“Right. Prom,” I say. “I’ll check on the preparty and let you know.”
“Great.”
He stands there waiting for more—an invite to hang out at my house, a promise to call later tonight, a hug, something. A small wave is all I have to give.
When Dad gets home from work, I approach him about prom-dress shopping. It’s ten past seven; the stores close at nine. “Why didn’t you go this afternoon?” he asks, as if I created the prom to bug him.
“Mom liked to approve what I picked out. You should see some of the choices.”
He loosens his tie and shakes his head as though that’s the dumbest thing he’s heard all day. “Well, I trust you.”
I bite my tongue hard with my molars because I can’t stand his expression when I cry. “Pretty sure Mom trusted me too.”
He sighs. I exhaust him. He disappoints me. “That’s not what I meant, Bean. You know that’s not what I meant. I just can’t fathom anything I want to do less than go to a mall right now.”
Oh. My. God. How did I miss what an ass he is when Mom was alive? No wonder she bailed. “Don’t call me Bean. I am not, like, five.” I turn to the stairs.
“Come on, Eve,” he says to my back. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s a damn dress. Take the credit card and get one tomorrow. Or ask Paige to take you. She only has boys. She’d love—”
I slam my door.
Last year, Mom and I made a whole day of dress shopping for homecoming. We went to Newbury Street, got our nails done in a matching hot-pink color, and had lunch at a fancy Italian café. She even let me sip her chardonnay. I pretended to be surprised by the taste. She laughed and said, “I’m not as clueless as you wish I were.” Then she asked whether I trust her.
“Of course I do,” I said.
“Good. Tell me a secret.” I thought about it. We were sitting in a window booth. Every woman who walked by looked so put together, so confident. I remember wishing I were older. I pictured Mom as a coworker or a college roommate or the wife of one of my husband’s colleagues. When I snapped back to reality, she was still waiting for a reply. Mom wasn’t afraid of silence. She claimed when you gave people time to think you got a better answer. I had loads of little secrets I could disclose to make her happy, but I wanted to be clever, so instead I said, “I’ll tell you a secret, if you tell me one.”
“Deal,” she replied, rubbing her hands together. “You go first.”
I smiled. “I’ve heard you and Dad before, like, at night.”
Mom gasped, but then smirked. “Fine,” she said. “Two can play at this game. My secret is that Christie Anderson called last month to say she saw you and John under their deck, and you had your hand down his pants.” She took a bite of her caprese salad, satisfied.
I stared at her in complete shock. “Shut up! What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I should ask the same question.”
“Mom, seriously, why?”
She smiled to let me know it was all in good fun. “For a lot of reasons. Christie is a ruthless gossip. I didn’t want her to be the basis for one of our talks.”
“And?”
“And … and … so what? We’ve talked about all that stuff. I trust that if you need anything, advice or anything at all, you’ll come to me.”
It was confusing. She never dodged hot topics. I have friends whose mothers get all cray-cray over hand-holding. Not my mom. She figured that stuff was natural. Last year I confronted her, disgusted, with a tube of K-Y I found in her nightstand. “I don’t get why you’re upset,” she said, not bothering to ask what business I had in her room. “You’re mad I have vaginal dryness?” When she worded it like that I felt silly.
“So why tell me now?” I asked.
“You embarrassed me, so I wanted to embarrass you.”
That was how she was: ask a question, get an answer. We laughed nervously for a couple minutes before moving on to safer topics. It was a great day.
I obviously didn’t expect my father to re-create that Newbury Street scene on a Tuesday night with one hour to shop, but I had hopes for something. It’s laughable since I don’t plan to wear it either way, but I pictured coming out of the fitting room after trying on a few dresses and him saying, “That’s the one, Eve. You look wonderful.”
Instead, he offered his credit card. Typical.
Brady
“Thank you, it looks delicious,” I say without looking. The door is almost shut when she thrusts her arm out as if to hold an elevator.
What’s with the divorcées in this neighborhood? They scare the shit out of me.
“Wait! Please wait,” Mary begs, doing a maneuver that somehow replaces the wedged arm with her full body.
“I actually just walked in, so I really need to check on Eve.” Mary doesn’t change her expression or stance; she’s on a mission. They all are. Random women “drop in” with offerings from soup to wine to homemade cheesecake. Maybe I’m paranoid and they’re only being charitable, but it’s a statistical aberration that none of these philanthropists are still married. I know Maddy would be calling me a cynic, but the most plausible explanation for Mary’s benevolence is discontent with her spousal maintenance package.
Mary bites her lip. I think it’s supposed to be sexy, but it looks like it hurts. “That’s so sweet,” she says. “I hear you’re a great dad. Eve’s a great kid. I see her drive by sometimes. Really, really great. Just great.” Her limited vocabulary makes the conversation more irritating. Whenever Eve talked like that, Maddy took out a thesaurus and had her look up replacement words. I consider leveraging the tactic now.
“Did you know I don’t have children of my own?”
Jesus Christ. Did she seriously just bat her eyelashes? And how would I possibly know that? Until two minutes ago, I didn’t know her name was Mary. “Nope.”
“Yeah, no, I never took the plunge. So I have time to help out if you ever need a hand.”
Great. A crazy lady with a strategy. Launching a defense against divorcées with kids wipes out everyone except her. “Okay, well, thanks again.” I step forward so Mary has no choice but to step back or be trampled. As soon as she’s over the frame I swing the door shut.
How am I considered a good catch? You’d think these women would be at least marginally concerned by Maddy’s proactive exit. How do you overlook that my first wife opted to eat pavement over one more day with me? I head to the kitchen for a cocktail. Eve is at the table with a giant grin on her face. Fucking perfect. She overheard that entire discourse. I decide to preempt her jab. “We should put a sign on the door that says, ‘Food won’t make us feel better. Go away.’”
“I don’t know, Dad,” she teases, “those were some impressive legs. I think Mary is a hiker.”
What the hell do I say to that? It’s not like I reach out to these vultures. I get a tumbler from the cabinet. Eve huffs. I’m growing accustomed to her sounds: a huff preludes criticism. I put ice in the glass, waiting.
“Good to see you can find time for a stiff drink given your busy schedule.”
And there it is.
I assume she’s referring to the fact that I didn’t go gallivanting around the mall last night. My shoulders and neck tense, but I manage to walk away, drink in hand. Fuck that. I got up at five this morning, ran five miles, and worked a fourteen-hour day; I can have a goddamn bourbon. Or four. As long as I get up at five again tomorrow, what the hell does it matter?
If only Maddy and I had discussed her day-to-day communication with Eve. How did she know when to remain silent? Laugh instead of yell? Pick a serious talk over a punishment? And what compelled Eve to heed what Maddy said after she’d decided what the hell to say? It’s such a goddamn cluster. I observed Eve growing up without much thought as to how she was raised. That was all Maddy.
We met at a coffee shop in Boston. Maddy was head down in a book. Later I learned that was the rule, not the exception—if Maddy wasn’t working she was reading. There was a f
ly buzzing around her head that sounded like it was attached to a bullhorn. I could hear it from the line ten feet away. There was no indication Maddy had a plan or even that the noise bothered her, but when the fly dared to land on her book she slammed the pages together, victorious. There was quiet applause from surrounding tables. She looked up, startled to realize people had been watching. “I hate that sound,” she mumbled to no one, flicking the fly off the page with a napkin.
After paying for my coffee, I approached the table. “I don’t want to disturb your reading, but do you mind if I sit here?”
“You can,” she answered, immediately turning her eyes back to her book, “but there are plenty of open tables, so I don’t know why you would.”
I am not a pathetic puppy-dog guy, but I was intrigued enough to sit unwelcomed and slowly drink my coffee. Maddy was beautiful in a classic Hollywood sort of way: pale but not ghostly, thin but not skinny. Her blonde hair was organized, not hard with hair spray as was common at that time, but instead pulled up softly on the sides. Her lips were defined and shining in solid red.
She paid absolutely no attention to me. A half hour had passed when I got up to leave. “I’m not usually so rude,” she said, her eyes still dedicated to the book.
“Just my lucky day then?”
Maddy snorted, a real pig snort, then covered her nose with her hand and snorted again. “I don’t believe in luck,” she said playfully. “Well, I believe in bad luck, but I don’t believe in waiting around for good luck.” It was like having a conversation with an inspirational poster.
“Does that mean I shouldn’t leave?”
She shook her head. “No, you probably should. I can’t put this damn book down. It’s that good.” She thought a second before adding, “Plus, the last guy I dated was a complete disappointment.” I ignored her advice and sat back down. I was hooked.
We had a tumultuous courtship. One of us always cared more than the other. Sometimes she returned my messages, other times not, then it’d flip and she’d call every day. That was when I pulled back, canceling plans or not answering the phone. I was afraid of marriage. My parents never seemed at all pleased by the arrangement. The hitched guys at my office tried to talk me into proposing, but their arguments weren’t persuasive. One guy likened getting married to going from a lawn mower to a landscaper. I still lived in an apartment, so the analogy eluded me. Looking back, I think he was getting at how women execute an entire life plan whereas men mostly consider their next meal.
Eventually we got to the point where it was time to get married or move on, and I couldn’t imagine moving on. With Maddy, I was at peace. When she fell asleep first, which she usually did, I’d stay awake to sync our breaths. Sometimes it was easy, a steady pace in and out, but sometimes she went from short to long to nothing for seconds at a time and I’d have to focus to follow her cue. It was my way of handing over control without letting her know. I’m textbook Type A; it was the best I could do.
I packed a small picnic we never ate and took her to a rocky beach on the South Shore. She loved the sound of water hitting rocks. Simple music, she called it. I think she must’ve known what was about to happen because she acted uncharacteristically aloof and spoke in tired clichés. “Well, what a perfect day for this. There’s barely a cloud in the sky. I’m surprised more people aren’t—”
I interrupted with the question that changed our lives. “Madeline, will you please marry me?”
She tucked her hair neatly behind her ears, nodded, and said, “This won’t change anything really, right? Except I get to wear a beautiful diamond ring?”
The only distinction between her words and a joke is that we didn’t realize it was funny. We were naïve enough to believe that marriage wouldn’t change things that much. But it changed everything. We loved harder, and in the beginning, we fought harder. We both contrived every concession into a lifetime concession. You couldn’t simply share your dessert without inadvertently agreeing to only eat half until death. Now I look back and think, would that be so bad? I’d gladly eat half of every dessert and make a million more sacrifices for one more day with my wife. What I can’t get over is this: she didn’t feel the same way.
So our marriage wasn’t perfect. Whose marriage is perfect?
I pull out her journal and flip to the next page, dated June 16, 2013. The day Eve turned fifteen. I’m thankful for the reminder of her impending birthday until the words sink in.
How DARE he miss it. How can someone so bright not be capable of prioritizing something so obvious? “I know it’s shitty, Maddy,” he said. That’s it—shitty. No, you incredibly shortsighted ass, shitty is when you go on vacation and get the runs. It’s something bad that happens that you have no control over.
My heart dropped when the phone rang at six-thirty. Eve rushed to pick it up and, with a smile on her face, asked how far out he was. The limo was already out front.
He didn’t have the guts to tell her. The phone was passed to me.
Eve wanted to cancel. I recited my speech about practicing love, compassion, and forgiveness, inwardly thinking how great it’d be if I didn’t have to practice quite so often on my husband. We went and made the best of it. I assume Lindsey will look back on the night as awkward and Eve will look back on it as miserable or, to use her teenage terminology, a fail.
What could possibly be happening in the software world that trumps your daughter’s birthday, you number-crunching, tunnel-vision, selfish, selfish man?
That’s it. Each word was penned with such ferocity that it dented several subsequent pages. Maddy never said a word about it after the fact. Or had she and I disregarded it? It’s disconcerting how little I recall from our daily conversations. I search my laptop to see what meeting I chose over this extra memory. All I had on the evening of June 16, 2013, is a chunk of time reserved to catch up on Q2 numbers for an eight a.m. board meeting, with a note from Paula that I might be asked to present. That’s it. That’s what I did instead. The possibility of speaking at a board meeting felt bigger than my daughter’s actual birthday dinner. I was a new CFO. Work felt so important. I felt so important. And now look at me. I’m the guy whose wife offed herself.
I should have gone shopping with Eve for a prom dress yesterday. I’m still a number-crunching, tunnel-vision, selfish, selfish man.
CHAPTER THREE
Madeline
Seems silly to pray given the mounting evidence I’m stuck here for eternity, but please God, if I haven’t been forgotten already, let today be the day I do more than just comfort them. Let today be the day I sway their future.
Brady’s boss, Jack, is an active Exeter alum who pulled strings to get Eve accepted even though they don’t usually take senior applicants. Jack knows all the right people. Looking for a good price on a luxury car? Want to rent an oceanfront house in Nantucket during the height of the season or get your hands on a rare black truffle? Jack is the man who can make it happen. He could arrange to have a word added to the dictionary while it was his turn at Scrabble.
I was disappointed at first—Exeter’s rejection would keep Eve home—but then reality checked in. Brady and Eve are at war. Distance will at least make it harder for the damage to be permanent. Exeter’s acceptance came with the condition that Eve complete precalculus this summer, and, lucky me, Rory’s name showed up on the list of eleven local math tutors. A first grade teacher helping with calculus might not be in Eve’s best academic interest, but her emotional well-being is more important. If Eve picks Rory, the two of them will be together on a weekly basis for the entire summer.
In past attempts, I’ve padded my guidance with reasoning and related emotions. My intent was to be compelling, but perhaps it’s too much to transmit. Catchy songs and laughter get through; simple equals successful. I knead Eve’s subconscious, repeating Rory’s last name. Murray. Murray. Murray. There’s no evidence it’s working. She moves through her day like a puppet, every action forced. At lunch, John, Kara, and Lindsey surround
Eve at the table farthest from the smelly lunch line, a coveted spot. Kara doesn’t acknowledge Eve, her remorse won’t allow it, but John and Lindsey study my daughter as if she’s a research project. Their hovering drives Eve batty.
Murray. Murray. Murray.
My daughter never struggled to fit in the way I did. High school didn’t interest me. I spent all four years buried in novels. Sal Paradise, Holden Caulfield, Jay Gatsby—these were my people. My mom never understood. “You’re gorgeous,” she’d say, not as a compliment. “Why don’t you have friends?” Once, when I was a junior and she was on a bender, she asked if I was a lesbian. “Nope,” I said to the relief of the Catholic still in her. “I want to kiss boys; I just don’t want to kiss any of these boys.” What I wanted was hot sex with Jack Kerouac, but Mom didn’t fish for details. I was prepared to support Eve through the isolation I associate with that time in life, but there was no need. Even now, in her grief-stricken funk, people seek her out like a front-row seat.
Despite Eve’s popularity, I remained detached from the other mothers. Paige was the only one who got me, and she was a decade older. We met at a PTA meeting nine years ago when the then president, Evelyn something, shot down my request to set aside a small field-trip fund for the few kids in Wellesley who qualified for lunch assistance. When I pointed out that teachers often paid their fees personally, Evelyn said, “If no one steps in, the families will step up. We’re talking about twenty dollars a year for a couple dozen students. Wellesley doesn’t have a low-income issue.”
The meeting proceeded. What I should’ve said was, “You mean the people in this room don’t have a low-income issue, which makes it all the more insane that teachers are the ones jumping in.” But I was paralyzed under the fluorescent cafeteria lighting. I hadn’t yet hit the fuck-you forties where you say and do whatever you damn well please. I was about to grab my purse and leave when Paige pulled a chair next to mine and whispered, “Have you met Evelyn’s high horse? She rides it quite a bit.” I failed to suppress my unexpected laughter. From then on, Paige and I sprung for the field-trip funding and replaced PTA meetings with a glass of wine in town. God, I could use her practicality right now. We think so much alike; she’d be easy to influence. The thought inspires me: Paige can be my courier for Eve. Meg can’t. She’s too bogged down with her own guilt-laden grief and she isn’t local. But Paige … Paige I can prod on my behalf. I need to get creative.
I Liked My Life Page 4