We talk about the Red Sox, how this might be the year they really win the World Series, careful not to hope too hard. The fact that I’m a Sox fan bonded me early on to Richard, a season-ticket holder for thirty years, and it’s one of the passions we still share. When we first met, I impressed him by knowing the starting lineup of the 1967 dream team. “You know Joe Foy played third base?” he said incredulously, palming his forehead. Now we take our daughter, Alexandra, to Sox games at Fenway. Richard is intensely proud of her fandom. “My daughter takes the Sox-Yankees rivalry to a new level,” he boasts to his friends, meaning that Alexandra, eleven and whip-thin, will berate anyone wearing a Yankees hat.
The server brings our cocktails: pinot grigio for me, Ketel One on the rocks, with a splash of cranberry and a lime, for Richard. I take my first sip and unfold the pressed cloth napkin on my lap. Richard rearranges the water glasses and shifts the salt and pepper shakers, as if to assert complete control over his surroundings, the same way he shuffles the deeds of buildings in the Back Bay.
“We may as well talk about why we came,” he says.
I take a gulp of wine to ease the sudden tightness in my chest.
“What’s your decision?” Richard asks, dropping his voice to the center of the table, out of range of any eavesdroppers. “Are you going to change or not?”
I bow my head but feel the fury of Richard’s anger through my curtain of hair. We have been through this so many times that it’s a song on repeat. What Richard is really asking is for me to distance myself from my family, especially my sister, Elizabeth.
“We both have to change,” I say, trying to keep my voice measured, but I can feel it wavering. Richard thinks that Elizabeth and I communicate and see each other too constantly— she lives ten minutes away—and that I take on my sister’s problems as my own. In childhood photographs, I always stood behind Elizabeth, my hands on her shoulders. I peek at my husband’s face through my hair, hoping for a shred of understanding. If I ever go along with Richard’s request to marginalize Elizabeth in my life, it means I won’t be the same person.
“All I ask for is some privacy,” Richard says, “in my own house, with my own family. Or is that too much for you? Look, our family—you, me, Alex and Harrison—does not include your sister. Just the way you feel and think about her takes time away from me.” This diatribe against Elizabeth has made Richard breathless. He inhales deeply. “You know what your problem is? In a nutshell?” He rushes. “You don’t know how to be a good wife and a good sister at the same time.”
I begrudge my husband his somewhat valid point but his resentment over the years has persuaded me to conceal more and more of my relationship with Elizabeth from him. All this sneaking around, you could accuse me of carrying on an emotional affair. Richard’s blunt thinking has taken over. I can see that he believes diminishing Elizabeth from my life will save our marriage.
Mercifully, our first courses arrive: salad and oysters, followed by glazed vegetables and juice-drenched steaks. I slice into my steak and place the first morsel in my mouth. “Eat,” I say, with my mouth full. “It’s good.” Richard gives me a tepid smile. We have always loved going to dinner, and for a few minutes we’re quiet, tasting, chewing, and swallowing. The server brings more wine, another cocktail.
Richard wipes the corner of his mouth with the linen napkin and starts again. “Let’s try to talk calmly.”
Feeling fed and less tense from the wine, I still find myself taking a deep breath and bracing myself.
“You say you’ve changed. You really haven’t,” Richard says. “Maybe you’ve modified some of your habits, but you haven’t changed your core feelings.”
“So you’re not satisfied with changing my behavior. You want to change my heart,” I say, a little too loudly. A woman from the next table actually turns her head.
“You don’t get it,” I continue. “She’s my sister, not some faucet I can turn on and off!” So much for a calm discussion.
Richard rubs his forehead, as if I exhaust him. “You can still love her; just don’t take every call.” The server replenishes our water as we cease fire. Richard lifts his ice-melted vodka and downs it in three gulps.
In moments like these, when I feel frustrated and out of control, I turn my attention inward and focus on strengths and the things I am grateful for. I remind myself that I am a devoted, responsible woman who thrives on solid family connections. My desire to make things right for everyone I love tugs at my heart, even when my own best interests are at stake.
“I’ve jumped through hoops to please you,” I say. My stomach turns over on itself, and I become a bit breathless. Lately I wait on Richard at family dinners, sit by his side at Hanukkah, focus all of my attention on stoking his ego and his accomplishments, much less so on Elizabeth and the rest of my family.
“You don’t even know what I do at the office,” Richard sneers. “Do you? The money you spent on that blouse? You know what your sister does every hour!”
“I know you just raised capital to buy out the Gilman Company. You’re renovating on Boylston to move your offices there. Watch yourself.” But what I think Richard is saying is that I don’t know how he ticks, and on that score he might be right. Perhaps I am guilty of discounting his needs and feelings.
“We talk about our kids,” I say, to explain why I cherish Elizabeth. “We vent.” I would assume that such attention would only smother and annoy a person as independent and self-made as Richard, but in fact he craves attention. It’s not enough for him to succeed—he wants to bask in my pride of his success.
I slump in my seat. As with so many similar conversations, we’ve reached a stalemate. The deep booths and mahogany walls that I’ve long associated with glamour and ease now only make me feel trapped. The wineglass sweats in my hand, my second already, and I can’t wait for my third. This conversation is so old, it has grown a beard.
“Ever hear of moderation?” Richard blurts, as I order another glass of pinot grigio. I don’t dignify that question with a response.
I try to take interest again in food, eyeing my bloody, halfeaten steak without much of an appetite, but, despite myself, I kick the wheel.
“I’ve stopped inviting her to our home,” I say. “I’ve stopped taking her calls in front of you. I know it upsets you. But why can’t I talk to my own sister when you’re not around?” I lean back onto the tufted banquette, my shoulders shaking.
“You’re welcome to talk to her, just not every day,” Richard says, then shakes his head in disgust. “You don’t need to know about every problem her kids have, how they do on tests, what their teachers say and every goddamn time Elizabeth goes to the bathroom.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I say, and drop my napkin on the tablecloth.
Richard brings his fist to the table. Water sloshes from my glass. My eyes dart around the dining room, wondering who might have seen. The woman at our neighboring table looks over again.
“Is this even a conversation?” I say, lowering my voice. “You just want me to agree with you.”
“Let’s go,” Richard says. “All you do is piss me off.”
My husband flings his napkin, flags the server, then stands and pushes himself from the booth. “I deserve to feel like number one in my marriage,” he says. “How hard is that to understand?”
THE NEXT DAY, I do the only thing that ever makes me feel better after a fight with Richard: I go for a walk with Elizabeth. Despite Richard’s hope otherwise, Elizabeth and I are closer than ever. His ultimatums about creating distance from my sister have made me run to her even faster.
As I pull up to the Brookline Reservoir, the early sunlight stabs at my eyes. I lean against the weathered fence, and when I see Elizabeth’s car, I try to put on a good face. But she can tell something is wrong. “You’ve been crying,” she says.
If I open my mouth, it’ll come out garbled, so I press my lips together and nod.
Elizabeth knows all about my problem
s with Richard. Actually, I tell her too much, and confiding in her ends up making Richard seem like a villain. She hugs me, and we squeeze our hands together—the secret code of comfort we’ve had since we were young.
A primitive trail of dirt and gravel surrounds the reservoir. Maple and birch trees offer shade, and teak benches a place to relax. Every time we meet, Elizabeth and I circle the water at least three times, walking and breathing through constant conversation. Today we begin our walk briskly, with the sun warming our faces, as if it’s giving us strength for what’s soon to come.
“Spill,” Elizabeth says. “Tell me everything.” But as we finish the first lap, she begins to lag. I’m so wrapped up in my story that I don’t notice when Elizabeth falls back a few paces. I turn and run to her. She’s limping, her face twisted in pain.
“Seems worse than yesterday,” I say.
“The doctor thinks it’s sciatica. But the pain keeps getting worse.” She grimaces.
“Should we stop?” I ask.
“No, no, I’m fine.” Elizabeth takes a few steps that would have been easy before, trying to straighten out her walk. She always puts on a brave face.
We continue at a slower pace. Cars rumble faintly behind us on Route 9. The wind picks up as we round the corner, forcing us to put more energy into our steps. The path gradually crowds with people speed-walking and jogging. Just ahead, two women barricade the lane with their strollers, carrying cups of steaming coffee. They’re talking loudly, laughing, and I want to interrupt, to scold them harshly for acting like the path is theirs, to insist they be considerate of other people. I’m not sure from where this sudden anger surges, but it startles me. Instead of berating the stroller moms, Elizabeth and I detour onto the grass, wetting our shoes with dew.
“I have to get out of this mess,” I say.
“Maybe it’s the last straw.”
The last thing Elizabeth wants me to do is leave my husband, but she loves me and knows that I’m suffering.
We finally circle back to the parking lot and drink from the water bottles in our cars. I see Elizabeth wince again. “Go home and call your doctor,” I instruct, snapping out of my selfabsorption, happy to inhabit the older-sister role.
“I already have an MRI scheduled for later today,” Elizabeth says.
“Oh, okay. Please let me know how it goes.”
“God, don’t let it be surgery,” Elizabeth says, reaching for the Aleve she’s been keeping in her glove box. She rarely takes any medication, so I know it must be bad.
THAT MORNING, WHEN I get home after my walk, Richard and I barely speak. He races out of the house to his office, grunting goodbye. I stand alone at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of Special K.
After dropping Alexandra off at middle school, I take a cardio-and-strength-training class at my gym. Then I treat myself to a blueberry muffin from my favorite coffee shop, Rosie’s. Later, I drive to Winston Flowers to buy sunflowers and orchids to brighten my home, hoping to elevate my mood. At Winston’s, lulled by the murmur of polite voices and the faint snipping of stems, I feel as if I’m in the South of France. I studied the language and joined the French Library in my twenties and still speak French fluently.
I pull out of Winston’s onto Route 9, and on my right I notice a fit, dark-haired man on the sidewalk. His elbows are loose, hands placed casually in his pockets, but he walks with a certain air of confidence. There are other men out there, I begin to think.
In fifteen minutes, I’m pulling into my garage and getting out of the car, juggling a few books I’ve bought: How to Have a Good Divorce, The Woman’s Guide to Divorce, A Spiritual Divorce, and others. Maybe what I’m feeling is clarity, an acceptance that Richard and I will never resolve our conflicts. It might be a relief simply to move on. At the same time, I worry about how it will affect Alexandra and Harrison and I obsess about what it will be like to be on the other side of Richard in a nasty divorce. Even if I get alimony, I worry about my financial security.
I hear the kitchen phone ring and rush in from the garage to grab it. It’s Elizabeth, but I barely recognize her voice, whispering and crying at the same time—I’ve never heard her sound like this.
“The MRI,” she says. “Something’s really wrong.”
I freeze, as if caught outdoors below zero without a coat.
“The radiologist just called and explained the results,” Elizabeth says, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to die.”
“I’ll be right over,” I say. My body springs into action. I scoop up the divorce books and shove them into the back of my closet. I rap knuckles on my daughter’s door.
“Get your things,” I say, barging in. “We’re going to Auntie Elizabeth’s. Now.”
“Can’t. I have homework,” Alexandra says, but looks up from her notebook, curious. Going to Auntie Elizabeth’s right now is not how Alexandra’s weeknight schedule goes. My daughter is sprawled on her bed, surrounded by pink faux-fur pillows. When I dropped her off at school this morning, I promised to make her favorite meal for dinner tonight, pasta with olive oil, just us. Richard will be out somewhere, eating at a bar, chatting with whomever is next to him.
“Bring your homework,” I say. “Let’s go. Shoes.”
With Alexandra in the car, I pull back onto Route 9 in full traffic. I’m impatient, switching lanes to coast through the lights. I whip out my cell and call my parents, who live nearby in Newton. “Mom, meet me at Elizabeth’s,” I say to her voice mail. “Something is seriously wrong.”
When I turn into my sister’s driveway, I see the front door framing Elizabeth; her husband, Jake, still wearing his sport coat from the office; my two nieces, Brooke and Lauren. For the first time in my life, the sight of them makes my heart sink. Elizabeth, at five foot five, looks shrunken and small. Jake is holding a paper report in his hand, his dark eyes squinting to make sense of it. Brooke, fourteen, is quiet and still, hiding her hands in her sweatshirt. Lauren, just eleven, looks down at the new red sneakers Elizabeth told me she had bought her yesterday. “Cancer,” Elizabeth gasps when Alexandra and I are finally in front of her, naming the thing.
Where I would expect tears in my sister’s eyes, instead I see bewilderment and dry curiosity.
Chapter Four
Like almost every moment of our wedding, our honeymoon on St. Barts was a dream. Richard and I lunched on salade du marché and pommes frites and sipped chilled rosé. Afternoons, we amused ourselves like teens, singing invented, silly songs as we strained our mini-moke up steep slopes and coasted to far-flung, deserted beaches.
At dusk we could skinny-dip in the turquoise water that warmed us like a bath. Often we made love right there in the salt water or outside on our secluded balcony. The best part of St. Barts as newlyweds was being alone, of having each other completely to ourselves. I wasn’t a mother yet and couldn’t fully understand the sacrifice, but in two weeks away Richard phoned his son, Harrison, only twice. He had worked long hours right up until the night of our wedding, and our honeymoon was a vacation he truly deserved. He slept a lot. I toyed with the idea of reaching out to my sister, brother, or mother on those quiet afternoons when Richard sprawled heavily on the bed, but I never did, content to watch my new husband enjoy his sleep, and to dream of our happy married life.
Once Richard and I returned to work in Boston that spring, I missed our being alone. In June, Richard’s son moved in with us and I became a full-fledged stepmother. My extended family now included Richard’s ex-wife and her new husband. While Richard’s ex seemed nice enough, someone I might even have been friendly with under different circumstances, I didn’t have a choice about having a relationship with her. She and Richard argued whenever they tried to work anything out. I wanted what was best for Harrison, of course, and, above all, I wanted peace in my house. I took over coordinating with Harrison’s mother my stepson’s comings and goings. After a while, it all worked pleasantly.
Weekday mornings, Richard woke Harrison for school.
“I’ll turn on the shower for you,” he said, as Harrison sat up and rubbed his eyes. Richard read the Boston Globe in Harrison’s room while he got dressed. “Hurry. If we leave by seven forty-five, I can give you a ride on my way to the office,” Richard said. Otherwise, Harrison would take the bus that stopped directly across the street from our house.
It was complicated being a stepmother and simultaneously a new wife. Over breakfast, father and son told stories about a ski weekend they’d had in Colorado before they knew me, or talked about looking forward to the Celtics game they were attending over the weekend. After a testosterone-drenched conversation like that, Richard would give me a quick kiss goodbye. I knew he was thrilled to have his son in the house with us, but I struggled with feeling left out. I had spent quality time with Harrison before our marriage and becoming a strong blended family was what I wanted. I understood it would take time, and I began to pick Harrison up from school and help him with homework. We bonded over shared feelings and experiences. Soon we developed a close and loving relationship.
Within a year, we had other problems: the economy. Richard spent his waking hours in 1988 trying to save sizable investments. I cut back on spending—no flowers, no trips—and we loaned Richard’s firm our personal funds. At night, Richard lay next to me with his eyes closed, as if his body still craved the deep sleep of our honeymoon but his mind had another plan.
A YEAR LATER, Elizabeth was pregnant. As soon as she went into labor, I called Richard at work. “I’m going to the hospital,” I said.
“Wait until the baby is born,” he said. “Could be all day.”
“I’m too excited. I don’t care how long it takes.” I hung up and sped to my sister.
I was the first to arrive, besides Jake, of course. Throughout the day, more and more family members streamed into the waiting room-first my parents, Rachel and Joseph, then Jake’s parents, then my brother and Jake’s brothers, Auntie Gloria and Uncle Irving, and finally Jake’s uncle, carrying food to feed us all: corned beef, pastrami, and turkey sandwiches with mustard, on light rye.
Appearances Page 3