by Sheri Langer
“We had lunch.”
“Lunch? Is that all you had?”
“Jesus, Mother! Yes, that is all we had.”
It might have been all she’d had, but it wasn’t necessarily all she’d wanted. Fordham could still smell Aaron’s cologne in her mind, and it was hard not to think about how his professional training might have enhanced his lovemaking skills.
“Just remember, Fordham: you can’t see a leopard’s spots if you close your eyes.”
“You used to like Aaron.”
“Yes, I used to. Until he hurt you.”
“That was ages ago.”
“I don’t care how long ago it was. A mother can forgive many things over time but not her child’s pain. I’d be careful if I were you.”
“I get it. I’ll be on my toes.”
“It’s when you’ll be on your back that worries me. Fordham, be smart about this. You have Whitty to consider now.”
“Mom, I said I’ll be careful, and I will be.” Fordham gathered clothes for the cleaners from the hamper in the closet while keeping a close watch on Dorie’s grimace. She didn’t understand why her mother was making such a big deal out of this. So she bumped into an old friend unexpectedly. There was no reason to get so bent out of shape.
Dorie left and came back with a couple of wrinkled shirts to be ironed. “Fordham, you come from a long line of bright women who all had the same problem: we fell hard for the wrong men. I’m not saying that I didn’t have a good marriage.” Dorie went into the closet on her tiptoes and grabbed the iron off the top shelf, followed by a small folded ironing board. “Your father did his best to give us everything, as you well know.”
Fordham’s heart was pounding. She didn’t want to deal with this now. She was still feeling the effects of the alcohol, and anything she said was liable to come out in a way that would lead to consequences. She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her mouth shut.
Dorie kept talking as she set up the ironing board. “But as in love with him as I was, I know I would have been better off marrying Seymour Nageldorf.”
“Who is Seymour Nageldorf? He sounds like a Jewish lawyer in a Dickens novel.”
“Close. The accountant my brother set me up with. He was a very nice man but too bland for my taste.”
Fordham didn’t remember hearing about an accountant. She wondered what had happened to Seymour Nageldorf, this accountant who could have saved her mother from financial ruin.
“Instead of listening to my mother, who sized Arnie up as a charismatic dreamer and said one day I would pay the price for my Price, I listened to my heart and my hormones.”
Dorie stopped ironing and went over to the hanging photo gallery. She paused at a framed picture of Arnie and her sitting at a table, ushering in 1969. “And I married your father anyway. It kills me to say it, but we’re all paying for it.”
Fordham was shocked by her mother’s disclosure. Dorie had finally admitted that Arnie was not some demigod they had to pay homage to on a daily basis. He was just a regular guy whose problems became his family’s burden. Fordham knew how difficult it was for her mother to have nothing to call her own except the people she loved. Maybe that was why she was being irrational about the lunch with Aaron. She was probably thinking about what would happen to her if her daughter’s life changed.
Fordham wanted to give Dorie an appreciative hug, but the woman would not give her the chance and kept pouring out her thoughts about choices. “I’m not even sure what I’m trying to tell you, sweetheart. I just know that my Grandma Becky, who I absolutely adored, used to say that a hell of a good time was worth a hell of a good lickin’. But, Fordham, it was truly the most ignorant piece of advice she ever gave me.” Dorie returned to the ironing board.
“I got it, Mom,” Fordham said, placing a hand confidently over the half-wrinkled blouse. “Thanks.”
“Do me a favor and finish ironing this for me.” Dorie kissed her on the forehead. “I’m beat,” she said as she left the room.
Fordham was confused. Her mother could have married an accountant but had ended up penniless because she loved her father. Maybe since Fordham had already been married to the wrong guy, she was due to make a better decision this time around. And no one had uttered a word about marriage, which meant that many of her mother’s concerns were ludicrous. Fordham had met Aaron Karp for an innocent lunch that meant nothing more than the chance to resolve things so that this time, she could part with him on a better note. He felt they still had more to discuss and asked for her number before they left the restaurant. She’d given it to him. There was no harm in exploring a more definitive resolution.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, when the champagne buzz finally wore off, Fordham remembered that she’d left her car in the city. Luckily, Dorie hadn’t picked up on her daughter’s touch of inebriation and was too engrossed in a Scrabble game to question why Fordham asked to use her car to get Whitty. Fordham resolved that she would quietly walk to the bus stop in the morning and never mention that she had gotten too drunk to drive home. It seemed ridiculous to have to make excuses for her choices at this point, but her mother was not one to squelch her opinions, and it was easier to be a sneaky child than a confronted adult. She didn’t particularly like the bus, but it was a small price to pay for having shared champagne and escargot with Aaron Karp.
The school was fairly empty by the time Fordham arrived to pick up Whitty from the poetry workshop “Share Your Candy” post-Halloween party. It was an idea Fordham totally supported since she had spent the last couple of nights succumbing to the call of miniature Snickers and peanut butter cups from Whitty’s bag. She hoped she hadn’t been too out of it and gotten the time wrong. Feeling impish, she toyed with the idea of calling David to find out, but giving him the idea that she was irresponsible didn’t seem like the best option. Just in case she really had screwed up, she decided to meet Whitty inside instead of waiting in the car.
The school was quiet. She lingered in the halls, browsing the artwork and projects from all the different classes. One particular finger painting of a cat with big purple eyes sitting on a couch next to a pumpkin caught her eye.
“I like that one too,” David said from behind her. “Lily’s interpretation of Halloween.”
Fordham greeted him. “I’m not a critic, but I think your little girl has talent.”
“Thank you. Certainly wouldn’t be from me. I can’t draw a straight line without a ruler.”
“We must have gone to the same art school.”
He was dressed casually in Dockers and a blue sweater that made his exquisite eyes stand out. She could have sworn he’d gotten even more attractive since the last time she’d seen him.
“I was headed to my office. Come join me.” He motioned for her to follow him. “I want to talk to you about something.”
For a split second, she imagined him sweeping her into his arms, pinning her against the colorful bulletin board, and kissing her passionately. Maybe she was still buzzing from the champagne and just didn’t realize it. A dreamy, nostalgic lunch with Aaron, fantasies about David, considering sperm donations from Brandon—clearly, there was something off about the energy in the universe and, even more clearly, something hormonally pervading her status quo.
David’s office was warm and inviting. It screamed “I am normal” with a dash of “And you should be too.” The walls were painted a pale gray-blue, the perfect backdrop for a few photos, a framed Chagall poster, a drawing Lily had done of a rainbow, and all the degrees and certificates that had led him to this office. Fordham found herself staring at a photo of David standing in the middle of small ocean waves, holding Lily. The sun was setting behind them, and their heads were touching slightly. They had the same warm smile, and it was evident they were feeling safe and content. She wished Whitty and Gil had a picture like that, something Whitty could hold on to when Gil wasn’t around to let her know that he loved her. But the only pictures they had were the typical posed shots taken
at holidays and occasions that told the story of the event more than of the people. And in most of them, Gil wasn’t smiling.
“I love the beach,” David said, noticing her staring at the picture.
“Me too. But I don’t get to go much.”
“You should try to change that. If you can.” He grabbed a couple of mugs. “Want some lousy end-of-the-day coffee?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’ve had a few cups of that already.”
He placed the mugs back on the shelf, and Fordham detected a slight frown.
“The party is running a little late,” he said.
“No problem. I can use the time to clear my head.”
“Busy day?”
“Every day is lately. I’m in publishing and up to my neck in work.”
“Understood,” he said casually.
Fordham was grateful he didn’t press for further information. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about her job. “Do you know how Whitty is doing in the workshop?”
“She’s doing great. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Her writing has real depth and insight. It’s hard to believe she’s only ten.”
“I know. If it were up to her, she’d be wearing makeup and driving. She loves to write, but lately, she never wants me to read anything. You’re part of the workshop?”
“Yes, but I had a ton of files to go through today, so Pam Lesley is handling it.”
“Oh, right, Pam.” Fordham had almost forgotten about her. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She flashed back to Aaron and his request to spend more time with her. She had to admit that despite her mother’s disapproval, their possibilities were uniquely credible. She wondered what Whitty would think of him. She got out a pack of mints from her bag, took one, and handed one to David.
“Thanks.” He popped it into his mouth as the secretary buzzed in and told him to pick up line one. “Oh man, really?” he said into the phone. “I can lend you my car. Do you think you could come over after? Okay, let me know. I’m still at school.”
David hung up the phone and stared at his desk calendar for a moment. “Sorry for the interruption. What I wanted to talk to you about is a poetry contest coming up soon,” he said, sounding like a principal. “I told Whitty she should enter.”
“Really? She hasn’t said anything.”
“I think she has a good chance of winning. Her writing is that good, and I’d like to see her get the recognition.”
David sounded paternal, and although he probably meant well, she questioned his motive. She worried that he was trying to subtly tell her that she wasn’t supportive enough of Whitty or worse, that she was too self-absorbed to recognize that her daughter had talent. She could feel her head shaking in denial.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said a little too curtly, “just a little headache. Thank you for filling me in. I’ll talk to Whitty. How’s Lily doing?”
“Good. She hasn’t stopped talking about Halloween. Well, you saw her painting.”
David’s cell phone rang this time. “Mmm, really? Bummer.” He sounded dejected. “No, it’s okay. If you can’t make it, you can’t make it. We’re still on for Thursday, right? Okay, good.” He ended the call and jotted down a couple of notes on a pad on his desk.
Fordham was confused. Since Pam was busy teaching poetry, someone else’s rejection had to be making David upset. Clearly, something was wrong, but since Fordham was wearing deodorant and sucking on a breath mint, it probably wasn’t her.
“Actually, Fordham, I hate to ask, but is there any way Lily can stay with you for a couple of hours tomorrow night? That was my sitter on the phone. She has a driver’s ed exam, and the board stuck me with a meeting.”
Ah, the babysitter. Fordham was annoyed at herself for feeling relieved. “Of course, David. No problem.” She’d wear the scoop-neck brown sweater set with the new leggings Dorie had picked up for her.
Whitty peeked into the office window, grinning from ear to ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, monkey!”
“Shhh! Don’t ever say that here.”
“Sorry.”
“Forgiven. This time. I’m starving.”
“We’re going,” Fordham said.
David sat on the corner of his desk, chuckling at their exchange. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
She left, feeling redeemed. He obviously thought she was a fine mother, or he wouldn’t have asked her to watch his daughter.
“You have a date with Dr. Prince tomorrow night?” Whitty sounded excited. “Finally, you’re seeing your way out of the loser column.”
“We don’t have a date. Lily’s coming over.”
“Oh.” Whitty sighed. “Well, at least that’s a plus.”
“Actually, there is someone I want you to meet.”
“Yahoo,” she said like an automaton. “I can hardly wait.”
AS MUCH AS SHE WANTED to credit Gil for Whitty’s sarcastic nature, Fordham knew he was not the only contributor. She was pretty good at wielding an acid tongue whenever simple declarative statements seemed wasteful. After all, a thought had only one good shot at making an impact so why not dress it to the nines? But children weren’t supposed to do that. They were supposed to be innocent and carefree, not jaded and critical.
Fordham made herself a tuna fish sandwich. Whitty had been so tired after the party that she’d gone straight to bed, giving Fordham time to think about how far her little girl had come since the first shaky steps she’d taken as a toddler.
Fordham had known that Whitty was not an average child early on. She was saying actual words at six months old, and by one, she had the capacity to carry on a conversation. It was a little unnerving sometimes. One afternoon, when Fordham was changing Whitty’s diaper, she noticed a brown smear on the wall, to which she said, “Thanks, Whitty. Nice chocolate on the wall.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Whitty corrected her. “No, Mommy, nice crap on the wall.”
Then there was the morning when the electrician was showing Fordham the new outlet he’d installed, and Whitty came crawling over, crying, “I want booby now, Mommy. Now Mommy.” She was always big on Now, Mommy.
And since Gil wasn’t around much, it was hard for Fordham not to compensate by being more available and yielding. There was the rub. Whitty was smart and intuitive. She knew Fordham was putty in her hands. Maybe that was why she’d been giving her such a hard time lately. Whitty wanted her home more often, and she couldn’t be. As much as Fordham tried to explain how much this book meant to her and their future, Whitty didn’t care.
She’d been born blunt and opinionated. By two, she had no problem telling Fordham exactly what she was thinking. One night, when Fordham had been too busy to make dinner, she offered Whitty a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a sliced banana on the side. Whitty scrutinized the plate and said, “That’s dinner?”
Fordham knew she had created her own little monster, but there were worse things her daughter could be than verbal, demanding, and critical. Whitty’s negativity pained her. For someone whose needs were typically met without complaints and arguments, she should have been more affable and agreeable. But no, she was usually snide and cynical with a healthy dollop of judgmental, just the kind of emotional sundae that made Fordham’s stomach turn.
Fordham hadn’t yet spoken with Whitty about the poetry contest, probably because she wasn’t sure how she’d react. She shut off the light in the kitchen, went to bed, and read the laminated copy of her submission that was tacked to the wall next to her pillow. Love was out there. Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest... or right under her nose, clear out of sight.
She tossed. Tossed and turned. Whether she was fretting over parenting misfires, worrying about deadlines, musing over Aaron, or wondering if David found her desirable, Fordham wasn’t sleeping. Evie had told her to take some herbal preparation to help, but Fordham was worried it would take effect exactly when she didn’t want it to. Ther
e was nothing that special about sleep, anyway.
Fordham wasn’t sure what time it was when she finally fell asleep, but the stars were still twinkling when her alarm went off. That was the way it had to be, at least for the time being. With only twenty-four hours in a day and at least thirty hours’ worth of obligations, the more time she used up with her eyes closed, the less time she would have to do anything else.
She would continue to worry about Whitty, but all the guys would have to be on hold. She had too many other things that needed her attention at the office that day. There were final decisions to secure about the last batch of submissions, and she had to start editing the ones she had already selected.
It was a short walk to the bus stop, and the early morning air had just the right snap to it to wake her up gently. A few deer were playing in a nearby field, and Fordham watched as they pranced around, poking at the brush. Their lives seemed calm and uncomplicated until Whitty’s voice popped into her head, saying, Mom. They’re deer. Think about what happened to Bambi. Do you really think it would be easier to lose everything you love in a forest fire?
Chapter Fourteen: Admission Impossible
Fordham actually fell asleep on the bus, something she hadn’t done since she was eighteen, shuffling back and forth from home to college. She was having a dream about Margo buying her a bridesmaid dress that could pass for a canary-yellow cupcake prepared by Edward Scissorhands. Fordham was yelling at her for being inconsiderate and told her that if she wanted a sun or a son, she should call Aaron to get her pregnant again. Not to be undermined, Margo yelled back that Fordham was spoiled and smelled like a deli, which was when she opened her eyes to find a huge pickle landing between her legs.
A lady with short flaming-red hair a few seats in front of her was yelling at another woman, an otherwise attractive blonde with very crooked teeth, a few seats behind her. The redhead claimed the blonde was sleeping with her husband and threw the contents of her brown-bag lunch at the equally angry blonde. Fordham was hungry. For a moment, she contemplated eating the pickle and then figured she had to still be dreaming to even consider it.