The Transformation of Things (32 page)

Q&A with Jillian Cantor

Where did you get the idea for this book?

When I first sat down to write this book, my idea was to write about a woman whose husband was indicted, and who was then ostracized from her life. This idea came to me after I’d read a bunch of news articles about politicians caught up in scandals, and I began to wonder about their wives, who, at the time, were hardly even mentioned. Then a friend told me about a woman she’d met who was the wife of someone involved in a scandal. My friend mentioned that the wife seemed very nice, but she also wondered out loud about how people must be treating the wife differently, in light of what her husband allegedly did. The story, for me, sprung from there, as I thought about that woman, that nice woman whom I’d never met. I thought about the fact that she’d done absolutely nothing wrong (and maybe, neither had her husband). I thought about what it would feel like to be her, to feel everyone staring at her and judging her.

And so I came up with Jen, a completely fictional woman in a similar situation. I thought it would be interesting to place her in a marriage that was less than perfect, even if it appeared perfect from the outside. I thought it would be interesting to see what might happen to this marriage after her husband’s fall from grace, and her being ostracized by her friends. I thought it would be interesting if her husband’s indictment actually ended up being the best thing that could’ve happened to her marriage, and her life. I got here, in part, because I wanted to think about these political scandals through the eyes of a wife, and in part because I am an
eternal optimist—deep down, I believe that good can come from even the worst thing and that there must be some husbands and some wives who would weather this storm and come out on the other side stronger.

Why and how did you decide to include the dreams? Why do you think they were important in this particular story?

I wrote the first one hundred pages of the first draft of this book quickly, over the course of just a few weeks, but, aside from the first chapter, these pages were very different from what you see in the book now. These first one hundred pages were dreamless. Then, at around page one hundred, I got stuck. I wanted Jen to transform, to realize that things weren’t always what they seemed in her own life and the lives of her “perfect” friends, but I wasn’t sure how to get there.

And then I wrote a scene where Jen was distraught about not being able to go to the charity auction, and she had a dream about it. A very vivid dream. I am a vivid dreamer myself, especially when things in my own life are in turmoil, so it made sense for me to include this. But I was still stuck with where to go with the book, until, a few days later, it occurred to me (in the shower—because, really, this is where I get all my best ideas): What if Jen’s dream about the auction was real? What if she read the details verbatim in the paper the next day? What if Jen dreamed real things about other people’s lives, even while what she thought she knew in her own life was really a lie? From there, I went back and rewrote the first one hundred pages to include the dreams, before moving on.

Writing the dreams ended up being my favorite part of writing this book. I loved the idea of Jen being able to see beneath the surface of other people’s lives, to see that she wasn’t the only one with imperfections in her life, that underneath, her friends’ perfect lives, her sister’s perfect family, her husband’s perfect job, that they, too, were flawed. In a way, it was like wish fulfillment—I’m
guessing many of us have, at one time or another, wondered what goes on beneath the “perfect” exterior of other people’s lives. I know I have.

I also thought about the idea that Jen’s situation, her husband’s indictment, the falling apart of her marriage and her social life, would all feel very surreal to her, maybe dreamlike. And so it seemed fitting to me that there’d be some confusion between dreaming and reality in the book.

How did you come up with the idea of a beauty parlor stroke? Is it a real thing?

I’m certainly not a medical expert, and the details of the stroke and the effects in the book are written with my own fictional liberties. But I did once read an article about something called a beauty parlor stroke.

I have sort of an odd interest in rare medical phenomena. Whenever I see an article about one online, I can’t stop myself from reading it (and then usually also worrying that it might happen to me. I’m a little bit of a hypochondriac, too!). But one time, a few years back, I happened to click on an article about this, this beauty parlor stroke. I found it bizarrely fascinating, but then I forgot about it.

When I was almost finished writing the first draft of this book, I found myself stumped about how to end it initially. At about the time I was contemplating the last few chapters, I went to the salon to get my hair cut. As I was getting my hair washed, I noticed my neck was in a really uncomfortable position, and all of a sudden, I remembered that article I’d read on the beauty parlor stroke a few years back. After a brief minute of worrying I might have one, it occurred to me that Jen had been in a hair salon in the beginning of the book—yes, I’d actually unknowingly placed her there before I’d known exactly what was going to happen to her over the course of the book. And after I finished getting my
hair cut that day, I went home and sketched out the ending for the first time.

Are you similar to Jen or any of the other women in the book? Are any of the characters autobiographical?

No, none of this is autobiographical. But I am a mom and a wife, and I do sometimes struggle with the same questions as the women in the book, questions of how to balance a career and motherhood and marriage (and how to, somehow, keep your sanity in the process). And although none of this is about my life, there are bits and pieces of me in here, within the characters.

Like Jen, I am writer, who has, at times, floundered to find her voice. Like Lisa, I seem to have the unfortunate inability to bake anything that looks edible, especially pineapple upside-down cake. Like Kelly, I’m married to my high school sweetheart, and I’m a stay-at-home mom. I can identify with Kelly’s loud and messy house, her overwhelming love for her kids, and also the feeling of sometimes just wanting some time for herself to do something creative.

But even still, these characters are not really like me at all. Their lives are nothing like my life. I don’t feel Kelly’s sense of obligation to make everyone else happy. I am much quieter and more introverted than Kat or Lisa. I don’t feel the sense of loss or emptiness or insecurity that Jen feels in the beginning of the book. And so they are all, in their own ways, complete figments of my imagination, even if I can see parts of myself in all of them.

Is Deerfield County a real place? Why set the book here?

Deerfield County is a fictional suburb of Philadelphia that I very loosely based on Bucks County, the suburb of Philadelphia where I grew up.

This seemed like the natural place for me to set the book, in a suburb rife with McMansions but also with older sections like the place where Kelly lived and Jen and Kelly grew up. It felt like the appropriate place for a woman like Jen to be ostracized. I also liked the proximity to the city and Jen’s old life, and yet the fact that Deerfield seemed worlds away. Finally, I wanted to set the book somewhere where it would snow and be cold in the winter, because I liked the way the weather worked as a backdrop for Jen’s mood near the end of the book, as she literally and figuratively had to tread over ice.

Deleted Scenes

As a writer, one of the most important things I do is revise my work. A lot. I wouldn’t let anyone near a first draft of one of my books (I cringe at the thought!). My first drafts are often messy and filled with plot holes and infinite things that don’t make sense.
The Transformation of Things
went through many, many revisions and drafts before I even showed it to my agent. And then, after she read it and gave me her insight, I put it through another major round of revision before the manuscript made its way into the world. In that final revision, I spent the better part of a month dissecting the dialogue bit by bit and focusing the book, which meant I had to make the decision to take things out that just didn’t fit in the end.

One of these things I cut was a storyline and two dreams that Jen has of Bethany, in which Jen realizes that perfect Bethany and her perfect “Angel” daughter are not nearly as
perfect
as they seem. This first scene happened just before Jen takes the train into the city the first time, and then continues with a dream later that night.

… I saw Bethany pushing Angel in her Swedish pram around the block. She was practically right in front of my house when I walked out there, so I waved, because, really, I had no choice.

I was surprised when she stopped, when she peered at me, as if she wanted to actually chat. “Hey stranger.” She waved me over.

I walked toward her. Angel peered out from behind the shade of the pram and stared at me, as if she, too, was trying to decide whether I was worthy of her smiles. I thought about the way my nephews, Jack and Caleb, had been at her age, and the way
they and Hannah were now, rough and grabby in a way that reminded me of monkeys, and also an oddly endearing combination of whiny and sweet. My nephews and niece had sticky hands and skinned knees. They hugged a little too hard, and Hannah, unlike Angel, was hardly ever in a dress. And here was Angel, the surreal little alien baby, all dressed up and frilly like a doll.

“I miss you at tennis,” she said. I didn’t point out to her that I hadn’t left willingly. “Lisa’s paired up with Bets.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s good.” Betsy Weinstein was nice enough, but she famously—or perhaps infamously—had two left feet. I’d heard she’d always wanted a place in tennis club, and the ladies had always lied and told her there wasn’t an opening. I found it almost funny the way my misfortune had opened up new doors for her, and the way the tennis matches must be oh so much clumsier without me.

“So I don’t know how to say this,” she said. “So I’ll just blurt it out.”

“Okay.”

“Are you going to leave him?”

I wondered what it was with everyone asking me that, and why they even imagined that I would. Though we’d been having problems lately, I still couldn’t imagine being alone in this world, being entirely without him. Shit happened. I already knew that, knew that the fairy-tale life we had in Deerfield wouldn’t or couldn’t last forever. Though I’d imagined it so much differently.

I’d imagined waking up one morning, finding a lump in my breast. Entering a dungeon of chemo or surgery or both, and then it would all be gone, this happy carefree existence of mine.

I shook my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just FYI.” She lowered her voice a little. “If you left him, everything would be different. I mean, everyone would understand, you know?”

I thought what she meant was that if I left him, I would be welcomed back, but it seemed like such a despicable thought that
I wasn’t exactly sure how to even dignify it with an answer. So I just said, “Okay. Well, enjoy your walk.”

And then I turned and walked into the garage, not even looking back to see if she was staring after me, her mouth agape with surprise …

Later that night, as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about what Bethany had said, that no one would blame me if I left him. And then I thought about the way he’d sounded this afternoon, on the cell, far away and tired and wanting something from me, something simple, a hello.
I don’t want to leave him,
I thought. And I felt so sure in this moment that, deep down, I did still love him, but I was way too tired, way too heavy to move, to roll over and understand why or even verbalize it. But my last thought before I fell asleep was that I wished I’d told Bethany to go to hell.

Then I was dreaming.

There’s a smell. Windex. Strong and pungent and burning my nose, just the way I like it. Like it?—I hate the smell of Windex. I spray it on the kitchen table, making neat circles with my neat little rag. My glass table—I don’t have a glass table. I look down at my boobs, which are much larger and faker-looking than I’m used to, and then I know I am Bethany.

Angel is sitting in her high chair, sucking on a sippy cup. I spray, spray, spray. Angel watches, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t speak. The doctor says she should be speaking now, that he wants me to have her hearing tested. I clap my hands loudly. She looks up, but she doesn’t say anything. She just keeps on sucking.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” I say.

“Dada,” she says back. That’s her one word. Dada. Kevin is barely here, and that’s what she calls every goddamn thing in the house.

I keep spraying even though the table is clean. Ispray, and then I turn on the TV for Angel. “Mommy will be right back,” I say.

I am starving. I’ve eaten only half a melon slice, and it’s twelve-thirty. I want a piece of chocolate cake so badly that I salivate just thinking about it.

In my bedroom, I take my diaphragm out of the night table drawer and take it into my sewing room. I pick up a needle, and I start poking it, gently at first, then harder and harder, as if it were a pincushion, a voodoo doll. This hunger, this incredible hunger cuts my stomach so deep, like something I have never known, like something worse than the feeling you get from not eating.

And then, when I am finished. I put the diaphragm back in the box, back in my night table. Now I am in control.

And here’s a second dream about Bethany that appeared closer to the end of the book.

I’m sitting in a waiting room. Cold and sterile, white and smelling like Lysol. A doctor’s office. Angel sits on my lap, barely moving, just holding on to my arm, staring at my nails with wide-eyed wonder.