by Robin Wells
“Good morning, Jessica,” Mom says brightly. “My, don’t you look lovely!”
I know I don’t. Between the long late flight and the fight with Zack, I didn’t sleep much last night. There’s not enough under-eye cover cream in the whole state to hide my dark circles, but Mom will always find something nice to say.
“Thanks, Mom.” I drop a kiss on her head as she hugs me.
My sister, Erin, harbors no such compunction. She also hugs me, then holds me at arm’s length, and eyes me up and down. “Actually, you look like hell.”
“Now be nice, Erin. She had a long flight and a horrible headache last night.” That was the excuse I gave Mom and Dad to avoid having to act perky and make pleasant conversation when they picked me up at the airport. Mom’s eyes are concerned. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better,” I say.
“Well, good,” Erin says, “because we’re meeting Brett Ross at Starbucks in ten minutes.”
“Who’s Brett Ross?” Mom asks.
“The Realtor Erin lined me up with,” I say. “I went to high school with him and now he’s one of the biggest real estate agents in Seattle.”
“Oh, I remember him,” Mom says. “He played football and dated a cheerleader, didn’t he?”
“Sue Anne Morrison,” my sister chimes in. “They got married after college and he played pro ball.”
“And now he’s selling real estate?”
Erin lifts her shoulders. “He’s got his own company and he’s doing amazingly well.”
“With the cost of real estate here, I’m sure it’s lucrative.” Trust Mom to home in on the money angle immediately. “Maybe that’s something your brother can look into.”
“I thought Doug was happy at the garage,” I say.
“Oh, he is. Happy as a clam, actually. And if he had his way, he’d do nothing else for the rest of his life. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to have a little bit more drive.”
My brother had a tough time in school, largely, I believe, because of untreated ADHD. My mother refused to even consider it. “That’s a phony diagnosis used to cover up a lack of self-discipline,” she’d say if a teacher brought it up. I gave her articles about it, but Mom didn’t want to hear it. My father was no help. As far as Dad was concerned, my mother’s word was law. He never went against her.
“There’s nothing wrong with working at a garage,” I say.
“Of course not.” Mom pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me. “If he’d apply himself, though, he could get a white-collar job.”
My sister and I exchange a look. Mom hates the fact that my brother gets his clothes dirty. I understand where she gets it; her own father was a plumber, and she was teased as a child for having a father who worked on toilets.
“A lot of white-collar workers earn less than what he’s probably making,” Erin says.
“That’s right,” I say. “I read an article the other day about how there’s a shortage of highly skilled technicians, and Doug is definitely highly skilled.”
Mom sniffs. “Blue-collar jobs don’t leave a lot of room for advancement.”
Erin rolls her eyes. “Well, if he and Darla are happy, that’s all that matters.”
“That’s all that’s mattered until now, but . . .” Mom messes with the toaster.
“But what?”
“Nothing. I just wish he were more like you, Jessica.”
Doesn’t she realize how awful everyone feels when she holds me up as a gold standard against my siblings? “You were going to say something else. What’s going on?” I press.
Mom hesitates.
“Darla’s pregnant,” Erin blurts.
A stab of pain shoots through me. I hate that I’m so small that my brother’s good fortune bothers me. I fight to rise above it. “Oh! How . . . how wonderful.”
“Yes. We’re very excited,” Mom says.
“Yeah, that’s—that’s great. When did Darla find out?”
“She’s about four months along. But she only told us a few weeks ago.”
Mom has known for a few weeks? That means she didn’t tell me because she knew I’d find it painful. The kid-glove treatment makes it somehow harder to take.
“Well, I’m very happy for them,” I make myself say. I feel as if a potato has suddenly lodged in my throat. “Do they know yet if it’s a boy or girl?”
“They hope to find out at the next ultrasound.”
“That’s wonderful.” I stretch my mouth into a smile. “I’ll have to call and congratulate them.”
“Actually, they’re coming for dinner tomorrow night.” Mom’s eyes and mouth have that strained look she gets when she’s worried.
Erin thrusts a steel coffee mug at me and nods toward the door. “We’d better get going or we’ll be late.”
“But you haven’t had breakfast!” Mom says.
I pour my cup of coffee into the travel mug.
“We’ll eat at Starbucks.” Erin fills her own mug from the coffeepot.
“You’re taking coffee to Starbucks?” Mom asks.
“It’s just enough to get us there,” Erin says, heading out the kitchen door. I follow her out of the house and into her Honda.
“Mom is such a job snob,” I remark.
“She was trying to be tactful,” she says as she backs out of the driveway. “She thought she’d alleviate the sting of Darla’s pregnancy by first pointing out how much better you’re doing than Doug professionally.”
“She didn’t know how to tell me,” I say. “Apparently you didn’t, either.”
“I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of Doug as a father.” She turns the car onto another street. “I mean, this is the guy who tried to tip a cow, but ended up with the cow falling on him and breaking his rib.”
I smile.
“And then there was the time he tried to roof surf on his friend’s car.”
“How about when he thought he was smoking pot but it was just oregano?” I add.
Erin laughs. “And he was convinced he was high anyway!”
“Yeah, he did some really dumb stuff,” I agree.
“It’s a wonder he survived his teen years.”
“And now he’s going to be a dad.” I try like hell to stop it, but my eyes fill with tears. I look out the window so Erin won’t see. “How’s Darla feeling?”
“Good. She’s hardly had any morning sickness. She’s excited.”
“And Doug?”
“He’s thrilled.” She turns onto a side street. “And actually, despite what Mom says or thinks, he’s making really good money.”
“That’s great.” I try to wipe my eyes surreptitiously. “So—were you going to tell me if Mom hadn’t brought it up?”
“Yeah. We’re not actually meeting Brett at Starbucks—I’m dropping you at his office in an hour. I’m taking you to my place for breakfast first.”
“I’m not all that fragile. I mean, I can be happy for Doug and Darla, even though I can’t have . . . I haven’t gotten . . . I can’t get . . .” My eyes fill up again. “Ah, hell.”
“It’s okay, Jessie.”
The use of the old childhood nickname makes the tears roll. She lets me sit in silence as she drives the two minutes it takes to get to her house.
“Hey—it’s understandable that this is hard for you,” she says as she parks in her driveway and hits the remote to open her garage door.
“It’s more than not being able to get pregnant.”
She frowns at me. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you,” I say. “But you have to promise not to tell Mom.”
“Since when do I tell her anything?” We climb out of the car and go through the garage into the mudroom. I follow her past a coatrack laden with windbreakers and sweaters into the kitchen
, which smells of eggs and sausage.
I sink onto a barstool at her kitchen peninsula, moving aside a stack of school papers, mail, and a hair barrette. She puts two slices of bread in the toaster and looks at me with deep concern. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Zack.”
“Zack?” She widens her eyes and puts her hand to her chest, as if I’d said something was wrong with Santa Claus. “It’s not another woman, is it?”
“No, nothing like that. But I just found out he has a child.”
“What?”
I draw a deep breath. As she reheats the eggs she’d scrambled earlier for her family’s breakfast, I spill the whole story.
“Jesus, Jess. I had no clue he’d been a sperm donor.” She scoops some scrambled eggs on a plate and sets it in front of me, then adds a piece of toast. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”
I lift my shoulders. “I was kind of ashamed.”
“Why? Because it wasn’t part of the perfect life you outlined for yourself?”
That’s the problem with having a sister; she knows too damned much. I eat a forkful of eggs so I don’t have to answer.
She sits beside me at the counter. “You’ve got to get over this always-wanting-everything-to-look-flawless thing, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. Hell, she’s right. Maybe she’ll lighten up if I admit it. “I’m working on it. But you can’t tell Mom.”
“I won’t. That’s not my place.” She takes a bite of toast and chews thoughtfully. “But at some point, you’re probably going to need to.”
I blow out a sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“If she doesn’t like something, that’s her problem. Don’t make it yours.” Erin’s face is earnest. “Of course, that’s easy for me to say, because I never had her approval.”
“Oh, Erin, that’s not true.”
“It is, and you know it. I was Erin the Errant, the pregnant teen. You were Little Miss Perfect, who could do no wrong, and then there was poor Doug the Dummy.”
I sigh. She’s right—we all had our roles in the family. And, to some extent, we’re all still playing them out.
“Well, I’m hardly perfect now.” I tell her about the scene with Zack. She’s shocked, but more empathetic than I had reason to hope for. I break down and cry again.
“This whole infertility thing has been rough for you,” Erin murmurs.
“It’s awful,” I blubber. “It’s like I’m starving and everyone else has lots of food, but I can’t have any.”
“Aw, sweetie—come here.”
She hugs me and pats my back, as if I’m one of her children, until my tears stop.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sometimes it’s good to get your feelings out,” she says.
“What time do we need to leave?”
She glances at the clock on her stove. “In about five minutes. After I drop you, I have to pick up Jordan at school for an orthodontist appointment across town.”
“Okay. Let me fix my face before we go.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, Miss Flawless Perfection.”
I should have known the remark wouldn’t go over well with Erin, who rarely wears makeup, pulls her hair into a perpetual ponytail, and dresses like a Sasquatch hunter. “I’m not trying to be perfect,” I snuffle. “I just don’t want to show up looking like a mascara-streaked crazy person.”
She steps back and scans me. “Yeah, you are kind of a mess.” She grins, and waves me toward the powder room. “Okay. Not crazy is an acceptable goal. Go for it!”
* * *
—
THE BUILDING IS impressive—a three-story mirrored-glass office structure with a sign that reads Ross Real Estate. Just minutes after I speak to the receptionist in the modern entry, a familiar man emerges from a back hallway. “Hello. I’m Brett Ross.”
“Yes, I know.” I shake the hand he extends to me. He still looks like the high school heartthrob I remember—tall, dark, and handsome. His brown hair maybe isn’t quite as thick as it was and his eyes are etched with fine lines, but in that unfair way of men, the years look good on him. “I used to watch you play football.” And fantasize you were kissing me when I kissed my own hand.
“You did? I thought you were too much of a brainiac to bother with sports.”
I lift my shoulders. “I made it to a few games.”
“Well, it’s great to see you. You look better than ever.”
“Thanks.”
“So you and your husband are moving to Seattle, huh?”
I hope so. When I checked my phone in the parking lot, I still hadn’t heard from Zack. I hide any uncertainty behind a wide smile. “Yes,” I say.
“Well, welcome back! I have a few appointments set up for you, so if you’re ready . . .”
I nod and walk with him to the parking lot. He opens the passenger door of a shiny white Porsche SUV.
“Nice ride,” I say.
He gives an apologetic smile. “I’m not normally into conspicuous consumption, but having a flashy car is part of the real estate game around here.”
“It’s lovely,” I say. I notice a child’s safety seat in the back as he rounds the car and gets in the driver’s seat. “You have kids?”
He buckles his seat belt and starts the engine. “One. A boy. You?”
“No.” I force a smile. “Not—not yet. So how’s Sue Anne?”
“Okay, I think.”
He glances over. My surprise must show on my face, because he smiles as he drives out of the parking lot. “We’re divorced. It’s been about a year and a half now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, me too.” He turns onto the street. “It’s hard with a kid.”
I don’t know what to say. “You two always looked like the perfect couple.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”
“Phaedrus,” I say automatically.
“What?”
“The man who originally said that. He was a pal of Plato’s, and the quote is commonly attributed to him.”
“You are just too smart.” He laughs and shakes his head. “How do you remember stuff like that?”
I learned at an early age that knowing the source of a quote is impressive, so I’ve memorized lots of them. It’s only impressive if it seems effortless, though, so I never admit I work at it.
I shrug. “Useless trivia sticks in my brain.”
“Not just useless trivia,” he says. “You were valedictorian.”
I nod, pleased he remembered.
The conversation drifts to other topics—what we did after high school, my job, my husband’s job. I learn that Sue Anne works part-time as a speech therapist. We didn’t really know each other in high school, but we have an easy rapport. It’s like catching up with an old friend.
“What happened with you and Sue Anne?” I find myself asking. Too late, I realize I’ve overstepped the bounds of casual acquaintance. “I’m sorry. It’s rude of me to ask.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure it out myself.” He turns on the blinker for a right turn.
“What did you come up with?”
“I think our marriage died by degrees, you know? We took each other for granted and quit really being a couple. We focused on other things. And then . . . well, a guy she met through work started giving her a lot of attention, and it was a fast downward slide from there.”
It’s hard to imagine Brett Ross being thrown over for another man. “I’m sorry.”
He lifts his shoulders. “The hardest part was Petey.”
“How old is he?”
Brett turns onto a busy four-lane road. “Just turned six.”
“How long were you married?”
“Eight years.”
“That’s all? But you dated in high school!”
“We broke up a few times before we got engaged. How about you?”
“Three years.”
“Ah! You’re still in the honeymoon phase.”
I force a smile. “I don’t think I’d call it that.”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “Well, moving is a big stress factor.”
“So is infertility.”
He looks at me, his eyes sympathetic. “That’s a rough one.”
My face heats. “I don’t know why I just blurted that out. I don’t usually talk about it. Please—don’t repeat it to anyone we went to school with.”
“I wouldn’t. But just for the record, I don’t regularly hang out with anyone from school anymore.” He looks at me again. “And you know what? I don’t usually talk about what ended my marriage, either. I haven’t even told my parents that Sue Anne cheated on me.”
“Oh, God—parents are the worst, aren’t they? I’d rather slit my wrists than tell mine something disappointing.”
“Amen to that. Sue Anne and I had been separated three months and the divorce was filed and nearly over, and I hadn’t even told them we’d split up. They thought I was staying in a house I was flipping because there was a problem with vandals. Then my brother saw Sue Anne at a restaurant with this other guy.” He grins. “It’s kind of comical, actually. My brother marched over to their table and confronted them. He was shocked when Sue Anne told him our divorce would be final in another couple of weeks.” We drove in silence for a few moments. “My brother came to see me, mad as hell. ‘What do you think family is for?’ he said.”
“That sounds like my sister this morning,” I say. “I finally told her a little about a . . . a situation I’m having, and she was furious I hadn’t confided in her earlier.”
The conversation shifts to college and his football career, and before I know it, he turns the Porsche in to a driveway. I’m startled; I haven’t been paying attention at all to where we were driving.
“Okay,” he says. “Here’s the first house. What do you think?”
It’s a nondescript beige brick ranch. I make a face. “It looks like someone’s grandmother lives here.”