by Megan Mulry
“Just one more feather in my cap, right? The things we do for love.”
“Oh, but it is romantic. She will be so happy to see you. I’m sure.”
Max wasn’t quite so optimistic.
A few hours later, he did manage to wangle the last seat on the afternoon flight. He would have Bronte back in his arms by dinnertime in New York.
***
Bronte woke with a chilling start at four o’clock on Sunday morning. The light in her apartment seemed askew somehow, the streetlight casting unfamiliar shadows across her bed. She turned on her bedside lamp and realized her heart was pounding. She had been dreaming about something bizarre and amorphous and menacing, dark halls, someone chasing her, gunshots—but it was fading already as consciousness returned.
She sat up a little and reached for her cell phone out of habit. It was nine in the morning in London. Max was probably already on the ground. What a waste of a perfectly good transatlantic flight, Bronte thought. She could have been rolling over into his arms, his strong hands stroking her back, instead of coming awake with a jolt, quite alone and disoriented.
She scrolled to the preset for his cell phone number, then tapped it and waited for the now-familiar British call signal to begin. Her heart soared at the sound of his voice, then sank a split second later when she realized it was only voice mail. She heard the demanding beep, then the waiting silence, ready for her to record her shame.
“Hey. It’s me. The idiot. Your fiancée. So… I’m calling you, obviously… duh. Anyway, I was… well, it was the pinnacle of horseassery. I was the horse’s ass. You came to surprise me and I… well”—she almost laughed—“I was surprised all right. I can’t have this conversation one-sided. I love you so much. Please call me when you get this.”
She turned the phone off and tried to get back to sleep, then gave up after thirty minutes of tense rolling around and forced eye closing. She put on a big thick robe that her mother had given her for Christmas, then went into the living room and picked up the next notebook of her father’s novel. She curled up on the oversized, mossy velvet sofa, thought momentarily of Max’s first visit to that couch, then refocused her mind and started reading.
Six hours and one stiff neck later, she was finished with the book and shaking her head in a repetitive, slow no.
It was inconceivable.
She had clearly missed major swaths of her father’s entire humanity while living under the same roof with him.
Had she been an overly self-centered adolescent? Blind to any intelligence or wit he might have tried to exhibit?
Or had he simply turned entirely in upon himself and, by the time Bronte was old enough to notice, removed any evidence of his true self?
The person who was capable of filling the notebooks that lay scattered on the floor next to her sofa had no resemblance to the person who had supposedly raised her. She was sure there were plenty of quotes about the life of the writer not being the life of the writer, but still. It was bordering on multiple personality disorder. Was it better, in the end, that he had something to show for it, that he had not pulled an all-work-and-no-play-makes-Jack-a-dull-boy after all?
She wondered.
When she allowed herself to feel like the selfish, needy teenager she had been, she hated that he had put all of his wit and charm into those lifeless pages instead of into a relationship with her.
Then, when she reread her favorite passages, she was grateful to have something eternal, concrete, and real to remember him by. To hold in her hand. Because even though it was fiction, and it was written in and from and about some secret interior world that they had never shared, it was definitely real.
And it was definitely him.
For Bronte, it evoked a strange combination of pride and loss. Her father had titled the book Notes from Underwood (Pop. 712), in a gentle nod to Dostoevsky. Lionel’s fictitious world was populated by characters that were nothing short of vicious: the cruel mother who was in a perpetual state of tormenting her four unwanted children; the worthless husband who lied to his wife, stole her paycheck, and occasionally slept with the waitress at the Waffle House over by I-94 on the way into Bismarck; the twelve-year-old daughter who wrote it all down in blistering, breezy honesty.
The mother’s self-loathing, usually justified, was always subtly obvious to the reader and completely lost on her. The father’s oft-spoken suicidal tendencies were laughably ineffectual; he never seemed to hate himself as much as he ought. The young, witty narrator (Becky Sharp meets Mary Shelley, Bronte thought at one point) was desperate to prove her life, like one might prove a geometry theorem. If she could just get it all down, she was certain the pattern would emerge and she would be, if not saved (never saved!), at least living a comprehensible life.
Bronte reread the final chapter, took a deep, halting breath, then reached for the phone and dialed her mother.
“Mom?”
“Hey, honey. How are you?”
“Good.” (Pregnant and panicking, she thought, but we’ll leave that for later.) “I just finished reading Dad’s book and I am so overwhelmed. I have so many thoughts and conflicting… well, suffice it to say it has raised a lot of questions for me.”
“Did you like it?”
“Like? I don’t know. It was amazing and might sell millions of copies, but did I like it? Probably not.”
“Yes. I know what you mean. A little too close to the bone sometimes, right?”
“I guess. Sort of. But not really. I didn’t mind the graphic stuff. The moments of violence were almost a relief, a sort of action at least. I think it was more emotionally graphic—those passages where he veered into insanity, or on the edge of watching himself veer. Then somehow laughing it off. It was just so raw. And still somehow funny. How did he do that?”
“Well, your father was funny—”
“Mom. He was so not funny—”
“Bron, he was. You were so busy rebelling, you never took the time—”
“Stop. I don’t want this to devolve into the usual if-I-had-just-tried-harder-to-understand-him conversation. I get that you loved him. I don’t get why—maybe a bit more now, I guess—but I accept it. So if you could please accept that I was the child and he was the parent and it was not my job to ‘take the time’ to understand him better. That was his job.”
Bronte didn’t know if that was silence or the slightest “hmmph” she heard on the other end of the phone, so she decided to be positive and think it was silence.
She continued cheerfully, “I am trying to agree with you, Mom, so there’s no need to browbeat me. We need to agree to disagree on Dad-the-father and move on to Dad-the-writer, about whom we can both agree… to agree. How do you want to move forward on the book?”
“Well, if you are quite finished.”
“Oh, Mom, please don’t go all Victorian on me. Of course, I’m finished. I just didn’t want to get on the Dad-Bronte-Conflict-Resolution train, but if you really want—”
“Of course I don’t want that. I just wish—”
For fuck’s sake, Bronte had to give the woman credit. She wasn’t just a dog with a bone; she was fucking White Fang with the goddamned brontosaurus ribs from the opening montage of The Flintstones. It was endless.
Bronte tried to steer the conversation back to the book itself, but her emotions were running dangerously close to the surface.
“Mom, there is so much in there that is just too… that I don’t… that I don’t want to understand. I kept forgetting that it was Lionel who had actually written the words. Even his handwriting seemed different sometimes, as if he were simply channeling some other creative impulse. And then, while I was reading, I would find myself thinking that you and I were right there, a room or two away, living in that house… real, live people… and he was so cold—” Bronte stopped to cover the rise of unexpected emotion with the semblance of a thoughtful pause.
“Oh, Bronte. Do you want me to come into the city and we can spend the day together?�
��
“No. I’m fine. I mean, I have a ton of stuff to do and… I’m fine.”
“The thing about your father, Bronte, was that he was so disappointed. And I think if you take a second to see what you adored about the book, but what you seem unable to appreciate, even in an abstract way, about your father, is that disappointment in oneself is, well, debilitating.”
“Mom—”
“I am not idolizing him, Bronte. Just try to listen to what I am saying without seeing it all through the lens of your own adolescent loss.”
“All right,” Bronte conceded. She figured she could give her mother a full hearing—for the hundred millionth time.
“You know the part in the book when that miserable creep of a father forgives himself… again… after he gets that woman pregnant, then, you know, well, that part.”
“Yeah… I remember.”
“Well, don’t you think the real thematic goal there was to show how that type of forgiveness, especially of oneself, is truly the most despicable, the most contorted interpretation of the heroic ideal?”
“I’m listening.”
“Your father was disgusted with it. With a society that encouraged people to forgive themselves without a hint of remorse. Without any real regret. At least that was a disillusion that you and your father shared, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Bronte answered quietly, feeling the fight drain out of her.
“Well, I guess there are two things at work, from my humble perch.”
“Go on.”
“I think the narrator of Underwood was obviously you, or some version of you that your father admired.”
“He never admired me, Mom.”
“Please, Bronte. Stop being obtuse. He adored you.”
“Mom! Stop it! He was so distant, so brittle. Living in that house was like walking on the most fragile Fabergé eggs… day after day—”
“Think about it, honey. You were always enthusiastic, joyfully alive, exuberant. I think he felt as if his own failed ambitions were almost contagious. The last thing he wanted was to contaminate you.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Bronte. He was so afraid that whatever intelligence he had given to you would be tainted by the same paralyzing self-doubt, the same self-destructive jealousy that destroyed him. He basically forfeited his paternal rights out of fear. Then, of course, he felt as if he had failed at being a father as well.”
Whether it was the pregnancy hormones or the gravity of what her mother was saying, Bronte started bawling.
“Mom. It’s too fucked up. I don’t want to”—she hiccupped through her words—“I can’t handle this right now.”
“Of course you can, dear. It’s all good news, isn’t it? He was your father and he loved you. Just not in any way that did you any good at the time.” Her mother laughed a little. “Life just didn’t turn out the way he thought it would, and some people are able to accept that and get on with it, and others…” Her mother’s voice faded out to nothing.
Bronte let the tears come (more goddamned tears, she thought) and then collected herself enough to continue. “But the forgiveness thing is really the main bit, don’t you think? In the book and with us. Was he looking for my forgiveness, or yours, for that matter? He never seemed to welcome anything of the sort from me. Did he see himself as having forgiven himself too easily? Or not at all? I think I might just be angry, most of all, that he never wanted to even get to know me, let alone befriend me.” Bronte was half-laughing, half-crying.
“Oh, sweetheart. He always thought that once you were through with all the frippery of adolescence that the two of you would find a natural way to, I don’t know, connect as adults. Let’s face it, not everyone is cut out to crawl around on the floor with a baby and make goo-goo eyes at her.”
Bronte did her best to dodge that bullet.
Her mother continued, “Look, I think the novel was his way of saying everything to you that he could never say, exaggerated of course, but beautiful too, didn’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“And, again, even though the very creation of the book tore him from your life then, maybe it will do you some good now, you know, after the fact? Maybe it already has. Don’t you see how your relationship with Max is so unlike your others?”
“What?” Where the hell did that come from?
“What do you mean ‘what’? Bron, it’s obvious you hold everyone up to these unrealistic expectations, so everyone is bound to fail. Luckily, Max doesn’t buy into your I-need-my-space-and-to-be-in-charge-of-my-own-life line of cock and bull.”
Silence.
“Bron?”
Silence.
“Bronte. Say something. Has something happened with Max?”
Bronte felt the underside of her upper arms give that telltale shiver that was undoubtedly a precursor to a very unpleasant note to self. Fuck.
She needed a long, hot think.
“Mom. I need to go.” Her words came fast. “I take it back, I loved the book. Carol Dieppe’s brother is an editor and I’d be happy to pass it over to him. I also have a friend from Cal who is an agent. Let me know what I can do. Love you.”
“Bron?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Oh, nothing. Call me later. Maybe we can meet up for dinner one night this week.”
“Okay, that sounds great. I’ll see you soon. And thanks. For everything, really.”
“Are you sure you are all right, honey?”
“I’m sure. Positive, even.” Bronte laughed softly. “I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye, sweetheart.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Bronte hung up the phone and stared stupidly out her apartment window.
Sunday morning in New York City. Light streaming.
E. B. White would have had something grand to say about it. Full of possibilities. World was her oyster bar and all that. And apparently she was a demanding bitch who placed unrealistic expectations on everyone she loved. Or, more importantly, on those who loved her.
Great.
She reached for her phone and dialed Max. She waited impatiently for him to pick up, and when she got his voice mail again, she was both disappointed and—she hated to admit it—a little pissed that he hadn’t returned her apologetic call yet. She was the one who was supposed to play the role of wounded self-sacrificer around here—pregnant, confused, life coming at her too fast. Where did he get off letting her stew at a time like this?
She left a very brief message—“It’s me… again.”—then turned off the phone and bent over to gather her father’s notebooks into a neat stack.
She thought she should probably take it upon herself to transcribe the whole manuscript into a digital document, but as she stared at the slightly worn edges of the nine classic black composition books, she felt that the medium was, at least in part, the message. She decided to wrap them in brown paper, tie them with old-fashioned string, and hand deliver them, as is, to Carol’s brother. She found a brown paper bag from the grocery store under her sink and set about her little craft project.
When it was finished, it looked just like one of those favorite things from The Sound of Music. Brown paper package. Tied up with string. She set the trim parcel on her kitchen counter and headed into the bathroom to take a shower and then venture out into the wide, wonderful world of New York City on a hot, sultry Sunday in summer.
By four o’clock that afternoon, she had exhausted all of the possibilities for savoring how great it was to be a single, liberated, twenty-first-century female in New York City.
No baby stroller—look at me all footloose and fancy-free; no hands!
No bossy boyfriend—see my arms swing with independent delight as I spin and laugh with eyes all a-sparkle.
No bitchy duchess sitting in judgment—watch me swagger like one of Flo Rida’s backup singers in the baggy sweatpants and boots with the fur. Yo!
No critical mother—look at me embrace everything aro
und me, humming “Imagine,” with judgment for none; I am a fucking Zen master!
Denial was exhausting.
She went home with more healthy food and prepared another meal fit for Alice Waters. And sulked.
She served up her late-afternoon entree with a heavy dose of Al Green and Lyle Lovett, damn them. Their sexy duet had her scrambling for the phone for what seemed like the hundredth time to call Max again. She had passed through the multiple stages of immature frustration and annoyance at his lack of a response and fallen face-first into full-blown panic.
Bronte dialed and got his voice mail again.
“Okay. Point taken. I’m starting to freak out. Please. Please call me back. You win. I was wrong. Mea culpa. Punish me. Seriously. I like the sound of that. You. Me. Some sort of little leather paddle thing that I’ve never heard of, of course, but maybe you have, and you’ll teach me a lesson in obedience. Please call me back. I’m worried. I love you.”
After the call ended, Bronte stared at the stupid device that kept her permanently entwined in the lives of millions of people and still left her utterly alone.
She went back into the kitchen to clean up, then decided it was time to really clean. Every surface, every corner, every shelf, on top of the refrigerator, under the refrigerator. She was almost finished when Mavis Staples started singing in that rich, deep, compelling, sexy voice of hers. The haunting lyrics of the song cut Bronte to the quick. She couldn’t do it alone any longer. Moreover, she didn’t want to.
Bronte let her back slide down the kitchen wall, then she sank to the floor in a self-pitying pile. She sat with her forearms on her knees and let her head hang there for a long time. She was finished crying. This was ridiculous. She got up and threw the kitchen towel she’d been using into the sink, leaving the counters strewn with the spice jars, soup cans, boxes of pasta and cereal, and bottles of oil that she had removed from the kitchen cabinets. She had somehow, there on the floor with Mavis, come to realize that her job and her life and her very self were all pretty useless if she wasn’t with Max.
She had been a coward. She looked at the clock on the wall above the sink and saw it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. If she tossed a few things into a bag and got in a taxi right away, she could be at JFK in time to catch the ten thirty flight to London.