Jack with a Twist (21 page)

Minutes later, my father’s put up a pot of tea and we’re seated at the kitchen counter, having left the rest of the dishes piled up in the sink.

“It’s just that we’ve been friends for years,” I say, still crying as I speak. “But now all of these things are happening that make me question who he really is.”

“But he wasn’t running around with that Miranda woman you accused him of cheating with,” my father says. The teapot begins to scream and my father goes to pick it up.

“It’s not just that,” I say as my father pours the boiling-hot water into my mug, “It’s other things, too. Like when we went to Tiffany’s to register, and like how he litigated against me. It’s like I’ve been seeing this whole other Jack. A Jack I don’t know at all. A Jack I don’t want to know.”

“That reminds me of something,” my father says, setting the teapot back down on the stove. “There was this
Twilight Zone
episode that I used to love. I think it was called ‘Button, Button.’ A salesman comes to this couple’s home and leaves them with a machine that has a big red button on top. He tells them that if they press the button, they’ll get a million dollars, but, once the button is pressed, someone in the world—someone who they don’t know—will die. The couple argues about it all night. They could really use the money, but the thought of killing someone, even someone they don’t know, is just too much to bear.

“Finally, they go to bed, but the wife wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t stand it any more. She presses the button. The next morning, she wakes up to find that her husband has died in his sleep. When the salesman returns to give her the money, the woman is furious. She screams at him: ‘I thought you said that someone we
didn’t know
would die?’ And the salesman responds: ‘Do you think that you really knew your husband?’”

“That’s not how it ended!” my mother yells at us as she comes walking into the kitchen. “And why are there still dishes in my sink?”

“That
is
how it ended,” my father says, “and we’re just taking a break.”

“Why do you need a break from cleaning dishes for three people?” she says, walking to the sink and rinsing off the remaining dishes and piling them into the dishwasher. “And anyway, that’s not how the story ended.”

“How did it end?” I ask. I’m still unsettled by the ending to the story that my father just offered, and am, therefore, willing to take any challenging interpretation of the story.

“It ended with the guy saying: ‘Now, I will take the box and give it to another couple. A couple who does not know
you.
’”

“I think you’re mixing up the short story by Richard Matheson,” my father says. “That’s how the short story ended, but not the
Twilight Zone
episode.”

“Well, I think that
you’re
the one who’s all mixed up,” my mother says, “what the hell kind of story are you telling her anyway? Don’t you
ever
want her to get married?”

As my parents bicker in the kitchen where I spent most of my young life, I realize that I want what they have—the kind of relationship that they have. That sort of comfortable, natural relationship where you can bicker and argue and still know that you’d never go to bed mad at each other.

I had that with Jack. But what kind of a relationship can you have with a man you don’t even know?

But that’s what I want. That’s the kind of relationship I’ve waited my whole life for. The comfort, the love, the silly flirtatious bickering after over thirty years together. They’ll probably go back to bed tonight and have sex.

Ew.

But the relationship. That’s what I want for myself. I thought that that was the kind of relationship I had with Jack, but it turns out that I just didn’t know him at all. My father seems to think that you never really know the person you’re with, but I don’t believe that. More importantly, I don’t want that for myself. I want to know, when I walk down the aisle, every inch and fiber of the man I’m going to marry. I thought I did. But, I just don’t anymore.

I look down at the table and grab at the paper napkin under my mug. I tear it into two, and then four.

“Why do you do that?” my mother asks, finally laying off my father for a moment and directing her energy at me.

I shrug in response since I have no idea what she’s talking about. I tear the paper napkin into eight.

“That thing with your hands,” she says. “Whenever you get nervous or upset, you grab at the closest paper product and just begin to tear it into pieces. Why do you do that?”

“It’s just a bad habit, I guess,” I say. “It’s just like when you start picking at your fingernails or when Dad’s face gets beet-red. Just something I do.”

“You do tend to do that when you get nervous, don’t you?” my mother says.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Tear things apart.”

“U
sually when you break up with someone, you move in with me,” Vanessa says. We’re on the fifth floor of Saks, searching for suitable “date” clothing (read: slutty) for Vanessa. “Should I be offended?”

“I seem to recall that when I stay with you,” I say, picking up a Nanette Lepore camisole for Vanessa to try on, “I have to train for the New York City marathon with you, and I really think that at this point, I’ve been through enough torture.”

“It’s good for you,” Vanessa says, grabbing every Marc Jacobs camisole in her size, and piling it onto her arms, “running helps clear your head.”

A salesperson comes by and asks us if we want to start a dressing room. We pile the clothes into her arms, and then get started on the Cynthia Steffe collection.

“I broke my ankle last time I went running with you,” I remind Vanessa.

“It was just a sprain,” she says, barely looking up from the green sundress she’s checking the price on.

“I’m not running with you,” I say loudly over the racks to her, being sure to mouth the words clearly, so that there’s no confusion, even though she’s not even looking at me.

“Well, you have to get out of your parents’ house,” she says, turning back to face me. “If you want, you can move in with me and I won’t make you run.”

“I think I’ll just stay where I am,” I say, as we head back to the dressing rooms. “I’m kind of liking staying with my parents, actually.”

“Even with Mimi?” Vanessa says, turning to me and raising an eyebrow.

“Even with Mimi,” I say, surprising myself as I say it. Normally there’s a threshold on the amount of time I can actually spend with my mother, but this past week, she’s been uncharacteristically well-behaved.

“Suit yourself,” Vanessa says, walking into a fitting room. Then, as she shuts the door: “So, I’m dating this new man.”

“What?” I say, trying to open the dressing room door, but Vanessa’s got it locked already. So I say into the door: “Tell me all about him! Wait, this isn’t the guy who was so short that he only came up to your boobs?”

Vanessa opens the dressing room door and comes out in a Theory wrap dress that fits her slender figure perfectly. She does a quick spin in the three-way mirror and casually says: “No, it’s not boob-level guy. It’s another guy.”

“Not the one who told you that it was unconscionable to wear such expensive shoes when children are starving to death in Africa?”

“No, not him, either,” Vanessa says, looking down at her Chanel four-inch-heel spectator pumps without realizing it. “It’s another guy. But, I think that maybe this one I’ll keep to myself.”

I furrow my brow. “We don’t keep anything to ourselves,” I remind Vanessa.

“True,” she says, “but, just this once, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, trying to conceal the fact that she’s piqued my interest. I’ll have to take her for high tea at the Saks restaurant next. Their scones would make anyone spill their guts.

“Thanks for that,” she says, as she retreats to her fitting room. “I really appreciate it. So, have you spoken to Jack yet?”

“No,” I say, “Why would I talk to Jack? There’s really nothing to talk about.”

“Of course there is,” Vanessa says, walking out of the fitting room in a Nanette Lepore top that is so low-cut, her navel practically shows. “There’s tons to talk about.”

“Only buy that top if you are planning to give this new man of yours a coronary,” I say, as Vanessa turns from side to side to inspect the top.

“Really? I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Vanessa says, smiling, and turns around to go back to her fitting room. “When are you going to see him?”

“See who?” I ask.

“What do you mean, who?” she asks. “Jack.”

“I’m not going to see Jack,” I say.

“Well, don’t you have to at least see him to give back his grandmother’s engagement ring?” she asks, as she walks out in a Marc Jacobs dress that looks a bit too big on her.

I look back at her blankly.

“You can’t possibly keep it,” she says, turning around so that I can zip her up. “Are you thinking about keeping it?”

“Actually, according to the laws of the state of New York,” I say, sitting back down, “I don’t have to give back the ring. Since Jack gave it to me as a gift in contemplation of marriage, and then effectively broke off our engagement, I get to keep the ring.”

“It was his grandmother’s ring,” she says, spinning around to look at me. “The ring that the man’s grandfather came home from the Second World War with and then gave to the man’s grandmother. It is a family heirloom. You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m just saying that in the eyes of the law, I’m well within my rights to keep it. That ring was a gift with a promise attached to it. A promise that he in turn, couldn’t deliver on.”

“I don’t remember that from law school,” Vanessa says, “in fact, I recall just the opposite. I’m pretty sure that, legally, you have to give the ring back.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I don’t think so.”

“What grade did you get in first-year Property?” she asks, as she walks back to her dressing room.

“An A-, thank you very much,” I call out to her.

“Well, I got an A,” she yells back at me, “so, I’m right.”

“Professor Silverman didn’t test the law of engagement rings on the final,” I say, “so that really doesn’t prove a thing.”

“Your argument’s got a big flaw, anyway, Brooke,” Vanessa says, walking out of the dressing room in her own clothing, holding a big pile of clothes. “
You
called off the engagement.”

“No,” I say, as Vanessa and I make our way to the cash register, “I maintain that
he
called it off by acting in such a way that I had no other option but to call off the engagement.
But for
his behavior, we would still be engaged. Thus, it stands to reason that he forced me to call it off. So, in the eyes of the law, it would totally be considered his fault.”

“If that’s the sort of logic you’re using in your Monique case,” she says, piling her clothes onto the counter so that we can check out, “you’re definitely going to lose.”

“The way he acted in Tiffany’s—” I begin, only to be cut off by Vanessa.

“You’re breaking off your engagement because you don’t like the way he used a zappy gun?”

“No,” I say, “you know that that’s not it at all. Registering at Tiffany’s was just the beginning of the end. It was the first time that I realized that I didn’t really know him at all.

It snowballed from there—next came the way he litigated against me—”

“That’s because you two never should have been opposing each other in court in the first place,” Vanessa says, handing over her credit card to the cashier.

“The way his family treated mine,” I say.

“You’re marrying Jack,” she says, turning to face me, “not his family. If I’d judged Marcus by
his
family, we’d have never made it down the aisle. You’ve met his sister. What was it that you called her?”

“Now whose argument is flawed?” I say, turning to face her, too. “You divorced Marcus.”

“But still,” she says.

“But still nothing,” I say. “I think your argument proves my point. Maybe you
should
judge a guy by his family. I remember what I called Marcus’s sister that time I met her. But, I’m a lady, so I refuse to repeat it.”

“You know, Brooke,” Vanessa says, “people get very stressed when it comes to planning weddings and stuff. I’m sure that Jack’s family isn’t nearly as bad in reality as they were in the course of planning this wedding. I’m sure they were just as stressed about all of this as you. Let’s just assume that what we saw wasn’t actually the real them. I’m sure that if you just explained to Jack how you really feel, he’d save the day and fix everything for you. Just like he always does.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” I say, grabbing one of Vanessa’s shopping bags while she grabs the other one and the garment bag, “so let’s go get a bite to eat in the café. I’m thinking scones?”

I will be finding out who Vanessa’s mystery man is, no matter how many scones it takes.

When I walk in the door from work the following evening at 11:00 p.m., my mother’s still up, boxing up engagement and wedding presents to ship back to their respective senders. She’s in a pale-pink robe that I bought for her for Mother’s Day last year. She always wears pretty robes and nightgowns to sleep—something about advice her great-aunt gave her as a newlywed about “always keeping the magic alive”—so that’s been my go-to present for her for as long as I can recall.

“Late day, huh?” she says, looking up from her bubble wrap. “Want something to eat?”

“I grabbed a slice of pizza at the office,” I say, throwing my work bag down in the foyer and taking off my jacket.

“Reminds me of when you worked at Gilson, Hecht,” my mother says.

“Please don’t even
mention
the name of that law firm to me,” I say, slipping my shoes off and sitting down next to her in the living room.

“It’s just that you seem to be working just as hard now as when you left the firm,” she says, putting down the industrial roll of tape she’d been using. “See, I didn’t mention the name.”

“Thank you,” I say, and grab the roll of tape to help her seal up a box from Crate and Barrel. “I’m on a very high-profile case. You know that.”

“You’ve told me that,” she says, passing me a black Sharpie to use to write the address on the box, “I know how important the case is. For God’s sake, you sacrificed your wedding dress for it.”

“I didn’t sacrifice anything for it,” I say, looking up and trying to meet her eye.

My mother slowly looks up from the box she’s packing and regards me.

“I didn’t,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, going back to her box. “It’s just that I thought that the reason you left your old firm to go to a smaller firm was so that you wouldn’t have to work quite as many hours. So that you could have more of a life.”

“I do have a life,” I say.

“Okay,” she says with that smile again. It’s that same smile she’s been using since I’ve been home. I want to scream: “It really
is
okay!” but I know that screaming like that will not prove my point. It will prove hers.

I just know her too well. And being here, back at home, reminds me of everything I forgot about my parents. Well, I didn’t forget, it’s just the things that I stopped noticing since I moved out. Like how my mother dons these adorable nightshirt and robe sets and doesn’t take her makeup off until the second before she jumps into bed. Or like how my father calls out “Honey, I’m home!” when he walks in the door at night, or really any time he enters a room in the house.

It reminds me of things that I’ve forgotten about myself, too. Who I used to be. Who I used to think I’d grow up to be. How I thought my life would turn out.

After boxing up a few more presents, my mother and I retreat upstairs where I plop down onto my bed without even taking off my work clothes. I look around my room—up at my bulletin board, untouched since the day I graduated high school, with my varsity letter from cheerleading and various snapshots from Senior Weekend, into my closet, with my prom dress and assorted bridesmaid dresses from throughout the years, and my bookshelf, with my books from law school piled high.

Back when I lived in this room, I thought that I had it all figured out. I’d go to college, go to law school and then meet and marry the man of my dreams. Soon thereafter, my 2.4 children would follow. When I thought all of these things, I suppose I was a child myself. I had no idea all of the heartbreak and hard work real life would bring. How hard it would be to have a life and make a life for yourself.

I took for granted that I could just have a happy life and live happily ever after. Happily ever after never included being over thirty and moving back in with your parents.

I turn onto my side and begin to quietly cry. I try to keep it down, since I don’t want my parents to worry, so I turn my face toward my pillow.

As I look at my bedside table, I see the messages set neatly next to my phone, the way they have been every evening since I’ve been here. I get the same messages every night: Jack called (7:05 p.m.), Jack called (7:49 p.m.), Jack stopped by to see you (8:40 p.m.), Jack called (9:55 p.m.). They are almost the same as the ones I get at work every day, which my assistant drops on my desk without looking up to meet my eye: Jack stopped by (9:27 a.m.), Jack called (11:45 a.m.), Jack called (2:15 p.m.), Jack called (4:01 p.m.), Jack stopped by (5:55 p.m.).

I pick up this evening’s messages and look at them for a moment before throwing them into the trash.