Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  Then I highlighted the recent years of hostility and emotional distance, especially the conflict with Elizabeth and Jake, and the bitterest twist: the bat mitzvah.

  Mr. Mann’s professional demeanor was comforting, even more comforting than my therapist had been. His depth of understanding human relationships reassured me. I blinked back tears as I told him how Richard didn’t want me to be close to my sister and her family, how he refused to be in their company anymore. For two hours, we sifted these facts and emotions.

  “It’s essential for me to know your expenses, how much money you spend each month,” Mann said, changing gears. He produced a blank budget ledger resembling today’s spreadsheets. “Don’t leave anything out—no manicure or cut and color. I need to know absolutely everything you spend on Alexandra. Please be thorough.” Then he explained each step of proceeding officially with a divorce. The first task would be to request quarterly statements for Richard’s business, and our joint tax returns.

  As calm as I had been within those four walls, when I left the lawyer’s office, I panicked. Thinking through the actual process of getting a divorce made my stomach churn. Aside from finances, Richard and I would have to negotiate visitation schedules for Alexandra. Would I move out, or would he? My life was unraveling into sums of alimony and child support. I didn’t want to be a divorced person, but I couldn’t imagine being married to Richard anymore. When we were together, there was a palpable tension. It strained our voices and filled the space between us.

  Back when I raised the possibility of divorce with Catherine, she sat on a black leather chair and took notes. Her office was in the lower level of her home in Newton, with a large picture window that overlooked Crystal Lake. Books about marriage counseling, healing relationships, and divorce lined her shelves. A tin of hard candy sat on the client side of her desk. I habitually placed a peppermint on my tongue before reclining on her upholstered couch, a box of tissues within reach.

  “I’m dreading Brooke’s bat mitzvah,” I said. “Now that Richard has refused to sponsor, I’m embarrassed to show my face. Can this just be over? The bat mitzvah and the marriage?”

  “I understand how you feel, but maybe you can work through this,” Catherine counseled. “View this as a setback in your relationship, not the end of it. He’s not an evil person, trust me,” she said with a laugh. “I’ve seen many men in this office over the years.”

  “I’m so angry, I can’t even be in the same room with him! But divorced?” I closed my eyes.

  “You don’t have to decide now. I’ve seen women who divorce and remarry. Some have the same issues with their new husband, except worse. They enter the marriage with baggage, which causes a new set of problems.”

  “He’s always trying to change me,” I say. “It’s exhausting, like I’ll never be good enough. Love him more, love my family less. I’m always on trial.”

  “Do you ever try to change him?”

  Catherine’s question caught me off-guard, but I now know it shouldn’t have.

  “I do,” I said. “I scrutinize every word he says to my family.” I started to consider how tough it must be for Richard to relate to my family under those conditions. I always found fault with him, too, I admitted to Catherine, nursing grudges that he didn’t do the right thing, or enough. Richard must have felt criticized every time he was with my family.

  Catherine shifted in her chair and put her pen down. “You have such a good life, Samantha. Friends, a great reputation. It’s not that easy to be divorced. I’ve seen men who hide their money from their wives, have affairs and give their wives herpes, or worse. Richard’s not one of those. Let’s work on getting you a thicker skin.”

  “This situation is killing me from the inside out,” I said. “I’ll do anything. If I can’t change Richard, maybe I can change myself or my expectations.”

  “Let’s work on changing your reactions. Even if you do get divorced, you’ll still have to deal with each other as co-parents.”

  She was right. I thought about how Richard related to his ex. They had to remain in relationship because of Harrison, but I witnessed every pained conversation they used to have.

  “I know that marriage is a compromise,” I said. “But I don’t want to compromise who I am. Where’s the line? Any amount of time I spend with my family is too much for him.”

  “Take a moment and hold Richard in your mind as a twelveyear-old,” Catherine said. “See him there without a mother, no one to protect him. He’s still trying to keep that boy safe.”

  I recalled Richard, curled into a ball, sleeping on the floor next to his mother’s cancer bed. It made me feel some tenderness and sympathy toward him, but I didn’t think it excused him from being disruptive.

  “I read that we’re attracted to people who trigger our childhood wounds,” I said, “so that we can realize them and heal them.”

  “Yes, that is often true,” Catherine said.

  “Well, neither of us is doing a good job of healing. Richard doesn’t invite me in.”

  “Before any change occurs,” Catherine said, “there has to be quite a bit of self-awareness.”

  WHEN THE DAY of Brooke’s bat mitzvah finally arrived, my sister and Jake didn’t want Richard there, and Richard didn’t want to go. He sped off to enjoy the weekend alone on Nantucket.

  Before he left, I asked him what I should say when people at the bat mitzvah asked why he wasn’t there.

  “Tell them the truth,” he said. “Tell them how rude and greedy the Gordons are. That you planned an entire bat mitzvah in my name without my permission. That you never stick up for me.”

  “You’ve been rude, too, Richard. This whole situation has gotten out of control, like the Arab-Israeli crisis.”

  “That’s your side,” Richard said, and pushed past me on his way out the door.

  Alexandra and I arrived at Brooke’s bat mitzvah arm in arm. Harrison, who had just graduated from college, flew in for the morning service to join us, which I deeply appreciated. Now in his twenties and living in New York, Harrison somehow managed to engage with my family and stay out of a feud with his dad. His loyalty was a testament to what I thought was possible.

  I kept busy the whole morning, trying to distract myself from Richard’s absence, helping Alexandra with her hair and makeup. We dressed in new suits. I wore classic navy Chanel with the skirt right above the knee; Alexandra’s was a peach, teenage version. “Brooke must be really nervous!” Alexandra said. “I know I’ll be.”

  “Auntie Elizabeth said she really knows her stuff,” I replied, smoothing my daughter’s hair. At the service, Brooke would recite her haftorah and portion of the Torah in Hebrew, then give remarks in English on the meaning of this day.

  When we arrived at temple, the Gordons were seated in the front row, on the sanctuary’s elegant suede benches. Alexandra and I walked down the aisle to join them, and guests who were seated swiveled to watch. Richard’s absence already felt like the elephant in the room.

  Elizabeth’s friend Jane and her family arrived next, also taking front seats; Jane rushed over, giving us all hugs, kisses, and “mazel tovs.” Elizabeth and Brooke excused themselves to get prepped, to make sure Brooke’s tallit draped evenly across her shoulders, and to rehearse her haftorah one last time.

  Jane’s gaze landed on me. “Don’t you look beautiful! Where’s Richard?” she asked, turning as if to find him. She might as well have said his name through a megaphone; Richard reverberated in the room. My face flushed, and Alexandra looked at me to account for what I couldn’t possibly explain. Just as I opened my mouth to give some version of what Richard had told me to say, I felt a relieving hand on my shoulder. I jumped at the sight of my parents, and we excused ourselves from Jane, embracing my mom and dad.

  Brooke’s service went off without a hitch. She was poised, rehearsed, and radiant on the bimah, or sanctuary stage. I devoted my full attention to her for forty-five minutes, but when it was done, I couldn’t shake the feeling th
at people were talking about Richard. A three-hour service allowed for lots of gossip. At least five women had given me polite smiles and whispered something into their husband’s ears. In this community that placed so much importance on the nuclear family and maintaining reputations, I felt my status as Mrs. Richard A. Freeman being stripped.

  I could tell that no one believed the paltry excuses I had offered to explain Richard’s absence: that he was away on business. People planned vacations and business trips around family bar and bat mitzvahs; the dates were set two years in advance. Besides, everyone knew how close Elizabeth and I were. The only acceptable excuse for missing this kind of event would have been severe illness or death. Richard’s absence felt like a social death, and it only stoked my rage to realize he must have known that.

  After the Torah service, at the kiddush reception that traditionally follows, Jane approached me in her Armani suit and stilettos. “Where’s Richard?” she asked again, as if for the first time. Her eyes held concern, but her voice was overly cheerful.

  “On a business trip. A meeting out of town,” I said carefully.

  “Today? Couldn’t he cancel?”

  “It was last-minute.”

  “Oh.” Jane hesitated, clearly attempting to read my face. My dread about attending the bat mitzvah had been realized, and we weren’t even at Rose Wood yet! I had never felt so embarrassed. I smiled and smiled and gulped sweet kiddush wine.

  At the black-tie reception, for which the men donned tuxedos and the women dressed in Oscar-worthy gowns, I heard the same refrain, as if the residents of my community were all reading the same cue card: “Where’s Richard? Where’s Richard?” The repetition finally wore me down. When a group of Elizabeth’s friends descended and began to badger me about his whereabouts, I finally snapped. “None of your business.” They walked away, holding their martinis, shocked by my change of character.

  I managed to pull it together. When the band played the hora, I jumped from my chair and grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, leading the dance. Jake, Brooke, Lauren, my parents, Alexandra, Jill, and David joined in. “Everyone up,” the emcee said, and within seconds, two hundred guests had risen from their seats. We grasped hands and circled the room, dancing and singing the old-as-time song “Hava Nagila.”

  According to tradition, Alexandra led Brooke to the middle of the hora. The dancers broke the circle to accept a gold ballroom chair, and the lead singer crescendoed his voice into the microphone. Jake, David, and a few others led Brooke to the chair and lifted it, soaring. My niece beamed, waving to guests, who sang and clapped along with the band. The glow on her face at that moment rivaled the sparkle of the chandeliers.

  When she was lowered, Alexandra, Elizabeth, Lauren and I joined hands with Brooke, twirling like ballroom partners in the center of the circle. Even in the midst of such pain, I felt complete, not hiding, in that moment. I didn’t have to check to see if my husband disapproved of the love and attention that I was bestowing on my family, because he wasn’t there. I had been freed.

  The guests took their seats, and the caterers wheeled out Brooke’s cake. Each one of its five tiers was a splendid confection, with thirteen candles on top that would be lit ceremoniously. The first candle was for my parents. Brooke called their names, and as they approached, the music of “Sunrise, Sunset” played. Next were Jake’s parents. I had forgotten about the candle ceremony, and with Richard missing, I began to feel alarm. When Brooke next called Uncle David and Aunt Jill and their kids, cousins Brittany and Justin, she included Alexandra and me.

  Heat rushed up my neck. Everyone saw the mistake in the choreography, how Alexandra and I had been lumped in with my brother’s family. I wanted to disappear under one of the tulle-covered, lit-from-below cocktail tables. But it was Brooke’s day, after all. I didn’t want my situation with Richard to divert any more focus from the ceremony of this ritual than it had already. What I did instead of shrinking away was grab Alexandra’s hand. Joining the New York Kaplans, we lit the candle.

  Chapter Twelve

  As teenagers, Elizabeth and I had naturally curly hair that frizzed at the slightest humidity, mine a darker shade of brown. It was the ’70s, and straight hair was in. To achieve it, my sister and I limited our shampooing to twice a week, helping each other to section and wrap our wet hair around Velcro rollers secured with silver clips. Then we sat under portable hair dryers at home, just like the women we saw in salons sitting under plastic bubbles like space-age Jetsons. Under the dryers, Elizabeth and I considered ourselves sophisticated, important adults with appointments, leafing through magazines.

  On cold winter days, especially, I loved to bask in the heat and read. The snowbanks might have grown six feet high, but under the hair dryer I indulged in steamy page-turners by Danielle Steel and Sidney Sheldon. I loved the slow, luxurious pace of those afternoons with Elizabeth, the ritual of reading interrupted with chatter about boys. It made us feel pretty, especially when we combed out our hair before the mirror and saw the smooth, straight results. Elizabeth and I wore our hair identically throughout high school: a blunt inch below the shoulders, middle part. There was never any mistaking us for anything but sisters.

  Now, in our forties, on a sticky morning in Indian summer, it’s already October, weeks since Elizabeth’s diagnosis. My sister, my mother, and I are in the car, thirty miles west of Boston. Elizabeth needs a wig. She wants to keep this trip private, so instead of soliciting the Parisian wig boutique in Boston’s Back Bay, through research I’ve found a modest but reputable wig specialist, named Terry, who sells wigs from her suburban home.

  We pull up to what looks like a dollhouse, orange and yellow mums bordering the lawn, a family of statues in the garden. I am trying to decide what Terry will look like, when the door opens and a petite woman in her early sixties says, “I’ve been expecting you. Come in, come in.” She’s barely five feet tall, with highlighted blond hair. Her voice is warm and nourishing. “Follow me,” she says.

  Towering behind Terry, the three of us tag along through her spotless kitchen and down a short flight of stairs. The comfort that the neatness of her home brings me leads me to recognize how much I feel like a grief-stricken mess.

  Elizabeth has chemo again tomorrow, but at the moment, she still has her hair. We’re here because the doctor recommended she purchase a wig before losing her hair, to make the transition easier. But buying a wig cements her diagnosis in a way I didn’t anticipate. We’re slowly but surely entering the world of the ill. Cancer invades our every thought, takes over every conversation. It has waged daily combat on Elizabeth and my family, and all I can do is stand by her side.

  “Here we are,” Terry says when we reach her finished, yellow basement with views of her garden. It’s a cheery place, one that could host family gatherings, but the extensive wig display—rows and rows of mannequin heads—reminds us why we’re here.

  “Wow, look at these,” I say, as if this were some ordinary shopping trip and we’ve come upon a cache of purses or shoes. I maintain external positivity even though I suffer deep sorrow inside. Dozens of wigs on Styrofoam heads greet us in every shade (auburn, brown, black, blond) and various styles (short, wavy, straight, with and without bangs). My sister touches an auburn-colored flip, then leans toward a mirror and runs her fingers through her own hair. Lately, she wears it layered above her shoulders. My own hair is longer and still a bit darker. She and I frequent the same salon, and we often schedule our blowouts at the same time with different hairdressers, side by side, as if once again teenagers under our bedroom hair dryers.

  “Please sit down,” Terry says to Elizabeth, gesturing to a salon chair and mirror.

  “How could this happen?” my mother yelps out of nowhere and covers her mouth.

  I give my mom a hug, but she breaks free, pacing. “I would trade places with you,” she says, walking toward Elizabeth. “It should be me who has the cancer,” she says, pointing at her chest.

  “I wish it were nobody,” Eliza
beth says. She sits.

  “You will get better, dear,” Terry says, addressing Elizabeth in the mirror. She explains that many of her clients wear wigs for only a few months, through chemo.

  For all Terry knows, Elizabeth’s cancer is temporary. No one mentions that Elizabeth has Stage IV and will undergo both radiation and chemotherapy to control the disease. That, outside of a miracle, there is no expectation of a cure. As close as I am to my sister, I haven’t fully faced how I’d feel if it were I. Would I blame myself? I know I would worry about Alexandra. Whom would she be close to? How would she choose a college major? Who would plan her wedding?

  “How long have you had this business?” I ask Terry, to quiet my mind.

  “I used to be a hairdresser,” she says, placing her hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders. “I got into the wig business when my niece developed alopecia.”

  Elizabeth looks in the mirror, smoothing her hair. “Alopecia?” she asks.

  “It’s a disease where you lose your hair. Not cancer, but it’s still very difficult,” Terry says. She ponytails Elizabeth’s hair. “But most of my clients are cancer patients. My way of helping.”

  “You have a wonderful selection,” I say.

  Terry fits Elizabeth with a nylon hair cover. “This is to flatten your hair so we can size the wig. Now, why don’t we try a few on to see what you like?”

  Elizabeth gives Terry a slight nod, but her eyes line with tears.

  “That one?” Elizabeth points to a wig similar to her current length and color.

  For the next half hour or so, we bask in Terry’s kindness as her manicured hands place various wigs on Elizabeth’s head, then whisk them off. I keep my eyes on my sister in the nylon hair cover between wigs, trying to picture her without hair.