thought it would be nice to give him directions,” Kayla jokes.
“Maybe I should get you some of those with a stop sign,” Mrs. Waters mutters.
The next box is thin; I open it and pull out a thick white certificate. It’s not a gift card to Williams-Sonoma or Tiffany’s.
“Dance lessons?” Mrs. McIntyre guesses. “That would be terrific. Despite our best efforts, our son isn’t the best dancer.”
“Yes, this is for dance lessons,” I say, my face no doubt turning magenta, and look at my troublemaking maid of honor.
“Striptease lessons,” Kayla says. “If you’re going to do the forever thing, you need to keep it interesting.”
“Why don’t you just put up a stripper pole in your bedroom and call it a day?” Mom mutters, audibly to all. One generation laughs; the other’s eyes widen.
“Not a bad idea,” K quips.
Sage’s mother is a good sport about this. A good sport about the skimpy lingerie and the mystery cookware. She sits on the edge of her seat, thin legs folded underneath her, balancing a chipped teacup which I can see vibrating. When things get raunchy, her eyes fall, she looks down into that teacup that must be empty by now, and feigns a delicate sip until it’s safe to look up again. Every now and then, a nervous laugh escapes her thin pink lips.
Kayla hands me another gift. I recognize the lovely loopy handwriting. It’s fr
om his mother.
I open the card first. Read her words. Words that I will read over and over in the future.
Quinn dear,
We are lucky women. To have him in our lives. And what different lives we lead. But with him in them, in whatever capacity, they will continue to be blessed lives. Like most people, I have my share of regrets. About things done and left undone. About things said and left unsaid. But I look at him—my boy, your man—and I know I have done something right. Please know that I don’t care if you cook a single meal or bake a single pie. Whether you practice law or pick blackberries. But what I do care about is that you are kind to him, that you hold his hand—as I have done until now—when he needs it most. When and if you have a child, you will understand something: how questions of money and career and geography fade the moment you hold your own. One day in the future you will know what matters most, your child, cradled in your arms one day and then in the blink of an eye, cradled in the arms of another. Letting go is hard. Not something I’m doing gracefully. But please know I’m trying. Because let go I must. For him. For you. For all of us.
All my love,
Mary
PS—For better or worse, mine was not a childhood of nursery rhymes. But when I grew up and met Sage’s father, my mother, a glorious woman with a sharp sense of humor, couldn’t stop singing it, mocking me. Is it a nursery rhyme or a song? Mrs. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack all dressed in black, black, black…
And it doesn’t matter whether it’s technically a rhyme or a song, but the words echo in my head…
Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All dressed in black, black, black.
With silver buttons, buttons, buttons
All down her back, back, back…
I look at his mother, meet her eyes, and smile.
“Now you know why I always wear pastels,” she says.
And I keep smiling as I slip my finger under the pale floral paper, opening the gift wrapped tight.
“Hospital corners?”
She laughs.
And there it is, a pie pan. And inside it is that postcard from Paris. And on it, the recipe. For Henry’s pie.
“I figure you and Sage won’t be able to make it South every August,” she says. “Nor should you.”
And it occurs to me why I’ve been so scared of his mother. It’s not because she’s an evil and predatory woman, a bailiff of a mother who runs the show, a vulture who won’t release her claws.
Rather, I’ve feared her because she like the rest of us is exquisitely flawed and essentially good. She is a woman, imperfect and loved and lovable. A woman who has lost too many children. A woman who was once young like me and probably thought things would be different. A woman who fears many things: poison in candy, and symbolism in songs, and losing another child.
I’ve been scared because we want the same thing.
We want his love and his loyalty and his smile.
We both want him.
And like we did in kindergarten, we’re going to have to learn to share.
“Thank you, Mrs. McIntyre,” I say.
And then she does it. She says those words, pat and predictable, that I thought I’d never hear. “You can call me Mom.”
I smile. And I won’t call her this. Because I have a mom already.
“How about Miss Mama Mac?”
It’s a start.
The final gift is from Avery. First, there’s an apron. Across the front, it says “Mrs. McIntyre” in pink cursive writing.
“Now, that’s darling,” Mama Mac says.
Mom doesn’t do a very good job at hiding her cringe.
There’s a second part to her gift: a doll. A Dora doll.
“There’s a card too,” Avery says.
I open it. “Two gifts. Because we’re growing up, but we’ll always be girls.”
“I love it,” I say, and hug her. “But I would’ve appreciated that Backpack and Map.”
She nods and says, one lost little girl to another, “Me too.”
Outside, autumn sun glistens and fades. Trick-or-treaters swarm. A pumpkin and Wonder Woman stop briefly at the window, press pink button noses against the soiled glass, and look in at us. Then they continue on, disappearing into the night.
And here I am, all grown up, past my days of going door-to-door in search of mini Snickers and Tootsie Pops, past my days of holding Mom’s hand and absorbing her motherly wisdom. Here I am, neither young nor old, accumulating a new string of costumes so I can pretend to be an adult.
Yes, you get older, but you never stop pretending.
That night, I walk into my apartment, flanked by two mothers, trailing a rainbow of ribbons, lugging boxes and bags. Sage waits for me. He’s wearing his waders and vest and his fishing hat, popping Hershey’s Kisses into his mouth.
He takes the gifts from me, places them on the counter. And he hands me those wings, those flag-print wings.
“We’re going out for a bit,” he announces to our moms, who sit on that prudently striped love seat.
He takes my hand and drags me to my parents’ old block. Where kids gather and giggle. And we join in for a few houses, collecting candy, drawing some incredulous stares. But far more smiles.
On this Halloween, he’s not going to let anyone tell him he can’t eat the candy. And on this Halloween, I think I’m finally happy choosing only one.
Chapter 29
The Thursday afternoon before my wedding, the day on which Sage and I fly to Wisconsin for our big day, Kayla and I leave work early and head to her ob-gyn. First, we stop at her building, which is only a block away from her doctor. I leave my suitcases with her doorman.
As we walk that block to her doctor, Kayla reaches into her purse, pulls out a vial of pills, and pops one. For a moment, I’m horrified. “Prenatals,” she says. “It’s all about the folic acid, Q.”
I nod.
“This whole thing is turning me into a reasonable creature,” she says. “It’s a bit worrisome.”
“No kidding.”
“I even made a list during our client meeting this morning,” she says, and pulls out a legal pad with the name of our firm up top.
She rattles off questions she will ask her doctor:
When should I hire a baby nurse?
When can I find out the sex?
What are the chances I will get stretch marks?
Can I really not eat tuna?
Is one cup of coffee okay?
As she utters these questions, I can think of only one, one that I haven’t had the courage to ask thus far.
“Kayla, whose is it?” I say, pointing to her belly.
She looks at me, disappointment plain in over-lined eyes. “Well, fuck you.”
I shrug. “Seems relevant.”
“It’s mine.”
I nod. And part of me thinks: Good for her. She’s a modern woman. But another part of me, maybe the bigger part, thinks: At least I had a father.
“I know you’re pretty talented, but you didn’t cook that up all by yourself,” I say.
“No, I didn’t,” she says, and flashes a smile. “I had some very handsome help. And I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
“Fair enough.”
A young mother pushes a stroller by us. “I think I want a black Bug,” Kayla says.
And even I know about the Bugaboo, the nine-hundred-dollar monstrosity, the SUV of strollers, ubiquitous as black Labs on the Upper West.
I look around us and think: Even Manhattan looks innocent in fall. Leaves change on planted trees. Every now and then, a kid walks by wearing a Halloween costume a week after the fact, hand attached to a defeated and fashionably disheveled mother or a nanny on her cell phone.
At the front desk, Kayla signs in. Behind her mop of red frizzy hair, the doctor’s assistant flashes a gummy grin, and hands Kayla a small blue cup and utters in a Russian accent: “You pee now.”
Kayla hands me her jacket and bag.
“Good luck,” I say
.
Kayla grins and disappears into the small bathroom.
I take a seat in the waiting room. A young couple sits in the corner flipping through a book on prenatal nutrition. The wife is absorbed, but every few moments her husband looks up and around the small room, nerves apparent in his darting eyes.
And I think: This will be Sage and me—crouched together, fearful and excited, full of questions, eager for answers, walking hand in hand toward our biggest, most important roles.
A woman waddles in, clutching a belly that looks as if it might drop off, and jokes with the nurse about how she is past due.
I flip through an album of birth announcements. Pages and pages full of little pink faces captured in the first moments of life, faces beautifully contorted from ungraceful entrances. Pages and pages full of names in pink and blue. Pages and pages full of those aesthetic statistics—height and weight—that are for some reason important even from the very beginning.
I think of Phelps and his little son. I try to imagine him as a father, cradling a crying baby, changing a diaper. I admit these are things I’ve imagined before. But now when I picture things, one thing’s different: It’s not my baby.
There are stacks of books scattered about, and depending on how you look at things, this office is a haven of hope and new beginnings—baby name books, books showing the gestational development from fertilized egg to kicking infant, books showing portraits of prenatal yoga poses. But if you look a little closer, things aren’t so bright; books on Down syndrome, on cystic fibrosis, STDs, and breast cancer.
Kayla returns. “That’s one skill law school doesn’t teach you,” she says. “You’d think that if I can hammer out an ironclad contract in hours I’d be able to get it all in the cup. Not so.”
She’s still smiling.
Kayla fills a plastic cup full of water from the water fountain. “Hydration is key,” she says. “Amniotic fluid.”
Life After Yes Page 25