by Robyn Carr
And what did she want? The thought of giving up either Mike or Flo was excruciating, but…
Chris drew herself a bath, the water as hot as she could stand it. She hadn’t been in the tub long before Carrie woke up and wandered in. “Morning, sweetie. Want to have breakfast with Auntie Flo?” Carrie nodded, rubbing her eyes, and positioned herself on the closed toilet seat to take waking up slowly. Chris leaned back in the hot water and closed her eyes.
When Chris was six years old she had wanted to be a singing ballerina. A star. She’d had wonderful fantasies about wowing her friends with performances—Shirley Temple fantasies with full production sets.
At twelve she had wanted to be a chemist. She saw herself in a lab coat and glasses—and when she took the glasses off she was beautiful, a gorgeous intellectual smarter than all the handsome young scientists around her. Soon she discovered that chemistry involved math. C’est la vie.
At sixteen she hungered for travel and decided to be a flight attendant. Flo took whole summers off two years in a row to accompany her around the world, to help her fill that need for expansion, appalled by the prospect of Chris’s serving drinks on an air carrier.
At eighteen she was in college, reading her heart out. Flo bought every book that Chris wanted to discuss. They talked on the phone for hours each week. Flo traveled to New York often to take Chris and her friends to plays, museums, art galleries and on plentiful shopping trips. All Chris’s friends idolized Flo. Chris was not interested in business, but she wanted desperately to be like her Aunt Flo.
Carrie wandered over to the tub and started playing with her bath toys. “Carrie, I’m taking a bath.”
Carrie was now pushing an empty shampoo container under the water, filling it and pouring it out. “I won’t get you wet, Mommy.”
Chris laughed. “Move down by my feet then,” she said, wondering how she’d come to have such a headache over the people she loved.
At twenty Chris wanted to be the woman behind the man, as her mother had been. She would raise a beautiful family for this sharp young lawyer who had not even given his real name. But all she wanted was to be his.
She touched Carrie’s curls.
“Mommy, you’ll get me wet.” Carrie looked up and smiled. “Should I get in?”
“You can have your own bath in a few minutes.”
At twenty-five she had to start thinking differently. A divorced mother, short of cash and deep in debt, she couldn’t remember who she was or what she wanted. More than to simply survive, though. She began writing, not masterpieces but simple stories for young adults. She wanted to give back some of the fantasies she had used through the years to sustain her impossible, illusive fancies. She knew she was fanciful. Hopeful and idealistic. She had almost lost that because of Steve, and it was what she liked best about herself. Hopeful idealists changed the world. They could also be perfect victims.
Chris was unlike Flo, who had been born to control, and unlike Mike, who addressed life expediently as a series of “informed risks.” Chris made up stories for kids who, like her at six and twelve and sixteen, were dreamy, desirous and always wondering the same two things she wondered. One, what was going to happen next? And two, would it all work out?
It didn’t take long for her to realize that she loved the way she felt when she was writing, and soon she knew she was fulfilling some kind of inner need and being alone was so much less lonely. Suddenly she found herself working harder than ever to learn how to do it, to make it right, to make it more than right. She took night classes whenever possible, she read how-to-write-and-market-your-book books and articles every Sunday in the library while the kids paged through picture books beside her. She read, studied, typed, tore her work apart, typed some more, scrapped it again. She had to get it right, because if she succeeded, she could be happy, she could make money to support her little family, and she could do it in a way important to her and the woman she was becoming.
Carrie scampered out of the bathroom, dripping water from her wet sleeves, and scooted back in with more bathtub toys. Chris watched and smiled as Carrie splashed and sang off-key. She decided then and there, looking at her older child, that she would never again call her marriage a mistake. Carrie and Kyle were healthy, smart and her greatest accomplishments. If she had to do it all over again, would she pay almost four million dollars for them? In a heartbeat.
“Mommy?”
“Hmm?”
“Mommy, where is my daddy?”
Chris felt her cheeks grow hot. “Well, Carrie, remember I told you that he went away when you were a baby? I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him or talked to him since he went away.”
“Does he miss us, then?”
“I…I don’t know, honey. But he should miss you, because you’re wonderful.”
“Mommy? Where is Mike?”
“He’s working. We won’t see him until tomorrow morning.”
“Do I remember my daddy?”
“Well, I don’t think so. Do you think you do?”
She shook her head. “Is my daddy the same as Kyle’s daddy?”
“Yes,” Chris said, appalled. “Of course.”
“Is Mike supposed to be our daddy now?”
“Mike…Mike is our very special friend, Carrie, but I’m not married to him.”
“He likes us to use his house,” she said, smiling at her mother.
“Yes. He does.”
“Will he go away from us, then?”
“No, Carrie. No, we will always know where Mike is, and he will always know where we are. Always. Even if we don’t use his house forever. Even if we get a house of our own. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Well…” She’d better get used to answering difficult questions, because the older the kids became, the more serious the questions would be. “Well, even if we get our own house again, we will be good friends with Mike. We’ll visit him, talk to him on the phone, see him sometimes. I’m sure of that. Do you understand?”
“No. I like Mike’s house, and he likes us to use his house.”
“Yes, but—”
“Can I watch cartoons until I have my own bath?”
“Yes. If you want to.”
Of course she doesn’t understand, Chris thought. Neither do I. She worked the drain release with her toe. So, twenty-seven years old, soaking out a headache, what did Chris want? Not a lot, actually. She wanted to keep the rain off her kids’ heads, first. She wanted to reconcile with Flo so she could be rooted once more with the people, events and emotions that had shaped her. She wanted a man like Mike—the Mike who loved so deeply and with such involvement that loss made veldt-sores in him—to love her. To love them all. And she wanted a few hours a day to become the person she was destined to be—a creative, caring, independent woman. There should be room for all of that without any crowding. It wasn’t much to ask. It was not a tiny bit more than those people she loved could afford.
Flo, though sometimes brassy, flashy and bossy, was not really a snob. Chris had been surprised at Flo’s treatment of Mike, intimidating him, making it appear that he wasn’t good enough. None of the Palmers, though well-to-do, had ever behaved uncharitably toward another human being; they had never taken their privilege for granted or placed themselves above others. Mike, too, had surprised her with his reverse snobbery—jabbing at Flo for having so much, insinuating that bounty made life too easy, accomplishments too effortless.
Grabbing at her was what they’d both done, and it made her very nervous, claustrophobic. Well, in another half hour she’d have it out with Flo.
“I don’t know what to say,” Flo said at breakfast. “I regret making you unhappy by pressuring Mike that way, but I honestly don’t think I’m wrong. He doesn’t have much to offer you, and I think you should be more practical.”
Chris swallowed coffee as if swallowing fury. “Because he doesn’t have a college education? You ought to be ashamed of doing that to him.”
&nb
sp; “I wasn’t doing anything to him. Good Lord, Chris, if anything should happen to him…”
“No, that isn’t it. If anything should happen to Mike, I’d have you. You’re more afraid nothing will happen to him, that I’ll stay with him forever. Just as he was afraid you were going to win and take me away. Well, I’ve got news for the two of you. This is a no-win situation.”
“Chris, I’m not in a contest with this man. I feel responsible for you—I simply want you to reappraise the situation.”
“Responsible? I’m not twelve, though you treat me as though I am. You keep forgetting that I’ve managed to keep my children and myself without state aid and without calling you. I did it myself. I didn’t do it in designer labels, but I did do it. And reappraise what?”
“Your future plans. There are a lot of things I’d like you to consider. Your education, for instance. If you want to complete college, I think you should. Or if you’d like to consider business, I would be delighted. Whatever.”
“Whatever? Or one of those two things?” she responded drily. Chris reached for Kyle’s plate, automatically cutting his room-service pancakes for him. “Flo, I have future plans of my own that don’t include either of those two things. Besides, I don’t want to decide my whole future in the next week, so I wish you’d stop listing my options for me.”
Carrie tipped her milk and it sloshed onto the table, flowing toward Flo. Flo jerked into action, mopping, her movements almost as natural as Chris’s. Flo didn’t seem to worry about her expensive slacks; she merely acted, as if she had been mopping up Carrie’s spills since birth. Flo had only known her children for three days, Chris reflected, yet they seemed bonded. Connected by blood. Chris shook her head absently. Flo didn’t scold Carrie; she simply took care of her. The way she wanted to take care of Chris. The scolding hadn’t started until Chris began trying to take care of herself.
“I’m only trying to help,” Flo said. “I have no ulterior motives.”
“Not consciously. You just want to do for me, show me your generosity and love. So does Mike. He wants to give and have me receive. Here I am being offered so much, from two people I care deeply about, and last night was a nightmare. When I saw the two of you together, I felt as though I didn’t know either one of you.”
“Well. Are we both sorry?”
“Yes,” she said, swiveling in her chair to begin cutting Carrie’s pancakes. “I haven’t spoken to Mike yet, but he wrote an apologetic note before he left for work. I won’t see him till tomorrow morning.”
“Do you have any idea what you want, Chris?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, laughing humorlessly. “I want to see if I can recapture the little bit of sanity I felt between the fire and the Missing Heiress. I felt…I felt alive, full of feelings that for once didn’t conflict or frighten me. I had a sense of family—there was Mike and his people drawing me in. And even though I was too proud or stubborn to call you yet, I was getting closer. I had safety, pleasure, hope and desire. I felt protected but independent. And then it all changed.”
“Come now, let’s not get melodramatic, Chris. Did I make our reconciliation difficult? I may not have cozied up to the fireman too well, but—”
“Difficult? Heavens, no, it was just the opposite. Our reunion was so ideal I was spinning from it. You forgave me for all the trouble I’ve caused you when I’d half expected you to refuse to speak to me. I felt like a baby you’d waited seven years to give birth to.”
Flo sighed. “I suppose I’ve failed again somehow,” she said.
“When have you ever failed at anything? The fact is, you offer me so much that it’s impossible for me to live up to it.”
“Christine, let’s not—”
“But it’s true! You want so much for me that I find it hard to want anything for myself! You can dress me, style my hair, discuss my future, spoil my kids. We’ve barely talked in seven years. Do you even know me, Flo? Or are you trying to create me?” She felt her eyes well with tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry about it.”
“You’re overwrought. You need—” She stopped herself.
Chris wiped her eyes. “You see? If you keep doing that, I’ll have to keep fighting you. I want to have our friendship back, Flo, but with give and take. As it stands, the only thing I can give you is obedience, and I’m too old to be happy with that.”
Flo pursed her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was scratchy. It was the closest Chris had ever seen her come to crying. “I just don’t want you to be hurt. I don’t want to lose you. Again.”
“I’m going to carve a little niche out of this world that’s all mine. Not a big chunk—just a little niche. I don’t want to buy the world a Coke or conquer outer space, I just want to take care of my kids and work on becoming the best of who I really am. There’s more to me than being your child, Stever’s latest con or Mike’s charity case. That’s what I was working on, Flo, when the house burned down.”
“This has something to do with this idea of writing?” she asked. “Because if all you want is to be independent, to be able to write—”
“No. Yes. I mean, I was writing, and I plan to keep writing—I’m even crazy enough to think I’m going to succeed at it. What I have to do is make sure the decisions I make belong to me. I want to pay for my own mistakes. I want to take credit for my accomplishments. I don’t want to be taken care of anymore.”
“What I’d like to know,” Flo said slowly, “is why it is reasonable for you to live in the fireman’s house and eat his food and take his presents, but it’s wrong for you to—”
Chris shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not going to give my life to him the way I did with Steve, and I’m not going to keep taking from him, either. I’m willing to share my life, my space, all that I am, but share, Flo. With you, with him and, hopefully, with others, because I’ve been alone way too long.”
“And you can’t come with me and share your life with him, only the other way around, is that it? He sounded as determined about what you need as I did, you know.”
“If that turns out to be true, then it won’t work.”
“Why would you take that chance? Why not—”
“Because I love him.” There. She’d said it. Shouldn’t lightning strike or fireworks go off?
“That’s ridiculous,” said Flo.
“But it’s true, just the same,” she replied, exasperated.
“You’re setting yourself up for some real trouble, Chris,” Flo solemnly predicted. “You’re going to get yourself hurt all over again. You hardly know this—”
“No, I’m not. I’m not setting myself up for anything at all. When I give up and let other people take over, then I’m in for it. I may be a lot of things—impetuous, idealistic, maybe even foolish, but dammit, I’m going to see if this is what I think it is. And if it isn’t, I’ll cry and be done with it. I won’t lose four million dollars, I won’t get pregnant, and I won’t forget what I want from life. I’ll cry. There are worse things.”
“What about the kids? What about what they’ll—”
“The kids,” she said, “already love both of you.” Carrie looked up. Her eyes were round and large; she knew there was something serious going on, but she didn’t know what. “They shouldn’t have to give up Mike to have you, or vice versa.”
“He’s awfully possessive.”
“Said the pot,” Chris quipped.
“We’ve never had any kind of family life together, Chris. Within a year of Randy’s and Arlene’s death you were gone. With that—”
“I got married. Maybe you didn’t approve, but the reality is that I grew up and got married. And get this—I’m glad I did, because I have Carrie and Kyle. I’m a grown-up now, Flo. I can’t go back to being the child you can spoil and discipline. We have to get together a new set of rules for our family life. I don’t want to be all you have. I don’t want you to be all I have. Go home, Flo,” she softly advised. “It’s the only way I can come home t
o you, which is all you really want, anyway.”
“When is that going to happen, Chris? I don’t want us to be estranged forever.”
“It’s never going to happen the way you think it should. When I go back to Chicago, I’ll be a visitor or finding my own place. Flo, let go of me. Love me for myself, not for what you can do for me. Please.”
They reached a tense compromise. Flo set up a checking account for Chris with a tidy sum deposited; she simply couldn’t leave any other way. Flo took Chris’s word that if the worst happened and the fireman turned out to be a big lout, Chris and the kids would rent something decent—with smoke alarms and everything. And they decided that if Chris remained in California through Christmas, Flo would have her tongue removed or her lips sutured shut and would return in time to celebrate with them all. She would be nice to Mike or else. Chris promised to call Flo frequently to reassure her they really were reunited.
And she still cried at the airport.
Mr. Blakely’s address was in the phone book. Chris took the kids out for a hamburger and then pulled up to the landlord’s house at just about the dinner hour. She was not in the least surprised to find he and his family occupied a substantial piece of real estate while they rented out hovels in poor repair. Still, she felt tension grating like sandpaper against her backbone—the backbone she was only just remembering she had. She wanted to do this exactly once.
“Hello, Mrs. Blakely. I’m Christine Palmer. Is your husband at home, please?”
“I don’t believe we have any business with you. You can have your lawyer—”
Chris unfolded the tabloid so that her picture flashed in the woman’s chubby, ruddy face. Mrs. Blakely looked like a mean, unhappy person; she had frown lines and downcast eyes that could flare wide in surprise, like now. She was about four weeks behind on her strawberry-blond dye job; her gray roots moored her frazzled mop. The house they lived in had been custom-built and appeared both well cared for and expensive. Mrs. Blakely, a fiftyish woman, looked out of place in the doorway. She was heavy, sloppily attired in a floral cotton housedress, and held a smoldering cigarette between her yellowed fingers.