“Cancer sucks.”
I tell him how Elizabeth survived chemo and radiation went to acupuncture and healers. “I attended every appointment for two and a half years—I think I only missed one that whole time.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Closure is a fiction. That hole will always remain.”
We continue to make small talk, and when he asks if I’m married, I tell him the truth: my husband and I are separated but trying to reconcile. I don’t give the details.
Before he leaves, the man hands me a business card. “I hope things work out the way you want them to,” he says. “If not, give me a call.”
The attention feels good, even if the timing is wrong. I turn the card in my hand to read it. JEREMY CARLTON, it says. That whole time we spoke, I never even asked his name.
Over the weekend, I embrace my solitude, reflecting on the new and the disintegration of the old. I’ve expanded my activities to things that Elizabeth wouldn’t do, places we never went, where no one knows that half of me was my sister. On a stroll down Newbury Street, I notice a flyer in a café and register for another writing class. This time in Boston.
Restaurants that Elizabeth never knew have opened. I dine and chat with maitre d’s who don’t even know I had a sister. I buy a sweater at a chic boutique on the block between Clarendon and Dartmouth; Elizabeth will never see the sweater or the store. But these are the superficial things. It’s Brooke’s high school graduation, Lauren’s prom, where my sister’s absence will be felt most.
COMING OUT OF a café with my laptop—I’ve been working on an assignment from my teacher—I stumble upon a small white sign with bold blue print: SYNERGISTICS, PERSONAL TRAINING.
I check my watch. Plenty of time before I have to pick up Alexandra. Curious, I take the elevator to the fourth floor. The reception area is sparkling new, the gym floor springy and light. A handsome black man in his mid-thirties greets me. He’s ripped, and he wears a tank top to prove it.
“I may be interested in joining,” I say. If anyone can help me get definition in my arms, it’s this guy. “What is this place?”
I scan the gym. Four trainers working one-on-one with clients, hip-hop beats loud, inspiring movement. I have a good feeling about this place. It solves a problem that I didn’t even realize I had until I was standing here: if I work out here, I won’t have to dodge everyone’s sympathies in Wellesley. Not that I’m ungrateful, but I’m in the mood for anonymity.
“I’ll give you a tour,” the young man says. He extends his hand. “I’m Robbie.”
We begin on Monday. I’ve belonged to a gym for twentyfive years, and although I’m fit, I want more definition and flat, sexy abs. To build strength, Robbie is all about form. Whether he’s demonstrating a weight-assisted lunge or a bicep curl, I learn that I’ve been doing it all wrong.
“Arms tight,” Robbie says. “It’s not just repetition—it’s deliberation. Straighten that elbow. Loose and flail, you’ll never build muscle.”
I close my eyes and concentrate.
“Better,” Robbie says. He gently presses my shoulders back. “Shoulders down and back, but don’t puff the chest—bring those lower ribs in, root lock.” Robbie has me stop while he demonstrates what he’s looking for. It’s hard work, but I feel renewed, energetic. The workouts go quickly, and I always look forward to the next one.
“So, what do you do?” Robbie asks one day, as we’re toweling off our faces.
“I’m a mother, and I’ve started writing.”
“A writer?”
“Yes,” I say, and pause. I write, but does that make me a writer? Should I tell Robbie about my writing? I don’t think I can do it without mentioning my sister, so I hesitate, but I realize that censoring my past in this way will prevent Robbie from ever knowing me.
“My sister died recently,” I say. “I’ve been writing about the two and a half years she lived with lung cancer.”
“I’m so sorry,” Robbie says, really taking it to heart.
“Thank you.”
“I’d like to read some of your work sometime,” he says kindly. Next time I come, I will bring him a short piece about Elizabeth.
I’M THANKFUL RICHARD and I are still meeting with Broffman. When I meet with him individually, I broach the subject of Jake’s text messages and then tell him about Richard’s stepmother, the one who made Richard and his sisters feel like second-class citizens. It still hasn’t come up in a couples’ session. Once I’m settled on Broffman’s well-worn leather sofa, I start in.
“Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Richard’s stepmother. I can see connections between Richard’s childhood experiences with her and his behaviors as an adult,” I say.
Broffman nods. “Can you explain?” he asks.
“He’s talked to you about his stepmother, right?”
“I know that he had one. Not an especially loving woman. But I’m interested in your interpretation—please go on.” I explain that the outsiderness Richard tends to feel in my family mirrors the outsiderness that his stepmother made him feel—at best, unimportant, but more like invisible. It could be the reason Richard won’t settle for less than number one and wants to discard any group that he’s not the center of.
Leaning forward, Broffman asks, “Have you shared your insights with Richard?”
“Whenever I mention it, he dismisses me,” I say, but this is starting to sound like just an excuse, even to me. I sink in my seat.
“What have you discussed?” Broffman asks.
I tell Broffman that Richard’s reflex is to see my family negatively.
“Say more,” he says.
“I think my family dynamic brought back memories of his childhood that made him angry. I could see the anger and the blame. I didn’t realize that it all stemmed from being deeply hurt,” I say.
“This is a rich area. I will bring it up next time I’m with him,” Broffman says.
When I tell him about Jake’s text messages, Broffman says, “Those are a symptom of the problem. Not the problem itself.” And I agree.
I tell Broffman how useful I found his email about understanding and evolving into better selves. Even if Richard and I do get divorced, I don’t want to repeat old patterns with someone else. Even if we don’t stay married, what I want sincerely in my heart is for Richard to break free of destructive patterns, too.
“You’re a wise and compassionate young woman,” Broffman says, and we laugh about the young part.
Later in the week, on a balmy, late Sunday in February, I’m enjoying a cup of coffee in a coat on my deck, having already taken the dogs out for a long walk in the neighborhood. The poodles snooze at my feet, contented and exhausted, twitching their ears at chirping birds. Having lived in the same house for over a decade, I am intimate with its sounds: the gentle clack of tree branches against the side of the house and the scurry of squirrels over the top of the fence. Then comes another familiar sound, but from a different time, and one I did not expect: the key in the door, the squeak and whine of hinges, and the tap of footsteps on my hardwood floor.
I turn, shielding my eyes in the sun, and see Richard standing in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, sliding open the glass door.
“I’m here to talk.”
We move to the sunroom. Richard pats the seat on the sofa next to him.
“I had a session on Friday,” he says. “Broffman brought up my stepmother.”
“What about her?” I ask, grateful that the mediator followed through.
“He pointed out that her cruel actions might have scarred me more than I thought.” Richard’s eyes find the floor; he rubs the back of his neck, a rare posture of vulnerability. I have been working with Broffman on de-escalation and empathic listening. With an interested expression, I remain silent and hold the space for Richard to go on.
“When my mother died, my feelings had nowhere to go. I internalized them. Then, on top of that, my father married a woman with no
concern for his kids. I have always blamed my stepmother for making us outsiders. What I never connected with is the anger I had when my dad died. When I married you, you were so close to your family, it was like I had chosen the same situation for myself, unconsciously. I blamed you and your family for making me the outsider, when really I was mad at myself.”
“Have you always known that?” I ask, blown away.
“Are you kidding?” Richard laughs. “Knowing and saying this is a miracle.”
“I did put my family’s feelings over yours. I was defensive,” I say. “I didn’t think it was my responsibility to make a change, but there were certainly changes I could have made. I too repeated old patterns from my parents’ marriage.”
“I never wanted my own niece and nephew to hate me,” he continues. “Now, seeing them without their mother reminds me of how I felt after my mother died. I cringe that I became such a villain in their lives. After all that I suffered, how could I do this to them?”
Richard trails off and starts to cry. I kiss the tears on his cheeks as they fall, and he embraces me. When he pulls away, he excuses himself and disappears into the bathroom. After splashing water on his face, he says he feels like a drink, but I’m concerned that it’s not even noon. I’m still finishing my coffee.
“Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, “and keep the conversation going. There’s a quiet place in Brookline I’ve been wanting to try.”
In the car, Richard tells me that nothing he’s said excuses Jake’s behavior.
“Let’s stay on track,” I say, “probing what’s behind our own actions, not speculating about others. But I have a different subject. Next Sunday is Elizabeth’s unveiling. I think I want you to come.”
“Let me think about it.”
“It will be just the immediate family,” I say. “Which means you’re invited.”
We park on Cypress Street in Brookline a block from the restaurant I had in mind, a little café with large storefront windows. The aroma of roast coffee and baked goods greets us. A hostess seats us at a cozy table near the back.
After we order, I again hold space for Richard to begin, but he falls silent. I look into his eyes and can see a softness revealed behind an old wall. We are both starting to see how we’ve hurt each other.
Chapter Thirty
In the Jewish tradition, it’s customary that the unveiling of a permanent bronze plaque or other headstone takes place around the first anniversary of a loved one’s death. Today is Elizabeth’s unveiling, and we are gathered again at her gravesite.
The air is a chilly forty-eight degrees as Richard, Alexandra, and I drive the winding roads of Sharon Memorial Park. But, as with the year before, the spring flowers are popping through newly melted snow. At the gate, tulips overtake the crocuses.
Rabbi Goldberg arrives at the plot and greets us. The azaleas are again flowering in vibrant pink. A stately granite bench has been installed, bearing our three family names: Gordon, Kaplan, and Bloomberg. Elizabeth’s grave is the slightly sunken earth next to my grandparents.
Today we are fourteen: my parents, Aunt and Uncle, David, Jill, Justin, and Brittany; Jake, Brooke, and Lauren; Richard, Alexandra, and me. Harrison is back in New York. When Richard decided to attend, everyone but Jake knew he was coming. Sensing this, Richard greets and shakes hands with everyone but the Gordons. They stay away from him as if he doesn’t exist.
“Welcome,” Rabbi Goldberg says. “We are here to honor Elizabeth’s memory.” He chants prayers in Hebrew, and we join in English. Then my mother walks forward, pulls a piece of paper from her purse, and begins to read.
“Dear Elizabeth,” my mother begins, then pauses to clear her throat. “We miss your big blue eyes. Life sure is different now. Brooke graduated high school this year and is a communications major at Syracuse, just like you advised her. Lauren is number one on the Weston tennis team. My baby, you should be so proud,” she squeaks. My father joins her, leaning on a cane. His backaches from spinal stenosis have flared up around the unveiling.
“Elizabeth, my little girl,” he says, speaking somewhere above our heads, “we will never forget you. We will honor you with our good deeds. Your memory will be blessed because it’s all we have.”
Alexandra, Brooke, Lauren and I visited Elizabeth at this site six months ago for her birthday. I threw a blanket over the fallen leaves, and we picnicked next to her grave. I packed tuna fish sandwiches, potato chips, and Elizabeth’s favorite, chocolate cupcakes. Alexandra lit a candle, and Brooke and Lauren blew it out. When the girls scampered off to read old headstones, I dug a narrow hole near Elizabeth’s shoulder and buried her birthday card rolled up like a scroll, then carefully replaced the grass.
After my parents speak, David, Jill, and the children find us and take our hands. “A year,” David says, and shakes his head. Between my brother and me, we silently hold all the time we had Elizabeth and, increasingly, the lonely future years without her.
The rabbi removes the white cloth that covers the plaque, and my throat clenches. Seeing my sister’s name in bronze still manages to shock me, her life and death now permanently etched: “Elizabeth Kaplan Gordon, November 1, 1959–April 30, 2006. Loving wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, and niece.” Rabbi Goldberg leads us in Hebrew in the Mourner’s Kaddish, which by now I know by heart: Yitgadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba . . .
When we finish, Jake pulls his children toward him and erupts in sobs. Brooke and Lauren stare at the plaque, heads down, quiet tears dripping. The fourteen of us stand shoulder to shoulder, encircling Elizabeth’s grave. My father blows his nose into his handkerchief with force, his cries sounding like harsh, dry coughs.
I feel the wind brush against my cheek as if it is a message from Elizabeth. “I miss you,” I whisper, but she can’t answer back.
Just before we leave, Brooke’s face crumples and she kneels to kiss the earth where her mother lies. Alexandra, Richard, and I hold hands walking to the car. Jake did not acknowledge my husband’s existence the entire service, which means he did not acknowledge me. I want to go home and hold my daughter tight.
The next day, I get a call from my lawyer, Jonathan Mann. He asks me what my timeline is for proceeding with the divorce.
“Richard asked me to try a mediator,” I say, knowing that Broffman’s goal is to help us stay married—and have a better marriage—and Mann’s goal is to help me profit from a divorce.
“Is that what you want?” he asks. “You’re certainly exhausting all options.”
“I think it’s working,” I say. “There’s been a shift.”
“Shift how?”
“Richard is much less combative. We’re both more understanding of the other.” I explain how I’ve also taken responsibility for our conflict. “Maybe that’s what it really means to be in love.”
“Tread carefully, Samantha,” Jonathan says. “I’m wary of your taking any responsibility. He might have an agenda. This has been going on for a long time. You said yourself it’s taken a toll. Is he giving you enough money?”
“Whatever I need,” I say. “Richard is initiating conversations with my mother and brother. He really wants to work things out.”
“Let me know what you decide,” Jonathan Mann says, and ends the call.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Richard calls my mother; they meet over coffee and cinnamon-raisin bagels. The situation with my mother is too painful for me to go along. Richard promises to keep the conversation productive and short.
My husband later tells me that he apologized for causing friction in our family, but not without placing a lot of the blame on Jake. He even told my mother about his stepmother, how left out she made him feel when he was a kid, and how my family’s close-knit dynamic triggered emotions he wasn’t aware he still had. He said my mother admitted that she had never thought too much about what it was like for him to join their family, all those long-standing relationships, but that when Elizabeth got sick, everyone had to focus on her. Richard told
my mother that he and I wanted to give our marriage another try, and she gave him her blessing. She wanted peace in her family, my mother said, would love a second chance to love Richard like a son. They sealed their promises with a hug.
A few days later, Richard called David and then told me about their lengthy conversation. David’s main concern was that he wanted to understand why Richard had disliked and disre spected Elizabeth. Richard said that Elizabeth and I were just too enmeshed, that he was wired to want more separation. But, in hindsight, he knew it wasn’t fair to project his own discomfort onto my relationship with Elizabeth. If what he wanted was better intimacy with me, a stronger marriage, he hadn’t gone about in the right way. Richard admitted that he had been rude and standoffish to Elizabeth; when the whole family turned against him, it was too painful for him to reverse on his own. David admitted that he and Jill often tried to avoid Richard when they came to town. Richard proposed that he and David move forward and not focus on the past, and David agreed.
Later that day, my brother calls me and says that he will try to renew his relationship with Richard if it makes me happy, that he loves me more than he dislikes Richard. Thankfully, my brother rarely holds grudges.
As for Jake, however, he has made it clear that he wants nothing to do Richard. And Richard wants nothing to do with him. I will never give up Brooke and Lauren and have made that crystal clear. Meanwhile, Jake has ended it with Julie from Providence and is ready to date someone new.
The following week, Richard and I go to dinner. He picks me up and hugs me in the kitchen, softer than the man I’ve been wary of all these years.
We park at one of his leased spaces, in the alley behind a brownstone, and walk down Boston’s busiest shopping street to 29 Newbury. It’s the restaurant where he and I had our first date. I am stunned. I was not expecting Richard to be so thoughtful.
The host seats us at the two-top in the window where we first dined twenty-three years ago. Glasses of chilled champagne await us, their bubbles setting off small fireworks against my upper lip.
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