We Could Be Beautiful (23 page)

Winter makes me blue. Added more plants. Projects projects.

JANUARY 17, 1976

Bruce to Spain. Still no pregnancy. Found three gray hairs growing near my temple. Inconsolably depressed about this. I am obsessed with youth. I want to be young forever.

MARCH 2, 1976

Browns for dinner. Esmeralda will make halibut. Catherine drew picture of family. “Mommy” has Mae’s short hair. Threw it out. Took Catherine to park. Motherhood duties overrated. Will enjoy her more as an adult, though worry she is spoiled beyond repair.

MARCH 7, 1976

Maureen and Tyler Smith for dinner. Esmeralda will make chicken parmesan and stuffed peppers. On board of five foundations now. Feel like I might be helping. Hilary is on ten boards.

MARCH 8, 1977

Spoke today at women’s luncheon. Hate public speaking. Will not do again.

MARCH 19, 1977

Stocktons visiting. They’ll stay with us. Pierre will come for dinner. Esmeralda will make steak and potatoes. I feel fat.

STILL MARCH 19, 1977

Stocktons happy in Switzerland. Maybe we should move there? Are Edward and Donna happier than we are? Grass always greener.

MARCH 21, 1977

Fired Mae. Will not tell Bruce. They are set to go back as it is. Will cut off contact. Will make sure of it. This is the right thing to do.

APRIL 1, 1977

Stupid April Fool’s. Catherine asked me today why people take buses if they can take cars instead. I told her not everyone is lucky enough to have a car. Also said I used to take the bus. She was visibly confused. Note: do not tell anyone about your poverty, Elizabeth, not even your own children. Will send her into Mexico as a volunteer when she’s a teenager.

APRIL 14, 1977

Still not pregnant. Bruce thinks something is wrong. Doc says I’m healthy—no reproductive issues. We’ll check Bruce’s sperm. Now I WANT another. So Bruce will shut up.

APRIL 29, 1977

I feel guilty. Guilt is cancer.

MAY 4, 1977

PREGNANT!!!!!!!!!! No exercise. No drinking. Have been vigilant. Bruce happy. Very happy! If girl, he wants to name her Caroline. If boy, Travis. Better be girl.

JUNE 14, 1977

Bruce’s sperm results came back today. His comment: “Well, it all worked out, didn’t it.”

JULY 9, 1977

This pregnancy easier. Catherine doing well. Speaks a little Spanish with Gloria. Bruce doing well. Feel close to him again. He’s getting more handsome. Unfair, how that happens for men as they age. Still, there is nothing like youth. My hair looks great—pregnancy makes it silkier. Trying to focus on the positive. Bought four pairs of shoes today.

AUGUST 23, 1977

Feel depressed. Pregnancy makes me emotional. Bruce says therapist. No therapist. Can’t tell Hilary. Feel alone.

AUGUST 30, 1977

A new project! Art foundation for kids with disabilities needs my help. Put me on board and asked me to help interview potential leaders for new programs. Working gives me a sense of purpose. This cannot be ignored, Elizabeth.

SEPTEMBER 15, 1977

Project going well. Pregnancy fine. Bruce fine, though still fat. Sometimes I think he is angry with me? He assures me he is not. He already rewrote will to include unborn baby. Why is he obsessed with dying? Staff is good group right now. Why is there a coffee stain on the bureau? Who put coffee there? Was it me?

FEBRUARY 2, 1978

Caroline Iris West born. Looks a lot like me, I think. Very small. More energetic than Catherine. I am done having children.

•

On the next page was a letter, which my mother had diligently taped in.

My Dear Darling Baby Kitty,

This is your nanny, Mae. I worked with you when you were three and four years old. Being a nanny is strange business. I know so much about you, but you might not remember me at all. In twenty years I might see you at a restaurant and know so many personal details about you, like the birthmark on your hip and the long black hairs on your ass (sorry to embarrass you and I hope those went away!), but to you I will be just another stranger.

In case we never talk again, there are some things I want to tell you. The first is that I am in love with you. I want to kidnap you and bring you home with me. When I told you this last week, you said, “With Duck?” Duck is your favorite stuffed animal. I’m sure you still have him.

You love art. You draw sunflowers like van Gogh and you like to write the letter C over and over. Pink is your favorite color.

You are a watcher. You watch people intently. Other children fascinate you. At the playground you pick someone (it’s usually a boy) and imitate everything he does. It is the funniest thing I have ever seen.

You are an organizer. You have organized your books by color. I think it’s a great idea. Before dinner you make sure your fork, napkin, and plate are in the right places before you eat.

I believe we are born as the people we will be forever. We might grow, but at our core we do not change. You are a beautiful child. You are so beautiful. You are also kind. If you ever read this letter, I know you will still be beautiful and kind.

I will never forgive myself for not being there when you needed me. We cannot trust anyone to care for us fully. People are inherently selfish. That’s what I have learned. If you don’t know what I mean, that’s okay. Maybe it’s for the best. I still want you to know I am sorry for what happened. I will be thinking about you all the time.

I love you very, very, very much,

MAE

21

I
arrived during naptime and waited in the living room for her to wake up. It still smelled too strongly of rose oil. As I sat there listening to my mother’s soft rumbling snore, I texted Marty about Bird’s mural. She needed to have access to the space whenever she wanted. She liked to work in the middle of the night. She needed keys. “On it,” Marty wrote.

My mother awoke murmuring to herself (I couldn’t make out the words) and went immediately to the bathroom. Was she writing more notes on little pieces of paper in there? When she emerged, she greeted me like it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be sitting in her living room. She sat in the pale yellow leather chair and crossed her legs.

“Hello Catherine.” She covered her mouth when she yawned, and clasped her hands in her lap. She wore black silk pajama pants and a matching top, her initials embroidered on the breast pocket. My mother had always believed that sleeping in silk did wonders for the skin. She also believed that by monogramming all her clothes, she would be able to catch her thieves easier later on.

“Hi Mom. How are you?”

“I am rested,” she said, pulling her shoulders back.

“Did I ever have a nanny named Mae?”

“Mae Simon,” she said automatically.

“Mae Simon,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“How long was she my nanny?”

Mom scanned the space above my head. “A while.”

“Why did you fire her?”

“She was a thief.”

“How old was she?”

“Who?”

“Mae Simon. How old was Mae Simon?”

More scanning of the space above my head. “Young.”

“Where did Mae go to school?”

“How am I to know?”

“What did Mae look like?”

“Mae…was a shrimp.” Her eyes sparkled. She was happy with herself for recalling this fact.

“Why did you stop talking to Edward and Donna Stockton?”

“Edward and Donna…”

“And their son, William.”

A pause. Mom scratched her elbow, looked away.

“Mom, William Stockton. Do you remember him?”

“No.”

“He broke your vase. Do you remember that?”

She shimmied herself to sit higher up in the chair. “No.”

“Did you keep a journal, Mom?”

“My mother gave me a journal once.”

“Did you write in it?”

“Of course. It would have been rude not to.”

“Were you ever depressed?”

“Depressed? Catherine, please, I would never be depressed.”

“Did you want to have more children?”

“No,” she said, defiant, as though I were asking her to get pregnant again right now.

“Why did you have nannies raise us if you were home most of the time?”

“If one can afford help, one should hire help.”

“Did you love Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Did you love us?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“It’s too hot in this room.”

“What does ‘Guilt is cancer’ mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

I took out my wallet, passed her the scrap. “Did you write this?”

“No.”

“It’s your handwriting.”

She squinted at it. “I can’t see without my glasses.”

I handed her the pair that was on the table. “Put these on.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“I have a headache. Get the girl.”

“Mom.”

“Get the girl!”

I texted Evelyn. We waited in silence. Evelyn appeared a minute later.

“Mrs. West? You in here, Mrs. West?” Evelyn walked into the living room.

“You stole my earrings,” Mom said.

“I wear no earrings, Mrs. West. Look.” She tugged her earlobes. “You see for yourself. No earrings.”

“Guilt is cancer,” Mom said.

“Excuse me?” Evelyn put a hand on her hip with attitude. “It’s time to take your pills, lady darling.”

“Get my husband.”

“Pill time.” Evelyn took the MTWTFSS container off the counter.

“Bruuuuuuce!”

“Take these.” Evelyn handed Mom two pills.

“I won’t.”

Evelyn sighed and plopped herself down on the coffee table. “We will just sit here until you do.”

I was already looking up the name. There was only one Mae Simon on Facebook. Brooklyn, New York. The photo was a clear head shot of an older woman with short, badly bleached hair. “Is this her?”

“Who?”

“Put your glasses on, Mom.”

Evelyn, without a word, put them on Mom’s face.

“Is this Mae Simon?”

“Oh.” Mom touched the face on the screen. “Mae.”

•

Dear Mae,

My name is Catherine West. I think you may have been my nanny. I am very interested in meeting you. Please reply ASAP.

CW

22

O
n a bright August morning when the air was heavy with heat and exhaust, I officially sold the shop. It was the first time in my life I had wanted something tangible I could not have. We’d managed to survive three years and two months. Everyone kept reminding me of that. William, my rock of logic, put it in nonemotional terms: “To lose any more money on this venture would not be optimal.”

We sold almost everything and gave the rest away. It was hard to watch people who had only discovered the shop during its Swan Song Sale (Maya came up with that—I refused to call it a Blowout Sale) say, “Why are you folding? I love this place so much!” But those people were mostly tourists from Ohio or wherever, and they were buying product at 10 percent of its usual price.

Maya was “honestly jazzed to collect unemployment,” which at least made Vera laugh. “Vera,” she said, “you can eat popcorn all day in your bathrobe and still make money. It’s going to be great!”

“It’s tragic,” Vera said.

Caroline said we should throw a dinner party in the space on its last night. She would be in charge of putting everything together. I didn’t love the idea, but nobody ever said no to a party held in their honor.

•

There was such a spirit of togetherness those last few weeks. We were on a ship that was going down, and we banded together with the common goal of just getting through it. I probably learned more about Vera and Maya then than I had in the last three years. Vera had been a kindergarten teacher? Maya preferred to date trans guys?

If this spirit of togetherness had existed the whole time, would we have survived? Of course I wondered that. But William kept assuring me that it was just a numbers game. People didn’t want expensive cards in today’s economic climate. End of story.

Susan and Henry dropped by with three dozen bonsai trees to give away to customers. “People aren’t going to want these,” I said. But Susan was right: people wanted anything that was free. Tourists found extra pockets in their backpacks. One guy put his in a baggie and hung it off his belt loop.

The artists who were actually making a little money were upset, but most of them weren’t. Artists were used to curve balls. It was part of the gig. Bird dropped by to take some of her cards. She would sell them herself at an upcoming show. She said I was paying her so much for the mural that she couldn’t be mad. She assured me she had gotten keys and was working hard and yes, it would be done on time and not to worry.