Back to Life (10 page)

She’s stiff as a statue, her mouth slightly open. I thought getting this off my chest would be freeing, but actually, I feel worse having Bette look at me the same way Jake did. The same way his mother did. The same way my own mother did.

“Say something,” I implore. “Call me a name. Something!”

“God did see that you got saved through your experience. What if you’d married Jake and never thought about your salvation?” She tries to add that upward lilt to the end of her sentence, but it’s clear that it’s forced. As if to say,
Oh yeah, that’s a bad one
.

“Jake’s family were all Christians. That’s why they took me in when my own mother disappeared for a while.”

“Lindsay, all I can say is that you either believe Jesus died for your sins, or you don’t.”

“I keep thinking about how I never apologized or explained. In their eyes, I’m the same person I was when I did that. I tried to be the best wife I could be to Ron, hoping to redeem myself, and I know God took it all away, but Jake’s family…I’d used them like a trampoline and never looked back. Jake’s forgiven me, but his family…I doubt they have.”

Bette’s voice takes a cold edge. “Then apologize, Lindsay. Apologize to his family and move forward.”

The rest of the women come in, chattering and laughing. I plaster a smile on my face, but I can’t look at Bette.

Lily Tseng is a tall, Asian woman, smart as a whip, tough-as-nails and knows Scripture like the back of her French-manicured hand. If I had to guess, I’d say Lily’s spiritual gift was leadership. She thinks two years out and organizes people like an army, ever-marching toward the goal. I wonder why Bette wouldn’t have chosen her as predecessor. General Lily seems far more the obvious choice.

“Did you get Haley’s dress?” Lily asks me.

I nod. “It’s gorgeous, and it was well within her budget.”

Lily laughs, knowing exactly what I mean. “You should have seen her when I made her buy a real suit for work. I thought she’d have a conniption, right there in the shop! ‘They want how much for this jacket? Are they going to come put it on me each morning?’”

“Girls,” Bette says. “Let’s not be mean-spirited.” I feel Bette’s glare upon me, and if it doesn’t take me back to my youth immediately, I don’t know what ever did. I’m not quite sure how it’s mean-spirited to point out the obvious—that Haley is cheap as a two-dollar shoe—but I’m not in a place to be shooting my mouth off at the moment. I wilt back into the chair.

“Is Haley’s dress sparkly?” Helena asks. Helena is our resident brainiac and usually makes it her job to state the evident without emotion. If Spock had a sister, she would be Helena.

“Just enough. It’s beautiful. It really is,” I explain.

Penny comes in late and frantic as usual. Today, her socks match, and this is a step in the right direction. She’s our yoga mom who keeps everything in check by focusing obsessively on what she puts into her body. Her latest thing is “raw” eating—which makes me worry she’s going to start munching on the trees one of these days and offer us all a leaf. Her sons (twins, nearly four) are now gluten free, trans fat free, and sugar free. If by accident someone ever feeds them McDonald’s, they will go into immediate shock and learn to pray to the porcelain god. The family menu, however, is the one area of Penny’s life that she can control, and naturally, she goes overboard.

“So when are you planning the bridal shower?” she asks me.

“The bridal shower.” Everyone looks at me expectantly. “It’s coming along. I’m getting the location firmed up.” If Jane will ever let me talk to her son for permission to use the house.

All these years, I’ve allowed myself to exhibit a reputation that I can handle everything. I came here for support, and it’s quite clear, no one thinks I need a thing and that I’ll have everything under control. If they only had a clue. Bette watches me, her brows low, but of course, I’m probably imagining the judgment. Bette never thinks badly of people, but with my reality rearing its ugly head, there’s always the chance to start. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get lost in wedding shower plans without noticing.

Jane

T
he concrete walls of L.A. are closing in on me. It’s the only reasonable excuse I can find for “crossing over to the other side.” This afternoon, I will be joining the Trophy Wives Club at a pedicure party. Someone touching my feet, religious women yapping on and on about how their men are rulers over them. I should just stay home and pull my toenails off for more fun, but here I am in a cab, riding the bumper of a BMW as we make our way downtown.

In Mexico, everyone’s Catholic and I’m used to living around Catholics. I like them. They eat, drink, and they’re merry. Everything’s a familial celebration, and you don’t eat meat on Friday. Those rules, I understand. Clam chowder is soup of the day on Fridays—that I understand. I suppose I don’t understand how a clam isn’t meat, but that’s nitpicking.

The Catholics are reverent when it’s called for: Hail Marys at
funerals; black mourning clothes. They’re joyful when necessary:
Las Posadas; Dia de los Muertos
—which means day of the dead, but it’s really a celebration of life.

In contrast, Lindsay’s brand of religion is all-encompassing. She works out to music about Jesus, talks about everything being a blessing, and seems unable to name her misery. Catholics admit when life is miserable and trust me—it takes a lot more to call something misery in Mexico than it does here. If the 405 is closed for an accident, they call that misery. Not because someone’s hurt, but because they’re stuck in their BMW thirty minutes longer. Their cars are far more luxurious than the nicest homes in the Campeche state.

Lindsay is the needy sort who feeds off others. See, that’s where religion crosses the line for me. It has to be practical. That guilt of hers and wanting to make an offering for everything! No different than the Mayans, really, and she’s made her view of them clear.

I throw the cabbie an extra dollar, and he grunts. Maybe that was exceptionally cheap, I think as he squeals off, but I never have understood why I want to tip someone who puts my life in danger.

My Mexican-made leather sandals squeak as I enter the salon, causing everyone to turn around and stare. People here are so shiny, is it any wonder they think making their feet glisten is a necessity? It’s incredible to me how everyone in this town works to look exactly like one another, yet claims it’s about their individuality.

“Jane!” Lindsay gets up and greets me at the door, pulling me in by the hand. “Girls, this is Jane, Ron’s first wife.” She says it with such enthusiasm, you would think J. Lo herself had just walked in.

Everyone stands and surrounds me. I suddenly feel very old. There’s a woman about my age, but she’s as shiny as the rest of them. “Hello, Jane. I’m Bette,” she says and cups my hand in her own. It’s the first time I’ve felt welcome since I’ve been in the
country. I smile and then focus on the gorgeous, young redhead beside her.

“You’re the one studying the Mayans?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, pleased someone knows.

“I’ve heard you named your cat Kulkucan, the plumed serpent. Directly related to the feathered Aztec god, Quetzalcoatl, but of course, Mayan.”

“Yes.”

“An odd name for a cat,” she replies. “Cats have no feathers.”

“No, that’s true,” I say, looking to Lindsay to rescue me.

“This is Helena Brickman. She likes facts,” Lindsay explains.

“I see.” I nod and look to the next trophy wife, wondering why on earth they don’t have enough respect for themselves to come up with a decent name. The Trophy Wives? Ugh. Honestly, they seem smarter than that, and I wasn’t expecting it from the name. “And this is?” She’s a long-haired, brunette beauty.

“Lily Tseng.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“She works with Haley at the agency. And Penny is our young mother. She’ll arrive harried in a few minutes with her twin boys in tow, and Haley will come and disappear with them. They have a mutual love affair going on. Haley would rather push them to the park, and play mommy than get a pedicure. I don’t understand it.”

“That’s because you never had a little boy look at you that way, Lindsay. It’s intoxicating.” I wink at her. “Nothing will melt your heart faster than a little boy looking up at you with those big eyes and that tousled hair that needs a good washing. It makes life worth living.”

“Only her little boy is now my age,” she tells the group.

“But to me, he’s still that little boy. Only now, he looks down at me instead of up.”

Bette nods. “Mine are grown and gone, too, Jane.”

“You have enough children to take care of with all of us,” Lindsay says brightly.

There’s a crash at the door, and we turn around to see a small display of nail polish knocked over, and splatters of pinks, reds and blues on the floor. Above them is the harried mother Lindsay described and two small boys. One reaches down to finger paint with the color when his mother grabs his arm and screeches. The Trophy Wives scatter to help clean up, and at the activity, one of the small boys says, “Uh-oh.”

A waft of pungent nail lacquer hits us squarely. “I’m sorry,” Penny says.

“Our fault. Our fault,” one of the workers says. “We knew you were coming today.” She bends over with some toxic substance and wipes the stains clear away while the Trophy Wife puts what’s left of the nail polish tree back to rights.

“That’s Penny,” Lindsay says, as if there needed to be an introduction. Penny is still too involved in cleanup to notice me, but one of her boys comes up to me. Once a boy mother, always a boy mother. They sense it.

“Hi.”

“Well, hello. Who are you?” I bend over and meet his gorgeous eyes. Children have eyes that melt any mother’s heart. In them, you know that all is not lost in the world. When I start to feel that way, I could always find a child on the street with huge, brown eyes that made me forget all my troubles for a time.

“I’m Micah. That my brother, Jonah.”

“You boys are very handsome.”

“Haley will be here in a few minutes to take you to the park. In the meantime, you two sit on those chairs and don’t touch anything!”

“They’re darling,” I tell Penny.

“They’re their own weather pattern,” she pants. “I wonder what it’s like to go out into the world and not fear every second of it.”

“But you know, these are the best days. Right now, you can hug them, and they’re not the least bit embarrassed. Snuggle into that dirt smell and enjoy, because when they’re gone, you’ll cry for these moments.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

I laugh. “That’s exactly what I would have said. I’m Jane Dawson, and my boy is now thirty-six and stands about five inches taller than me, but he’ll always be this size in my heart.” I pat one of the twins on the head.

“Penny McKenna, and you met Micah, and that’s Jonah,” she looks toward her son, and notices he’s got red running down his leg. “Oh, Jonah!” She goes toward him and sees it’s just collateral damage from the earlier polish crash, not a bloody gash. The same woman who cleaned up the floor comes and kneels before the small boy.

I know it isn’t funny to Penny, but the whole scenario is perfect boy. Bringing them into a nail salon is merely asking for trouble, but I hide my mirth for fear of offending her or making her feel any worse than I’m sure she does. I had many a moment in the grocery store I wish I could take back.

Haley walks into the salon and looks straight at the boys. “Already? I’m only five minutes late.”

Both of them scamper to their feet, Jonah avoiding contact with the cloth that’s washing his leg, and the boys start to jump around Haley’s feet. “Ice cream today!”

Haley looks at their mother and then back at them. “No more ice cream. Your mother says it makes you hyper.”

It must be something else,
I think to myself.
Like the fact that they’re boys
.

The scene leaves me melancholy. How I miss the days when Ronnie would scamper in with some innocent, scaly critter and hold it up to my face proudly, causing me to squeal. Or when he’d play
futbol
and pass the ball into the goal victoriously and look straight to me for assurance. Jonah and Micah’s dad has evidently played with their innocence by having an affair—that’s what Lindsay said, so as I didn’t think Penny was the only happily married one. I could have been like Penny—shut my mouth and given Ronnie the secure home that Ron offered us—but my pride was far too strong for that. Maybe it wasn’t the life I wanted, but it was the one offered to me. Sometimes, looking a gift horse in the mouth turns into a sorrowful circumstance.

Haley and the twins retreat to a corner table with coloring books, and Penny gives a huge sigh as she settles into the giant massage chair. I am not at all frightened to hike the Copper Canyon alone at dusk, but having my first pedicure at fifty-three with a bevy of experienced fashionistas is enough to strike terror into my heart.

“I just get up here?” I ask, looking at the chair like it’s a rocky crevice—and me without my hiking boots.

“You seem older than Ron was,” Helena says, as I climb up gingerly. I have to laugh at everyone’s gasps. Helena is exactly like the old women in my neighborhood. They wouldn’t think twice of telling me how it is.

“It’s all right, ladies. I’m used to people who speak their mind. I’m fifty-three, Helena.”

“So he went much younger with Lindsay. Interesting.”

“Seventeen years my senior—I’ll save you the math,” Lindsay says.

“A wide spread. If one were to take the median—well, the average alone would be 8.75 years in either direction for his choice of women.”

“Would it? Fascinating,” Lindsay says drily. She looks over at me as if to apologize. But personally? I like Helena. What’s not to appreciate about someone asking the questions everyone wants to ask? People wouldn’t lean in for the answer if they didn’t care to listen, but they all lean in tightly, which says something about polite society. They may not purchase the
People
magazine for themselves, but they all pick it up when given the opportunity.

“I’ve always liked younger men. They’re the only ones who can keep up with me,” I tell Helena. “You can’t imagine how many men my age are anxious to get married again, if they’ve been left or widowed. If you’ve never felt like the most popular girl in school? Just wait until you’re fifty-five or better. We’re all tens about then, because men can’t stand the thought of dying alone.”

Helena looks at me blinking. “I don’t think anyone likes the idea of dying alone.”

“Well, that’s probably true. I just meant that I think it’s a great and sad truth that men are so desperate to get married as they get older, while they battle it with all their might as young men.” I let out a cautious laugh and finally I get a smile from her.

“You’re talking to the wrong group,” Lily pipes up. “We’ve had no trouble getting married. For us, the problem was staying married.”

“Well, that’s everyone’s problem, isn’t it? Marriage is never easy,” I tell her.

“It’s easier if you marry for love,” Lindsay says dreamily.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? At eighteen, who knows the difference between love and lust?”

“She’s got a point,” Haley adds from across the room, and here I thought she was so into her coloring book.

“It’s too pessimistic, Jane. I think marriage is a commitment to the institution.”

I shiver. “You’re probably right, Lindsay, and maybe that’s my
issue. I never did see the institution as being safe for a woman.”

Everyone looks at me, and I want to slink down into my vibrating chair and take it back. The difference between these women and me? They still have hope. They still believe Prince Charming will be riding in at any moment. I know better.

Haley tries to break up the tension. “Jane, if anyone should feel that way, it would be me. But Hamilton changed that for me. He’s never been married before, and I didn’t think I’d ever marry again, but look at me! I’m marrying a man who writes prenuptial agreements for his vocation. Love obviously gave way to his ideals.”

Yes,
I think.
Let’s do look at you. You’re a size-two, gorgeous blonde with a willowy figure, and an enormous rack. Is there a man on earth that would pass up the opportunity to show you attention?

“My son hasn’t been married before, and I’m certain if he spent his young life single—which could happen, he’s very committed to teaching”—I say to the other women—“I still think he’d want to be married when he was old and gray.”

“Her son will be married in no time,” Lindsay says. “He’s young, gorgeous, normal, and Christian.” Then she looks at me. “They go quickly.”

The way she speaks of my son both puts me at ease about her interest and frightens me. “He’s met a nice woman. Her name is Kipling,” I tell them with more enthusiasm than I’ve shown my son, but it dawns on me that I’m with the queens of the broken hearts club, and they’re not exactly concerned with my innocent son’s reputation.

“Her son Ronnie is dating a wonderful woman, and you know how men are when they get close to commitment, they always want to make certain she’s the one. So Jane’s just making sure he doesn’t have any questions, but they always have questions. Isn’t that right?”

The women all murmur their approval and I loosen my grip on the armrests.

I open my eyes. “No one is perfect. Lindsay’s made her mistakes; I’ve made mine. That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me, right?” I look to Lindsay, but Helena answers.

“True enough, but Lindsay’s given hers over to the Lord.”

“Has she?” I look to Lindsay, and she doesn’t seem any less burdened than myself. She still pines for her mother’s approval and freedom from her guilt, while I run the risk of my own son not speaking to me once he knows the truth. I’d say Lindsay and I are about even on the redemption scale.

Helena goes onto ramble some more religious ideals at me, but I’m lost in my thoughts—that and the foot massage. Lindsay made better choices than I did. Whether I want to admit it or not, sticking with Ron made her a better person. Running from him made me no stronger. I was never really free from his pull because of Ronnie. It’s with an extreme sadness that I realize I never faced up to anything. I thought I’d been the strong one, but all I’ve really done is run from the issues. I never faced them head-on, like Lindsay did.