by Cara Mentzel
As if feminism’s Rosie the Riveter fist weren’t discouraging enough, I assumed Mom, Dad, and Dee would disapprove of a pregnancy then, too. For one thing, when Dad and I talked on the phone he still said things like, “Tell me again, why aren’t you applying to med school?” and, “You sure you don’t want to be a doctor?” I tried to convince myself to postpone motherhood five years, even two years, and it helped that I didn’t have a choice; though we’d taken a risk that day, Jon wanted to wait to have children. Had my hope to conceive betrayed him?
Daily, I thought about having a baby and each time I had to persuade myself that the time wasn’t right. The conversation with myself grew tiresome.
You don’t have money.
We have enough. People have had less.
Focus on your career.
I’m not ready to. Why does my career have to come first?
Don’t you want to BE something?
Yes, I want to be a mother.
You’re too young and naïve.
Maybe. But there will always be something I don’t know.
You don’t understand how much work it is to have a baby.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes.
You’re not ready.
Is anyone? Ever?
Be patient.
Then patience would win, because I wasn’t good at being patient but I wanted to be. My children would need a patient mother.
Two weeks later, I took a trip back to Colorado to visit Mom. I locked myself in her bathroom and unfolded instructions to a pregnancy test. I carefully examined the diagrams: two lines, positive, one line, negative. I flattened out the small sheet of paper on the vanity, unwrapped the stick, and peed on the “absorbent tip.” When I finished, I stared at those tiny windows for a clue to my future like I’d just peed on a crystal ball.
It had been challenging to wait two weeks to take the test and just then it was tough to wait one more minute for the results. The moisture crossed the first window, leaving a blue line in its path like invisible ink in lemon juice. One. As the moisture entered the second window, I took a deep breath, suddenly scared and unsure what I wanted. I quickly found comfort in the possibility that conceiving a child from that slim opportunity with Jon might mean the child was meant to be, that the Forces of the Universe had intervened and helped make a difficult decision for me. Furthermore, acknowledging that something spiritual may have played a role in my pregnancy offered me shelter from the judgment of others. In the face of criticism, I could deflect some of the responsibility by suggesting there were other forces at play.
Then there it was.… Two. My lids dropped shut and sent tears down my cheeks. Until then, the happiest I’d ever been was when I watched Dee sing. But the news of a baby brought with it a new kind of happiness, not the adrenaline rush I often felt when Dee performed, but a stillness. Peace. I set my hand over my abdomen and pictured the embryo. My child was a tiny light in the darkness of my womb and my heart hung high above it, bright as the moon.
I called Jon and told him first. Pregnancy was not what he thought we’d talk about on the phone that day. He’d planned to tell me that he’d just bought a car, a fact that gave him pause after hearing my baby news. But of the many things he was probably feeling upon hearing we were pregnant, there was no question, one of them was joy. I told Mom next. She had the warmest reaction in my family. She hugged me. She cried. She said, “I know how much you’ve wanted this.” But I knew she was worried. Her love for me, though unconditional and endless, was a veil too transparent to mask her concern.
I told Dad over the phone, and then Dee, and I shared the news with excessive enthusiasm. Perhaps I thought I could rouse their enthusiasm with my own, and that positive posturing might help me avoid a negative response on their part. But I knew they’d be shocked. After all, I was a good girl. I was Miss Substance-Free-Dorm, Miss Magna Cum Laude. When I heard Dad’s initial shock, I assured him, “I want this baby, there’s nothing I want more.” Minutes later, I told Dee the same: “I want this baby, there’s nothing I want more.” So they tried to be happy for me, despite their concerns. But I was young, unmarried, and unemployed, and while I chose to minimize those realities, part of me knew that expecting my family to ignore them was unfair. And though I couldn’t articulate why, part of me knew my sister was pissed; I’d learn more about why, later.
In the more than a year that Dee spent as Maureen in Rent, she recorded the original soundtrack, received a Tony nomination for best featured actress in a musical, and mooned tens of thousands of theatergoers, including the Clintons, Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, and Matt Dillon. Then she signed a recording contract with Hollywood Records and moved on from Rent to pursue her career as a recording artist.
Dee’s voice had been her most apparent talent, but she wasn’t just a vocalist, she was an artist. She had journals stuffed with lyrics and seeds for songs. The piano of our childhood—on which we rarely practiced for our piano lessons with Herb Strizek—resided in her apartment, and she often found inspiration for her own music in a new series of chords. But even with her gigs at The Bitter End and other venues around the city, Dee had spent the vast majority of her time over the years singing other people’s songs. Her album was a chance to create her own sound and her own music.
I still lived in San Diego, and Dee lived between New York and Los Angeles while she worked on her album. Simultaneously and separately, she and I nurtured our creative energies. She was in New York when I flew out there for a visit and joined her at the historic Bearsville Studios in Woodstock. Since its opening in 1970, musicians, including The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Patti Smith, R.E.M., and Natalie Merchant, recorded at Bearsville, and Dee was thrilled to record in a space that carried the memories and spirit of the artists that were there before her.
I sat on a threadbare loveseat in a large loftlike room with tall ceilings and scuffed hardwood floors. A foot in front of me was a coffee table and just beyond it stood a wall with two windows. One window was long and narrow like an aquarium. Through it I could see Dee standing with bulky headphones next to a microphone that hung like a cattail. The other window was smaller, and invoked the image of an interrogation room. Through it was a mixing board, the sound engineer, and producer Milton Davis. Milton had produced Dionne Farris’s “I Know.” It was a catchy song I knew well and enjoyed, and I was excited about his collaboration with Dee.
That afternoon Dee was working on an original song called “Still I Can’t Be Still.” My first instinct was to call it a ballad, but there was a lot of movement in the music. It was hypnotic. The drums had a tribal quality that compelled me to move my head back and forth like it was tracing the shape of an infinity symbol in the air. I listened as Dee took the same few measures over and over. Her vocals were emotionally wrought and yet somehow still soothing. It occurred to me that I could probably recognize her voice on the radio, at a wedding, or in a bathroom at Macy’s, even if all she sang was a note or two. I was attuned to the distinctiveness of her voice and knowing her that well made me feel special. She moved on, taking a chunk of the next verse, and I continued to listen. Sometimes she sang carefree, exploring the possibilities in each part, and sometimes carefully, chasing a particular sound. She and Milton collaborated throughout the process. Occasionally she asked me what I thought, which was kind, but futile, because I loved everything. In this way and over the course of the day, she worked her way through the whole song with the endurance of an athlete and the elegance of an artist.
When she sang the lyric, “I don’t believe I’m beautiful, at least I have my sister’s smile,” I had mixed feelings. For all the ways I admired her, I liked hearing that she was happy to be like me in some way. I liked hearing that she thought we had something in common, and I was honored to be mentioned. Though if the lyric was to be believed, it was heartbreaking that she didn’t think she was beautiful. And I knew there was some truth to it.
Later, when Dee’s agent stopped by for a liste
n, Milton blasted the track through the studio. The song moved through me in waves where I was certain even my unborn child could feel it. “Meet your aunt Dee Dee,” I whispered. “Your beautiful aunt Dee Dee.”
I was over six months’ pregnant when Dee and Mom came to town for my wedding. We were grabbing breakfast at the greasy spoon diner next door to the dress shop where we had an appointment for my final fitting. We reviewed the wedding plans. Jon and I weren’t having a reception. We chose to have a morning ceremony that focused on our vows, followed by a small brunch buffet of fruit, croissants, and bagels. We didn’t have a lot of money. Jon had been helping his dad build the family business and my pregnancy made it difficult for me to find a job; no one wanted to hire someone who could commit to only nine months of employment, and I wasn’t comfortable lying in my interview. Mom gave us a lump sum that she had saved for me over the years and Jon and I wanted to save it for the baby and a down payment on a house.
At the diner I explained to Dee and Mom that to stick within our wedding budget Jon and I chose to keep flowers to a minimum. There would be a sunflower on each table, my bouquet, and boutonnieres, but that was all. No adorned arch, elaborate centerpieces, or flowers along the aisle. The ceremony would take place on a cliff in La Jolla and we hardly needed to make the venue more beautiful.
“That’s all you’re doing?” Dee asked.
“That’s what we can afford.”
“Let me take care of the flowers,” she offered.
“You don’t need to do that, Dee. I’m happy to keep things simple.” I needed her to know I wasn’t settling. Any evidence of disappointment on my part could prompt—or, worse yet, validate—her concerns that I was making the wrong choices for my life.
“No. I want to do it,” she insisted. “Let’s do something special.”
I indulged her—or was I indulging myself?
“I always wanted a flower tiara, like made of teacup roses or something.”
Mom joined the conversation. “Beautiful, like a ballerina.”
“That’d be gorgeous,” Dee added. “I bet they can do that. Call over there. Tell them we’re swinging by later.” Her words were swift. She was in rescue mode, which was generous, but I didn’t feel that I needed saving.
“What about hair and makeup?” she asked next. “Do you have that set up for tomorrow morning?”
“No,” I told her, knowing it was the wrong answer.
“Ca-ra,” she said like she sometimes did, her voice taking a dip at the end, suggesting I’d been remiss. I always knew when Dee was annoyed with me. There was a tone and inflection in her voice that could make the most innocuous word bitter, in this instance, my name. Maybe Dee’s tone felt harsh because I was so sensitive to her opinion, or maybe because it actually was harsh. I suspect both explanations are true. Regardless, my reaction to her was always the same: I retreated or gave in.
“It’s really not necessary, Dee. I planned to do my own.”
“But it’s your wedding. It’s part of the fun. Let me do it as a gift,” she said, nodding her head.
“Do you think we can still find someone?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know. Probably,” I told them. “I’ll ask around.”
I thanked Dee, but I was disappointed in myself. I shouldn’t have accepted her offers. I’d been desperate to convince her I could be self-reliant, but I didn’t know how to push back and say no to her. And, if I’m honest, I was too easily led astray by my fondness for tiaras and professional updos.
After breakfast we hopped over to the dress shop. It was a modest establishment, dull, with a few dresses on muslin-covered mannequin busts, blouses hanging from four-armed clothing racks, and a small selection of wedding shoes on a round glass table in the corner. There was little question that the space was more for alterations and dressmaking than for shopping. At the time, maternity gowns were hard to find and this store was the only place in La Jolla that would build a custom wedding gown. Mom had been to the shop with me months earlier and we’d designed the dress together. We chose a cream chiffon gown that ruched tight across my bust and flowed to the floor. The empire waist would accommodate my growing midsection. We planned to adjust the hem last-minute depending on the size of my heels and the size of my belly. The dress was our idea of a safe bet.
I set a shopping bag down on a bench and pulled a shoe box out of it.
“Oooh. Are those your shoes? Let me see,” Dee said. I opened the box and exposed a pair of cream sateen pumps. She paused, her face blank, and then said, “Are you sure you want to wear those?” Again, like I should have known better. “They’re grandma shoes. They’re frumpy.”
“Dee—” Mom tried to interrupt, probably hoping to soften the blow, but I spoke instead.
“I’m pregnant,” I defended myself. “Have you seen the stairs I need to walk down?”
“No, but—”
“I have sciatica,” I stopped her, “and a whole new center of gravity. Besides, they won’t even show. The dress covers them.”
But she was right about the shoes. And she was kind to call them frumpy instead of downright ugly—which they were. The toe was square, the heel a thick stump. They looked like my grandma should wear them and stick a shiny gold buckle across the toe box.
“Still,” she insisted, “you can’t wear those. You can suck it up for a couple of hours. A nice pair of heels will make you feel pretty and feminine. Even if you can’t see them.”
I realized that much had changed since we’d lived together. Dee used to be the tomboy and I was the girly girl. I was the sister who once lost a whole set of Lee Press-On Nails while washing my hair in the shower. I was the sister who put on too much makeup and orchestrated amateur modeling shoots during sleepovers with my friends. Times had changed.
I tried not to feel insulted; after all, I knew Dee’s intention was to help me, not hurt me. But despite her best efforts to be an enthusiastic and dutiful maid of honor, it was clear to me that she was frustrated. She was focused on ensuring that I had the wedding she thought I deserved, and given my constraints, I was making that difficult for her. But what I wanted more than flowers or hair and makeup or pretty heels was her genuine excitement and approval, and I sensed those were harder for her to give me.
Dee grabbed another pair of shoes from the table in the corner and asked the seamstress for my size. They were sandals with two-and-a-half-inch heels, and thin, elegant straps that trailed around my foot and up my ankle, where they finished in a tiny gold buckle. I slid my foot into one. Dee squatted down on the floor and fumbled with a buckle so small we needed Stuart Little to fit the prong into the pinhole. Of course, she was right. Instant elegance. Those sandals changed the expression on my face. I looked in the mirror and noticed that when I wore them, even in shorts and a zip-up sweatshirt, I naturally pulled my shoulders back and sucked my cheeks in ever so slightly.
I went into the dressing room and pushed my shorts down over my heels. I put on my strapless bra while the seamstress gently laid the dress in a ring on the floor. I carefully stepped inside it. She pulled the dress up and then drew the straps over my shoulders. She zipped the back. I adjusted my boobs and stood up straight, set the curtain aside, and stepped on the pedestal in front of the three-way mirror. In an instant, it was clear that Mom and I had made a mistake. While my toes were perfectly peeking out beneath the hem, my nipples were not-so-perfectly peeking out the top. We had bet on my belly growing, which was still more of a mound than a full-on baby bump. We should have bet on my boobs.
“Oh shit,” I said and snorted. I flashed on an image of my grandmother’s face as I walked down the aisle and her eyes dropped from my tiara to my nipples, a pair of rising suns on a chiffon horizon. She’d surely have a heart attack. She was a good sport about the whole my-granddaughter-is-knocked-up thing, but if I walked down the aisle with nipples shouting “Mornin’!” to all our guests, she’d walk her frumpy pumps with the gold buckles over the toe box right back to the hotel
.
Dee, Mom, and I stood facing the three-way mirror. Dee held her hand over her forehead like she was shading her face from the sun. “I’m thinking that’s not the look you were going for,” she joked, and I squealed with my hand over my mouth, “Oh my god!” I turned to Dee and said, “Who knew the day would come when my boobs would be bigger than yours!”
Mom bent over into peeing pose. She crossed her legs and trapped her hand between her thighs. Her laughter was silent and she held her breath, her face turning pink. It’s worth noting that this was our go-to don’t-pee-your-pants strategy. None of us had ever explicitly articulated the theory behind the strategy, but we intuited it. If you hold in your breath, you can hold in your laugh, thereby holding in the contents of your bladder. Dee and I watched Mom successfully implement the strategy. When Mom regained her composure, her eyes widened and she approached me. She gave an upward tug on the bust of my gown and started to MacGyver me into that dress.
“We need another piece of fabric,” she said to the seamstress. “Can you add it right here?” and pointed her finger just above the existing ruche. “Maybe even at an angle, like this,” and she folded the chiffon over a little, to make it narrow at my cleavage. “Actually, it’s even prettier this way. We need a different bra, one with less padding. Cara, do you still have that other one we bought? Can we let it out at the zipper a tiny bit, too?” The seamstress glared at Mom with a straight pin ready in one hand and another sticking out of her mouth like a toothpick. “We need it ready tonight,” Mom finished.
While Mom and the seamstress pinned me up, I stared at myself in the mirror. I’d always been lean and lanky with a smallish chest, and arms so long they made me feel graceful in ballet class, but awkward when I danced at bat mitzvahs. I was a new woman in that mirror. I was a buxom brunette ready to salsa her way down the aisle in my augmented maternity gown, slinky sandals, new breasts, and shapely hips. Va-va-voom, I thought and smiled at myself.