by Abbi Waxman
JESSICA
After Emily left the table, I leaned across and frowned at David.
“Hey, what’s the big deal? Stop talking about me like that. How would you like it if I told your kids how good you were in bed? You’d be pissed, right?”
David looked for the waiter again. “We were both good in bed. I miss you, that was the best sex I ever had.”
“You’re drunk. We were nineteen years old, of course it was good. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I got divorced, I got lonely, and then you emailed me and I can’t stop thinking about you.” He gazed at me and, for a second, just for a second, I met his eyes and remembered how they clouded when he was deep inside me. He took my hands and ran his finger across my palm. “I’ll get a room at the hotel, and when she’s asleep you can come find me. Just one night, Jess, I promise it’ll be worth it.” He kissed my wrist.
Oh, for crying out loud. I pulled my hands away. “David, this is all very flattering, and even tempting because, sure, great sex is a fantastic thing, but on the other hand, are you out of your freaking mind? I’m with my daughter, and there is no sex on earth worth doing the walk of shame in front of a sixteen-year-old. I barely hold her respect as it is.”
“You’re forgetting how good it was between us.” He reached out and caught my hands again. “We spent days in bed, finding out new ways to make each . . .”
“Let go of her hands, asshole, before I call security.”
Emily was back.
David let go. “It’s fine, we were only catching up.”
She frowned at him. “She pulled her hands away and you grabbed them again. Consent isn’t an ephemeral concept, you know?”
I looked at my daughter and tried not to get distracted by her excellent vocabulary. “Em, chill out. Everything’s cool.”
She sat but glowered at David across the table. In an ideal world, or even in the world most of us live in, we would have simmered down and struggled through the remaining ten minutes or so until we left. Maybe David and I would have attempted to make conversation about something neutral, like old friends we’d lost touch with, or things to do in Philadelphia. We would pretend she hadn’t called him an asshole, or implied he was a sexual predator. But this wasn’t that world. To be fair, it wasn’t Emily’s fault; it was David’s.
“Emily.” His voice was firm but sugarcoated, not that it made any difference. “Your mother is her own person, you know. I expect you feel the world revolves around you, but it really doesn’t. When you get older, you’ll understand.”
There was a brief pause. In the back of my head I imagined the sound of a bowstring being stretched and braced myself.
Then Emily said, “When I get older?”
David nodded. “Yes. In many ways you’re still a child. Maybe it’s time you grew up a little bit.” He paused. “Maybe if you spent less time on your cell phone and did something useful instead . . .”
I reached up my hand and waved furiously at the waiter.
“In fact,” said David, reaching across the table. “Why don’t you give me your phone now and I’ll put it away?”
I stood up and yelled across the bar. “Check, please!”
EMILY
In the cab on the way to the restaurant, I suddenly had a terrible thought. What if my mom had wanted to sleep with that guy? What if Ruby was right and I had cockblocked her? I mean, he was a total idiot, but he was good looking, and adults can be so superficial. She’d seemed as keen to leave as I was, but maybe she was trying to avoid a scene. She hates a public spectacle.
I decided to ask her. I took a deep breath.
“I suddenly realized I might have messed up your plans. I’m sorry.” I felt bad, and hungry, and a little bit tearful, but I was holding it together. “You’re my mother, not the other way around.”
Mom frowned at me. “I’m not sure what you mean . . .”
“Well, maybe you wanted to sleep with that guy. You know, he was good looking for an old guy and, you know, helping the poor and everything. I don’t know anything about your . . . romantic life.”
Mom burst out laughing. “Emily, I had no intention of sleeping with him, and I appreciate that you defended me, despite the fact that we can never go back to that hotel bar again. For future reference, I can take care of myself, I’m a fully grown woman, but that doesn’t mean a little support isn’t appreciated.” She checked her watch. “Besides, what a dick.”
I still felt upset. “I’m sorry. I never really think about you . . . like that. Maybe you have a very active . . . life. Maybe after I go to sleep at night you’re on Tinder, swiping away and creeping out for secret hookups.”
Mom snorted. “Oh yeah, that’s me. When you come in to kiss me good night and I’m already in bed with the lights out, you think maybe I’m fully dressed under the covers, waiting to spring out and climb down the ivy outside my bedroom window?”
“There’s no ivy outside your bedroom window.”
“I was speaking metaphorically. Do you think maybe it’s a pillow under the cover, and I’m out at a sex club?”
“Not really. And, ew.”
“You’ve seen me go on dates.” Mom was smiling at me. “You helped me fill out my online dating profile.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, but, you know, it wasn’t super successful. You insisted on putting in that part about only being available between 7:00 and 8:30 p.m. every other Wednesday.”
“Well, I didn’t want to leap into anything. I really am very busy at work, Emily, and what free time I have I want to spend with you.” She shrugged. “Look, that sucked, but now we’re meeting Grandpa, so let’s pretend it never happened. You didn’t do anything wrong, we’re good, okay?”
I nodded, not completely convinced. But then we pulled up outside the restaurant, and I saw Grandpa, and things started to feel better.
11
JESSICA
I’ll be honest, it was good to see Dad. He’s old, he’s ornery, he refuses to quit smoking his hideous pipe or move closer to my sister and me, but he still feels like a safe place when I hug him. I wonder how I feel to him.
After Mom died I assumed Dad would simply fade away, because she was always such a driving force. But after wandering aimlessly around their big DC apartment for a couple of months, he pulled himself together. He moved to a smaller place in Philadelphia, worked a bit for old colleagues and clients, played bridge competitively, and still drove the ridiculous sports car he bought himself for his sixtieth birthday. He cooked for himself, or he went out. He got bored eating alone, so he dated, largely because there were more single women his age than single men. But he told me once that he still loved my mother and would never marry anyone else. And now, nine years after her death, it seems he spoke the truth.
Emily clambered out of the Lyft and ran to him, hugging him much the same way she’d hugged Anna, back at home. It’s weird, watching your kids having relationships with other people, especially people who loom large in your own life. For the first few years after Emily was born we’d lived in DC, close to my parents. I dropped off the baby at their house almost every day and went to my job. If it weren’t for them, I would never have been able to continue working, and even though I don’t think single motherhood was a dream they had for me, they made it possible because it was something I wanted. I’d appreciated it at the time, but not as much as I did now. Back then I appreciated the help with Emily, I really did. Now I realize my baby was very much their secondary concern; their own baby was the one they were caring for.
I watched Dad now, talking to my sixteen-year-old about the little metal model kit he’d given her. (Sidenote: On the one hand I love the fact that this is a bonding thing between them, and I appreciate how good she is at making shiny little aircraft or tiny wooden buildings or whatever, but it’s my house that’s filling up with all these pointy little objects.
How many of you—be honest—have stood with a black plastic trash bag in one hand and a child-made creation of questionable value and struggled with throwing it away? Right, all of us.)
Maybe I was jealous. I don’t remember him talking to me very much at all when I was sixteen, except to ask about school. My sister Lizzy was the sociable one, and he always seemed to have time for her. Mind you, she’s easy to hang out with; it’s not her fault. I wanted to debate Big Questions with him, like the LA riots and police brutality, whereas she wanted to show him her Breyer horses. I know which one I’d pick at the end of a long day arguing in court. Now that I had a teen of my own, I realized how reasonable my parents had been, twenty years too late. This is why grandparents look so happy all the time: They know they’ve made their point.
Dad had chosen Harrisons, one of those classic chain steak restaurants that haven’t changed in fifty years. This one, in Philadelphia, was pretty indistinguishable from the one in Washington, which we’d visited maybe once a month throughout my childhood. It was my mom’s favorite, even after they banned smoking at the tables. She’d always had filet steak, rare, creamed spinach, french fries with gravy, and a slice of cherry cheesecake. Emily had always loved it, too, and as we’d gone to DC several times a year throughout her childhood, going to this place was a highlight. We’d come less since my mom died because at first my dad couldn’t face anything that reminded him of her. But eventually it morphed into Emily’s favorite restaurant and shook off its sadness.
EMILY
My grandfather is pretty cool. He was standing outside the restaurant, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking exactly the same as he always has. Maybe once you get really old you stop aging, if you know what I mean.
Grandpa and I have an excellent relationship, despite his bizarre attachment to Facebook. I think he’s stoked to have mastered social media, and I don’t have the heart to tell him Facebook is for old people. Plus, he is an old people, so, you know . . .
I ran over and gave him a hug. He smelled of pipe tobacco, probably on account of the pipe he smokes, and even though I’ve told him a million times about mouth cancer (I even sent photos), I kind of like the smell. No one else I know smells like that. Probably because they’re all dead.
“You’re still smoking?” I asked accusingly.
“Sweet Emily,” he replied, “I am seventy-nine years old. I smoke a pipe once a day, and don’t inhale. The tobacco scares away the germs. I’m fit as a flea.”
“You saw the pictures! Your teeth will fall out!”
Grandpa leaned closer. “Sweetheart, I take my teeth out every night, they’re almost certainly cleaner than yours.”
Then he straightened up as my mom came over, and beamed at her. Mom claims Grandpa likes Aunt Lizzy better than her, but it’s not true. Aunt Lizzy is a lot sweeter than Mom, possibly because she’s not as smart (sorry, truth) and she’s very easy to like. Mom takes more work.
“Dad,” she said, and hugged him. I’m surprised, but she holds it a little longer than usual. Maybe the scene in the bar upset her more than she let on. Adults are such an enigma.
* * *
• • •
I spent a fat three minutes outside Harrisons, taking pictures, because that place is a half-timber Disney dream of Olde England. They even have a red mailbox, which England doesn’t even have anymore! We used to spend a month every summer with my grandparents; they had a house in Lost River, in the Shenandoah Valley, with acres of woods and grass and streams and actual deer and things like that. But we’d fly in and out of DC, so we started and ended the trip at Harrisons. Not this one, the one in DC, obviously. When I was a kid, I thought it was genuinely magical, and even now I’m stoked, no lie. Mom likes it, too, even though she totally misses the point of a steakhouse and gets the pork chop. She says she never makes them herself, which I get, but still. It’s got steak in the name.
It was only after we sat down and ordered—I always get the same thing, steak, rare, creamed spinach, french fries—that I realized Grandpa was about to make a speech. Shoot me now. No, really, take me outside, blindfold me, let me say something memorable, then shoot me.
Grandpa was a lawyer, like my mom, but I think he spent more time in court or something, because he loves to give a speech, and it’s impossible to interrupt him. I guess years of rolling right on over the objections of opposing counsel (not sleeping through Law & Order, that show is a classic) gave him plenty of practice.
“So, Emily,” he began, and I knew right away I might as well rest my elbows on the table and get comfortable. “You’re here to look at colleges, correct?”
“Correct,” I replied, and glanced over at Mom. She was looking at Grandpa with one of those little lines between her eyebrows. She was wondering where he was going. She’s always slightly on edge around Grandpa, I’ve noticed, even though he’s completely harmless.
Right then he had his serious voice on. “I want to give you some advice.”
As this was not a shocking development, I nodded.
“College is a wonderful opportunity,” he said. “A time to really dig deeply into a subject that interests you, and hopefully discover the calling in your work we all really need. For me, and for your mother, it was the law. I have long suspected that law isn’t something that interests you, am I right?”
I squirmed a bit. How to tell the truth without being savage?
“Not really, Grandpa. I don’t think I’m smart enough, for one thing. I’m a pretty solid B student.” Apart from those Cs, of course, but we don’t need to get into specifics.
“But you can get your undergraduate degree in anything. You could study art history or something pointless like that.”
I frowned at him, ignoring the diss to, you know, the entire creative output of humankind. “Well, not really. Most lawyers study political science or criminal justice or psychology as undergrads.”
He frowned back, then asked my mom, “Is that true?”
She nodded and shifted in her chair. “It’s not like it used to be. It’s not even like it was for me. These days getting into college and law school is like a blood sport. It’s insane.”
She sounded tired and irritated, and gazed around as if hoping the bill would miraculously appear before the actual meal.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I know the deans at several excellent schools. I’m sure I could put in a good word.”
I had to cut this off. “But, Grandpa, I don’t want to be a lawyer. It’s not my jam, all that studying and memorizing.”
“What, then?” The waiter came and refilled Grandpa’s wineglass. Grandpa raised it at me. “Where are you going to triumph?”
Crap. How about nowhere?
“Uh, I’m not sure, Grandpa. I really don’t like school very much, not sure four more years of it is . . .”
“College is nothing like high school. You’ll love college.”
The food arrived, thank god. Grandpa always chills out after he eats and has some wine. He also has a strict rule never to discuss serious matters while eating, so we talked about baseball, which I happen to enjoy talking about more than most girls I know—not a sexist comment, just an observation. I wish I could talk about baseball for a living, but I can’t imagine that working out for me. When I went to the bathroom I googled it. As I suspected, I’d still need a bachelor’s degree in journalism or something.
Everyone tells you middle school is fun, and then you get there and it sucks. Then high school is going to be fun, but you get there and it both sucks and is really hard. Now, apparently, college is going to be fun, but it really seems like one more hurdle standing between me and actual happiness. Whatever that is.
JESSICA
So, Dad started grilling Emily about college, which is not the best way to get anything out of her. But I couldn’t exactly interrupt his flow to say, Dad, wait
, you’re going about this all wrong. She won’t tell you anything if you come at her head-on; you have to approach her obliquely, sneak attack. Besides, she never tells me anything anyway, so my way isn’t exactly coming up trumps.
I remember the conversation my dad and I had about my decision to become a lawyer, like him. It went like this:
Me: I’ve decided to become a lawyer.
Him: Are your grades strong enough?
Me: Yes.
Him: Good choice.
That’s it. That was the whole thing. I finished my degree, I got into Columbia Law, which was a lot easier back then, especially for Columbia graduates, and was about to start my first job when I got pregnant with Emily. I remember that conversation, too:
Me: I’m pregnant.
Him: You’re about to start work.
Me: Yeah, I know.
Him: Are you going to have an abortion?
Me: No. I don’t think so.
Him: You’ll ruin your career.
Me: No, I won’t. I have it all figured out. I’ll work part-time. When she’s older I’ll work full-time. It’s fine.
Him: Good luck.
And again, that was it, the whole thing. The conversation with my mother was slightly different:
Me: I’m pregnant.
Her: Are you keeping it?
Me: I think so.
Her: Do you know who the father is?
Me: Of course, but he’s not interested. If I keep it, I’m doing it alone.
Her: Aren’t you worried you’ll end up a lonely single mother who no man will ever want?
(Pause)
Me: Well . . . I wasn’t.
And that was it, her version of the conversation. It wasn’t that they didn’t have any faith in me, it was that I was twenty-eight. I was an adult. I was expected to know my own mind, and I did.