Another Piece of My Heart

  Even those times, like now, when she absolutely has to and Sophia is busy, she won’t, preferring to try to manage it all, for isn’t that what the modern woman does?

  She puts the cardboard cup of coffee from Peet’s on her desk—thank God for strong coffee, it’s the only thing that enables her to make it through the days—and sits behind the computer, scrolling through to check the e-mails.

  The e-mails take her off on tangents—she looks at sales going on at various manufacturers to see if there is anything her clients might like, spends some time browsing Visual Comfort for sconces for a house she is doing in Tiburon, and responds to the numerous e-mails from suppliers, Realtors, and clients, both potential and real.

  She looks up, finally, to where Cal was sitting, but he is no longer there.

  “Cal?” Her voice has an edge of panic. “Cal?”

  “Here, Mommy,” his little voice says. She turns the corner and finds Cal standing on the bench, both hands flat on the table. He grins in delight as he sees her and lifts his hands to show her.

  “Look, Mommy! I painting!”

  “Oh, shit!” Andi runs over. It is not paint. It is glue. He has spent the last twenty minutes smearing glue all over the board for her client. Her beautiful presentation board, the one she has spent hours putting together, is covered in white, viscous glue.

  “Cal! Get down! Oh no!” Andi is shouting, fury and despair filling her body. Cal, scared, knowing he’s done something wrong, climbs down from the bench.

  “No! Don’t touch anything. Oh, GOD!” Andi grabs him by the hand and whisks him into the bathroom, where she scrubs his hands. “Why did you do that, Cal? You know you’re not allowed to touch Mommy’s work.”

  “I wanted to paint.” He shrugs, not understanding why his mother is so mad, nor what, exactly, he did wrong.

  Andi dries his hands, then goes back to look at the board. It is ruined.

  “I don’t believe it,” she whispers, fingering the fabric that is now sodden, the wallpaper that is transparent. And she bursts into tears.

  * * *

  This is the mothering that no one had told her about, no one had warned her about. She thought it would all be hearts and flowers, she and a darling child, laughing and loving, and sharing moments of bliss.

  No one warned her of the exhaustion. Of the nights when a three-year-old would come into your bedroom, over and over again, complaining of bad dreams, so every sleep pattern would be broken, and you would never feel that you had a decent night’s sleep, that you would hit a midafternoon slump when you truly didn’t know how you would get through the rest of the day.

  No one warned her that she would be ratty and short-tempered because of the tiredness. That as much as she loves her son, there would be times when she would just run out of patience, which was less to do with him and anything he had done—he was, after all, just being a normal three-year-old—and everything to do with her.

  No one told her how to deal with balancing motherhood and work—that she would constantly feel guilty, stretched, unable to complete anything with the ease and detail she had brought to her work prechild.

  And yet, she would not change anything. Even now, with her board ruined, with Cal’s little face looking strained and sad, she would not change a thing. Ethan has suggested, numerous times, they hire a nanny, but how can she?

  Even when she is entirely overwhelmed, she refuses to leave the child-rearing to someone else. She waited too long for this baby, has him only because fate intervened, finally, when she had given up hope entirely, choosing to smile on her.

  “Come here, baby.” She holds out her arms guiltily as Cal climbs onto her lap and rests his head on her chest.

  “I’m sorry I shouted,” she says. “I didn’t mean to shout at you, I was just angry that something I’d worked on very hard was ruined.”

  “I sorry, Mommy,” he says. “I won’t paint again.”

  “Of course you’ll paint again, but you have to ask Mommy first, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy,” he says.

  “All right, darling, let me just make a phone call. You sit here, and I’ll be back in a minute.” Andi walks to the phone to call the client and rearrange.

  * * *

  “Was she okay?” Ethan is calling between jobs to see if Andi wants him to pick up dinner on the way home tonight.

  “She was great. She said it worked better for her anyway, and hopefully by this time next week I can get the samples redelivered.”

  “How’s our darling boy now?”

  “Sleeping. He crashed out on the sofa. He still really needs these afternoon naps, but he just refuses to go down.”

  “What does the pediatrician say?”

  “Not to worry about it. That they stop them when they’re ready and he’s obviously ready.” She sighs. “He’s not, though. The poor little monkey’s exhausted.”

  “Well. It’s good that he’s sleeping now. You know”—Ethan hesitates—“you could always call Brooke. She’d take Cal in a heartbeat.”

  “She’s working today, isn’t she?” Andi says quickly.

  “Right, but maybe she would find someone to cover?”

  “Maybe,” Andi says, although even as she says it, she knows she would never ask Brooke for help. Her experience of Brooke, at least in those early days when Brooke was drinking, was so unpleasant she still wants as little to do with her as possible.

  “She’s great with Cal, you know,” Ethan reminds her.

  “I know,” Andi says, but there were too many years of discord for Andi just to forgive and forget.

  “Speaking of Brooke, she phoned me earlier. She wants to talk to me about something. I’m going to pop in there in a bit.”

  “She needs to see you? Why can’t you just talk on the phone?” Andi hates herself for sounding whiny.

  “I don’t know, but she asked me to come over. It’s fine. I should be home by seven. Should I pick up something?”

  “No, don’t worry. I have some of Drew’s tomato sauce left. I’ll make pasta. That okay?”

  “Sounds great. I love you, baby.”

  “Love you, too.” She puts down the phone with a frown. What could Brooke possibly want?

  Thirty-nine

  No one is more surprised at Brooke’s life today than Brooke herself. She is three years sober, and grateful every single day. She no longer wakes up feeling foggy and hungover; no longer explodes with rage at her children; no longer finds herself filled with resentment at the world, knowing that everyone is against her.

  She no longer itches to get home so she can pour herself a tumblerful of wine to take the edge off her day, loving the numbing feeling that spreads through her body, removing herself from the trials and tribulations of life. And Lord, were there trials and tribulations.

  Not so today. Today she wakes up early, bright and alert. The shadows under her eyes have long since disappeared; the whites of her eyes, astonishingly, are white.

  She is productive, and happy, and busy. Two and a half years ago she got a job, part-time at a florist’s, and today she manages the store.

  Newly sober, she had a series of disastrous relationships with men she met in recovery, all against the advice of her sponsor, who advised her to wait for a year before embarking on any romantic relationships, particularly those with people who were managing their own sobriety.

  Eventually, she listened, and eighteen months later John came into the store to order flowers for a colleague. He was funny, and charming, and a confirmed bachelor, which suited her fine—she had no wish to be married again.

  They have been together just over a year, and Brooke is happy. John is her friend and partner, and well versed in recovery, having been the child of alcoholic parents.

  “There are no coincidences.” He smiled at her when she was ready to confess her past, taking it all in his stride, and understanding entirely that three or four times a week she would disappear for up to two hours to attend meetings.

 
She now sponsors a number of people, and meets them for breakfast at Toast Cafe before work, helping them do the step work she did when she first came in, the step work that she continues, knowing how crucial it is to her recovery.

  The best thing of all about being sober is the relationship she has rediscovered with her daughters. Sophia, always so easy, is a joy to be with. They have taken up knitting together, joining a mother-daughter knitting circle on a Wednesday night, where both of them have unexpectedly formed new and solid friendships.

  Emily was not so easy, but then, Emily has never been so easy. For a while, Brooke heard nothing from Emily, just bits and pieces of news that Ethan would relay when he showed up to drop off Sophia. He forwarded Emily’s e-mail to Brooke, and Brooke would write to her regularly, telling Emily all about her new life, her job, funny or interesting things that had happened to her that week.

  She was careful to keep it light, not to give Emily a guilt trip, for it was, after all, Brooke who had given Emily the money to go away. She never knew if it was the right thing, but, newly sober, was aware that she was doing the best she could; she was trying, for once, to get it right.

  Poor Emily had been so unhappy back then. So filled with anger, how could it possibly be worse for Emily to start a new life free of the baggage that she would only ever associate with being unhappy.

  She had a child she didn’t want and wasn’t prepared to take care of, a stepmother she hated, a father she loved but resented, and a social life that was filled with budding alcoholics, drug addicts, and misfits.

  Brooke hoped by sending Emily away, it would force her to grow up, show her what independence meant, help Emily become a whole person.

  It took time. Often Emily wouldn’t respond at all to Brooke’s e-mails, but slowly brief e-mails started coming back. One night, the phone rang; Emily was on the other end.

  Brooke had braced herself, expecting Emily’s life to have fallen apart, waiting for Emily’s request for help, or money, or something. But Emily had not asked for help. Nor money. She had talked about her job, and sharing an apartment, and although she hadn’t said much, she had sounded different. Lighter.

  Brooke had been different, too. No guilt trips. No criticism. She had listened to Emily, really listened, for perhaps the first time ever, and in doing so had given Emily the space to phone again.

  Emily started phoning regularly. When Brooke tentatively said she’d love to see Emily’s new apartment, Emily immediately offered an invitation.

  Brooke drove up to see her, pulling her battered old Volvo up outside a small redbrick apartment building. The door flung open, and a slim, pretty girl had squealed in delight as she ran over to the car. Each of them had wrapped the other in her arms, and clung on tight.

  Brooke never said anything, but she felt she had gotten her daughter back. The real daughter. The one she had until Emily turned thirteen years old.

  Emily, who has never discussed this with her mother, knew she had her mother back. The real mother. The one she had never known but had always hoped was there.

  They are now close in a way neither of them had ever thought possible. When Brooke goes to stay with Emily, they go shopping and laugh, and Emily tells Brooke about boys she is dating.

  Brooke tells Emily a little about Cal, but she is careful. It is the one area Emily is reserved about. Brooke tells her she sees Cal, but does not say she takes him one day a week, every week, or that being a grandmother has become her greatest joy.

  Brooke missed out on her daughters’ early childhood. Both of them. She was far more consumed with her next drink, counting down the hours until she could have her first, grumpy and irritable until the buzz of the alcohol calmed her down.

  Brooke never had the patience to sit and read stories for hours and hours, as she does to Cal, with him curled up on her lap, happy to be read to.

  She never had the patience to take the girls to the playground, push them on the swings, or chase them through the trees as they giggled and tried to get away from her, gathering them in her arms and covering them with kisses, as she does to Cal, every week.

  Brooke would love to see Cal more than once a week. Occasionally, of late, she has had Cal for sleepovers, but not as often as she would like. She suspects Andi is not keen. She was not, she knows, a good ex-wife to Andi. For years she was bitter and angry, helping fuel the hatred Emily had for Andi.

  When Emily complained about Andi, all those years ago, Brooke would agree, pretending that she was validating and supporting Emily, knowing, and enjoying that she was undermining any possibility of Emily’s having a good relationship with her stepmother.

  If Emily said Andi was controlling, that her dad did whatever Andi wanted, Brooke would say she had noticed the same thing, would make a point of accusing Ethan of changing in front of Emily in a bid to create an alliance between Emily and herself, an alliance against Andi.

  Months into her recovery, months after she joined A.A., became sober, she found herself doing Step 9.

  Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

  Brooke went to see a somewhat bemused Andi, explained how jealous she had been, how difficult a time she had had with Ethan finding happiness when she was drowning in a well of pity and despair. She explained and talked for what felt like hours, and then, at the end, she had stood and opened her arms up to Andi for a hug.

  Andi felt awkward and embarrassed, and while it was very nice of Brooke to apologize, it was really very unnecessary, and a hug? Really?

  As soon as Brooke was safely out the door, Andi picked up the phone to call Ethan and tell him all.

  “I know,” he’d commiserated. “It’s hell. I sat there for four hours last week.”

  “But … it’s so weird,” Andi had sputtered. “I didn’t know what to say, and half of what she was saying I didn’t know. I hadn’t realized how awful she had been until she sat in my showroom and confessed all.”

  “So you haven’t forgiven her?”

  “She didn’t ask for my forgiveness. She said she just needed to make amends although God knows what that means. She came out with all this stuff, then hugged me, then left. And now I’m stuck with it all.”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner and you can download it all on to me. We’ll talk about how nuts she is together. How does that sound?”

  “The whole thing is bizarre. Are you sure you prefer her sober?” she asks doubtfully.

  “Trust me. This is infinitely better than when she was drinking.”

  * * *

  Two and a half years later, Brooke’s relationships with everyone are better. Even with Andi. They are not friends, will not perhaps ever be friends, but they are on friendly terms, with a shared grandchild.

  That, for starters, is more than either of them could have hoped for.

  * * *

  Ethan rings Brooke’s doorbell, and hears her footsteps come to the door. The door opens, and there, in front of him, is a young girl with a huge grin on her face.

  He stares as she flings herself at him and wraps her arms around him.

  “Daddy!” she yells, as his arms go tightly around her back.

  “Emily?” he whispers, lifting her into the air, his voice filled with disbelief.

  And joy.

  Forty

  “Andi?” I hover in the doorway as my dad yells excitedly up the stairs. “Andi? Are you home?”

  “Just getting Cal out of the bath,” I hear her shout down. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” He turns to me and grins before telling her to come down, and I shuffle awkwardly because I don’t think this is going to be the amazing family reunion he thinks it will be. Let’s face it, Andi and I have never seen eye to eye.

  “You changed the hallway.” I look around. “I like it.”

  “Lots of changes,” my dad says, and I follow him through the dining room and into the kitchen, and this bubble of excitement rises in my throat as I see the back
of someone’s head, sitting on the sofa watching TV.

  My dad looks at me and grins, an arm still around my shoulders because he cannot believe I’m here, and it feels so good to be back with my dad, so good to be home, that I get all emotional and have to look away for a second.

  “Sophia?” he says, trying to sound normal but he is smiling so hard it makes his voice sound kind of weird.

  “Hey, Dad.” She lifts a lazy arm, but doesn’t turn, and I am shocked at how old she has gotten since the last time she came to stay with me. This is my baby sister, but even from here, even seeing the faintest hint of her profile, I can see how grown-up she is.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  She turns around—it kind of feels like it’s in slow motion—and stares at me, blinking. She frowns slightly, and I know she isn’t sure, and I am smiling, and eventually I just can’t help it.

  “Jesus, Soph.” I laugh. “It’s me! Your sister? Remember?”

  “OhmyGod!!” Sophia leaps over the sofa and grabs me, screaming in delight, and we are both lifting each other up and burbling with happiness. “Emily!!! You look amazing! OHMYGOD! You’re home!”

  We scoot around the kitchen, hugging and hugging, and my dad is laughing with us. Then he comes over and the three of us have this huge group hug, and the only reason we pull apart is because Andi walks in.

  And with her, holding her hand, is a very little person who looks a bit like me.

  Forty-one

  “What’s all the noise?” Andi stands there, an awkward smile on her face because she clearly has no idea who I am. She looks different. Older. And tired. And although I had been kind of dreading seeing her, I have to admit it is nice to see her. She looks familiar, and however much I might not have wanted her, she is, I guess, part of my family, and I feel an unfamiliar burst of warmth and something very close to love toward her.