by Ariella Papa
She nodded and I got that she probably didn’t think this was a battle worth fighting. We clinked glasses. The wine was cool and refreshing. Ruth closed her eyes and nodded.
“Drinking in the afternoon,” she said. “I should start doing more of this.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Is it wrong,” she asked.
“No, it’s wonderful,” I said. Honestly, I immediately felt relaxed. Maybe somehow the day would turn around.
“Maybe one day you should come over, you know, when you have more time,” she said, hesitantly.
“I would like that,” I said. “A lot. Or maybe we should go out one night. You know without the kids.”
“Wow, that would be awesome,” she said, happily and laughed at her own enthusiasm. “I was always a little overeager on dates.”
“Me too. I’ve been thinking lately, that I wish I had more adults in my life. You know, to talk to.”
It felt so weird to say that. For so long, I hadn’t ever thought I needed that. For so long David had been more than enough.
“Wow, I thought it was just me,” Ruth said. “I really miss work because of that. I mean it’s not that I love working, but I think I miss the interaction. You know, people around to check in, make sure you don’t go off the deep end.”
I looked up at her and held her eyes, to see if she was doing ok. And then instead of speculating, I asked.
“Are you ok?”
“I think so. I think better. But every time I feel I got a handle on this, something happens and I don’t. And then it’s already flying by. So fast. I want to enjoy it. I want to have fun. I want to have sex,” she said, surprising herself. “Wow! TMI. How much have I been drinking?”
I laughed. And she looked me in the eye this time.
“But seriously, when do I want to have sex again?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess it’s different for everyone.”
The truth for me was that we barely made it to the six week mark without having sex. I missed him so much. And now, I couldn’t think of the last time it had happened. But I couldn’t tell her that. She didn’t need the extra pressure.
“It’s not that my husband is pressuring me. He is patient, but how long does the patience last? Part of me wants to do it and, you know, get it over with, but then I don’t know if I mentally or physically can.”
“Well, I will say that you should lower your expectations for the first time back. I mean no matter how into it you are it can be a little painful and sometimes,” I took a sip of my wine, trying to remember the last time I had a conversation like this with a woman. “Sometimes it can be a little, you know, dry.”
Her eyes widened in horror. I immediately regretted what I said.
“Really?”
“That can be remedied. It’s not a big deal.” She shook her head. “For real, it’ll get better. It will get back.”
“Does it? Did it for you and um – “
“David. It did. I mean it was, but now . . . it’s not.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong? Is it because of the car thing?”
The car thing. I wished it was because of the car thing. I wish it was one thing I could put my finger on and not this general feeling that something was very very wrong. And once again I was going to start talking to someone I didn’t know all that well about David. I couldn’t go there today.
“No, it’s not the car thing. It’s a lot of things. Hey, how is your neighbor. Claudia?”
‘I saw her one day and she gave me a bunch of food, but I haven’t really seen her since then.”
“I saw her at my daughter’s school. I think she wants her kids to get in. She got her hair cut.”
“Really? Wow, that seemed like such a big part of her identity,” Ruth said. We looked at each other and laughed.
“I can’t quite get a read on her, except that she really wants her kid to get into that school,” I said.
“I know, I think she means well. I mean she made me all that food, but it was almost as if she was trying to win a prize or something. It was sweet, but it was also weird.”
“She keeps telling me that she wants to get together for a playdate.”
“Her kids are really sweet.”
“They are. I should call her to set it up. Maybe you want to come.”
“Maybe,” Ruth said. “Maybe, you just don’t want to be alone with her.”
“Maybe,” I said and smiled. Girl talk. I had been missing that. There was something cozy about Ruth’s apartment, the light, the couch and now that she was feeling better, the mood. But I had to get Jules. I said my good-byes.
“We will definitely set something up. Can you get a babysitter or your husband?”
“Yes, I really need a night out. Or who knows maybe that playdate with Claudia will happen.”
“Right,” I said, collecting Naomi and Sage to leave. “See you.”
As I finished buckling Sage in the car (keys in hand the whole time), I saw Claudia herself, pushing a double stroller up to her house. She was scowling and walking fast. I probably could have made it to the car without her seeing me, but when I saw her I felt a little guilty that we had been gossiping about her, especially after she gave me that ride and listened to me vent.
“Hi, Claudia,” I said. She was totally pulled out of her thoughts and shook her head. She headed over to me.
“Oh, hey, Kirsten,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Guess I keep running into you. “
“Yeah,” she said. She seemed really freaked out about something. “I had to pick these guys up at day care because Jacob has a stomach bug. I guess it’s going around. Hope your guys don’t get it.”
“Ooh, I hope he feels better, poor guy.”
“Yeah,” she said and looked down at him. “It was tough to get back from work and I had to cancel a lunch plan.”
“Big meeting?”
“No, it was with, um, it was with a colleague, this man, Keith, but we’ve been trying to, um get together, you know for lunch for a while and, well it was unexpected.”
I have always been able to read people’s body language better than most as an adjustment for my ear, but even a blind person would have been able to gauge that there was way more to the story then Claudia was telling.
“It always is tough when they get sick,” I said. She nodded. Her mind was still on other things.
“So are you here to take picture of Ruth’s son?”
“Oh no, I was visiting. “
“But I didn’t think you guys knew each other,” she said, almost accusingly.
“Well, we don’t really, “I said. “I was just dropping by.”
“Oh, did you make her more food?” Again, the accusation. There really was something about this woman. Maybe she meant well–she talked the talk, but she didn’t really walk the walk.
“No, it was a social call.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked upset. I felt bad that I never followed up with her about the playdate she wanted to set up. I felt I needed to do something.
“I was meaning to call you about the playdate,” I said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, as if she didn’t believe me. It was almost a challenge. I was ready to accept.
“Yes, and actually, I was talking to Ruth and we were thinking that maybe it would be fun to you know have a night out, no kids, just us.”
“Really,” Claudia said. She seemed so unexpectedly pleased. My day had been a roller coaster but nothing compared to this conversation.
“Yeah,” I said.
“When?” She was pulling out her Blackberry. She was ready to schedule right this minute.
“Well, we need to talk to Ruth and check her schedule. “
“Ok,” she said. She put her Blackberry down at her side but not away. “Just keep me in the loop.”
“I will. Have a good night,” I said. I looked at Jacob. He looked green. “Feel better, pal.”
I wa
ved bye to the kids. I got in the car and drove away to get Julissa. I had two solid conversations with adults that weren’t with David or any member of his family.
A little adult contact, maybe some lip gloss, plans for a night out. It could be just the recipe to keep from, as Ruth said, going off the deep end.
Chapter 12
Ruth Expands her Social Circle
As soon as I get to the restaurant, I begin to regret it. I am the mother of a ten-week-old infant. I shouldn’t be having a night out. Nights out were what childless people did.
I almost called it off so many times. Steve was supposed to be able to get out early and then he wound up having to work late, so I was going to call it off, but he insisted on calling his mother to come wait until he got back. I guess he really wanted me to have a night out. I suspect it was because he wanted to justify future nights out for himself, but maybe it was because he really cared about my mental health.
Anyway, Pam came early so I would have time to get ready. I actually showered and blew my hair out. I kept opening the door in the bathroom to see if Abe needed me. He didn’t.
I tried on almost everything in my closet and nothing fit right. I had been afraid to go shopping. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t going to buy any new clothes until I lost this baby weight, so now I had nothing to wear.
I finally settled on a black V-neck T-shirt that was only slightly stretched out. It fell to my hips so it partially covered my stomach, which I would try and suck in throughout the evening. I threw a blue cardigan on top. It would have been more suitable for a night in February than one at the beginning of July, but I needed the coverage. I felt so nervous, like I was going to leak or people were going to stare at my giant breasts and my flabby stomach.
“Look how nice Mother looks,” Pam said to Abe when I came out. I appreciated the lie, because I suspected that she knew that the mother of such a young baby didn’t deserve a night out. She didn’t have nights out when she was a new mom or that’s what I gathered when she told me how lucky I was to have a husband like Steve who could handle my child.
It was almost as if I had never left the house before. I kept walking from room to room, trying to remember what I was looking for, and forgetting what I needed to do. It was exhausting. Finally, when I had done it all, the hair, the makeup, and the jewelry and said my good-byes to Pam, I almost forgot to kiss Abe, who Pam had miraculously got to sit in his bouncy seat and chill.
“He’s going to miss his mother,” Pam said, not realizing—or knowing all too well—that she was twisting the knife in my heart. I went against my “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” better judgment and picked him up out of his seat to give him a hug and demonstrate what a loving mother I actually was.
He immediately started wailing. I had left two bottles in the fridge, but I decided to nurse him. I felt so torn in so many directions. The whole process of getting out of the house, of having somewhere to be was making me frantic.
Abe’s gift to me was to vomit on my cardigan when I was finished nursing.
“Oh, dear,” Pam said. She went to get a wipe to try and wipe me down. She got the stain out, but I could still smell the spit-up and I feared that Claudia and Kirsten would smell it too.
I took the cardigan off.
“You’re fine that way, Ruth. I think it’s warm out.”
“I know, but I should take something just in case,” I said. The only thing that remotely fit me was a heavier red sweatshirt that was in my closet. It wasn’t pretty but it was that or a denim jacket and I had my standards. I could not do clashing denim. There was no way.
And even though, I had been rushing frantically around and practically jogged down Flatbush and up Fifth Avenue fearing I would be late, here I am the first one at the restaurant. I am a big bloated loser.
I sit down at the bar. There is a giant mirror behind it and I can’t help but stare right at my reflection. I look unbelievably exhausted. Behind me, I can see all the rest of the patrons enjoying their night out. For them it’s common; they probably don’t have full breasts and a child who is most likely screaming at home. It’s hard to believe this used to be my life. I used to go out every night. I was carefree and answered to no one. Now, when the bartender approaches me for my drink order, I practically cower in fear.
“I think I’ll stick with water for now,” I say and he nods and fills up my cup. “I am waiting for someone.”
‘Ok,” he says and goes down the bar to attend to someone else. I realize that I sounded way to defensive. I made myself seem like an even bigger loser. The bartender really doesn’t care. This, as everything, isn’t all about me.
Why didn’t I bring something to read? I am way behind on all my magazines; this could have been the perfect time to catch up. No, that would have made me an even bigger loser. Instead, I stare at the mosaic behind the bar. It’s a big cactus. This place is Latin fusion. I think women always go to Latin places these days when they want to have a girls’ night. What is it about Latin places that is meant to equal fun? What is it about my brain that keeps jumping from topic to topic?
Claudia taps my shoulder and I turn around. I immediately feel more like a schlub when I see her. But she doesn’t notice my outfit, at least not right away. She is too busy nervously giving me excuses.
“I can’t believe this; my train was delayed for a half hour. I never take the N and I’m never late.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “Kirsten isn’t here yet either. “
“She’s late,” Claudia says, sounding annoyed, seemingly forgetting that she was late, too. “She’s the one who organized this,”
I shrug. I am not really sure what to say to Claudia. Normally, I would give someone a kiss on the cheek when I was meeting her, but I don’t really know Claudia at all. And she doesn’t seem like a fan of affection.
“Should we get a table?” she asks.
“Um, sure,” I say. “Or we can wait for Kirsten, you know, maybe get a drink.”
“A drink, sure,” Claudia says. I don’t know if she really thinks it’s a good idea, but I think a drink would definitely help. I flag the bartender over. This will show him that I’m not a loser.
“I’ll have a margarita.”
“Frozen?”
“Sure.”
“Flavored?”
“Wow, yes,” I say. The very prospect of alcohol has pepped me up. I haven’t had an adult cocktail in almost a year.
“What flavor?”
“Right,” I say. I’m back to loser status. “What flavors do you have?”
“Strawberry, mango and blood orange.”
“Blood orange, I want that.”
He looks at Claudia.
“I’m not sure,” she looks at me and up at the ceiling. “Can I see a menu?”
He gets her one and she studies it. We are both waiting.
“I’ll need a minute,” she says. She has this matter-of-fact way of speaking that comes across as rude. The bartender backs away and Claudia studies the menu.
“What’s the mojito?”
I think she’s kidding. I laugh. She looks at me. I realize that she’s not kidding.
“You know, it’s that Cuban drink with the mint, lime, rum, sugar. You know, a mojito,” I say. She looks at me, blinking her eyes. In this day and age, who doesn’t know what a mojito is? I mean, has she avoided television, cookbooks, the Internet, pop culture? Who doesn’t know what a mojito is?
“I don’t drink much,” she says. I nod. This is turning out to be the worst first date ever. I am anxious for Kirsten to get here to defuse, to deflect.
The bartender brings me my drink and Claudia asks him what is in a pisco sour and then she orders a Merlot after his explanation. It’s all done dismissively, as though she is doing him a favor, by letting him take her order.
She takes off her jacket, and she has a nice sleeveless top on underneath. Her new haircut makes her look younger too and more relaxed. I feel fat.
“I can’t believe how long the train took,” she says and launches into a whole story about, well, how the train was delayed. It should have been as simple as “the train got stuck on the bridge,” but instead it is an intricate tale of the ins and outs of her commute, where she likes to sit, how many times in the past she has been stuck, comments on the demeanors of the other passengers. I can’t really follow what she is saying. She keeps going off on tangents. I am nodding, but all the words are making my head spin. Before I know it, I have sucked down most of my drink. I keep on nodding, feeling the drink hit me faster than I suspected. Claudia has barely had a sip of her wine. She is too busy to drink as she keeps interrupting her own story.
“Can I have some water?” I practically scream when the bartender comes back down our side of the bar. This time, I interrupt Claudia and she shoots me a look and sips her drink.
“Sorry,” I say. “I wanted to get him before he never came back.”
She nods. I wonder if I have offended her. I always feel this way around her. I am about to apologize when Kirsten shows up. She looks glowing in some purple tank top with a silver shrug. She wraps her arms around both of us, enveloping me in her fresh vanilla smell. I can’t figure out how these two women with varying styles and more than one child manage to be so put together while I can’t seem to find a stylish outer shell.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Kirsten says. “My signals got crossed with David.”
I study her face, but she is smiling and ordering a Negro Modelo from the bartender.
“You guys look terrific,” she says. She takes a long sip of her beer. “Sure is good to have a night out.”
I nod.
“I know I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant at night. I mean it,” Claudia says. She may have taken her jacket off and ordered a drink, but she isn’t relaxed. Her eyes dart back and forth between us as if she suspects something.
I shouldn’t have even come. My kid needs me, my mother-in-law is judging me, and I should be attempting sex with my husband. Plus, I really can’t enjoy myself knowing I look this bad.
The water isn’t helping me counteract my buzz, and already I feel myself zoning in and out of the conversation. But I notice that Kirsten is gulping her beer. Claudia is also drinking a lot. After each sip, she winces. Lightweight.