I Was Told It Would Get Easier

by Abbi Waxman

  Feld continued. “The agents in LA told us they’d heard one of the kids on this tour was going to pick up exam papers from someone in New York, where the College Board is headquartered.” He smiled. “You’d think they’d email, but apparently they don’t trust the internet.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. “Are you suggesting someone at the College Board is selling papers?”

  He shook his head. “It’s unlikely to be someone who actually works for the College Board, but plenty of people have access.”

  There was a pause. Then Emily said, “So, why do you need me?”

  The agents looked at each other. “We don’t, really,” said Feld. “We just wanted to ask you if you knew anything useful.”

  “Useful? No,” said my daughter firmly.

  “No?” said Agent Feld, crestfallen. “We thought maybe you’d overheard kids chatting about it . . . like you did before?”

  Emily raised her eyebrows at him. “Do you think I just creep around, listening in to conversations? Look, it’s bad enough you guys just outed me to the entire tour group. So much for confidentiality. There is no way I’m going to do anything else to help you.”

  “Oh,” said Agent Feld, clearly taken aback.

  Emily sighed. “Because, no offense, snitching on my friends to the principal was bad enough. The kids in the room you just burst in on basically represent every private high school in Los Angeles, and you can bet they’ve already texted their friends that Emily Burnstein got arrested by the FBI.” She put up her hand. “I know I wasn’t arrested, but truth doesn’t matter online, you know that.”

  She turned to me. “Can we go now?”

  “Back to the tour?”

  “Back to the hotel at least.”

  “Of course.” I stood up. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, my daughter is unable to assist your investigation further.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Feld. “You handled this whole thing really well, maybe one day you’ll work in law enforcement. What are you going to study in college?”

  I raised my finger. “My client is done answering questions, Mr. Feld. And besides, she doesn’t even know if she wants to go to college.”

  “Everyone goes to college,” protested the other agent, who up until then had said little. “It’s fun.”

  “Goodbye, gentlemen.” I turned and took Emily’s hand, leading her out of the Starbucks. For once she didn’t let go.

  Once we got outside, though, she dropped my hand and stopped.

  “You quit?”

  Ah.

  EMILY

  I think Mom was hoping I hadn’t noticed the casual hand grenade she threw out in the coffee shop, but I completely did. Once we left the agents behind I demanded an explanation.

  “Well,” she said, “my boss was being a dick about promoting a couple of female associates, so I threatened to quit unless he did the right thing.”

  I gazed at her. “You blackmailed your boss?”

  She shook her head and frowned at me. “No, I stood up for something that matters.”

  “Like I did with the cheating.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled a little bit. “I guess we’re more alike than I thought.”

  I said, “I think we’re both just more like Grandma, who was a bit of an ass kicker, in the ways she could be.”

  “I miss her,” Mom said. “I wish I’d spent more time with her.”

  “She was awesome.”

  We were walking back to the hotel, and as we drew closer we spotted the group heading out to the bus to go to Bard, the first college of the day. They looked very subdued, but as I was about to call out to Will, Mom tugged me behind a tree.

  “Let’s play hooky,” she said. “I had a massive rush of adrenaline on top of a fairly rocky chemical state, and I’m not sure I can do much more than stare into space.”

  I was surprised. Mom rarely shows weakness of any kind. “Are you getting sick? Do you want to go back to bed? Are we supposed to check out?”

  She peeped around the tree. The group had boarded the bus and it was pulling away. She watched it turn the corner, then headed into the hotel.

  “I need a shower, more coffee, and ten minutes to check my email,” she said. “Then I suggest we take part in a time-honored cleansing ritual to reset our emotional equilibrium, reconnect our energies, and center ourselves in the spirit of the Feminine Divine.”

  I hurried to catch up with her. “I’m sorry, are you still drunk? What are we doing?”

  Mom’s voice floated back. “We’re getting our nails done.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Neither Mom nor I are big nail people, which sounds weird. I don’t mean we have giant nails; I mean we don’t care about the nails we have. I don’t seem to have mastered whatever it is you do to stop nail polish from chipping immediately, and Mom once told me that painted nails are a sign of weakness in a male-dominated field. I’m not sure that’s true, and I suspect she said it because she has the same polish-retention issues I do. I imagine imperfect nail polish is definitely a liability when you’re trying to seem invulnerable.

  But there was a period in middle school when I’d been trying to fit in, and she’d taken me to get my nails done half a dozen times or so. I remember being petrified the whole time, because I wasn’t sure what to do. Worrying about what to do was a big feature of middle school for me; why does everyone else walk about with complete confidence? Then I met Ruby, and Sienna, and everyone else in my friend group and discovered that (a) no one knows what they’re doing, and that (b) girls are awesome.

  JESSICA

  We got our nails done because I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less than face the rest of the tour group. Besides, who doesn’t appreciate a hand massage?

  I was struggling with the revelation that Emily had taken care of a pretty serious situation without any input from me. I’m not sure why it was surprising me; she’s been doing her laundry, her homework, and her private life without me for a couple of years. But still, this was a whole different level of independence, and I was a little disappointed to discover I felt left out. I would have helped her.

  I also felt bad that I hadn’t told her about my work situation right away. She could clearly handle more than I’d given her credit for, and I had that “missed a step in the dark” feeling I really didn’t want to get used to.

  The nail salon was the best Rhinebeck had to offer, which was actually pretty fancy, and as we sat side by side with our feet in bowls of water with marbles (who came up with the marbles? I mean, yes, I get it, it’s fun and distracting, but still, yet another unsung hero), we started chatting like we used to when side by side in the car.

  “Do you think you’ll actually have to quit?” Emily didn’t seem all that fazed by this idea.

  “I really hope not.”

  “Do you like your job that much?”

  I played with the marbles. “I like it a lot, actually. I like my clients, the cases are interesting.”

  “But you’d have clients wherever you went.”

  “True. But I need a reliable job at least until you’re done with college.” I sneaked a glance at her, but she was flipping through a magazine. She shrugged.

  “I can always not go to college.” She looked at me suddenly and caught me staring at her. “I could get a job.”

  I grinned. “Flipping burgers?”

  “Working the stripper pole. Less grease, more tips.”

  “Good plan,” I said, picking up a magazine. “I myself have aged out of that job market.”

  “Your old boyfriend didn’t think so.”

  I snorted. “He was lonely. In the same way hunger makes food taste better, loneliness makes old girlfriends look younger.”

  “You’re still very attractive.”

  I looked at my beautifu
l daughter. “Thanks, babe. Not really something I think about all that much.”

  She grinned. “I think Will’s dad thinks so, too.”

  “That’s just weird,” I said, and avoided the subject from then on.

  I got bright red nails, by the way. They won’t last more than a day, but they’re gorgeous.

  23

  JESSICA

  We decided to meet up with the group again at Vassar, but when we got there, Emily lost confidence, and I was still pretty wobbly on my pins. We found a coffee shop and called Helen.

  She sailed through the doors thirty minutes later and greeted half the place by name. If you can’t slink about unnoticed, I imagine it’s better to willingly embrace your local fame.

  “Why aren’t you two touring my college and being entranced by its beauty?” she said, sitting down. “I’m so disappointed in you both.”

  I looked a question at Emily, who nodded. I leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Helen nodded. “I’m a philosopher. I know everything and nothing. What is truth, anyway? What is knowledge?”

  I waited until the waiter brought her coffee, which she hadn’t even ordered, and lowered my voice. “Emily worked with the FBI to bring an international cheating ring to ground, and she did it all without any help from me.”

  Emily protested. “That is totally not true.” She explained to Helen. “I snitched on some friends who were planning to cheat, because I didn’t want them to do something really stupid, and as a totally unintended consequence I assisted the FBI.” She was exasperated. “Nobody said anything about international, by the way, that is a complete fiction. Mom loves to summarize and editorialize, it’s part of her training.”

  “It’s inexcusable,” said Helen.

  “Seriously,” replied Emily. “I thought being a lawyer was about the sanctity of the truth?”

  “No,” I said, “it’s about the framing and presentation of the truth. Have I taught you nothing?”

  “You’ve taught me everything,” she replied. “Including calling BS when I hear it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But anyway, the point is the FBI showed up at breakfast this morning and dropped this bomb on us, and we’re still feeling a little delicate.” I shrugged at Emily. “At least, they dropped the bomb on me. She knew all about it, obviously.”

  Helen looked excited. “Are you going to blow off the rest of the tour?”

  I shook my head. “No, I think we’ll take the train to NYC and join them there.”

  Helen clapped her hands together. “Don’t take the train, I’ll drive you, it’ll be a blast.” She waved at the waiter for the bill and checked her watch. “Road trip!”

  EMILY

  Say what you like about my mom; once she’s made up her mind, she commits. We were packed up, checked out, and clambering into Helen’s car within the hour. In this way Mom’s more like my grandma, although most of the time she’s much more like Grandpa. Grandma was a rare bird, I’ve said it before, and she didn’t feather her nest with regret, that’s for sure. I remember standing in the country house garden, watching the smoke from her cigarette curl up in tandem with the smoke from some structure we’d accidentally set fire to and then put in the stream.

  “Well,” said Grandma. “It wasn’t what I would call a successful experiment, but it’s sure as shit interesting.”

  I’d nodded.

  “At what point, do you think, will the whole thing fall into the stream and go out?”

  I’d shrugged, whereupon it happened.

  “Oh well,” she said, wading into the stream to fish out the debris (she despised littering), “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  She was full of phrases like that, my favorite being and the devil take the hindmost, often said when throwing random ingredients into things, or loading up the grocery cart with marshmallows, or standing next to something flammable with a match. I don’t want you to get the impression she was an arsonist, she wasn’t, but she wasn’t one for hypothesizing. “I don’t know,” she would say, “let’s try it and see.” Mom is much more conservative, but every so often, like now, she leaps, and when she does I can see the glimmer of Grandma in her eyes.

  Helen’s car was as much of a trip as she was. It was one of those old station wagons with the wood on it; I have no idea what they’re called.

  When Helen pulled up in front of the hotel, my mother burst out laughing.

  “You are kidding me. You still have Jezebel?”

  Helen leaned her arm on the window and grinned. “Why would I change? She’s still running like a champ. I like cars, I take good care of her, and besides, I think my mother would be insulted if I traded in the car she gave me for something new.”

  Mom laughed. “Even though she gave you Jezebel and went straight out and bought a used, pristine, silver Datsun 280ZX?”

  Helen waved a hand. “She felt she’d done her time in the wagon. I was the last to go to college . . . I get it.” She jerked her head. “Are you getting in?”

  I went to open the back door, but Helen stopped me. “No, I want you to ride shotgun so I can dig into the darkest recesses of your mind and see how you think.”

  I looked at Mom, but she shrugged and climbed into the back seat. “Don’t try to resist, Emily, there’s no point.”

  I wasn’t completely convinced this was a good idea. I mean, do these vintage cars even have airbags? Asking seemed rude, so I walked around the car and climbed in.

  “Seat belt.” Helen was firm. “And then you’re in charge of the music.” She handed me a shoebox filled with those weird cassette tapes with actual physical brown whatever that is. Tape, I guess. “Play whatever you like.”

  I rustled through the tapes, and eventually spotted a familiar face.

  I will admit that when the opening bars of “Private Eyes” filtered through the surprisingly good sound system, and both women cheered, I felt pretty good about myself.

  JESSICA

  Talk about a blast from the past. Sitting in Helen’s car, listening to Hall and Oates, the breeze from the open window blowing my hair around . . . it was great. Helen and Emily were chatting away in the front, but I couldn’t hear them very well, on account of the breeze, and the murmur of their voices was soothing. I hadn’t ridden in the back of a car in so long, that feeling of being transported, both literally and figuratively. I’d spent a lot of my childhood in the back of a car much like this one, arguing with my sister over what music to play, getting overruled by my mom.

  The back seat of Helen’s car was filled with books and papers and smelled like cedar. I looked for a tree-shaped air freshener but instead there was a high-tech diffuser plugged into the cigarette lighter. Do new cars even have cigarette lighters? My mom smoked like a fiend my whole childhood, and I remember her using the cigarette lighter to, you know, light cigarettes. My sister and I would watch from the back, the open windows (I’m lighting up, ladies, crack a window) blowing our hair in our faces as it is now, fascinated as Mom waited for the thunk of the lighter, the unlit cigarette pursed tightly, the exciting possibility that as she never paid attention to what she was doing (Don’t take your eyes off the road, those bastards will drive right at you), she might drop it and set us all on fire. Then she’d suck, her cigarette making the crisp sound of crinkling paper, and shake the lighter as if it were a match. Then, one eye squinting, she’d blindly put it back, occasionally melting the radio buttons instead, then snatch the cigarette from her mouth and exhale a dragon’s breath through the window at the drivers who were all getting in her way.

  I’d watched my mom a lot; it was a different time, and she didn’t share herself the way I try to share myself with Emily. Not that Emily seems interested in what I’ve got to offer. My mom had lots of habits I enjoyed: a way of wiping the edge of her coffee cup with her thumb before taking every sip; the lining up of soc
ks, top to toe, before rolling them into balls; always saying the dinner needed salt and then getting up to find the saltshaker. There’s a famous book by this social scientist called Winnicott, about “good enough” parenting, an idea I really thought I was going to apply to my own life but that I failed to do, not being able to summon the delicious combination of caring and ignoring it required. Mom paid attention to us, but no more than we needed. She fed us, but she sure as hell didn’t take dinner orders the way I do. And she’d had no more intention of spending her limited free time playing with her own kids than she would have with anyone else’s. On weekends and summers, she’d turned us out of the house in the morning and told us to come back when the streetlights came on. If the weather was bad she’d suggest the movies and maybe drop us off, but she wasn’t sitting there watching The Land Before Time, I assure you.

  I would lose my mind if I caught Emily and her friends doing any of the things my sister and I got up to. Exploring abandoned buildings. Finding stashes of porn magazines and giggling over them, feeling weird but not requiring any kind of therapy over it. The one that really makes my blood run cold is the memory of putting pennies on the train tracks near our house, one summer’s favorite activity. A neighbor boy, strange and appealing in equal measure, showed us a gap in the fence and the flattened pennies that were the product of this very limited cottage industry. You could always feel the train before you saw it; a fizzing in the metal that broke into a high-pitched humming, and the train would suddenly thump into passing, close enough to whip our hair back, furiously loud, making us jump and clutch each other and scream.

  I turned my head to the side and got comfortable. I was just going to close my eyes for a minute.

  EMILY