Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  chapter 11

  Going for Broke

  My dad is the first one I tell.

  “I think it’s great, Holly,” he says, bouncing a grandkid on each knee.

  “Tell me I’m not crazy, Dad.”

  “You’re not.”

  Olivia comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pants. “I agree, Holly. Get outta here while you still can!”

  With three kids clinging to her skirt by the time she turned thirty and a string of dead-end beauty salon jobs behind her, my sister-in-law likes to joke that she’s the poster child for higher education. But she also adores those three kids and is still totally in love with Cole, and my brother, despite all his teasing, practically worships her.

  “I could have been a ballerina, you know,” she sighs as she bends over to pick up chunks of hardened Play-Doh off the carpet.

  “Let me get those, dear. You sit down,” my dad says, placing Skyler and Mackenzie back on their feet. Instantly, they drop to all fours and begin chasing each other around the living room, trying to pull each others’ socks off.

  “I didn’t know you wanted to be a dancer,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, you know how things go.”

  “Maybe you still could…do something like that…somehow…” I venture.

  She lifts up her sweatshirt and grabs a fistful of her soft tummy. “Ya think?”

  “You’re pretty light on your feet, considering,” my dad offers helpfully.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys, but I think my professional dancing days are behind me…”

  “Mummy, Mummy!”

  “Yes, Mackenzie.”

  “I have an ouchee.” She holds up a rug-burned knee and Olivia lifts her up and carries her upstairs.

  While Skyler takes advantage of his sister’s absence and plays quietly in the corner with her dollhouse, my dad tries to explain to me what’s going on.

  “Your mother just needs a little time, Holly. She’ll come around. And you don’t have to worry about me—I’m fine. Enjoying spending some time with the kids. And I still sneak home to my trains every couple of days,” he winks.

  I imagine my dad at home alone in our basement wearing his conductor’s hat, playing with toys, no one upstairs to fix him lunch….

  “You’re killing me here, Dad. You gotta throw me a bone. Please.”

  He musters a smile and gives me a there-there dear pat on the knee. “Don’t worry. Your mother and I will work it out. We always do.”

  “I know,” I say, though I’m not convinced. It’s hard to tell if he’s lying or not; I’ve never known my dad to be dishonest with me, so I have no idea what it might look like.

  “The important thing now is for you to stop worrying about us old farts. Don’t get stuck here in all this garbage—leave for a while, get some perspective. It’s a good idea.” His watery gray eyes turn to meet mine, and he seems to choose his next words carefully. “Find something you love to do, Holly, before you get…tied down. We have enough grandkids for now.”

  “But I want to have kids….”

  “Of course you do, dear. All I’m saying is I’m in no rush for you. And neither is your mother. I never want you to feel pressured. Not by anyone or anything.”

  “I don’t, Daddy.”

  “Your brothers—Cole especially—they all…well… I guess they let their lives get away from them. But you’re different, sweetie. At least, we’ve always thought you were. Your mother and I both worry that you may be holding yourself back….”

  They worry about me? They talk about me? It’s odd to imagine my parents discussing me, my life, who I am, what they want for me. My brothers, the Hastings boys, were so popular and so wild when we were growing up; they seemed to take up so much of the air in our house, provide so much of the noise and energy, that I always felt like I was just born to be their sister, their punching bag. A familial afterthought. Someone to wear their hand-me-downs. (Which probably accounted for my early reputation as a tomboy and later, with no chest to fill out those navy blue rugby shirts, a hermaphrodite lesbian.)

  “…you’ve always had big plans. We don’t want you to forget about that.”

  “Mom thinks that, too?”

  “Of course she does.”

  “I figured she’d think I was nuts to quit the Bugle. I thought you both would.”

  “Not at all! Did she give you that impression?”

  “I guess not…she didn’t really say anything when I told her.”

  “Silence is definitely approval where your mother is concerned. You know that.”

  He has a point. “And you?”

  “I’m pleased, provided you use this opportunity wisely. It’s a risk, that’s for sure, but when you dream of big things, you have to take big chances. And if not now, then when? You’re still young—it’s still relatively easy for you to make changes in your life. Look at your mother. She’s so unhappy, so unhappy. And there’s nothing I can do about it now. Had I known, maybe…”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this! She’s been hiding her feelings for a long time.”

  “Yes, so it seems…” He pulls his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and reaches across me for the paper, signaling the end of the conversation. “But we used to want the same things, your mother and I.”

  I nod, but secretly I wonder if that had ever really been true.

  The more I think about my parents’ floundering marriage, the more it amazes me. Is it really possible that my dad thinks everything is fine, even though my mom has apparently been leaving him for years? Why hadn’t he ever noticed anything was wrong? And why hadn’t she made him see, or simply told him what she was going through? I imagine they probably weren’t in the habit of sharing their dreams and goals and regrets and all the other sorts of things that to me seem so basic and obvious for the proper functioning of a couple of people who’ve chosen to forsake all others—legally, physically and spiritually—and bind their lives to one another’s forever.

  But maybe it simply isn’t fair to hold them to that standard. Many mothers and fathers of our parents’ generation are likely still oblivious to the relationship rhetoric we’ve been virtually bombarded with since opening our very first Seventeen magazine, those mighty principles gleaned from self-styled relationship experts and talk-show gurus that have become so deeply ingrained within us that we don’t even question them anymore….

  Mutual Respect. Communication is Key. Love Yourself First. Sex is Better than Chocolate. Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.

  Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad for all that stuff. I believe in the trite dogma of modern love. But consider also that I was—that we were—indoctrinated from youth, so it feels pretty natural to demand open communication from our partners. How confusing it must be, though, coming to all that later in life, after you’ve spent decades dealing with your demons in silence, or simply seeing marriage as a convenient but necessary social arrangement in which each partner gives something and gets something in return, and I don’t mean love.

  In many ways, the expectations our mothers and fathers had for their lives were probably higher than our own. By the time That Girl and The Mary Tyler Moore Show came around, it was too late—they had already imprinted on the Cleavers and the Nelsons, with their insidious portrayals of middle-American nirvana. The families I grew up watching on TV—which, let’s face it, is the greatest social barometer the world has ever known—were flawed. The Keatons, the Connors, even the Huxtables, had to contend with real problems, everything from their kids’ sex lives and drug dabblings to their own midlife crises and the deaths of their parents. June and Ward, meanwhile, spent half an hour each week helping the Beav with his paper route and getting the cat out of that darn tree.

  Those of us who choose to walk down the aisle these days do so knowing half of all marriages fail, while my parents probably expected their union to be as delightful as Ozzie and Harriet’s, as pleasant as their own parents’ marr
iages seemed to be. How disillusioning it would have been to admit they actually had to work at their relationship. And so they didn’t. Otherwise, how could things so fundamentally important to each other’s happiness have gone unnoticed or overlooked for so long?

  To make matters worse, my mother turns on the TV one day and instead of escaping to the world of crime-solving dolphins and Barbara Eden in genie pants, there’s Oprah telling her she has a right to expect more. But Mom’s no fool. She knows her marriage was never perfect, that she gave something up in order to toe the line, only now she’s beginning to understand that it was never really her job to serve up perfection in the first place. No wonder she has no desire to sit on an empty nest—she’s ready to stretch her wings. And no wonder my father’s in denial—he got the suburban bliss he always wanted, but to admit that he had it at his wife’s expense would take all the joy out of it.

  Maybe my parents loved each other and got married for all the right reasons. But maybe—and I wish with every fiber of my being that this wasn’t the case—they willfully deluded themselves as to who the other one was from day one, just to fulfill other people’s expectations of them. Still, is it fair of my mom to resent my dad if she’s never been honest with him? And is it fair of him to expect her to never change just because he himself hasn’t? And what if…

  …and what if I just stopped trying so hard to figure it all out?

  My head is pounding, aching with the possibilities, the explanations, the analysis. An automatic habit of mine, I know, and one I’ve come by honestly through years of addiction to recreational therapy. I continually pick apart the motivations behind my own thoughts and actions, deconstructing every feeling and exploring every potential path in order to come to the best possible decisions in my life. But Martindale once pointed out that attempting to apply my personal logic system to other people’s hearts and minds assumes facts not in evidence.

  The end result? Frustration and disappointment for everyone, especially me. Martindale showed unusual insight when he suggested that when people don’t live up to my expectations, or behave differently than I would if I were in their shoes, I tend to believe they’re making a mistake. Which is, of course, ridiculously unfair and not at all true since everyone’s different and I don’t have the full picture.

  So I silently vow to let my parents work it out for themselves from here on in, and to support them in whatever decision they come to. Even if that decision is one I hate with all my heart.

  “How’s your dad doing?” George asks.

  We’ve been meeting at the diner every day for lunch since my last day at the Bugle, almost two weeks ago.

  “He’s okay, I guess. I think I’ve spoken to him more since all this started than in the rest of my life combined.”

  “So at least something good’s come of it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “When God closes a door, she opens a window. You just have to be patient.”

  “Okay, George. I get it.”

  “Same thing with your job. I think quitting will really give you the impetus you need to get back into your book. Desperate times, you know. Are you gonna eat that bun?”

  “Go ahead.”

  At first, I thought the exact same thing. That without the whole nine-to-five thing to distract me, I’d be able to whiz through my first few chapters, no problem. After all, I’ve been gathering information, researching, taking notes for almost four months—there’s a ton of material to go through. But still, something wasn’t right. I’ve begun to wonder how many copies a book tentatively titled How to Marry A Millionaire (And Still Love Yourself in the Morning!) would actually sell if the author is single and living at the YMCA. Or, worse, in her old room at her parents’ house.

  It was a generous offer, made separately by both my mom and my dad, who weren’t using the house, anyway, but the implications were so horrible that it had spurred me to action.

  George slathers the bun with butter and puts it down in about three bites.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, wiping the crumbs from her chest.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I shouldn’t have eaten that.”

  “Are you insane? Do you think I care what you eat?”

  “I know I probably seem ridiculous to you, Holly. I’ve been trying to lose fifteen pounds for ten years. God, even if I’d lost one pound a year…” her gaze hovers dreamily on something behind me, presumably the glass-and-chrome tower stacked high with cheesecakes and pies. “But in all this time, all the calorie-counting and fat-counting and cabbage-soup crap obviously isn’t working.”

  “You look great the way you are, G.”

  “So!” she claps her hands together and straightens up. “I’ve decided to try something different. Tell me if you think this’ll work. When I feel chubby, like I did this morning, I put on my tightest jeans and then eat, like, the hugest breakfast and lunch. The idea is, the pain I’m forced to endure all day as a reminder of my gluttony will inspire me to new levels of self-disgust, which in turn will fuel my resolve! Whaddya think?”

  “Sounds good,” I giggle. “Very progressive.”

  She leans back, undoes her top button and tries to breathe. “When I get home tonight, I’m going to get completely naked. Then I’m going to take one of those big black permanent markers and trace all the ugly red lines these jeans will have left on my stomach, and then just stare at myself in the mirror beneath bright lights for fifteen minutes. After a few days of that, I think I’ll be ready to hit the gym.”

  “Health by humiliation—I love it!”

  By this point, we’re laughing so loudly, people have begun to stare.

  “Who needs Atkins? The Perlman-MacNeill Way will be the next big thing!” George shrieks.

  “That’s just about enough, ladies,” our waitress says as she passes by with a tray of burgers for the next table, stopping long enough to toss our bill down.

  “Sorry,” George apologizes. “We don’t get out much.”

  “Lunch is on me.”

  She grabs for the bill. “No way—you’re unemployed. Let me get it.”

  “I’ll be rolling in it soon enough, my friend.”

  “Oh yeah? And how’s that? You find a job? Sell your book?”

  We haven’t talked about it since the flight home from Florida. Presumably, George is happy to pretend it never happened, that she hadn’t agreed—or at least sort of agreed—to leave town with me in search of greener pastures. But I can’t let it go. It is potentially the best idea I’ve ever had.

  I brace myself and launch into the conversation I’ve been practicing in my head for the past week. “No, silly—I’m going to marry rich! My parents married for love, or so I thought…and well, whatever it was, that didn’t work out so well. So I might as well be practical about the whole thing.”

  George rolls her eyes. “Not this again.”

  “There’s nothing for me here but an empty apartment and in a month or two, being forced to take some job I really don’t want. I’ve got nothing to lose, so why stay?”

  She sighs dramatically and picks at what remains of my fries as I continue.

  “…and what better place to find a nice, rich, young guy than San Francisco? I tell ya—all those delicious dot-com millionaires are out there, George, just waiting to be plucked out of Silicon Valley. Can you see it? Can you? They’re wealthy, lonely, sexy…”

  “And geeky!” she interrupts. “I thought you were kidding about all that San Francisco stuff.”

  I exhale slowly. Time is running out, and I’ve been putting off telling her for too long.

  “I leave in ten days.”

  George drops her fork.

  “What?”

  “I bought a one-way ticket.”

  Her eyes widen with panic and disbelief. “No you didn’t.”

  “The moving company’s booked. And I’ve sold my car.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I found an a
partment online. It looks pretty great, actually.”

  She pushes my plate away in disgust. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Don’t leave me, Holly, please! You have to cancel your ticket!”

  “You know I can’t do that!” I’m far too superstitious to cancel travel plans. Once you’re booked, you’re booked. (Unless, of course, you get That Feeling when you’re boarding the plane, something I was actually hoping wouldn’t happen for a change.) “But don’t worry—I made sure to get us a place with two rooms. I would never leave you behind, G! You’re coming, too!”

  “No! No, I can’t!” she says, pressing the corners of her eyes to try and stop the tears.

  “Yes, you can! We can. We can try it for a while. Nobody’s saying we can’t come home if we don’t like it. Think of it as an adventure—an amazing, crazy adventure you’ll remember for the rest of your life….”

  “No, you don’t understand. I have no money…and my moms will never let me go…”

  “Don’t worry about money. My dad’s going to help us out for a bit, just until we get set up.”

  “He said that?” she sniffs.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He thinks I’m going? And he doesn’t mind?”

  “Of course not! He loves you. You’re part of my family.” I squeeze her hand. My dad knows how much it means to me to have George along, and he’s more than willing to help out for as long as we need it. “He’s going to float me for a while, anyway, whether you come or not, so there’s really no reason for you to feel bad about it.”

  “But…” She hesitates. “But…can he afford it?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” If there’s any chance of convincing her, I know I have to be firm on this point. “My mom’s been so totally cheap for the both of them their whole lives. And now that she’s taking her little hiatus, I think he’s feeling the need to loosen the purse strings a little, you know?”

  Before I agreed to accept his offer, my dad had shared the details of their financial situation. It turns out my parents have a nice little nest egg socked away, a respectable 401(k) and two really good pension plans, not to mention social security and, apparently, a decent inheritance from my father’s parents. I had no idea they were so comfortable, but I suppose I should have expected it—my mom’s a pretty good bookkeeper, after all, and I knew my dad would rather die than ever be a burden on his children. “All any decent father wants is to be able to help his kids,” he’d said. “Make things as easy for them as possible. And you didn’t have it easy, Holly. Your brothers put you through a lot. I can see that now, and I’m sorry I didn’t do more to get a handle on them.” And here all these years I’d thought he was just oblivious.