“What happened?” Dex says, always ferreting out a good story. I mentally add it to the satisfying things about my brother—and perhaps one of the reasons he and Rachel are so tight. Without being girly or even metrosexual, Dex will partake in gossip with the girls, even flip through an occasional People or Us Weekly.
I give my brother a rundown of the unfolding story, as Nick shakes his head and mumbles, “Jeez, my wife is turning into such a yenta.”
“What’s that?” my mother says, visibly getting her fur up on my behalf.
Nick repeats his statement, more clearly, almost defiantly.
“Turning into?” she asks. “Since when?”
It is a test but Nick doesn’t realize it.
“Since she started spending time with all these desperate housewives,” he says, playing right into her hands. My mother gives me a knowing glance and polishes off her glass of wine with purpose.
“Wait. Did I miss something here?” Dex says.
Rachel smiles and reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Probably,” she says jokingly. “You’re always one step behind, honey.”
“No, Dex,” I say emphatically. “You missed nothing here.”
“That’s for sure,” Nick says under his breath, shooting me another reproachful look.
“Oh, get over yourself,” I say.
He blows me a kiss, as if to say the whole thing was a joke.
I blow him a kiss back, pretending to be just as playful, while doing my best to ignore the first seeds of resentment that my mother, in all her self-proclaimed wisdom, predicted.
***
Our collective good spirits are restored at dinner, the mood both fun and festive as we discuss everything from politics to pop culture to parenting (and grandparenting). My mother is on her best behavior, not once taking a jab at anyone, including her ex-husband—which might be a first. Nick, too, seems to go out of his way to be outgoing, and is especially affectionate with me, perhaps feeling guilty for being late or calling me a yenta. The wine doesn’t hurt matters, and as the evening progresses, I find myself becoming looser and happier, buzzing with feelings of familial bliss.
But early the next morning, I awaken with throbbing temples and a renewed sense of worry. When I go downstairs to make coffee, I find my mother at the kitchen table with a cup of Earl Grey and a worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway, which I know to be her favorite book.
“How many times have you read that?” I ask, filling the coffeemaker with water and freshly ground beans before joining her on the couch.
“Oh, I don’t know. At least six,” she says. “Maybe more. I find it comforting.”
“That’s funny. I only conjure angst when I think of Mrs. Dalloway,” I say. “Which part do you find comforting? Her never-consummated lesbian longing? Or her yearning for meaning in a meaningless life of running errands, child-rearing, and party-planning?”
It is a line right out of my mother’s book, which she acknowledges with a snort of laughter. “It’s not so much about the book,” she says, “as it is the time in my life when I first read it.”
“When was that? College?” I ask—which was when I first fell in love with Virginia Woolf.
She shakes her head. “No. Dex was a baby—and I was pregnant with you.”
I cock my head, waiting for more.
She kicks off her pink fuzzy slippers that seem incongruous on my mother and says, “Your father and I still lived in Brooklyn. We had nothing then . . . but were so happy. I think it was the happiest time in my life.”
I picture the romantic brownstone floor-through, decorated in kitschy seventies style, where I spent the first three years of my life but only know from photographs, home movies, and my mother’s stories. That was before my father built his law practice and moved us to the traditional Westchester colonial we called home until my parents divorced. “When did you and Dad . . . stop being happy?” I ask her.
“Oh, I don’t know. It was gradual. . . and even up until the very end, we had some good times.” She smiles the sort of smile that can either be a precursor to tears or laughter. “That man. He could be so charming and witty—”
I nod, thinking that he is still charming and witty—that those are the two adjectives people always use to describe my dad.
“It’s just too bad he had to be such a womanizer,” she says matter-of-factly—as if she’s simply saying, It’s too bad he had to wear polyester leisure suits.
I clear my throat, then tentatively ask for confirmation of something I’ve always suspected. “Were there other affairs? Before her?” I say, referring to my dad’s wife, Diane, knowing my mother hates hearing her name. I truly believe that she is finally over my father and the pain of her divorce, but for some reason, she says she will never forgive the “other woman,” fiercely believing that all women are in a sisterhood together, owing one another the integrity that men, in her mind, seem to innately lack.
She gives me a long, serious look, as if debating whether to divulge a secret. “Yes,” she finally says. “At least two others that I know of.”
I swallow and nod.
“He confessed to those, came completely clean. Broke down, tears and all, and swore he’d never do it again.”