by Ellie Monago
“You’re OK,” Raquel says, though I’m not sure that’s what Meadow meant. She might have meant, Is Momma OK?
Raquel tells Meadow to go back, to keep climbing, and Meadow does, calling back, “Look at me, Momma!” For the next ten minutes, they reenact that needy little drama, over and over, as if choreographed, and it all just feels so exhausting and heartbreaking that I don’t think I can take it much longer. As much as I like Raquel, I’m grateful when Sadie lets out a poop so messy and noxious that I can beg off and head home.
“See you tomorrow night!” Raquel says merrily.
“Good girl,” I whisper to Sadie as we hurry off. “Good girl.”
Unlike myself, I admire how forthcoming Raquel is about her past. She’s just the kind of person I should trust, maybe even aspire to be like. But somehow, all I want to do is run.
Session 16.
“You were going to tell me more about your family.”
“No, you asked about my family. That doesn’t mean I was going to tell you.”
“We can just sit here quietly.”
“So you can make an easy hundred bucks?”
“So we can go at your pace. So you have control in here, since I know you don’t feel like you have it in other areas of your life.”
“Have you heard of Haines? Or Mr. Layton?”
“I don’t think so. Should I have?”
“You must not be from around here. Good.”
“Let’s not talk about the past right now. Let’s talk about the present. How you did with resisting some of the behaviors we talked about.”
“It wasn’t a good week. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“You don’t have to hold back. Nothing you say will shock me or make me reevaluate your worth. I won’t abandon you.”
“What makes you think I’m afraid of those things?”
“They’re normal fears.”
“You and your normalcy again.”
“You and your sarcasm again.”
“I guess we do know each other. But no one else can know me. That’s why I drink. I take whatever drugs people hand me, and I have sex with people I shouldn’t. People who don’t give a shit about me, and I don’t give a shit about them. I did it all again this week, even after all we talked about.”
“That’s OK. We’re still early in this process. We’ll just keep working at it.”
“I just do the same thing over and over. I have—what do you call that?—impulse control problems. Or maybe it’s that definition of crazy. The same thing but expecting different results. Expecting to do dirty things but end up feeling clean. Do you think that I’m actually crazy?”
“I don’t use that word.”
“For anyone? Or just for me?”
“You’re finding ways to cope with your pain, that’s all.”
“All I want is oblivion. To not be me for a while.”
“Good. That’s a good insight.”
“Knowing doesn’t change anything. I still do the same thing again and again. You’d think I was programmed.”
“Childhood is a template for all that comes later.”
“Let’s hope you’re wrong about that.”
CHAPTER 8
“Go get ’em,” Doug whispers to me. He’s lying in our bed with Sadie in his arms, and she’s sucking on a bottle, her eyes closed in absolute peace. The last thing I want is to leave them, but I was supposed to be knocking at Andie’s door five minutes ago.
“No,” I moan. “Don’t make me.”
“You’re going to have a great time. More important, you’re going to be great. They’re going to get to know you, and they’re going to love you.”
Is he right? Is it more important to be great than to have a great time? For Doug, the two are interconnected. He enjoys himself because he’s sure people are going to love him, and then they do, in a positive feedback loop. I don’t have that same confidence, nor do I have the burning need. Doug thinks it’s just nerves that make me want to stay here, beside him and Sadie. It’s not. Or at least, not only. It’s that I can be fulfilled here, loving and loved by Doug and Sadie. That’s my positive feedback loop.
“Andie’s expecting me,” I say. That’s what it comes down to—fulfilling my obligation. So I plant a kiss on Doug’s cheek and a more lingering one on Sadie’s brow, and, with effort, I pull myself away.
Girls’ night out is not an appealing concept for me. A cluster of women could feel uncomfortably close to a moms group, with the resultant groupthink. As I recall the rule—don’t talk about motherhood—I’m hit with a new fear. What will I talk about? The work I’m afraid to return to? The debt we put ourselves in to get here? The fear that I’ll never pass, I’ll never belong?
When Andie opens the door, it’s confirmed that this is no moms group. She’s in a black leather peplum top and matching black leather pants with stilettos, and her strawberry-blonde hair is mostly a smooth curtain but with a slight wave toward her face, like a movie star from years gone by. I feel like I’ve made a mistake in my usually error-proof cute top and jeans.
“Do I look that bad?” Andie laughs.
“No, no! You look perfect. I just feel like I’m dressed all wrong.” Not that I have a couture dominatrix ensemble in my closet for occasions like this.
“I’m probably overdressed. Since I don’t always get invited to these things . . .” The way her voice trails off makes me want to throw my arms around her. So she’s subject to insecurity, too.
She steps outside and closes the door behind her. I’m surprised she doesn’t call back inside to Nolan or need to give Fisher one last kiss. Maybe the nanny is there and they’ve already said their goodbyes, or maybe Nolan is actually out somewhere with Fisher. We’ve only just met, and I have no idea about the rhythms, routines, and inner workings of her home. Given my reaction to Nolan, it may be better that way.
My current plan is to keep Andie at arm’s length. I’m good at that. I have people to lunch with when I’m at work, there are a few couples who Doug and I socialize with, and that’s pretty much it. My world is small and manageable.
Andie’s car is a midnight-blue Lexus sedan, almost like an upscale police cruiser. I’m instantly at ease once inside because it’s a total mess: a not-entirely-clean burp cloth on the floor, crumbs everywhere, an inch of dust on the dash. The fact that she offered to drive and then didn’t think to tidy up suggests a level of intimacy between us. Either that, or she doesn’t care in the slightest about my opinion of her.
I was surprised when Andie offered to drive, since Main Street is a pretty short walk away, but after seeing her stilettos, it makes more sense. Then I realize we’re headed in the other direction.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“A place called Hound. In Oakland.”
“We’re not going to one of the bars on Main Street?”
Andie gives me an odd look and an even odder response: “You don’t shit where you eat.”
It’s ten minutes of driving with a soundtrack of superficial chatter, and then we cross a steel grate bridge so that we’re in one of the industrial areas of Oakland. Metal cranes sit immobile in the middle distance, beside the bay. There are warehouses, some commercially inhabited but many more derelict and emblazoned with graffiti. The streets have a bombed-out look, but stylish people are loping along them. Much younger people than Andie and me. Nonparents.
At least parking is easy. There’s only one place anyone’s going, it seems like, and it’s unmarked. I follow Andie, who is doing her usual confident trot, and we enter a tiny building dwarfed by the warehouses on either side.
I’ve never seen a bar this dark, though there are paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling every few feet casting the prototypical dive-bar red light. I’ve also never seen a bar this long and narrow. The bartenders are situated along one wall, and there’s a corridor to move back and forth, plus the tables, and it’s all about eight feet wide, total. People are dancing on tabletops because where
else could you do it? It’s not exactly dancing, more like slithering, which makes sense because I’ve never heard music this slooooooooow. It’s a syrupy trance, like you could fall in and never find your way out, a fly eventually hardened in amber.
When we finally reach the back wall, after maneuvering around assorted hipsters with carefully careless outfits, I see a row of retro pinball machines. It’s the most illumination in the place. Andie is texting. She reports, “Their ETA is about five minutes. Should we get our drinks now or wait?”
“Let’s wait,” I say. I haven’t yet decided if I’m drinking. Sadie is well stocked in her milk supply. A pump and dump wouldn’t hurt her, but I should probably keep my wits about me.
“We can make ourselves useful,” Andie says, “and find a few tables we can push together.”
We squint our way through the din. Some tables are round, some oblong, and some square. It takes a while to find two squares, but we do it. Andie carries one over, stilettos be damned. Everyone gives her as wide a berth as they can, given the layout. It’s actually a reasonably nice crowd, the way people are when they’re all laboring under the same poor conditions. There’s camaraderie in close quarters.
“Who picked this place?” I ask, once Andie and I are in our uncomfortable mismatched wooden chairs.
She shrugs. “Tenny, I guess? She’s the de facto leader. Though Gina’s got some pretty strong opinions, too. Have you heard her trans-urban riff?”
I’m considering whether to say something snarky when I look up and see Tennyson, Raquel, Gina, and Yolanda headed straight for us.
Tennyson is wearing black leather, too, her hair in some intricate chignon, and she and Andie laugh in acknowledgment. Yolanda is also in black, showcasing her cleavage in a partially unzipped Lycra top that has a peculiar sort of eighties workout vibe, her blonde hair long and loose with that slight threat of frizz. The three of them are like Charlie’s Angels with their vampy outfits and their different hair colors. Meanwhile, Gina, Raquel, and I are matte to their shine, the backdrop that makes them sparkle like diamonds. Like me, Gina and Raquel are in jeans and cute tops—Gina with her mushroom hair (you can’t do a thing with that, its only redeeming quality must be how wash-and-wear it is) and Raquel in her ersatz granny glasses and limp brown hair. It’s moms versus vixens tonight.
There are hugs all around, and then we settle into chairs. I’m between Andie and Tennyson.
“What’s with this music?” Tennyson asks. “It sounds like ice caps melting.” Then in case we didn’t get it, “Glacial pace.”
“You picked this place,” Gina says. “Don’t complain.”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was noting. I like that you can actually hear people talk in this bar.” She turns her phone outward and makes an exaggerated frown. “June’ll be late. It’s got to be another Hope emergency, right?” Tennyson looks around at all of us, like someone might have insider information.
“Probably,” Raquel says with a sympathetic expression.
“Poor June.” This from Yolanda.
“You know June. She doesn’t like to bring everyone else down by talking too much about it, but man. That’s got to be rough.” Tennyson tosses her hair back. Her tone is compassionate, yet there may be a little underlying smugness. After all, she has a houseful of teenagers herself. “Running with the wrong crowd, you know? It can be scary.”
We all shake our heads, a prayer, a for-the-grace-of-God. Then Gina drums on the table. “We’re getting dangerously close to breaking the rule.”
“We’re not talking about our own kids!” Raquel protests.
“But it’s a slippery slope,” Gina says. “If we can’t keep to one rule, what are we? Animals?”
“Hopefully.” Tennyson gives a mischievous grin.
I realize I haven’t said anything. Neither has Andie. I’d assumed her self-possession extended to all scenarios. It’s comforting to think it doesn’t, that she’s merely human. Except that when I look at her, I can’t see any hint of her earlier nerves. She’s just texting on her phone. If it were me, that would be the one rule: no phones. That’s going to be my rule someday with Sadie. When we’re together as a family, we turn everything else off.
But that’s just the kind of thing I’m not supposed to talk about tonight. So what do I say?
“First round’s on me,” Gina says. She smiles at me. “In honor of our newest member. What are you drinking, Kat?”
She sounds perfectly friendly. Yet it registers somehow as a challenge. I want to have the strength of character to say no. You’re not supposed to be subject to peer pressure in your thirties.
“Well, what do they have?” I ask.
“They don’t have an actual menu,” Tennyson says, “but they do all kinds of stuff with crazy names. Like the Silk Purse and the Velvet Revolver. Dead Man Walking. The Catapult is really good if you like tequila.”
It’s a dive bar, so those drinks are going to be strong, and I haven’t had alcohol in more than a year. And it seems prissy to order a Merlot.
“Do they make a Sow’s Ear, too?” Andie asks. “Maybe it would have bacon bourbon. Have you guys ever had that?” Everyone shakes their head. “I’ll have you all over soon.” She’s wooing them, I realize, and her methods sound so much like Doug’s. I think of Yolanda and Wyatt drinking Talisker in Crayola the other day, and how Yolanda seemed so sincere about wanting to get to know me better. But she’s quiet tonight, almost surly. She’s barely looked at me.
Andie’s complimenting Tennyson, another of Doug’s techniques. Andie admitted the other night that she’s not really part of the clique. So am I actually her way in? Is that why she reached out to me? I feel like she’s already abandoning me for someone cooler.
Not that it matters. I shouldn’t be Andie’s friend anyway.
“So, what’ll it be?” Gina asks me, with a hint of impatience.
“Just a Coke,” I say quietly, feeling like I’m letting them all down. But I can’t afford to let go of my inhibitions.
Everyone debates and then places their drink order with Gina, who makes her way over to the bar.
“We’re allowed to talk about husbands,” Tennyson announces. “Like, can I just say, Doug is awesome?”
The other women nod enthusiastically. I should be grateful that Doug’s a hit. Instead, I feel like the weaker part of the duo. “Thanks,” I say. “He likes all of you, too.”
“What’s not to like?” It comes out flirtatious, of course, but then, it’s Tennyson. I notice Yolanda stiffening, similar to when Wyatt mentioned Tennyson’s name. It brings me back to the end of the block party, all those noncouples seeming to couple, just for a moment. Then it was over so quickly, I thought maybe I’d imagined it.
“The way Doug dotes on you and Sadie is so beautiful,” Raquel says. “And he’s such a good listener. And a good talker. Really, where did you find him?”
“Online,” I say. “It was efficient, but it makes for a crap story.” They all smile.
“Wyatt and I met in a bar,” Yolanda says. “That’s not much better.”
“And you all know where I met Vic.” Tennyson grins. “Just around the neighborhood.”
It feels like an in-joke. For my benefit, she adds, “We used to live around the corner from each other. I was on Overlook, and he was on Tremont. Do you know that intersection?” I indicate no. “So, his marriage was tanking, and mine was, too, and we found each other.”
“She means they had an affair.” Yolanda’s voice is cold. She then turns toward Raquel in a very deliberate manner, engaging her in a low voice. I feel a little frozen out, but I’m thinking I shouldn’t take it personally. It’s really directed at Tennyson, and Tennyson must think so, too, because she has the sort of bewildered and hurt expression that I’d associate with a much younger woman. A teenager, really, whose friends have just pulled a disappearing act.
“It obviously worked out,” Andie says. “I mean, you’re the happiest family in the AV.” It’s such a
suck-up move, but she looks like she means it.
“We’re pretty happy,” Tennyson allows. “But I think Kat, Doug, and Sadie could give us a run for our money. I couldn’t get over how cute you all were at the block party.”
“Thanks. I worry sometimes how I come off, since I’m not really a big group person.” I sound pathetic, even to my own ears: Don’t judge me, please! I’m great once you get to know me! I come with a ninety-day warranty!
“I’m more one-on-one, too,” Tennyson says. Andie looks dubious. “No, really, I am! You think I’m all fun and games? I’ve got layers, people. Seriously, I’m a Bermuda onion.” We all laugh.
Gina returns with some drinks, and Raquel leaps up to grab the rest. When we each have a glass in front of us, Gina lifts hers. “To girls’ night out, with all that it implies!” Everyone drinks.
I learn that while we’re not supposed to talk about kids directly, we can laugh at the ridiculous competition for “the best” preschools and the series of tests that two-year-olds are subjected to while their anxious mothers wait outside, like the kids’ whole lives hang in the balance.
“It’s American Ninja Warrior, toddler edition!” Tennyson says.
“I’ll e-mail you my research,” Gina says to me in a low voice, as a sidebar. “Get Sadie on the list now!” I have the sense that Gina is wound a lot more tightly than the others but that no one minds that, including her. I’m touched by her offer.
We all talk about the reality TV shows we’re watching when we should be reading books with heft; we admit we don’t want to join a book club, unless it’s for the wine; we trade harmless and amusing anecdotes about our husbands; the women compete for who’s the worst driver (Tennyson wins) and who has the messiest car (Andie); we make faux confessions about biting our toenails, Brazilian waxes gone wrong, and late-night binge eating.
I realize: I’m actually having fun!
June arrives at our table, drink in hand, full of apologies that are immediately dismissed but in the best way. She doesn’t need to be forgiven. We’re all friends here, and we make allowances for one another.