The Road Taken (36 page)

And yet, her surprise gift was Joan. They talked often on the phone, and when they did, Joan talked about Markie like a proud mother. She thought Rose was the only one who knew. None of the others mentioned it; it was part of their history, not their business really, too charged. It was easier just to try not to think about it.

Joan had changed, she was softer, kinder, happier. It had taken her a long time to grow up. Rose felt that Trevor had been a part of that growth as well, because he made her feel secure.

Sometimes Peter came over to visit, bringing Rose a new gadget or fixing whatever was broken in the house. He had a nice girlfriend, Jamie, who worked for animal rights, apparently, a worthy but not a well-paying vocation, and they had been living together for several years but they hadn’t gotten married. When Rose asked why not he said it was financial, that they weren’t on their feet yet. He had a part-time job as an outside reader for Joan’s publishing company—a job Joan had gotten him and that Peggy unreasonably resented—but he still wanted to make movies, and he didn’t want to tie himself down. “But in two years you’ll be thirty!” Rose said, as if that were the end of the world. In her day it had been.

That summer Peter brought her an extravagant—for him—gift: a new air conditioner for the downstairs bedroom in Rose’s house, the room that had once been Hugh’s and then was Ginger’s, and since Rose had been decorating had been made into a den. She thought it was generous but strange. Then he told her why.

“Tell me how this idea sits with you, Grandma,” Peter said. “I would like to move in with you. Me and Jamie. We’ll pay you rent. You shouldn’t be alone and it would be a good arrangement for us. Great house, great neighborhood, and a separate private entrance. That beautiful room shouldn’t just be empty. We’ll be company for you.”

“I don’t need company,” Rose said. “You’re a grown man, you should live on your own.” She loved Peter, and she liked Jamie well enough, but she didn’t want people around anymore.

“Just for a while?” he pleaded. “Jamie is an excellent vegetarian cook.”

“I have a cook.”

“We have three cute cats and a brilliant little dog she rescued from the pound. They’ll fill the whole house with life.”

“And babies.”

“No, they’re spayed and neutered. Grandma, you have no idea what pets bring to a home.”

“I just redecorated,” Rose said. “No.”

“They’ll stay in our room. They’re used to it, we live in a studio. We don’t smoke, neither of us drink too much, you won’t believe how neat we are . . .”

“What about your asthma? Aren’t you allergic to cats and dogs?”

“I have my inhaler. Love conquers all.”

“Peter, why can’t you live with your parents?”

“My
parents?
” He sounded horrified. “In the suburbs? Listening to my dad pontificate?”

“They probably wouldn’t approve of you living at home with your girlfriend when you’re not married to her,” Rose said. “I know Peggy and Ed.”

He looked at her with that wide-eyed look she remembered from when he was a little boy, when she always gave him what he wanted. “Do you disapprove?” he asked.

Rose thought about it. No, she didn’t care. She had adjusted to a lot worse, and Peter and Jamie were old enough to know what they were doing. She shook her head no. In her day an unmarried man lived with his family until he had a family of his own, but that was in her day. The next generation couldn’t wait to get away. And now here was her adult grandson wanting to come back. She had never thought this would happen to her. She didn’t know whether to feel threatened or flattered.

“Just think about it, Grandma,” Peter said. “I know it’s a shock; just give it some thought.”

“I’ll think about it,” Rose said. She gave him a strict look. “This is merely a hypothetical question, but how much rent?”

So finally Peter and his girlfriend moved into the downstairs room with the private entrance, but of course they used most of the house. It was not Peter, finally, who changed Rose’s mind, but Peggy. Peggy called her and apologized. “I can’t imagine why you’d want my son living with you,” Peggy said. “What an inconvenience. I told him not to dare ask, but you know how Peter is, he won’t listen to me.”

So at least it wasn’t a plot, Rose thought, relieved. For a while she had wondered if Peggy and Ed had cooked the whole thing up so she wouldn’t be alone and they wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. And, in a way, as she thought about it, having young people in the house again might be more pleasant than annoying. As long as they stayed out of her way when she wanted to be alone.

They promised they would.

Chapter Forty-Five

At eighteen, it was Markie’s opinion that each generation had a duty to be better than the one that had come before. Wasn’t that what everyone’s parents wanted—normal parents, anyway—to give their children advantages they hadn’t enjoyed? When the children refused this gift the parents felt betrayed. Fortunately, it would not be so hard to do better than her mother had, she thought, since Peggy hadn’t done much of anything. Except, of course, bring them up, and of that at least her children were aware, if not particularly grateful, since they assumed this was the obligation of decent parents.

Markie knew she’d had a baby sister who died before she herself was born, and that she had been adopted afterward because her parents loved children. When she got old enough to understand these things she had asked how her baby sister had died, and her mother had told her it was an auto accident, that she had been hit by a car. Peggy was so unexpectedly close to tears, even after so long, that Markie hadn’t asked much more. You read about these hideous events every day in the newspapers, heard about them on TV. She sensed she had been adopted as a kind of palliative, to ease their grief. As a small child Markie had had a fantasy of a garden of babies, like cabbages, available to be picked—take one home and be happy, go on with your life. Thus Peggy and Ed had found her.

Later on, of course, since the age of reason came soon, Markie had asked about her own parents, the ones who had given her away. Who were they? Hadn’t they loved her? Couldn’t they take care of her? She knew about the disgrace and difficulty of being an unmarried mother (such horror stories were what people of her mother’s generation used to keep their daughters in line) and Markie asked if her birth mother wasn’t married.

Peggy said no one knew anything about her parents because the adoption agency wasn’t allowed to tell. That led Markie to wonder if there had been something wrong with them. But, because the other fantasy of an adopted child was of the mysterious parents who were preferable to one’s own, she sometimes dreamed that her real parents were brilliant, or talented, or royalty, so that she was heiress to something remarkable. Eventually she gave that up. Reason prevailed; her birth parents were probably average people, possibly desperate, unable to keep her because of the circumstances of their lives. Maybe they were very young. Some day, she supposed, she would try to find them. She wondered if she would be disappointed.

This was part of her history, but as Markie grew older she seldom thought about it. Everyone had a story of some kind, even though hers was an enigma. When you thought about these other stories, sometimes the very ordinariness of her adoptive parents seemed a blessing. The long-ago death of her sister was grief enough. She understood that her family was lucky that in her lifetime there had been no major events to make their lives dramatic.

When she had told Aunt Joan her feelings about her annoyingly secretive adoption and her difficult mother and their boring lives, Aunt Joan had laughed. Markie wasn’t insulted. Aunt Joan laughed at odd things for no particular reason, and Markie was used to it. “When you look back, years from now,” Aunt Joan said, “you’ll see that you had a very happy childhood.”

Markie had been accepted at three colleges, including Harvard-Radcliffe, which was the one she had chosen to attend. She would be living in a coed dorm at Harvard, a concept that disturbed Peggy and Ed, but didn’t bother Markie because she had been used to living with her brother Peter. She would have a suite, with two female roommates, and, of course, her own telephone. She and the roommates had written to each other and she liked them already. One was from Montana and the other was Chinese. She could see that college was going to expand her universe considerably, and as far as she was concerned she would never go back to Larchmont, except as a guest.

Aunt Joan had gone to Radcliffe herself, for a brief ill-fated time long ago, until she flunked out—in the days when the two schools, Harvard and Radcliffe, were separate, one for girls, one for men. “Girls” and “men” were offensive terms, Markie thought, since the girls and men were the same age. Aunt Joan had confessed to Markie that not having finished at Radcliffe was a regret of hers because it was such a good college. “And I suppose your parents were upset,” Markie said.

“Oh, everything I did upset them,” Aunt Joan had replied lightly. “Maybe you’ll go. I’d like you to.” For sentimental reasons as much as anything else, Markie applied, and when she got in she was glad.

She had drawn the line, though, at majoring in English and going into publishing. There was a limit to how much you could echo someone else’s life, no matter how much you admired that person. Besides, Markie thought, Peter was working for Joan’s company, and she knew that even for Aunt Joan, who was successful, publishing paid very little.

It was important to make money, to be independent, to live well. She could see how much prices had gone up in the few years since she’d had an allowance to spend and started to notice these things. Despite her theory of advancement, Markie was already beginning to fear that her generation wasn’t going to have the economic rewards for themselves and their children that their parents had given to them and expected them to have forever; everything was just too expensive. She knew that the big house in the suburbs hadn’t made her happy, but there was another existence out there somewhere that would, and she wanted to be able to get it for herself. Being told no, or having someone else hand it to her, was not part of her plan. She did not intend to marry until her life was set, although of course her mother believed that marriage was what did that.

Law school was the big thing for women now, and Markie was thinking that after college she might get a law degree; maybe at Harvard Law, which was a prestigious school. If you were a lawyer you could get a respected, even an interesting, job, you could make good money at the right firm, and you would know your legal rights, which would help you protect yourself in the world.

Her parents didn’t even pretend anymore that they weren’t disappointed in Peter. He still hadn’t made the independent film he was dreaming of, and he still wouldn’t get a full-time job in publishing because he claimed it would suck all his creativity. Aunt Joan’s throwing him novels to read as a freelancer kept him from starving, and Grandma gave him a roof over his head. When he wasn’t reading manuscripts he was writing a novel of his own, but after all this time none of them really believed anything would come of it. No one asked him when he would marry his live-in girlfriend, and Peggy and Ed preferred not to mention her, although Markie thought they should be glad he wasn’t gay.

Markie supposed Angel would be like her. The family, too, naturally assumed it, because Angel had always copied her older sister. We girls are the strong ones, Markie thought, and she was pleased by that.

So at last she was leaving, to start the rest of her life. Angel was watching her pack, in the room in their parents’ house that as children she and Angel had shared, and now was hers alone since Angel had taken over Peter’s old room. Both of them were feeling rather sad knowing it would seem strange to be without this person who had been there for their entire lives. It was the end of childhood. “Take this sweater,” Markie said. “You always liked it. Otherwise you won’t be able to borrow it again until I get back for vacation.”

“Thanks.” Angel took the sweater and smiled. Then she bit her thumb. Her nails, Markie noted, were looking a mess. “I’ve decided not to apply to college,” Angel said.

It took a moment for this to sink in. Not get a higher education, be a failure? Not you too! “
Why not?
” Markie asked, appalled.

Angel shrugged and looked guilty. “I’ve been going to a psychiatrist.”

Her normal little copycat sister? “For what?” Markie said. “Why would you need a shrink?”

“I needed to know who I was. I love you, but you and I are too alike. I need to be my own person.”

Markie looked at her sister, younger but taller than she was, with straight dark hair, not blond like the rest of them, the child she had once overheard someone joke was the adopted one instead of herself. “How long has this been going on?” Markie asked, dismayed.

“The therapist or the problem?”

“Either.”

“I’ve been in therapy for nine months. Twice a week. Didn’t you notice I’ve changed?”

“No, I didn’t notice.”

“Well, I have,” Angel said.

Markie looked at her with new interest. What did I do to her? she thought. Was I too controlling, too much of a role model? It must have been hard on her to be a younger sister, close enough to want to be the same, young enough not to be able to do it right. “Who knows you’re in therapy?” she asked.

“Well,” Angel said, “Grandma does.”

“Grandma?”

“She’s paying for it.”

Markie sat down on the bed. “Wow,” she said, “this is a surprise.” They both had their New York connections; she had been seeing Aunt Joan, and Angel had been visiting Peter and Grandma; confessions had been exchanged, and suddenly there was a psychiatrist in the background. Generous Grandma, with her own money now, and her own secrets too. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“I thought it was a better idea not to tell them. They’d think I was crazy, or that they did something wrong. I couldn’t ask them for the money. They’d never understand. Besides, I’m not going to be in therapy forever.”

“I hope not,” Markie said.

“No, I’m going to go to art school.”

“Instead of college?”

“Yes.”

It was better than nothing, Markie thought, and a relief that she had a goal after all; but she wondered, for a brief, nervous moment, if Angel was going to become a dilettante like Peter. “I didn’t know you wanted to paint.”

“Remember I was always scribbling, those little sketches nobody paid attention to?” Angel said. “I really want to be an artist. You can be the successful one, the lawyer with the career. I’ll be the artist, and maybe, who knows, I’ll make a living at it. I’m not like Peter, if that’s what you’re thinking. Mom and Dad won’t complain for long. They were willing to pay for a dorm, so they can pay for a little apartment for me in New York. I’m going to go to the Art Students’ League. I’ve already been accepted for when I graduate from high school.”

It was true she had never paid much attention to Angel’s drawings. Not that Angel had hidden them, but there had always been the feeling that they had been a private little hobby and not worth mentioning. I overwhelmed her, Markie thought. She wanted something just for herself and she thought no one would think they were worthwhile. Poor kid. “When are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

“As soon as you leave in your blaze of glory.”

“You’re going to tell them about the therapist too?”

“Not unless they give me a hard time.”

“Actually, I’m impressed with your initiative,” Markie said.

“Wish me luck?”

“Of course I do.”

“If you want, I’ll give you a painting to take to school and put on your wall,” Angel said. “I mean, it’s not as good as I’m going to be, but it will be something to remind you of me.”

“I’d love that,” Markie said.

Angel came back with a picture in her hand. It was a watercolor, and she had put it into a cardboard folder to protect it. When Markie looked she saw that it was a rendition of two girls, one dark, the other fair, sitting close together, the older one reading a book to the younger one. They bore some resemblance to herself and Angel. “Every artist starts doing paintings of things and people they know,” Angel said. “Then you get your own style and it can get wild. So think of this as part one.”

“It’s great,” Markie said. “It reminds me of Mary Cassatt.”

“Mary Cassatt? I hate her. She’s too romantic. I hope you don’t think mine looks like that.”

“I just meant it’s professional,” Markie said. “I’ll frame it when I get to school. You’ll be the first artist in the family.”

“Not really,” Angel said. “We have Uncle Hugh.”

“He’s not an artist. He’s a decorator and a drag queen.” Everybody knew about Hugh’s private life; it had gone into the treasure trove of family legend.

“Do you know he designed and made his own costumes? Grandma said he could have been anything he wanted to in the arts. She says he was always very talented. And you, of course, take after Grandpa Ben. If you don’t go to Harvard Law School you can get in to Yale. You’d be a legacy.”

He wasn’t my real grandfather, Markie thought, but it was nice of you to say it. She would have liked to take after somebody, and she knew she did, but who that person was she had no idea. She didn’t even have a medical history of her own, and some day she would need one. It was as if she came from nowhere.

Her mother had told her the records of her adoption were sealed, which was always done in New York back in those days. Of course Markie knew there were reasons—people didn’t want you to find them—but still that was an insensitive thing to do, she thought. It only made you more curious. It occurred to her once again that someday she might try to find out who her real parents were. There had to be some way, particularly for an attorney.