Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  In many ways, Lynne is the best person I could be with. She doesn’t mention Elizabeth unless I do, and then she listens with sincere attention. She says little in response, but her manner soothes me. I’ve seen her cry when she mentions her brother’s birthday or his children. They were close, and I know she misses his good nature and sense of humor. It saddens her that her daughters have no uncles. “I’m afraid you don’t ever get rid of the pain,” Lynne tells me. “You make it part of you.” I know that the invitation to Tim’s shop is Lynne’s way of supporting me, and I am grateful.

  Basket weaving, Nantucket-style, is a fairly rigorous activity. You work with a mold and manipulate cane strips. I learn that Nantucket Native Americans originally taught basket weaving to the colonial settlers. It took off with the whaling industry in the mid-nineteenth century, when the first lighthouse was built to warn ships of dangerous offshore shoals. Basket weaving was perfect for sailors, who had a lot of spare time on their hands. With Elizabeth gone, I am not exactly bored, but for the past two years my focus has been to take care of her, and now she no longer needs it. And, as much as I try, I’m too heartsick with grief to enjoy much of anything, until this.

  Tim, a native Nantucketer, walks around and inspects our work. “There,” he says, and points to a row about halfway up my purse. “See how the weave is crooked?” I look closely to see what he means. The cane doesn’t lie correctly, and it’s folded over in a funny way. It’s not the kind of glaring mistake that you notice right away, but still, Tim sees it and rightfully points it out. He makes me rip out my hard-won stitches and do it over again. Backweaving, he calls it. I don’t mind. It’s worth the effort to produce something perfect.

  In Tim’s basement—surrounded by cane basket molds, and handles made of wood and precious ivory—we have become modern basket weavers. It feels like a dreamy underwater world, our own private Atlantis.

  Tim takes pride in his students’ work and treats us like apprentices. We learn about reed staves and basket rims, bone knobs for handles.

  “How did you get into basket weaving?” I ask.

  “Weaving is part of Nantucket,” Tim says. “Not to brag, but when I took it up twenty years ago, I was a natural. It relaxed me, and I could make a living at it.”

  “This has made my summer,” I say.

  “How did you decide to come?” he asks.

  I will myself not to cry. I take a few steps from the table and motion that he should follow me.

  “My sister died in April,” I say privately to Tim. “I needed something to occupy my mind. My friend told me about this class.”

  “I’m very sorry,” he says. “How old was she?”

  “Forty-six. She had cancer.”

  “Can I give you a hug?” Tim puts his rugged arms around me. He smells fresh, like a clean bath towel.

  “Just so you know, when things bother me or I have a problem to deal with, that’s when I do my best work. Basket weaving is my escape,” he says.

  I take my purse as homework. My mind drifts as I weave, thinking over the decisions still in front of me. I do want the same thing Richard wants—to be a tight family, woven together like this basket. I have always wanted to include my family of origin in the weave, too. Just as every one of these strands is crucial to make my lightship basket whole, so, too, do I need every one of the people I’ve known and loved all my life.

  But maybe the time has come to prioritize my own little family. Without the essential strands, my husband and my daughter, I am a leaky basket that loses its shape, no more connected to anyone than I was when I was born. As my fingers work, I remember some wonderful moments between Richard and me. The time we made love on an airplane to Montréal, how proud he was of me when we first went to Paris and I spoke fluent French. I remember his joy when our daughter was born, and how he held her at eye level, making sure she had all ten fingers and toes. Maybe I should have listened when Richard pushed back against attending every family and school event. I’m gripped by a desire to rip out all the twisted, misshapen parts of our marriage.

  I take my basket to Tim in the morning for inspection. The tips of my fingers are sore, blistering, but I don’t care. I am creating something lovely, watching it take shape from day to day, and that makes me proud and optimistic. I pull the stitching tight and weave it smooth. It takes many, many strands to complete my purse. Any less, and it would not be as strong, or watertight, or beautiful.

  When I finish, at the end of July, I trim my evening bag with wooden handles and a whale carved from ivory. On the bottom, I etch my name and the date. Someday, I will hand this down to my daughter. Unlike even the costliest bags on Main Street, my basket is made and designed by me.

  In August, I sign up for the writing program. Instead of relaxing at the beach or setting sail on a friend’s boat, I wonder if, like my basket, I can weave words, too. The writers’ studio is peaceful, located down a dirt path in Pocomo, a remote part of the island.

  Sunlight streams into the cottage, and air circulates like a warm ocean breeze. Sarah, the instructor, in a denim blouse and painter’s jeans, welcomes us with fresh-brewed coffee and madeleines. She’s just finished her MFA and is in the midst of writing her first novel. Each morning I drive to her house in the woods and carry in my notebook and pen. Sarah leads us through meditations and writing exercises. She instructs us to write about a house—first as we see it when a young couple comes home, carrying their newborn baby. Next she tells us to write about the same house, but now someone has died in it.

  I don’t think there can be a more perfect writing exercise for me. Though it makes me think of Elizabeth, and how her house felt different during each stage of her illness, writing about it gives me a necessary distance. Describing how things look at these different stages of life helps me sort out my emotions. I recently saw a photo album that my mother made of Elizabeth’s life in a hand-bound book covered with lace that I had given her for Hanukkah. Putting this together, I imagined, helped her process unspeakable grief. I flipped to the last photo, the “forbidden” portrait that the photographer took of Elizabeth and me at Alexandra’s bat mitzvah. In class, I describe the uneasy feelings I have about some of the photos: those that catch me averting my eyes from my sister’s swollen face and grinning a fake smile.

  In the end, the summer’s weaving and writing are the tools that unlock my grief. Nantucket does work its magic, just not in the way I expected.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On the island, Richard and I carry full hearts for each other all summer, but back in Boston we retreat to our separate residences. I get Alexandra ready to start school.

  In September, Richard and I meet for dinner near his apartment at the Buttery, a local establishment known for delicious salads and comfort food.

  “I want to make our marriage work,” Richard begins.

  “Outside the bubble,” I say, referring to how relaxed we are on Nantucket, even how we felt in St. Barts. I don’t want to have an island marriage.

  “My cousin suggested we try a mediator,” Richard says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Different than the therapists we’ve seen.”

  “A mediator?”

  “He’s a lawyer and a psychologist. His goal is to help people stay married.”

  I’m enthused to hear that the mediator is a man, because all of our therapists have been women. Maybe Richard will relate better to someone of his own sex—as the saying goes, man to man. I always thought that separating from Richard would bring me such relief that I would rush to divorce. I imagined myself dating new men, laughing, feeling sexy and free. But no one I’ve met interests me. To my surprise, I miss Richard. The thought of him with another woman feels tragic.

  “I’ll try anything,” I say.

  I see the relief in his face. “Even with all the shit we’ve been through, Samantha, I can’t imagine my life without you.”

  As strange as this sounds, as a compliment or a declaration of love, I feel the
same way. Richard isn’t perfect, but he’s mine. We have built a long life together. He has broadened my world through our shared hobbies and interests. We enjoy modern art, trendy restaurants, Broadway shows, sports, and travel. Before we separated, on his way home from work, he would call and ask me if I needed anything. He’s a man who shows up in almost every way—just not for my family.

  Richard motions to the server for the check.

  We walk back to his apartment, where I parked my car. He kisses me goodbye, and his eyes flick back and forth with excitement. “I’ll make the appointment,” he says.

  THE MEDIATOR’S NAME is Harry Broffman. The following week, Richard and I drive together to his downtown office. The office, on the third floor of a high-rise, is nothing like the swank office of my attorney, but neither is his hourly rate.

  Broffman is a short, stocky white man in his fifties. “Welcome,” he says, wearing a tan corduroy jacket with brown suede patches, professor-style, over a pair of jeans. His office reflects his personality: disheveled but comfortable.

  “I have never stopped loving you,” Richard assures me, as we sit next to each other on the worn leather sofa. I think that he means it sincerely in the moment, but a tiny part of me is also alert to his performance.

  I smile in response, but now that we are actually here, I’m worried. I hope these sessions will be better and more productive than those in our past. I’m much different now than I was when we saw all the other therapists. Back then, my goal was to change Richard, uphold my values, and defend myself. Now I realize I am the only person I can change. I also understand Richard better and can see my own flaws.

  “Thank you both for being here,” Broffman says, sitting across from us, crossing his right leg over the left. Behind him are shelves of books about law and therapy, marriage and custody arrangements. “I’ve heard some of your story from Richard on the phone, so why don’t you start, Samantha? Tell me why you’re here.”

  I tell Broffman everything about us, my sister, the family issues. I talk about feelings of jealousy and resentment and the terrible grief I now have.

  “I always thought my husband would accept my relationship with my family. I never examined the dynamics, how my family’s behavior may have made Richard standoffish.” When I look over at Richard, he seems open but anxious.

  “To be honest, I’m jealous of couples who are close to each other’s families, whose nieces and nephews from both sides run in and out of each other’s homes. I have resented Richard for years for not having this, but I’m beginning to understand that it’s not all his fault.”

  “Really?” Richard asks.

  “How did you come to that understanding?” Broffman says.

  “I do think I paid too much attention to my family, at Richard’s expense,” I say. “I thought he could take care of himself. I should have stood up for him, and I should have worked harder at our intimacy.”

  When I’m finished, Richard hugs me. It feels good to fall on his familiar shoulder, but I don’t want to fall back into the same type of marriage that made us both miserable, that I tried so desperately to leave. I don’t want a marriage that is like the definition of insanity, repeating the same behavior over again but expecting a different result. Nor do I want my life to be like a depressing novel on the bargain-book shelf.

  “We should come first to each other,” Richard says.

  “I agree,” I say. I need normalcy and stability in my life right now. I need a partner who helps me become the best person I can be.

  “I’m the black sheep in her family,” Richard says.

  “Why do you think that is?” Broffman says.

  “I’ve been rude,” Richard admits. “It felt safer to keep everyone at a distance.”

  “And I told my family way too much about our marriage,” I say.

  “Samantha, I don’t want to lose you,” Richard says, and chokes up.

  “What do you want to gain from therapy, Richard?” Broffman asks.

  “I’d like Samantha to make better boundaries with her family—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “This sounds like the old Richard. This is what you said ten years ago.”

  “Samantha, what do you need?” Broffman asks.

  “For Richard to stop treating my family like intruders. And for me to feel understood. I don’t want to hide things. I want one full life, not one where I have a life with him, and a separate one with my family.”

  “I think it’s best if I meet with you both individually at the beginning,” Broffman says, to defuse the situation.

  OVER TWO MONTHS, Richard and I meet with Broffman about fifteen times, together and individually. I like Broffman because he validates me, then pushes me to see Richard’s perspective, and does the same with him. Richard begins to understand that asking me questions about my family can bring us closer together. He learns this is a way to support me emotionally. And Richard needs to believe that Bm truly listening to him when he speaks, in order for him to feel valued and respected.

  In the middle of mediation, Broffman writes us the following email:

  Success will require giving up all hope of a better past. Focusing on your past (and your grievances against each other, based on past behavior) is toxic and will sabotage your efforts to have a better future.

  The part of you that wants to move forward, instead of looking back, serves your needs by seeking to heal with each other. Successful negotiations with others require empowering your Self to lead a successful negotiation within. I believe that each of you has the strength to succeed at both of these negotiations.

  When you are negotiating to find a workable, long-term compromise about your behavior—with a loved one, a business associate, or yourself—it’s important to be conscious about the choices you make and to choose the stronger, more positive, healthier aspects of yourself: generosity, warmth, acceptance, courage. If you can, try to push away the other side that won’t help anyone: selfishness, blind egotism, jealousy, envy, and greed. If you can do this, then hopefully your marriage can survive. But we have to focus on changing old patterns.

  As I read and reread the mediator’s email, I discover lessons both simple and profound. We choose how we look at situations, and we choose how we behave.

  We continue with our sessions, and Broffman tells us we have a chance at saving our marriage. But he believes that we must get my family involved for a discussion before we can rebuild our relationship.

  “Honestly, I don’t have the energy for that,” I say, feeling exhausted.

  “Then I’ll do it without you,” Richard says, determined.

  “When you’re ready, I think it will be best to contact each significant individual in Samantha’s family and have a heartto-heart,” Broffman says.

  “What would be the point of that?” I ask. “I can’t take any more stress, and I’m not sure I want to put my parents through it.”

  “Relationship with boundaries,” Broffman said. “I can mediate these meetings.”

  “I don’t know if I trust what Richard will say or how he will speak to them.”

  “I certainly know how to talk to people,” he says. “I run a business.”

  “Take some time to think about it. Because we want a positive result. No need to rush,” Broffman says.

  “My parents are in Florida anyway,” I say.

  In December, when Richard takes a golf trip to Cabo San Lauren, I decide to join my parents in Florida for a week with Alexandra. I think to call Jake, to invite Brooke and Lauren to come with me, and Jake says, “We’ll all go. We could use the getaway.” I have mixed emotions about having him along, but I think it will be good for the kids and my parents.

  Jake never slowed his business dealings, not even during shiva. Stars relocations are more profitable than ever, and my brother-in-law spends money as if he has unlimited resources. I can’t decide whether he’s embracing false comforts or genuinely trying to make life easier for Brooke and Lauren. Jake’s most
recent purchase is fractional ownership in Wheels Up; the way he justified it to me is that it will make his and David’s business travel faster and more exclusive. But when Jake insists on arranging for a private jet to take us to Florida, I can see that his days of flying commercial are over.

  “Why not just take JetBlue?” I ask.

  “This will be much cooler.”

  A private car waits for Alexandra and me outside on the morning of our flight, and we are driven to Hanscom Air Force Base, in nearby Bedford. Once buzzed through the gates, we meet Jake, Brooke, and Lauren at the private terminal and file onto the tarmac.

  “See how much easier this is?” Jake asks, not expecting a response. I cross my arms as the wind whips my hair. It’s just another splurge, his way of dealing with his grief—not unlike the way I treated myself recently to a new Chanel bag and a pair of imported gold earrings. I decide to keep my judgment in check. It’s actually exciting. I know firsthand how retail therapy can help relieve loneliness. At least for a little while.

  “No waiting in line, no taking your shoes off at security,” Jake goes on. “We walk right onto the plane. Can you believe it, kids?”

  The five of us pile in, and I have to admit that it is a beautiful plane. Beige leather seats and platters of bagels, yogurt, and fruit await us onboard.

  When the pilot announces it’s time for takeoff, we strap ourselves in. No flight attendants, no announcements. Just two handsome pilots in the cockpit, ready to fly us to West Palm Beach.

  “Elizabeth would have enjoyed this,” I admit to Jake. She loved exclusive vacations. “This would have been the perfect prelude to Vegas shows and spas.”

  The kids get absorbed in a movie. The older girls sit side by side, and Lauren, one seat back, slots her head between the leather seats.