by Emily Giffin
“There are bad marriages out there in part because of women like you!” Maura says. “You don’t have to be so predatory.”
“And you don’t have to be so naïve,” Jess says. “Affairs happen when people aren’t happy. A third party can’t penetrate a happy, mutually satisfying marriage.”
“I beg to differ,” Maura says, looking pissed.
I don’t really blame her for being upset. The topic hits a little too close to home.
But instead of backing off, Jess goes for shock value and says, “So I guess you’d disapprove of me getting pregnant on purpose?”
“What do you mean?” Maura says, aghast.
“You know…forgetting to take my pill. To sort of move the process along.” She makes an investment-banker hand gesture.
Maura’s eyes widen. “You have got to be shitting me.”
Jess looks pleased with herself. I can tell she is mostly kidding, but not entirely. Of course, beyond the obvious unethical nature of such a dirty trick, this whole topic strikes a chord with me as I think of how I would have felt if Ben had, say, replaced my birth control pills with placebos. The word unconscionable comes to mind. So I say, “What if Ben had pulled something like that with me? Punched tiny holes in our condoms, so to speak?”
Jess says, “That’s totally different.”
“Not really,” I say.
“Sure it is. It’s your body. You should have ultimate say.”
“Well, it’s his sperm,” Maura says. I can tell she’s imagining what she would do if Scott had an illegitimate child on the side. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, that’s for sure.
Daphne, on the other hand, looks suspiciously conspiratorial. Anything for a baby. I am pretty sure that she would steal a bit of seed if she had to.
I call her on it. “You think it’s okay, Daph. Don’t you?”
“No,” she says unconvincingly. “Well…it depends…I guess.”
“Depends on what?” Maura says.
“On why she’s doing it,” Daphne says, turning to Jess. “Would you be doing it to get Trey to leave his wife? Or would you be doing it to have a baby?”
“Look, Daph, motherhood ain’t so noble that it overrides basic morality,” Maura says.
Daphne kicks me under the table, as if the argument brewing at the table is subtle, something that I could somehow miss. She gives me a “do something” look.
“C’mon, guys,” I say. “Enough. We gotta stick together.”
“That’s my point, Claudia,” Maura says. “Women should stick together.”
“Friends should stick together,” Jess says. “I don’t know Trey’s wife from Adam. Eve. Whatever. I owe her nothing.”
“I’ll remind you of that someday,” Maura says, her voice shaking a little. “When you’re married to a man who once looked into your eyes and promised to forsake all others. I’ll remind you of that after you’ve just had his baby and you have postpartum depression and feel as fat as a cow and you are pumping milk into little plastic containers in the middle of the night while he’s running around with some twenty-two-year-old named Lisette. I’ll remind you of that.”
“Wait a second,” Daphne says. “You didn’t breast-feed.”
I give her a look that says it’s probably not the right moment to play the role of superior-earth-mother-to-be.
“I nursed Zoe for three weeks!” Maura says. “And then I had to quit because of mastitis. Remember?”
Daphne shakes her head.
“Well, I did…And besides, Daph, talk about missing the point.”
“God. Well. Excuse me for living,” Daphne says.
I give Daphne a sympathetic look, knowing that she would kill for a raging case of mastitis right about now. Remarkably, I also think she’d settle for a philandering husband if it meant she could be a mother.
A few minutes later, with a lot of cajoling on my part and the ordering of another bottle of wine, the storm has passed and we are on to safer topics. But as I listen to the three women I love most, I can’t help but think how crazy it is that we all want something that we can’t seem to have. Something that someone else at the table has in spades. I want my husband back, hold the baby. Daphne wants the baby, these days never mind her husband. Maura wants her husband to stop straying. Jess wants someone else’s husband to stray a little more.
I consider what we did to get to this place. Whether any of us is entirely blameless for our predicament. Should Daphne have tried sooner to have a baby? If she knew that she wanted a child more than anything else, should she and Tony have tried to conceive in their twenties, rather than saving their money to buy a house? Should Jess use her head and follow her heart a little less? Should she only date available, unmarried men—for reasons of morality and practicality? Should Maura have seen the signs in Scott earlier? Should she have married a nicer guy, someone more like Niles? And what about me? Should I have just sucked it up and had a baby to keep the only man I’ve ever truly loved?
Things certainly aren’t the way you imagine them when you’re a kid and dreaming big dreams about what your life as a grown-up will look like. Even with a mother like mine, even with my untraditional wishes, even with all the books I’ve read about all the people with lives screwed up in one way or another, I still could have sworn things would be so much neater and easier than they’re turning out to be.
Eleven
Word of Tucker clearly works its way to my mother because she decides to make a surprise appearance two days later. As I return home from work, I can hear her voice, high and animated, chatting with Jess about her “marvelous day” on Fifth Avenue. My mother still lives in Huntington, but since she married Dwight and can afford her expensive Manhattan haircuts and spa treatments, she comes into the city a lot more often.
I curse softly to myself and seriously consider creeping off to a nearby bar for a beer. But I decide that this wouldn’t be fair to Jess. Besides, my mother is a night owl, keeping hours more consistent with a college girl than a sixty-three-year-old. She will only outwait me and likely even spend the night with us, lapsing into her giggling, bunny-slipper-wearing mode, as if she just watched the Sandra Dee sleepover scene in Grease.
I take a deep breath and walk through the door with a forced smile.
“Hi, Mother!” I say, noting her salon-perfect hair and long nails freshly painted in a bright plum color. She is always well groomed, but today is one of her more impressive days. She does not look her age and is one of those rare women who really does look more like our sister than our mother (as opposed to all the women who get this false compliment from cheesy men).
“Hello, Claudia darling!” she says, standing to give me a prim hug, the kind where there is virtually no body contact other than our cheeks and shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were coming into the city today?” I say, which clearly means, Good Lord, woman. How many times have I told you that I hate drop-ins?
“I’ve come to photograph you, Claudia,” she says, throwing the thick black camera strap over her head.
My mother fancies herself an artist. I’ve even heard her end the word with an e, for an affected artiste. It’s pretty amusing, especially when you know the truth—that she dabbles in watercolors and ceramics. But to be fair, I will say this for her: at least she has interests and hobbies and passions, even if those passions often include inappropriate romances. She was never one of those idle, soap-opera-watching moms. She actually did watch soaps, but she also made sure her life was as scandalous as the most outrageous character on all her favorite shows. For a while, she had this weird obsession with Erica Kane and once phoned the All My Children set to inquire about a black clutch Erica was carrying in a funeral scene. She got the information, phoned her personal shopper at Nordstrom, and shamelessly ordered the same one for her own Mother’s Day present. (My mother always picked out her own presents. Whenever my father tried, his effort would go unrewarded. “Did you get a gift receipt?” would be the first t
hing out of her mouth.)
In any event, her latest hobby is black-and-white photography. I haven’t seen her in action, but Maura assures me that she tries way too hard, comparing my mother’s photos to her painful haikus. Maura also said that photography is one of her more annoying hobbies to date; in mid-conversation, my mom will whip out her Nikon, zoom in on your face and start snapping away, making comments like, “Chin down. Yeah. Just like that. Oh! Fantastic! Work with me.” Apparently she also takes roll after roll of random inanimate objects, like coffee mugs and stools and titles them “Mug Series” and “Stool Series.” It’s all too pretentious to bear.
“I would have phoned first, but I wanted you au naturel.”
“Well, that’s what you got,” I say, looking down at my work outfit—black pants, black heels, gray blouse, no accessories. Unless I’m meeting with an author or agent, I put almost no effort into my work wardrobe.
“I wanted to capture you as part of your normal workday routine. No frills. Just you.”
As if I would have primped for you, I think, but instead I say, “Get outta here.” I mean it literally, of course, but try to sound playful. I can’t deal with her wounded routine.
“I’m serious. I need to take a roll or two. It won’t take long.”
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, make my way over to the armchair across from her, and plop down with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m too tired for this, Mother.”
Jess is standing behind my mother, sorting through a stack of mail. She stops and makes the cuckoo sign that was popular in elementary school—little swirls in the air, pointing at your own head then gesturing toward the other person. Then she crosses her eyes, which adds a nice psychotic touch.
I start to laugh, and my mother turns to see what’s so amusing.
Jess sombers up quickly, taking great interest in a catalogue.
My mother faces me again and continues, “I already shot a roll of Jess while we waited for you. But that wasn’t for my assignment. It was just for fun. Jess is so damned photogenic, isn’t she?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. Jess does look great in just about every photo I’ve ever seen of her. I think it’s because her face is so symmetrical, which I once read is the very thing that makes someone beautiful. The article said that even babies are drawn to faces with symmetry.
“Your portrait is for my assignment,” she says to me.
She couldn’t be any more desperate for me to ask about her assignment. So I fold and say, “What assignment might that be, Mother?”
“I did tell you about my photography class, didn’t I?”
I nod, thinking, Only a dozen times.
“Well. We’re working on portraits now.”
“Sounds neat,” I say.
She misses my sarcasm and says, “Yes. It is so much fun. But quite challenging to capture a fleeting expression on your subject’s face.”
“Right. I’m sure.”
“Which brings me back to you. I’ve chosen you as my subject.”
I can tell she expects me to be excited by being the chosen one, but I say, “Why not photograph Maura’s kids? Or Dwight?”
“Because,” she says hesitantly, as if about to unmask a dark truth.
Jess nods vigorously and makes another gesture, like, Getta load of this one.
“Our assignment is to photograph pain.” She frowns as she says it as if she, herself, is carrying quite the emotional load.
I can feel my eyes narrowing. “And you think I can help you out with that?”
“Claudia, dear. Please don’t get defensive.”
“I’m not,” I say, well aware of how very defensive I sound.
“I want to capture your pain.”
“I’m not in pain.”
“Yes you are, Claudia. You’re hurting over Ben. I heard about Tucker,” she says.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, young lady, you are not fine. You are not fine at all.”
Jess makes a face as if she’s bracing for a traffic accident and then exits, likely to call Trey.
“You are hurting right here, Claudia,” she says, crossing her hands and placing them tenderly over her heart. “I’m your mother. I know these things.”
“Mother. I really can’t deal with this right now.”
She purses her lips, stares at me and shakes her head. Then she loads a fresh roll of film, fiddles with her monstrous lens, and raises her camera to shoot me.
I put my hand in front of my face, palm out. “Stop it, Mother.”
Snap. Snap.
“Mother!” I say. Then I gather myself, recognizing that my mother probably loves having a pained and angry Claudia, and say more calmly, “Why not photograph Daphne?”
I feel a bit guilty for the suggestion, but then consider that it was likely Daphne who spilled the beans. Besides, Daphne has a much higher tolerance for my mother. They talk nearly every day.
“Because of her infertility, you mean?” my mother asks, as if it is only a minor travail rather than a heartbreaking ordeal.
“It’s not the same. There is no grief like heartbreak.”
I want to refute what my mother has just said, but I can’t, so I just say, “I’m not heartbroken.”
“Yes. You are.”
“What about Maura? She and Scott are in a constant state of turmoil,” I say, figuring that I might as well throw my other sister under the bus, on the off chance that it was she who spilled the beans about Tucker.
“Maura’s not in love with Scott,” my mother says. “They never had what you and Ben had. You and Ben were so in love. And I suspect you still are,” she says, raising her camera again. She squints, zooms in with a flick of her wrist.
Snap. Snap.
“Mother. Enough.”
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“I mean it, Mother!” I shout, and as she stands to capture another angle of my angst-ridden profile, I feel incredible sadness commingling with my anger. I put my face in my hands, telling myself not to cry, telling myself not to prove my mother right. When I look up, I see Jess in the doorway with a questioning look: Do you need me? I shake my head, thinking that I don’t need anyone. Jess retreats, looking worried. I watch my mother load another roll of film and sling her camera strap back over her head.
I am back to being only enraged as I say, “Don’t you dare take my picture again. I’m your daughter. Not your project.”
My voice is eerily calm, but I also hear something in my voice that almost scares me. I wonder if my mother can hear it, if she’s listening at all.
I suddenly know that if this woman, who happened to give birth to me almost thirty-five years ago, takes my picture in this moment and seeks to benefit from my grief, I will be done with her forever. I will not speak to her again. I will refuse to see her under any circumstance, deathbed scenarios included.
Of course I’ve had this thought many times before, but I have never followed through. I always cave—not for her sake, nor because I need or want a mother—but because I don’t want my mother to define who I am, and not talking to her would do that in some bizarre sense. Whenever I read of a celebrity estranged from her mother (Meg Ryan, Jennifer Aniston, Demi Moore; I know these women by heart), I think it says something about the mother and the daughter. No matter how atrocious the mother’s offense, it still marks the daughter as unforgiving, self-righteous, cold.
My mother is a nuisance and a trial, but she is not important enough to write off in any bold terms. Still, despite my general feelings about avoiding total estrangement, I have the sense that I am at a crossroads. This time I mean business. If I can get a divorce from a man I love, I can cut off this woman.
I watch my mother furrow her brow and give me her standard look of sympathy. Her best funeral expression. I know what you’re going through. I’m here for you. All of that bullshit. She has a deficiency of empathy, even for her own daughters, but has mastered the art of appearing to care. She is a fraud. People outside her fa
mily might find her engaging, intriguing, compassionate. Sometimes she even fools Daphne. But I know the truth about her.
My rage gives way, in small part, to curiosity. How bad is my mother? Will she take my picture again, even after I’ve come to the brink of tears? Even after I warned her in no uncertain terms? I almost want her to take one final photo. I almost want this to be our defining mother-daughter moment. I watch her as she freezes, then lowers her camera to her lap. Nobody ever stops my mother from doing what she wants, and I can’t help feeling triumphant. And very surprised.
She presses her lips together and says, “I’m sorry.”
I am both relieved and disappointed by her apology. I can’t think of a single time she’s ever apologized to me for anything, despite scores of occasions she owed me one. At least she’s never apologized without blaming someone else or adding a but. I don’t want to let her off the hook so easily, but I am completely drained. So I say, “Okay, Mother.”
“But is it okay?” she asks.
I roll my eyes and say yes.
We are both silent as she awkwardly packs up her camera equipment. When it is all stowed at her feet, she looks at me and says another quiet but sincere, “I’m sorry.”
I look away, but can still feel her eyes on me. I can feel how much she wants me to say something. Absolve her. Embrace her.
I do none of these things. I just sit there in silence.
A long while later, my mother says, “I need to tell you something, Claudia.”
“What’s that?” I ask her, expecting something frivolous. The sun will come out tomorrow. The sky is darkest before dawn. Look for the silver lining. Why are there so many trite expressions involving the sky?
But my mother clears her throat and says, “I want to tell you something I’ve never told you before.”
“Go ahead,” I say to my mother as I see Jess’s shadow in the doorway. She isn’t really eavesdropping; she’s just saving me the trouble of repeating everything later.
“You were an accident,” my mother says. “An unplanned pregnancy.”