Marrying Mom

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Well, she better move up to an A, or a B-plus at the very least,” Bob punned. He flashed her a quick smile. His teeth seemed yellow against the unusually white white of his foamy bubble beard. It gave him an almost unpleasant wolfish look. Sylvie thought of the phrase “long in the tooth.” “She has to get a scholarship by next year is what she has to do,” Bob continued. The razor sliced another path through the foam. “First she had to pick the most expensive school in America. Now she has to study irrelevant recent history. You can’t even make a living in irrelevant ancient history.”

  “The two of us felt we had to major in music,” Sylvie said quietly.

  “Yeah. It sure helped me in my career. When I’m giving a test drive I know all the classical radio stations.”

  Sylvie didn’t like the tone of this conversation. Bob seemed distracted and cranky. Normally, he was an indulgent father, a loving husband. Feeling a little desperate Sylvie leaned forward and taped the buckling brochure to the mirror beside the reflection of his now almost-shaved face. It was hard to get the tape to stick to the wet glass.

  Bob ignored the thing and rinsed the razor. “It’s not the seventies or eighties any more,” he said. “Reenie has to begin thinking responsibly. Realistically. Do you realize the kids are older now than we were when we first met?”

  “They’re too short to be that old,” Sylvie told him.

  He laughed and used one hand to pinch the nape of her neck, giving her the tug that connected deep inside her. Sylvie smiled into the mirror at him and started to gesture to the brochure, but he pulled his hand away and bent over, rooting around in the cabinet under the sink.

  “When we finished Julliard, we were going to travel around the country in a painted bus. And play music wherever we felt like it. Why didn’t we do that?” Sylvie asked. Her voice, she realized, sounded plaintive. Where was quirky? Where was charm? Bob was slapping his face with an aftershave.

  “Two reasons,” he said. “We were a decade too late and we had a life instead.”

  “Bob. About Hawaii. For my birthday I’d really like to …”

  “Oh no! A trip? Now? Come on, baby. That’s out of the question. We have the new models just jamming the lot. Your father’s talking about an advertising push, and I’m flirting with the idea of this political thing. Anyway, with tuitions… we just can’t.”

  “It’s not expensive,” Sylvie protested. “Not at this time of year. The season hasn’t begun yet. There’s a package deal. And I have money saved from lessons.”

  “Hey! Pay for your own fortieth birthday present? I don’t think so.” He bent to her cheek and kissed her. His aftershave smelled unfamiliar. “Anyway, I already got your present for you. I brought it home tonight. Want to see it?” He pulled on his briefs, stepped into his slacks and looked around for his belt. Sylvie handed it to him. As he threaded it through his belt loops, Sylvie watched the brochure slide slowly down the wet mirror and crumple onto the vanity.

  Bob, his shirt on, gave her another bear hug. “Hey! Come downstairs. Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten your upcoming big day. Four decades! And you don’t look a day over forty.” She smiled weakly at him. He took her hand. “So, come on down and see your reward.”

  Sylvie slowly followed Bob as he led her downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, past the rose bed and her row of double peonies over to the driveway. The light was beginning to fade, and his car—his obsession—was parked in front of the garage.

  “You’re giving me Beautiful Baby for my birthday?” Sylvie joked mildly. If Bob had a choice between losing his car or his prostate, he’d probably keep the two seater. It was a perfectly restored 1971 XS200. But what in the world had he gotten for her? Her heart fluttered for a moment. Bob’s car was tiny, but there was enough room in the glove compartment for a jewelry box.

  “You know, my birthday isn’t until Thursday. Shouldn’t we wait until then?”

  “Come on! You seem a little down. I want you to enjoy this as soon as possible. Use it on your birthday.” Bob pressed the remote to open the garage doors. As they swung up, he turned on the lights.

  There, illuminated by the overhead fluorescent, was a new BMW convertible. Across the hood a huge red bow was stretched. Bob put his arm around her. “Happy birthday, honey,” he said. “Kids are gone. Time for a fun car. Enjoy yourself.”

  Sylvie looked at the sparkling silvery paint and shiny chrome object. “You took away my sedan?” she asked weakly.

  “Don’t worry about a thing. Already detailed and in the previously owned section.” He gestured to the convertible. “Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t that better than a trip to Hawaii?”

  Sylvie reluctantly nodded. She should feel grateful and excited. Even if the family did own a BMW dealership and she got a new car as a matter of course. This one was special. She knew Bob couldn’t keep the new convertibles on the lot. So why did she feel so … disappointed? She looked up at Bob. “Thank you,” she said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. She failed. “It’s great,” she said, and she heard the flatness in her voice. God, she didn’t want to hurt Bob’s feelings.

  But Bob didn’t seem to notice. He patted the leather of the seat. “You’ll love it as much as I love mine,” he told her. Sylvie doubted that, but she managed a smile. “Look, I’ve got to go.” He continued, “We’ll take the car out for your birthday, okay? Maybe we’ll drive up to the lake. Eat at L’Etoile. We haven’t been there in a long time.”

  “Sure. Okay.” Sylvia paused. “That’s funny, because when Honey Blank came over today …”

  Bob had pulled out bis car keys. “Honey Blank? Can you tell me in four words or less?” he asked. “Or save it for later. I really have to go.”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you when you get home,” Sylvie agreed. What difference did it make?

  “I might be late. I won’t wake you.” Bob got into Beautiful Baby and started her up. For a moment Sylvie saw him there as a stranger: a middle-aged man with a bit of a paunch sitting in a very young sportscar.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you did wake me,” she told him, but he had already begun backing out of the driveway. He waved as he pulled into the cul-de-sac and then accelerated. Sylvie watched him go.

  She stood for a moment in the twilight, the ugly fluorescent shining out of the garage behind her making the macadam under her feet look slick with oil.

  “Well. That’s impressive.”

  Sylvie looked up. God! It was Rosalie the Bitter, her ex-sister-in-law. It wasn’t that Sylvie didn’t love Rosalie and feel sorry for her. She even took her side over her brother’s, but Rosalie was difficult.

  “A new car?” Rosalie asked. “I can’t even get Phil to fix my transmission. And he’s in charge of the service department.”

  There was no way to have a conversation with Rosalie. Everything was a complaint or an attack. Though she’d wound up with the house, alimony, and healthy child support, Rosalie still felt cheated. Of course, Sylvie had to admit she had been cheated on.

  “Have you been jogging?” Sylvie asked, to change the subject and to say something. Rosalie was in shorts and the kind of industrial Nikes that cost in the three figures. Sylvie pressed the garage button to close the door.

  Rosalie ignored the question. It seemed to Sylvie that she’d displaced most of the energy Rosalie used to use nagging Phil and now used it to exercise with. Rosalie jogged, lifted weights, taught aerobics, and even attended a yoga class in downtown Cleveland. Maybe, Sylvie thought, she should give Rosalie her Thighmaster. “You know how lucky you are?” Rosalie demanded. “Do you know?” Rosalie looked around at the flower beds, the lawn, the house. “A new car in your garage, two kids in college, and a husband in your bed.” Rosalie shook her dark head.

  Sylvie turned away and started for the back door. She felt sorry for Rosalie—her three children were out of school and out of work. But she never stopped complaining. Rosalie followed her across the slate patio. Rosalie the Stuck.

  “For
ty isn’t easy for any woman. But if anyone has it easy, you do,” Rosalie was saying. “You’re lucky. You’ve always been lucky.”

  Sylvie got to the screen door and opened it. Then, from the inside, she locked the button. “You’re right, Rosalie,” Sylvie said through the screen. “I’m lucky. My life is a paradise.”

  Then she shut the back door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sylvie had put the top down, although there was a chill in the air. It was wasteful to drive the new convertible with the heat pumping and the top off but she was doing it. What the hell. She’d be self-indulgent. She was forty. Live a little!

  The groceries she’d just bought were arranged neatly in four bags across the backseat and as she took a sharp turn she glimpsed them in the mirror. They shifted but didn’t spill. Before the children had left she used to have to fill the trunk of the sedan with groceries—Kenny ate like a horse. Now four bags and a dollar tip to the box boy was all it took to fill the back seat and the larder at home.

  The wind whipped at her hair. It was odd there was so much air, but she couldn’t seem to breathe. Somehow all she could manage were shallow breaths. Maybe she should take a yoga class.

  Last night after choking down a dinner of overdone chicken alone she’d waited for Bob. He’d come in after midnight and he hadn’t wanted to talk. Sylvie didn’t push it. Instead she’d lain awake most of the night, sleepless and confused.

  Out of nowhere a car pulled out of an almost hidden driveway on her right. Sylvie moved the wheel and the convertible swerved. A van was in the oncoming lane. The slightest touch brought her car back, long before the van was a danger to her. She had to admit that the convertible was beautiful to drive, but she didn’t want it. It was wrong somehow. It felt wrong.

  What’s wrong with me? Sylvie thought. Most women would give up their husbands for a car like this. Or give up their cars for a husband like mine. And I have both. Rosalie is right. I’m very lucky. I should be grateful. I’m healthy, I love Bob, he loves me, the kids are fine. It’s a beautiful sunny day and the leaves are just starting to turn colors. The unease she felt, the sense of dissatisfaction wasn’t like her. Sylvie felt ashamed at her unhappiness, but it was there right under her breast bone. She stopped for a red light, the car gliding smoothly and effortlessly to a stop.

  The steering wheel under her hands became wet with sweat. The feeling of unease that had been building in her, lodging in her chest, now moved into her throat and blocked it. She tried to swallow and couldn’t do it. It didn’t matter anyway—her mouth was so dry there was nothing to swallow. Either I’m going crazy or something is really wrong, she thought as the light turned green. A horn blared behind her. The driver hadn’t even given her a minute. She accelerated. All at once she was swept with a surge of anger—of rage—so complete that she had trouble seeing the road. She looked in the rearview mirror at the old man in the big Buick behind her and flipped him the bird.

  God! She’d never done that before in her life. What was going on?

  She didn’t want this car. Bob hadn’t thought of her when he took it off the lot. He took her for granted. He hadn’t listened about Hawaii, either. When was the last time he had listened? She didn’t want automatic gifts, no matter how luxurious. She didn’t want to be taken for granted. She didn’t want to be ignored by Bob. There were so many things that she had that she didn’t want, she felt almost dizzy and nearly missed the left-hand turn into the cul-de-sac. She burned rubber making the turn. She drove slowly on Harris Place, the street she lived on, where her mother had the big house with the white columns and where her brother had lived before he divorced Rosalie. The few other houses there were all traditional, well-designed and maintained. She drove past the beds of vinca in front of the Williamsons and the row of gold chrysanthemums unimaginatively lined along Rosalie’s fence. Everything appeared so right, but this foreboding, this sense that it was wrong, became insupportable. It was as if the open top of the car let the weight of the universe in to crush her. Her house, the house she loved, loomed up.

  Sylvie made a sharp right and felt the wheels of the BMW effortlessly move over the curb. Calmly, she drove the car across her own side lawn and, when she reached it, through the perennial border, right over the delphiniums and peonies. She felt an icy calm as she proceeded onto the back lawn and engineered a carefully calculated right turn, avoiding the slate patio. The aqua rectangle of the pool was right before her and, without slowing down, she headed for it, the car like a homing device moving toward the concrete edge of the eight foot diving drop. As the front wheels spun out into empty space just before they took the plunge into the turquoise water, Sylvie was able to take the first deep breath she had taken all day.

  About the Author

  OLIVIA GOLDSMITH is the author of the international bestsellers The First Wives Club, also a major Hollywood film, Bestseller, Flavour of the Month, Fashionably Late and, with Amy Fine Collins, Simple Isn’t Easy, a practical guide to stylish dressing. She is a native New Yorker who now lives in Florida.

  Other Books By

  Fiction

  The First Wives Club

  Flavour of the Month

  Fashionably Late

  Bestseller

  Non Fiction

  Simple Isn’t Easy

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