Mating for Life

by Marissa Stapley

  “Very progressive.”

  “Well, I do spend most of my time at a university. All those young minds must be rubbing off on me.”

  “You sound like Helen, by the way.”

  “Indeed. The waking up beside each other because we want to is a direct Helen quote. She’s become very good at giving advice lately. Anyway, Fiona says you’re having a show. At Patrick Francis’s gallery in New York. And that it opens next Saturday. And I want you to know I’m coming. Me and Laurence, and Isabel, too, who is, apparently, sort of eager to see Cole. Isn’t that cute? She’d also really like to see Beck, to make absolutely certain that he is, as Fiona and Tim say he is, making a full recovery. To be honest, I’d like to see that for myself as well.”

  “You should definitely come see Beck—he’s doing great. But you don’t have to go to the trouble of coming to my opening, it’s just a small show at a gallery no one’s ever heard of.”

  “It’s your show. And I’ve heard of the gallery.”

  “That’s because we went to school with Patrick.”

  “Ilsa, of course I’m going to come! I want to support you.”

  “Okay, but you should know, this isn’t really like any art I’ve ever done before.”

  “Exciting! I can’t wait to see it.”

  Later, Ilsa hung up the phone and stood in the middle of her studio, now her home. The room contained a single bed with a wrought-iron frame that she’d found at an antique store, and the furniture that had been at her studio before—two barstools, a shorter stool that she sat on in front of canvases, a drafting table. The armoire that had housed her old paintings and letters now housed her clothes and shoes; the shelves that had held painting supplies and detritus in general now housed books, necessities; and her art supplies lived on shelves she’d affixed to the walls and secretly believed would probably one day come crashing down because she had never had to install anything before.

  Ilsa looked at her watch. She still had a few minutes before she had to leave to pick Ani up from school, as she did each day now. She’d take her home for lunch, where Xavier would be waiting with the nanny. Home as in her old home, but no longer her actual home. Some days she knew she had made the right decision, and other days she couldn’t believe that she had done this terrible thing.

  It’s not forever. One day I’ll have a home to share with my daughter and son. So far, Ani and Xavier seemed to be adjusting all right to the change. If anything, they saw Ilsa more. Ilsa painted—or attempted to paint; she was still having trouble and her latest show actually had nothing to do with painting—in the mornings and evenings, and spent her afternoons with Ani and Xavier. Sometimes she’d give the kids dinner and then leave when Michael got home. She and Michael were always cordial to each other. Sometimes she stayed and fell asleep on the couch if he was going to be late, or slept over when he was traveling on business.

  It was a strange arrangement, but it was working. Or at least it wasn’t spectacularly not working. And one day, things would change. She didn’t know how, but they would. Didn’t they always? It was the one thing you could count on in life.

  I should probably clean up. The studio was messy again; when Fiona visited, she always brought her cleaning supplies. Ilsa crossed the room and picked up a stack of books. Old journals, things she had taken out of drawers, looked at, and never put back. Maybe, if she cleaned up more often, she’d be able to bring herself to show her children where she lived. But she grew distracted, as she did every time she tried to clean. She opened the cover of one of the journals. It was red leather with a fishnet pattern embossed on the front. The entry she glanced at was from the cottage, two summers before. She’d been reading a Violet Trefusis biography. She remembered she’d been struck by the lines she read, which she’d recorded in her journal:

  Heaven preserve us from all the sleek and dowdy virtues, such as punctuality, conscientiousness, fidelity and smugness! What great man was ever constant? What great queen was ever faithful? Novelty is the very essence of genius and will always be. If I were to die tomorrow, think how I should have lived!

  She shook her head. She had indeed decided to live, to shirk all those “sleek and dowdy” virtues, and it had very nearly destroyed her. Did she regret it? She still wasn’t sure. What surprised her was how lonely she felt sometimes, when all she had craved was the space to be who she was. It also surprised her that there were times when she thought of Lincoln and felt an ache that wasn’t hatred or anger. She had practically sacrificed her ­marriage for him before deciding to sacrifice it simply for herself. She had carried and lost his child. It seemed strange to her that he was not in her life, not even on the periphery. She never saw him and Fiona never spoke of him. She supposed she could ask, but couldn’t bring herself to do that. And what would Fiona say? Yes, he still exists. Yes, he is still in this world. No, he has never asked about you. Time would heal it. That was one thing you could be certain of in life. At least, she hoped.

  • • •

  “Hi, Ani!”

  Ilsa looked up from lining up her purchases on the black conveyor belt at the organic supermarket close to the house: rice milk, elderflower water, arugula, mushrooms, berries, a maple-flavored candy for Ani, who was standing behind her and who had patiently endured her mother’s wandering up and down the aisles and coming up nearly empty. Michael was working late that night and she was making dinner for the children.

  Ani was looking at the woman shyly. “Hi,” Ilsa said, a question in her voice. The woman had olive skin, aquiline features, and curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She was skinny and tall. Something about her lithe shape suggested boundless energy, even though she was standing still.

  “I’m Tabitha,” said the woman, smiling at Ilsa with closed lips.

  “Ilsa,” said Ilsa, not smiling at all even though she was certain she was supposed to.

  “We did meet, back when you first moved into the neighborhood. I stopped by. We live on the corner of Oak Leaf and Elm.” The woman said this proudly. Ilsa knew she was supposed to be impressed. Those were the two most desirable streets in the neighborhood, she had heard someone say once. Maybe this woman, when they had supposedly met.

  “We had coffee. Your daughter had just been born. You kept her in her carrier the whole time.” The woman let out a short laugh and Ilsa felt embarrassed. Those days had been a blur. She didn’t remember Tabitha, but she did remember the carrier. It was a sling, actually, a complicated one that came with a DVD and made Ilsa cry several times, as she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, searching for clues. Once she got it to work and tucked Ani into it and Ani stopped crying and settled her downy head on Ilsa’s aching chest, Ilsa wouldn’t take her out until she absolutely had to. And this woman said she had stopped by. Had coffee. Ilsa shook her head slightly. No. She didn’t remember. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “Hi, Ani,” the woman said again, smiling and nodding encouragingly at Ani. Ani looked up at her mother. Ilsa didn’t nod or encourage.

  “My daughter, Georgie, is in Ani’s class. They adore each other. Ani is all Georgie talks about.”

  “Right,” Ilsa said. “Of course. Georgie.”

  “They’re best friends,” Tabitha said, talking to Ilsa but looking at Ani, still smiling and nodding. “She’ll be so sad she wasn’t with me today when we ran into you!” She turned to Ilsa. “She’s at home with her father and brothers right now. Mommy’s afternoon out!”

  “Mmm, wow, grocery shopping,” Ilsa said, and realized after she said it that she might have sounded sarcastic.

  “We should plan a playdate,” said the woman. She was pulling out her wallet. She handed Ilsa a card. “Here. Get in touch. Wednesdays are usually perfect for us. You?” Now Ilsa glanced at Ani and saw something like hope in her eyes. Ilsa took the card.

  “Thank you,” Ilsa said, looking down at the card. Tabitha Woods, the card
read. Rugrat Wrangler.

  Tabitha laughed that short laugh again. “Aren’t they hilarious? One of my mom friends got them for me as a joke, but they’re actually quite useful for setting up playdates.”

  Ilsa thought for a second about her own childhood, about all the traveling, the summers at the cottage. How, when they were home, Helen welcomed all the neighborhood children in and let her own children run house to house. It felt like they had complete freedom, that she and Liane could run all over the neighborhood if they wanted to, hide between the houses, come home when the streetlights came on. She suddenly hated the term playdate. But Ani. Ani wanted this. And it wasn’t the kind of world anymore where you could just let your children run free.

  The cashier had started ringing up her purchases. “Nice to meet you,” Ilsa said, and pocketed the card, while Tabitha gave her a strange look. Right. We already met.

  “Bye, Ani!” the woman said brightly.

  Ani didn’t say anything back and Ilsa thought maybe she was supposed to admonish her, say something like, Say goodbye to the nice lady, Ani. But she didn’t, and Tabitha left and Ilsa paid for her purchases, took her daughter’s hand, and walked home with her. “I love you, Ani,” Ilsa said when they were halfway there.

  “I love you, too,” Ani said, and squeezed her hand. “Look!” She pointed up to the sky. “The pretty birds!” They were vultures, which Ilsa secretly always found slightly terrifying. But Ani always pointed them out and exclaimed over them when she saw them flying over a wooded area close to the house.

  “Yes, the pretty birds. Do you want to have a playdate with Georgia?”

  “Georgie. Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you going to sleep at our house again, every night, soon?”

  What if I’m wrong? What if this is the wrong thing, not the right thing? What if she’s not going to see this as me having integrity, but instead as me tearing her life apart when she was only four?

  “No,” Ilsa finally said. “No, I don’t think I am.” Saying it didn’t hurt as much as the moment before saying it had. “But I’m always going to see you, every day, and I’m always going to love you, always, always, always . . . and one day soon I’ll have my own house, and you can come there, and maybe sometimes . . .” She realized she was saying too much. She squeezed Ani’s hand again and hoped she wouldn’t ask more questions. She didn’t. They walked in silence. But Ilsa thought maybe it wasn’t a sad silence. She thought maybe it was a hopeful one.

  • • •

  Ilsa was surprised at how full the gallery was the night of her show’s opening. She had been nervous, almost debilitatingly so, had imagined no one coming at all, an empty room, just her and Patrick, her sensing his disappointment and feeling it mix with her shame, not only at the poor showing, but at what she had tried to pawn off as art. You didn’t even pick up a brush. All you did was cut, paste, shellac. Ani could have done it.

  Her whole family was there: Fiona and Tim hand in hand, Tim smiling and kind, without any bitterness underlying his words, no accusation in his eyes indicating that he held it against her that she had left his best friend; Beck, looking almost healed, only with shorter hair, a scar you could see when he turned his head, and a slightly chastened expression; Cole, handsome and proud with young Isabel beside him; Samira, Tim’s daughter; Ilsa was very nearly over saying it, but it still gave her a tiny little shock every time—with her long, caramel-colored hair and eyes that were like Tim’s and mouth that was like someone else’s; Laurence and Liane, Beatrice between them in a black and red dress with crinoline under the skirt, staring at the artwork, wide-eyed. (“Pretty,” Ilsa had heard her say, and tried not to feel embarrassed that Beatrice was pointing to a small square of paper decoupaged to the page that was, in fact, Ilsa’s breast.) But in addition to her family, there were also dozens and dozens of others, some friends, some fellow artists, and some people, many people, she didn’t even know. She felt warmth in the buzz of conversation. Plus, Patrick had told her that one lone woman, slowly traversing the room with a thoughtful but not unimpressed expression, was an art critic for the Village Voice.

  A few moments later, Helen arrived and began to walk around the room, stopping respectfully in front of each piece before approaching Ilsa with two glasses of champagne. “I already knew this, and I’m sure I’ve told you this before, but here it is again: you’re brilliant.”

  “You’re biased.”

  “I’m not. I tried to walk around the gallery pretending this was someone else’s work. That’s why I didn’t greet you. I wanted to detach myself. It was impossible, though. You practically bleed off those canvases.” Helen’s eyes shone. “I wish it didn’t all hurt you so much, my daughter. But I’m proud of you for making it all look so beautiful.”

  “It’s getting better. I promise. I’m doing better.”

  “Listen, my friend Cameron, who lives about ten minutes outside of Rye, maybe you remember her, has decided to spend the next six months abroad visiting her son. She needs someone to look after her house, feed her cat, water her plants . . . I mentioned you and she said it was completely fine for you to stay there. Should I tell her you’re interested? Ani and Xavier would love it there. The neighbor has a pony. They could stay with you on weekends. Sorry, I’m not trying to control your life, I just thought—”

  “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it. It seems like the perfect solution, maybe. I’ll get in touch with her.”

  “I’ll give her your number.”

  “How are you doing, Mom?”

  “Me?” She seemed surprised that Ilsa would ask. Ilsa realized she hadn’t in a while. And when someone asked how Helen was, she always told the truth. “Well, I’m actually . . . I’m lonely,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little lonely lately.”

  “Aw, Mom. No man on the horizon to distract you?”

  To Ilsa’s surprise, Helen didn’t laugh. “Oh, there’s a man on the horizon,” she said. “But it’s a distant horizon.”

  “You could come stay with me, too. At Cameron’s. I mean, if I do decide to stay there, if it works out.”

  “Maybe. I think I might head up north, though.” She hesitated. “Unless I’m needed here?”

  “I’m pretty sure we’re all fine. For the moment, at least.”

  Liane approached. “Oops. I have champagne for you, too, but it looks like Mom already beat me to it. Ilsa, this is really exquisite work. Really. There’s just something about these . . . I don’t even know what to call them.”

  Ilsa laughed. “Me neither.”

  “They make me feel . . .” She tilted her head to one side. “Well, they make me feel sad, at first. They remind me of heartbreak and heartache. And yet, they also make me feel hopeful. They make me believe in love. Does that make any sense at all?”

  Ilsa nodded. “It was the point. I was trying to prove that things that have been torn and ruined, things that have failed, can be put back together in other ways. Maybe even in beautiful ways, or at the very least in truer ways.” She felt a hand on her arm. Fiona. All of them now, standing with their mother. She thought, Maybe Helen was right. Maybe we never did need the men, the fathers. Maybe we just needed each other, and her. But she also knew that wasn’t necessarily a fair thought, that although the fathers weren’t in the room, they were with them—within them—and always would be.

  “You know, I always liked your paintings, but there’s something about these that are better,” Fiona said. “Different. Profound. Perfectly you. I know nothing about art, but I think these are really good.” Liane handed Fiona the extra champagne glass and tapped hers against it.

  “Hear, hear,” she said.

  Helen was smiling. “Girls,” she said. “This is the first time we have all been standing together in the same room in a year. I think that calls for a real toast.” She r
aised a glass. “To my daughters, my girls, my people.” They raised their glasses in a perfect circle.

  “To you, too, Mom,” Fiona said, almost in a whisper. They drank. Then Helen looked across the room.

  “How is the visit with Samira going, Fiona? She seems lovely.”

  Fiona thought for a moment. She, too, looked to where Samira was standing, talking to Cole and Isabel. “It’s been strange,” she said. “But not bad at all. I guess I was threatened in part because I thought she would be only Tim’s and it was somehow going to distance him from all of us even more. When we went to get her at the airport, I was so afraid that everything Tim and I had been working toward would fall apart. I didn’t know how I was going to feel, how I was going to deal with her, how I was going to manage to pretend I didn’t feel as resentful toward her as I still did, that I wasn’t as afraid of her as I felt that day. But then, when she got off the plane, when she came through arrivals, I was the one to spot her. I knew it was her immediately. She looks like Tim, a little, don’t you think? Holds herself in the same way. And his mouth. And before I could stop myself, I waved. I’m not saying it’s all been easy—but she doesn’t feel like just his. She feels like ours.”

  Ilsa was listening to Fiona but movement at the door had caught her eye. Lincoln Porter had walked into the studio. He was wearing a dark gray fedora. Fiona trailed off and looked at Ilsa, wide-eyed, and Ilsa shook her head imperceptibly. No, don’t say anything. Don’t tell them. And also, don’t leave me. Stay with me. I’m scared. Helen and Liane now started talking about how, if Helen was going to go up north for a few weeks, she and Laurence might bring the girls one weekend. Ilsa said quietly to Fiona: “Just talk to me, please, just talk to me. About anything.”

  So Fiona started telling her a story about how they had taken Samira sightseeing in the city that day and how fun it was to revisit spots you thought you already knew, to see them through fresh eyes. And then about how they had decided to separate from the boys and go shopping. “For, you know, dresses and stuff. It felt like having a daughter, at least I think. And I have to admit, I liked it.” She paused. “Ilsa?”