by Amy Hatvany
“Can I help you with something?” he finally asked. His tone was guarded.
“No, no,” I said. “I just thought . . . well, you know. That I might get to know you a little.”
He exhaled softly. “Oh, Cadence. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh,” I said, probably a little too loudly. “Okay.”
“I’m just not set up for this kind of thing. You understand.”
What kind of “thing” was talking to your daughter? I wanted to ask. But instead, I coughed and said, “Sure. I understand.”
“Take care,” he said, and I heard the dial tone in my ear before I could say good-bye.
I stared at the receiver before setting it back in its cradle. My father wasn’t interested in knowing me. The muscles in my throat thickened, and tears pricked the back of my eyes. I smoothed my mother’s comforter and went back to the bedroom I shared with Jessica, tossing my notebook to the floor. She was awake then, and sitting on the edge of her bed. Her usually smooth, straight brown hair was mussed from sleep. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I threw myself onto my bed, facedown in my pillow, and didn’t answer. I didn’t want to tell her what I’d done. The ache I felt was like a boulder on my chest. Before the call I at least had the fantasy of my father. I could imagine him showing up unexpectedly, unable to stay away from me a moment longer. Now there was no doubt—I knew exactly what kind of man he was.
“Fine then, don’t talk to me,” Jess said, then went downstairs to watch TV. A while later, the bedroom door opened and my mother flipped on the light.
“What’s going on?” my mother asked. “Jess says you’re sulking.”
“I’m not sulking,” I said to the wall. “I’m just tired.”
“She said you called your father today.”
“What?” I flipped over and looked at her. She was still in the light blue scrubs she wore to work and her long brown hair was as smooth as when she left the house that morning.
My mother nodded. “She said she listened at the door while you called him from my room.”
“She’s so nosy!” I said, spitting out the words. “She needs to learn to mind her own business.”
“Come on, now. Don’t be mad at her. I would have seen it on the phone bill anyway.”
I started to cry. “He didn’t want to talk to me.”
She came over and sat next to me on the bed. “And this surprises you? I’ve told you a hundred times he wasn’t cut out to be a father. Outside of giving me you two girls, he was the worst decision I ever made.” She pushed the hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears.
“I just thought . . .” I blubbered. “I thought if he heard my voice . . .” I trailed off, unable to go on through my tears.
“You thought if he heard your voice he’d suddenly want to get to know you? An orchestra would swell in the background and he’d miraculously realize what he’s missing?”
I nodded, sobbing and wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
My mother sighed. “That’s not the way life works, Cadence. People are going to let you down. I’m sorry you’re hurt, but it’s an important lesson to learn. You’ll get over it. I did.” She patted my leg. “Now, why don’t you come downstairs and have dinner with us? I brought home Chinese.”
That was the end of the discussion. She didn’t want to know what he had said, or how it had made me feel. I heard countless versions of this same lecture from my mother over the years. Buck up, Cadence. Push forward. Don’t let anyone see you upset.
“If you’re unhappy,” my mother told me if I bemoaned the circumstances of my life, “it’s up to you to do something to change it. The only thing complaining will get you is an invitation to leave the room.”
“But Mom . . .” I’d begin. All I wanted was a little sympathy. I wanted the kind of mother who at least once in a while would pull me into her soft embrace, feed me homemade chocolate-chip cookies, and assure me everything would be okay. I didn’t think that was too much to ask.
What I had was the kind of mother who worked sixty hours a week and held up her hand to cut me off midwhine. “Uh-uh-uh,” she said. “No buts about it. If you want to succeed, you need to figure out what needs to change and change it. I’m happy to listen to whatever solutions you come up with.”
“Everything’s so easy for Jess,” I told her at the beginning of my sophomore year in high school. It was a Saturday and my mother and I were sitting together in our living room. “It’s not fair. She’s only a freshman and she’s already a cheerleader. Everyone just automatically likes her.”
“That’s because she makes an effort,” my mother said, looking up from the magazine in her lap. “She reaches out to people. It’s not her fault you have trouble making friends.”
“I didn’t say it was her fault.”
She cocked her head, raised her eyebrows, and gave me a pointed stare. “Please watch your tone with me, young lady. And jealousy doesn’t become you.”
“I’m not jealous.” I sighed, crossed my arms over my chest, and flopped back against the couch. That wasn’t true, and my mother knew it. Just the week before, I’d been grounded for mixing a dollop of Bengay into my sister’s moisturizer, wanting her to think she had some strange muscular disease that caused her pretty face to go numb.
“You can’t just sit back and wait for things to happen for you, Cadence,” my mother said. “You have to make them happen.”
I didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t feel like I fit in with the other kids in my class; how every conversation I tried to start felt stilted and forced. It was as though everyone else had been given a handbook on how to be cool except for me.
“I don’t know what else I can do,” I said. “I’m not into sports and I’m too fat to be a cheerleader.”
“You are not fat. You’re voluptuous, like my mother.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then lifted a single finger into the air. “I know. You should join the school paper. You like to write. It would look great on your college applications, too.”
I did join the paper, and while at first it was only to get my mother off my back about taking charge of my life, I soon found I was good at writing profile pieces on the new biology teacher or articles exposing the astronomical calorie content in our cafeteria’s lunch menu. Becoming the editor of my high school paper didn’t help me win any popularity contests, but it did give me a reason to talk with people who used to ignore me. After a while, given an appropriate subject, I learned how to fake conversation despite any insecurity I felt. My mother was right about college, too—along with my 4.0 grade point average, my work on the paper won me a full-ride journalism scholarship to the University of Washington. And once I was there, I did what I always strove to do—I tried to make my mother proud.
* * *
Charlie is unbuckled and racing toward my sister’s front door before I manage to turn off the engine. He looks back at me and waves before disappearing through the entryway. I love how he pushes the door open, knowing he is welcome, knowing he is safe.
I step out of my car, and Jess pokes her dark head out of the kitchen window on the side of her house. She and her husband, Derek, chose this broken-down Craftsman-style home in the north Seattle Wallingford neighborhood for its early twentieth-century charm, figuring they could fix it up and flip it for a quick and painless profit. Two months into living there during renovations, Jess found out she was pregnant with the twins and fell permanently in love with the slightly sloping original hardwoods, the coved ceilings, and built-in, beveled-glass cabinets. Derek, her partner not only in life but in their successful real-estate brokerage firm, soon gave in to her desire to stay. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter. Saying no to Jess was like saying no to breathing. You really didn’t have the option.
“Hey!” she hollers. She may be a tiny thing, but the girl has got a set of lungs on her. They served her well in her cheerleading days.
“Hey,” I say, and
wave back at her. “The munchkin has already invaded.”
“I know. He’s hugging my legs as we speak.”
I smile. Such an affectionate boy, my Charlie. Possibly having something to do with the amount of hugs and kisses I smothered him with from the moment he was born.
“Get your butt in here,” Jess commands. “Natalie is playing with the twins downstairs.” She pulls back inside. I smile again, thinking how lucky Jess is to have Natalie, a thirteen-year-old neighbor girl who is thrilled to be paid a mere six dollars an hour for her babysitting services.
Within minutes, Jess and I are sitting at her kitchen table. Two steaming mugs of coffee, creamy with half-and-half, sit before us. My sister is what I would look like if I lost fifty pounds and shrunk three inches: the dream of willowy and petite versus the reality of short and substantial. She is one of those sleek, Gap-ad-type mothers who appear to have a personal makeup artist dwelling in their bathrooms, who arrive at their children’s preschool in hip, chunky black boots and immaculate flat-front khakis, looking like they’ve just been to the spa for a massage. She is the kind of mother who always baffled me. The kind of mother I always wanted to be.
Natalie and all three boys are in the basement-turned-recreation-room, a space built specifically with well-padded surfaces and filled with countless toys. Charlie loves being the big boy, teaching, leading, and telling his younger cousins what to do. He’ll be busy for an hour, at least, especially with Natalie there to help sort out any conflict. Part of me wants to not let him leave me. I want to snatch him up, hold him in my lap, squeeze him, smell him, and kiss his soft cheeks. The other part is happy for this momentary reprieve; my encounter with Alice has drained me. Wrapping both my hands around the warmth of my coffee mug, I exhale deeply, lift my chin toward the ceiling, and close my eyes.
“That bad?” my sister inquires.
“Yes.” I hold my position. Avoiding eye contact with her is the best way to keep her from seeing what is going on with me.
“How’d it go with Alice?” She will not let it be.
I shrug, lower my chin, and open my eyes, only to see her take an enormous bite of the lemon-cream cheese Danish she set out with the coffee. She says something else, but it comes out muffled—along with a few crumbs of pastry—as she tries to chew.
“Nice manners. Mom would be proud.”
Her mouth still full, she widens her blue eyes, purses her lips, then flips me off.
“Ooo, nice manicure, too!”
Jess finishes chewing, takes a sip of her coffee, and admires her nails. “Thanks. I just got them done last night.” She holds up the Danish. “You should have one of these.”
I eye one—the biggest, of course—thick and gooey with bright yellow and creamy white sweetness. I sigh. “No, I shouldn’t. My ass is spreading like butter just looking at them.”
She pushes the plate toward me. “You had to give up booze, for Christ’s sake. Have a damn Danish.”
She has a point. I grab the one I want and take a small bite, letting it melt on my tongue. I fully intend to eat only half of it. Two minutes later, I’ve devoured the entire thing. “Mmm. God, I hate you,” I say.
Jess pulls her chin into her neck, perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. “What did I do?”
“You won the genetic lottery. You never exercise, eat like a horse, and don’t gain an ounce. You suck.”
“Whatever. You have multiple orgasms.”
I snort. My stories of four, five, even eight orgasms one night with Martin—back before we went all to hell—drove her mad with envy. It’s the one area I can one-up my sister and though I know I shouldn’t, I revel in it.
“Okay,” I consent, “I suppose that makes us even. Sort of.” I sip my coffee. “Where’s Derek?”
“Showing property. He’s trying to get some horrible couple to buy a condo downtown. He bet me ten bucks he could have them writing an offer by the end of the day.”
“Huh.” I don’t pretend to understand the real-estate industry, though I do attempt sympathetic and interested noises when my sister begins to talk about her job. Since the boys were born almost three years ago, Derek carries the weight of the upfront selling and Jess works behind the scenes to run the business from home. She picks up clients where she can to help make ends meet, especially since the market took a nosedive. Luckily, their brokerage was strong enough to weather the economic downturn, but even so, most months they’ve been forced to dip into the savings they’d each built up during the late 1990s housing boom. According to Jess, those funds are quickly depleting, so each sale they make today takes on greater significance for their financial survival.
“How’s work going for you?” Jess asks.
I shrug. “Okay, I guess. I’m having a hard time getting back into it.” For too many months, pulling the words from my brain to write has felt like trying to squeeze fluid from stone. It made sense when I was actively drinking, I suppose, since my thoughts were muddied by alcohol, but Andi says this is normal even now; for up to two years my brain cells will be in the process of rebuilding. Post-acute withdrawal symptoms, she calls it. Memory loss and the lack of ability to focus are only the tip of the dysfunctional iceberg. I already went through Baby Brain; apparently, Booze Brain is a similar experience.
“I did get a call from Peter the other day,” I say. “My old editor at the Herald?”
“Oh, right,” Jess says, taking another sip of her coffee. “What did he want?”
“I guess he was in Chicago a few weeks ago and ended up meeting an editor from O.”
She looks confused.
“Oprah’s magazine?” I say.
“Oh, right, right.”
“He said he thought our personalities would click. She’s expecting me to get in contact and pitch her a few ideas.”
“That’s amazing, ” Jess says, then crinkles up her forehead and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow when I don’t look as enthused. “Isn’t it?”
“It would be if I had any ideas. I’m not even sure I should be freelancing right now. I sort of let things slide over the past year.” More like I let them disappear. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sold an article. “I’m starting to think I might need to find a new career. One that actually pays my bills.”
“Are you okay? Do you need to borrow a little bit to get you through? If Derek makes this sale today—”
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, cutting her off, “but I can manage. I still have some of the divorce settlement left. But it won’t last much longer.” I figure if I really cut corners, I can survive about six more months on what’s left in my account. After that, I may have to practice inquiring whether customers would like to supersize their meals.
“You’ll figure it out,” my sister says. “You could always sell the house, right? Maybe move into something more affordable?”
“I suppose so, but I’d hate to move Charlie.” The divorce left me with two main assets: the house and my cashed-out half of Martin’s 401(k) account, the latter of which I’ve been using to pay my bills. With the account already so diminished, I didn’t want to lose the house. Not yet.
“Well, at least you know a good agent if you need one,” she says with a grin.
“Really? Who?” I tease.
“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes, then pauses for a moment to sip her coffee. “So, do any of the editors you usually work with know about your problem?”
“No.” I realize I’m gripping my mug tightly enough to make my fingers ache. I relax them. “I was pretty good at keeping it under wraps.”
She shifts her shoulders almost imperceptibly. It’s suddenly her turn to not make eye contact.
“What?” I push. “I know that look.”
“What look?” She moves her gaze to meet mine.
“That one.” I put a finger in her face. “You’re trying not to say something. Give it up.”
“This coming from Little Miss Not Forthcoming.” She bats my finger
away and points hers back at me. “You’re not quite as sneaky as you think you are.”
I sit back in my chair. “What does that mean?”
“It means, Cadee,” she sighs, “that it’s not like people didn’t suspect what was going on with you.”
There is no condescension in her tone, only a factual edge, and it cuts deep. A panicky feeling grips my belly, the kind where it seems that the jig is up on something you thought you had gotten away with free and clear, and suddenly, there you stand, caught, your emotional pants down around your ankles.
She leans forward and takes one of my hands in hers. “We knew. We might not have said anything, but we did know.”
I pull my hand back, tuck my fingers in between my thighs, and squeeze them. Tears threaten to roll and I hate them. She hasn’t said this to me before now, not once in the last eight weeks.
Jess sighs, pushes back into her chair. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I keep my tone neutral. Hysteria claws at the edges, just below the surface of my words. Only I can feel this. I will not show it to her. I will not show it to anyone.
“For bringing it up, I guess.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. It is very, very far from okay.
“Yeah, you sound like you mean that.” We are silent for a moment. And then she continues. “I should have said something. I should have tried to help.”
“I wouldn’t have let you.” I swallow hard and clear my throat. “I didn’t know anything was wrong.” This is not entirely true. A person can’t drink the way I did and not suspect she might be completely screwed in the head. Crazy, even. Like the grandmother I didn’t want to tell Martin about on our first date.
Jess takes a deep breath, registers the expression on my face, then asks, “Should we talk about something else?”
“Yes, please,” I say with a faltering smile.
And just like that, we do. We talk about the twins, her latest deal, the lack of intelligence she perceives in the Mommy and Me pool. We talk about our mother, who has a new boyfriend with a funny-looking mustache. The sense of normalcy around our conversation calms me, distracts me from the whirling tornadoes in my mind. I am exhausted of thinking, of examining every tiny scrap of information and emotion that flows through me. I long for a shutoff switch for my brain, a way to halt the never-ending supply of synaptic chatter.