We had a wedding on a hill right near where we both grew up. At the reception, my mother put on a clown show for the kids in attendance. My father stood squinting out over the valley and he seemed really happy for me, but maybe it was only because he had a mild buzz. Also, my friend Zee got married to her longtime partner. We joked about how she was far less ambivalent about getting married than I was. She was raring to get married; it made her so happy. Not just that she and Noelle could do it—that it was legal and common and that progress had been made in this huge way—but mostly that they were doing it. She loved being involved with every aspect of planning the wedding. The shower. The seating arrangements. The song that would be played for the first dance. She just loved it. Her parents, both judges, presided. Everyone cried.
And Cory and I have a daughter. Emilia, named after Cory’s grandmother. My labor was twenty-three hours long, and she emerged looking entirely like Cory, as though I had had nothing to do with it. Only now, later on, am I starting to be carved into the stone.
The main thing about me is that I’m tired a lot. But I’m tired, in part, because my book has had me doing nonstop promotion. The day I sold it, the day I got the call, was so exciting. Sometimes I think about how excited you’d get when something big happened to someone else. How you always said it was good for everyone to see more women doing what they loved. I think you would be excited for me. I’ve decided you are. But I know you have other things to think about, other people who want your time, which I know you probably have to dole out really, really carefully, preserving yourself. Self-preservation is as important as generosity. (I talk about this a little in my book.) Because if you don’t preserve yourself, keep enough for yourself, then of course you have nothing to give.
Did you see that you’re mentioned first in the acknowledgments? I wondered if you would see it, and maybe call me, or send me a note and say, “Nailed it!” It’s true that without you I would never have written it, and I hope you know that. Despite what happened between us. (Sometimes I think that maybe you regret what you said to me at the end, in your office. I choose to think you regret it, a little.)
But lately, Greer had been wishing she could say something different to Faith.
You made my head crack open in college, she’d tell her. Then, for years, I watched you take whatever you had—your strength, your opinions, your generosity, your influence; and of course your indignation at injustice; all of that—and pour it into other people, usually into women. You never then said to those women: okay, so what you need to do now is pass it on. But that was what often happened: the big, long story of women pouring what they had into one another. A reflex, maybe, or sometimes an obligation; but always a necessity.
At the end of the letter, Greer would say: when I was in your office that last time, and you were so upset with me and called me out on my behavior, even in that bad moment there was a kind of effect. You made it necessary for me to go and apologize to my best friend, to tell her the truth; I don’t know why I didn’t see that that was what I had to do. I mean, for years I didn’t see it.
But as Greer sat and imagined telling Faith all of this, she still didn’t know if she ever would. It might be too much information. It might be unwelcome. It might be that she and Faith had always been on a long, leisurely path toward collapse, and finally it had happened. The moment that the older one first encourages the younger one, maybe the older one already knows it might eventually happen. She knows, while the younger one stays unaware and only excited. One person replaces another, Greer thought. That’s what happens; that’s what we do, over and over.
Who is going to replace me? she thought, shocked at first at the idea, and then finding it kind of funny, and relaxing into it. She saw various women wandering through her house, populating the place like law enforcement with a search warrant, making themselves at home, overturning anything they wanted. She homed in on an older Kay Chung, rifling through Greer’s belongings. Kay wandered around, curious, excited, flipping through the different books on the shelves, finding ones that Greer hadn’t lent her but which looked good, then eating from Greer’s stash of cashews, swiping a couple of Greer’s multivitamins from the big amber bottle on the kitchen counter, as if they might give her the energy, power, and stature that she would need, going forward. Kay went into the den and looked at the soft easy chair there, the reading lamp angled beside it.
Sit in the chair, Kay, Greer thought. Lean back and close your eyes. Imagine being me. It’s not so great, but imagine it anyway.
At Loci, they had all talked loftily about power, creating summits around it as though it was a quantifiable thing that would last forever. But it wouldn’t, and you didn’t know that when you were just starting out. Greer thought of Cory sitting in his brother’s bedroom, far from anything having to do with power, taking Slowy out of his box and placing him nearby on the blue carpet. Slowy blinking, moving an arm, craning his head forward. Power eventually slid away, Greer thought. People did what they could, as powerfully as they could, until they couldn’t do it anymore. There wasn’t much time. In the end, she thought, the turtle might outlive them all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m endlessly grateful for the help, encouragement, opinions, and wisdom of my brilliant editor, Sarah McGrath, as well as my tireless publicist, Jynne Martin, and my longtime publisher, Geoffrey Kloske. I also owe so much to Suzanne Gluck, who is simply a perfect agent.
The following people were helpful in ways both big and small, and they have my thanks and admiration: Jennifer Baumgardner; Elly Brinkley; Jenn Daly; Jen Doll; Delia Ephron; Alison Fairbrother, who is uncommonly generous and knows everything about everything; Sheree Fitch; Lisa Fliegel; Jennifer Gilmore; Adam Gopnik; Jesse Green; Jane Hamilton; Katie Hartman; Lydia Hirt; Sarah Jefferies; Danya Kukafka; Julie Klam; Emma Kress; Laura Krum; Sandra Leong; Sara Lytle; Laura Marmor; Joanna McClintick; Claire McGinnis; Lindsay Means; Susan Scarf Merrell, whose instinct and kindness are unparalleled; Ann Packer; Martha Parker; Glory Anne Plata; Katha Pollitt, the brilliant feminist writer whose encouragement and conversations about this book have meant so much to me; Suzzy Roche; Ruth Rosen; Cathleen Schine, who offered her invaluable novelist’s eye; Janny Scott; Clio Seraphim; Courtney Sheinmel, for her late-night brainstorms and friendship; Marisa Silver; Peter Smith, a great observer, reader of fiction, and friend; Julie Strauss-Gabel; Courtney Sullivan, who was full of excellent, sage advice, knowledge, and good cheer; Rebecca Traister, for her essential words, on the page and in person; Karla Zimonja.
And finally, as ever, thanks and love to my parents, and to Nancy and Cathy, and to Richard, Gabriel, Devon, and Charlie.