Daisy (9 page)
“I’m glad you could make it,” I said when Amy sat down the following Friday afternoon. We were at Bistro 17, a little café around the corner from the office. We’d had a few conversations since the incident in her office last month, but it wasn’t as easy to connect when we were surrounded by so many male coworkers.
“Me, too,” she said. She’d had her hair colored in the last few weeks, a cherry cola color that looked really nice against her skin.
“I love the hair.”
She looked up as though she could see it, which she couldn’t since it was pulled back in a ponytail, but she smiled. “Thanks. It’s a little dramatic for me.”
“Ah, what fun is it to be a girl if you’re not dramatic now and again?” I was a hypocrite to say so, since I’d had the same hairstyle for the last twenty years—subtle layers in my thick blonde hair that I had pencil weaved every five weeks to hide both the gray and the natural blah brown color my roots betray as the real me. I had an appointment next week to get a touch-up, in fact. Maybe I’d go crazy and get some honey tones weaved in this time!
She smiled a little wider. “Good point.”
We caught up on office small talk for a minute, making fun of Eric, another agent, who had started wearing a bow tie to work. I suspected he was desperate to stand out from every other suit in the office. Amy was certain he was a Pee-wee Herman look-alike on the weekends and was beginning a subtle intermingling of the duality of the lives he lived. After we ordered—tomato ravioli soup for me and an Asian chicken salad for Amy—I asked her how she was doing. “You look really good,” I said. “Have you lost weight?”
Amy straightened her silverware on the table of the booth where we were sitting. “Yeah,” she said, but there was some strange kind of apology in her tone. “I stopped all the meds and hormones, and the weight is practically melting off my hips and thighs. I’m down almost ten pounds already.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You stopped taking
all
of the medications?” I didn’t know details, but I knew she’d been taking quite a cocktail.
“Every one.” Amy met my eyes. “And I feel great.”
“I bet you do,” I said. “Just taking birth control pills sent me for a loop back in the day. I don’t think I’d have been able to even function if I’d been doing all the hormones and things that you’ve done.”
“I don’t think I realized how much all that was messing with me until I stopped taking them. I sleep better, I’m not hungry all the time, and Mick dares talk to me about all kinds of subjects that I used to get weepy about. It’s been good.” I could feel her relief, and I was so glad she had a reprieve, but I couldn’t let the next question go unasked. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I did.
“So, where are you at with the whole reproduction thing?”
Amy took a deep breath. “Done,” was all she said.
“Done?” I repeated. Trying to have a baby had been her life for the last two and a half years. A single-word answer felt paltry in relation to the efforts that had gone into it.
“With the money we’ve spent, we could have traveled Europe for a full year. Instead, we vacation at SeaWorld using buy one, get one free admission tickets.” She smiled at her exaggeration. “I’m thirty-five years old and don’t want to spend the rest of my life chasing a dream that might not be mine to have. I’m okay with it, really.”
I didn’t want to question her, but her explanation felt rehearsed. “What about adoption?”
“Maybe later.”
Our food came, and we both took a few bites before Amy spoke again. “Did I ever tell you Mick has a brother who was adopted?”
I shook my head; I didn’t know much about Amy and Mick’s life outside of the fact that they wanted to have a baby together. “He’s almost ten years younger than Mick. His mom had always wanted one more child but couldn’t do it on her own either. He’s a nice guy, but he’s pulled himself away from the family quite a bit, doesn’t let himself fit in with the rest of them, and has a lot of issues with having been adopted. Mick’s hesitant to adopt because of that.”
“But it would be different if you didn’t have biological kids, right? I mean, there wouldn’t be that kind of competitive feeling.”
“That’s what I said,” Amy said, spearing a piece of chicken. “But I can’t just ignore how he feels about it. Whatever we do needs to be something we both feel good about, you know?”
“Absolutely,” I said. I scooped up a ravioli and took another bite. “So, is the whole thing on the shelf for now?”
“Yep. That’s even how Mick said it, ‘Let’s put it on the shelf for the next six months, then take it down and look at it with fresh eyes.’”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Amy met my eyes, and I noticed the slightest glimmer of tears she was trying to hide. “Do I have a choice?” she said softly. She then looked away, embarrassed, and not wanting to pierce her veil of “All is well” that she’d obviously been working hard to keep up.
I went back to my soup and considered her situation. I wanted to assure her that she had choices and there was no telling what the future might bring, and yet sometimes it didn’t really matter. She couldn’t choose for her husband to change his mind. She couldn’t choose to overcome her problems and be able to conceive. All she could really choose—the only thing she had control over—was her attitude. She was therefore choosing to accept what was, for now.
After a few more bites, I looked up and waited until she met my eye. “I’m proud of you,” I said. She looked a little confused, so I clarified. “There’s something very powerful about making the best of a less than ideal situation, and you’re doing that.” I smiled, and she looked down at her food, seemingly embarrassed by my praise.
“We do what we have to do, right?” she said, poking at her salad.
I thought about my own struggles and nodded. “What else is there?”
Jared’s mom lived in Sacramento, and he and Stormy went there for Thanksgiving. Paul and I went to his brother Charlie’s house, and I played nice with Charlie’s twenty-five-year-old girlfriend while the men watched the football games. I had to drive home because Paul was drunk by the time we left. I’d had a few sips of wine, but the whole meal just hadn’t worked for me. Well, except for the mashed potatoes. I’d probably ended up eating two pounds of the stuff since nothing else agreed with me.
I wondered if something was wrong with me. I’d had digestive issues for more than a month; in fact, I couldn’t remember when they’d started. They didn’t seem to be getting worse, but they weren’t getting better, either. In the back of my mind, a quiet voice reminded me how often I ate mashed potatoes when I was pregnant, but I drowned it out with a dozen reasons why that was just silly to consider.
Besides, thinking about my funny stomach was only slightly more prominent in my thoughts than my overall disappointment with the day. It had been many years since I’d had a holiday meal with my own family, but for some reason, this year I missed it more than I ever had before. Spending the day in a house with four adults seemed like a paltry celebration compared to what I knew must be happening back in Virginia. Mom would have made a turkey and a pineapple-glazed ham. She’d have candied and mashed yams, cherry Jell-O with pecans, collard greens—Dad was from New Orleans—and half a dozen other things she’d spent three days preparing. As a kid I had thought putting so much time into a meal was ridiculous. As I got older, I realized she actually liked doing it.
Today, all my siblings would come over with their kids, maybe even a stray aunt or uncle. The house would be bursting at the seams for hours as people filtered in and out, hugging and laughing and catching up. I wouldn’t have been able to eat most of the food, and some of the people were faces I hadn’t seen for years, but what I was missing was on my mind all day. I even called the house—something I hadn’t done in years—and talked to as many people as I could before they needed to get off the phone in order to say grace. I hung up and stared at the phone with a lump in my throat, trying to remind myself that independence was what I’d wanted.
After we got home and Paul went to bed, I called Stormy to hear about her day. Jared’s two brothers and their families had come with
their
families. There were two boy cousins Stormy’s age, and they had taken her to the local skate park and showed her some tricks while Jared’s mom and sisters-in-law finished cooking the meal. They’d had a traditional feast and then pie, pie, and more pie. Jared’s mom had started teaching Stormy how to crochet while everyone let their bellies rest, and Stormy told me how she was going to start making flowered headbands in all different colors. They were staying until Sunday and had a slew of activities planned over those few days. Stormy had no doubt that she’d return to Irvine with mad skater skills and a bag full of headbands for all her new friends.
“That’s great,” I said, sounding as enthusiastic as I could. “I’m so glad you’re having a good time.”
“And we’re going to cut down a tree for Grandma tomorrow. She got a permit and everything. Dad’s going to show me how to use a chain saw.”
“Wonderful,” I said. I continued to encourage and applaud all she was doing, then hung up the phone and tried not to cry.
Had I ever given my daughter that kind of Thanksgiving? I loved that she was having such a good time and that Jared’s family was so good to her, but I felt so . . . left out. The Thanksgiving weekend stretched ahead of me like a tired road through Death Valley. Here I’d been counting down the months until Stormy was gone, and now I wondered what I would do with myself now that she was no longer here. The shift of perspective was painful, but I couldn’t block it out. I’d been working toward this for years, but it wasn’t what I’d thought it would be.
I finished reading
Asher Lev,
and the ending hadn’t been as happy as I had hoped—kind of like
Poisonwood Bible
had been. Asher’s story was very different than mine, of course, and while I could make all kinds of little comparisons, in the end, the thing that stood out to me was the separation he felt.
He lost his family. I felt as though I’d already lost the family of my childhood and now I was losing the family I’d had since then. It hurt.
I wasn’t the first person to arrive at book group; Ilana was already there, as professional as ever. We chitchatted until Livvy showed up, and then we chitchatted as a group instead. Shannon, Ruby’s niece, showed up a minute later. She and Ilana talked together, and Livvy and I separated. She was wearing jeans that were a size too small and a pink top that wasn’t the right tone for her skin. It was a bit of a struggle to find something I could sincerely compliment, but then I noticed her toenails showing through her open-toed sandals—only in Southern California could someone get away with wearing sandals in December. The sparkly pink polish caught the light when she moved.
“I love your polish,” I said.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, moving her foot and looking at her toes, a little smile on her face. “I didn’t realize until after I chose my color that I should have chosen something a little more Christmassy.”
“Ah,” I said, waving it away. “There’s room for pink in every holiday.”
Livvy smiled, her whole countenance brighter than it had been when she came in. Paige arrived, and then Athena showed up. Ruby made a comment about Athena being too thin, and I dared look down at my thighs spread out on the chair before looking away and sucking in my belly. I’d chosen an empire-waist shirt, but now that I was sitting, it really emphasized my stomach, which I was not comfortable with right now. My back was stiff from sitting at the computer all day, and I shifted in my seat, pressing my lower back into the cushions and making a mental note to schedule a massage. It had been too long.
Livvy said something as Paige crossed the room to Athena. “How are you?” she asked, looking concerned. Both Livvy and I stopped to listen for Athena’s reply.
“Doing better,” Athena said. Then she looked at all of us and thanked us for having come to the funeral. “It really meant a lot to see all of you.”
Ilana made her apologies for not having been there. Shannon didn’t say anything out loud but nodded. She seemed the least comfortable here, and I wondered, again, if she had come only to appease Ruby. The doorbell rang, but I didn’t make the connection that it meant someone else was joining our group until a woman I hadn’t met came in behind Ruby. She was black or African-American or whatever the current title was—and beautiful, with big brown eyes not much different from Athena’s.
Ruby introduced her as Victoria, and she immediately shared her excitement at being part of the group and something about being afraid she’d bore us.
“She’s far from boring,” Ruby said. “She works in the film industry and has some amazing—and horrific—stories.”
“That’s true,” Victoria said after she took the last open seat in the room. “But before telling you any of them, I’ll need you all to sign a nondisclosure form.” We all chuckled over that. It was her first week, but I felt closer to her than I did with Ilana or Shannon, both of whom had been here before.
Ruby clapped to get everyone’s attention and then started out by asking everyone to share what had happened in their lives since the last time we’d met. I looked around, wondering if anyone else was uncomfortable with what Ruby had said. This was supposed to be a book club, and while we were friends, I didn’t really want to share what was going on with my life.
Livvy and Paige skimmed over their updates. Victoria laughed about everything being new since this was her first week. “Trust me, you don’t want all the details at once.” Everyone laughed, and then Ruby turned to Shannon and Ilana who shrugged through their piddly updates as well. Athena seemed glad for the chance to talk. A lot had happened since we’d last seen her.
“Last time I was here, I made an announcement about my pitiful dating life,” she said.
I was surprised. I’d expected something about her mom, not her relationships.
“The fact is, things have turned around. I’m dating a man named Grey Ronning.”
“From the bookstore?” Ruby asked, again clapping her hands.
“Yes.” Athena grinned broadly—I hadn’t expected that either. Her mother had just died, after all. And then, just like that, she was over it and moving on? She sat back in her chair as though relieved to have gotten the information off her chest. I was confused by her behavior, even though I joined everyone else in wishing her well.
Ruby eventually turned her attention to Livvy, who cleared her throat and began the discussion about
My Name Is Asher Lev.
“This book seems to revolve around the suffering caused from conflicting traditions. The story really deals with the decisions these three people made in their lives that ended up affecting not only their traditions, but the people they loved the most. And yet, none of them could have chosen differently, or they would have been betraying themselves.”
Athena opened her copy and began flipping through several pages marked with red pencil. When Livvy noticed, she said, “I actually started underlining some of the sentences.” She paused, seemingly looking for a passage. “The relationship between Asher and his father really affected me.” She went on about how her mother had wanted her to date and marry a nice Greek boy.
“Is the bookstore guy Greek?” I asked.
“No,” Athena said.
She flipped through the book again, still looking for something. “When Asher goes against his parents’ wishes to not only become a painter, but to paint the crucifixion, I guess I was reminded of myself. Listen to what he says.” She read part of the book aloud. “‘I turned my back to the paintings and closed my eyes, for I could no longer endure seeing the works of my own hands and knowing the pain those works would soon inflict upon people I loved.’”
I realized that I was creasing the hem of my shirt—good thing it was cotton. I thought about how my shifts from my religious upbringing had hurt my parents. I hated thinking about that.
“I guess it really hit me hard,” Athena said. “I was doing the same thing. Living a life, or more accurately, rejecting a life that those who loved me wanted me to have.” She blinked back tears; I’d never seen her so emotional. She shook her head. “I don’t want to turn my back anymore. Although I don’t know if marriage or children are in my future, I’m willing to open my heart at least, and consider the option.”
Livvy patted her hand; Athena took a breath. I wondered if she was going to talk about her mother’s death. Maybe she’d needed to gear up to it, feel safe before she got into something more tender.
“I found some letters that my dad wrote to my mom,” Athena continued as tears fell from her eyes, which made tears rise in my own. I was always a copycat when it came to crying; I couldn’t help it. “Their marriage wasn’t what I thought it was. They had their challenges but loved each other dearly.” She wiped at her cheeks, explaining how she’d misunderstood their relationship.
“Isn’t that true of many things in life?” Paige asked, her voice quiet, almost reverent. “We go around assuming we know or understand another person. When we find out the truth, our whole perception changes, for better—or for worse.” She looked at the hands in her lap. I had no doubt she was thinking about her failed marriage. I’d spent many hours considering how perceptions could change once a relationship ended.
Livvy was the next person to speak. “This book is filled with layers of family dynamics. Each character has intense flaws, yet you can’t help but relate and understand their motivations for doing what they do, even when it tears down another family member.”
I rolled that around in my head. Layers. Such a great insight. The other women shared some thoughts on that, but I kept mine to myself. The layers in my family dynamics were complex, and while I knew these women struggled, it was hard to imagine any of them could understand mine. I was still embarrassed not to have Stormy living with me anymore. I missed her, but then wondered if I had done everything I could do to repair our relationship.
“Families are sticky,” Victoria said. It was true, but something about the way she said it bugged me. It was almost . . . flippant.
Ilana talked about her childhood, and the expectations put on her by her family, who were practicing Jews. It was fascinating, at least in part because I, too, had been raised in a religious family, and yet with an underlying condemnation toward non-Christians. I certainly wasn’t going to say that out loud, though. I just listened and learned and wondered what it was that drew Ilana away from her religion. I also found that despite her apparent confidence in her choice, I felt sympathetic toward her. Maybe
kinship
was a better word. I wondered what her relationship with her parents was like now. Did she have brothers and sisters? Did she miss them?
Victoria chimed in. “You know when Asher got into trouble with the Mashpia, which I took to mean as his school principal—I didn’t take the time to look it up . . . ” She looked at Ilana who nodded. Victoria continued, talking about all the creative people she spent her time with and how it would be sad if they didn’t use their gifts like Asher was told to do by the Mashpia in the book.
I appreciated the thought, but felt Victoria was a little high-handed with it. This was her first group, and I felt a little like she was taking over. Ruby was impressed Victoria had already read the book, and I knew I shouldn’t have been bothered since I wasn’t saying much. I might have shared my thoughts if I hadn’t felt like everyone else had more important things to say about it.
“Paige has the next book selection,” Ruby said, turning to Paige. “Would you like to tell us a little about it?”
“Sure,” she said, reaching into her purse. “I chose a classic that some of you might have read in high school or college.
Silas Marner
by George Eliot.”
“Oh, I love that one,” Ruby said. “It’s definitely worth reading more than once.”
I’d never heard of it. Paige continued speaking while the rest of us pulled out notebooks or typed the title into our phones. “I picked it because as classics go, it’s pretty easy. Plus, it’s short, so I figured it would be a good one to read over the Christmas holiday.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Ruby said, “wasn’t the author female?”
Hadn’t Paige said the author’s name was George?
“She was,” Paige said. “Her real name was Mary Anne Evans. In her day, a lot of women had to publish anonymously or under pen names to have any chance for their work to be read and taken seriously.”
The conversation veered into other topics, and as we chatted, Livvy leaned toward me. “I think those kinds of shirts are so cute, Daisy,” she said out of the blue. She waved her hand. “But I can’t wear them; any time I try, I totally look pregnant.”
Heat instantly filled my face. This was the second book group where someone had said something about me being pregnant. I suppressed the anger and forced myself to be polite.
Ruby reached over and patted my knee. “I wonder if you are. How exciting!”
I forced a smile. “I’m
not
pregnant; trust me.” I couldn’t help but shoot a look at Paige, who’d been the one to bring it up last month. “I got that taken care of permanently fifteen years ago, remember? I can’t get pregnant.”
“I had a friend back in ’87,” Ruby said, not picking up on my energy. “She had a tubal ligation, and then ten years later, poof! There she was, expecting a surprise little caboose! He’s a teenager now.”
Everyone but Ruby seemed uncomfortable, and I tried to soften the moment and said, “That’s pretty rare. I’ll just make a point of not wearing this shirt again.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Finally Ruby stood. “Well, let’s serve up the dessert. Or, rather, the refreshments, since potato latkes aren’t sweet. Ilana brought them for Livvy. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
Ruby dished up the latkes, which I tried to enjoy despite being obsessed with Livvy’s comment. Did I look that fat? Did I look pregnant?
“How’s your father?”
I looked up to see who’d spoken. It was Paige, directing the comment at Athena.
“It’s getting harder,” Athena said. She looked up to see all of us listening and explained that her father had Alzheimer’s. He sometimes thought she was her aunt or his younger sister, and with her mother gone, she had taken over his care, a task which sounded overwhelming. Wow. “My sister thinks we should put him in a care center now. But it’s so expensive, and this is a bad time of the year to put my parents’ house on the market.”
“Had your mother ever talked about a care center?” Livvy asked.
Athena shook her head and pushed a piece of latke around on her plate with her fork. “Not that she told us.”
“Have you checked into any of them?” I asked.
Paige smiled at me gratefully. “It might be worth looking into,” she added.
“I looked up a couple of locations,” Athena said. “But I feel so . . .” She looked at the ceiling as if trying to come up with a way to explain. “Guilty. I’m his daughter; he raised me and took care of me my whole life. I’m the only one who can really take care of him—my sister has three kids. It’s not his fault my mother is gone; I have to take her place as best as I can. I just can’t bring myself to put him away.”
“You’re not putting him away,” Paige said quickly.
“Nursing homes are awful,” Ruby said, her lips tight. She gave a quick shake of her head.
I cringed, but Paige hurried to repair it. “Not all nursing homes are the same.” She told us about a care center in Utah that her church provided worship services for. “It was a beautiful place, and the residents were happy there.” She turned to Athena. “Your mom was his caretaker, and she did what she thought was best. You’re his caretaker now, and it’s not wrong to make a choice in both of your best interests.”
Athena nodded but didn’t say anything else.
We ate quietly, with a few comments peppering the awkward silence. I stood as soon as I felt like I could and made my good-byes, trying to stand up straight so that my shirt would be more concealing.
Concealing of what?
As soon as I stood, however, I realized I needed to use the bathroom. I already knew where it was, so I thought I’d just step in on my way out, without advertising. I’d been using the bathroom a lot more than usual, I realized, but hated thinking about that, hated the reminders of what these women had said. I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t! I couldn’t be.