by Cara Mentzel
Walker clawed at the waves velociraptor-style, bared his teeth, and growled as they jumped toward him. Jake dived right in fully clothed like he’d just arrived at a frat party with a pool. And Avery greeted the water with his pensive gentleness, observing the coral and his new turf, surf? Welcome to paradise.
There were minor shuffles as Mom, Dee, Mark, and I took turns watching the boys and grabbing our beach necessities—books, hats, sunscreen, towels, and non-necessities like champagne and strawberries—from inside the villa. Eventually we toasted to family, then collapsed on our lounge chairs. We’d arrived.
In my experience, a kitchen table is often the stage for classic family drama, whether it’s nestled in an alcove of a Long Island town house or in shouting distance of a child’s train table in Colorado’s suburbia. The table in our Anguilla villa was no exception. It was a long wicker oval set to accommodate ten diners (and Walker’s innumerable rubber dinosaurs), situated near a wall of windows that overlooked a shaded strip of beach and bushes—a hospitable residence for many hermit crabs, our own private beach-life terrarium.
At breakfast on our first morning in Anguilla, the family drama began. Tanzania, one of our chefs—I’m a little embarrassed to admit that we had chefs for breakfast—brought yogurt to the table and Jake noticed the label said “probiotic.” I’d previously taught Jake that probiotics were healthy bacteria that lived in our bodies. I’d explained that because he’d been taking antibiotics, medicine that killed “bad” and “good” bacteria in his body, he’d need to supplement his diet with probiotics. Jake had clearly remembered this conversation when he posed an interesting question at the breakfast table: “Why are probiotics healthy, but yogurt and dairy are supposed to be bad for you when you’re sick?” Honestly, I’d often wondered the same thing (and later learned it was a myth). It seemed counterintuitive that healthy probiotics should be part of a food that isn’t healthy to ingest when fighting a respiratory infection. I attempted to explain the relevant pieces of information to him: mucus, pH balance, and intestinal bacteria. As I said “intestinal,” Dee interrupted.
“Cara, hear how your voice goes up, there? It’s a sign of insecurity, a lack of confidence when you’re speaking.” Tears welled in my eyes but I stayed them with the mind control of a sci-fi villain. A lump of sadness crept up the very throat that wasn’t speaking deeply enough, the very place Dee wanted my confident words to rise from, and I swallowed hard, sending my sadness back to a safer place.
It had been a long time since Dee had last pointed out the weakness in my voice, but she’d referred to it enough times throughout our lives that I knew the criticism well.
“When you speak lower,” she added, as if she were making the observation for the first time, “from your chest, like you do sometimes, you sound more confident.”
“I don’t know why I do that,” I managed to say in a voice neither high nor low—but fuck if I could tell the difference at that point.
“You’re brilliant,” Dee added. “You should speak with confidence.” But the compliment disappeared under the weight of the criticism. Mark, Jake, Avery, Walker, and Mom were all around the table, listening and watching. My insecurity on center stage, I felt impotent, envious of the shelled privacy of the nearby hermit crabs.
Maybe I wasn’t as successful at hiding my tears as I’d thought because then Dee added, “I’m sure nobody else notices it. It’s just me, ’cause I pay attention to these things—I have to.” Don’t. Cry. I flashed Dee a quick smile and replied, “I know. I get it.” Swallow those feelings, Cara. I noticed my coffee patiently waiting askew on the bumpy wicker table. Swallow them with some coffee, I thought and lifted my mug to my lips.
I went upstairs following breakfast and put on a bathing suit. It was a cheap black one from Target with fringe that hung from the bandeau top. I stood in front of the mirror and stared at the fringe as I tried to recover from breakfast. Somewhere inside me there was a wound and I was reminded of it every time Dee commented on my voice—speaking or singing voice—or noted my nervous laugh. I didn’t know what it would take for it to finally heal, but I needed it to. I wanted resolution and I wanted it right then and there because the dynamic was old and tired and made me feel old and tired too. And because I knew no other way to force a change, I forbade my nerves the same way I forbade my tears earlier, and went to confront Dee.
I caught her privately on her way to the patio. I was trembling.
“Dee,” I said and started crying immediately. “Dee, why does that get me, bother me so much?” and there was a brief second where she searched my words for their context and then joined me in my memory, right back at the breakfast table.
She responded, “Because it’s so critical and rude and I shouldn’t say shit like that—people do that to me and I hate it.” There was something confusing about her boomerang response, a response that turned the criticism around and directed it back at herself. I didn’t want her to feel bad, but she clearly did. And so we stood there in our bikinis, wanting to take each other’s hurt away.
“I know it’s you protecting me, wanting me to be big and strong—” I said, and she interrupted, “Because I look up to you, Cara. Because that’s how I see you.”
“I don’t know how to change it, Dee. How to feel stronger when I’m around you,” and the tears that had slowed started up again.
“I’m projecting my own insecurities. It’s my shit. Not yours.”
She was sorry. I could see it in her face. I didn’t know if acknowledging how bad we both felt would move us toward something different or just toward the next time the subject came up. I worried that acknowledging our pattern would only reinforce it, but I hoped it would take us somewhere new.
A couple of days later we took a day excursion in a private boat. We’d just arrived at a small beach where we saw a rock that rose an intimidating distance out of the cerulean water, a relatively short swim from the shore. In a vast Caribbean landscape, I guessed every distance was larger than it seemed from my seat on our boat; the distance from our boat to the shore would likely feel farther once I was in the water, and the rock might feel more like a cliff when standing on its crest. By my emotional estimation, the rock stretched high enough skyward to make me nervous, but not so nervous that I wouldn’t let my boys jump from it. Our guide said it was approximately thirty feet high.
It was clear that many people had spent their day between that rock and its nearby shore. There were buoys marking acceptable places for boats to anchor, and at the top ridge of the rock were two two-by-four slats of wood vertically planted into its crust like a pair of hiking poles. On one end of the rock was a rope that hung from midway up its face and landed at the water’s surface. I imagined many hands, large and small, had grabbed on to the end of that rope and pulled their way out of the sleek water and onto the rock’s calloused skin.
My boys’ hands would be next. They swam with Mark from the boat to the rope. Jake was first to grab hold of the rope, the strength in his skinny arms evident in defined mini-muscles. He pulled and climbed, carefully searched for footholds and handholds, and rounded the edge to the top within a few short minutes.
“It’s a lot higher than it looks,” he shouted. I watched him through the video camera, wishing I could protect his ego and his body simultaneously, trying to still the camera and distinguish the difference between his fear and my fear for him. But before I could overanalyze or beat myself up for letting him get up there in the first place, he jumped. He screamed with fear and excitement the brief way down to his triumphant splash. And he emerged giddy with pride and adrenaline.
Avery was next. I recalled our climbing trip to Moab only a couple of years earlier, where he spent four days rock climbing with his middle-school class. I was grateful for that experience, which was now helping him safely scale the rock. He appeared confident and I was proud of him. Just like Jake before him, he rounded the edge to the top within mere minutes and made his way to the launch. Unlike Jak
e, Avery examined his surroundings like a physics problem—if I step here first, then here, I’ll have enough speed to get there and then I’ll be able to clear the distance from that point over there, and I’ll still land feet-first. Then he confidently took his hands off the two-by-fours and jumped as matter-of-factly as a wave to a friend across the street. We cheered. Jake, who had swum directly back to the boat, was next to me and I could feel brotherly pride when Avery braved the jump.
During a brief period of mulling around, offering towels, and opening soda cans, I decided I would jump off the rock, too. I’m not sure why. Looking back, the decision that I made in a split second had the force of years behind it. Apart from my feet during a few games of “run away” with Walker, in which we ran to the ocean and then ran away from it before it could touch us, I hadn’t been in the ocean all week. There’d been intermittent rain, there was sharp coral in the water, there were strong winds, and there were waves that looked a bit like bullies. For whatever reason, I had opted not to go into the water in the days prior to our boat excursion, and I felt compelled to get into the water on the day of our boat trip.
I also wanted to connect with Jake and Avery. I’d been such a pain in the ass lately. My depression, though finally medicated, left our home life in overcast conditions and I was responsible. I hadn’t been my usual fun, inappropriate self and I was developing the bad habit of nagging the boys rather than inspiring them. The days were all business—getting out of the house by 7:15 A.M., doing school, doing homework, doing dinner, and getting ready for bed. I wanted to be fun again. I wanted to give them the kick-ass mom I used to be. The one who would go to the top of the food chain and take down a teacher if he messed with my kid. The one who knew when they needed to be pushed harder and when they needed permission to say, “Fuck it.” I used to be the mom who would cook a five-course Japanese meal from scratch because Jake requested it, or make a homemade Halloween costume of Max from Where the Wild Things Are without a sewing pattern. I wanted them to be proud of me, to like me again. I wanted to feel likable.
Sitting on the boat with my sister, I considered my strength. I was the flimsy, lanky sister, who got sick a lot. She was the athletic, strong sister, with the powerhouse voice. She loved sleepaway camp, and I was homesick. She fought with mom and I avoided conflict. She had direction, when I was lost.
The huge rock jutting out of the water was formidable and felt like an invitation to the formidable part of me. The Cara who birthed her boys at home, juggled single motherhood, and could pitch a tent with the kids in the twilight and rain. The Cara who sang a karaoke duet with her sister, who found a sense of humor in a holding cell and the word “penis” in “pennies.” I’m strong. I’m fun. I’m in Anguilla.
“I’m gonna go jump.” Once the words flew out of my mouth, there was no putting them back in.
As soon as I drew attention to myself, everything intensified. I belabored the jump from the boat to the water. Readied my bikini top and bottom. Tested the water with my foot, peeking over my shoulder to ensure no one would shove me in. I dived in before I could be pushed and the sea felt silky. It was smooth and crystal-clear, cleansing and refreshing. I began to swim freestyle over to the rock. Each time I lifted an arm out of the water and dug it into the sea, I felt my strength building—years of summer-camp swim meets in every stroke. I arrived at the rope quickly. I reached for the white, clean portion a couple inches above the algae-ridden end and pulled myself up. I was proud of my first few footholds, peripherally aware of the boat full of people watching my ascent. By the halfway point, where the rope ended, my momentum slowed and I was aware only of increasing height. I’d grossly miscalculated my fear of heights—as Avery liked to say, “You’re not afraid of heights, Ma. You’re afraid of landing poorly at a hundred miles per hour.”
My once semi-graceful bikini-clad body became a clunky, awkward body, my crotch center stage for onlookers, my fingers clawing around the edge like a cat clawing out of a bathtub. At the top there was no happy place to plant my feet. Everything was steep and sharp. And it was high, really fuckin’ high. In the air to the left of the two-by-four I imagined a large sign, JUMP AT YOUR OWN RISK. My legs started to shake as I made my way over the lichen and the ridges and bumps between the launch point and me. I took another step and the words on the sign blurred and faded, reemerging as CAUTION: PEOPLE DIE HERE, a statement for which I had no information to either confirm or deny. I made it to the imaginary sign and in its final state it read, YOU, CARA MENTZEL, WILL SLAM YOUR FACE INTO THE WATER BELOW, INCUR A NECK INJURY, AND LOSE YOUR BIKINI BOTTOM ALL AT THE SAME TIME, WHILE ONLOOKERS GASP AND GAB AT YOUR MISFORTUNE.
“Give us a pose!” Dee shouted from behind the video camera, and I managed to run my fingers through my wet hair and shove my hip off to the side. I thought of Halle Berry in 007’s Die Another Day, standing on the edge of a massive cliff in her hot bikini, her back facing the open water. She flashed a knowing grin at Pierce Brosnan, brought her arms up over her head, and dived backward seamlessly into a tiny slit in the water below. On my comparatively little cliff, with my comparatively little boobs, and my giant-size fear, I hated Halle Berry.
I stood trembling between the two-by-fours. Though I have no recollection of Jake’s being anywhere near me, he apparently leaped off the boat, swam to the rock again, climbed it, stepped in front of me, and jumped off the cliff a second time. His presence was eclipsed by my terror and known only to me through the video I watched that evening. In the time it took me to jump, someone a beach away enjoyed a grilled lobster and chardonnay, someone else napped in a sarong on a passing yacht, and yet another person discovered a functioning ATM in Anguilla.
I was wobbling, nearly naked, equally aware of my jiggling thighs as I was of the limited options to stop them: jump, or be the poor sap at the center of a humiliating helicopter rescue. I had to jump, but I was paralyzed. How had I gotten myself into this?
“Just jump, Mom!”
“Jump toward me, baby!” Mark hollered and threw in some inspirational whistles for good measure.
“The video camera’s running out of space!” Dee shouted.
“Jump!”
And my personal favorite from four-year-old Walker Diggs: “Auntie Cara, you’re boring me!”
In my hypervigilant state, I spotted a slight outcropping only a yard or two farther down the side of the rock. It would be debatably more dangerous to get to than to simply jump from where I stood, but looking at the small ledge the size of my two feet put together, I was able to imagine moving my legs again. I approached it with precision. Somehow I knew my party on the boat didn’t like where I was heading; if I slipped, I’d be seriously wounded—if not dead. The rock had a couple of handlelike cracks in its surface and I wedged my right hand into one and steadied myself. I slowly slid my left leg down the face until it was inches away from the new ledge. I found a place for my left hand, and on my back I started sliding my right leg down to meet the left. I let go and felt my feet land safely on my tiny new spot. I could feel a collective sigh of relief from the boat. I examined my new, slightly modified challenge and was relieved when I realized the hardest part was behind me.
Mark jumped into the water and swam toward me. “Jump toward me, baby! Jump out this way.” He whistled, they cheered, and I … jumped.
The water was kind to me. I kept my top and my bottom and, having landed properly, tolerated a surprising saltwater enema. I was relieved, but mostly indifferent. Was I proud or did I feel like an ass? Did my modified jump even count? Count toward what? Had I earned points toward the Fun Mommy Award of 2014, the Nearly 40 and Unforgettable Award? At least I was no longer the boring auntie.
I had aimed for brave, sleek, and swift. Instead I got terrified, awkward, and possibly cute. But I also aimed for memorable and I was fairly certain I’d achieved it. The swim back was a blur. I climbed back onto the boat.
“I’m proud of you,” someone said.
For what? I thought. For thi
nking that pushing my personal limits would be rewarding, that it might help me occupy my life in a fuller way. Did I think that a thirty-foot drop would knock the depression out of me, that it would make me a better mom? That it might help me speak more confidently and improve things with my sister? Maybe I just thought I’d feel more alive.
The boat guy handed me a Ting and vodka and I finished drying off. Slowly but surely, perhaps thanks to the vodka, I felt a sense of pride. Maybe it was a twenty-five-foot sense of pride instead of a thirty-foot one. Maybe my bravery would be measured in percent of battery remaining on Jake’s video camera instead of my free-fall distance. Maybe I ended up on a stage again, unable to perform as I’d hoped. Or maybe it didn’t make a difference whether I jumped or not. Who knows? But I climbed that rock, stood on the edge, jumped, and I lived. That’s got to be worth something.
Lesson 16
HOW TO LET GO
Frozen was a blockbuster and “Let It Go” was nominated for an Academy Award. Dee wouldn’t only be attending the Oscars, she would be performing “Let It Go” live at the ceremony, and it was a big deal, the highest-profile performance of her career.
I wanted to go to the Oscars. I’d wondered what I would look like with a red-carpet makeover. I was curious to see how it would feel to be dropped into the heart of Hollywood in front of all those cameras and famous faces. Of course, I wanted not only to see Dee’s performance live but to be the steady sister whose mere presence calmed her nerves. And even more than wanting to attend the Oscars with Dee, I wanted to be the one she preferred to take, not the logical choice that would save her from having to choose between Mom and Dad, or the default option because she was without a romantic partner. I wanted Dee to be as excited about taking me to the Oscars as I would be to go with her. And it was possible. She always wanted someone in the family to share first-time milestones with her.