The Love Wars (18 page)

“Molly,” says Rachel, her brow creasing, “what about your mom?”

“Your mom?” Lillian looks intrigued. “What’s happening with your mom?”

“She just flew in for the weekend, but it’s okay. She doesn’t expect to see me until dinner, so I can still come.”

“Invite her!” Lillian gets a compassionate gleam in her eye as though she’s piping in fresh water to a remote Kenyan village
instead of offering a double coat of pink polish. “I’d love to meet her.”

“Oh, that’s so generous.” I emphasize the
o
in “so” a little too much, bordering right on the verge of phony. “But you really don’t have to.”

“Molly, enough.” Lillian’s voice is a little snappier. “Tell your mom to meet us there. I won’t have you missing time with her for no reason. Family is too important.”

I nod, not too trapped to appreciate the humor of Lillian—she of the estranged daughter and serial marriages—opining wise on the power of family. My mom will hate manicure night. But there is no contest: her comfort, like everything else that should be more important, is secondary to Lillian’s demands.

__________

I
beg off traveling en masse with The Girls to the Salon at Fifty-fifth and Fifth, and even Lillian agrees that I should wait and escort my mother there. A few minutes after Lillian, Rachel and Liz file out, I head down to the lobby.

Of course, my mom is already there, outside, leaning against the glass door, her face raised up to the sun, soaking it in. As I exit the revolving door, she turns around and breaks into a huge smile. “Ha! I get such a kick out of seeing you emerge from this fancy building in a suit.”

I know this and it’s exactly why I wore one today, even though nothing in my workday required it. She wraps her strong arms around me and pulls me to her, her touch refreshingly cool and firm even on this muggy wet blanket of a day. Taking a step backward, she places her hands on my shoulders.

“A little pale for August,” she says in a voice that’s half concern, half pride. “Same ol’, same ol’?”

I nod and shrug. My hours and lack of sleep have been a constant of family discussion since the summer before tenth grade, when ninety percent of my dinners seemed to be scarfed in the
Cheddar and Better stockroom (my SAT prep class was sandwiched between preseason soccer practice, volunteering at the library and my shifts at the store). My parents have always seemed a little in awe of my hard work but have a far less glamorous view of their own long hours. The subtext, of course, is that my hours are in the name of forward motion, a strong and sure freestyle stroke toward the horizon, while theirs is treading water, stagnating in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.

“You look good,” I say. My mom is tan and freckled under her faded blue cotton sundress and heavy cork-soled sandals, her hair streaked blond. Even amid the stretches of Midtown concrete and glass, she looks natural and clean, as though she spends her days surrounded by sparkling rivers, purple mountains and stately blue green trees rather than an eight-hundred-square-foot storefront in a strip mall.

When I was in third grade—before the middle school years of being embarrassed by simply having parents—my mom signed up to chaperone our spring class trip to the lake. It was everyone’s favorite day, the spring warmth hinting at summer vacation, our only responsibilities a very manageable combination of nature walk, three-legged race and cookout.

My mom led the nature walk that year, and a handful of us third-graders trailed behind her, tripping over roots and scrambling over rocks. She paused occasionally, to identify a tree and ask us which animals we thought lived there, or to point out the illuminated flash of a fish retreating into the sun-capped water. She knew everything, it seemed, and I could not remember ever seeing her that patient or smiling. I was concerned, in the irrationally innocent way of someone who didn’t yet get the captivity of obligations, that she’d choose to stay at the lake campground, slipping away to hide behind a rock when the rest of us boarded the school buses back to the school parking lot. Afterward, when we were safely home, I had asked her why she didn’t work at the
state park. She had caught my chin with her hands, forcing eye contact. “Do you want to choose where you work, Molly?” I knew the answer was yes, so I nodded. “Good,” she had said, releasing my chin and gently pushing my back, propelling me out of the kitchen. “Go to college. College will let you have a choice.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ve been making a point to walk in the mornings with Mindy Sturvidge. So, what’s this we’re doing? I don’t understand.”

“Manicures with my boss.”

“Manicures? As in—” My mom holds up her hands with an incredulous look.

“Yep.”

“This is something you guys…do?”

“It’s only happened once before. That time it was pedicures.” I assume, but don’t say, that our group beauty regime is based on Lillian’s needs. The pedicure jaunt came immediately after Lillian’s purchase of some designer sandals.

My mom nods. “Lead the way,” she says, gesturing down Park Avenue, and we start walking. “So,” she says in a tone that’s forced casual. “Do you socialize a lot with your boss?”

“Not a lot. Every now and again she just likes to do nice things for us, you know, take us out to dinner or drinks, go get our nails done.”

“Huh. Rewards for good behavior? A motivation technique.”

“I guess so.” I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve always imagined that Lillian hangs out with us when she’s lonely. Loyal friends on salary.

“Too bad she doesn’t just give you cash as a reward,” my mom says, raising one eyebrow.

“This stuff is actually kind of fun. It’s bonding.” I grab my mom’s left hand and examine it. It looks much older than the rest of her: wrinkled fingers, age spots, short, no-nonsense nails. “Have you ever gotten a manicure, Mom? You know it means sitting still while someone rubs lotion into your hands.”

“A mani—what’s it called?” My mom widens her eyes, a joking babe-in-the-woods impression, and then one side of her mouth turns up. “Yes, I am familiar. I had one forever ago. Aunt Kara made all her bridesmaids get them when she got married to her first husband. You remember Uncle Mitch? Everything about that wedding was ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes at the memory.

“You don’t have to get one.”

“Why not?” My mom looks defiant, as though she’s agreeing to bungee jump. “This is a vacation. Aren’t manicures a very vacation-y thing?” She wiggles her fingers. “I can have bonding fun with the best of them, especially Lillian. She’s been so good to you.”

“That’s right,” I say. And each of us having convinced the other of our excitement, we march our pasted-on enthusiasm to the salon.

__________

L
illian, who’s sitting between Rachel and Liz, gets up when we come in, dripping water from the little finger bowl where her right hand has been soaking.

She prances over to the entrance and wraps her arm around me, pressing her hand on my elbow so that I can feel the wet eucalyptus warmth of her fingerprints. Keeping her arm around me, she reaches around to my mom.

“I’m so glad you could join us,” she says, beaming.

“Gwen Grant,” my mom says, leaning in awkwardly to Lillian, then pulling back and extending her hand for a shake. She waves to Rachel and Liz, both of whom chime greetings from the manicure table, their hands splayed out before them as they half rise out of their chairs like they’re stuck in stocks.

Lillian lets go of me but keeps her arm around my mom, introducing everyone as I stand by silently. She takes my mom’s hand. “Your daughter,” she says, letting go of me to press her hand to her, “is wonderful.”

“Well, thank you. That’s nice to hear.”

“So much fun and reliable. A real member of the team.”

“I hear it’s a great team.”

“And you—” Lillian looks back and forth between us. “Spitting image! Two Breck Girls.”

“You really do look alike,” says Rachel.

We’re used to these comments, my mom and I. We have identical hairstyles—shoulder-length blond hair, parted in the middle—and are the same build and height. People call twins on us a lot. We respond as we always do: both straightening up and saying—almost in unison—“Thank you, what a compliment,” punctuating it by a self-conscious half laugh. I don’t know if Mom agrees with the appraisal of us as spitting images, but I don’t. The way my mom’s blue eyes are clear and wide, emitting cool competence; her unapologetic laugh lines; her cool, steady hand; her strength—these are hers, not mine. My mom glances down at her hand, still joined with Lillian’s, with a hint of confusion. Presumably, she’s wondering when it’s customary for New York handshakes to end.

Instead of letting go, though, Lillian uses her grip to pull my mom over to one of the chairs. “Let’s segregate. Young’uns, you sit over there at this table, and we ladies of a certain age will stick together.”

Lillian has about twenty years on my mom; as a matter of technicality, she could be my grandmother. My mom looks as though she’s about to say something but stops when she catches my eye, making me wonder what message I unwittingly transmitted to her. She shrugs—
just go with it
—and follows Lillian over to the table where Svetlana and her colleague flurry around, setting up bowls of water and lotion, grabbing tools from the sterilizer.

I take the seat between Rachel and Liz that Lillian has vacated. Rachel, her head leaned toward me, whispers so low I can barely hear it. “She’s a little fascinated by your mom.”

“Lil’ bit.” I exhale the words as quietly as I can.

“I go for the neutral colors,” Lillian is instructing my mom, lifting up bottles of polish and holding them to the light. “Better to leave the garish stuff to the younger set, right, Gwen?”

My mom does not appear insulted. “Neutral tones are definitely more my speed, Ms. Starling.”

A shocked expression crosses Lillian’s face. “Please. You have to call me Lillian. I see your daughter nearly every single day.”

“Okay,” says my mom in an even tone that makes me wonder if she is thinking the same thing that I am—that I see the coffee cart man outside my building every single bloody day and
that
hasn’t translated into chumminess. Quite the contrary: he seems surprised every time he hears my order. She gestures to Lillian’s ensemble, an off-white suit with nude pumps. “I love your style, so just polish me whatever color you’ve picked out.”

“Svetlana will take care of it all.” Lillian promises this with a confirming nod at Svetlana, who smiles, briefly and close-lipped. “How is Molly’s dad occupying himself while we pamper? I mean, he could have come too, of course.”

“He wouldn’t be caught dead.” My mom and I both laugh at the thought of my dad squashed at the table, looking confused, his large hands being buffed by one of the ponytailed, white-coated nail technicians, and she replies, “He’s back in North Carolina. With the store, we try not to have both of us gone at once.”

“You have a store?”

My mom gives me an odd look, questioning, I’m sure, how I’ve spent such quality time with Lillian and not mentioned this fact. “Yes, we have a little specialty kitchen store.”

“That sounds charming.” Lillian, genuinely fascinated, launches into a series of rapid-fire questions that are surprisingly knowledgeable for someone whose silverware is probably handled only by a housekeeper. What brands do they carry? Do they have cooking demonstrations? What is my mother’s favorite
cheese? Are the hours torture? Who does the hiring and firing decisions?

Finally, Lillian stops, resting back against her chair. “I’m really impressed. Building a shop is hard work. It’s like having a baby.” She winks at me from across the salon and I unsuccessfully try to imagine Lillian taking a maternity leave, tending to a newborn’s needs. “I see where Molly gets her work ethic now.”

“It’s not a perfect situation.” My mom’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Unfortunately, we just don’t have an employee we trust enough to leave the store with.” The subtext of course is that they can’t actually afford a manager; their staff is composed of college kids doing shift work. It’s unsaid, but when I hear Lillian’s follow-up question, I know that she has intuited this.

“Where are you staying? There are so many great hotels in Midtown.”

“I stay with Molly.”

“Oh, Molly has a guest room?” Lillian sounds impressed.

My mom shakes her head. “A studio.”

“How wonderful,” says Lillian, as though she’s downright moved by our bond. “Like a slumber party.”

“Like a slumber party,” says my mom in a fond echo.

I meet Lillian’s eyes and try to read her expression. Not sympathy. Not pity. But dawning comprehension, as though she’s placing me, has put a piece of the puzzle together.

__________

L
ater, after Lillian makes a show of pulling out her American Express card and insisting to us that all of the manicures are her treat—she wouldn’t dream of it any other way—and several rounds of kisses and embraces between the five of us, as though we’re all headed off to war instead of the weekend, my mom and I hurry down Fifth Avenue toward our restaurant.

“So how bad was that?” I say as soon as we’re a block away from the salon.

“I don’t know,” says my mom. “It was kind of fun.” She holds out her nails, a pale glossy plum called No Boundaries, in front of her. “I don’t even hate the color so much. I’ll tell you, though, that Lillian?”

“Yeah?”

My mom pauses, long enough for me to identify a sliver of emotion passing through me—it’s hope. I am dying for her to open the door, to say something caustic and derisive about Lillian, the salon, New York City, anything.

Because then I could laugh in agreement and come clean: about Lillian’s suffocating expectations, about Fern’s nightmare and about how I might be able to help her. I can’t introduce a discussion on any of these topics, of course; I’m not about to volunteer that I’m anything other than the very personification of the Grant family’s upward mobility—if I’m not, then what was the point of their sacrifice? But if she brings it up…

“What about Lillian?” I lead, trying to keep my voice neutral.