Although we’re almost nearly all in our thirties now, nothing has really changed in Jane’s role as measuring stick. Though, for Jane, things have changed a lot. Through Jane, we have most recently experienced engagement, marriage, pregnancy, and birth. She lives back home in Mystic, Connecticut, with her husband and three kids. Jane is a stay-at-home mom to Owen, age five; Randall, three; and Lucy, six months. The kids are great, and Jane loves motherhood, but I can’t argue Erika’s point. My formerly put-together, on-the-ball sister has never been the same since. And it’s got nothing to do with looks so much as with the look on her face, an expression that teeters between dazed happiness and faded consciousness, always with a diaper bag and a stroller in tow.
“So what’s on for tonight?” Erika asks me.
The wine is settling warmly in my stomach, and if I have another, I will end up on the couch in my sweats with Lifetime TV. Which actually sounds pretty good, because Evan has messaged me to say that unfortunately he has to work late tonight. But I know Erika won’t stand for it.
“Trent got us a reservation at the new tapas place on Boylston,” Erika says.
“Are you informing me or inviting me?” I tease.
She pours herself a glass and I follow her to the couch. “Peyton and Chad are coming, too. It got great reviews in the Globe.”
Peyton, Erika, and I have been friends since moving to Boston the summer after graduation. She and Erika met at a Women in Law luncheon, when Erika first joined Cramer and Bosh. But of greater consequence than their shared profession, Peyton Whitmore Adams is a newlywed. Married last spring to Chad Adams, a former varsity crew captain she met at Skidmore, this marks her as highly desirable bridesmaid material, given her recent nuptials. As Erika says, best friends are eternal. But former brides are indispensable. And since she couldn’t combine both in me, I’ve been asked to share my maid of honor duties. I don’t take offense to it. Really.
The indispensable newlyweds live in a refurbished bungalow in Cambridge. Their Copley Plaza wedding set the stage for many a late-night rehashing in our apartment. Despite our differences, I like Peyton. She’s a straight shooter with a dry sense of humor. And she’s got a designer-label wardrobe that I try my best to take notes from, if only through last season’s late-night bidding wars on eBay.
“The tapas bar sounds great, but Evan has to work late on set tonight,” I remind her. Good as a night out sounds, I am staking out my spot on the couch. As if reading my mind, Mr. Kringles leaps up and joins me.
Erika regards me curiously. “So? You’re free.”
Lately, I’ve sort of gone underground in the social department. But not without reason. Spring is my cramming season at school with report cards and curriculum wrap-up. Plus I’ve been searching, albeit halfheartedly, for a new apartment, none of which seems to match the neighborhood vibe or old-time charm of our own. Let alone its affordability. And then there’s Evan. We’ve been together a year now, and when you’re settled comfortably in a long-term relationship, the idea of getting dressed up after a long day at work and dragging yourself into town for what always turns out to be a late night loses some of its appeal.
“I’m pretty beat from work,” I tell her, stroking Mr. Kringles behind his ears. “And I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. I’m driving home for my mom’s birthday party, remember?”
Erika slumps into the couch cushions and gazes sadly out the window, a pose that is supposed to inflict guilt. “I was looking forward to all of us getting together. Trent had to pull out all the stops just to get these reservations. And with all the stress of the wedding, I could really use a night out with you. Especially since you’re getting away for the weekend.”
I give her a level look. “Getting away? A full-blown family reunion is going to be anything but a vacation getaway.”
“Besides,” Erika continues, “I already touched base with Evan. He’s going to try to meet us there after he gets off work.” She smiles coyly.
“You got Evan to leave work early?” I throw up my hands. “Okay, okay. I give in. Ceviche night it is.”
I grab my glass and head to the fridge. Another glass of pinot is clearly in order.
Two
Jane? Are you there?”
There is a sudden crash, followed by loud barking. Followed by the shrill cry of a baby.
“Jane?” I’d hoped to catch her at a quiet time between the dinner and bedtime rush, but apparently not.
“What on earth? Randall!”
I hold the phone away from my ear. I should be used to this. My sister Jane’s three children were born in rapid succession, and since then, any attempt at uninterrupted communication with her has been something akin to navigating a minefield. Add to that a 110-pound Great Pyrenees, a house renovation, and a husband, Toby, who works sixty-hour weeks, and you can begin to piece together the picture.
“Who put crayons in the dishwasher?” Jane’s voice is not exactly hysterical. Rather, it is what we jokingly refer to as her mommy voice. A high-pitched tone of urgency, followed by long periods of what she calls “wait time,” during which the child in question is supposed to respond with honesty and regret, given sufficient time to contemplate the wrongness of his or her doings. I have yet to see it work.
“Sorry,” she groans, returning to the phone. “The inside of my new Bosch dishwasher is shellacked in rainbow wax. Toby’s going to have a coronary when he gets home.
“Randall?” I ask.
“Who else.”
Randall is their second-born, and like most seconds, he is the busiest. Randall doesn’t walk. He races from room to room. Likewise, he approaches games and crafts at the same breakneck pace, never slowing to replace the lid to a jar of red paint or the top to the hamster cage. Small disasters erupt in his wake with a regularity that makes him consistent if not careful. But Randall’s dimpled smile is just as quick, as is his endearing giggle, and he gives hugs that rival a bear’s. In the end, he’s pretty hard to resist.
Owen is probably my favorite, even though, just as in teaching, I’m not supposed to have one. He’s the eldest, and also the most thoughtful. Since babyhood, Owen has been an observer. He sits contentedly for long periods of time watching the birds in their backyard, or slowly turning the pages of his favorite books. Owen is the one who stacks LEGOs with the precision of a surgeon and who fretfully guards them from demolition whenever Randall is in close proximity. I love how he takes small bites of his cookies, savoring each morsel. In some ways he reminds me of a little old man; careful and courteous, fussing over the lineup of his toy cars, considering the colors of the backyard rocks he collects. But most of all I love him because he is mine; the baby who crawled to me first, who first deemed me “Anny Mags,” and the one who still lets me hold him on my lap without wriggling away, even though he is now five.
Jane sounds frazzled. “They just woke up Lucy. So now I’m trying to nurse while unloading the crayon-covered dishwasher. What’s up?”
I’ve seen her on days like this. I can just picture her placing Lucy in the cupboard and tucking a dish in her nursing bra. “Sorry. Just wanted to do a final check-in before Mom’s birthday. Is there anything else I can help with?”
I can hear the clattering of dishes as Jane thinks out loud. “Let’s see: the cake is ordered. We’ve got a baked ham, au gratin potatoes, and a salad if Cousin Ellen remembers to make it. Everyone’s coming, as far as I know. All that’s left is for you to pick up Aunt Dotty on your way tomorrow.”
I groan. “She’s coming?” Aunt Dotty is my grandmother’s sister. Her percentage of cantankerousness is equal to her age, which is eighty-nine. And she requires restroom stops at least every four highway exits. “Can’t you or Dad pick her up?”
“Excuse me. What’s that foreign sound on your end?” Jane pauses dramatically to make her point. “Ah! It’s the sound of silence. Almost didn’t recognize it. Tell you what, how about you come over here and bake a twenty-pound ham, clean the house, decorate, walk the dog,
and entertain three kids? I’d be thrilled to drive two hours alone in the car to pick up Aunt Dotty.” There is another crash, then the clatter of a pan. “Randall. Please!”
She’s got me there. “Okay, okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah. We need to get something for Mom. Something nice.”
“You haven’t gotten Mom a present yet?”
“Can you not hear what is going on over here?”
It’s not worth pushing the subject. “Okay. I can share my gift.”
My mother is a consumer-martyr. That affliction, however, does not apply when it comes to treating her daughters: a set of antique silver candlesticks for Jane’s last dinner party; an auburn cashmere sweater for my school harvest fair last October. We gladly accept her offerings, which means that when holidays or birthdays arise, we make a sound effort to track down her latest yearning.
Jane pauses. “So, what are you up to tonight?”
And then we are in the danger zone. Jane holds her status as a former Bostonian the way a veteran reveres their purple heart. Like me, she spent her postgraduate years there, working in marketing. She swore she’d never set foot beyond Cambridge. Until she met Toby, a junior associate at a Providence law firm, during a friend’s Christmas party back home in Mystic. One year later, she was engaged, back in Mystic, and picking out kitchen subway tiles. Since then, even though I know Jane is happy back home, she can’t help but inquire about city life as if it were a former lover. “Got any big plans tonight?” she presses.
What Jane doesn’t realize is that as hard as her life is right now, it’s exactly what I dream of someday. The husband, the kids, the dog, and the house—even the crayon-covered dishwasher interior—sometimes so badly I can taste it. Which makes it even harder when Jane makes her weekly inquiry about my weekend plans. Because I know she’s peering over that proverbial fence at the grass, or in this case city sidewalks, on my side.
“Nothing, really. Erika mentioned something about this new tapas bar on Boylston.”
Jane exhales like she’s been punched. “Oh. I miss real restaurants.”
Erika swears that once an urban dweller gets married and gives birth, crossing the city border is just a matter of time. And the ability to put your finger on the pulse of anything, beyond the suburban throbbing in your temples, is forever lost.
“You’ve got great restaurants in Mystic,” I remind her.
“Mags. I live in the land of lobster rolls.”
I keep to myself that living in the land of lobster rolls is precisely what keeps the Mystic Chamber of Commerce thriving.
“I miss ceviche,” she adds with a sigh. “Maybe I should drive up for a visit.”
Inviting her will only remind her that this is not really a choice within her reach at this time, and I don’t want her to spend the rest of her already haggard day regarding her offspring as anchors. However, if I don’t ask her to come, she will think I don’t want her. That she has somehow lost her edge, and is (in her own words) too old, too fat, or too lame to be seen with us. None of which is true or will ensure a happy ending to our phone call.
I know what will follow next: it is a dance we do each time. A complicated routine in which Jane feels left out and out of touch from her former svelte and fun pre-motherhood self. I will then listen quietly, passing metaphorical tissues of reassurance as she gets misty-eyed for the good old days. During which I will turn the tables, and invite her. This will be followed by a quick rebuttal, as she realizes she hasn’t the time or the strength or, let’s be honest, the desire to shed the nursing bra for a black push-up and a pair of heels. But the winning ticket is that it’s a realization she usually arrives at on her own, as though the choice to dance the night away in a club is still within her realm of possibility. If I can only get her to the end of the phone call without tears. Here we go.
“Tell you what. I’ll check the tapas bar out, and if it’s half as good as you think, we’ll plan a night when you can come into the city.”
Jane scoffs. “Yeah, sure. In about six months, when Lucy weans and it’s no longer cool.”
And so here we are. I choose my words carefully. “Or . . . you could call Toby at work and tell him to come home early. Pump breast milk for Lucy, and leave Toby with a bottle. They’re his kids, too, after all. What could possibly go wrong?” It’s the last five words that seal the deal.
Jane doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh. No. I couldn’t. Lucy nurses every four hours, and by the time I got out the door and into the city, Toby would already be down one bottle for her. Plus, Randall is going through this thing at bedtime where he wants both of us to lie down with him. And of course we’ve got Mom’s party tomorrow. No, no, I couldn’t possibly. But thanks for asking.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Jane is happily restored to her role of mother, and I am now free to go out with Erika and the guys, guilt-free. If I only had something to wear.
Although it’s only May, the evening is mild and there’s the fragrant smell of lilac trees as we head out of our neighborhood on foot. I love living in Back Bay. I love that I can walk down Boylston Street to Fenway Park in the summer, or to bars and restaurants, like we’re doing tonight. But I’m also keenly aware that nights like this are coming to an end for me. As is the neighborhood lifestyle I’ve come to love.
It was Erika’s father who, upon hearing that we were both moving to Boston, insisted his little girl reside in a safe, clean area. At first she was incensed—she loved the thought of being downtown in a high-rise. But when we first visited our two-story brick bungalow with its hardwood floors and small corner fireplace on a quiet street, she caved. Mr. Crane foots half our rent, and she and I split the other half. It’s the only way I’ve afforded living here.
Tonight, Bostonians are out in force with the warm weather, and the sidewalk tables are clogged with both students and the mixed after-work crowd of suits and boat shoes. Inside the restaurant we find Peyton and Chad already ensconced in a corner booth with Trent.
“So what can I whet your palate with?” he asks. That’s one thing about Trent: he’s quick with the drink orders, and just as quick to treat.
“She’ll have a vodka tonic, lime twist.”
I spin around to face Evan, who is grinning at me. “You made it!”
He pulls me in for a hug and kisses my forehead. “Couldn’t miss a night out with my girl.” I know Evan is fresh off twelve hours of filming on the set, but he still manages to look crisp in his collared shirt and jeans.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the booth. But I’m thrilled he did. His schedule has been so busy that I haven’t seen him all week. “You must be exhausted.”
Evan’s acting career always takes people by surprise. It still surprises me. Upon graduation, he told his parents back in New York that he wanted to be an actor. Confused and somewhat dismayed by his sudden announcement, because outside of a small part in a high school production of Our Town he had never set foot on a stage, they put on a brave face and did not question when he quit his well-heeled position as a congressional intern in New York and packed a duffel bag for a summer with the Berkshire Theatre Festival. Supporting himself with modeling and catalog work when he could get it, Evan worked three years behind the scenes and eventually onstage at various New England theaters, going on auditions and casting calls in between. After a singular but lucrative stint in an Ivory Soap commercial, Evan got a call-back for a new Boston crime pilot. The rest is recent history. First Watch aired its pilot last fall to strong reviews, and Evan snagged one of the main roles as Officer Jack Brady. It’s gotten so he’s starting to be recognized when we go out. He has struggled to get used to it, and it’s something I’m still working on.
“How’s life on the set?” Trent asks. “Looks like you missed a spot of blush on your cheek there, buddy.” Trent likes to tease Evan relentlessly, especially since his show has been picked up for another season. But it’s in that mock-hassling way guys cajol
e one another, and I know he’s just as proud of him as I am.
Evan smiles. “Did you hear that Angela Dune landed the new part?”
The guys burst out in a hoot of approval just as a large bite of chopitos gets stuck in my throat.
“You didn’t tell me she got it,” I manage to choke.
Evan puts a hand on my back. “You okay, honey?”
I force a smile and take a swig of his beer.
But Peyton is on it. “The Sports Illustrated model? She acts?” she asks doubtfully.
Chad, the consummate fraternity boy in our group, puts his hand up for a high five. I’m relieved when Evan waves it away.
“She seems cool,” he says, casually. “I’ve only met her once.”
Erika is looking at me now, taking the temperature of my end of the table. “So are you in any scenes together?”
They’re just actors, I tell myself, running a hand through my hair and sitting up straighter. But this is my question, too.
“Not yet,” Evan says. “She’s playing the role of a new detective in the department. They’ve only contracted her for four shows so far.”
I take a deep breath and nod appreciatively like this is good news. It’s silly. Evan is a professional. Angie Dune is just a swimsuit model. And my food is getting cold.
“Who wants to try the chopitos?” I ask, changing the subject. We spend the evening catching up and sampling tapas. Garlic shrimp, mussels, and chorizo croquetas. Jane was right about the ceviche. The drinks are strong and I start to feel a little buzzed, despite my full stomach. But everyone orders another round. Erika tells a funny story about a divorce case she’s working on. Though she has divorce clients of both genders, Erika has a penchant for taking the woman’s side.
Mystic Summer Page 2