“Is there really such a difference?”
“Well, for one, he’s alive. I bet that’s a big difference to him.” I threw the covers off and walked toward the bathroom.
“But you’re still alone.”
“By all means, don’t pull any punches.”
“It’s not a punch, Bree. It’s a fact. All of you young-ish people think you can just decide that you’re not happy and, poof, bye-bye marriage.”
“Yes, that’s exactly how it happened.” I slid my underwear down and lowered myself onto the cold toilet seat. “We just waved our magic wands and decided to deconstruct our lives.”
“Well.”
“Well, what?”
“I’m merely saying that no one else knew anything was wrong with your relationship.” By anyone else she means herself. Because she makes it so easy to talk to her about these kinds of things.
“It’s not that there was anything wrong.”
“Yet you’re not together anymore.”
“We grew apart. We fell out of love. Jeremy isn’t a bad guy. He just wasn’t the guy for me anymore.” To be more accurate, I fell out of love. Jeremy would never have left. He told me that when we were signing the divorce papers.
“Whatever you say.” She rejected my explanation for the umpteenth time. “You’re just lucky you have your family to support you.”
“I don’t need your money, Mom.” I flushed the toilet.
“Please don’t go to the bathroom while you’re on the phone with me.”
I clenched my teeth and got back under the covers.
“By the way, I’m fine with being alone.”
“If you’re happy, I’m happy.” So not true.
“At least for now,” I added, because I’m well aware that she wants me to meet someone as soon as possible. That way I can buy one of those car stickers that picture a complete family, and she can reduce the whole “situation” to a glitch rather than a massive malfunction.
“Obviously, I only want what’s best for you.” My mother shifts to martyr mode when she thinks it’ll work to her advantage.
I softened. “I know.”
“How’s that gorgeous granddaughter of mine?”
“She’s good.”
“Tell her Glamma sends her love.” Glamma is the name that my mother chose for herself when Chloe was born. It’s short for Glamorous Grandma, because the idea of being just Grandma was far too horrifying.
“I will.”
“I saw Lois Millman yesterday at the club.”
“That’s nice.”
“Not really. She’s a pain in my ass.” Huh, can’t imagine what that must feel like.
“Okay, not nice.”
“All she wears is Lilly Pulitzer. She looks like a garden every time I see her. And her dress was way too short. She should know there comes an age when it’s inappropriate to prance around in anything above knee-length.”
“Noted.” I’d like to think I have a few more years of mid-thigh in me. “How’s Lois?”
“Eh. Harvey has something with his gallbladder. Acid reflux, gas; he’s a mess.”
“Gross.” A vision of Harvey Millman farting his way around the golf course passed through my head.
“I couldn’t agree more. But their son, Andy, is still single. She showed me a picture of him on her phone. Very handsome. Tall and dark.”
“Isn’t he a starving artist or something? I’m surprised you’d endorse him.”
“God no, that’s Nancy and Gary’s son. I can’t remember his name. Anyway, I have way more sense than to set you up with an artist. That’s not a real job.”
“Of course not.”
“Andy is a lawyer.”
“I don’t need another lawyer.” The long hours, the dexterous negotiating, the convoluted disputes over who finished the milk.
“What, so now all lawyers are off the table?”
“No. I don’t know. I’m not ready to date yet.”
“It’s been four months. You’re not getting any younger.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” I grumbled.
“I’m just saying.” I imagined her fastening her palm to her chest, as in, Don’t shoot the messenger. “Can I give him your phone number?”
“No, you cannot.”
“Bree.”
“Mom.”
“How about your email, then?”
“Again, no.”
“What’s the big deal? Let him take you out for a drink.”
“I just told you I’m not ready.”
“It’s an email!”
“You know what? Fine,” I said, surrendering. Easy enough to blow someone off over email.
“Great.” I could feel her smirking. “Though it’s probably easier for him to text you. It’s all texts, texts, texts these days. It’s like no one even sends emails anymore.”
“Plenty of people send emails.”
“Lois said he’s on Facebook. You should look him up. Andy Millman. Or did she say it was under Andrew? I can ask. Lois and I text.”
“I’ll find him.”
“You might want to update your photo while you’re at it. Something with a little makeup.” My profile picture is of me and Chloe eating massive ice cream cones on the beach in Longboat Key, where my parents’ condo is. She’s right in that I was wearing no makeup, but I felt beautiful. I love that shot.
“Good advice.”
“Mock me all you want.”
“I wasn’t mocking you.” I was.
“Andy has no kids. He loves tennis, skiing—”
“And sunsets?”
“Maybe, why?”
“Forget it.” Another image on the television screen caught my eye.
E! was showing an old docu-special of the famous crime novelist Ward DeFleur. I’ve read all her novels, and when I finally met her at her book signing about six months ago, two days after Jeremy and I decided to separate, I ugly-cried in her face. Not one of my proudest moments.
“He goes to Aspen over Christmas—”
“Hey, Mom.” I interrupted her sales pitch. “I have to go. Someone’s beeping through.”
“Who?” In other words, Who could be more important than I am?
“A friend you don’t know. I have to take it.”
“Okay, if you want to be secretive about it.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.” We hung up, and I turned up the volume on the TV.
There was a photo of Ward and her daughter, Stevie, when she was much younger, splashing around in a swimming pool. Their cheeks were pink from too much sun, and Stevie was laughing, carefree. That’s when it hit me like a hurricane. Something horrible happened to Stevie the same night I cried at the signing. I heard about it on the radio the next day, and it evoked the throbbing memory of my college roommate, Lisa, who’d been raped our freshman year.
We were at a party on campus, she was drunk, and I begged her to come back to the dorm with me. But Lisa wouldn’t budge; she wanted to hang out with a group of senior guys, one of whom seemed really into her. The guilt of leaving Lisa that night still lives inside me. Ward must feel that way, on a whole different level. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I put Chloe in danger. Or if something went wrong in my absence.