This Beautiful Life (22 page)

“Would you like a cup of tea, Miz Mouse?” Coco asked her.

“Oh yes, Miz Ladybug,” said Liz. “Thank you.”

Coco splashed some “tea” into a teacup. Up close, what Liz had taken for water was Paul Newman's Lemonade. There were sticky patches everywhere. She was about to scold but thought better of it. The quilt would have to be taken to the dry cleaner anyway. Some of the Milanos had melted.

She took a pretend sip. “Mmm, delicious, Miz Ladybug,” Liz said.

Coco was busy arranging what was left of the saltines.

“I loved your concert today, Coco,” Liz said.

Coco looked up. “What part did you like best? The way I marched or the way I sang?”

“I loved both,” said Liz. “But especially the way you sang.”

“You could hear my voice,” Coco said.

“I could hear your voice,” Liz repeated.

Coco beamed.

“Come sit in my lap,” said Liz. Coco crawled over and snuggled up.

“Where did you learn to dance like that, Coco? The way you were dancing for the girls in the bathroom?”

Coco kept her head down. “The movie on Momma's computer.”

Liz pet Coco's silky head. Liz had so completely failed her daughter. Is this how Sherrie Cavanaugh felt when she first saw Daisy's email?

“Momma's going to explain to you about that movie,” said Liz. “The girl who made it, she made a big mistake. Everything about that movie is a big mistake.”

“Why?” said Coco. “Don't ladies dance like that all the time?”

Of course that's what Coco would think. She'd seen it on her own mother's computer. She'd seen stuff like it on TV, probably. The newsstands. In the Halloween costumes at the store, the advertisement for a gym class at the bus stop. It was true, ladies dance like that all the time. And yet Coco was so young, Daisy was so young. Jakey was too young. Everyone involved was too young for this.

“I guess they do,” Liz said. “But they shouldn't have to. There is more to ladies than that, more than their—I don't know what to call it—their sexual attractiveness to men, men they don't know.”

“I don't understand, Momma,” said Coco.

How could she? She was six years old.

“I don't understand, either,” Liz said. “And this lady, she's not a lady, she's a girl, she's just a little girl…”

Liz's voice broke. Daisy was a just a little girl. She was a baby.

“Then why did she do it?” said Coco.

“Why did she do it? I don't really know. I think maybe she did it to make a boy like her. I think maybe she did it because she felt lonely. I don't know, but I'm sorry that you saw it. I am sorry it was on my computer and I left you alone with it. That was my mistake and I am sorry, truly sorry, Coco.”

“It's inappropriate,” said Coco.

“Yes,” said Liz. “It is. The girl, she didn't respect herself. We women, we always have to respect ourselves… Do you know what I'm saying?”

Coco buried her head in Liz's lap.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Liz said.

“Enough to go to China,” said Coco. “More than anything.”

“G
uess who's got the biggest dick in Manhattan?” says Richard.

It is about nine o'clock. He is home late from his drink. Lizzie looks up from her computer screen. He stands in the doorway to the bedroom in his blue suit and tie, which he loosens. Then he stretches his arms out and flashes her his brightest smile.

The bedroom is dark, and Lizzie rubs her eyes as she tears her gaze away from all that backlighting. She quickly closes the laptop lid.

“Where are the kids?” asks Richard.

“In their rooms,” says Lizzie.

“I was great today,” says Richard.

In the background they can hear the television. “Is that Coco's TV?” Richard asks. Lizzie has let her stay up too late again.

As if she is reading his mind, Lizzie says, “I know it's late, Richard. But it's just cartoons. We had a long talk; I need to tell you about it. After that awful, trying day, I thought, just let her enjoy herself.”

“What did Jake say when you got home?” asks Richard.

“ ‘Can we discuss it tomorrow, Mom? Please?' ” Lizzie quotes him. “I made him talk a little. He's very upset, Richard. Contrite. I told him we can all discuss it together tomorrow, as a family.”

She takes the elastic out of her hair, rerolls it into a little bun as she speaks.

“Then I made them a nice dinner. I tried to normalize things. There's some for you, too, to heat up, if you want it, in the fridge.” She snaps the elastic into place and pats her hair down. “I could sit with you.”

She looks totally exhausted. But she is trying. Richard sees she is trying.

From the sound of things, sometime in the evening, like worn-out boxers, Lizzie and the kids had each retreated to their various corners of the apartment—Coco to the TV in her room, Jake most likely stretched out on the floor by his bed listening to his iPod, and here in their bedroom, once again, Lizzie heedlessly entering her laptop's dark Oz. Since when do they each need a media highball? Richard thinks. Since when did they need something to take the edge off ?

“Turn on the light,” Lizzie says.

Richard does, and then he closes the door. And when he does, he sways a little. He reaches a hand out to the wall to steady himself.

“That was one long drink. Are you drunk?” says Lizzie.

“No, I'm not drunk,” says Richard. “I am the opposite of drunk.” He tries to stand up straight, but he prefers the wall. “Well, maybe a little buzzed, Lizzie. I had a couple of martinis with Scott and then a little celebratory nightcap on the way home.”

“Celebratory?” asks Lizzie.

“The job is mine if I want it.” He runs his fingers through his hair. He is so proud of himself, he can't stand it. But it does not make sense to show this pride. Let her come to him. Let her come to him in awe. He sways again. He leans up against the wall so that he is looming over her, waiting for her response.

“Sit down, Richard,” Lizzie says. “You're not acting like you.” There is something close to fear in her voice.

“Really?” says Richard, in surprise. “I think I'm acting
exactly
like me, Lizzie.” He laughs. “This is what I do: I save us. We're going to be richer than God.”

He grins at her.

“You're acting drunk, Richard,” Lizzie says. “Sit down.”

She tries to stand up, to put them on more equal footing. But there is no room for her to stand. He is right there in front of her, demanding her approval, her gratitude, her admiration and amazement. He is so close to her, she'd have to push him out of the way to stake her own turf. She is dwarfed there in her chair. He has dwarfed her. She tries to stand, but he is too close, and it looks like her legs won't hold her.

“My legs are half asleep,” says Lizzie. “Richard, can't you move back? If you're not going to sit down, I want to stand up. I've been sitting so long they are all pins and needles.”

He takes a step back, weaves, regains his balance. It is enough room to allow her to rise. She shakes her legs, one by one. Stamps them a little. She is not giving him her full attention.

“I said, I'm not drunk,” Richard says, a bit harshly.

“Okay, okay,” she says. “You're not drunk.”

“Aren't you going to congratulate me?” Richard asks, so needy he embarrasses himself.

“Of course, honey. Congratulations,” says Lizzie, looking up at him. “It's a big job and I am proud they offered it to you.”

“Congratulations,” says Richard, “but…”

“But it's just that money has never been a motivating factor for us before.” She takes a step under his arm and finds space on the other side of him.

“Money's never been a motivating factor for you, you mean,” says Richard, turning around now to face her. He hears the edge creeping into his voice again. “Because you've never had to worry about it. I do the worrying for you.”

Lizzie is quiet. She is thinking. In earnest? Strategically? Richard is too loaded to be sure. “I appreciate all that you do for us, Richard, I really do,” Lizzie says, “but I grew up without a whole lot of money and I can live without a whole lot of money. I just don't want us to lose sight of who we are.”

This strikes him as funny. Richard starts to laugh. He puts his forearm on the wall and laughs into it.

“What is it?” says Lizzie. “What's so funny? Richard, honey, please, won't you sit down?”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Richard,” says Lizzie, a little panic creeping into her voice.

“It's just so funny, I come home, once again, saving the day, I come home with the job of a lifetime… and you can't even say wow? You can't even say thank you?” Richard is furious. “You say you don't know who we are anymore. Well, join the party. I don't know who you are,” he says. His voice is so cold, his body feels so cold. “I don't know who we are anymore, Lizzie.”

“We are us, Richard,” says Lizzie. “We are us with a child in jeopardy. We are us protecting our child.”

“We are not us,” says Richard. “Our son does this stupid thing, this terrible thing, and we compound it by being worse.”

Lizzie reaches out one hand to touch Richard's arm, but he pulls back. She steps away again, away from him again, and backs up farther into the room.

“He made a mistake, a mistake any grown-up could make,” Lizzie says. “You're too hard on him. He forwarded an email. A shocking, grotesque email, an email he didn't ask for. That's all. There was no intentional maliciousness. I'm sure most people would have forwarded that thing on to someone, Richard. Maybe
you
would have.”

Richard thinks about the video. He remembers the way Daisy made him feel. He had never in his life felt that way before.

“We never even talk about the girl. We don't even think about her. She is a child,” Richard says.

“I think about her, Richard,” Lizzie says, facing him off. “Don't tell me what I think about. I think about her a lot.”

“You don't think about her the right way,” says Richard. “You don't think about her like she was Coco, as if all this had happened to Coco.”

“All this
did
happen to Coco,” says Lizzie. “How do you think I spent my day? I want to talk to you about it.” He can feel the heat of her exhalation on his chest, or is it his heart, on fire? His body is cold but his chest burns.

“That's because you didn't protect her,” says Richard, and he points his finger in her face.

Lizzie breathes his accusation in. It's almost as if she accepts and swallows it.

“You're right. I shouldn't have let Coco play on my computer. I should have supervised Coco more closely. I've been so distracted. I haven't paid enough attention to my daughter.”

“Our daughter,” says Richard.

“Our daughter,” says Lizzie.

The phone begins to ring. They both ignore it.

“You're right. I should have protected her… It was inexcusable,” Lizzie says.

Richard nods in agreement.

“I need help. Help me. I'm… I'm… I'm flailing. I don't know how to protect them. The genie's out of the bottle. It's in the air. How do I keep them safe?”

Their answering machine picks up. It is Richard's voice. It sounds funny to his ears, jovial, confident, like someone else. “You have reached the Bergamot family. Please leave a message for Richard, Liz, Jake, or Coco…”

“You used to play with Jake, when he was her age. You used to do little art projects,” says Richard.

A woman's voice comes on the answering machine. “Liz, it's Sydney. I just spoke to Casey and I wanted to let you know I did
not
say you were stoned today at school, I said you
looked
stoned… I meant it sympathetically. Call me,” says Sydney. “I didn't want to put it in an email.”

“You went to Coco's school stoned?” says Richard. He can't believe it.

For a minute, Lizzie looks like she wants to run. But Richard is a wall, standing there in front of her. Forcing her to own up.

“I hate going there, Richard,” Lizzie says. “It's all so public. Everyone judging us, judging Jake. You don't know what it takes out of me, every day, just to face it. I should be stronger, but I'm not.”

She stands naked before him. It is as if she is entrusting him with her worst secret. People were hard for her, they'd always been. He knew that. These people, they were a totally different animal. Still, he is in no mood to back down.

“Picking up our six-year-old daughter from school? That much you can't handle?” Richard's voice drips with disdain.

Lizzie starts to cry. “I know it sounds pathetic, Richard. I know you're going to roll your eyes. I feel ridiculous even saying it out loud.”

Richard waits for her to finish. And when he can't take it another minute—she just stands there sobbing—he practically explodes.

“Just say it, Lizzie.”

She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She uses the pads of her fingers to brush away her tears. “I don't know, I mean, I know it sounds ungrateful, and I am not ungrateful, I am very, very grateful, Richard.” She looks him in the eyes. “It's just that this beautiful life… I can't manage it,” she whispers. “You worked so hard to build it, but I can't manage it. And I don't want it.”

“You don't want me, Lizzie?” asks Richard. He feels sweat drip down his back. Is he having a heart attack?

“I want you, Richard. Just not all this,” says Lizzie. “I'm sorry. I am really, truly sorry.”

He fights the urge to slap her.

“Are you kidding?” Richard says. “What's wrong with ‘all this'? You think I wouldn't want to stand on my head all day and lick my psychic wounds? You think during this whole mess I wouldn't have preferred to lock myself in the bathroom and blow a joint?” His voice rises. “But I deal. I deal.” He runs his fingers through his hair again. “It's all on me, it's all always been on me. Who are you, Bartleby the Mother? I prefer not to? Grow up, Lizzie.”