How Lucky You Are (9781455518548)

by Kusek Lewis, Kristyn

  I wish that I could be more like Jeannette, who is even-keeled and mild and content, almost certainly from her daily marijuana consumption, but still. I am more like my mother, who could subsist for days on Alka-Seltzer and Tab when she worried about something.

  I remember hearing my parents fight about money. It’s not that we were poverty-stricken—we were an ordinary middle-class family occasionally stretched thin by normal life circumstances—but it was obvious to me from an early age that my parents were both carpe diem types who believed that when you came into a little extra money—a bonus check, a tax refund—there was no better way to celebrate it than to spend it. They also neglected to ever really teach me anything about money. I didn’t have an allowance, and they never advised me about what I should do with the money I made at my summer jobs waiting tables. I don’t blame them, exactly, for leaving me to fend for myself. Actually, that’s not true—I do blame them a little bit. I wish I’d had the kind of parents who’d sat me down on a Sunday afternoon and taught me how to balance a checkbook, or explained the difference between a stock and a bond.

  I’m fortunately not the kind of person who enjoys shopping for sport. I couldn’t really care less about having the designer something-or-others that Kate gets worked up about. I know that this mess of mine has nothing to do with splurging. My problem, I’m realizing more and more, is that I’m good at ignoring things like bills that make me uncomfortable and subsequently bad at managing my money, which is a horrible, dangerous combination.

  When my parents died, I was not in a position to handle all of the details about their finances. I just wasn’t psychologically able to sit in a lawyer’s office and talk about my parents’ assets as if what was left for me was some sort of sweepstakes prize I should feel good about. Babci stepped in and dealt with the life insurance payout and the will, and after I finished college, we sold the house and used the proceeds to pay off my college loans and to start a little money market account for my savings.

  There wasn’t exactly a windfall left over, despite what some people thought. Kate and I had one of our few legitimate fights—one that escalated beyond our usual bickering—because of this misconception. It was right after I decided to open the bakery, and we were sitting on the floor in my living room, looking over one of the many spreadsheets that she’d helped me put together to determine my start-up costs. I suddenly got overwhelmed by the size of it all and moaned to Kate that I was starting to second-guess whether it was something I could really do.

  “But wait a second,” she said, an excited gleam in her eye. “What about the money you got from your parents?”

  “What money?” I’d said.

  “From their estate…After the accident…” We hadn’t really talked about their death since it happened. She was being uncharacteristically careful with her words.

  “There isn’t anything, really. Just some savings that I’m trying not to completely obliterate by doing this.”

  “What do you mean there isn’t anything?”

  “My parents didn’t leave me with much,” I said. I shuffled the spreadsheets on the floor. I didn’t want to talk about this.

  “What do you mean they didn’t leave you with much?” She was incredulous all of a sudden. Our different stations in life were something we rarely discussed. With someone as rich as Kate, it wasn’t necessary to speak about it aloud, but suddenly it seemed like she was doing just that.

  “Not all of us are the children of moguls, Kate,” I snapped.

  “Waverly, come on,” she said, pissed off at my comment. “Surely there’s something.”

  “Actually, there’s not,” I said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense,” she pushed. “Were they totally irresponsible with their money? I mean, I know they didn’t make much, but…”

  I blew up then: “Kate, what can I say? Some of us have parents who make the Forbes list and some of us have parents who love us.”

  She didn’t say a word. She got up, grabbed her keys, and walked out. Three days later, she was the one to break down and call first. She pretended like nothing had ever happened and I was relieved to follow suit. A couple of years later, after one of her alcohol-fueled birthday dinners, she repeated my line to me, laughing. When I winced, she laughed and told me to get over it—she’d been a thoughtless asshole, too.

  I am happy to have grown up in a family where money wasn’t the goal, the Shangri-la I was supposed to strive for. Our budget family hiking trips and beach motel vacations are some of my favorite memories. I never thought to wish that we had more, even especially when I got to my fancy high school and saw firsthand how money could affect people. Don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t have frowned upon finding a brand-new BMW convertible in the driveway on my sixteenth birthday like several of my classmates did, and it would have been nice to have been able to chime in after Christmas break when everyone compared notes on their Caribbean getaways. But ninety percent of the time, I am happy that my parents didn’t teach me to focus on money. Except for now, of course, when not having any is making it the focus of my life.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I arrive at Kate’s house the next night for dinner, I don’t bother to knock. “Helloooo?” I call out as I push open the heavy oak door, my voice echoing in the cavernous foyer. My eyes fall on the portrait of Brendan’s great-grandfather in foxhunting garb on the far wall. He stares back at me, a mocking half smile on his face that reminds me of Brendan when he does his “let’s make this one good for the camera” pose, which is something Kate pointed out to me a few months ago when we were examining a picture from a campaign rally in the paper. I’ve always wondered why Kate picked this particular portrait for the entryway when I know that her taste runs more modern. When we lived together, she had a Rothko hanging over her bed. It always scared the shit out of me to have something so priceless in our crappy, no-security two-bedroom.

  “Waverly!” Brendan comes around the corner. I’m surprised to see him. It’s been at least a month. He is far too pretty to be my type, but he really is that good-looking—thick black hair, bright green eyes, a Hollywood smile. He gives me a hug and gently claps my back a couple of times. He smells like tweed and firewood. It’s a combination that works.

  I follow him down the hallway to the kitchen. Kate’s kitchen: such a dream—and such a waste. She has a professional-grade La Cornue stove, impeccable Carrara marble countertops, and a wall-sized refrigerator that I know holds little more than some overpriced yuppie condiments, wine, Pellegrino, and Kate and Brendan’s house beverage, Diet Coke. Aside from the occasional grilled cheese sandwich, Kate does not cook. Case in point: the bag of Thai takeout that she’s opening as I walk in.

  “So what do you two have planned for girls’ night?” Brendan says overenthusiastically. He is all politician. Kate looks nauseated by him.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Probably just shoot the shit, huh, Kate?”

  “I’m so fucking tired from this day that I honestly don’t care. I’m just ready to relax.”

  “Kate was in Roanoke today.” Brendan smiles. “She gave a great speech to a local high school.”

  I know this already. Kate called me from the plane afterward and whined about how most of her teenaged audience was slumped down in their seats and texting during her talk. The teachers stood lined against the walls, their faces slack and vacant, like losers at a school dance. Kate said that she spoke for exactly eight minutes about the success of public education in Virginia, glancing throughout at the wristwatch she kept on the podium, anticipating the end of the speech with as much impatience as the kids who sat sprawled out before her.

  “How would you know it was great speech?” Kate barks to Brendan.

  Brendan doesn’t acknowledge that he’s heard her. His eyes don’t even move in her direction. “Waverly, did you know that Roanoke County has been named one of the top ten pl
aces in the U.S. for jobs by Money magazine?”

  “No, I didn’t—,” I start.

  “Oh God. Here we go,” Kate interrupts. “Brendan, Waverly doesn’t need to hear your Virginia factoid of the day. Jesus, is it even possible for you to not speak in sound bites?”

  “Wow, someone’s in a good mood,” I gasp.

  Brendan laughs—it’s a mocking laugh. There’s nothing good-hearted about it.

  “You sure you want me here, Kate?” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just a really, really long day.”

  “On that note”—Brendan claps his hands together and flashes me his photogenic smile—“I’m going to head out. You girls have a good time.” He gives me another squeeze and before he can circle around the massive island to get to Kate, she puts her hands out and tells him not to wake her when he comes in later.

  “You know, I might just stay at the apartment,” he says. Kate’s parents have an apartment in D.C. that Brendan sometimes uses as a crash pad after strategy meetings.

  “Fine, whatever,” Kate says.

  I wait to say anything until I hear the door slam behind him. “What was that about?”

  “What?” She slides a foil container of basil rolls across the counter toward me.

  “You weren’t very nice to him.” I say it teasingly so that I don’t piss her off. More.

  “Are you kidding me?” she says.

  “I’m just saying…”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Let me tell you about the day I’ve had.”

  She starts to go over the details, many of which are the same complaints I already heard on the phone earlier: how the private plane they flew down to Roanoke was late leaving town for no discernible reason, how the disrespectful young staffers who accompanied her spent most of the flight crunching loudly on Doritos and gossiping about other politicians’ aides, how the only person who paid attention to the truly boring speech that Brendan’s team wrote for her was a creepy fish-eyed history teacher who asked for her autograph…

  Kate and Brendan’s Chesapeake Bay retriever pads into the kitchen. “Reagan!” I coo, leaning down to scratch his ears. Brendan had the dog—and obviously named him—before he met Kate. “Hey, boo-boo!”

  “Are you listening to me?” Kate says.

  “Of course I am.”

  She raises her eyebrows.

  What I really want to say to her is that I am exhausted by her constant complaining and that I came here tonight hoping to forget about my own set of problems, which are actual, real problems, and far more irritating—a word I’m sick of hearing Kate say—than the torture of having to share a private plane ride with some twentysomethings who don’t feel inclined to kiss your ass.

  Instead, I say, “It just sounds like you’re not having much fun, Kate. Do you even enjoy this whole thing?”

  “I don’t know—and it’s not like that matters anyway. Come on. Let’s go into the living room.” I grab my container of curry and follow her down the hall.

  Kate’s house is showroom beautiful, but it’s cozy. Like me, she appreciates creature comforts—soft throws tossed casually over the furniture, scented candles, background music. Of course, Kate’s stuff isn’t a miscellaneous collection of sentimental hand-me-downs, flea market finds, and IKEA purchases like mine. Rather, she spots a one-of-a-kind piece in an antique shop and has it shipped to her house.

  I sink into an oversized chair in the living room and kick off my shoes before I cross my feet on the ottoman. The dog noses his head under my arm, looking for more scratches. A fire crackles beneath the oak mantel.

  “I need a vacation,” Kate says as she digs into her pad thai.

  “We just got back from Florida a few days ago!” I laugh.

  “You call that a vacation?” She raises her eyebrows at me.

  “It was weird, right?” I’ve been dying to talk to her about Amy and Mike.

  “It was completely bizarre. I felt tense the whole time we were there.”

  “I think you really upset Amy.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Waverly, but somebody had to say something.”

  “That might be true, but you could’ve been more tactful.”

  “Well…” She shrugs and stabs her fork into her takeout container. “Is yours hot enough? I could put it in the microwave.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, swallowing before I launch into my theory. “You know what I think? I think that Mike’s having an affair.” I outline my reasons, and when I finish she is surprisingly thoughtful.

  “I think you could be right,” she says. “Honestly, with the way that things have been going with Brendan and me lately, I can completely understand why people stray. Marriage is tough. You’re smart not to do it.”

  Kate’s never needled me about not getting married like Amy occasionally does. She’s asked me, in her characteristic, straightforward way, whether I’m scared to do it, and I’ve told her that I am. Still, I don’t think she entirely gets how much I crave the certainty that I need to move forward. She doesn’t understand that I’d very much like to marry Larry, if only I could convince myself that a forever partnership with him has no chance of fizzling out.

  “Lately I find myself fantasizing a lot about my life before Brendan,” she says. “This morning on the plane I closed my eyes and pretended like I was headed off on one of my old travel assignments. Belize. Reykjavik. Remember the art history professor I met during that Napa trip? He had this fabulous apartment in the Presidio…”

  “Yeah,” I lie. When Kate was single, she collected men like baseball cards. I don’t remember all of them. “I know that you don’t really have the time, but maybe you could take on a freelance assignment? You know, to scratch the itch.”

  “No, not with the campaign,” she says forlornly before tilting her head back to deposit a huge forkful of noodles into her mouth. She chews for a moment and then continues. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? This morning, while I was sitting on the plane, I remembered how much I looked forward to changing my name once I got married. No more, ‘Oh, are you that Townsend?’ when I introduced myself to somebody new. No more waiters handing my credit card back to me with an expectant gleam in their eyes.”

  I wince. Us poor, lowly food service folk…always begging for tips, I think.

  “I couldn’t wait for anonymity, and now, here I am, giving speeches behind podiums bearing my last name. Not to mention that being on the campaign trail is so fucking boring,” she continues. “Today, when I was giving that speech, I wasn’t even thinking about what I was saying. I’ve said the same words so many times, to so many different groups of people, that it no longer even occurs to me to stop to consider what the sounds coming out of my mouth even mean. It’s like acting. It’s…it’s…” She grasps for the words. “It’s soulless. I just fake a smile and emphasize the words I’m supposed to like I’m hitting the right notes in a song: the education you DESERVE! YOU are our biggest investment!”

  “Does Brendan know how you feel?”

  She laughs. “Tonight was the first time in a week that Brendan and I have been together in this house, and he had only been home for maybe ten minutes before you got here and he turned around and left again. It’s lucky you got here when you did—he had that baby-making gleam in his eyes. You gave me a good excuse.”

  I laugh. “So you’re really sure, huh? No kids?”

  She just stares at me. It was a stupid question.

  “Anyway,” she says. “He just found out today that he’s going to be on Meet the Press next Sunday, so I probably won’t see him for days.”

  “Really? That’s exciting!” I say. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, totally,” she says. “It’s wonderful for him to get that kind of national attention. But just like everything else about this campaign, I feel like it’s one of those things that we should be celebrating together but aren’t. I feel like I don’t know him anymore. I wonder how much I even still fit in
to the plan. Or, more accurately, if the plan is something I even want. So much of my life now resembles what I couldn’t wait to get away from when I was younger—the protocols, the public image, the feeling that the rest of the world was free to just be. Remember how I used to be?”

  I nod emphatically. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Crazy,” she says.

  “Something like that,” I say. It’s not like Kate was in danger of ending up in a Girls Gone Wild video; she just was so much more free-spirited, so loosened up, with so much joie de vivre. Some days, in the height of her brief but storied travel-reporting career, I didn’t even know what country she was in, much less what time zone. And when she came home, she was full of stories. Kate’s depth was most evident then, in the way that she talked about the people she met, the cultural traditions she witnessed, the beauty of discovering a place she’d never known or understood. I miss that part of her. It’s obvious now that she does, too. I’ve of course known that the campaign’s been wearing on her, but I didn’t for a minute suspect that it was making her question her choices so deeply. I know that it’s selfish, but I’m kind of relieved to see that I’m not the only one second-guessing my decisions.

  “The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself,” she says. “When Brendan announced that he was ready to make this move, it was like…I don’t know…it was like coming upon the drink of water at the end of a long, long, trip through the desert. I’d been unemployed for a while and it was a relief to finally have something to do. Now every time I come across his picture in the paper, I have to turn the page or stuff the paper in my bag as quickly as I can…so I don’t have to see his goddamn smiling face.”