I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  “Linda Maureen Murray taught me to see the beauty in everyday things, what to wear on an interview, and who to trust secrets with—the people who don’t tell you any. She believed mothers needed to keep a distinguishable life of their own, and she did. She ran a bridge group, headed up the first mentor program in New England, and rowed the Charles River daily until her body wouldn’t allow it.”

  Sounds like I could have learned a lot from Linda. Keeping a distinguishable life of my own was my great life struggle. It made me feel greedy to long for more than I already had.

  Rory continues speaking, but Eve’s mind drifts to the eulogy Meg gave at my funeral. I can’t follow her stream of consciousness exactly, I’m too high up, but for weeks after I died Eve read it before bed. She knows it verbatim and so do I.

  Madeline loved to read. She was wise and often told her truths through quotations or storytelling. I don’t know who originally said it, but her favorite words of wisdom were, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it isn’t okay, it isn’t the end.” How I hope that proves true for all of us gathered here today in sadness.

  When we were little, Maddy loved skinny-dipping and drinking ice cold, fresh-squeezed lemonade. If she were standing here now she’d laugh and say she still loves those things. As kids we watched the Muppets. Maddy could impersonate Miss Piggy to a T. She’d bob her head around and say in a mousy voice, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.” She drank Shirley Temples long after she was of age to drink stronger. Her favorite fortune cookie read: Simplicity of character is the natural result of profound thought.

  Although she was interested in many things, nothing competed with the responsibility and joy she found in motherhood. Eve was Maddy’s life passion and true gift. She loved her family unequivocally, and wanted nothing more than for Eve and Brady to be happy. That’s why today is so damn confusing.

  Meg’s voice cracked with the last sentence and she stepped off the pulpit in tears. It was unclear to those in attendance if that was all she had to say, or if that was all she could get out. Paige was next up. She looked out at the faces that weren’t mine and began to sob. She’s lived in Wellesley twenty years and no one could ever remember seeing Paige so much as frazzled. There was total silence as her husband led her back to their pew. The memory arrests Eve and she forgets, for a second, where she is. She snaps back to the present when people begin to shuffle toward the parking lot. Eve follows, not wanting to burden Rory with her presence, when a man’s voice shouts: “What the hell did you say?”

  It’s Brian. His words bring foot traffic to a standstill.

  “I said I’m glad you could finally make it to see your mother,” Greta hollers back.

  “You’re accosting me at my mother’s funeral?”

  “Yes, I am, young man,” she says evenly.

  “Young man? I’m twenty-six.” Being on the offensive makes him sweat. He takes off his jacket, revealing his professional success with a custom-tailored shirt and platinum cuff links.

  Rory intervenes. “Greta, Brian, please, now is not the time.”

  “Oh, Rory, I’m sorry, honey. This jerk is your brother, so you have to forgive him. But I … I … don’t.” Greta points her index finger in Brian’s face. He’s handsome, the kind of man who looks athletic without actually being so. “How dare you come here today and cry like you lost something you cherished.”

  Brian clenches his right hand into a fist, the way Brady has so many times this summer. “How dare you, lady. You have no right to make this spectacle. You’re not even family.”

  She shakes off his words in that unflinching way only old people can. “Ask anyone who works hospice and they’ll tell you this about family: it’s made of the people who show up. You don’t know my name, do you? I cared for your mother for two years. Two beautiful years. I bathed her, dressed her, fed her when her arthritis flared up … and-and here you don’t even know my name.”

  Brian’s head is down now, in a look of surrender. “Good,” she says. “At least you’re standing here, silent, looking as repentant as you should feel. I’m Greta Robbins and I have one last question. Do you have any idea how much the woman you ignored sacrificed for you and your self-absorbed life?”

  It’s been a drizzly day, and as though on cue, rain pours down in violent sheets. The weather breaks up the crowd. Eve walks away in shock.

  Once in the privacy of the car, she pounds her head on the steering wheel, weighted by Greta’s words. Someone should have said that to me, Eve thinks. I was so selfish my mom killed herself. Of all the thoughts to come through with great clarity, it seems cruel this had to be the one. It’s torture to hear Eve give herself this undeserved lashing. I want to communicate the whole of my story to her, but it’s layered and emotional. I tried pulling Brady into the fold during his run last week, got him to stand right in front of the problem, but he was distracted by Todd Anderson’s car and tore off. Without context to draw from my story will never be told. I love you, I say instead, over and over. I love you. I love you. I love you.

  It’s not enough. Eve is hysterical. I find Rory. I hate to intrude during such a sensitive time, but I can’t let Eve drive away in such a state. Check on Eve, I guide. Check on Eve.

  She spots Eve’s car and suddenly there she is, tapping on the window, motioning to let her in. “You look like you need a tissue, and I happen to have a pocket full,” Rory says, helping herself to the passenger seat. “They’re crumbled, not dirty.”

  “Thanks.” Eve tries to get her breathing under control. “Listen, you don’t have to, like, sit here with me. I’m fine. God … you’re the one who should be consoled.”

  “My mother’s death was different from yours.” Rory looks to see if she offended Eve with the knowledge of my death, but Eve’s expression doesn’t change. She assumes everyone knows.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” Eve says. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention or anything. I-I was trying to worry about someone else, you know? But then that fight. What that woman said.” Her voice turns to a mumble. “I treated my mom like garbage too.”

  “Eve, you’re a teenager,” Rory reasons. “Brian is a man.”

  “That’s just an excuse.”

  Inside Rory melts at being needed in this maternal way. “No, it’s not,” she assures. “The day I turned thirteen my mom said, ‘I don’t expect you to love me again until you’re twenty.’ And I didn’t, or at least I didn’t show it.”

  “Well, you weren’t as bad as me because your mom stuck around.”

  Rory centers herself in Eve’s vision. “Life is more complicated than that. Think of how many secrets you’ve kept from your parents. Think of all the things you haven’t told them in only seventeen years. Now imagine everything you must not have known about your mother.”

  “Because I didn’t ask.”

  “No. No. Because she didn’t want to tell you. You don’t always get to know what happened, or why things happened a certain way, but it always, always, goes deeper than any one thing. Every experience someone has contributes to their perspective, to their ability to handle their next experience.” Eve looks up. I can’t say she believes Rory, but she doesn’t not believe her either. “I remember housing this tremendous guilt when my dad died because we’d never truly gotten to know each other. We had forty years of conversations consisting solely of weather and local sports. When his best friend gave a eulogy, he described my dad as an old-fashioned romantic who loved to waltz and earned a full scholarship to college playing the saxophone. And I thought, what? I never knew that. How did I not know that?”

  “It was his past.”

  Rory nods in agreement. “Exactly. I went out the next day and signed up for ballroom-dance lessons. I needed something symbolic to feel closer to him.”

  Eve smiles, encouraged by the idea she can still get to know me. Rory will make a fine stand-in.

  Eve
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  Mom had this way of making me and my friends feel important. Once when I was seven a girl in the neighborhood got caught French-kissing. All the older kids were talking about it, but none of my friends knew what it meant. Without much discussion we agreed to ask my mom. I wasn’t nervous or embarrassed. Mom always preached that there’s no harm asking and there’s no point sitting around curious.

  I marched in the kitchen and asked how the French kiss. She looked confused. I thought she didn’t know the answer, but then my question registered. “Are you asking what it means to French-kiss?”

  “Un-huh,” I said, uncertain of the difference.

  She casually stopped setting the table and took a seat. “It’s a more romantic kind of kissing, for when you’re seriously dating or married, where your tongues touch. It’s not just for French people, though. I know that’s a weird name for it.”

  “Do you and Dad French-kiss?”

  “Yep.” The neighborhood girls couldn’t believe it. My mom was our trusted advisor.

  At camp, that’s what I’ve become for Kathleen. Since borrowing my mom’s line that there’s no point being curious, Kathleen hasn’t stopped asking questions. She practices braille by reading a weekly paper covering world news she’s not old enough to understand, so there’s no shortage of topics. She’ll ask: “But how did AIDS start, I mean for the first person?” and “Why don’t we use the actual votes to decide who is president?” and “Why do people care so much that Mexicans want to live here?” And on and on.

  My answers are pathetic: “Maybe they’re worried there’s not enough space.”

  Her responses are smart: “But when there’s not enough space, won’t they stop wanting to come?” I usually have to admit I have no idea. It doesn’t seem to bother her I’m clueless.

  I pull into the parking lot and see Kathleen in the car with her mom, waiting. It’s become routine for her to meet me early to help pick the daily project. I guide Kathleen to the sidewalk, waving at her mother as she drives away. A drop of rain hits my head. Then another. Then it’s pouring. We run to a little shed off the lunch area as my cell rings. “Hi, Robin.”

  “Oh. Yes. Hi. I’m still surprised when people know it’s me,” the camp director says in her singsong voice. “It’s 2015, and darn-it-all, I’m still not used to cell phones.” It’s work not to laugh. Robin is sweet, but she’s the biggest dork I’ve ever met. I should set her up with Dr. Jahns. “Any-hoo … we’re postponing an hour due to inclement weather.”

  “Okay,” I say, seeing no reason to tell her I’m already here. I offer to take Kathleen home, but she asks if I mind staying. “The rain doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.” It’s not like there’s somewhere else I need to be.

  “I love rain,” she says. “It’s easy to picture.”

  She speaks so simply. I never wonder broadly the way Kathleen does. I read a headline and take it as fact. Kathleen reads a headline and it’s the start of something. I have a hard time defending things I like with any detail. Everything in my life found me. Kathleen understands herself intimately. She’s certainly not going to pick friends based on some foolish formula that includes where people buy their clothes. I think I’m learning more from her than she from me.

  The rain simmers to a drizzle, so we walk arm in arm to the playground. I smile. Knowing Kathleen can’t see me, that there’s no audience at all, makes the expression more genuine.

  “Can I ask you something, Eve?”

  This is how she starts every conversation. “Anything at all,” I reply, how my mom always did.

  “What do I look like?”

  I stop. I don’t know won’t fly this time. “No one’s told you?”

  “No, people usually say pretty or beautiful, but no one has ever given any detail.”

  “There are worse things to be called.”

  She nods. “Yeah, but I want to know exactly. I want to be able to picture myself.”

  I set her on a swing, thinking about how best to respond. Kathleen is gorgeous, but how can I make her know it? “Well,” I start, biting my nails with one hand and pushing her with the other, “you have flawless skin, especially for your age. I’ve heard people compare soft, clear skin like yours to milk. Every feature on your face is perfectly symmetrical, like you were drawn by an artist. Your chin is round, and when you smile it lifts up with your mouth in a way I’ve never seen on anyone else. But your best feature is your eyes.”

  “Huh. That’s ironic.” It seems like such a big word for a twelve-year-old.

  “Yeah, I guess it is. They’re blue and big and you have these incredible long eyelashes that curl up toward the sky. I put on mascara every day trying to get the look you have naturally with those eyelashes.”

  She latches an elbow around the side of the swing and touches her beautiful, useless eyes. “Keep going.”

  “Your cheekbones are high, and you have a beauty mark low on your right cheek like a famous model. You can probably feel it.” She moves a fingertip down to the spot. “Your lips are tiny and defined. Your hair is perfectly straight and jet-black.”

  “The only color I know.” Her eyes tear.

  “I’m sorry,” I soothe. “Please don’t be upset.”

  “No. It’s the opposite. I’m excited. You’ve given me a secret mirror.”

  Kathleen hears the cars arriving before I do. She wipes her eyes and, as I lead her up the hill, hugs me close. The kind of hug that makes you know you’re necessary. “I’ll always remember you,” she whispers.

  Being needed instead of needing is a new experience. I like it. A chill runs through me without the temperature changing. I swear it’s my mom. This sounds crazy, but the sensation has her personality tied to it.

  * * *

  I go straight from camp to Dr. Jahns. I’m actually looking forward to his opinion on what to do about John, although I try not to show it.

  As soon as I sit he digs in, knowing I’m not a fan of small talk. “So how was the movie?”

  From his perspective, John is a dream come true. Who better than a high-school sweetheart to wash away a young girl’s grief?

  “Fine,” I say. “I had to sort of dumb myself down to laugh at the right times, but it was good to get out.”

  “What do you mean ‘dumb yourself down’?” He loves questions that include direct quotes. It drives me crazy.

  “I don’t know, it’s hard to see the humor in anything.”

  He rubs the scruff on his chin. “I know all about human suffering, but I can’t imagine a world without humor. It’s one of the most important tools we have.”

  I arch my eyebrows. “If you’re right, I’m screwed. Nothing is funny to me anymore.”

  It’s the first time I hear his laugh. He sounds feminine—I can see why he avoids it. “That’s your grief talking. Someday you’ll remember this conversation and know I’m right.”

  “I’m glad you’re so confident today, because I have an ethical question for you.” He straightens his posture, anticipating a breakthrough. “I don’t love John,” I say. “There’s no version of my life where we stay together past August. So is it bad to, like, string him along for company until I don’t need him anymore?” Paige thinks it’s criminal, but she’s biased since John plays soccer with her boys.

  Dr. Jahns returns to a slouch. “It’s selfish, but it’s okay to be selfish sometimes, and, when you leave, I get the impression John will be fine.”

  Oh goody. Permission granted. I don’t miss John, but I’m starting to miss sex.

  Brady

  I read the journal entry again before my run. It kept me up last night. I don’t know what the hell to do with it.

  July 23, 2013

  Brady’s mother has been gone two years and I only just got around to sifting through her boxes. There’s no excuse—she certainly wasn’t a pack rat. Aside from the clothes, furniture, and books we gave to charity, movers fit her keepsakes into three cardboard boxes. After the funeral I tucked them on
a shelf in the garage, overlooking their contents completely. But I was drawn to them today as I put out the trash. Next thing I knew I was elbow-deep in love letters from a man named Phillip Goldfarb, all dated before Bethany would’ve met Brady’s dad. Love letters … stashed away by the least sentimental woman on the planet.

  Phil was a soldier who had two children Bethany cared for. There was no mention of a wife or mother, but it was plain that Phil thought of Bethany as more than the kids’ caretaker. He described her as “doting,” “stunning,” and “imaginative.”

  Bethany was a rigid, soap-in-your-mouth, entertain-yourself breed of mom to Brady. If they weren’t among her things and addressed Dear Bethany (the same mother-in-law who told me Eve was a homely newborn), I wouldn’t have believed it. The last letter was from December of 1959 and had an obituary paper-clipped to it. Phil died in Vietnam. He was survived by two children, Marie and Paul. The article made no mention of their mother. I wonder what happened to them.

  My first instinct was to call Brady, but then I realized telling him would be a mistake. He won’t notice if the boxes disappear and he’d likely overanalyze the letters. The woman Phil loved did not map to the mother he knew.

  Bethany never said a word about what life was like before she married, but it’s not as if I asked. I took her as someone who trudged through each day without looking for enjoyment. I figured she got pretty much what she put in. The idea that she was once passionate but was destroyed by grief is tragic.

  I take off at a steady pace, questioning how well I’ve known any of the women in my life. Left. Right. Left. My feet sync with my breath. I’ve stopped taking music. Running has become my daily sounding board, a role Maddy once filled.

  My parents married later than most in their day. I was an accident. Mom was forty-six when I was born and often reminded me she was too old and tired for any crap. She was stunning in her prime, but I can’t think of a single memory where she was doting or imaginative. There aren’t any, I’m sure. The day I got accepted to Harvard she said, “Good luck finding a way to pay for it.” Maddy and I often joked that we learned what not to do from our families, but we’d have to figure out the rest on our own.