Sam wasn’t sure how to respond. She thought they were far beyond job descriptions by now.
11
Elisabeth
ON HER LAST DAY OF WORK before the semester ended, Sam arrived with a Christmas present for Gil in a silver gift bag. Only then did Elisabeth realize she should have gotten something for Sam. She spent half the day looking for the perfect thing, even though she had sworn to herself that she would write no matter what.
She wondered if any male writer was ever waylaid by such a task. Perhaps more of them ought to be. She often thought that equality between the sexes should be achieved by men growing more thoughtful and attentive, rather than women becoming less so.
Elisabeth went into several shops downtown. She decided against scented candles, earrings, and a gift card for a massage. With each additional stop, the truth about what lay ahead grew clearer—five weeks without childcare, five weeks without Sam.
She settled on a soft, blue cashmere sweater from a boutique on Plum Street. Sam had complained about how cold it was in the dorm; they had no control over the heat. Elisabeth could picture her in this sweater, reading in the lamplight.
She ate a salad for lunch at the new café next to the movie theater and then went to the stationery store for a card. She filled it out, looked at the clock. It was time to go home.
A certain amount of procrastination had always been baked into her writing process. Until Gil was born, she could work whenever she wanted. Often, it had happened late at night, after everything else on her to-do list. Now, if she didn’t do it when Sam was there, she didn’t do it at all. Elisabeth told herself that when Sam came back in January, she would somehow become more disciplined.
At the door as Sam was leaving, Elisabeth pressed the gift into her hands and wished her luck with finals.
“Are you stressed?” she asked.
“I’m most nervous about this senior art showcase I’m in at the campus museum,” Sam said. “It counts for half my grade in Studio.”
“At the museum? That’s a big deal,” Elisabeth said.
“Not really. It’s in the basement.”
“When is it? Is it open to the public?”
“Yes. Next Sunday from five to eight,” Sam said. “I’d love it if you came, but I wasn’t going to mention it. Please don’t feel like you have to. I know you guys are busy.”
Elisabeth told her they’d be there.
When she closed the door, she felt a strange degree of relief that it was not goodbye.
* * *
—
Elisabeth, Andrew, and Gil arrived at the museum the following Sunday at five-thirty, the baby in a sling on Andrew’s chest. The room was full of college girls in groups of three or four or five, drinking red wine from clear plastic cups. Elisabeth didn’t know what it was about them that she found intimidating, but as soon as she saw the crowd, she said, “I need a drink.”
Two men wearing tweed jackets and an older woman in a flowing black cardigan huddled by a folding table, on which sat several bottles of wine.
Elisabeth went straight over and filled two cups.
She said hello to the professors.
They seemed baffled by her presence.
“Hello,” the woman said, as if it were a question, the way people used to answer the telephone.
Returning to Andrew, Elisabeth whispered, “Are we the only outsiders here?”
“It would appear so, yes.”
“Have you seen Sam?”
“No.”
Over his shoulder stood a lanky girl in a blue peasant skirt. She was topless, long dishwater hair covering her breasts. She held a small paper plate of crackers and chatted with two other girls as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Andrew,” Elisabeth said, glancing toward her.
He looked over, then back at Elisabeth, eyes wide.
A girl with a septum piercing stared at them as if to say, You got a problem with that?
Elisabeth took her husband by the arm. “Come on, let’s look at the art.”
They passed several black-and-white photos of a zaftig woman with dark lips and eyebrows. There were paintings of flowers, O’Keeffe rip-offs, or perhaps they were meant as homage.
One student had pinned Ziploc bags of varying sizes to a corkboard—the largest bag contained long red strands of hair, cut from the artist’s own head; another held fine clippings collected from her razor; another still, a few unmistakably coarse tufts of pubic hair.
“Moving on,” Andrew said.
They turned a corner to see a painting of a woman on a porch, looking out at the ocean in the distance. It was so different than everything else on display. Classic, old-fashioned.
Elisabeth’s first thought was that it was beautiful. It reminded her of Cassatt. Her second was that this must be Sam’s. A glance at the placard taped to the wall confirmed it.
She stepped back.
“She’s good.”
Andrew laughed.
“What?”
“You sounded shocked when you said that.”
“No. I mean, she’s really good. Don’t you think?”
He looked closer at the painting. “It’s pretty.”
Elisabeth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Sam in jeans and a green sweater. Beside her was Isabella, a bright red Santa hat on her head.
“I’m so sorry you got here before me,” Sam said as they hugged hello. “Isabella got us locked out of our dorm room, and I was wearing sweats and no shoes. It took the maintenance guy an hour to come pick the lock.”
“Sam,” Elisabeth said. “You’re so talented. I had no idea. I thought you’d be good, but—you’re great.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Sam said, sounding bashful.
“I mean it. I’d love to buy this,” Elisabeth said. “Is it for sale?”
Andrew gave her a look. She wished she could freeze time and explain that she was only trying to convince Sam of her sincerity, and besides, it wasn’t likely to cost very much.
“That’s so sweet,” Sam said. “Honestly, I’d just give it to you. But I made this for my mom for Christmas. It’s based off a photo of my grandmother taken down the Cape when I was little. She passed away a couple years back.”
“Is that a family beach house?” Elisabeth asked.
She tried to remember if Sam had ever mentioned one.
“I wish,” Sam said. “That’s the hotel where my cousin got married.”
“Your mom’s going to love it,” Andrew said. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“Maybe I could convince you to let me commission something after winter break,” Elisabeth said.
“Sure,” Sam said.
“A picture of Gil, even.”
“I’d love that.”
“Hey, what’s up with the girl who forgot her shirt?” Andrew whispered.
Sam looked over. “That’s her thing. She’s going topless this entire year to prove—Izzy, what’s she trying to prove again?”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Who knows. If someone had to make it her thing, you’d hope it would be a girl with better tits.”
“Ignore her,” Sam said.
Isabella grinned. She plopped the Santa hat on Gil’s head and he gave her a huge smile. Sam snapped a picture with her phone.
Later that night, she texted it to Elisabeth with a heart, and the words, Thank you for being there.
It would be a month before they saw each other again. Sam would take the bus home to Boston and spend two weeks there, then fly to London to see Clive the day after Christmas.
Elisabeth got into a funk thinking about it, and about the larger sadness it foretold. In a few months, Sam would be gone for good, and then whom would she talk to, what would she do here?
Have a
great break, she texted back.
* * *
—
As a rule, Elisabeth and Andrew kept images of Gil off the Internet, for reasons of privacy and pedophiles and other dangers they didn’t know about but knew enough to fear. Faye had never understood this. Andrew had to threaten not to send her any photos if she shared even one on social media.
But the photo of Gil in the Santa hat was so irresistibly cute. The day after the art show, unable to help herself, Elisabeth posted it to Facebook.
Soon after, her mother posted the same shot to her own page, with the words Best Christmas present this family ever got! As if she’d been there when the picture was taken, or had anything whatsoever to do with it, when she had not yet met her grandchild and he was seven months old.
Two days later, she announced over email that she was going to Aspen alone for the holidays.
Festive! Elisabeth wrote back. Have fun.
Within twenty minutes, her father called and asked if he could come spend Christmas with them at the new house. Her parents no longer spoke to each other, but they remained in a mind-meld. They often asked her the same question at the same moment over text, or emailed the same video clip from the previous night’s episode of 60 Minutes.
Elisabeth told her father yes, though she had been planning to avoid her family. They did not normally get together for the holidays. They lived across the country, which provided an excellent excuse. Before she got married, Elisabeth spent Thanksgiving and Christmas in the city, with friends. Half the people she knew there might as well have been orphans. But she suspected that marriage and children would draw her parents back to her. Which was one reason why neither had ever appealed much.
“We can’t wait to see the baby,” her father said before they hung up the phone.
“We?”
“Me and Gloria.”
“Why is she coming? Not that she isn’t welcome. But—doesn’t she want to spend Christmas with her own kids?”
“Not particularly.”
A week passed. Her mother wrote to say she was having second thoughts about Aspen.
It’s time for me to meet my grandson already.
Elisabeth hesitated before responding. She wanted to know what was behind the change of heart. Probably her mother had realized all her friends would be with their grandchildren, and she didn’t want to be the odd man out. Or maybe she had somehow intuited that Elisabeth’s father was coming.
Despite everything, an ancient childhood urge to protect her mother crept in.
Elisabeth called her father and explained the situation.
“So I’m thinking Gloria probably shouldn’t come,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because, as I just told you, Mom will be here.”
“Your mother won’t mind having Gloria around.”
“I think she might.”
“She’s a big girl. She’ll deal.”
After they hung up, she texted her mother: You’re totally welcome, but just so you know: Dad will be here…he’s bringing his girlfriend. I’m sorry, I couldn’t talk him out of it, you know how he is…
It annoyed her to be in between them yet again. Especially because she didn’t really want either of them to come.
Her mother replied immediately: I look forward to seeing them both.
Her mother, who once threw a plate of chicken at her father’s head during dinner when he chewed too loudly; who told Elisabeth the day she turned sixteen that she had never loved her husband, had only married him for his looks and his money.
Fine, but I’m not going to tolerate anything but perfect behavior from everyone. This is Gil’s first Christmas.
Elisabeth was trying to sound tough.
Scout’s honor, her mother wrote back.
For once in her life, she felt that she was in control of her family. A grandchild was currency. Something they wanted, which only she possessed.
Still, she sent her sister, Charlotte, an email with the subject line: YOU ARE COMING TO MY HOUSE FOR CHRISTMAS. In the body, Elisabeth wrote: Mom and Dad will both be here. I need moral support. This is not optional. She added a smiley face so as not to sound too demanding. But within minutes, she sent a follow-up: P.S. I’m dead serious. Do not even attempt to pretend this went to your spam folder.
It was the least Charlotte could do after everything Elisabeth had done for her.
By dinnertime, she hadn’t replied.
Elisabeth thought of every SOS her sister had sent over the past few years, expecting an immediate response. She had always delivered.
She was irritable while they ate and, afterward, watching TV. Annoyed about her family’s intrusion into their life, and even more so about the sliver of stupid hope in her that maybe this time would be different.
“What’s up?” Andrew said as they brushed their teeth before bed.
“I’m dreading this family visit. What was I thinking, telling them they can come? I told my sister she has to swear to come too, upon pain of death.”
“Why?”
“Safety in numbers? Misery loves company? Something like that.”
“Sounds fun,” he said, his words garbled.
Andrew had worked up a foam of toothpaste. It dribbled from between his lips as he brushed.
He shook his head like a dog after a bath, spitting the foam into the sink and pulling something from his mouth.
“What’s that?” she said.
He held it up to the light.
“A bristle from my new toothbrush came out while I was brushing.”
“God,” she said.
“I could have swallowed it.”
He narrowed his eyes in mock indignation. “Hollow fucking Tree,” he said, throwing the toothbrush on the counter with such force that it bounced twice and landed on the floor.
“You’re awful,” she said.
They laughed.
* * *
—
In bed that night, Elisabeth tried to count backward from one hundred, but each time, her thoughts intruded before she reached the high eighties.
She got up and checked on the baby. They had moved him into his own room, which made her happy and wistful in equal parts. She slept better now, but she would never again experience those first, all-consuming weeks and months.
As Gil grew older, more solid, Andrew seemed to find his footing as a dad. He was more involved. There were more things the two of them could do together. They had games and routines of their own that Elisabeth had nothing to do with. She had started leaving Gil with Andrew on the occasional Saturday while she tried to work. This too felt bittersweet.
Recently, her agent had said it was past time to tell her publisher what she planned to write next. Elisabeth proposed a book on Title IX and the history of women in sports, based on the last series of articles she’d been assigned before the baby was born. She had already done most of the research and the interviews. It could be a short book, something to bridge the gap between her pre-Gil self and whatever version of her was coming next.
She had no particular interest in sports, but she thought the women’s individual journeys were compelling. Had it not been for a change in federal law, they might never have played high school soccer or basketball, or had the chance to go to college on an athletic scholarship.
Elisabeth pitched the idea, and her agent and editor seemed encouraging, if underwhelmed.
“Try it,” her agent said. “Why not?”
Elisabeth returned to bed now and shut her eyes, but still, sleep would not come.
She remembered her old middle-of-the-night companions, the BK Mamas. It had been a while since she looked at the Facebook page—weeks? A month? In part, this was because Gil now slept through the night. Maybe it also had something to do with Sam. Elisabeth had s
omeone to keep her company, to talk to her about the baby as much as she wanted.
But mostly, she stopped looking because things there had started getting strange. The page was like that: it tended to go in cycles. A month or so of true kindness and support—a woman gave a stranger’s sister a kidney once; someone was always collecting clothes and toys and gear for refugee families or Christmas gifts for kids in shelters. Everyone gave generously. But then, inevitably, they’d start fighting, and that would be the tone for a while.
When last she looked, a flurry of passive aggression burst forth because a woman asked for advice about whether or not to stop nursing her three-month-old.
I’ve been diagnosed with D-MER, a condition that causes me to have suicidal thoughts when my milk lets down. (Yes, this is an actual thing.) Is it okay to stop nursing?? Will I regret it?
A few people told her to go for the formula and never look back, that her mental health was paramount. But others, in their subtle way, encouraged her to keep on.
Poor Momma! That sounds miserable. Thank goodness the letdown only lasts a second. Hang in there!
Breast is best, but do what you gotta do.
One mother was clear in her disdain for the idea. Elisabeth almost appreciated this, set against the approach of the others: Yes, you’ll regret it. When your sweet baby becomes an obese toddler thanks to your reliance on Big Food.
In another instance, someone posted a photograph of a man in Cobble Hill Park, holding a camera.
Beware this pervert! she wrote. I spotted him this morning surreptitiously taking pictures of two little girls on the playground.
Someone else commented that she had seen him doing the same thing in the past, and all hell broke loose. In a matter of hours, the guy’s picture was on every mommy blog and message board in the city.
The next day, the original poster wrote a brief mea culpa: I have since learned that the man whose photo I shared yesterday is the father of those children he was photographing, so I am deleting my previous post.
Friends and Strangers Page 23