The Learning Curve

by Mandy Berman

  Everyone left Lula and Marley alone when it came to their sex lives. Because they hadn’t lost a sister, so their sleeping around didn’t stem from grief the way Fiona’s must. This was what angered Fiona most of all: that, in her friends’ eyes, there was a direct line between Helen’s death and Fiona’s promiscuity. As if her brain, her emotions, her grief were that simple. As if Helen had died and Fiona immediately said to herself, Time for me to sleep around—or stop eating, or drink too much—to fill the new void in my life. It was like they’d each taken one psychology class freshman year and then spent a year around Fiona post-tragedy and concluded that they understood human behavior in its entirety. What did they know of grief? Of self-loathing? Of the need to punish oneself, over and over, until the pain finally became severe enough that the punishments felt sufficient?

  She checked her phone; still no messages. She texted Liv, feeling desperate for social contact:

  are you coming home anytime soon? lunch @ bagel king?

  Fiona opened another tab and soon found herself on another set of transcripts, these from Monica’s grand jury testimony in August 1998.

  JUROR: Your relationship with the President, did your mother at any time try to discourage the relationship?

  LEWINSKY: Oh, yes.

  JUROR: Well, what kept it going? I mean, what kept it—you keeping it active or whatever?

  LEWINSKY: I fell in love.

  JUROR: I beg your pardon? I couldn’t hear you.

  LEWINSKY: I fell in love.

  JUROR: When you look at it now, was it love or a sexual obsession?

  LEWINSKY: More love with a little bit of obsession. But definitely love…

  JUROR: You said the relationship was more than oral sex. I mean, it wasn’t like you went out on dates or anything like that, like normal people, so what more was it?

  LEWINSKY: Oh, we spent hours on the phone talking. It was emotional.

  JUROR: Phone sex?

  LEWINSKY: Not always. On a few occasions. I mean, we were talking. I mean, interacting. I mean, talking about what we were thinking and feeling and doing and laughing. We were very affectionate, even when—after he broke the relationship off in May, I mean, when I’d go to visit with him, we’d—you know, we’d hug each other a lot.

  You know, he always used to like to stroke my hair….We’d hold hands. We’d smile a lot….I just I thought he had a beautiful soul. I just thought he was just this incredible person, and when I looked at him I saw a little boy and—I don’t know what the truth is any more….

  JUROR: I’m not understanding these two different things because one time you’re sentimental but then again you do just the opposite of what you say you’re thinking. Did you ever think that…anything real could—and truthful and honest—could have come from this relationship?

  LEWINSKY: Yes.

  JUROR: With this married man?

  LEWINSKY: I did.

  Poor Monica. Linda Tripp, Kenneth Starr, everyone was out to get her. She was just in love—or thought she was in love—with a man in power, and everyone wanted to punish her for it.

  Fiona began to write.

  Monica Lewinsky is living proof that sentimental stereotypes of women still exist. After her affair with President Bill Clinton in 1998, the media portrayed Lewinsky in a variety of different ways: as a victim, a slut, a femme fatale, a feminist, an innocent flirt. Countless interpretations of Lewinsky exist, and many journalists did come to her defense when the affair went public. Nonetheless, she is remembered as “that woman” who lied for the President, and whom the President lied about to the American people.

  This week for Roiphe’s class, they were reading Amelia; or, The Influence of Virtue. She hadn’t finished the book yet, but she remembered a particular passage that reminded her of Monica early on, and paged through until she found it.

  She marked the page, then wrote some more. She felt pleased with herself for getting some work done despite being hungover, despite the dull pain in her temples.

  Lewinsky’s case made me think that Americans are most comfortable sticking to sentimental stereotypes, labeling them virtuous if they’re virgins, and sluts if their sexuality is referenced. This is, it should be noted, two hundred years after the classic vixen and virgin were created and portrayed in sentimental narratives.

  Conveniently, Lewinsky fits the mold of the classic sentimental villain to a T. Sally Wood’s Amelia; or, The Influence of Virtue, written in 1802, contains two women who represent these two classic characters. Amelia, the heroine, is described as “tall and beautifully shaped…grace[ful] and elegan[t],” with small features, a “complexion fair and soft,” and “eyes…blue and mild” (10–11). Harriot, on the other hand, is described thus:

  Harriot…had, from the moment of her birth, been considered a beauty. Indeed there was a brilliancy in her fine black eyes, and her very florid color charmed one at first sight; her features were regular, her brows arched, and she had a great luxuriance of fine dark hair; she was lively even to pertness: at the age of thirteen, she had the appearance of a complete voluptuary, all her limbs were finely turned, and she could look gay or languishing at pleasure (10).

  Descriptions of Lewinsky during the scandal do not stray far from this image of a dark-haired, voluptuous, and manipulative vixen.

  Her phone buzzed, interrupting her flow, and she reached for it. Two messages from Liv:

  hey! hope the rest of your night was super fun! wanna hear ab MM :)

  I already ate with B, sorry! I’ll be home in a little!

  Fiona was starving now; the rice cakes weren’t nearly enough, but she didn’t have anything else to eat in the house. She didn’t want to go to Bagel King alone. She texted Lula next, even though she was terrified to tell Lula that she’d thrown up on her suede booties.

  hey! hope you had a fun night ;) r u coming home soon? bagels?

  She wondered if the girl whom Oliver Ash slept with at Columbia had been in love with him. Maybe she had thought she was at the time. She wondered if every girl who slept with an older man, or a married man, or a man in a position of power over her, thought she was different. Did Monica? Did the girl who got Oliver Ash fired from Columbia? Did these girls believe that their love was new, that no one had ever felt that way before, that it would stand the test of time, despite the odds stacked against pairings like theirs? That he would leave his wife for her, run away with her, give her babies? Or was it only about sex, about wanting someone you knew you weren’t supposed to have? Was it possible they were the same thing? How could you even know, under such forbidden circumstances—which, by extension, were hot circumstances—if love was even a possibility?

  In her inbox there remained one white subject line among the gray messages. She’d left her email from Oliver Ash marked unread, and would check back on it from time to time, marking it again as unread when she was finished, in case she ever decided to respond.

  She opened it again now. It was a completely perfunctory email, one that required no response. Professional except for this one line: “I only hope that I don’t disappoint you too much.” There was a tinge of playfulness in that, wasn’t there? Or was it literal? Either way—when was the last time anyone else in her life had expressed their interest in her approval? She thought of how kind he had been that night driving her home, and generous, and respectful.

  What would happen to her if she tried? Or to him?

  She had nothing worthwhile to say, which was what had stopped her from keeping this interaction going many times before. It would have to be subtle, skirting the line between flirtatious and professional, so that she could play down her intentions should he not reciprocate them. It would have to be couched in her interest in the class. Even if he knew it was bullshit, she would still be able to claim her innocence in a court of law.


  She clicked Reply. In her email, she asked him how he’d been; she said she was looking forward to their class next semester, that she had been working on some new short stories, and asked to meet with him to discuss them. She would figure out what to say about these nonexistent stories if he agreed to the meeting. One thing at a time. In her signature, she added a smiley face for good measure. She clicked Send.

  She checked her phone. No new messages, and still no roommates home. It was well into the afternoon now. She closed her computer and turned the TV back on. Maybe she’d order delivery.

  9.

  IT WAS THE Larkins’ third Thanksgiving without Helen. They decided to skip the hoopla with their extended family this year; they’d gone to Fiona’s uncle’s house last year, but it had been too much. All the fawning over the three of them—Liam, her mother, and herself—and all the talking about Helen, sharing their favorite memories of the girl. They acted like there was a ranking system for their grief—who mourned longer, who cried more, who brought up Helen’s memory more often during family gatherings. Like someone might be keeping track.

  There were new additions this year to their nuclear-family Thanksgiving: Ed, and Liam’s new girlfriend, Rebecca. Five people, like it had once been, but now with replacements of the originals.

  When Fiona pulled into the driveway of their colonial in Larchmont, both Amy and Ed—a balding man in a burgundy sweater, only a few inches taller than her petite mother—were standing at the front door. Fiona laughed at the sight, the suburbanness of it, though it also warmed her. Her father would never have waited outside for his children. He wouldn’t even have been home yet at 5:30 on a Wednesday.

  Ed and Amy walked down the front steps and toward the driveway as Fiona got out of her car.

  “Let Ed help you with your bag!” Amy called.

  “I got it,” Fiona called back, opening the trunk.

  They arrived at the car, Amy squeezing her first, and then, with some fanfare, introducing her to Ed. They hadn’t spoken of their argument on the phone in October but instead pretended that it had never happened. Still—Fiona wasn’t sure how much of the fight Amy had shared with Ed. She hoped, upon seeing this pleasantly avuncular man, that she hadn’t shared any of it.

  To her surprise, Ed drew Fiona in for a hug.

  “It’s an absolute delight to meet you,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, halfheartedly hugging back. “You, too, Ed.”

  “Let me get that,” he said, gesturing to her duffel.

  “It’s really not that heavy,” Fiona said.

  “Nonsense,” he said, insistently taking the bag from her.

  “How was the drive, sweetheart? Was there a lot of traffic?”

  “Kind of,” Fiona said.

  “What time did you leave?” Amy said.

  “Not till one or so. I should have left earlier.”

  “Yeah, it’s a busy traffic day. The earlier you leave, the better.”

  “I needed to pack.”

  “Why didn’t you pack the night before?”

  Fiona didn’t respond, attempting to pick her battles.

  “Shall we go get warm?” Ed said. “It’s chilly out here. Your mother made a feast!”

  * * *

  —

  They waited for Liam and Rebecca to eat. The two of them arrived around eight, having taken the train in from the city. Liam bounded through the front door like a golden retriever.

  “Sis!” He took her in a bear hug. Fiona missed Liam, missed his hugs. She wished it wasn’t so painful to stay in touch with him.

  Rebecca, following behind him, was not what Fiona was expecting. She was probably around five ten, and stunning; she had the kind of face that one rarely saw in real life, so symmetrical and structured and filmic, like it had been drawn, and it left Fiona without words for a moment.

  “Hi,” she said, looking over at Liam with big, disbelieving eyes. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?” she said to Rebecca.

  Rebecca laughed, crinkling her nose, her cheeks flushing; Fiona couldn’t tell whether the cause was real bashfulness, or not.

  “Oh my gosh,” Amy said, coming to the door. “The famous Rebecca. Liam showed us pictures, but you’re somehow even prettier in person.”

  It was true that Amy had made a feast, resplendent with a mix of their favorites: homemade gnocchi in a mushroom cream sauce (Fiona’s favorite); a sirloin steak (Liam’s favorite); and a giant salad of mixed greens with candied pecans, dried cranberries, and goat cheese (Ed’s favorite, apparently). It turned out that Rebecca was an actress, and as she answered all their questions about what she’d been in (a few off-Broadway plays, a Pepsi print ad that went up in some major subway stations), Fiona watched her push the food around her plate. Fiona, who hadn’t eaten all day and had been shoving the gnocchi into her mouth at a lightning rate, now felt self-conscious and slowed down, remembering that overeating would always make her feel worse later, and resolved that she would go for a run in the morning. It felt unfair that no matter how skinny she was, she would never be as pretty as Rebecca.

  “How’s work going, Liam?” Ed asked across the table. “You’ve got a front-row seat to the insanity.”

  Liam swallowed his steak. “I’ve been working crazy hours,” he said. “It’s a wonder we even got here tonight.”

  “It’s a holiday,” Amy said.

  “Banking’s not an industry that values time off, Mom.”

  Liam was twenty-four now, going into his third year working for Goldman Sachs. He’d been extremely lucky after the crash, a few months earlier, not to get laid off. He worked in technology mergers and acquisitions, but no matter how many times Fiona heard him explain it, she still didn’t quite understand what he did. All she knew was that he didn’t necessarily like the ins and outs of his job, but he was good at it, earning a huge paycheck every two weeks and an extremely generous bonus at Christmas, and this made his work tolerable, even enjoyable, as a means to an end. Fiona had a hard time understanding doing work for money’s sake, which she knew was somewhat naïve. Most people worked because they had to, not because they wanted to. Even she would, very soon, have to work for money, but she would only be supporting herself. For Liam, it seemed there was an inherent pressure to not only support himself, but a future and so far nonexistent wife and family as well. This was, after all, what had been modeled for them.

  “Well, money never sleeps,” Fiona said.

  “Neither does Liam,” Rebecca responded, and the girls smiled at each other.

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, Ed insisted on doing the dishes, despite the fight they all—especially Rebecca—put up.

  “You’ve been traveling,” Ed had said. “I barely lifted a finger today.” Fiona suspected this wasn’t true, but there was a kindness in his humility, in his making sure they could all spend time together tonight. He knew, most of all, that it was important to Amy. As he shooed them out of the kitchen, Liam and Rebecca making their way toward the living room already, Fiona turned to grab her wine from the counter by the doorway and saw, from the edge of the kitchen, her mother lingering by the sink, and Ed wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in for a deeply romantic kiss. When Amy pulled her face away, it was flushed with what could only be described as joy. Fiona hurried into the living room before Amy saw her.

  Fiona hadn’t wanted to like Ed. Part of her felt he was trying too hard; part of her wanted to resist his kindness and his love for her mother. She hadn’t seen her mother this happy in years, though—not even, she realized, while Helen was still alive. It was hard to see Helen’s death and her parents’ divorce as two separate events, but she was going to try to now, because what was becoming quite clear was that Amy had not been happy with Fiona’s father for a long time.

  And Fiona was surprised at hersel
f, too, because she didn’t find her mother’s happiness unwarranted. Instead, it was a comfort to her. She hadn’t realized, perhaps, that Amy’s well-being—or lack thereof—rubbed off so much on her. Though why wouldn’t it? It always had when she was a kid; when Amy was in a bad mood, undoubtedly due to something Fiona’s father did, young Fiona instead believed it was her own fault. And even when Helen died, Fiona felt she was failing by not being able to put her mother back together again. What she realized now was that she’d perhaps never had the capacity to do that. And there was a freedom in letting go of the conceit, and letting someone else take over.

  “He’s nice, Mom,” Fiona said quietly when Amy joined them in the living room. They all held fresh beverages: more wine for Fiona and Liam; mugs of herbal tea for Rebecca and Amy. Amy looked contented at the mention of him.

  “He’s great, isn’t he?”

  “Can you imagine Dad ever doing the dishes?” Fiona said, turning to Liam.

  Amy shook her head. “No,” she said. “I cannot.”

  Liam didn’t say anything, and seemed instead to be intent on the wine that he swirled around in his glass. Rebecca, sitting on the arm of his chair, put a hand out to steady his wrist. It looked like an expression of something private, like there was an anxiety here that Fiona wasn’t privy to.

  She had become, seemingly overnight, the fifth wheel in her own family. She didn’t even have any prospects. She thought back to the email she’d sent Oliver the week before, and was filled with deep shame. He’d never responded—of course he hadn’t. She should have known better than to think he would humor her, would see her as anything other than yet another undergraduate with a crush on him. It was an inappropriate, deeply pointless message to send. Especially that fucking smiley face. She regretted it immensely.