I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  I see it—Gregory Maguire’s Wicked—a book so phantasmagorical that you forget the boundaries of reality. An escape book, exactly what Eve needs. Wicked, I prompt. Wicked. Wicked. She receives my message and continues the search until her fingers pass the binding. She’s captivated before the end of the first paragraph: They seemed oblivious of their fate. But it was not up to the Witch to enlighten them. I hadn’t considered the possibility Eve would see me in the witch, but if it helps her get through this without afternoon cocktails, I’ll gladly take one for the team.

  Eve

  I hand Dad a snack bag for the plane like Mom always did before long road trips. “Thanks, Bean,” he says. He hasn’t called me Bean since our fight over prom-dress shopping. This time I’m grateful. He’s been distant since the journal incident.

  Something’s up with this business trip. He called me to his room to confirm the outfit he packed “looked okay” and got a haircut out of his sacred four-week cycle. Maybe his job is on the line. He’s been getting home at seven to be with me and hasn’t traveled for work in months. HT could be fed up with his new fatherly duties.

  “Damn it,” he mutters, staring at an unoccupied hook in the closet.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Do you know where my umbrella is?”

  “It’s in the mudroom. But seriously, Dad, is something wrong?”

  “No, why?”

  “I dunno. You’re acting like a weirdo. Is this business trip wicked important?”

  “Ah, yeah.”

  The doorbell rings. Rory’s here. I told him I’m too old for a babysitter, not that he’d listen to me. I leave to answer it.

  “Wait. Bean?” I turn. “I want you to know I’m looking forward to Paris. I’m not going to cancel. We both deserve a vacation.”

  I have no idea which part of my ass-kissing earned his forgiveness or why he’s acting like such a freak, but if we’re still going to Paris he’s probably not getting canned.

  Dad follows me out with his roller bag and a handful of papers. “Hi, Rory,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand.

  “Oh, okay, hi,” Rory replies with a giggle, amused by his formality.

  “Here’s Eve’s insurance information and a waiver for you to make emergency medical decisions in my absence for the next thirty-six hours.”

  Rory glances my way to confirm he sounds crazy. I nod. “Thanks, Brady. Hopefully it won’t come to that.” My father isn’t good at being laughed at, so we’re received with a silence that makes the room uncomfortable.

  “If you need anything, or have any questions, you have my cell.”

  “Yep, and if you aren’t available, I can always ask your seventeen-year-old daughter.” I laugh. Dad doesn’t. “Really, Brady, we got this,” she assures. “Go do whatever it is you do.”

  “All right. Make yourself at home. Please sleep in my bed. I mean, I, ah—” Rory looks startled. I try not to laugh again. Dad attempts to move the conversation forward by pointing out that he put clean sheets on it, but ends up implying he’s done her some sort of favor, so then he spits out, “The master bedroom is ready for your stay.”

  He sounds like a bellhop. Rory teases him by saying so, but my dad has had enough as the butt of our jokes. He gives me an efficient hug and leaves.

  I decide to pretend that didn’t happen. “Want pizza?”

  “Yes. Extra cheese please.”

  I set the table in the front garden, which Dad’s new assistant recently arranged to have renovated after the fire damage. It now looks like the outdoor kitchen my mother had been begging for, which breaks my heart. When the pizza arrives, my elaborate table setting looks ridiculous next to the cardboard box. Rory ignores the knife and fork and digs right in, so I do the same. She’s supercasual. It’s refreshing, especially now that I appreciate how much effort it took my mom to be traditional. Everything in our house looked perfect, which was awesome when I thought everything was perfect, but disturbing now that I know the truth. It’s like we lived on a stage.

  What the hell will Rory and I talk about for the next twenty-four hours? Just as I start to panic that this will be totally awkward she says, “You know, there are a lot of famous people who graduated from Exeter.”

  I shrug. “I honestly don’t know much about the school.”

  “Franklin Pierce, John Irving, Mark Zuckerberg…”

  “I’m over Facebook. I think it’s only fun when you feel a little better than everyone else, and I don’t anymore.” She laughs. There’s something about Rory that draws me out. “But I like John Irving. My mom made me read A Prayer for Owen Meany. It was her favorite.”

  “I loved that book,” Rory says, putting a hand over her heart. “Actually, I thought about it a lot after Brian’s graduation. The speaker went through the meaning of everything in Latin on the school seal. The central quotation was interpreted as ‘The end depends upon the beginning.’” She pauses to see if I understand. I don’t see the connection. “You know how at the end it becomes clear Owen was preparing for his ultimate destiny his whole life?” I nod. “Well, ‘The end depends upon the beginning’ is telling, right? John Irving must’ve heard that saying a million times while he was at Exeter.”

  “Huh. Yeah.”

  The end depends upon the beginning.

  Maybe it’s as simple as that. Maybe Mom jumped because of her shitty childhood. It’s obvious, even to me, that she had nothing to do with instigating Gram’s drinking problem. Seriously, she was like ten years old. How could her little remarks provoke a jug of wine a day? But imagine the damage from believing you’d caused something so horrible from such a young age; imagine the burden of thinking you ruined your mother’s life. The thought stops me—I guess it’s not a far leap in my case. So my mom carried the same guilt I now carry. Playing it out, I can see how her mind turned on her, how reflecting pulled her into weeds that weren’t really there. I need to break that cycle. The end depends upon the beginning.

  I like talking to Rory. She’s philosophical without being condescending. She’s softer than Paige, and more real than Aunt Meg. I feel older around her, smarter. “What else do you remember about the campus?” I ask.

  Rory licks sauce off the side of her lip. She’s a messy eater. “Let’s see. I remember Brian telling me that everyone called skipping class dicking, which I thought was a riot. And everyone referred to the cafeteria as the fishbowl. But I guess that makes sense when you’re in it.” She looks to me for confirmation.

  “Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been on campus yet.”

  Rory plops the pizza on her plate. “You’re kidding. Why not?”

  “My dad’s boss is an alumni, so he did the interview from here. We never really had a reason to make the trip.”

  “Ahhh—so you can see the place you’re going to live?”

  I didn’t find it at all strange until she repeated the situation back to me. “Well, when you say it like that…”

  “It’s only an hour and a half away. Don’t you want to see the campus before you arrive with everyone else?”

  “I guess, but it’ll be fine. It’s not like I can change my mind at this point.”

  Rory scoots her chair closer to mine. “Never box yourself in like that. You have options. If you give it a fair shot and you’re unhappy, do something about it. I guarantee you and your dad can figure out a Plan B.”

  She waits for acknowledgement. “Okay,” I agree. I won’t back out, but it’s sweet she cares.

  “You need to learn your way around before the first day of class. You’re taking on enough unfamiliar faces and new routines; you can’t afford to be disoriented on top of it.” Just as her lecture starts to freak me out, she smiles. “I vote tomorrow we skip math and go to Exeter.”

  “Sounds good to me.” We both grab another slice.

  “Are you nervous about going?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She flaps her napkin at me. “No, you goof, when school starts.”

  “O
h, no. I’d be more nervous if I was staying.” I see no reason to sugarcoat it. “Or not nervous, but like, depressed. I can’t move on in Wellesley. I can’t show up my senior year a completely different person and expect everyone to accept it. They all feel sorry for me. It’s this constant reminder I’m supposed to be sad.” I look up at the clouds to keep from getting weepy. “I don’t know. It’s like you said the other night: something will always be missing, but I don’t want to wear it as a badge. Yanno?”

  Rory looks proud. “That’s good,” she says. “I’m glad you aren’t blindly running away. There’s no distance where you won’t miss her. A fresh start I can support.”

  I find a smile. This is the first time I’ve talked about leaving and been happy afterward. Everyone else is burdened by why I’m going instead of that I’m going.

  Brady

  I don’t totally understand what I’m out to accomplish with this trip, and not having a set goal leaves me anxious. My gut tells me to dig deeper, but my mind wants to return on the next flight to Boston. Envisioning the first moment of our interaction doesn’t help. To hug or not to hug? Bring a gift? Coffee and doughnuts?

  It’s not in a trailer park, but the house would best be described as a double-wide. When Marie answers the door, it’s obvious there will be no hug, and I feel silly handing her fresh flowers. She laughs in my face, something women seem to do a lot lately. “We going on a date I don’t know about?”

  “I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

  Marie is fat and loud, exactly what I pictured from our call. Paul is thin, quiet, and positioned in a spot that blocks me from entering. I extend an arm for a handshake. He reciprocates, which I appreciate because the marine tattoos snaking up both his arms are intimidating, even on a senior citizen.

  It’s possible Marie is drunk. Between her odd sense of humor, coughing fits, and half-angry, half-pleased bursts of laughter, it’s hard to know how to respond.

  Paul and I sit on the couch, and Marie follows us in with a lawn chair. “I’ll sit on this,” she says. “Never anyone here but me and Paul, so the love seat’s usually enough.” I offer up my spot on the couch, and not just to be polite—I’m not at all convinced the lawn chair can support all Marie has to offer. “Huh, a gentleman. How about that? Paul never would’ve switched.”

  “You’re right ’bout that,” Paul says. He mumbles such that his words are almost indecipherable.

  I direct my first question to Marie. “Can you tell me about your father?”

  “I can tell you he was a hell of a lot better than the SOB that raised you.”

  I choke on my coffee. “You knew my dad?”

  “Only from what Beth’d say.”

  “How often did you two talk?”

  “Oh, she hunted me down as much as she could, least once a week until I graduated high school.”

  So while hiding their existence from me, she advertised my existence to them. I don’t know which of us should be more offended.

  “What did she say about my father?”

  “She was trapped. I was eleven when Dad died and we became the state’s problem. She bawled like a baby in a wet diaper. Got married about two years after that. Things got worse over time. I know that for sure. Our dad was encouraging of Beth’s free spirit. But yours—what’s-his-name, Bob?—he had a set place for a wife.”

  My hands stiffen on my lap. “I wouldn’t say that.” Would I? It’s not as if she wore sunglasses from the lessons Dad taught her. My parents walked around each other, the way Eve and I do sometimes. They didn’t fight; it was more like there was no affiliation between them whatsoever. When my father got home, my mother went quiet. Things stayed perfectly still until he left for work the next day.

  Marie brushes my reaction aside. “Who knows? Maybe she carried on about him so we’d feel sorry for her. But she hadda sneak out of the house while he was working to see us because Bob didn’t allow it. We weren’t his problem, far as he could see. Can’t say I disagree there. Never did get why Beth kept on us. I’ll say though, hearing everything she went through with your dad was one of the reasons I never married.”

  I have a hard time picturing anyone asking Marie for her hand in marriage, but keep that observation to myself. “When did you see her last?”

  “Sheesh. Let’s see. I reckon the last time we saw Beth was two, maybe three years before she died. Right, Paul?” Paul starts to say something but gets cut off by another of Marie’s coughing fits. She waves her hand to move us along like it’s nothing, but it would be like talking over a blow-dryer. When the hacking subsides, the three of us stare at one another in a moment of silence I spend grateful Marie didn’t just drop dead. Then I ask if my mom and Phil were publicly dating.

  “Oh sure, they were the real deal. Lot of good that did us. If only they’d married. Then our life would’ve been different.”

  We have that in common, to opposite ends. Marie and Paul would’ve had a home growing up, whereas I would’ve been erased completely. “Why didn’t they?”

  “Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Depends how you see it. He was Jewish. No shocker there with the last name Goldfarb. His folks were rich, so Dad kept on the right side of them, figuring the inheritance’d be worth it someday. Beth said they called her everything from a street whore to a gold digger. She couldn’t talk about those people without raising her fists like the fight was still going on.”

  “Did you get the inheritance?”

  Marie scoffs. “You think my fat ass would be planted in this plastic chair if the answer to that was yes? We were bastards in their eyes. My dad never married our mother either. The man never fell in love with a girl from the right goddamn religion. Those crotchety pieces of shit left everything to the synagogue.”

  A hostile laugh escapes before Marie’s next cough. The visit will end as soon as I stop asking questions, so I plug along. “Do you know how they met?”

  “Beth was our caretaker after Mom died. She was always at the house, cooking, cleaning, hovering over us.”

  I’m rapt. Marie is describing a complete stranger. “Can you share a memory?”

  “I have a good one,” Paul volunteers more audibly than before. “She bought me a guitar for my fifteenth birthday. First I thought she’d stolen it because she didn’t have that kind of money, but it turned out she’d been taking a couple dollars out of her grocery money every week.” Paul looks down at his lap with a distinct frown. “It was the nicest gift I ever got. Probably still have that thing somewheres.”

  Marie smacks her knee. “I’ll be damned. She never got me nothing. That’s Paul for you. Don’t hear a peep out of him all morning, then he comes out with that sweet story. Didn’t know that one myself.” She rises from the lawn chair, careful to pry the armrests from her sides so the chair doesn’t come with her. “Well, it’s been real nice meeting you, but I have to get off to work soon.” I know it’s an excuse. Her shift doesn’t start for two hours.

  I stand. “Thanks for agreeing to meet.” There won’t be a second rendezvous and all three of us know it.

  “Uh huh.” She guides me to the door.

  “Listen, Marie, if there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, or just anything you need, here’s my business card.” For whatever reason, my mother cherished these people. Helping them would be a way to honor her memory.

  “We don’t need your money, Bradley, but thanks.”

  “It’s Brady,” I correct, embarrassing us both.

  “Right, right, Brady. That’s what I was thinking just not what I said.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you needed money. I just know you’re ill. That was all I meant.”

  She looks annoyed. Meeting me wasn’t on Marie’s bucket list. “Okay, that’s fine. You travel safe now.” The door shuts.

  So that’s how the divorcées feel when I slam the door in their face. I stand there like a complete dipshit. The case is closed, only it’s not. The disappointing fact is that my mother showered two ran
dom kids with attention instead of me, my wife jumped off a building to avoid our happily-ever-after, and my daughter enrolled herself in boarding school to get out of one more year in my company. I’m a finance guy. Three women opting out of spending time with the same man is statistically relevant. It’s a trend. Trends are the result of a catalyst, and the only common denominator here is me.

  I don’t want to be bitter, but that’s the taste in my mouth as I board the plane. By the time I land in Boston, I’m mentally drained and dreading dinner with Rory and Eve. I conjure up a few excuses to bail on the drive back, but the effort proves unnecessary. I return to an empty house and a note on the counter.

  Hi Dad,

  We went to Exeter to see the campus this afternoon. We may be back a little bit after you. I hope your big business trip was a success ☺

  Love, Bean

  I have spent a lifetime misreading women.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Madeline

  I’m mortified by my first reaction to this Paris trip. It was very Christie Anderson. Their lives are not about me anymore and I need to get over it.

  Brady had his new assistant fill every minute of the itinerary, sparing no expense. I thought Darlene would be irritated to work on something so personal, but she can’t wait to have him out of the office for a week. I think she’d have bought the tickets herself. They’re having lunch at Le Jules Verne, taking a boat cruise down the Seine, spending a day at the vineyards of Champagne, and attending a private Louvre exhibition. To account for Eve’s time while he trains for the marathon, Brady booked her an afternoon at the hotel spa and an appointment with a personal shopper at Galeries Lafayette. He bought first-class tickets, a first for Eve and a stab at me. I considered first class an excessive perk for a child, so when Eve was with us we took over a row in coach: me in the middle, Brady on the aisle, Eve at the window. Apparently, it was my battle alone; Brady didn’t hesitate to take the upgrade.