Love Is a Rebellious Bird

by Elayne Klasson

  The trip was impossible because I was carrying twins, and I felt that somehow I’d failed him. My high-risk pregnancy made Seth’s brightest dream—to travel again—impossible. It was the dream that had kept him going through the sleepless nights of medical school. Yet traveling with newborn twins was beyond what even indefatigable Seth could envision.

  Miriam and Evan were born at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles that spring. I didn’t want to give birth at LA County Hospital, where Seth worked and where all his medical school buddies might want to scrub in. Fortunately my job provided good insurance. The twins were beautiful babies and surprisingly healthy, even though they arrived five weeks early. But the time after they were born was more difficult than I’d imagined. My mother came for the first two weeks, and was enormously helpful, but our tiny house made her visit stressful, and I couldn’t ask her to stay longer. I felt as if I’d become a burden to Seth, an incompetent one at that. I was tired and overwhelmed and completely unavailable to my husband. I barely noticed him in the haze of diapers and feedings. Seth loved those babies, but not the time and attention they took. He tried to help, but I could see how itchy he was for diversion. He chafed at the constant domesticity and took up new hobbies, getting certified as a scuba diver, then disappearing on weekends for dives in Mexico. I was relieved to see him go. I could feel his resentment when he was at home helping with Miriam and Evan. We weren’t a cool couple traipsing the world with a baby in a pack, as he’d imagined. We were boring and homebound, and I had little energy for anything besides the babies. Travel seemed laughable. When the babies were a few months old, I discovered there was an organization for mothers of twins. One morning, with great effort, I packed up the twins and all the necessary equipment, and attended a meeting.

  “They’re your first, aren’t they?” one particularly lovely woman said as she settled her own two into a porta-crib.

  Her blond hair was artfully pulled behind her ears with a wide headband, her clothes pressed, and her children were quiet. How did she manage it? I was completely exhausted and knew that soon we had to start preparing for our move to Northern California, where Seth would begin his residency. How did anyone get anything done with twins?

  “Yes,” I answered, desperately patting Evan’s back so he would burp before I picked up Miriam, who was taking the deep breaths I knew would soon develop into a wail. “Does it show?” I tried to smile, smelling the coffee percolating and desperately wanting a cup.

  “No,” the attractive blond woman said kindly. “It’s just that when twins come first, before you’ve had a chance to practice with another, single baby, it all seems harder. It’s a cruel twist of nature to make twins a woman’s first crack at raising kids.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

  “It’ll get better,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of it. They’re more resilient than you think.”

  It did get better—at least with the babies. We loaded the U-Haul and rented an old, rambling house in Oakland. Seth began his internship and then residency at Children’s Hospital. We made a life. I was busy with Evan and Miriam and made friends I’d have for the rest of my life, Marnie and Rachel, women who had children the same ages as my twins. But, within a few short years, my husband’s unexplained late nights began again. When the children were five, after nine years of marriage, we divorced. It was the end of a chapter that I am only now, as an old woman, recovered from, the bitterness and bile no longer rising in my throat when I think of Seth.

  They say that it takes twice as long as a marriage lasts to get over it. But I am a persistent sort. I dwell on things and I did not bounce back easily. For years, I alternated between blaming Seth and then myself. Every glitch that the children had: a poor grade, disappointment with a boyfriend, Miriam’s seriousness, even Evan’s later experimentation with drugs, I attributed to the failed marriage. Their father, on the contrary, lived happily in the present. Seth married three more times, and had four more children. He loved each of those children extravagantly, I will give him that; and though all his wives were young and pretty, as far as I could see, the IQ of each decreased at least twenty points with every successive marriage.

  Our daughter, Miriam, now in her early forties, and always one with a sharp tongue, told me that she’d recently asked her father what on earth he found to discuss with his newest wife, a gorgeous girl he’d met at the gym who was several years younger than Miriam herself.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Seth said, and looked up from the monster motorcycle he was tinkering with in his garage, “I’ve tried smart. Your mother is a very smart woman. But Mimi, I figured out that smart doesn’t really work for me.”

  So if I was so smart, why, at thirty-six, when Seth and I had been divorced for two years, did I find myself in a closet, in the dark behind a closed door in a hotel in Union Square? Pushed there by none other than you, my darling Elliot.

  You were in town because the prestigious New York law firm you worked for had assigned you to the biggest case of your career, defending a high-tech giant in an antitrust suit. You were the junior attorney on the team, an associate among partners, but it was an enormous case, and you were there because of your expertise in antitrust law. Within days of learning you’d been selected for the defense team, you phoned me with the news.

  “Finally, Judith. We’ll be able to see each other regularly. This case means I’ll be coming to San Francisco every six weeks or so,” you said. “When I heard I was on the team, I couldn’t believe my good luck. Not only the importance of the case—I realize what a great opportunity this is—but it’ll bring me to California often. Often. In your backyard, practically. The case is so complicated, depositions are bound to go on forever. We’ll need a lot of technology experts.”

  I’d be seeing Elliot regularly. I was divorced. He was divorced. My mind raced ahead of itself with the possibilities. We made plans for the weekend following the first days of depositions. I walked around with a goofy smile. I found myself unable to stop daydreaming, even as I spoke to clients. Usually I prided myself on my unwavering attention to the children and adults who came into my office at Child Protective Services. Now I kept staring at the clock, counting the hours and days until you’d arrive in San Francisco. In phone calls, you told me it was the same for you.

  One of the only positives I’d discovered about divorce was that children are nicely taken care of by their dad on alternate weekends. (It was such a great perk, I wondered why intact marriages didn’t also have such a clause.) My ex-husband now had a new live-in girlfriend. I knew she wanted to marry Seth and that she understood that the twins were part of the package. Both kids were nuts about animals, and Evan was particularly partial to cats. I’m allergic to cats, but as soon as this girlfriend became a regular fixture in Seth’s life, she appeared at my ex-husband’s house with a velvety, gray kitten she said she’d conveniently “found” near the dental office where she worked. There was no trouble getting Evan to visit his dad after that. Miriam could not be bought quite so cheaply, but Seth enrolled her in riding lessons, something she’d longed for but I’d told her we could not afford. After that, she had her bags packed and riding boots at the door well before her father arrived.

  To get ready for my weekend with you, I did as much maintenance as a single mother on a social worker’s salary could afford. My hair was styled; I waxed, polished, and scrubbed. I drove across the Bay Bridge from Oakland, and by the time I arrived in San Francisco, the tiredness from work as well as the loneliness of my life was gone. Arriving at the hotel, I felt like another woman—a supremely worldly one. I easily learned how it was done. The valet, in his red velvet get-up and gold epaulets, reached out and I handed him the keys to my car. I smiled and nodded, then walked briskly through the lobby in my high heels and short skirt. Men eyed me appreciatively. I’m sure that the anticipation of seeing you, Elliot, gave me a sexy glow. It’s like that for women. When one man desires you, it shows. You becom
e more desirable to others.

  Yet there was this ridiculous, somewhat embarrassing situation: although we were thirty-six years old, you and I had still not slept together. Ever. There had been more kisses than I could count in those intervening years—passionate, steamy embraces. We had touched and fondled each other until we were crazy with desire. But, to put it bluntly, the relationship had not been consummated. I will summarize. We were either too young; I was too concerned about virginity; or, one or both of us were in other relationships. Now, at thirty-six, neither of us was married. The long wait would be over. I shopped for a black negligee and, with my heart pounding, wrapped it in soft tissue and packed it in my overnight bag.

  After a wonderful meal at a French restaurant, ordering knowingly off the menu as if we were students of Mrs. Aron again, we walked back to your hotel on Union Square. As the elevator took us up, I gazed at our reflection in the mirrored cubicle. I liked seeing the grown man and woman we’d become, a couple that was finally going to spend the night together. You unlocked the door and I saw your large, elegant room. The furniture was mahogany and stately. It was a suite, with a couch and separate sitting area, so we could sit comfortably and chat without jumping right into bed. But I thought of little else and kept sneaking looks at the thick duvet and pillows piled on the bed. You were the man by which I had measured all other loves. When I dreamed of you, I knew it would be a good dream. I would wake with pleasure, my body alive, then feel the terrible letdown as I realized it had been a dream, not real at all. Now, we were finally together sitting on a silk shantung settee in a hotel room. We’d brought a bottle of wine up from the restaurant, a good red that easily cost over a hundred dollars and that you’d ordered carelessly and put on your expense account. I unfastened my shoes, then kicked them off, stunning high heels with ankle straps, which had cost me a good chunk of a month’s child support check from Seth. They were the most beautiful shoes I’d ever owned. Fuck-me shoes, my girlfriend Marnie had called them when we went shopping.

  You turned my head toward you and looked at me with those dark brown eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you ever since I found I’d be coming out here, Rocket,” you said. “Between depositions, even during depositions, I thought about you. I want to know everything you do all week. I want to picture your life.”

  “My weeks are all the same.” I shrugged. “They’re not exciting. I take care of my kids. I get ready for work, then go to my office at the county building,” I said.

  “What you do is exciting.” You put your finger under my chin and raised my face so we were looking at each other. “Your work is important. You do vital things for people who need you. Tell me about your office,” you said. “Let me picture it.”

  “You know the kind of building—a Soviet-style concrete block. For eight hours a day I listen to people in trouble, help them prop up their lives. Then I get the twins from daycare and make dinner. Sometimes it’s spaghetti. Sometimes it’s chicken. Usually it’s white. They like food that’s white.” You must have been used to talking to important people about important subjects. Yet you said you wanted to see my life as it was and you seemed fascinated by it, listening attentively to everything I said. You were always a good listener.

  “God, the twins must be so big by now. How old?”

  “They’re seven,” I answered. “Miriam’s a head taller than Evan. He hates that. I keep telling him he’ll catch up.”

  “I’ll bet they’re smart. They’d have to be—you’re their mother. Do they like to read yet?”

  “They are smart. And creative. Both of them, but in different areas. But Evan struggles in school. He’s disorganized, reading hasn’t come easily to him. Miriam’s the opposite. She’s so organized, it’s frightening.”

  “Like you,” you said.

  “Like me.” I took a photo from my purse and showed you.

  You studied the picture, then looked up at me as you handed the photograph back. “Jesus, what beautiful kids we’d make, wouldn’t we?”

  I couldn’t answer. Did you know how many times I’d thought the same thing?

  Then you asked, “So what are the evenings like? What do you do?”

  “After dinner, the twins have their baths. I always read to them. I sit on one of their beds and Miriam and Evan sit on either side of me. They listen to every word of every story and then they wrap their arms around my neck and give me these enormous hugs. Both of them, in their soft cotton pajamas, both squeezing me at once, practically knocking me over. They smell delicious. I usually stay until they’re asleep.”

  “You never go out at night? Get a sitter and get out by yourself?”

  “Not very often,” I admitted. “Seth has them every other weekend. Sometimes I have a night out with the girls, but usually I’m too tired.” I looked at you then, suddenly shy. “But this week, after I’ve gotten into bed, I’ve stayed awake thinking about you. I pull the thought of you out of a drawer I keep in my mind. I imagined being here, sitting beside you, just as we are right now.” I looked down at my hands. “It’s exactly as I imagined.”

  “We would have had beautiful children together, wouldn’t we?” you repeated, tipping my head back and softly kissing my eyes. “I always thought we would. Beautiful, smart children.”

  These were heady words, delicious words. “I suppose,” I said, smiling. “Maybe. But haven’t there always been a few things in the way? Like being married to other people. Or you in New York and me out here,” I added.

  You reached behind me and slowly began to unzip my dress. With my hands shaking, I reached for your belt. I don’t think I’d ever felt so excited, even when we were teenagers with hormones raging and the windows of the parked car steamy.

  We stood and as my dress slipped down to the floor, you bent to kiss my exposed shoulder. Your thick hair brushed against my neck and I put my head down into it and inhaled. Your hair smelled wonderful, as it always had, fresh and clean, with an addition of some new musky fragrance.

  Then there was a loud, aggressive knock on the door. We froze. Jesus. I thought about the policemen that night in Chicago. Pounding on our window as we caressed each other in the parked car. I stared at you in confusion. You put your finger to your lips. “Sh,” you said softly.

  “Who could it be?” I whispered.

  You shrugged your shoulders, then turned toward the door and said loudly, “Yes? What is it?”

  “Hey, Pine. You in there? Open up.”

  I heard the raucous laughter of several men outside in the hall. They sounded drunk.

  “Yeah. Okay, just a sec. Gimme a sec,” you said. You put your finger to your lips again and spoke softly into my ear. I could barely hear you. “Come with me. I’ll get rid of them. Lawyers from the team. Assholes.”

  You grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, just as Miss Schaffer had done in the fifth grade when we did something wrong, and dragged me toward the closet. You were shirtless and held your pants up, unzipped and with the belt unfastened, with the other hand.

  “Be right there,” you called loudly to the men on the other side of the door, zipping your pants and reaching for a shirt.

  I heard more laughter, and then everything grew dark and the sounds fainter as you shut the closet door, me inside, astonished. Why? I wondered. Why does he need to put me in the closet? I’m a perfectly respectable-looking woman. He could introduce me to anyone. Why is he hiding me? I was there alone in the dark for what seemed a long time. I pulled my dress up over my shoulder and gingerly tried to zip it without hitting the hangers and making them clang together. I smoothed my hair, knowing that, despite this humiliation, I needed to exit the closet with as much dignity as possible, whenever it was you finally let me out of there.

  There was talking, but I could not make out the words. At last, I heard the door to your room shut firmly and the closet door opened. You stood there, staring at me apologetically, an ashamed, rueful look on your face. Finally, you took my hand and gently guided me out
into the room.

  “I’m not accustomed to being pushed into a closet, Elliot. That was a first.”

  “I am so sorry, Judith. That was awful and I am so sorry,” you said, trying to reach for my other hand.

  I refused to let you take it. “Why couldn’t I meet your buddies?” I asked, smoothing out the skirt of my cocktail dress, the beautiful black dress bought especially for this weekend.

  You sat back down on the couch and put your head in your hands. I sat as far away as I could, crossing my legs, fighting for dignity.

  “I work closely with these guys,” you said.

  “Yes? And?”

  “And”—you swallowed and hesitated—“I’ve been seeing a paralegal from our office. She’s very sweet. But it’s nothing serious. Ever since this case began, I’ve been working late, crazy long hours. She works the night shift.”

  “There’s a night shift for paralegals?” I asked.

  “Yeah. The work is intense, so they hire a whole crew of people during the evenings to help the lawyers. These guys on the team, they know we’re involved, the paralegal and me. I’ve even brought her to some parties from the firm. So, you see, it looks sleazy that I’m in a hotel room with another woman.”

  “It is sleazy,” I said and wondered how I got to be the other woman. My own marriage had floundered because of other women. I’d vowed I’d never put myself in that position.

  “Judith, you can’t compare yourself with this girl. Compared to us, that doesn’t even seem real. I just couldn’t explain it to those guys. Our history. How you and I have known each other all our lives. What you mean to me. They’ve all had a few drinks. They’d have made comments or given you looks. And when we get back to New York, there’d be this nasty undercurrent. I’m sorry, I panicked.”