The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  It takes everything I have inside me not to envelop Ava into my arms—she hates that. Ava is not a hugger and can be a bit standoffish. I’ve always found it fascinating how she can paint her emotions so freely, just not emote them with words or public displays of affection. Unless she is with Gabe, her hero—then she is all hippy love. I’m the heavy in our house, the discipliner, the one who takes care of things. Gabe rides in on a white horse and steals the girl but I tend the stables. And yet, when Ava’s in pain or in a tough spot, it’s Mommy to the rescue. Mommy, who for the first time ever needs to be rescued herself.

  Christ, how do I do this?

  Once Ava finds out that her hero is no better than Jake, that he, too, has fallen headfirst from his pedestal, it will break her. I have to somehow keep it from her and protect her for as long as possible. But I cannot help but feel like I’m a fraud, Mary Poppins dropping in with her magic carpet bag, which is empty inside.

  How can I mother her pain when I’m in deeper pain? Who’s going to give me a spoonful of sugar?

  “Why are you looking at me so weirdly?” she asks.

  “Just thinking.” Thinking that I have no answers.

  “Well, there’s something else I have to tell you . . .” Ava’s forehead scrunches, her eyebrows slope inward. Gabe makes that same face when he comes home from a hard case at the hospital and I’m asking if he wants sushi or Thai for dinner.

  She leads us from the balcony back into the room, sits on the edge of the bed. “Don’t judge me,” she says, bunching the bedspread between her fists. Her eyes are fearful. This can’t be good.

  “Why don’t you give me a chance first?” I say. Truthfully, I’m mentally drained and I’ve only been with her for less than ten hours.

  She begins to cry. I know this is an awful thing to say but Ava is not a pretty crier. She looks exactly how she did when she was born. Like an old man in a stained white T-shirt watching a losing Cubs game.

  “I think I may be pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” I sit bolt upright. Oh god. Talk about keeping the punchline under wraps.

  She bites down on her lip, shakes her head. Now I know that look. Yes, she did take my new black sweater from my closet. Yes, she was smoking pot in her bedroom. Yes, she did let her friend cheat off her on the algebra final—and they both got a detention. Deep exhale. I know what’s coming next.

  “It’s not Jake’s,” she says, predictably.

  “Not Jake’s,” I repeat to buy myself processing time.

  “Stop repeating what I say.”

  “Stop repeating what you say?” I move in closer and feel like I want to spank her although I’ve never spanked her before. “How am I supposed to react, Ava Rose?” The middle name thrown in says it all; it is my homegrown verbal spanking. “You had me come all this way because Jake cheated on you. And now this … pregnant? You saw Jake in April, when he visited during spring break. If it’s not his, then whose is it?”

  She ignores the question, rolls her eyes, shakes her head. “I should have called Dad.”

  Fuck you, I think but obviously don’t say. “Maybe you should have called Dad. Or maybe you should have just told me this from the beginning. This is clearly much more important than a Snapchat story.”

  Who are these people in my life? Tiny family, big lies. My husband the cheater and my daughter, who still has one more year left of college, who may be pregnant with what is clearly not her boyfriend’s sperm. What type of people have lived under my roof? These dark impulses are killing me.

  “I don’t know who I am anymore,” she says dramatically, cupping her face in her hands, as if she’s in a scene from The Bold and the Beautiful.

  Right now, my sympathy factor has a gun to its head. “Back up. First, why do you think you’re pregnant?”

  “For starters, I missed my pill. My entire cycle is off, and I was supposed to get my period three days ago, and I’m always on time—always—and nothing. Not a damn thing.” The tears, which took a brief intermission, now return in full force.

  Oh Christ.

  “Did you take a pregnancy test?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Why not?”

  She wipes her eyes with her hand. “Because I have a portfolio to present tomorrow, and I had to stay focused.”

  I stare at Ava, not sure what to do first. Scream at her for sheer stupidity? She didn’t take a pregnancy test because of an extra credit presentation? Is she kidding? But my daughter, who skipped fourth grade, still has to ace everything. This is crazy. I stand, swipe my hands against my pajama bottoms. “We’re going to a gynecologist tomorrow, doing this properly.”

  “My presentation is at noon.”

  “Seriously, Ava? Fine. Let me see what I can do. I’m going to call my gynecologist’s office back home and see if they can recommend someone here.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom.” Her eyes are downcast, her bare feet shuffle against the almond-colored carpet.

  I hold up my hand. “Wait a minute. Who is the guy?”

  She glances up slowly, red faced, then blows out a deep breath, looking too much like her guilty father. “You’re going to hate this . . . Please don’t freak out.”

  At this point, Ava, freaking out doesn’t even make the cut.

  “Who?” I push.

  She speaks in rapid double time to get it out and over. “My forms and figures professor. It’s all my fault. I told Monica—that bitch—about the professor and she must’ve told Jake. And then came the Snapchat make-out. And now this . . .” She stops talking when she sees my mouth drop open. I use the nightstand next to me as a crutch to prop me up.

  Her professor? My heart sinks and won’t stop falling. This shit doesn’t just happen in real life without a script and a demented reality show writer to go with it. So the missing piece of the story makes sense: Ava cheated on Jake first.

  She sees my face, the harsh judgment that I cannot conceal in my eyes, nor do I bother. “It happened, okay, Mom. I’m not proud of it.”

  “Is he . . .” Please say no.

  “Yes, he’s married. I’m so screwed.”

  I give my daughter hard-core side eye, I can’t help it. It’s his wife who is so screwed, Ava. You are your father’s daughter. You are the Other Woman, no better than an Ashley Madison mom. My anger is close to the boiling point, and I can barely contain it.

  “Did you know he was married before it all began?” My voice is gravelly, on the verge. I have to know how badly I raised my own child.

  “Yes.”

  And there you go.

  “And that didn’t stop you?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think about it. He’s so brilliant and talented.”

  “And married . . . with kids?”

  “Yes on both. But it was his choice.”

  Let’s see your response when I tell you about your father’s forty-three choices.

  “Does this professor know you may be pregnant?”

  “No. I haven’t told anybody but you.”

  I sit back down on the bed. Now I’m squeezing the bedsheet into tiny orbs in my hands, feeling my own nails jab into my skin. “How old is he?”

  “Forty.” She pauses. “Forty-four.”

  From bad to worse. I squint tightly, trying to figure out what to say here. Does my daughter even have a conscience? No words come.

  “I know you’re so upset, Mom. I get it. I just don’t know what to do. I really care about him and I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

  “Mad at you?” I repeat, wanting to beat this man to a pulp.

  “Can we just fix this together, and leave him out of it?”

  Fix this, like I always do. That’s who I am—the Sweeper. No, I tell myself accusingly: YOU are the Enabler. You are that mother, the one whom all the parenting books snigger about—the one who brought the biology book to school after your daughter had left it on the kitchen table. Yes, that one. I find my mind wandering from the Maybe-Pregnant Teen in front of me
to the Cheater Back Home. What kind of protection did Gabe use? Did he wear condoms? Did he care about STDs? Care about giving me chlamydia or herpes? What if Ava is pregnant? What if she wants this baby? My thoughts are spiraling. The contorted images of Gabe’s and Ava’s follies are flashing and fighting for space inside my bursting head.

  I stand with arms folded, my back facing her, and then I begin to pace around the room, wondering how to say I’m so fucked in French. Okay, think. First things first. She needs to see a doctor. No matter what I’m feeling, Ava needs my support not judgment. What time is it in Chicago? I count backward seven hours. The gynecologist’s office is already closed. I will have to call their emergency number. Honestly if I could, I would bolt out the hotel room door, run from a life that no longer makes any sense. Either I screwed up so royally, or everything that I once thought was so perfect is simply a fantasy that I bought into.

  Ava surprisingly reaches for me. I feel the hot anger inside me subside just a little as I bring her close to my chest. Did I give Gabe and Ava too much rope that they choked themselves on it, not caring for repercussions and who got hurt in the process?

  I have been mulishly loyal to both of them, the family doormat, purveyor of satisfying their needs. If they are happy, then I’m a good wife and mother. If they are hungry, then I feed them. If they forget a book for school or lose their wallet/glasses/phone/car keys, then I drop everything and begin a search and rescue. I have given both all the support they need, and still I produced cheaters. They made those choices, but I made their beds. Am I the problem? Did I create two monsters—am I Dr. Frankenstein?

  Chapter Eight

  REALLY, MOM, CAFÉ DE FLORE? WHY THERE? SO TOURISTY.” AVA IS CLEARLY ANNOYED as we walk along Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the renowned café in the Sixth Arrondissement, a mere fifteen-minute walk from the hotel for brunch before her presentation.

  “Because I’ve always wanted to go there, that’s why,” I say tersely.

  Ava knows better than to argue anything at this point, and I allow myself a few moments to indulge in window shopping along the way while she walks and texts. In the distance, I see the famous ivory awning with its giant olive-green Café de Flore lettering and the legendary scripted sign above the coffeehouse that lights up at night, and I feel a surge of excitement. Celebrated for its famed literary and artistic clientele, the Flore has been a backdrop in so many French movies that it was déjà vu—like I have been there before.

  When we arrive, the café is predictably crowded and I’m hoping we can get a table on the terrace. Speaking in flawless French, Ava tells the maître d’ that we would like an outside table if possible. There are a few tables opening up so the wait shouldn’t be too bad. We decide to take a quick peek inside the restaurant, which is magnificent. I’m amazed by the classic art deco interior of cherry red seating, mahogany tables, and gilt-framed mirrors that apparently have not changed since World War II.

  I turn to Ava. “This is where Hemingway hung out with Gertrude Stein, where Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir spent their evenings, where Picasso sat,” I exclaim, ignoring her exaggerated eye roll. “If I’m going to eat croissants and drink coffee—it’s going to be right here.”

  She shrugs and, with a glint in her eye, says, “And then from here, I’m betting while I’m at school, you will be going to Shakespeare and Company and then off to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa?”

  Sarcasm. If only it were that simple. I assess my daughter, who is wearing a stylish white miniskirt and a flowy off-the-shoulder blouse, and silently pray she isn’t pregnant. “And while you’re busy mocking your mother . . . ,” I add, trying to keep things lighter between us but inside I feel sick, “just to mention that Dr. Vivienne Goldberg’s office happens to be near the Eiffel Tower—another tourist trap to add to your list.”

  “Your list. Vivienne Goldberg. Only you would find me the Jewish gynecologist.” Ava laughs—as if finding a Jewish doctor is an actual effort. I smile thinking that my grandmother, a Holocaust survivor and an activist for women’s rights, would be pleased that of the three names recommended by my gynecologist, who answered my emergency call last night, I chose a woman who is not only Jewish but also according to my Google search a renowned gay rights activist and patron of the arts. I figured that my progressive daughter would appreciate that part. And I got the appointment with Dr. Goldberg only because there was a last-minute cancellation.

  We are seated at a small round bistro table near the sidewalk and order cappuccinos and croissants. Smiling to myself, I notice that all the waiters are wearing identical black vests and bowties, with long aprons practically reaching their ankles. White towels are draped over their left forearms. It’s as though I’ve slipped into another era. I glance at my daughter, whose cheeks have suddenly become rosy, and she looks lovely. That is, until I follow the direction of her bright gaze and see exactly what that blush is all about. A Javier Bardem-but-better clone waves at her from the sidewalk and seems to be walking toward us, but first stops briefly on his way to say hello to someone.

  “Tell me that isn’t him.” Christ, he’s a full-fledged man. He looks like someone who would play racquetball with Gabe—not like age-appropriate Jake, who plays Baggo-for-beers. I lean back hard, bracing myself. My brief fantasy that I’m sitting in Simone de Beauvoir’s chair just blew up. My daughter may be pregnant with that man’s child.

  “It is him.” Ava challenges me with her eyes—Gabe’s eyes. This girl has always pushed the envelope. But this time, too damn far.

  “Are you kidding me?” I manage to scrape out. “Why is he here?”

  She smiles at him while talking to me. “I texted him that I was with you. And he said he was actually on his way to school but would stop by and say hello.”

  How very French of him. My cheeks begin to burn. No shame. She’s a teenager. He’s married with kids and her professor. And he wants to stop by for a meet and greet? I’m not equipped for this. I glare at Ava. “Really? This is happening right now?”

  “Please, Mom, just be nice. You’ll see why . . .”

  Oh, I can see why. The cheating professor wears a loose black button-down shirt unbuttoned a few too many, dark jeans, loafers, and his hair is Euro-shaggy. He’s ridiculously sexy. But not for a teenager. My teenager. I can only imagine Lauren’s and Samantha’s side comments right now, beginning with I would definitely Eat Pray Love that guy, and then going straight to the gutter from there. And then I remember . . . there is no more Lauren and Samantha. My heart drops with a thud as the professor stands in front of us, a handsome blur, as an even deeper sadness clouds over me.

  He and Ava cheek-cheek kiss, and the worst part is Ava’s reaction to him—the sheer electricity between them. My stomach twists as he turns toward me. I wonder what his wife, who probably picked out that shirt, would think of this little rendezvous. She would want to kill my daughter. I want to kill my daughter. Whoever thought that I would be in this position, when I could easily have gone to high school with this guy.

  I sip my cappuccino without blinking, staring over the top of the white ceramic rim, while Ava introduces us. I hear my name, but in a fog. I wish Gabe were here right now—is that crazy? He would have taken over, known what to do.

  The professor slowly removes his Ray-Bans and smiles gallantly. “Bonjour, je m’appelle Olivier,” he says for the second time, only a little louder.

  Of course, you are. I snap out of my trance. “I’m Sophie Bloom,” I respond to his velvety French in a crisp authoritative English, though my college French conversation is still pretty good. He eyes the empty chair next to me, waits for the invitation that doesn’t come.

  “May I?” he asks in English and points to the chair.

  And if I say no? But I nod instead.

  His and Ava’s eyes remain locked across the table as he sits down, and suddenly I feel like I’m in the middle of a seduction—a Nabokov/Lolita moment, a Last Tango in Paris engagement—and I can’t breathe. This is my d
aughter you’re playing around with, mister.

  Olivier cocks his head slightly, weighs his words. “Forgive me, but you look so much like Ava. It’s very . . . disconcerting.” He appears almost pleased with himself for using such a big English word.

  This is insane. He’s discussing my looks? “Olivier,” I begin, clearing my throat, more than ready to cut the crap. “This for me”—I gesture to both of them—“is not at all acceptable.”

  “Mom, please,” Ava interjects angrily. I glare back. What is she possibly thinking? That we are going to bond and discuss the artistic differences between Picasso and Braque, Monet and Matisse?

  “Yes, I understand,” he acknowledges, signaling the waiter over simultaneously and quickly ordering a double espresso. “I know how this must look.”

  “Look?” I repeat incredulously. I sit on my hands to prevent them from ramming the butter knife into his throat. “Ava still has another year left of college. You’re married with kids. And she may be pregnant,” I blurt out.

  “Mom!”

  Olivier turns to Ava, his mouth dropping. “Is this true?”

  “Jesus, Mom!”

  Jesus yourself. “Ava, answer him.”

  “Oui,” she says. “I missed my period. We’re going to the gynecologist this afternoon.”

  “I’m coming,” he says, not blinking.

  “You’re not coming,” I snap. “This needs to be over, Olivier. I’m sorry, but it does. You’re married,” I emphasize again, as if no one understood me the first time around.

  “Oh my god.” Ava turns, giving me the evil eye.

  “Sophie, please, it’s not like that,” Olivier says softly.

  “Do I look stupid?” I ignore Ava and continue the prosecution. “You have tenure, I presume, at the École des Beaux-Arts? Does this allow you to do whatever you please? I also assume—but who knows, this is Paris—that they must have a no-sleeping-with-students policy?” My bitchiness is in full swing. “It is exactly like that.”

  “Mom, why are you being like this?”