That Kind of Mother

by Rumaan Alam

  “I’m not ready for makeup. She’s not ready for makeup.”

  “She’s perfect as is.” Rebecca knew, though, makeup was alluring and it was fun. She’d be that aunt, the permissive one, slipping Ivy cast-off clip-on earrings, nearly empty bottles of fragrance, a pot of lip gloss. Not to undermine Cheryl and Ian’s authority but to cement her own position. “We’ve got to talk birds and bees with Andrew. I’m outsourcing that one to Christopher.”

  Ian shook his head. “That I don’t envy you. But it’s coming, for all of us.”

  Later, Karen stopped Rebecca in the hall, offering a farewell. “I should run. Thanks for having me. Your family is lovely. And I might as well tell you what I would want to hear, which is that I’m jealous as hell.”

  Rebecca laughed. “Just finish your damn book already.” Karen had been talking about a novel since they’d met, talked about it the way you might an illicit lover or a persistent dental problem.

  Karen dropped her voice lower. “Look, you keep putting me off about Bilal but I’m telling you, you’re making a huge mistake. He’s very curious to meet you, we saw him just last weekend.”

  “I don’t know, Karen.” This joke felt old now. Rebecca wondered how happy Karen and Mohammed’s marriage was. That was what this seemed to be about.

  “Just think about it. He’s not coming back.”

  “Christopher?” Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t want him back.”

  “He’s here. At your party. But not in your life.”

  “He’s in my life. In a fashion. And that’s fine. And Bilal, fine, I’ll be in Ohio next week, but after that, I’m here, I’m yours.” Rebecca wanted everything. She wanted to be celebrated and she wanted not to be bothered. She wanted to be with her children and she wanted to be with her work. She wanted to be married and she wanted to be divorced. She wanted a man to want her and to fuck her and she wanted to be allowed to sleep in the center of the bed, all four pillows around her, a bulwark against the night. She wanted it all, and all was something impossible to possess.

  “Perfect. You’ll be high on all that money, all that prestige.”

  “I don’t know about that. But why not blow some of it on a nice dinner out?”

  “Honestly, the Jamesons—what they’ve done to this planet. Birth deformities in developing nations. It’s just money laundering disguised as largesse.”

  “I’ll take what I can get. I’ll give a hundred dollars to UNICEF.” Rebecca had earned it. It was best to just make the thing into a joke.

  “I guess it’s the nature of children to rebel. Ruth Jameson spending her daddy’s fortune on poetry. Anyway. Finally. I’m going to call Bilal, we’ll make a plan.”

  Rebecca tried to picture Bilal, but could imagine only the man who had died with Diana in that tunnel in Paris. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  The company dwindled, but the party’s essence was somehow intact. They sat in the kitchen, eventually, Rebecca and Cheryl and Lorraine. Christopher and Ian were elsewhere, discussing whatever men discussed, and the children had, of course, turned on the television.

  “Ivy’s so tall. So thin, too, like she’d been carrying baby fat and I didn’t even realize.” Rebecca filled her wineglass, because they’d all moved on to wine.

  “She speaks like an adult. With such authority. And she’s—ten?” Lorraine was sitting at the island, picking at the remains of the cheese.

  “Only just.” Cheryl nodded. “It’s true. I am in for it. Little miss. She should be a lawyer, she’s always negotiating everything.”

  “How’s your mother-in-law, Cheryl? I remember hearing she wasn’t well.” Lorraine put the cheese knife down to underscore her concern.

  “She’s not. She’s not terrible, thankfully, but you can see that it’s the end. I know what it looks like.” Cheryl shrugged. “She’s an old woman, she’s had a long life.”

  Rebecca knew Ian was the youngest of seven. She was amazed by that sort of fecundity: two kids often felt overwhelming, seven near lunacy. She knew that Ian was doted upon, especially adored. She tsked to show that she was listening along.

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Lorraine did sound sorry, as few did when using that word.

  “Ian thinks . . . Well, you know him—he thinks he can do something, but what can we do? She lives an hour away. He’s got work, I’ve got work, Ivy’s got school. We can’t stop our lives and sit by her bedside for six months. It’s just life, but life is like that sometimes.”

  “You see worse, at work, sure.” Lorraine was resigned.

  “I hope I don’t sound heartless. I don’t mean to. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to a mother, myself.”

  Rebecca knew this, had forgotten it. It stung. “You have me.”

  Cheryl paused. “You’re not my mother. You’re Andrew’s.”

  Rebecca faltered. “But you do—have me.”

  “That I do.”

  “And me!” Lorraine laughed and it lightened the mood.

  “I’m sorry for Ian. I’m sorry for you.” Rebecca was rushing, maybe drunk. “I’m sorry about your mother. You know that, but it’s worth saying, even ten years later. It’s unfair. I got the best possible end of the deal. I got Andrew. I got the happiest thing in my life. My entire life depends your mother’s death. It’s terrible.”

  “No. It’s not terrible.” Cheryl exhaled. “It’s a happy ending.”

  “It all changes, even though you think it never will.” Rebecca touched her mother’s wrist, giving in to some larger feeling. “I agonized over feeding Jacob, breastfeeding him. It was the hardest thing I had ever tried to do, to make some part of my body do something it had never done before. It was like trying to wiggle my ears. I used to worry he would starve. Now he’s this beast who drinks a gallon of milk every two days.”

  “My mother taught you that. I remember her talking. You were so nervous.”

  “I was.” It was reassuring, somehow, to know that Priscilla had talked about her.

  “She said it was easy to do, once someone showed you. She showed you.”

  Rebecca remembered a day, raw with emotion, that a maudlin song on the radio had moved her to tears. “There’s the family you make, and the family you’re born into.” She had not detailed for Cheryl the conversations she’d had with Priscilla. She ought to do that, while she still remembered. It would be a chance, at last, for Rebecca to give Cheryl something, information about the mother now gone. Most likely she already knew it all, but it would feel good to try.

  Lorraine cleared her throat. “My granddaughter Jennifer? Judith lets her get away with murder. Absolute murder. Kids get away with anything these days. Parents let them.”

  They gossiped a little, not unkindly, about Rebecca’s sisters and their permissive parenting: the way Christine let Michael carry around that video game player, the way Judith spent a fortune monthly on Jennifer’s horse. It made Rebecca feel like the good daughter, and she enjoyed it. But Rebecca still thought about Priscilla, and the way Cheryl seemed happily reconciled to the line between life and death. To Rebecca, this made the whole present seem as tenuous as it was. But these were not celebratory thoughts and she pushed them away.

  They drank more wine and talked about Lewinsky and global warming and they talked about the Internet and they talked about other occasions on which they’d met and talked about other things, long-settled elections, the death of Princess Diana. It was one of those moments Rebecca could sense the very revolution of the earth beneath her feet, its endless, determined, spinning. The sounds of conversation merged into a noise that she’d miss, hours from then, when it was gone, when they’d all gone home, when the boys were in bed, when she padded around the house in her wool socks, eating leftover cake because there were still so much cake to be eaten, missing the people who were no longer there, and remembering that she’d missed them even as they’d all been together, in one room, around one table, talking about the future.

  34

  A CONTRACT WAS FOREVE
R, BUT ONCE MONTHLY, WHICH SEEMED SO much when the babies’ life spans were measured in those units, proved to be not enough: Ivy and Andrew adored each other. It was another note in their endless improvisation. Ian’s dealership was quite near their house, so he could bring her over in the morning and Rebecca could run her home later, though sometimes Ivy would stay all day, at their table for pancakes, for grilled cheese, for spaghetti, hours of her and Andrew’s shrieks and chuckles. Special treks—the zoo, the aquarium, children were diverted by animals because children and animals were very near the same thing—Andrew would always want to ask Ivy along, and Rebecca readily relented. As angst descended upon Jacob, Rebecca was happy to have a companion for Andrew, and Ivy was always so happy.

  Rebecca rang the doorbell and could hear the frantic footfalls through the town house’s insubstantial door.

  “You’re here! Hurry.” Ivy pulled Andrew into the house. He stepped out of his sneakers and followed her back up the stairs.

  “OK, bye, kids. Hello!” The house was so modest, but always seemed big, because the Barbers had so little furniture. They had enough, of course: just what was needed. There was less to look at than at her home.

  “You’re here.” Cheryl emerged from the kitchen, dressed for a workout. “I was finishing my Tae Bo. Come on in. Where’s Andrew?”

  “Pressing business.” Rebecca closed the door and set Andrew’s sneakers side by side on the tile.

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure.” Rebecca followed her into the spotless kitchen. Cheryl was thorough. Rebecca sat at the island and Cheryl poured. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Cheryl shook her head at the sound of a shriek from above. “Those two.”

  “I wish Jacob could still do that. Get lost in play. He’s so secretive. On the Internet, I suppose.”

  “I know I just did my workout, but I want something sweet.”

  “Let’s go to Starbucks! We’ll throw the kids in the car, get a chocolate croissant.”

  “No, I shouldn’t. I’ll have a grapefruit.” Cheryl made a face. “Join me?”

  “Sure.”

  Cheryl sliced the fruit, dropped each half into a bowl. She set out a knife and a spoon for Rebecca. “Maybe I’ll put a little sugar on mine. Just a pinch.”

  Rebecca sliced into the fruit. “You look great.”

  “Got to feel great, though.”

  “That’s hard to argue with. Are you still thinking of Disney World? For spring break?”

  “I don’t know. It might wait—now we’re talking about the fall break. You know the kids have another one in fall, right? Keeping on top of that schedule is enough to drive a person actually insane.”

  “It’s going to be rough when Jacob starts high school. Two different schedules. They’re almost the same, but not quite the same.”

  “Well, you know. We can help out. We always love to have Andrew here.”

  “You’re sweet. Thank you. We’ll see what develops.” She tasted the fruit. “I’ll take some sugar, too. I was thinking—we should do something special for Mother’s Day! It was so fun, last Saturday. Or was it two Saturdays? Having everyone together. I know it was a celebration for me, so I’m a monster. But still. I would love to do that again. So much more fun than brunch at Clyde’s or wherever. It’ll be warm by then, we can do it in the yard even.”

  “It’s an idea.” Cheryl finished her fruit and set the bowl down.

  “You throw a great party! Come on, put a little enthusiasm in it.”

  Cheryl laughed. “You’ll pardon my lack of enthusiasm, Rebecca. Maybe, just this once?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “You know—Mother’s Day, it’s not exactly a happy occasion for me. Not a day I feel like celebrating.”

  She felt hot. Of course. “Right. I’m sorry. That was—foolish of me.”

  Cheryl put her bowl in the sink. “Maybe so.”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Cheryl turned around. “You know. For a long time, it was just me and my mother. When I was a kid. Homemade cards, brunch at Denny’s. It’s stupid, but it meant something. It still does.”

  “It’s not stupid. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t thinking.”

  Cheryl corrected her. “No, you weren’t thinking of me. You don’t, do you.”

  Rebecca was quiet. “Why would you say that? That’s not how you feel.” It was meant as a question but sounded like an argument.

  “Rebecca, please. Please don’t tell me how I feel.” Cheryl was calm.

  “I’ve upset you.” Rebecca put the spoon down. From upstairs—a heavy sound, the children leaping from the bed to the floor, maybe.

  “You just don’t see me, Rebecca. Sometimes. Most times. You just don’t—”

  “I do—”

  “No, please.” Cheryl held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. Don’t deny, not right now. Just listen. For once, let me explain myself.”

  “For once?” Rebecca fiddled with her coffee. She looked at Cheryl, her face serious, her clothes ridiculous, spandex and sports logos.

  “It’s ten years I’ve known you. Longer, actually, but ten years we’ve been—whatever we are. There’s no word for it. And in that time, I don’t think you’ve ever seen me. I don’t think your impression of who I am has changed, even one bit.”

  Rebecca did not want to break the silence that Cheryl seemed now to need. She did see Cheryl. She saw a woman the brown we term black, beautiful with kindness, soft with maternity, not unbreakable (no human was) but unbroken. Rebecca saw the woman she’d known for what felt an entire lifetime, in her ridiculous exercise clothes, skin dewy from having sweat. Her hair was pulled back revealing a face that felt familiar, like one glimpsed after many years and surprised because it had not changed as much as it ought to have. But this was not the recognition of something once-seen; she saw Cheryl all the time.

  “You think I’m an extension of you. A character in your world, a supporting role. It’s not fair. I’m not that, I’m a person, your son’s sister. Your friend, sort of.”

  “Hm.” Rebecca still did not know whether she should speak. Her friend, of course, Cheryl was more than that, she was so dear to her. Did she not know this?

  “A person who might, maybe, have a reason to not feel all that celebratory on Mother’s Day. Which you should know. Because, as you were just telling me, at your party, just a couple of weeks ago, you adored her.”

  Rebecca stirred the coffee, though now she didn’t want any. “I did. Adore your mother. And I adore you. It’s not true, that I think of you as a supporting character in my life. You’re very important to me, to our family. You’re wonderful. I couldn’t imagine—”

  “I’m not wonderful. I’m not a saint. This is what I mean. My mother’s dead, I get it, it’s hard to see her as a real person. But she was, a real person. A stubborn teenager who had a baby, and refused to talk to the rest of her family, and, I don’t know, liked to eat out and had a lot of credit card debt and felt embarrassed about not finishing school so she made me be this perfect student.”

  “I thought so highly of her. Even when she was alive. It’s not just because she’s gone, it’s not just because of Andrew, it’s because she helped me—”

  Cheryl laughed. “That was her job! She was your nanny. No, first, she was the lady who had a five-dollar-an-hour job at the hospital because her daughter stuck her neck out and got her a five-dollar-an-hour job at the hospital. The hospital where her daughter worked! Where the HR manager was—less than thrilled when the job her daughter had arranged went unfilled three months later. Because she had a patient—sorry, a mother—who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But that’s fine, let’s forget that. That HR lady, she wasn’t so mad. And I was like—fine. Mom needs real work, she needs real money. It’ll be good for her, so what if it’s a little uncomfortable for me.”

  Rebecca could barely remember what happened in December of 1985. The millennium was about to arrive. “But
she—she helped me, I trusted her. She was so wonderful with Jacob. She knew how to do everything. She freed me, to do my work, to be a wife, to be a better mother. I adored her.”

  “She used to call you Lady Di. You know? Pretty. Sophisticated. Well-meaning.”

  Rebecca did not know that. Was it apt? Or was it just irony?

  “She was a good mother. She wasn’t a saint. And I’m not a saint. You don’t even—how many times, in the past ten years, have you come to this house, to my house?”

  “I’m here now.”

  “That’s not my question. You know it’s not.”

  It was rare, to be at Cheryl and Ian’s house. But they had so much more space, on Wisconsin Drive. Cable television. A basement full of toys. A trampoline in the yard. “Maybe I could. Bring Andrew, more often.”

  “You didn’t even believe me when I told you that my husband and I have fights. That we disagree, that I might understand a troubled marriage because I have a marriage, too, and they’ve all got some trouble in them.”

  “I did.”

  “I saw your face. Like you couldn’t believe it. That Ian and I were real people who continued to exist when you weren’t around and went home and had fights just like everyone else. That we weren’t just—cardboard cutouts.”

  “I don’t see you as—as not a real person.”

  “It was the gas guy.”

  “What was the gas guy—”

  Cheryl sat on the stool beside Rebecca. “Andrew’s father was the gas guy.”

  Rebecca put her hands on the island. “You know. You know who Andrew’s father is?” It was a whisper.

  Cheryl sighed. “His name was Charles. He came, you know, every month. To read the meter. I figured it out. Parents don’t have any secrets from their kids. Or my mother didn’t. It was just the two of us, you know, in that house, my whole life. I knew what she was doing.”

  “You’re sure. You know this.” She studied Cheryl. She seemed, suddenly, more beautiful. There was a ripple in her brow, her lips were drawn tight, her expression was dour—yet there it was. Beneath the fury or whatever this was, there was a layer of beauty. It made no sense.