“Yeah. But I was a bit of a fuckup for a while.”
“You went to Harvard. You’re such a hard worker,” I said.
“Never to accumulate wealth—none of it. Do you understand? I worked hard in order to survive. I had no choice. I had to support my sisters.”
“You could have stayed a fuckup,” I said, and we laughed. “What a huge responsibility at a young age.” I thought of myself at twenty-one, a senior in college. I spent my time studying and going to parties, having long conversations with my parents once a week from the phone booth at the end of the hall.
“My father taught me that the most important thing is to have a good name. I don’t know. My whole life has been one adversity after another, even in my marriage.”
I sipped my wine at the mention of his ex. To say that my life had been uncomplicated compared with his at that point was an understatement. I’d survived grandparents, sure, but they’d all lived long, full lives. While their deaths were sad, they were not tragic.
Richard dropped his head and held the bridge of his nose. I wanted to take that lonely boy in my arms and rock him to sleep, telling him that everything would be all right. Richard hadn’t experienced the unconditional love of a mother since age thirteen.
After another lap, I retreat to my car, exhausted, and finish a bottle of Poland Spring. I have always considered myself an empathetic person, but only amid Elizabeth’s illness, and after all this conflict, have I begun to reconnect with Richard’s pain.
Richard’s parents were robbed—like Elizabeth might be. Neither lived long enough to see their children become adults, let alone experience the joy of becoming grandparents; Elizabeth might not, either. Richard too, was robbed. Robbed of the unconditional love that he still seeks consciously or unconsciously. Will the same thing happen to my nieces if Elizabeth dies? Will the tragedy of Elizabeth’s death compromise their adult lives?
Just before I start the engine, my cell phone rings. It’s Richard.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I say. “Just went for a run.” I keep my sentences short and to the point. I still don’t trust him with my emotions.
“People keep calling me about Elizabeth. I don’t know what to tell them.”
My mind jolts. Why would anyone ask Richard about Elizabeth?
“My sister wants to keep things private,” I say, hand tightening around my phone. I’m irritated because I don’t want all of Wellesley discussing Elizabeth’s health, least of all Richard.
“What kind of cancer does she have? What’s the prognosis?” he asks, as if he can sense what I’m hiding.
I switch to hands-free and start the car. I step on the gas and lurch over the gravel parking lot.
“I told you,” I say, “Elizabeth wants her privacy. Trust me, it’s very serious.”
“Serious how?”
“Jesus Christ, Richard, it’s in her bones.”
Richard is silent on the line. “I get it,” he says.
My husband finally knows that Elizabeth’s illness is not an exaggeration and that I am not a drama queen. For a couple of beats, Richard and I hang on like that, listening to each other’s breath.
Then he says, “Elizabeth is the same age as my mother when she died.”
Chapter Nine
The point of no return between Richard and the Gordons was Brooke’s bat mitzvah, and I’m ashamed to admit that I played a major part. This joyous occasion, one that I should remember now only for my niece’s bright smile and her parents’ beaming pride, is tarnished. It has remained a thorn in my side all these years, for reasons much more significant than a snowstorm or an issue with the caterer.
Two years before the word cancer crossed our lips, Elizabeth and I were having lunch at Aquitaine Bis, one of our favorite restaurants in Wellesley. We’d spent the morning together at the gym, lifting weights and walking on the treadmill. Our next stop was the hair salon, where Megan, our stylist, had outdone herself cutting, coloring, and highlighting. At Aquitaine, we sat in a burgundy leather booth, feeling chic about our workout and up-to-the-minute hairstyles.
The waiter, who resembled a Brazilian soccer player, took our order.
“We’ll both have the salade Nigoise,” Elizabeth said.
“No anchovies for me,” I added.
“I’ll take hers,” Elizabeth said. “Dressing on the side for both, please.”
Brooke had just turned twelve and was beginning to study for her bat mitzvah. “I think she’ll do really well,” Elizabeth said. “She thrives in front of an audience.”
“She sure loves the spotlight,” I said, with similar enthusiasm.
Halfway through our salads, Elizabeth raved about Moshe, the rabbinical student tutoring Brooke on her Torah and haftorah. Apparently, once you got past his nervousness and acne, he was a wise and considerate young man.
“Listen, I’d love to have the party at Rose Wood,” Elizabeth said, placing her hand over mine. “There’s a history—Jake and I had our engagement party there.”
I knew what she was getting at. Since she and Jake weren’t members, the only way they could hold Brooke’s bat mitzvah at the private club would be to get sponsorship from first-degree relatives—namely, Richard and me. Before I was married, Jake’s uncle sponsored their engagement party.
“The dining room has just been redecorated,” I said, looking at my salad and clearing my throat. Richard didn’t like for me even to take Elizabeth to Rose Wood as a guest for lunch on what he called “his membership.”
“I could have it at a hotel, I guess,” Elizabeth said. “Oh, but Rose Wood brings back such good memories.” My sister suspended her fork in midair. “You’ll sponsor me?”
“Of course,” I said, but as soon as the words popped from my mouth, I wished I could swallow them. I could have said, “I’ll have to check with Richard,” but I didn’t want to admit to Elizabeth that I had to discuss something like this with him first.
When I had suggested to Richard that we sponsor my parents’ thirty-fifth anniversary brunch at Rose Wood, it had been his pleasure. Same for David and Jill’s engagement party. Neither event had cost us any money because the people who throw the party are responsible for the costs—unless, of course, they don’t pay, and then you have bigger problems. We had sponsored these other family events when Richard and I were newlyweds, well before he and my family were at odds. Not to mention that Richard’s particular resentment toward Elizabeth and Jake was in a league of its own.
As far as Elizabeth could tell, smiling at me over her salade Nigoise, it was decided. But I knew that Richard would never sponsor Elizabeth’s family. I didn’t want to ask him because I didn’t want hear no. Thing is, Jake’s brother also belonged to Rose Wood. When we ran into a problem with Richard, I reasoned, Brooke’s bat mitzvah could simply be transferred to a Gordon account. More than just a financial arrangement, I actually wanted the honor of sponsoring my niece’s bat mitzvah. I didn’t know how I would manage to convince Richard, but with or without his blessing, under our account or a Gordon’s, I knew that this bat mitzvah would be the next Rose Wood family event.
For as long as I could remember, I’d been trying to protect Elizabeth from Richard’s slights. If she called to say they had tickets to the Red Sox, asking if they could park near Kenmore Square in one of Richard’s paid spots, I lied. “You know, game day is such a nightmare,” I said. “The spots are all rented. Sorry.” I never told her the truth, which was that Richard thought that Elizabeth and Jake took advantage of him. My passivity, avoidance, and half-truths only made the problem worse.
Like most people, Richard wanted to be appreciated in the form of thanks. “I don’t have to give them anything, you know,” he said. “They thank you, not me.” Maybe I didn’t always do a good job of conveying to Richard Elizabeth’s gratitude, which I took for granted.
When it came to my family, Richard was thin-skinned. It was hard for me to be sensitive because I felt he held a double sta
ndard for his relatives, versus mine. He didn’t expect excessive thank-yous for every favor he paid his own family. If he gifted his sisters our Red Sox tickets, did I care if they thanked me? I just wanted them to enjoy the game. All of this tit for tat was exhausting—it caused tension—but whenever I confronted Richard, our conversations went nowhere. He decided to stick up for himself by being rude to my family and creating distance. Even when I told them to thank him, it never seemed to be quite enough.
Sitting at Aquitaine, I felt like a hypocrite, a fraud. I hated lying to Elizabeth. Fierce arguments with Richard repeated in my brain as I rehearsed my next confrontation: I am Brooke’s godmother and aunt. Even though you don’t like my sister, you love me. Do this for me. Or, as a last resort, I already said yes. The bat mitzvah is booked. It’s too late. That day, my stomach clenched and didn’t relax for six months.
I concealed the bat mitzvah from Richard over the summer, hoping for a positive interaction between him and Elizabeth that would thaw the ice and change Richard’s mind. But as the fall date approached, it invaded my thoughts: at the gym, when I drove Alexandra to school, when I ran at the reservoir, even during dinner with friends. At the end of the summer, Elizabeth told me she wanted to have Richard and me over for a barbecue, to thank us for hosting Brooke’s bat mitzvah and to talk over the details. The jig was up. I would have to tell Richard everything and admit I’d been deceitful.
First, I summoned the courage to convince Richard to come to the barbecue. “Sweetie,” I said, my mouth dry, “the Gordons invited us to a barbecue on Labor Day. It’s going to be special. They want us to be their guests.”
My husband turned to me, his face visibly drained of the lightness and ease he had when enjoying distance from my relatives. It broke my heart.
“Thanks, but no thanks. You know I can’t stand Jake. He’s so phony with me. That fake smile and handshake.” Richard imitated Jake in a way that infuriated me, that made me want to defend my brother-in-law. At least Jake could fake it when he wanted to.
“Well, my parents will be there as a buffer,” I countered.
“Oh, I see,” Richard snarled. “So it really wasn’t for us after
all.”
“Elizabeth and Jake want to be friendly. They’re family.”
“Those are two different things,” he said.
I cringe to recall my sheer naïveté in thinking that peace could be possible.
“They treat me like shit,” Richard continued. “They only care about you anyway. You go with Alexandra.”
Three days before the party, the Friday night of Labor Day weekend, Richard and I had plans with other friends. To my dismay, the other couple insisted on going to Rose Wood.
I could no longer keep my silence, not because I’d been struck with sudden courage or strength but because I was petrified that the subject of the bat mitzvah would come up while we were at the club. I sat on the edge of our bed, where Richard catnapped before we dressed for dinner. The pillows were tousled, two propped under his legs to ease pressure on his lower back.
“Listen, Elizabeth is having Brooke’s bat mitzvah at Rose Wood,” I said to him.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, with his eyes closed.
“I said we’d sponsor them.”
“What?” Richard’s eyes popped open. “Are you nuts?”
Caught, I was terrified at what Richard would say or do after digesting the news. Muscles tensed in his chin. He sat up, pulling his legs into his chest.
“How could you agree to that, knowing my feelings?” he asked me slowly.
“I couldn’t say no,” I whispered, and I understand that Richard must have felt betrayed. In that moment, I so desperately wanted him to know where I was coming from, to feel understood.
Richard rolled off the bed and, wide awake, began to dress. “I’m not sponsoring,” he said, fixing the top button of his dress shirt below his Adam’s apple, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I’m done with being used.”
“They’ll pay every penny. What does it even matter to you?” I shouted, my eyes burning with anger. How could I ever face Elizabeth?
“You should have asked me,” Richard said with finality.
“Is there a chance in hell you would have said yes?”
“It’s the principle. This is about loyalty—yours. Jake badmouths me to everyone. It gets back to me, you know. The last thing I want is to look like a jackass.”
“What do you mean, he badmouths you?” I asked, even though I knew it was true.
“Next they’ll ask me to sponsor their membership to the club. Your whole family, members at Rose Wood, my place. No fucking way.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I’m sorry, Richard. I know I should have discussed this with you first.” But this was not about Rose Wood. It was about who belonged to whom.
“Damn right you should have.”
I took my husband’s hand—one last try. “Please,” I said, whining like a child. “For me, Richard—do it for me. Please. I love you.”
“I said no.” He shook off my hand. “‘I love yous’ aren’t going to change my mind.” Richard had warned me about his stubbornness when we were dating, but it still made me want to explode.
I plopped onto the bed, crying.
“You’ve changed,” Richard said. “For the worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not a Freeman,” he said, turning around. “You’re a Gordon,” he sneered.
Gordon, he had said, instead of my maiden name, Kaplan. That put Jake, Elizabeth, and me on the same team, against him.
Fifteen minutes elapsed, and I remembered that we had been on our way to meet friends. I got up reluctantly, with half-closed, swollen eyes, and slipped on jeans. I resolved to try again that night to get Richard to change his mind.
“Time to go,” Richard announced, fetching me from the bedroom.
During dinner, Richard was distant and didn’t care who saw what. I placed my hand on his arm, hoping to warm things up between us. He didn’t conceal shrugging it off. My face burned. I barely made conversation with our friends. In retrospect, we should have canceled. If Richard’s sister had asked me to sponsor her at Rose Wood, I would have agreed, no matter what my feelings were, because she was family. But I was adrift, flailing even with the conviction of my values. I couldn’t yet access the empathy that would strengthen my marriage, that would allow me to see my own values as subjective, not universal, and give Richard the space to approach my family in a way all his own.
Over breakfast the next morning, we started up again. Richard pointed across the table and narrowed his eyes.
“No more avoiding. You tell Elizabeth that she can’t have the bat mitzvah under my membership.”
“Impossible. She has everything planned,” I said, lips quivering.
“Make something up. Say anything; say it’s about money.”
“You know Jake will pay!”
“I said make it up,” Richard growled.
“Come on.” I was so frustrated, my fingers were vibrating. “Think of the staff—Jake will tip bigger than anyone.”
“No. End of discussion. And by the way, this marriage sucks.”
“Fuck you,” I said—I couldn’t help myself—and left the room. The words hung in the air behind me like exhaled smoke. I knew I should have been straightforward from the beginning. I had been candid and direct when we’d first married, but, after being shot down time after time, I became afraid to express myself. When I tried to be intimate, Richard discounted my feelings. I was never right. I was a drama queen. I got defensive. Eventually, I gave up to protect myself and my loved ones.
My heart throbbed in my chest, matching my shallow breathing. I grabbed my phone from the night table and drove to Rosie’s for a cup of coffee. With deep breaths, I calmed myself before dialing my sister.
“We have to talk,” I said. “Let’s meet at the reservoir.”
The entire ride, I rehears
ed how I would break the news gently, but, facing my sister in person, I came up short. With the water on our right, I focused on the twigs on the path, the white pom-pom bouncing at the back of Elizabeth’s sock.
“I just hired a planner,” Elizabeth said, bubbly with excitement. “Next we have to decide the menu.”
“You need to ask Jake’s brother if he’ll sponsor you,” I said flatly, losing my gentle way in.
Elizabeth shot me a look of genuine confusion. “What?” she says, shoulders shrugging, arms wide open. She stopped on the path and placed her hands on either side of her head. “What are you talking about?”
“Last night I finally told Richard about Brooke’s bat mitzvah—”
“Told him? You hadn’t told him?”
“And he said because of the Jake situation—you know, the office—he says no, he won’t sponsor you.”
“I didn’t think you needed his permission.”
“I know,” I said, my heart thumping. “But you can still have it there! Don’t worry. Just ask Jake’s brother to sponsor you. I don’t want any more bad blood between Richard and Jake.”
“We’ve been planning this for months. Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I was afraid,” I admitted.
“Afraid of who? Richard? Me?
I didn’t have a response to that.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Elizabeth continued, in full rant. “People have bat mitzvahs at Rose Wood all the time. If anything breaks, we’ll pay for it.” She was missing the point that Richard didn’t want to sponsor them because of how Jake had taken advantage of the office, and how Richard felt they still took advantage of him.
An elderly married couple passed by, their elbows swinging. Elizabeth and I started walking again, slowly now. My feet felt nailed to the ground. We rounded the reservoir in silence, and I couldn’t even look at her. Being the bearer of Richard’s ultimatum made me feel cruel, and I was ashamed that my lack of courage had complicated things. That pom-pom on Elizabeth’s right foot was hanging by a thread, about to come loose. Up and down. The twigs and gravel crunched under our run ning shoes. I heard Elizabeth breathe in. I didn’t hear her breathe out.
Appearances Page 8