“Such as?”
“To look more important than you are and maintain a lifestyle you really can’t afford, like keeping a big, drafty, impractical house that’s been in the family since the reign of George the Fourth, or sending your sons to Harrow because that’s where we’ve always gone, that kind of thing. Keeping up appearances. It’s ridiculous. My brother, James, will inherit it all someday—title, house, and headaches.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Not a bit. I’m free to do and be whatever I want. Of course, my parents don’t agree. When I told my father I was dropping out of university to compose and play music, he almost had a heart attack.”
“You mean you wrote those songs?”
He dipped his head forward. His sleek chestnut hair flopped over his brow.
“Most of them.” He smiled. “The good ones.”
“Even the one about the phone booth? Wow! That was my favorite. That’s so cool! I never knew anyone who made their living writing songs.”
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “I haven’t actually sold any. Not yet. But I own all the songs. And if we ever make it big . . .”
He let the end of his sentence trail off as he cut bacon into bite-sized pieces. “I’m starting to think it might never happen, not with Warrior Poets. Will doesn’t have much of a voice. Trevor’s a decent enough drummer but only when he’s sober, which isn’t very often. I’m cashing in at the end of the run.”
“What will you do then?”
“Go to Italy. I’m going to live on a barge for July and August, just float from place to place, drink wine, eat pasta, write songs, and perform for passengers in the evening. I saw an advert from a tour company, so I sent in a tape and got the job. I’ll stay in the crew quarters. It’ll be tight, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Wow. But won’t your parents be mad?”
He grinned. “What can they do to stop me?”
Brian was more conventional than his rebellious words would have implied. Though he could absolutely have gotten me into bed on that first night, no question about it, we didn’t sleep together for another three weeks. It was my first time, and it was . . . lovely. Beyond lovely.
In the morning, as soon as I stirred next to him, he pulled me into his arms, brushed the hair away from my face, and asked me to marry him.
The wedding took place a few days later, at the registry office. The surroundings were dingy and the ceremony was perfunctory, but I couldn’t have been happier. I called my parents to tell them the news and not to bother sending the check for my fall tuition; I was dropping out of Princeton.
My mother sobbed herself hysterical, and my father unleashed more oaths than I’d ever heard strung together at one time, then slammed down the receiver without saying good-bye. It was a horrible confrontation, but at least it was short. The polite but terrifically tense tea we shared with Brian’s parents and brother at a dreary seaside hotel in Bristol was interminable.
We were quiet when we went up to our room that night, a little morose, but another session of passionate lovemaking drove away all shadows and thoughts of our families. We were complete in each other. In the morning, we took a train back to London, and the day after that, we left for Italy.
Brian had called the tour owners and talked them into letting me come along as a chef’s assistant. The chef, a short, grizzled, grumpy Italian man named Mario, didn’t like women in his kitchen. Since I didn’t know the first thing about cookery, this was lucky for everyone. My duties were limited to table setting, clearing, and washing up. There were only sixteen passengers aboard, so this wasn’t too taxing and left me plenty of time to spend with Brian during the day and to sit with the other passengers night after night, listening to him play his guitar and sing.
His voice was good, very good. If Brian had been the lead singer, I was convinced that the Warrior Poets would have made it big. I shared this observation with Brian one night as we lay squeezed together in our cabin’s single bed.
“You think so, do you?”
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. But I’m glad things turned out the way they did.”
He rolled toward me and pushed the Princeton T-shirt that served as my nightgown off my shoulder.
“Oh, yes?” he murmured, kissing a line from my neck to the swell of my breast. “Why is that?”
“Because this way I get you all to myself.”
It was a lovely honeymoon. We drifted lazily through the canals of Venice, then to the islands of Torcello and Burano, then down the Brenta River to Murano and to Padua before turning around and retracing our route to Venice. Brian didn’t get nearly as much composing done as he’d planned, but he didn’t seem to care. At the end of August, the captain of the Lucia Dolce asked us to stay on. I lost count of how many times we made the circle from Venice to Padua and back, but we never tired of it. We made new discoveries about Italy and each other on every trip.
Given the frequency and vigor of our lovemaking, we should have anticipated what came next, but somehow we didn’t. Perhaps circling the same route for so long, never considering where things began or ended, lulled us into believing that life could always be exactly like this. But it had to come to an end, and it did, just before our six-month anniversary, when we learned I was pregnant with twins.
When a young doctor at the clinic in Padua, delighted by the opportunity to use his brand-new ultrasound machine, explained in broken English that my nausea and bloating were not the result of a bad ciopinno, Brian was stunned, then thrilled. We went back to the barge and shared the news with the crew, who threw us a party, toasting our babies with shots of limoncello. Brian joined in. I drank lemonade.
The following day, everyone except me had thick heads. Brian and I had our first argument. But we worked through it and started talking about what to do next, ultimately deciding on going to the States.
Beyond that, we didn’t have much of a plan. We knew we needed to find a place to live and a job for Brian that would support all of us, at least until the babies were old enough that I could go back to work. I suggested we go to New Jersey, maybe live with my folks for a while, but Brian was having nothing to do with that. We would go to New York. It was, he insisted, the only city for a musician. I was a little concerned about finding an affordable place to live but took comfort in the fact that we wouldn’t need a big place. After all, we’d lived in a cabin the size of a closet for six months and been pretty happy, hadn’t we? We’d figure it out.
When he cut his hair on the night before our flight to New York, I shed a few tears, but a part of me was relieved to be going home. Life on the barge was paradise, but it couldn’t last. Eventually, you’ve got to go over the garden wall and into the real world. The babies forced us to make the leap. You can’t stay in Eden forever. Eventually, you’ve got to wake up from the dream, face the facts, and deal with life as it is instead of how you imagined it to be.
I thought I already had, all those years ago. Maybe I was wrong.
6
Ivy
Remembering the advice of Arnie, my attorney, I uncrossed my arms from my chest, deliberately attempting to adopt a less hostile posture.
“Sheila Fenton is just doing her job,” he’d told me. Be as cooperative as you can. She’s going to be calling a lot of the shots once Hodge is released, so we want her on our side.”
“Why? Why does this person who doesn’t know me or my children have that kind of power over us?” I threw up my hands and resumed pacing from one end of Arnie’s office to the other. “I still can’t believe this. After all Hodge has done, why should he be allowed to just waltz in and turn our lives upside down again? Why?”
Arnie shifted his weight to one side of his desk chair, propped his elbow on the armrest, rested his chin on his fist, and tried to explain it to me yet again. “Because in the eyes of the law, barring extreme circumstances, a father has a right to see his children.”
I stopped in my tracks and spun around to face Arnie, laying m
y hands flat on his desk and leaning toward him. “He subjected me to years of emotional and physical abuse, he broke my hand by slamming a car door on it, and he slapped Bethany so hard that he left a bruise on her face! How much more extreme do the circumstances have to be?”
“More. Look, if you’d been able to document Bethany’s injuries when he hit her, we might have had a chance to terminate his parental rights, but as things stand, there just isn’t enough evidence to do that.”
“But what if the kids don’t want to see him? What about their rights?”
“That’s why Sheila is involved,” Arnie said patiently. “She’s supposed to be looking out for everybody’s best interests. I’ve worked with her before, Ivy. Sheila is fair, but she’s tough. She knows all the angles and tricks that parents try to pull. So whatever you do, do not try to coach the kids about what to say during the meeting. She’ll see right through that. If I were you, I wouldn’t say anything to the kids right now. Let Sheila explain the situation to them.”
I slumped down into one of Arnie’s extra chairs. “Well, Bethany’s not going to want to see him; I can tell you that right now.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but there is no way she’ll be allowed to refuse.”
“Why? Just because she’s eleven? She knows what her father is, Arnie. She remembers what he’s capable of.”
“I realize that. If it were up to me, Hodge wouldn’t be able to have any contact with any of you ever again. But it isn’t. It’s up to the law and Sheila Fenton. In this instance, Sheila is the law. So when you meet her, be cooperative and noncombative. Remember what I said, Ivy. We want this woman on our side.”
In the ten days that had passed since I received that first, explosive e-mail, Sheila Fenton and I had exchanged a number of e-mails and had one face-to-face meeting with Arnie present. I still couldn’t tell if she was on our side or not.
She was pleasant without being exactly warm, giving away nothing, maintaining an even temper even when Bethany shook her head violently from side to side and shouted, “No! I don’t want to see him! And I’m not going to, ever again. I hate him! Nobody can make me see him if I don’t want to!”
“Bethany,” Sheila said evenly, “I can see that you’re upset, but your father has said that he would very much like to see you again. A judge has said he’s entitled to do that, so you do have to see him.”
Bethany whipped her head toward me, eyes wide, looking for my support. She had it; I didn’t think she should have to see Hodge if she didn’t want to. But I also knew that my opinion wouldn’t carry any weight in a courtroom and that trying to argue Bethany’s point for her not only would be fighting a losing battle, but also might end up prejudicing Sheila Fenton’s opinion of me. I had to find a way to comply with the legal realities while doing what I could to protect my kids.
“Honey, give it a chance.” I reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away.
“I don’t want to see him. He hit me! And he hit you too.” Eyes blazing, she turned back to Sheila. “He used to hit her all the time. He slammed her hand in the door of a car. I was little, but I remember.”
Sheila nodded, her expression patient but immovable. “I know. I’ve seen the police report and your mother’s medical files. But I’ve seen your father too. He’s very anxious to see you. And I’ve talked to the people who have been working with him at the prison. They say he’s been a very good, cooperative prisoner. He hasn’t been involved in one fight or violent incident in the last five years. That’s why he’s being released early. The parole board thinks he’s been rehabilitated,” she said, looking at me and then at my daughter, simplifying her explanation so Bethany would be able to understand. “They think he’s learned from his mistakes and has changed. Five years is a long time.”
People can change. I really believe that. But just because people can change doesn’t mean that Hodge has. Sheila Fenton doesn’t know him like I do.
Bethany looked at me again. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes begged me to do something.
“Will she have to be alone with him?” I asked.
“No. Definitely not,” Mrs. Fenton said, addressing herself to Bethany. “Especially at first, your visits with your dad will be supervised. Someone will be with you all the time. Later, if things go well, that might change, but we would talk about it first and make sure you were feeling comfortable with the idea.”
Sheila clasped her hands together and leaned closer to my daughter. “Your dad really is anxious to see you again and to be part of your life. He wrote you a letter,” she said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a white envelope.
“I don’t want it.”
Sheila’s eyes shifted in my direction, seeking my support, I suppose, but I didn’t say anything. I know that Arnie said I should be cooperative, but if Bethany didn’t want to read that letter, then she didn’t have to.
Bobby was sitting in the waiting room while all this was going on. Sheila had thought it best to speak to the children separately, so she could explain everything to them at an age-appropriate level.
I didn’t suppose Bobby would be as distressed by the situation as Bethany was, but I really wasn’t prepared for his response to the news of Hodge’s imminent return. He was excited, elated. And full of questions I didn’t know how to answer.
“He’s coming home! Really?”
“Yes. Well, not home exactly. Your daddy and I aren’t married anymore, so he can’t stay with us.”
This didn’t seem to faze him; lots of his friends have divorced parents too.
“I’ve got a big bed. He can stay in my room! I don’t mind sharing.”
“No, honey. He can’t stay in your room either. He doesn’t . . . We don’t . . .”
I looked at Sheila, hoping she’d step in, grateful when she did.
“Bobby,” she said calmly, “your father is coming to New Bern, and he wants to see you, but he can’t stay at your house. It’s more like he’s coming for a visit.”
“When is he coming? How long is he going to stay? Can we go down to the dock and pick him up?”
“Dock?” I asked. “What dock?”
“The dock at the ocean,” he said simply. “Where they park the ships.”
Sheila gave me a quick glance, as if thinking I might be able to explain what was going on in Bobby’s mind, but I had no clue. She figured it out, though, and a lot quicker than I did.
“Bobby, where do you think your dad is right now? On a ship?”
“Uh-huh. On an aircraft carrier. In China. He’s in the navy. That’s why he’s been gone so long. China is really far away, like on the whole other side of the planet.”
Sheila kept her eyes on Bobby’s as he spoke, nodding slowly. “I see. Did you figure this out on your own? Or did somebody explain it to you? Your mom?”
Bobby shook his head vigorously. “No. Bethany said that it makes Mommy sad to talk about him, so I shouldn’t.”
“Then, Bethany told you about your father? That he went to China on an aircraft carrier?”
“Uh-huh,” he answered solemnly, then turned toward me and grabbed my hand. “But he’s coming back, so you can stop being divorced now. Okay?”
For a minute, I just didn’t know what to say. He looked so hopeful and innocent, because he was. I held out my arms, and he immediately snuggled into them, the way he always does.
I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, Bear. Do you know that?”
“I love you too, Mommy.”
Sheila, sitting in the chair opposite from us, folded her hands under her chin and gave me a questioning look. I nodded. I was going to have to tell him the truth; I already knew that.
7
Gayla
For about a week, I became somebody I didn’t recognize.
The first three days were taken up mostly with crying, drinking, and chain-smoking. There was also a certain amount of ignoring calls from Brian, then answering the calls and bursting into fresh waves of
sobbing as soon as he started talking, after which I would hang up on him. Eventually, I just switched the phone off.
That was the really pitiful part of my pity party, those first three days. When the scotch ran out and when I had cried so many tears that you could have twisted me like a pretzel and not wrung out one more drop of liquid, I started cleaning. And cursing. And breaking things.
I had to do something.
Trash bag in hand, I banished the last traces of Christmas, throwing out the greeting cards, a bright green tin still containing a litter of cookie crumbs and sprinkles of red sugar (no wonder we had mice), a terra-cotta pot containing a dud of an amaryllis bulb, crumpled ribbons and wrapping paper, and various other bits that had been overlooked in our rush to beat the post-holiday traffic back to the city.
I scrubbed all traces of visiting rodents from the countertops and appliances, emptied the refrigerator, and wiped down the cupboards. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the wood floors and baseboards with such vehemence that I broke a sweat and raised splinters. I moved furniture and rolled up rugs. I swept and mopped and wiped and scrubbed, working until my hands were raw and my eyes watered from bleach fumes. When that was done, I started cleaning closets. My life was a shambles, but my closets would be in perfect order.
The first box I opened was filled with dozens of how-to books that I’d bought and never really read or used. There were books on how to make candles, scrap quilts, jewelry, knitted scarves, woven baskets, homemade bread, pasta, and pickles. There were books on how to plant a garden—grow herbs, flowers, and vegetables—make compost, upholster furniture, design a tree house, write poetry, and draw with the right side of your brain.
That’s what really put me over the edge—the books.
It suddenly occurred to me that if I had two lifetimes in front of me rather than the last half of only one, I wouldn’t have time to master more than a fraction of the skills contained in those books. Even so, year after year, I kept buying those books, telling myself that someday, after the kids were out of diapers, or out of kindergarten, or out of college, that when I finished my degree, or got out of debt, or retired, I would have time and money and permission to do what I wanted to do, to live life instead of just getting through it.
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