A Palm Beach Scandal--A Novel

by Susannah Marren

  “I know. She’s big.” I run my hands over my womb.

  “What about afterward? How do women get back in shape? Some of my friends have done so well; others are more stuck.” Elodie shakes her head sympathetically.

  “I don’t know the secret sauce. At Soul Center, near my apartment, a few months ago, a woman was talking about it. How she’d had a baby in the spring and she’s gone from someone who worshipped her own body to someone who is like a martyr for her offspring. When our instructor asked her about her weight gain, she said, ‘Oh, no worries, as soon as I stop breast-feeding, I’ll tend to that.’”

  Breast-feeding. My sister and I look at each other—our bodies so near, our faces can touch. We could whisper kisses with our eyelashes.

  “Aubrey, I’m afraid to take care of the baby.” Elodie’s voice is flat.

  “That’s what you’re afraid of? I wouldn’t be afraid of that.” I sound like a cheerleader.

  “You might be the better mother, Aubrey.” My sister says this in one breath, then becomes static.

  “Please, don’t think so.” I, too, am static.

  “Mother Earth. You know that.” Elodie stares at my body, then at my face.

  “You’ll be a fantastic mother to such a sweet little girl.” Again, I sound like a cheerleader. Baby Grace. Dare I say her name aloud?

  “So could you.” Elodie sounds sure of this.

  “Do you believe that? I suppose I could. It’s true that she’s always on my mind,” I say.

  Baby Grace tumbles and flips. “Feel this—the baby’s elbow. How she’s pushing against me, how she wants to get out?”

  Elodie places her hand over the baby as she kicks ferociously.

  “What you’re doing for me—I couldn’t do it for you. I know it, Aubrey.”

  My big sister, the reliable one, my idol.

  “We’re almost there,” I say.

  CHAPTER 31

  AUBREY

  “Where are the baby presents?” Tyler asks. “I thought I hadn’t made room.”

  His files for singers, contracts, his Mac Air, and a pair of running shoes are piled in a heap on the chair that might have held the gifts.

  “At my parents’ or at Elodie’s,” I say. “I wanted to open them at the luncheon. My mother said no.”

  “What about Elodie?” Tyler asks.

  “I’m not sure what she wanted to do,” I say.

  I imagine boxes. It occurs to me that some are filled with pink baby clothes. Dresses and sweaters that will fit her until she is one or two. Knit hats, booties. Someone will have chosen a snowsuit for a trip up north.

  “Why don’t you ask about it?” He pauses. “Hungry?”

  Tyler swings open the door of the refrigerator; it’s obvious he’s gone food shopping. I haven’t, that’s for sure.

  “I’m texting my mother and sister.”

  He squats like an acrobat, a catcher for a professional baseball team. He ought to be in a mask, thumbs up, ball whirling by. Not that I’ve ever watched baseball much, but once Simon pointed out the players and explained their roles. I was about eleven. It was the two of us in the den. My sister was already at Princeton. Mom was at an event for Mothers and Children. Christina had gotten married and no longer lived in, as Mom used to describe it to her friends.

  Tyler stands up and shows me he has drinkable yogurt and organic blueberries. “Maybe this? It’s after six, and I doubt you ate much at that gig this afternoon.”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  A text from Elodie. Whenever. Time?

  I start texting back.

  He winks at me. “Dulce de leche ice cream?” He’s about to squat again, dig around in the freezer. I shake my head.

  “Hey, what’s on your mind—beyond the baby presents?”

  “They don’t belong to us anyway.” Dozens of times I’ve meant to say, Sorry, sorry, and sorrier. I don’t speak.

  His bald head shines and dazzles in the kitchen light. I’ve forgotten how buff he is; his muscles show through his polo shirt, the one I encouraged him to wear today. I go to him and we kiss, although I smell like someone who has been out too long on a hot day. He doesn’t smell.

  He whistles a song I haven’t heard, a new song from a new singer. A song about the despair of winter, a nonpolitical song with a tune I already love. I’d ask him to sing it or play it, except he might remark how absent I’ve been, avoiding clubs with loud music, asleep by ten P.M.

  “We have a quiet night at least; it’s ours. It’s been a long while,” I say.

  “We should talk.” His voice sounds weighted down by rocks. He’s got that yogurt in his hand. I take it from him and open the cap.

  I want to be covered up, never naked again. I want no one to ever say that we “should talk.” Like I’ve been put on a pill with side effects. Flashing lights and people who might or might not be dead roll around in my head. My father’s mother, Grandma Lise. She was patient with me. Did she know what they’d gone through in order for me to be born, for Elodie? Then my mother’s mother, Renata, who had too many rules. No shoes in the house, nothing could be hung on a door handle. She taught me about appearances, everything just so. Manners first, true thoughts second. No wonder we’re such train wrecks.

  “It’s been insane, the baby, the DNA, my mother doing her best at subterfuge.”

  “She’s good, I’ll give her that,” Tyler says.

  “She’s been at it a long time.” I glance out the window; the daylight is still strong. I pretend we’re in Stockholm, where the summer sun shines through the night. A place we’ve talked about going together. I pretend that I haven’t anything much ahead, nothing that might be an out-of-body experience. We could eat dinner at midnight; we could take a boat ride to the Archipelago.

  We’re both standing there.

  “I miss you,” I say.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “You hate my family, right?” I toss the yogurt in the trash and wash my hands. “You hate Palm Beach.”

  I start eating the blueberries without rinsing them.

  “I don’t hate them.” Tyler takes the berries, places them in a colander. “I don’t hate Palm Beach.”

  “You hate what they’ve done, asking me to have Baby Grace, going up to Palm Beach too much, hardly booking the groups, leaving it for you.”

  “I want you, Aubrey.”

  He comes up, holds me gently from behind. With his arms around me at what was once my waist, his hands barely meet. I notice the music has changed; he’s turned it up. “Fields of Gold,” a slow-dance song, one I first heard when I was sixteen. Elodie and James were driving me to the Breakers at Christmastime to meet our “winter friends.” I had no boyfriend; everyone else did. They were grown-up, savvy, my sister and James; they’d seen it all.

  “Tighter, hold me tighter,” I whisper.

  “The baby, I don’t want to crush her,” he whispers back.

  “You won’t, can’t.” I know this because of how guarded I am with Baby Grace.

  That’s when he carries me, the floating blimp, to the bedroom; that’s when he undresses me. In the mirror, he is sleek. I am clumsy. In his face I see how he loves me.

  “You, I want you. What we share,” I say.

  He kneels down, kisses my navel, which is distorted, like there was never a belly button. Yet it’s okay; we’re both in awe of what it takes—how Baby Grace grows. I put my hands around his neck.

  “Will she be all right?” he asks. “I mean, if we…”

  “It should be okay. Dr. Noel told me until I’m too uncomfortable, I’ll lie on my side. We can…”

  “Shhhh.” He stands up, taller than James or my father. He kisses me like I’m a babe. I open my eyes in the middle of it. Through the slatted blinds, a watery, tired light is moving in, Florida end of day. I crave him, but I must take care of the baby, our baby. She is vital, tangible. Any lovemaking now could be sensed, felt by her.

  “Will you spoon me?” I ask.

 
; Tyler stretches me out as if I’m nimble. In our bed, there is a foggy memory of me before I signed on for the baby.

  “We can do that,” he says. “Or do you want to be on top?”

  “Let’s try both. Or either,” I say. The thought of him that close is intoxicating, although I can’t conceptualize how this might work out.

  “If you’re on top, we face each other.” He kisses my forehead. I want the intimacy of our faces close, yet I’m afraid. Baby Grace is a gymnast inside me. Sex at the moment is unspeakable, really. I’m contemplating it only because of Tyler. There is the ongoing marvel of loving him.

  “I am safe with you,” I say. “Safer than I’ve ever been.”

  He props himself up on his elbow and strokes my shoulders, runs his hands over my uterus. His touch is knowing.

  “A hundred percent.” Tyler leans back on the pillows. “We don’t have to do this, Aubrey.”

  “I know.” I try to snuggle close. Gently, he tugs under my arms and moves me beside him.

  “You know, when that photographer called for the parents, the parents-to-be today, I dunno, why wasn’t it us?” he asks. “All these months, people have seen us around and assume this is our baby.”

  “Tyler, you know why. It’s always been the deal, the two of us on the sidelines—you dragged into the drama, me a half-willing participant.” At least at first, half-willing.

  “Well, it’s become different over time. The three of us, you, me, the baby, like we’re a unit. That’s how it is.”

  “True,” I say, “completely true.”

  Had I never agreed to the baby, Elodie’s sorrow—what she was missing—would not be my responsibility. Nor the overriding matter with Tyler.

  “Baby Grace. We think she’s ours, don’t we?” Finally, I have the courage to ask. Tyler moves onto his side and I stay on my back, two pillows beneath my head. Our bodies are very close.

  “Yeah, we do,” he says.

  I picture how she’ll be, the baby inside me, who is soon to be born.

  CHAPTER 32

  ELODIE

  “Mom, you sounded in despair,” I say to Veronica as she stands to the east. The waves do a low screech along the shoreline.

  “Did I?” she asks.

  “Maybe tired,” I say.

  She nods. “Definitely that.”

  She seems peaked, apprehensive, when she should be pleased. The baby shower was a hit; soon the baby will arrive. Instead, she has called for this “meeting” and we stand at her poolside, the air not only hot but clammy and damp. I wish Aubrey would appear. When Veronica asked for an “immediate lunch,” my sister was fast asleep. Then she called Tyler, who arranged for Aubrey to take an Uber. According to her text, she’s a few miles away.

  Our last gathering at the pool was back in the winter. I remember how dedicated Veronica was that morning. She had assumed that Aubrey’s pregnancy was the reason we were together. Instead, we slammed her with the DNA tests and asked her to defend herself. Now she sucks in her breath. “Here’s Aubrey.”

  Moving like liquid lava, Aubrey comes through the house and onto the patio. She veers to where we are sitting at the table under the umbrella. The chair scrapes against the slate when she yanks at it.

  “Aubrey, please, don’t be tugging on heavy things!” Veronica says. “Elodie or I will be happy to assist.”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Aubrey sits down. “Maybe it will induce labor.”

  I feel guilty at how wide my sister’s thighs look—her entire silhouette. Very unlike her.

  The baby contorts herself and Aubrey gasps. Through the thin fabric of her maternity dress—she’s finally wearing these ugly third-trimester tents—each baby twist is distinctive. My sister’s skin bunches, ripples, and relaxes.

  “Isn’t that an old wives’ tale?” I ask. “That lifting or scrubbing floors will begin someone’s labor?”

  Veronica coughs, or is it a short laugh? “That’s speculative,” she says.

  “Where’s Dad?” Aubrey fans herself with her hands, then places them on her stomach. “Could we go into the house and sit in air-conditioning?”

  Veronica grimaces. “Let’s stay outside a few more minutes. Christina isn’t in. Dad is in his office unexpectedly. His bridge game was canceled.”

  “Is there anything to eat?” Aubrey looks at the empty table.

  “I have a Lara bar in my bag.” I start fishing around, although if it’s at the bottom, it’s probably too close to the Purell to offer.

  Aubrey watches. “That’s okay.”

  “I wanted us alone together to tell you the rest,” Mom says. “Now.”

  Aubrey and I look at each other and then at the Intracoastal, where the water is a faded blue. On the bulkhead are two pelicans, side by side, beaks at the same angle.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Mom,” I say.

  “I have a confession,” Mom says. “What happened, a long time ago.”

  Aubrey puts her hands right beneath her breasts; the baby pushes a foot, an elbow, something at her. “We don’t want or need a confession, Mom. Do we, Elodie?”

  An overdue piece of the truth—how could I not want it? “That’s up to Mom.”

  “No, honestly, there can’t be more to learn, there can’t be,” Aubrey says. “No more, please.”

  I could be like my sister, searching for the part that doesn’t crush you. I could choose lightness. Or I could be the next to confess, right after our mother—what more has she to tell anyway? I should speak up with a dramatic reveal: I’ve met my sister Alice. She means the world to me. I see myself in her. She searching for our bio father. Who is capable of outdoing that?

  “Believe me, girls, there is more. You were born because your father and I had to have children.”

  “We know that, Mom,” I say.

  “Well, something happened first.” She runs her fingers across her forehead. “I terminated a pregnancy.”

  Aubrey speaks after a full minute. “Mom, that’s fine. Who hasn’t? Elodie had one ‘termination’ and I’ve had two.”

  I need to check incoming texts. From Laurie, although the Society is calm; from James, whose obsession with our certificate of occupancy is beyond irritating. From Mimi about the baby nurse she insists is best; from our contractor about an end of day walk-through. Since our Naples meeting, Alice and I text constantly—it borders on fervid. Like now when I text Alice back that I, too, wonder what our bio father looks like.

  “Elodie,” Veronica says. “This might resonate for you. When you made your decision, you thought you were too young to have a baby; you thought you and James deserved time alone together, in your young marriage.”

  “I know, and you tried to talk me out of it,” I say.

  “And then later, years later, look at what it is,” she says.

  Is Veronica attempting to churn up my regret? I try never to revisit what I did and how the window closed, the chances lessened. I let myself go from young to too old, as if I were hypnotized and had no awareness. I used to be angry with myself over that, for years. I am still terribly sorry.

  “Why does that matter today, Mom?” Aubrey asks. “Please. Can’t we go inside, get something to eat? It’s too hot out here, too humid. The umbrella isn’t helping.”

  Aubrey puts a handkerchief from Maltese that Veronica bought us, the one with two embroidered butterflies, on the nape of her neck.

  “We can’t go inside yet,” Veronica says. “I’ve told you, Dad is there.”

  “Right,” I say. “But maybe we could sneak into your bathroom, pile in and whisper. It’s clearly large enough and probably only sixty-eight degrees.”

  “No, no. This has to do with Dad.” Our mother wrings her hands.

  “I don’t understand. Was it another sperm donor? Is that what you want us to know?” I ask. Has our mother had three different men trying to produce a family?

  “Before your father left, before Vietnam, I was pregnant. I didn’t know until he was deployed. I might have
written him, told him, and had the baby. I might not have told him and had the baby, put the baby up for adoption. Or I could have pretended we were married and I was waiting for him to come home. I asked Grandma Renata. I’m not sure why I listened to her. I couldn’t ask anyone else back then; you couldn’t get support, only friends judging you. It was in the early seventies—I was twenty-two years old; what sounded wisest was to abort. Grandma felt that, too. ‘What if Simon never comes back,’ she said to me. ‘What about the neighbors? What about how you aren’t married?’ I paid attention. I went to Planned Parenthood.” She pauses. “I aborted Dad’s biological child. Then he came back and couldn’t have his own.”

  Aubrey squares her mouth and I do the same. We are, in this moment of our mother’s secret, equally astonished, a mirror for each other.

  I place my hand on Veronica’s forearm. “And you never told Dad what you did.”

  “No, never,” she agrees, “because it would be crushing for him. It’s enough of a blow that he was damaged in Vietnam, never mind that I took what I did away from him.”

  “Dad can’t ever know,” Aubrey says.

  “Only my mother knew and now you girls,” Veronica says. “I wanted to tell you, to have you understand. I wanted to be absolved.”

  I look back at the bulkhead; the two pelicans have taken flight.

  “We get it, Mom,” Aubrey says. “Don’t we, Elodie?”

  I nod. “We do.”

  Veronica traces her upper lip with her index fingers. “I had no idea when he came home, when his service was over. I thought we’d have children, start a family. I thought we’d live in New York—the city, a suburb.”

  “Mom, let’s not do this. It reminds me of—”

  “Of you, Elodie!” Aubrey says. “That’s who!”

  “Aubrey!” our mother says.

  “Except what about Dad?” Aubrey is about to cry. “I mean, maybe he does know—subconsciously. Or maybe what happened with the 23andMe test is too much; he’s been hurt, duped.”

  “I used to think about it every day and then I pushed it away. I had you girls and that was enough for me. Harder for your father, except when we moved to Palm Beach. Dad got the life he wanted, and being very successful in his business helped, too. He is seen as a man who has it all, his company, his wife and girls. Yet pretending about the sperm donor, that is constant—it’s been an exhausting chore, for years on end. What we did, it’s there—like a specter. You always sense it.”