Smart Women

by Judy Blume

  “Remember . . .” Dr. Arnold had said, “Sara will be uncomfortable too. She won’t know what to expect. She may even be frightened. It’s up to you to help her, Francine.”

  “But what will I say to her? How will I ever be able to explain all that’s happened . . . and why?”

  “You don’t have to explain it all at once.”

  “What about next year? How do I tell her I’m not ready yet . . . that I can’t take full responsibility for her? Suppose she thinks that means I don’t want her?”

  “Tell her the truth, Francine, in as simple a way as you can. Tell her that you’re going to stay on here for a while longer. Maybe another six months. That you’ve made a great deal of progress, but you still need extensive therapy in order to understand what’s happened to you.”

  “Suppose she hates it at Margo’s . . . suppose she’s miserable there?”

  “Then we’ll all have to get together and try to find a solution.”

  “Are you sure I’m ready for this?”

  “I can’t be sure, Francine, but if you want to see her, you should. Make the first visit short, no more than half an hour. And don’t sit around looking at each other. Go for a walk on the beach.”

  “Yes, I know . . . a walk on the beach.”

  46

  SARA SAT ON THE PLANE watching her father open the package from Margo. It was wrapped in slick white paper with little red hearts all over it and tied with a red ribbon, as if Valentine’s Day were in June, not February. When he’d finally opened it, Sara was disappointed. All that was inside was a big box of raisins. Not the most exciting gift in the world. But her father laughed.

  The plane rose higher, the mountains disappeared below them, and still, her father kept laughing. Sara didn’t see what was so funny until he showed her the front of the box. Where the picture of the raisin girl used to be Margo had cut a hole and had inserted a photo of herself wearing a dumb-looking red hat. Her father would not stop laughing. Everyone on the plane was looking at him. Sara was so embarrassed.

  She had felt uncomfortable at the airport too, when Margo had gotten sentimental, telling Sara how much she had learned to like her. What did that mean, anyway—learned to like her—did it mean that Margo didn’t used to like her at all, or that Margo hated her before but now she thought she wasn’t so bad? Sara hadn’t asked. And she hadn’t said anything back to Margo either, even though Sara was sure Margo had expected her to say something like, I like you too. It wasn’t that she disliked Margo. Margo was all right. So long as she didn’t try to be her mother. If Margo ever pulled that Sara would tell her off. She would say, You’re not my mother, so don’t try to act like one. You’re not even my stepmother. You’re just some woman who sleeps with my father. She had rehearsed those lines over and over, but so far she had not had to use them.

  That morning, while her father had been loading the car and Margo had been upstairs in the kitchen, Sara had tiptoed down the hall to Margo’s bathroom and had put the envelope with the Polaroid pictures back where she had found them, under Margo’s cosmetic tray. She could not go away for the summer leaving them in her bottom dresser drawer and she couldn’t take them with her either. She had thought about cutting them up into little pieces, the way Michelle had cut up Eric’s postcard, but that seemed wrong. After all, they weren’t her pictures.

  She wondered what this new summer camp would be like. It was in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Sara had never been to Pennsylvania. You were supposed to do your own thing there. Sara didn’t know what her own thing was yet, but she liked the idea of finding out. Maybe it would be painting. Margo had set up the easel for her a couple of times, showing her how to use watercolors and acrylic paints. She was not allowed to use the oil paints though. They were kept in an old wooden box, which Margo’s parents had given her when she’d graduated from high school.

  Margo said she didn’t have time to paint much anymore, but she had shown Sara her sketch pad and Sara had been surprised to find a charcoal portrait of herself. Margo had drawn her with very big eyes, and no smile.

  “When did you draw this?” Sara had asked.

  Margo had checked the date on the picture. “March twenty-fourth.”

  “I look sad.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with looking sad sometimes.”

  “I guess.”

  Before camp Sara was going to spend ten days in Florida, visiting her grandparents. Grandma Goldy was learning to walk again and Grandma and Grandpa Broder were going to take her to visit. Also, her father would be with her for the first few days, so there was really nothing to worry about. There was really nothing to make her stomach jump all around or to make her grind her teeth at night. The dentist had asked, “Are you worried about something, Sara?”

  “No, why should I be worried?”

  “Because when a person grinds her teeth at night that usually means there’s something on her mind. Something that’s bothering her.”

  Well, there was nothing bothering Sara. Except, maybe, tomorrow. But she wasn’t going to tell anyone about that because it would sound pretty stupid to say that she was worried about seeing her own mother.

  GRANDMA AND GRANDPA BRODER met them at the airport in Miami and they had time for a swim before dinner. The next morning her father drove her to Mom’s apartment building in Boca Raton. It looked like all the others on the beach—a big white structure with balconies and a circular driveway lined with palm trees. She could not figure out why, if Mom was well enough to have her own apartment, she had not called or written. She hadn’t even sent Sara a birthday card.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” her father said, parking the car. “She’s probably more nervous than you are.”

  Sara nodded.

  “I’ll be waiting for you in the coffee shop.”

  “Why can’t you come up with me?”

  “Because Francine asked to see you by yourself and when I talked with Dr. Arnold she said that was a good idea.” Daddy kissed her cheek. “Half an hour . . . okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sara walked through the lobby to the elevator, pressed Six, and said a little prayer as it carried her upstairs. Please, God . . . let it be all right. Please don’t let her ask me any questions about Daddy and Margo. She got out of the elevator and walked slowly down the hallway, looking for Six B. When she came to it she took a deep breath and rang the bell.

  Nothing happened. She waited a few minutes, then rang the bell again. Maybe her mother wasn’t at home. Maybe her mother had decided she didn’t want to see Sara after all. Sara thought about leaving when the door opened.

  Her mother was wearing a violet shirt, white jeans, and red canvas shoes. Her hair was cut short, with kind of curly bangs. She looked at Sara as if she had never seen her before.

  “Hi, Mom . . .” Sara said.

  She waited for her mother to say something, anything, but Mom backed away as if she were afraid. Maybe her mother didn’t recognize her, Sara thought, so she said, “It’s me, Mom . . . Sara.”

  Her mother just stood there against the wall and Sara didn’t know what to do. Then, suddenly, her mother’s face caved in. “Oh, Sara . . .” she cried, coming toward her. “Oh, Sara . . . I’m so sorry . . .” She took Sara in her arms and at the familiar scent, at the feel of her mother’s arms around her again, Sara cried too.

  LATER, WHEN SARA GOT BACK to her grandparents’ apartment, she felt very tired. She went to the room she was sharing with her father to lie down. She needed time to think about all that her mother had told her, especially about Mom being married to Lewis, but not being sure that they would stay married.

  “Does Lewis know about Bobby?” Sara had asked, as they’d walked along the beach together.

  “Yes.”

  “You told him?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, I did.”

  “Then it’s not a secret anymore?”

  “It was never supposed to be a secret. It’s just that I . . .” But her mother didn’t finish and they just kept on walking.

  Her mother didn’t ask her anything about Daddy and Margo, or about living at Margo’s house, or even if Lucy was drinking out of Margo’s toilets, which reminded Sara that she had brought a picture of Lucy for her mother to keep. She took it out of her pocket and handed it to her mother. Mom looked at it and smiled—a very shy smile, not at all like her regular smile, which showed all her teeth.

  “Do you miss Lucy?” Sara asked.

  “Yes,” Mom said, “very much.”

  “We could probably send her to you . . . for the summer.”

  “That’s very sweet, Sara, but I think Lucy should stay where she is.”

  When they got back to Mom’s apartment Sara had a glass of apple juice and Mom said, “Sara . . . I don’t know when I can come back to Boulder. I’m not completely well yet. I still have a lot to work out.”

  “When do you think you will come back?”

  “Not for six months . . . maybe longer.”

  “But you’re definitely coming back?”

  “I don’t know . . . nothing is definite for me right now.”

  What about me? Sara felt like shouting. What’s going to happen to me? But she couldn’t ask Mom. She would have to wait and ask her father.

  “Can you ever forgive me, Sara, for the mess I’ve made of your life?” Mom asked.

  “It’s not so much of a mess,” Sara said.

  47

  FRANCINE WAS NOT READY to see Andrew without the security of having Dr. Arnold nearby, so Andrew came to the hospital and they met in the garden, where Clare had visited a few months ago. But that had been before Francine could smile. She could smile now, although it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t natural. She had to concentrate and to spend time practicing in front of the mirror.

  She stood stiffly as Andrew kissed her cheek. “Hello,” she said, “sit down.”

  Andrew took the lounge chair, but he did not stretch out on it. He sat sideways and she sat on the straight-backed chair, facing him. “Well . . .” she said.

  “Well . . .” he responded.

  She looked away from him and watched two patients jogging on the path.

  “The visit with Sara went all right?” he asked.

  “Yes . . . why? Did she say something?”

  “No . . . she didn’t say anything.”

  “She seems so grown up.”

  “I know.”

  Andrew began to talk then, about Sara and school and summer camp, about the book he was writing on Florida’s correctional system, an expression which made him laugh, and when he did she felt a pain in her chest, because she had always loved the sound of his laughter. He talked for ten minutes without a break.

  “Well . . .” she said, “there’s a lot to talk about, isn’t there? A lot of water over the dam, as they say.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Water over the dam is a funny expression, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a book of expressions like that . . . things to say when you don’t know what to say . . .”

  He nodded again.

  She wished she had something to do with her hands. They were clammy and cold although the day was hot. She wished she had worn something with pockets. She wished she had some rubber bands. “Look, Andrew . . . there’s just one question I need to ask you and that’s this . . . is there still a chance for us?” She looked away as soon as she’d said it.

  He took a long time answering and then said, “Not anymore, Francine.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t think so, but I had to be sure because I’m planning the rest of my life.” She did not know what she felt. She did not think it was disappointment or rejection. She did not think it was anger or fear either. Dr. Arnold would want to know. What were you feeling? she would ask.

  “What about Lewis?” Andrew said.

  “Lewis is waiting.”

  “He seems to care for you very much.”

  “I should hope so. He married me, you know.”

  They both laughed, but the sound of her own laughter was so surprising, she stopped abruptly.

  Andrew took both her hands in his. “I’m sorry, Francine . . . I never meant to hurt you this way.”

  “Oh, I know that,” she said. “And you can’t take all the credit for my problems.”

  “I don’t want to,” he said.

  After a few more minutes Andrew stood. “I’ve got to go now.”

  Francine stood too. “Well . . . it was nice seeing you again.”

  “It was nice seeing you too.” He looked into her eyes, then he walked away.

  “Andrew . . .” she called after him.

  He turned.

  “You did love me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did love you.”

  She nodded. Now she knew what she felt. She felt tired. She felt incredibly tired. She did not want to plan the rest of her life. She did not want to plan anything. She wanted to lie down in the lounge chair, close her eyes, and go to sleep. But Dr. Arnold would be waiting, so Francine walked slowly toward her office.

  48

  MARGO WAS IN THE HOT TUB. She had turned up the stereo so that she could hear the music as she soaked—Beethoven—perfect for her mood. She had said goodbye to her parents last night, and this morning, to Stuart and Michelle. Michelle had come to Margo’s room at seven, carrying her cactus, “Will you take care of it for me, Mother?”

  “Of course. I’ll take care of all your plants.”

  “This one is special. And it only needs water once a week.”

  “Okay.” Margo said, zipping up her dress. “And Michelle . . . I hope you have a wonderful trip.”

  “It’s bound to be better than Camp Mindowaskin.”

  They both laughed.

  Michelle placed the cactus on Margo’s dresser. “I gave you a lot of shit this year, didn’t I, Mother?”

  “Enough.”

  “Of course, you deserved most of it.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Well . . .” Michelle said, “aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”

  Margo was surprised. Michelle led her to believe she was no longer interested in parental affection. She walked across the room and took Michelle in her arms, kissing her cool, smooth cheek. “I love you,” she said into Michelle’s soft hair. “I love you very much. I hope you know that.”

  “I love you too,” Michelle whispered. Then she broke away and said, “You know something, Mother . . . for a while I had my doubts, but you’ve turned out okay.” She smiled, turned, and ran down the hall, calling, “Stuart, hurry up . . . it’s almost time to go.”

  When they were gone Margo sat on her bed and cried. She did not feel sad. She felt emotional, the way she sometimes did at a tender play or listening to beautiful music or even watching the sun set. She felt a pouring out of motherly love, followed by an enormous sense of pride in herself and her children. She had made a lot of mistakes, but they had come through it together. They had come through it still loving each other and there was a lot to be said for that.

  She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, then went to her bathroom to finish getting ready for work. She rummaged through her cosmetic drawer, searching for that new moisturizer she’d bought, and out of nowhere the envelope with the Polaroid pictures turned up. She had been over that drawer at least twenty times. Yet here they were. She thumbed through the pictures, satisfying herself that all five of them were intact. She laughed as she remembered the night she had posed
for Andrew as Playmate of the Month. She remembered the lovemaking that had followed too and she felt a twinge. How could the pictures suddenly have reappeared? Unless . . . unless Michelle had taken them in the first place and returning them was her way of making peace. Yes, that must be it. There was no other explanation.

  Years from now Michelle would probably tell her the truth. Remember those ridiculous Polaroid pictures, Mother? I thought they were rather kinky at the time . . .

  Yes, Margo would say, I remember.

  THE PHONE RANG THEN, startling Margo. She climbed out of the hot tub and ran into the house, naked and dripping, with Lucy at her heels. She answered, breathless, on the fourth ring.

  “I have a person-to-person call for the Sun-Maid Raisin Woman,” the operator said.

  “Yes,” Margo said, laughing.

  “Is this she?”

  “Yes . . . yes, this is she.”

  “I have your party, sir.”

  Andrew came on the line then. “Hello, Raisin Woman. How’s it going? Did everyone get off on schedule?”

  “Yes. I’m the only one left. I was soaking.”

  “Wish I were there to keep you company.”

  “I’ve heard you pass out from the heat.”

  “Not every time. Only when I’m overly excited and have had too many brandies.”

  “Oh, so that’s it.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “How’s it going down there? Has Sara seen B.B. yet?”

  “Yes, briefly. It went okay.”

  “And have you seen her?” she asked.

  “Yes, late this afternoon.”

  And . . . she thought, but he didn’t elaborate. She would have to ask. “Have you decided yet?”

  “Decided what?” he said, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

  All right. She would spell it out for him so that there could be no misunderstanding. The truth was always easier to take than the imagination. “Decided what you’re going to do?”