by Diana Welch
I still had my fork in my hand, so I quieted the jiggling chicken by putting it into my mouth. The rest of my food glistened with a thick residue of dog spit. I could see it on the rice.
LIZ
DIANA WAS THE only reason I wanted to go back to Bedford that winter. I had knit her a sweater in Norway for Christmas and bought her new siblings gifts as well—a crystal polar bear for Margaret and a stuffed walrus for William. I got Nancy and Ted a box of Norwegian chocolates and, remembering Nancy’s last letter, called that afternoon from the Stewarts’, who were in London for the holidays, to make an appointment to see Diana.
Ted answered. “Welcome home, stranger!” he said, kind and gentle as always.
“Hello!” I answered, my nerves rattling my voice. “I just wanted to see when I could come for a visit.”
“When do you want to come?” he asked.
“Would this afternoon be all right?” I ventured.
“I don’t see why not,” he said. His cheerful tone made me feel silly for even asking.
The drive took only ten minutes, yet it felt as if there were years between us. I was worried I wouldn’t recognize Diana. I was going to see my little sister, and I had butterflies in my stomach as if I were going on a date with a crush. “This is silly,” I thought. “She’s my sister.”
I turned into the Chamberlains’ driveway, parked the car, and walked to the front door, painted a shiny red and decorated with a plump Christmas wreath. I rang the bell, and Nancy answered.
“Merry Christmas!” I shouted.
Diana was right behind her and almost tackled me. “Liz!” She was shouting, too. Margaret and William came running and were soon jumping around me like windup toys.
Ted came next. “The Viking returns,” he said and reached out to give me a hug.
Nancy was silent, her face frozen into a frown. Her arms stayed crossed on her chest, but then she forced a smile and invited me in. We all sat down in the family room.
Diana was wearing tartan slacks, brown leather loafers, and a red mohair cardigan. Gone were the pink glasses Mom had let her pick out herself. Gone too were her ropy locks, now cut into a neat bob and held in place with a navy blue velvet headband. Margaret, in a wool dress and lacy white tights, was hopping on one foot, then the other, excited to open her gift. I sat on the couch, and Diana sat close next to me.
“How was Norway?” Nancy started the conversation after offering me cider and Christmas cookies. As I began telling everyone about my adventures, Diana grabbed hold of my arm and soon had smashed her freckled face against my shoulder. Margaret did the same on the other side, so I was the book between two sweet bookends.
“Diana,” Nancy scolded. “Stop hanging all over your sister. You’re suffocating her.”
I could feel Diana’s nine-year-old body tense up and begin to withdraw, the heat from her face bounced off my cheek.
“Oh no, it’s fine!” I insisted, flinging my arm around her and pulling her in tight. I could feel the smile grow back across her face, the heat dissipating. “I don’t mind at all. Actually, I like it.”
“You’re just saying that,” Nancy continued. “Girls, leave Liz alone. She’ll never want to come back.”
Diana flinched. I wanted to look her in the eyes and say that it wasn’t true, that it would never—could never—be true, but I just kept my eyes steady on Nancy and tightened my grip on Diana. “Really, it’s fine,” I said.
We talked a bit more, and the girls opened their presents. Diana gushed over her new sweater, asking Nancy if she could change into it.
Nancy said no. They were on their way to the city for mass. They were going to have to say good-bye.
I gave everyone a hug and held on to Diana the longest.
Back at the Stewarts’, I started calling high school friends to see who was in town. I was planning to be in Bedford for only a night or two and wanted to make the most of it. The phone rang. It was Nancy.
“Who do you think you are?” she hissed.
“Excuse me?” I said, utterly confused.
“Didn’t I tell you to call? Didn’t I tell you to make an appointment? Don’t you understand how devastating it is for Diana for you to float in and out of her life?” She railed on and on, not breathing between sentences.
My face grew hot as my whole body began to tremble.
“But I called,” I said.
“You are so selfish,” she continued. “Just whisk off to Norway for six months and come flitting back here as if it’s no big deal and with no concern whatsoever for what a fucked-up little girl I have to deal with.”
“I called,” I said again.
That broke the rant for a moment. “What?” she said, annoyed.
“I called, I spoke to Ted. He told me to come,” I explained, my heart racing from the outburst, the receiver warm in my hand.
More silence.
“Well, he never mentioned it,” she said. I waited for the apology.
“Well, that doesn’t matter. I still have to deal with this, and the effect that it’s going to have on her. Diana is part of our family now, Liz. She’s a Chamberlain, and she lives by my rules. You have to respect that.”
Then she hung up.
I was shaking, whole-body tremors as though whatever was whirling deep inside me might bust me open. I called Amanda, but she wasn’t home. The pressure building inside me was intense, straining at my lungs and throat. Then I thought of Brenda Leif-Johnson, the social worker from Fox Lane. I dialed her home number and told her the story in a fast whisper. When I was done, Brenda said, “Liz, that makes no sense. It sounds psychotic.” And while it may have explained Nancy’s behavior, it did not make me feel any relief. Diana was living with that psycho, and I had no idea what to do about it.
DIANA
WHEN I HEARD Liz’s voice in the doorway, I couldn’t believe it. Whenever I asked about my sisters or brother, Mrs. Chamberlain said they were living their own lives and didn’t have time to visit me. But here Liz was, home from Norway with a shopping bag full of Christmas presents. We all sat in the breakfast room, and it felt as though Liz was talking to everybody but me. I pushed against her as I had at Mom’s funeral, willing her to stay with me forever as she placed the brightly wrapped presents on the coffee table in front of us. There was one for me, and one for William, and one for Margaret. We each opened ours. Then I reached for the one that was left on the table, unopened, and held it in my lap. It said “ADD” on it in my sister’s big, neat handwriting.
“Who’s Add?” I asked her, interrupting a story about her travels.
“Oh,” she said, taking it out of my hands and putting it back in her bag, still loaded with presents. “That’s for Addison.” My stomach jumped. Addison. That was one of the Stewart kids. They went to my school. Liz was probably going to leave me here to go hang out with them. Mrs. Chamberlain was right: Liz was too busy for me because, like me, she had new little brothers that she saw every day. Liz probably made Add snacks and hugged him and laughed at his jokes. She probably loved him as much as she loved me. Maybe even more. I was just another stop on her Christmas tour.
It was clear to me then: I was stuck at the Chamberlains’ for good. There was to be no heroic kidnapping, no laughing, happy reunion. Things were settled and I was staying. Forgotten about, tossed.
Next thing I knew, we were at Gram’s house. She was Mr. Chamberlain’s mother. She lived all alone with her maid, a black lady who stayed in the kitchen and rarely spoke. Gram’s brother was a cardinal who became a bishop, or maybe it was the other way around. Mrs. Chamberlain told me that when Mr. Chamberlain was little, his dad abandoned them all on Mr. Chamberlain’s birthday. She said he walked around the table, kissed all the kids on the head, and said good-bye. She said he was an alcoholic.
I thought of these things as I looked at Gram. She was a mannish lady, a smoker who wore her gray hair short. She was wearing pants and a sweater and leather slippers with no socks. As I looked at her—the lines
in her face, her broad shoulders—I couldn’t imagine her passing out cake slices on plates. She was kind to me but so formal. On our way there, in Mr. Chamberlain’s car, Mrs. Chamberlain reminded us to sit with our ankles crossed and to mind our manners as she nervously fussed with her hair in the visor mirror. Once inside her mother-in-law’s home, she laughed a lot and spoke in an exaggerated, drawn-out way. Her voice seemed louder, higher somehow.
We were all sitting around quietly eating nuts in the living room when Gram snuffed out her cigarette and told me to follow her into a large bedroom that felt like a set from an old movie with its dark wood and heavy drapes. We were far apart, and the light from the green table lamps was dim. I sat on the bed with my hands in my lap, my back straight. “You know what I think would be a nice thing?” she asked, standing above me, hands dangling, loosely clasped in front of her.
“What?” I said, looking long into her face. This private moment between us was exciting.
“If you would start calling them ‘mom’ and ‘dad,’” she said, leaning down and putting both hands on my shoulders. “Do you think you could do that?” We were still far apart; her elbows did not bend.
I didn’t know what to say. I stared at my hands for a while and hoped that maybe she’d give up. My wool skirt itched. I knew I should say no, but I also knew I had to say yes. “I guess” is what ended up coming out.
“Good,” she said, smiling and taking her hand off my shoulder to light a cigarette. “Good.” Then she walked me out into the living room, guiding me with her free hand still on my shoulder. “I think Diana has something to say to you all,” Gram said proudly and squeezed my shoulder encouragingly. I turned my head and looked at her, stunned. Now? I had to call them that now?
So I said, “Um, can I have some nuts, Mom?” And Mrs. Chamberlain jumped up out of her chair and gave me a big hug, and her husband came, too, and he hugged me and I said, quietly, uncomfortably, “Thanks, Dad.”
It was like walking off a cliff.
AMANDA
LIZ CALLED ME in tears to say Nancy Chamberlain had yelled at her. I was sad to hear it but not surprised. I figured she was simply an uptight Bedford lady who just didn’t get us. I guessed she thought we were wild and a bad influence on Diana. And I thought she might be a little nutty, but I still thought Diana was going to have a stable life, like the one we’d had before Dad died. I wasn’t worried about Diana. I was sad for me, Liz, and Dan. But I didn’t let myself get too upset about it because I felt there was nothing I could do. In Nancy’s eyes, we were bad kids. I really didn’t think there was anything I could do to change that.
The whole experience made me realize how important my siblings were to me. That year, I had Christmas at Karen’s apartment on the Upper West Side with all her weird est friends, which was fine, because Liz and Dan were there. Even Auntie Eve and Uncle Harry came for dinner. Karen made a goose because she was allergic to turkey, and we decorated the tree with the family ornaments I retrieved from storage.
Christmas morning, I made Mom’s pumpkin bread, and we opened presents in Karen’s living room. Dan gave me a Calvin Klein underwear poster that he had torn off some subway station wall. He’d stapled his own impish black and white head shot on Marky Mark’s ripped body. He gave Karen a Tiffany box with brass earrings in it that he bought on Eighth Street, and he gave Liz a huge box, the size of a TV, with a Massengill douche inside. The kid had lost a lot, but he still had his sense of humor.
LIZ
THAT JANUARY, I moved back in with the Stewarts, and Montgomery got me a job working as the receptionist at his father’s company, where he was vice president. It was only temporary; I was leaving for Paris at the end of the month. Daisy had a pregnant friend living there who needed a nanny. She wanted me to start a few weeks after she gave birth in mid-January. If all went according to plan, I’d be in Paris by February 3, my eighteenth birthday. I couldn’t wait.
Montgomery was really getting on my nerves. I had gained weight in Norway, so he insisted on waking me up every morning at six to accompany him to the gym. I swam laps while he lifted weights. Then we drove to the Bedford Hills station to take the 7:47 a.m. train to Grand Central. Montgomery was not only bossy; he was also oddly possessive. Even when the train was full, he insisted that we find a seat together. It was so irritating.
Montgomery was not only annoying me; he was bugging Daisy as well. He was drinking a lot and often in a bad mood. Daisy said it was his early midlife crisis—he bought a Hummer and bragged that he and Arnold Schwarzenegger were the only two civilians to own the all-terrain Army vehicles. I thought it was pathetic. I was counting the days until I could go to Paris, but every time I mentioned it to Daisy, she said she had not heard from her friend. By late January, I was getting desperate.
At work, Montgomery often left his door open, which meant I could overhear his phone conversations. I usually tried to block them out, but when I heard him say “Hello, Peter!” one afternoon, my ears perked up. It was Peter Anker calling from Norway. When he said, louder than usual, “Oh, Liz is great,” I was riveted. I was so not great, and it was so obvious. Then he said, “Well, actually, Paris didn’t work out. She decided to stay in New York and work for me until Georgetown starts in the fall.”
I began to tremble. All this time both Daisy and Montgomery were telling me everything was set: I was going to Paris; I was just waiting for Daisy’s friend to give birth. And this was his pathetic way of letting me know it was not going to happen? I looked at the calendar. It was January 28. Georgetown didn’t start until late August. There was no way in hell I was going to be a receptionist and live in Bedford for another eight months.
Then it dawned on me. In six days, I turned eighteen. I would be free to do whatever I wanted. Instead of confronting Montgomery, I took my lunch break early and got a Village Voice. There, in the back, I found an advertisement for cheap flights to Europe. Montgomery was gone for lunch when I made the first call, to my Swedish friend Kathy who was living in Paris as a nanny. I’d met her through the Stewarts—she was an au pair for one of their friends in New York the year before. I was not allowed to make personal calls from work, but I didn’t care.
“Bonjour, je peux parler avec Kathy, s’il vous plaît?” I said when a French woman answered the phone. I told Kathy what had happened and asked if she thought I would be able to find work if I came to Paris on my own. She said yes and told me I could stay with her until I did. I hung up the phone feeling victorious. I was going to Paris after all.
AMANDA
WHEN LIZ TOLD me she was going to Paris, I thought it was pretty brave. I would never do that, just up and go traveling somewhere with no real plan. But I understood why she was so desperate to leave Bedford; everyone there was fucked up. Montgomery was never overtly inappropriate with Liz, but there were all these weird insinuations that were just gross. It was the classic suburban man drooling over the babysitter. And Nancy wasn’t even speaking to us or letting us see Diana. Meanwhile, Dan had basically disappeared. There was no reason for her to stick around.
So Liz was right to leave. She could take care of herself, and she should do what she wanted. But I knew I was going to miss her.
LIZ
I BOUGHT A one-way ticket on an Air Pakistan flight to Paris that left JFK on February 10. My plan was to find an au pair job until June and save money to be able to buy a Eurail Pass to tour Europe with Liz Subin that summer. I was so excited. My year abroad was back on track. I could do it on my own.
I packed two duffel bags and was proud of traveling light, until my hands started to throb at Grand Central. By the time I met Amanda in Greenwich Village for my au revoir dinner at Pizzeria Uno, my arms felt as though they might fall off. Amanda was really proud of me for going. She kept saying, “Fuck them, Liz—do what you want!” I was so glad to have her on my side. When I had told the Stewarts I was going to Paris, they had said nothing. Daisy looked scared, shook her head a few times, and then left the room. Montgomery j
ust sat there.
I said good-bye to Amanda and then took the subway to the plane and was at Orly airport the following morning, Paris time. It was a cold, gray day, but I didn’t care—I was in Paris! Kathy and I had arranged to meet at a café on the Champs-Élysées, and I decided to splurge on a cab. I had five hundred dollars, more than enough to get me through until I found a job, I thought.
Kathy worked for a wealthy family. She had her own room in their sprawling apartment on Avenue Victor Hugo in the sixteenth arrondisement, and she also had a chambre de bonne, or maid’s room, on the top floor of their building. She was not allowed to have guests stay there, but she said I could sneak in and out while I looked for work. Since the entrance was in the back of the building by the trash and was accessible only by stairs, she was sure it would be no problem.
After schlepping my bags up seven flights, I stacked them in the corner of Kathy’s tiny room, which barely fit her double futon, and went in search of the bathroom. All I could find was a small closet with a seatless toilet and filthy metal sink that had only a cold-water spigot. The following day, desperate for a hot bath, I found a nearby indoor pool where I could swim and shower for ten francs. From there, I headed to the nearest café with a list of au pair agencies that Kathy had compiled for me and a stack of newspapers to look for help-wanted ads. I was eager to start working. I imagined the family that would hire me would be much like the Ankers: I’d have my own room. I’d make enough money to buy cool French clothes and splurge on steak frites at quaint cafés. Perhaps I would invest in a language class, unless I met a cute boy first who’d teach me for free. Then I’d spend my extra money on silky lingerie!
By February 17, I still had no job and had spent one hundred dollars, mostly on café crèmes. The au pair agency I registered with wanted a one-year commitment, and any waitress jobs I applied for wanted better French and at least some restaurant experience. Then the heat got cut off at Kathy’s room. That February was the kind of cold that penetrates the bone to its marrow. I spent hours in cafés and museums and went to the pool on the days it was open—not to swim but simply to stand beneath the hot shower until my skin turned pink and my blood began to simmer. Back in the room, I put on two sweaters, leggings, and socks before getting into bed, where I curled up in the fetal position, trying to stay warm. It was there, in the dark quiet, that I began to wonder if coming to Paris was a mistake.