Robin deposits her purse and two shopping bags on the floor, taking a seat across from me, sighing with exhaustion. Her chocolate-brown suede skirt is short, showing off a long expanse of tanned, toned thigh. Robin manages to ooze sex appeal in a barely tasteful way, and I smile remembering what Peter’s sister once said about Robin: that if she had to take one thing to a desert island, it’d be lube. The comment should have bothered me, conjuring Peter’s steamy days gone by, but for some reason, Robin has never made me jealous in that way, not even the few times I’ve seen her in a bikini. The only time she bothers me is when she seems to still be in love with Peter, like the time we came to pick up Aidan at her place and she showed me their wedding album, prominently displayed on her coffee table. What made it worse is that Peter just shook it off with a laugh, saying what he always says, “That’s Robin.”
It’s not that I don’t want Peter to get along with her, and I actually like her pretty well myself—she can be incredibly funny and fun to be around—but I do resent it when they act as if they’re still a couple.
“How are you, Robin?” I ask her now.
She sighs, then launches into a diatribe about how busy and stressed she is. She is the busiest, most stressed nonworking person I’ve ever met in my life. In mid-sentence about a charity ball she’s chairing, she glances at my big toe, the polish chipping as of this morning.
“Oh, honey. What’d you do to that big toe? Stub it?” she says in a Southern accent. She grew up in Connecticut, but went to Auburn and turns the accent on and off when it suits her.
I shrug, glancing at Peter, engrossed in conversation with Aidan, and barb her back. “Who knows? Maybe playing tennis with Peter?”
This is a purposeful statement as Peter told me that it was a bone of contention during their marriage. It wasn’t that he wanted her to run marathons or scale mountains, but she refused to so much as get her head wet on trips to the beach. He said it was a symbol for so much else wrong with them, namely that they had little in common, that she was materialistic and obsessed with her appearance (summed up by her face-lift at age forty-four).
But the biggest problem in their marriage—and ultimately the deal-breaker—was her chronic dishonesty. She never had an affair—at least none that Peter knew of—or told a huge lie, but there were enough little lies and half-truths to build a compelling case against her. The Devi Kroell alligator hobo she bought wasn’t “that expensive” (it was four thousand dollars—a problem in and of itself). She only had one drink, not six. Her college boyfriend friended her on Facebook, not the other way around. In fact, Robin seemed to fit the definition of a pathological liar, telling lies when there seemed to be no reason to do so—about completely insignificant things—like not telling the truth about what she had for breakfast. Peter said when he could no longer trust her, he no longer liked her. My stomach churns with worry that he will feel the same about me now.
Robin chitchats (mostly to herself) for a few more minutes, then abruptly stands and prances to the door. “I gotta go. Have a hot date!” she says, passing Peter and Aidan on her way to the door.
To her obvious disappointment, Peter looks bored with her routine, showing no interest in her love life. Or her legs, for that matter.
“Don’t you want to know who I’m seeing?” she asks him, raising her voice an octave, cocking her head to the side as Aidan migrates toward the couch, pulling an Ursula Le Guin novel out of his messenger bag. I have never seen a boy read as much as he does, which he obviously doesn’t get from his mother who once, unabashedly, announced to me that she “hates to read.” Who admits to something like that?
“Not particularly,” Peter says, with an amused look. It’s almost as if he’s still fond of her—in the way you’d be fond of a dog with a few charming tricks. “But you’re welcome to tell me if you’d like.”
“I’ll tell you. I wouldn’t want to keep it a secret,” she says, then looks at me for a long beat.
My heart starts to pound. Did he tell her? Surely he wouldn’t do that to me. But what else could she mean by such a statement, such a lingering gaze my way? I give him the benefit of the doubt, waiting for her comedy routine to continue, wondering what I could borrow from her repertoire to put in a script. I’ve done it before.
“Nathan Bilet,” she says.
Peter stares at her blankly.
“God, Peter. He’s a world-renowned sculptor,” she says. “You remember, you sat next to him at the Joyful Heart Gala a few years ago? He was just written up in the Arts section?”
She turns to me and says, “Nathan does kinetic sculpture. Art with moving parts.”
“Yeah. I got that,” I deadpan as I stand and join Peter, slipping my arm around his waist, half on purpose, half because I feel the sudden urge to touch him.
“And he does sound sculpture, too. He’s so avant-garde,” she says with a dreamy expression.
I wonder if she might define “avant-garde” for me, or perhaps “sound,” but when she doesn’t, I say, “Well. I bet he’s a fascinating fellow.”
“Yes, he is. And he is French,” she says, fanning herself. “A little young for me, but I think I can keep up!”
“I’m sure you can, Rob,” Peter says, reaching out to pat her shoulder and gently guiding her along. “You have yourself a great time.”
“Are you pushing me out the door?” she says.
Peter smiles. “No. I wouldn’t want you to be late for your date. It might be Nathan’s pet peeve.”
She beams, then shouts over to Aidan, “Love you, honey! See you tomorrow night!”
“Love you, too, Mom,” he says, without looking up from his book.
“Well. Okay. I’ll be on my way,” she says, stalling. “I know you two have lots to discuss.” She looks at me again, and this time it’s unmistakable. She definitely knows. “Just do me a favor?”
“What’s that?” I say, trying to control my hurt and anger that he would confide in her about me.
She drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t give Aidan all the details. It’s just … not a topic I want to introduce to him. At his age,” she says, relishing the chance to be the responsible parent—not her usual role.
“Oh, I understand, Robin,” I say as sarcastically as possible.
“He knows about the birds and the bees,” she says. “But still…”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aidan glance over at his parents, as if he knows exactly what’s going on, then stand and make his way to his bedroom where he will likely spend most of the night.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything bad by that,” Robin says, turning to look at me with confusion, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she did wrong. Crazily enough, I think she might not. She’s not manipulative or mean, she’s just dumb.
But Peter knows exactly what’s going on. So as she gives us a wave with her pinky and waltzes out the door, I stare at the floor, unable to make eye contact with him. “How could you?” I say.
“How could I what?” he says.
“Tell her.”
“I didn’t tell her,” he says, putting his arm around me.
I shake free. “Oh, puh-lease, Peter.”
“I told Aidan,” Peter says, lowering his voice. “He must have told his mother.”
“You told Aidan?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
I recognize a trick question when I hear one; if I say yes, I’m implying that I don’t see Aidan as an extension of him. A big problem when you want to marry someone. Still, I believe he should have asked me first. I believe we should have talked about it before he told his son, anyone for that matter, especially knowing that Aidan could tell Robin. I make these points to Peter, trying to remain calm and leave Robin out of the discussion. This isn’t about her.
“He’s my son, Marian. And I saw him that morning. Right after I met Kirby … Besides, we had talked about going to dinner, the four of us. So I assumed it was okay to talk to him. And wasn’t that sort of a desi
red by-product of Kirby’s visit? That you were going to face this story and come clean with everything?”
“Come clean?” I say. “See? Even you think it’s shameful.”
“Okay. Poor choice of words,” Peter says. “I thought you were going to … make it … no longer a big secret. Of course—that was before I knew it was a big secret even from the father.”
“God, Peter,” I say. “It happened eighteen years ago. Why is this so important to you?”
“Because it is,” Peter says. “It’s the most important thing in the world, actually. Having a child. And the fact that you don’t seem to see it that way—”
I cut him off. “Gives you another reason not to marry me?”
He looks at me, his silence telling.
“I have to go,” I say, feeling numb, then scared by how numb I am.
I wait for Peter to stop me, but he just watches me. As I walk out of his apartment, the door closing behind me, a feeling of déjà vu washes over me. The feeling of leaving, even when you don’t want to. The feeling that sometimes things just can’t be fixed.
13
kirby
“Want one?” Mr. Tully asks me, motioning to an open box of doughnuts as he finishes one and starts another. I’m in his office on a get-out-of-gym free pass, purportedly to discuss my college plans although we have yet to touch on them. “They’re from Ray’s. Dy-na-mite.”
I shake my head and tell him that powdered doughnuts are too messy, especially when you’re wearing red. And why are there always so many baked goods here, anyway, I ask, then speculate: grateful parents? Bribes from students? Secretaries with a crush? He laughs, looking hotter than usual, then throws his head back and takes a large bite, powdered sugar flying everywhere. He licks his thumb, and as I stare at his lips, a vision of Mr. Tully making out pops into my head. Not with me—I’ve never gone there—but a giggly, big-breasted, sorority-girl type. Hoping that he had better taste than that in college, or at least now, I change my image to a slim, intellectual brunette, then squint over at the time on his computer monitor. Only twenty minutes left in the period.
“So,” I say, reaching over to his desk to swat at a grinning, slightly maniacal-looking Nebraska Cornhusker baseball bobblehead doll. “I have some news for you.”
“You finally memorized the quadratic formula?” he asks with a wink. “’Cause that’d be huge.”
“Ha. No. And it’s not nice to mock someone’s academic shortcomings,” I say. “I mean—that’s the stuff that could put me in serious therapy later in life. My own guidance counselor calling me stupid.”
“Stupid? No,” he says. “Stubbornly refusing to learn, hmmm … yes.” He points at me dramatically, grinning.
“Anyway,” I say, dismissing the topic with a wave of my hand. “This has nothing to do with math. It has to do with where I went last week.”
He glances up at the ceiling, still smiling, as if trying to come up with something funny, as Scooter Banks appears in the glass window, then opens the door, pokes his head in and bellows, “Yo! Mr. T! You like updog?”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘What’s updog?’”
Scooter bursts into laughter and shouts, “What up with you, dawwwg?!”
“Get back to class, Scooter,” Mr. Tully says, shooing him.
Still cackling, Scooter saunters down the hall as I roll my eyes and mutter, “What a dullard.”
“Impressive vocabulary,” Mr. Tully says. “See? You are most definitely not stupid.”
I smile, thinking the SAT class I took came in handy after all, and then come out with it. “So I met my birth mother. Over our long weekend. I found her in New York City. I went there. Alone.”
Mr. Tully whistles, then gives me a look that I want to can and save forever. It is one of true respect. He is impressed and intrigued, and although I know he likes me, this is a first with him. With anyone for that matter. He motions for me to continue, and I tell him the whole story from the call to the agency six weeks ago to the bus ride to New York City to my late-evening knock at her door.
“Wow,” he says. Then repeats the word twice more.
I grin, continuing, telling him all about Marian and her life. He listens more intently than Belinda or my sister, as I knew he would, and his first question is a quiet, thoughtful one. “Do you think you’re alike?” he asks.
“Physically?” I say.
He nods, says we can start there, and I tell him yes, you can most definitely tell we are related. “Our coloring is the same. We have the same basic build. And the same big ears.” I smile, blushing.
Mr. Tully taps his fist to his chest and says, “What about here? Are you alike here?”
It is the sort of thing that would sound cheesy coming from anyone else, especially coupled with the gesture to the heart, but he is cool and cute enough to get away with it.
“Not really, no … Maybe a tiny bit,” I say.
“How so?”
I shrug and say, “It’s hard to explain. She’s smarter than I am. More of a go-getter.” I laugh and continue, “Well. That’s kind of the understatement of the century…”
“I don’t know—she might be more of a go-getter but I doubt that she’s smarter. You’re her daughter after all. And you’re very smart.”
“Yeah. Says you.”
“Says your test scores. Tell me more.”
“I don’t know. She’s sort of quiet. Like me. But she’s really good with people, too,” I say, picturing her in the writers’ room. “Like she always knows exactly what to say and do … And is always sort of … put together.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “Better than fumbling around like I do.”
“You don’t fumble.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“You just feel that way. For a teenager, you’re very … self-possessed.”
“Whatever that means.”
“It means you sound like you have something else in common with your birth mother.”
I shake my head. “No. She’s perfect. Her hair and skin and clothes. And her apartment. It’s all perfect and stylish. Everything.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Not for her.”
“Well, then it sounds kind of … boring?” Mr. Tully says.
I shrug. “Well, it’s not me. That’s for sure,” I say, thinking of the clothes she bought me—that I still have yet to wear. I nearly tell him, but don’t want to put the feeling I have into words—that she tried to buy me off for the lie she told, like, Hey, sorry your dad doesn’t know you exist. But check out these Prada shoes!
“What is it?” Mr. Tully says. It’s uncanny how he does that—asks me what I’m thinking right at the moment I’m having a pretty major thought.
I swallow, stare at my hands, and decide to give him some of the dirt. “So. As it turns out … She never told anyone about me.”
He cocks his head to the side. “No one?”
“Nope. Not a soul but her mother.”
If he is shocked, he pretends not to be, and instead cuts right to the chase and asks, “How did that make you feel?”
“I don’t know. I guess it surprised me.”
“Did it hurt your feelings?”
“A little,” I admit, then quickly add, “But whatever. No biggie.”
“So your birth father doesn’t know about you?” Mr. Tully says.
“No,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn, as if this says something about me—instead of her. “She never told him she was pregnant.”
When he doesn’t respond, I say, “I know. Shocking, right?”
“I’m a guidance counselor,” Mr. Tully says, cracking his knuckles. “Nothing shocks me.”
“Well, I wish she’d had you to talk to,” I say. “Back in the nineties.”
“Why’s that?” Mr. Tully probes. “Do you wish she had made another decision?”
“No,” I quickly reply. “I’m not saying th
at. I just wish … she had told him about me.”
“Of course you do,” he says.
“And you know what? I think she does, too. And I think maybe someone like you could have convinced her of that.”
“Well, then,” Mr. Tully says. “What are you two waiting for?”
“What?” I say.
“Why don’t you go find him? Like you did with her?”
“It’s too late,” I say, even though I spent two more hours last night looking for him on the computer. “At least it’s too late to do it with her. Her life is all perfect and stuff.”
“It’s not perfect, Kirby,” Mr. Tully says just as the bell rings over the intercom. “And it’s definitely not too late.”
14
marian
On Tuesday morning, Peter knocks at my office door, virtually unprecedented without a scheduled meeting (which always take place in his office) and asks if I have a second.
“Sure,” I say, my palms starting to feel clammy. We have not spoken in three days—since I left his apartment—and although I’m not sure what I want him to say, I’m hoping that this visit is personal in nature. But within seconds, I realize he is here for work-related reasons as he opens a file folder and slides the outline of episodes I gave him onto my desk. I notice right away that it is in track-changes mode and the margins are littered with comments.
“You didn’t like it?” I say.
“Of course I liked it. Vicky and I both liked it,” he says, referring to the director of programming, my immediate boss, who would probably be here if Peter and I weren’t dating.
“But there are some things we need to discuss,” he says. My heart sinks. I know this look from last season—and the season before. And the one before that. It’s the look right before he tells me to change everything we’ve written.
I flip through the document, noticing a note in the margin that says “too much drinking.” I point at it and say, “The show takes place in a bar, Peter. Did Norm drink too much on Cheers?”
“Look. Don’t get defensive,” he says.