Social Lives (44 page)

Blah, blah, blah.
Rosalyn was tuned out. It was the same watered-down bullshit they got every day, and she braced herself for the hourlong speech that was approaching as the crowd applauded and Dr. Wright took to the podium. But that was soon to change.

“Thank you. It's very nice to be here.” Dr. Wright was beaming. She
was an attractive woman, just into her fifties and sensual in her demeanor. With long auburn hair flowing, and her suit jacket showing just a hint of cleavage, she had instantly captured the interest of the audience. “I must say,” she continued, “I'm looking out at all of you and it's so clear to me that you are probably the most educated and sophisticated crowd I've been fortunate enough to address. So how about this? Why don't we skip the part where I tell you what you already know. Teenagers have sex. Been happening since the beginning of time, I imagine. Is there anyone here who feels incapable or unwilling to talk to their kids about birth control and STDs? Condoms, pills, over-the-counter Plan B?”

Rosalyn felt her face blush as she glanced casually from side to side, unsure whether to smile and laugh, or be insulted. Thankfully, not one person was looking at her for a reaction. They were all captivated now by the commanding tone that resonated from the doctor. And not a hand was raised.

“Okay,” Dr. Wright continued. “Is there anyone here tonight who feels incapable or unwilling to talk to their kids about their family's values and expectations about sex? About gaining consent, giving consent, respecting other human beings?”

Again, not a hand.

“Pretty simple stuff, right? Not fun, maybe, but simple. Straightforward.”

She nodded, then flipped over half of the pages that she'd laid before her on the podium.

“Let's talk then about something else. I want to talk about what drives a kid to do something that makes her—or him—feel bad inside. And I think we all agree that some of the casual sex, the sex happening between two kids who don't even like, or know, each other probably makes that kid feel bad. Maybe not in the moment, but soon after. And maybe they need to have a drink to feel better, or smoke a joint, pop a pill. But then that doesn't really work either, does it, because it's bad for you, gets you in trouble. Makes you feel deviant. It's a cycle. What I'm talking about is sex and the psychology of self-destruction. What I'm talking about is an entire generation that may become so damaged that they will never know what real love is, what real physical love is. Imagine that. An entire generation that will never know self-respect, and the bliss of making love.”

Rosalyn stared at Dr. Wright. She hadn't mentioned any of this, not one
word, during their multitude of e-mail exchanges, or at the lunch meeting the day before. But even as she was taken aback by the bait and switch that was taking place before her eyes, she was mesmerized as the doctor spoke of low self-esteem. How it was the seed that, when planted, was like a weed, fighting for room to grow and multiply. Her voice was firm, passionate. Verging, even, on anger.

“Ever heard of the expression that history repeats itself? Want to know why? It seems antithetical, but once a child grows accustomed to a feeling, even a bad feeling,
that
becomes the feeling that the child seeks again and again because it's familiar, and familiar is what we all crave, isn't it? We like to sleep in the same bed, with the same pillow—maybe even with the same person beside us—” She paused then for a burst of laughter. “We want the chef to make our dinner the same way every time we order it. Feelings have the same hold on us. That's why I have a job.”

The questions kept coming, rhetorical questions that were shocking just the same.
Do you think your daughter really believed he would call? The guy who treated her like dirt at school and made out with another girl five minutes earlier at the party? Ever wonder what it was she wanted from him?

Rosalyn listened to them, these questions and answers—so obvious but evasive at the same time.
What does Cait want with Kyle Conrad?
The same thing Rosalyn had wanted from Jeb Ashton twenty-five years before? She closed her eyes for a second to chase it away, but it was there, the feeling she would get with him and the things she would do. It wasn't until Paris, until she felt what love was, that she understood the difference, and still, she had returned. Damn her mother. She could hear the words, the lecture over the phone.
You have to end things and come home. What are you going to do, throw away a boy like Jeb, a boy who has everything?
She had obeyed, and when she returned there had been a penance to pay, one she would never forget.

What had he told her that night in his basement? Through the musty smell that came from the old couch, the dampness in the air—what was it? That she owed it to him. Everyone was talking about how he'd been humiliated the summer before his senior year. The feelings she'd had for him, the way she had coveted him so desperately, had all turned to hatred the moment she returned from Paris, but still, that night, she had a job to do and she'd done it well. To this day, Jeb Ashton believed he'd been her first, and his stupidity was the only thing about that night that she could tolerate remembering.

Ever wonder what your daughter wants from a boy like that?
What had she wanted? To please her mother? Rosalyn fought to remember as she sat there with everything in the world, and yet this one night, this stupid teenage night that was decades old still gripped her insides like it had just happened.

What had she wanted? She thought then about Barlow and his confession on the plane. How he never loved her, how she was his token rich girl with blond hair and good breeding. She had felt love for him, hadn't she? She'd told herself Barlow was her second chance to escape, but how had she not seen his burning need to conquer Wilshire? Had her entire life been about repeating history? Finding ways to feel as bad about herself as she did every time her mother looked at her? Was everything she had ever done part of this formula that was now being laid out by Dr. Wright—this deadly cocktail of childhood dysfunction and low self-esteem?

She felt a tear roll down her face and it shocked her back from the past. She could not afford this self-indulgence. Not in front of all these people. Not with Barlow watching her. This was not about her.

With the slightest movement, she brushed a strand of hair from her face, and with it the tear that had found its way out. Then she tilted her head in a subtle, curious way. She would sit there for the hour, remember to smile at the comic breaks that would surely come because that was the rough-and-tumble tone the doctor had chosen. She would do all of that. But that was all. She would not, could not, continue to listen. The night was far from over.

She discreetly pulled her BlackBerry from her coat pocket and read the screen. Then she caught Eva's attention. Eva nodded, her expression solemn, and it settled Rosalyn's nerves as she leaned back against her seat. After a few moments, Eva whispered something to her husband, then excused herself and headed for the door.

 

 

 

 

 

C
AIT RUSHED DOWN THE
stairs. She'd spent close to an hour getting ready. The shower, shaving, plucking, blow-drying and curling. Then the body spray, the choosing of clothing, the dressing and makeup. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking.

Marta was upstairs with the little ones. Her parents were gone. She carried her shoes in her hands so she wouldn't make a sound.

There was only one way out that would be silent and dark, and that was through the kitchen. If she went anywhere near the backyard, the floodlights would come on. In the front, the dog would bark.

She walked across the marble floor, past the island with the stools, the massive black cooktop and refrigerator drawers. She reached the back end where her mother kept her computer and desk. The mudroom was just beyond it and she needed a coat. She was almost past it when she saw a paper on the ground.

Looking back first to make sure she was still alone, she picked it up and began to place it back on her mother's desk. But then she saw the name on the letter.

Dear George and Betsy,

It was so nice to see you in Florida. Hope you are continuing to enjoy the warm weather. We're freezing up north!

I'm writing about the consideration of the Conrad family for membership. As you know, I am in favor of supporting the Livingstons, who are a lovely couple. I have been informed that the committee is leaning towards the Conrads, but I would like to discuss the matter upon your return next week for your granddaughter's christening. I still have my concerns, as you know. Call at your convenience.

Yours truly,

Rosalyn Barlow

Cait read it again until she realized why it had captured her interest. As she set it down on the desk, the pieces fell like dominoes.
TF
.
The Bear. The guy who screwed her then never called. The guy from the junior class. And now that guy was hitting on a girl who belonged to a club—the club his parents wanted to belong to because they were losing ground in Wilshire.

She wanted to scream. How could this be? She fought to deny it, to deny the evidence, but it was all there in front of her. She saw the headlights through the trees. They were not moving; the car was parked at the edge of her property.

She had been consumed by a torturous wanting whose antidote was waiting for her in that car, and now the choice was no longer a hazy pool of maybe's.
Maybe he likes me. Maybe this will be it, the one thing that will make him mine.
She knew the answer now. It was undeniable. She meant nothing. And still the wanting remained.

Moving even faster than before, Cait grabbed her coat and headed outside.

 

 

 

 

 

J
ACKS SET HER KEYS
down on the counter. The house was still.

“Are the girls asleep?” she asked the nanny, who was ready to leave for her weekend. It was her time off and she had already stayed later than she'd wanted to.

“They're quiet. Sleeping? I couldn't say.”

Jacks nodded and said good-bye. As the woman's car receded down the driveway, Jacks locked the door, turned out the lights.

“Are you coming up?” David's voice startled her.

“God,” she said. “Don't do that. Not tonight.”

Standing on the other side of the darkened room, she could barely make out the shape of his face. He'd taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and was now leaning casually against the doorframe as if they had just come home from a fabulous dinner party, or a play in the city. But the night's events had been far from any of that.

“Are you coming up?” he asked again, and she could tell by the tone of his voice that he had returned from that other place, not completely, but as much as he could. She stared at his body, let his voice settle inside her, this man she'd lived with for seventeen years. The man she'd loved, and still did after everything. Beside him, she could see the phone that she'd answered
that day after Thanksgiving. Beyond him, she could see the hallway and the foyer, the front door where the intruder had entered. And yet, turning her eyes back to him, hearing his voice, she could almost believe that none of this had really happened.

She smiled and walked to where he stood. “I'm tired,” she said. Then she walked past him toward the stairs and he followed, silently. On the second floor, she let him pass and retreat to the bedroom. He looked back at her for a brief moment, but she waved him on. She needed to see her children. Opening the door to Beth's room, Jacks found her sleeping, her little body all curled up beneath an overstuffed quilt. She walked to the bed and pressed her face against her daughter's, letting the warm breath touch her skin, and it felt like life itself, pure and untouched. There had been so much talk about undoing damage, damage that had been done to children unknowingly, innocently, by the most loving but ignorant parents. It had gone on for nearly two hours, the lecture then questions and answers, this talk about degradation and self-destruction, the corruption of young bodies, young souls.