His name was Lionel, but everybody called him “Lion,” which should have been a red flag. For starters, he looked like a lion, with his striking gold-toned skin and green eyes, his thick mane of curly hair, and huge, callused hands. Then there was his temperament—remote and languid with flashes of anger. And like a lion, he was perfectly content to let the lioness in his life do all the work—be it his laundry, the cooking, or taking care of his bills. Valerie chalked it up to his preoccupation with his work, but Jason insisted his laziness stemmed from a sense of entitlement typical of beautiful women. She could see her brother’s point, even in the throes of infatuation when most women are blinded by their attraction, but she simply didn’t care, and in fact, found his flaws compelling, romantic, befitting a sculptor and painter.
“He’s an artist,” she told Jason repeatedly, as if it were a blanket excuse for all his shortcomings. She knew how she sounded, knowing that Lion was something of a cliché—a temperamental, self-centered artist—and she an even bigger cliché for falling in love with him. She had visited Lion’s studio and seen his work, but had not yet seen him in action. Still, she could perfectly envision him splattering red paint on giant canvases with a flick of his wrist. The two of them together, reenacting the Demi Moore–Patrick Swayze pottery scene in Ghost, “Unchained Melody” playing in the background.
“Whatever,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “Just be careful.”
Valerie promised that she would. But there was something about Lion that made her throw all caution to the wind—and condoms to the wind, for that matter, as they had sex everywhere, all over his studio, her apartment, the cottage at the Vineyard where he dog-sat (which turned out to be his ex-girlfriend’s house and dog—the source of their first significant argument), even in the back of a taxi. It was the best sex Valerie had ever had—the kind of physical connection that made her feel invincible, as if anything was possible. Unfortunately, the euphoria was short-lived, replaced by jealousy and paranoia as Valerie discovered perfume on his sheets, blond hair in his shower, lipstick on a wineglass that he hadn’t even bothered to put in the dishwasher. She interrogated him in fits of rage, but ultimately believed his stories about his visiting cousin, his professor from the art institute, the girl he met at the gallery who he swore up and down was a lesbian.
All the while, Jason did his best to convince Valerie that Lion wasn’t worth the angst. He was just another troubled, not very talented artist, a dime a dozen. Valerie pretended to agree, wanted to agree, but could never really make herself believe those things were true. For one, Lion wasn’t that troubled—he didn’t have a drug or alcohol problem, had never been in any trouble with the law. And for another very unfortunate thing, he was talented—“brilliant, clear-eyed, and provocative,” according to the critic in the Boston Phoenix that reviewed his first exhibit at a Newbury Street gallery, incidentally a gallery owned by a saucy, jaunty young socialite named Ponder, the very girl Lion would next conquer.
“Ponder? How pretentious can you get?” Jason said after Valerie spotted Lion kissing her on the street outside his apartment and rushed home, devastated, to give her brother the news.
“Lion and Ponder,” Jason continued. “They deserve each other, with names like those.”
“I know,” Valerie said, taking some solace in her brother’s scorn.
“Ponder this,” Jason said, flipping off the pair with both middle fingers.
Valerie smiled, but couldn’t bear to tell Jason the real bitch of the breakup. She had taken a pregnancy test the day before, and was pregnant with Lion’s baby. She wasn’t sure why she was hiding it from her brother, whether from shame, grief, or the hope that it wasn’t true—that she had the first false positive pregnancy test in the history of pregnancy tests. Days later, after the blood test at the doctor’s office confirmed the fetus growing inside her, she wept in her room and prayed for a miscarriage—or the strength to go to the clinic on Commonwealth Avenue that several of her friends had visited in college. But deep down, she knew she couldn’t do it. Maybe it was her Catholic upbringing, but more likely it was that she really wanted the baby. Lion’s baby. She vehemently denied that it had anything to do with wanting him back, but she still called him, repeatedly, imagining a change of heart, a transformation of character.
He never answered the phone, forcing her to leave vague, needy messages he would never return, even when she informed him that she had something “really important” to tell him.
“He doesn’t deserve to know,” Jason said, declaring Lion the first person he ever hated.
“But doesn’t this baby deserve to have a father?” Valerie asked.
“If the choice is binary—Lion or nothing—the kid is better off with nothing.”
Valerie could see Jason’s point, recognizing that there is more heartbreak in continuous disappointment than a void, but she also felt that it was wrong to keep it from him in the same way ending her pregnancy felt wrong. So one lonesome evening late in her third trimester, she decided to call him one last time, give him one final try. But when she dialed his number, a stranger with a Middle Eastern accent informed her that Lion had moved to California with no forwarding information. She wasn’t sure whether to believe this person, or whether he was a co-conspirator, but either way she officially gave up, just as she had given up with Laurel and her friends back home. There was nothing more she could do, she decided—and she took surprising comfort in that feeling of futility, reminding herself of this during every difficult moment that followed: when she went into labor, when she brought Charlie home from the hospital, when he kept her up late at night with colic, when he had ear infections and high fevers and bad falls. She reminded herself of this when Charlie was finally old enough to ask about his father, a heartbreaking moment that Valerie had dreaded every day of her son’s life. She had told him the modified truth, one that she had scripted for years—that his daddy was a talented artist, that he had to go away before Charlie was born, and that she wasn’t sure where he was now. She had brought out the only painting she had of Lion’s, a small abstract covered with circles, all in hues of green, and ceremoniously hung it over Charlie’s bed. Then she showed him the only photo she had of his father, a blurry snapshot she kept in an old hatbox in her closet. She asked Charlie if he wanted it, offering to frame it for him, but he shook his head, returning it to the hatbox.
“He never met you,” Valerie said, fighting back tears. “If he did, he would love you as much as I do.”
“Is he ever coming back?” Charlie asked, his eyes round and sad, but dry.
Valerie shook her head and said, “No, honey. He’s not coming back.”
Charlie had accepted this, nodding bravely, as Valerie told herself again that there was nothing more she could do—other than be a good mother, the very best mother she could be.
But now, years later, staring up at the hospital ceiling, she finds herself doubting this, doubting herself. She finds herself wishing she had tried harder to track Lion down. Wishing that her son had a father. Wishing they weren’t so alone.
5
Tessa
On Sunday afternoon, Nick, Ruby, Frank, and I are shopping for Halloween costumes at Target—our idea of quality family time—when I realize that I’ve officially become my mother. It’s certainly not the first time I have sheepishly caught myself in a “Barb-ism” as my brother calls such moments. For example, I know I sound like her whenever I warn Ruby that she’s “skating on thin ice” or that “only boring people get bored.” And I see myself in her when I buy something I truly don’t want—whether a dress or a six-pack of ramen noodles—simply because it is on sale. And when I judge someone for forgetting to write a thank-you note, or driving a car with a vanity license plate, or, God forbid, chewing gum too enthusiastically in public.
But as I stand in the costume aisle at Target, and tell Ruby no, she cannot get the High School Musical Sharpay outfit, with its jeweled, midriff-revealing halter and tight gold lamé c
apris, I know I have traversed deep into Barb terrain. Not so much because of our shared feminist sensibility, but because I promised my daughter that she could select her own costume this year. That she could be “anything she wants”—which is exactly what my mother told me when I was a girl and then a young woman. When what she really meant, time and time again, and apparently what I meant in this instance, was, “Be anything you want, as long as I approve of your choice.”
I cringe, remembering all the conversations I had with my mother last year after I told her I was quitting my tenure-track position at Wellesley College. I knew she’d have something (a lot) to say about it as I was used to her giving me her unsolicited two cents. In fact, my brother and I often laugh about her visits and how many times she begins her sentences with “If I might make a suggestion”—which is simply a gentle launching pad for her to then go on and tell us how we are doing things all wrong. If I might make a suggestion: perhaps you should lay Ruby’s clothes out the night before—it would really avoid a lot of morning arguments. Or, If I might make a suggestion: you should probably allocate one command spot for all the incoming mail and paper. I’ve found that it really cuts down on clutter. Or my personal favorite, If I might make a suggestion: you need to try to relax and create a soothing environment when you nurse the baby. I think Frankie senses your stress.
Yes, Mom, he most certainly does sense my stress. And so does everyone in the house—and the world at large. Which is why I am quitting my job.
This, of course, was not an explanation that satisfied her. Instead, she was full of more “suggestions.” Such as, Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry. Your marriage will suffer. She went on to cite Betty Friedan, who called staying at home “the problem that has no name” and Alix Kates Shulman, who suggested that rather than quitting their jobs, women should simply refuse to do 70 percent of the housework.
“I just don’t see how you can give up all your dreams,” she said in her ardent way that conjured her bra-burning, flower-child days. “Everything you worked so hard for. So that you can sit around in your sweats, folding clothes and cooking pot pies.”
“It’s not about that,” I replied, wondering if she could somehow see me through the phone lines, standing at the stove, making bacon and black truffle macaroni-and-cheese from a recipe I had just clipped from a magazine. “It’s about spending time with Ruby and Frank.”
“I know, honey,” she said, “I know that’s what you believe. But in the end, you will have sacrificed your soul.”
“Oh, puh-lease, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes, “don’t be so dramatic.”
But she went on, just as fervently, “And before you know it, those kids will be in school all day. And you’ll be sitting around, waiting for them to come home, peppering them with questions about their day, living your life through them—and you will look back and regret this decision.”
“How do you know how I’ll feel?” I said indignantly, just as I did in high school whenever she tried to, in her words, raise my consciousness. Like the time I tried out for cheerleading and she scoffed, in front of all my cheerleading friends no less, insisting that I should be “on a real team” and not “jump around for a bunch of boys.”
“Because I know you . . . I know this won’t be enough for you. Or Nick. Just remember—Nick fell in love with the young woman who followed her dreams. Her heart. You love your work.”
“I love my family more, Mom.”
“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Sometimes it feels that way,” I said, thinking of the time I came home to find our nanny squealing with delight over Ruby’s first steps. And the countless other things I missed—both big benchmarks and quieter moments.
“What does Nick say?” she asked. I could tell it was a trap, a test with no right answer.
“He supports my decision,” I said.
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said, with just enough of a caustic note to make me wonder for the hundredth time what she has against my husband—or perhaps all men other than my brother.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenged her, knowing that she was viewing this the way she viewed everything—through the lens of her own divorce and her hatred of my philandering father.
“Well, let me just say that, in part, I think it’s a very noble thing for Nick to support you in this,” she began, switching to her calm, patronizing tone, only slightly less annoying than her strident one. “He wants you to be happy—and thinks this will make you happy. He’s also prioritizing time over the extra income—which can be a wise thing . . .”
I dipped a wooden spoon into my bubbling cheese sauce, and tasted it. Perfect, I thought, as she continued her rant. “But Nick’s dreams aren’t being put on hold. And as the years pass, this could create a wall between you. He will have this stimulating, challenging, rewarding, vibrant life, completely separate from you, Ruby, and Frank. Meanwhile, all the drudgery, all the domestic details, will be yours—”
“I’ll still have a life, Mom. I’ll still have interests and friends—and more time to cultivate both . . . And I can always go back and teach one or two classes as an adjunct professor if I miss it that much.”
“That’s not the same. It would be a job, not a profession. A pastime, not a passion . . . and over time, Nick might lose some respect for you. And worse, you might lose respect for yourself,” she said, as I inhaled and prepared myself for what I felt certain was coming next.
Sure enough, she finished with a note of heavy, bitter innuendo. “And that—” she said, “that is when your marriage becomes susceptible.”
“Susceptible to what?” I asked, playing dumb to make a point.
“To a midlife crisis,” she said. “To the siren call of shiny red sports cars and big-breasted women with even bigger dreams.”
“I don’t like red cars or big breasts,” I said, laughing at my mother’s colorful way of expressing herself.
“I was talking about Nick,” she said.
“I know you were,” I said, resisting the urge to point out the inconsistencies of her argument—the fact that Dad’s dalliances began after she started her own business as an interior designer. In fact, her work redecorating a Murray Hill brownstone had just appeared in Elle Decor the very week she uncovered my father’s final affair, busting him with an unemployed woman with no particular dreams other than to perfect the art of leisure. Her name was Diane, and my father was still with her today. David and Diane (and their dogs Dottie and Dalilah). Ds monogrammed on everything in their home, a portrait of second-marriage bliss, the two of them smugly pursuing hedonism together, wallowing in the fruits of her trust fund and his retirement from the white-shoe law firm where he worked for over thirty years.
But I stopped myself from telling her that work was not a foolproof insurance policy, both because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and because I didn’t want to imply that I had anything other than the utmost respect for her. She may not have handled her divorce with textbook poise (such as the day she discovered Diane and took a bat to my father’s Mercedes convertible), but she did the best she could. And despite every setback in her life, she always managed to emerge victorious, strong, even, against all odds, genuinely happy. From raising my brother and me, to her brief but intense bout with breast cancer (which she miraculously hid from us in elementary school, insisting she shaved her head due to the intense New York heat wave), to the career she built from nowhere, Barbie was one tough, beautiful cookie, and I was always proud to have her as my mother, even at her most overbearing.
So instead, I simply held my ground and said, “Mom. Listen. I know your heart’s in the right place. But this is the right choice for us. For our family.”
“Okay. Okay,” she relented. “I hope I’m wrong, Tessa. I truly hope I’m wrong.”
I think of this conversation now, and my vow to try to support Ruby’s choices even when I don’t agree with them. But as I survey the Sharpay photo, taking in the r
ed lipstick, high heels, and provocative pose, I lose my resolve and attempt to carve out a “no hoochie-wear” exception and change my daughter’s mind. Just this once.
“Ruby, I think it’s a little too mature for you,” I say casually, trying not to entrench her position.
But Ruby only shakes her head resolutely. “No it’s not.”
Grasping at straws, I try again. “You’ll freeze trick-or-treating in that.”
“I’m warm-blooded,” she says, clearly misunderstanding her father’s biology tutorial this morning.
Meanwhile, I watch another mother-daughter pair, dressed in matching purple velour sweats, happily agree on a wholesome Dorothy costume. The mother smiles smugly, then, as if to show me how it’s done, says in a suggestive voice clearly intended for Ruby, “Look at this darling Snow White costume. This would be perfect for a little girl with dark hair.”
I play along, to show her that her flimsy tricks would never work in my house. “Yes! Why, Ruby, you have dark hair. Wouldn’t you like to be Snow White? You could carry a shiny red apple!”
“No. I don’t want to be Snow White. And I don’t like apples,” Ruby retorts, her expression stony.
The other mother gives me a playful shrug and an artificial smile as if to say, I tried. But my mother-of-the-year prowess can only go so far!
I flash a fake smile of my own, refraining from telling her what I’m really thinking: that it’s an unwise karmic move to go around feeling superior to other mothers. Because before she knows it, her little angel could become a tattooed teenager hiding joints in her designer handbag and doling out blow jobs in the backseat of her BMW.