If You Only Knew
Page 68
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Or Adam in the morning, slightly salty and sweaty mixed with the smell of sun and fresh air from our line-dried sheets.
“I guess we turned a corner,” I tell my sister.
“So you’re sleeping together again?”
I feel my cheeks warm. We’re fucking, is what we’re doing. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Condoms still?”
“Jenny! Can you give us a break, please?” The residual shame of that doctor’s visit makes my stomach curl, and Jenny’s reminder makes me both mortified and furious.
But yes. Just in case.
I add the raisins to the batter and stir them in. Jenny is still quiet.
She does this sometimes, just slips under like a submarine diving, following urgent orders for a top secret mission. Whatever she’s about to say will be momentous, if it follows her pattern.
“You ever wonder about Mom and Dad?” she asks quietly.
“Wonder what?”
Another pause. “If their marriage was as good as Mom says.”
I frown. “Jenny, we were there. It was good. They were so happy. Why would you even ask that?”
“It just seems a little too perfect when Mom talks about it.”
“Well, first of all, it was pretty goddamned perfect.” New Rachel, who fucks her husband, also swears with great relish. “And secondly, so what if she embellishes the past? That’s all she has.”
“She could have the present.”
It’s a familiar refrain. Jenny can be too judgmental. I can’t count how many times she’s told our mother to take a class, a trip, volunteer, get a job. I used to worry about what she’d think of me being a stay-at-home mom, but she’s only ever told me how much she admires me for it. She’s always seemed sincere.
“Mom’s doing the best she can,” I say. “Cut her some slack, Jenny. Her husband was killed in his prime.”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“I know how long it’s been.” There’s an edge in my voice. New Rachel is allowed to have an edge.
“Of course you do. I’m sorry. What did the girls do today?”
“We had Mommy and Me swimming. Rose finally went underwater for real.”
“Hooray! I’ll call her later and congratulate her, okay?”
“You bet. I have to go. Cookies to bake, laundry to fold.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I realize the question about the girls was a peace offering. Jenny does adore them, that’s for sure.
My mind goes back to Mommy and Me swimming today. Elle complimented me on my weight loss and asked me which diet I was on. Acid stomach, I wanted to say. You should try it. I can introduce your husband to Emmanuelle if you want.
Still, the sight of my hip bones is strangely pleasing to me. And to Adam, who bit one last night when we were fucking.
A sudden wave of grief rocks me on my feet, a hard, fast rogue wave.
And then I hear the girls stir over the monitor, and I’m so glad they’re awake I run up the stairs.
* * *
A few days later, Jared calls and asks if I can have lunch with him. I arrange for Donna to pick up the girls from nursery school—Mom would, she said wearily when I asked her first, but she hates driving with the girls and can never figure out the car seats, and what if something happened? She is both jealous of Donna and grateful for her.
I leave the minivan with Donna and take Adam’s fortieth birthday present to himself, a two-seat convertible Jaguar—red, of course. We take it on date nights and to country-club functions. I’ve never driven it, and I don’t ask permission to take it today. What’s mine is yours, after all.
I remember the joke someone made at Adam’s fortieth—better a sports car than a mistress, ha ha ha.
New Rachel looks past that. New Rachel doesn’t bother telling Adam she’s going out to lunch with a male friend.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to start the car, but I manage. It’s a gorgeous May day, and with the top down, I can smell the lilacs and apple blossoms. The minivan smells like apple juice and Goldfish crackers—eau de maternité. At least it no longer smells of vomit. Adam took the car to be detailed after the girls exploded that day.
I never did tell him about Gus and how he rescued me.
The truth is, I love having a secret from Adam. Gus and his smiling eyes are hardly Emmanuelle’s vagina, but the memory of him is comforting and a tiny bit thrilling.
My hair whips around, so I shove my sunglasses on my head to keep the strands out of my face. Very New Rachel of me, driving the Jag. I pass Bliss, whose windows glow with the beauty of my sister’s work. The latest display dress is a blush ball gown covered in tiny sparkles, and it looks as though it could float away, it’s so light and airy.
The shop is the jewel of the downtown shopping district, the newspaper article said, and at the time, I felt a pang of jealousy. My sister’s been here for a month, and already people are flocking to Bliss, standing in front of the windows. Rumor at Mommy and Me said that a Roosevelt descendent is going to have Jenny make her dress. She hadn’t mentioned that to me.
In some ways, Jenny belongs to Cambry-on-Hudson more than I do. She knows the baristas at Blessed Bean by name, went to a gallery opening one night, joined a Zumba class at the rather gritty YMCA. One day when we went for a walk with the girls, she was called by name by the old black gentlemen who sit in front of the barbershop every day. I’ve never talked to them, which made me feel racist at that moment. But Jenny’s always been like that, able to make friends just by walking into a room and saying hello. I also say hello, but my stupid, unavoidable shyness keeps me from actually making the kind of connection Jenny does.
“I guess we turned a corner,” I tell my sister.
“So you’re sleeping together again?”
I feel my cheeks warm. We’re fucking, is what we’re doing. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Condoms still?”
“Jenny! Can you give us a break, please?” The residual shame of that doctor’s visit makes my stomach curl, and Jenny’s reminder makes me both mortified and furious.
But yes. Just in case.
I add the raisins to the batter and stir them in. Jenny is still quiet.
She does this sometimes, just slips under like a submarine diving, following urgent orders for a top secret mission. Whatever she’s about to say will be momentous, if it follows her pattern.
“You ever wonder about Mom and Dad?” she asks quietly.
“Wonder what?”
Another pause. “If their marriage was as good as Mom says.”
I frown. “Jenny, we were there. It was good. They were so happy. Why would you even ask that?”
“It just seems a little too perfect when Mom talks about it.”
“Well, first of all, it was pretty goddamned perfect.” New Rachel, who fucks her husband, also swears with great relish. “And secondly, so what if she embellishes the past? That’s all she has.”
“She could have the present.”
It’s a familiar refrain. Jenny can be too judgmental. I can’t count how many times she’s told our mother to take a class, a trip, volunteer, get a job. I used to worry about what she’d think of me being a stay-at-home mom, but she’s only ever told me how much she admires me for it. She’s always seemed sincere.
“Mom’s doing the best she can,” I say. “Cut her some slack, Jenny. Her husband was killed in his prime.”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“I know how long it’s been.” There’s an edge in my voice. New Rachel is allowed to have an edge.
“Of course you do. I’m sorry. What did the girls do today?”
“We had Mommy and Me swimming. Rose finally went underwater for real.”
“Hooray! I’ll call her later and congratulate her, okay?”
“You bet. I have to go. Cookies to bake, laundry to fold.”
“Okay, Martha Stewart. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I realize the question about the girls was a peace offering. Jenny does adore them, that’s for sure.
My mind goes back to Mommy and Me swimming today. Elle complimented me on my weight loss and asked me which diet I was on. Acid stomach, I wanted to say. You should try it. I can introduce your husband to Emmanuelle if you want.
Still, the sight of my hip bones is strangely pleasing to me. And to Adam, who bit one last night when we were fucking.
A sudden wave of grief rocks me on my feet, a hard, fast rogue wave.
And then I hear the girls stir over the monitor, and I’m so glad they’re awake I run up the stairs.
* * *
A few days later, Jared calls and asks if I can have lunch with him. I arrange for Donna to pick up the girls from nursery school—Mom would, she said wearily when I asked her first, but she hates driving with the girls and can never figure out the car seats, and what if something happened? She is both jealous of Donna and grateful for her.
I leave the minivan with Donna and take Adam’s fortieth birthday present to himself, a two-seat convertible Jaguar—red, of course. We take it on date nights and to country-club functions. I’ve never driven it, and I don’t ask permission to take it today. What’s mine is yours, after all.
I remember the joke someone made at Adam’s fortieth—better a sports car than a mistress, ha ha ha.
New Rachel looks past that. New Rachel doesn’t bother telling Adam she’s going out to lunch with a male friend.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to start the car, but I manage. It’s a gorgeous May day, and with the top down, I can smell the lilacs and apple blossoms. The minivan smells like apple juice and Goldfish crackers—eau de maternité. At least it no longer smells of vomit. Adam took the car to be detailed after the girls exploded that day.
I never did tell him about Gus and how he rescued me.
The truth is, I love having a secret from Adam. Gus and his smiling eyes are hardly Emmanuelle’s vagina, but the memory of him is comforting and a tiny bit thrilling.
My hair whips around, so I shove my sunglasses on my head to keep the strands out of my face. Very New Rachel of me, driving the Jag. I pass Bliss, whose windows glow with the beauty of my sister’s work. The latest display dress is a blush ball gown covered in tiny sparkles, and it looks as though it could float away, it’s so light and airy.
The shop is the jewel of the downtown shopping district, the newspaper article said, and at the time, I felt a pang of jealousy. My sister’s been here for a month, and already people are flocking to Bliss, standing in front of the windows. Rumor at Mommy and Me said that a Roosevelt descendent is going to have Jenny make her dress. She hadn’t mentioned that to me.
In some ways, Jenny belongs to Cambry-on-Hudson more than I do. She knows the baristas at Blessed Bean by name, went to a gallery opening one night, joined a Zumba class at the rather gritty YMCA. One day when we went for a walk with the girls, she was called by name by the old black gentlemen who sit in front of the barbershop every day. I’ve never talked to them, which made me feel racist at that moment. But Jenny’s always been like that, able to make friends just by walking into a room and saying hello. I also say hello, but my stupid, unavoidable shyness keeps me from actually making the kind of connection Jenny does.
