The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 24: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2011

When I wake up, my first thought is one of panic. “What time is it?” I ask, poking Jesse’s shoulder.

He lifts his head slightly to look at the clock on the bedside table. “Six-thirty.”

I sit up. “Do you think the kids are OK?”

Jesse looks puzzled. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“They haven’t made a sound all night!”

“Well,” says Jesse, “I’m going to assume that’s because they’re sleeping, as opposed to dead. We want them to sleep through the night, right?”

“Good point,” I say. I lie back down and put my arm across Jesse’s chest. “That was fun last night.”

He smiles. I wait for a few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Was it fun for you?” I prompt.

“Very fun.” Nothing further appears to be forthcoming.

“That’s it?”

“Baby,” he says, “One of the best things about being married is that you can have sex without having to talk about it in the morning. Don’t take that away from me.”

Six boyfriends, one husband and twenty years of dating, and my natural instincts about what men think and feel are still dead wrong. With mountains of evidence to the contrary, I still cling to the theory that a man is an onion, with layers of complexity to be peeled back by a woman who cares enough to discover what is at the core. But a man is not an onion. There is nothing buried at the core; it’s all visible right on the surface. You can spend years looking for the complex inner spirit of your mate, but you’ll drive yourself crazy. As Gertrude Stein famously observed about Oakland, there is no there there. Women, on the other hand, are all layers. But men, if they give thought to such things, don’t think of women in such benign vegetable terms; to them, we are as dangerous and unpredictable as explosive devices. We fester below the surface, ready to blow at the first wrong step.

“OK,” I say in a small voice. “Maybe I’ll check on the kids.”

“I want to register my strong objection,” says Jesse. “If they wake up, which they will, you’re on duty.”

“Duly noted,” I say.

I slip out of bed, tiptoe up the stairs and peek into Scotty’s room. I see his curls peeking up over the top of the covers and hear the sound of gentle breathing. Truly, there is no sweeter sound in the world than that of a sleeping baby. Filled with a sense of well-being, I retreat back into the hallway and turn toward Jamie’s room, stepping squarely on a creaky floorboard. I hold my breath. Nothing. And then, “Mommy?”

I groan, and hear a faint chuckle from downstairs. I retrace my steps, and find Scotty sitting up in bed. “Hi, Mommy!” he says. “I’m ready to get up!”

“Are you sure, honey?” I ask. He nods vigorously. “OK,” I say. “Do you want to come and cuddle in Mommy’s bed for a while?”

“No,” says Scotty. “Playroom!”

“It’s a little early for that. Why don’t I read you a story?”

“Playroom!” Scotty says, stubbornly and too loudly.

“Shhh. Your brother is sleeping,” I whisper, even as I hear Jamie’s door opening behind me.

“Is it morning?” he says.

“Sort of,” I say. “It’s still really early, though. Are you sure you don’t want to go back to bed for a while?” I hear a snort of laughter from downstairs.

“No,” says Jamie, “I want to go to the playroom.”

“Me too!” says Scotty.

“Alright, then. The playroom it is.” We all troop downstairs, past my bedroom, where Jesse is snoring pointedly to indicate that I should look elsewhere for childcare assistance.

I brew some very strong coffee and get out the giant bin of Lego. We construct an elaborate space station, and then attack it repeatedly with star fighters; it’s hungry work, so we decide to break for pancakes. The boys help mix the batter and we make shapes in the hot pan: Scotty has Mickey Mouse and Jamie has a Death Star. My BlackBerry is humming on the kitchen counter, which generates a corresponding hum of anxiety in the recesses of my consciousness, and by the time breakfast is finished the hum is as distracting as microphone static. I hustle the boys back to the playroom, convince myself that I’ve provided as much stimulation as their developing brains can absorb for now, and turn on the cartoons. “I’ll be right back,” I say, and scoop my BlackBerry off the counter into the pocket of my bathrobe. Then I sneak into the powder room down the hall and close the door. With the kids distracted, I can probably clear fifty emails if I focus for a half hour. I’m making good progress when the door opens.

“Busted,” says Jesse, leaning on the doorframe with a grin.

“This is a bathroom,” I say. “Knocking would be appropriate.”

“The kids were looking for you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry about that.” I’m more than a little embarrassed. How did I not hear the kids?

“That’s OK,” says Jesse. “What’s going on? Anything urgent?”

“Just backlog. I thought I’d try to catch up while the kids were watching TV.”

“I have a thought,” says Jesse. “What do you say to a trip to the museum?”

Jesse has always been a fan of excursions, and to be fair, the kids love them. I resist, which is one of many reasons why I am the less fun parent. Excursions are always so much work – the organization, the packing, the removal of overtired children from the public location of the excursion over their screaming protests.

“Did you ask the boys?”

“They already have their coats on.”

“Did you pack the diaper bag?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jesse salutes.

I sigh. “A trip to the museum sounds perfect, then.”

“Trust me,” says Jesse. “It’ll be fun. Run and get dressed.”

I throw on some jeans and race back down to find the kids standing and waiting at the door. I put on my coat and sling my purse over my arm. “I just need to grab my BlackBerry,” I say. “Have you seen it? I thought I left it here.”

“I put it away,” says Jesse. “We’re going to make a deal and both leave our BlackBerrys here. No email for a couple of hours. Just us, the kids, and some dinosaurs. I think we could both use a little separation.”

“You stole my BlackBerry?”

“That’s a very uncharitable way of putting it. I’m giving it a well-deserved rest for a couple of hours,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. I’m too tired to argue with him, and too unwilling to disrupt our fragile peace.

We are the first in line when the doors open and we make our way straight to the dinosaur exhibit. Jamie and Scotty have the hall to themselves and they run in circles with their arms outstretched, cawing. “Pteradactyls?” I guess.

“Pteranodons,” says Jesse.

“What are pteranodons?”

“Flying dinosaurs. They changed the name.”

“Who changed the name?”

“Search me.” He points to the description on the wall of the skeleton suspended from the ceiling. “Also, apparently they weren’t technically dinosaurs. See for yourself.”

“I believe you,” I say, although I don’t.

Jesse laughs. “OK, smarty pants. Guess what they call the giant dinosaur with the long neck and tail now?”

“Brontosaurus?”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the brontosaurus is no more,” says Jesse, looking not at all sorry. “They call him apatosaurus now. There’s a femur over there.”

“Jamie,” I call, and he swoops over. “What dinosaur are you pretending to be?”

“A pteranodon,” he says, with a look that I know I’ll be seeing a lot more of in his teenage years.

“Wait until you tell him he can’t borrow the car,” says Jesse.

“Where did you learn so much about dinosaurs?” I ask Jamie.

“We learned about them in school,” says Jamie. “We came here on our field trip. Emmett’s mom came with us. Why didn’t you come?”

I swallow hard. “I was working, sweetie,” I say. “Emmett’s mom doesn’t have a job, so it’s easier for her to come on field trips.”

Jamie looks confused. “Emmett’s mom says that she has the most important job in the world.”

Jesse steps in. “Emmett’s mom is right. Raising kids is a really important job. Your mom is so amazing that she can do two jobs at once.”

“OK,” says Jamie. “Can we get some ice cream?”

Jesse laughs. “It’s a little early for that. Are you guys finished with the dinosaurs? Do you want to go and see the knights now?”

The boys cheer, and Jesse leads the way to the armor exhibit. “I’m right behind you,” I call, and dart over to the wall to read about the flying non-dinosaur, swing by the femur which does not belong to a brontosaurus, and then run to catch up to my family.

“So?” asks Jesse.

“It appears that you may have been telling the truth.”

“I ask you,” he says to the room, “Eight years of marriage, and where’s the trust?”

“How did I not know this?”

“The International Association of Paleontologists didn’t call to consult you? We should write a letter.” I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “This is actually bothering you, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admit. I feel remarkably unsettled, not unlike the day I learned that Pluto had been demoted from planetary status. Bit by bit, everything I learned in elementary school is becoming irrelevant, which is pretty serious since I don’t remember anything that I learned in high school or university.

Jesse puts his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Sophie, I think you might feel better if you could come to grips with the fact that you are not in control of everything.”

“There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I’m not in control of everything. Most days, I’m pretty confident that I’m not in control of anything,” I say, and my lip starts to quiver.

The boys are temporarily occupied with an imaginary duel, so Jesse pulls me over to a bench, sits down and puts an arm around me. “I know the feeling,” he says.

Tears roll down my cheeks, as the anxiety of the last week returns in a rush. “I’m sorry I didn’t know how bad things were for you with the business,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I should have,” he says. “But you’ve been so unhappy at work and it never seemed like the right time. And then Will showed up.”

“What does Will have to do with it?”

Jesse shoves a lock of hair out of his eyes and when he speaks, the warmth is gone from his voice. “Oh, I don’t know, Sophie. Maybe I didn’t want to give you another reason to think you’d picked the wrong door.”

“What do you mean?”

“Behind Door Number One,” he intones, “independently wealthy, hot young Manhattan lawyer and deal-maker, who also happens to look like a GQ model; and behind Door Number Two, failed entrepreneur and perpetually exhausted father of two.”

I’m shocked to hear Jesse describe himself in these terms. He has always been so comfortable in his own skin, so sure of his place in the world. I’m horrified to think that Will’s visit, and my reaction to it, have rattled him so profoundly. And for what? I can hear Zoe’s voice in my head asking. What has Will ever really offered you behind Door Number One? If you believed you could have him, you’d have paid attention long before now to all of the reasons that he’s completely wrong for you. I hold Jesse’s hand tightly in my own as a fierce protectiveness rushes through me.

“That’s not fair,” I say. “You’re adorable and hilarious. You can cook. And,” I pull his head down and whisper in his ear, “You’re good in bed.”

He laughs and kisses my forehead. “Not our best week, was it?”

“No.”

“Leaving aside our mutual friend, what’s making you so crazy?”

I sigh. “I hate my boss, my assistant hates me, Geoff is going to quit and I can’t think of a theme for the Gala. The HR Director thinks I’m completely unhinged. My doctor gave me a prescription for anti-depressants. We’re going to get kicked out of the daycare because I’m an incompetent mother and I’m late every day and Scotty bites.” I’m working up a good head of steam now. “The kids have terrible eating habits. They’re never going to get into Harvard because we don’t sit down together for family dinner. Jamie might have ADHD and it’s my fault for letting him watch too much TV.” I put my head in my hands and groan. “I have to make a decision about the job offer from Lil, which is obviously complicated. And my mother’s mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I quit family yoga, and didn’t return any of her calls about Christmas.”

Jesse shakes his head. “Let’s have a little reality check here. You’re working very hard at a big job that you are very good at. You have two great kids. And you’re married to a guy who loves you and apparently has certain attributes that you like.” He squeezes my hand. “But let’s deal with your list systematically. You hate family yoga. So you should tell your mother, quit and move on.”

“She’ll be upset.”

“Who cares? She’s already upset. Next, you hate your boss. But he’s on his way out the door and you like the look of the new one. There’s a problem solved without you doing anything at all. Next, you believe that Killjoy hates you. Whether or not this is true really doesn’t matter. You have both lost sight of the fact that her job is to make your job easier. If she can’t do that, she’ll have to go.”

“She’s unionized. I can’t fire her.”

“Again, whether or not that is true, she doesn’t have to work for you. Have a meeting with the Director of HR and tell her that your assistant is giving you a nervous breakdown and that she has to deal with it. That should kill two birds with one stone. Next, why is Geoff going to quit?”

I bite my lip. “Aha,” says Jesse. “He finally told you, did he?”

“He likes me,” I say.

“Of course he does.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” I ask.

“It bothers me that you’re upset about it. But I know what a serious threat looks like and that guy sure isn’t it.”

Jamie and Scotty race up, pink and breathless from their duel. “Can we go to the bat cave, Daddy?” says Jamie.

“Absolutely,” says Jesse. “Mommy was just saying how much she loves the bat cave.” He turns to me. “To be continued,” he says.

We head downstairs to the natural history exhibits. The boys never tire of the bat habitat, a dark corridor echoing with the whooshing sound of bats in flight, and occupied by Count Dracula, a.k.a. Jesse.

“Velcome to your dooooom,” Jesse intones, and Jamie shrieks with delight. Scotty turns on his heel, races over into my arms and clings to my neck.

“It’s just Daddy being silly,” I whisper. I hold him tight and ache with the pleasure of being able to dispense happiness by simply wrapping my arms around him. I wish, profoundly, that I could figure out how to do the same for myself. “Do you want to go outside with me?” I ask, and Scotty nods, his head still buried in my neck.

We sit at the exit and wait. Jamie races out of the bat cave with Jesse chasing him, both of them giggling. Jesse scoops Scotty from my lap and tosses him in the air. “Did I scare you, buddy?” he asks and gives him a kiss. “Sorry about that. I was just having some fun with your brother. Are we ready to go home?”

I brace myself for a double meltdown, but none comes. Instead, the boys race over to Jesse, each grabbing one of his hands. “OK,” I say. “That is totally unfair.”

“What?”

“That they just agreed to leave with you. If I suggested such a terrible thing, there would be so much screaming that I’d have to persuade the security guards not to call the Children’s Aid Society.”

“There is little justice in the world,” agrees Jesse.

“I am the one who vomited every day for nine months, got an episiotomy the size of the Grand Canyon, and walked around with sore breasts for two years of my life.”

“All true,” he says. “We can add that to your list of grievances if you want. What do you kids want for lunch?”

“Pizza!” they yell.

“Perfect,” says Jesse. He glances over at me. “Let’s solve eating habits another day.”



After lunch, we take the kids upstairs to their rooms for some quiet time, then bolt into our own room and fling ourselves on the bed.

“Emmett’s mother may be onto something,” says Jesse. “I don’t know if it’s the most important job in the world, but it’s got to be one of the hardest. I’m paralyzed.” He holds up a hand. “I realize I just opened the door for a discussion about how it’s not surprising that I find it tiring since I never do it, but let’s hold that thought, OK?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind,” I say, which is an outright lie and we both know it.

“Now,” says Jesse. “To recap our earlier discussion, I’ve solved all of your problems except Jamie’s ADHD, Scotty’s daycare, the theme for your Gala, your new job opportunity and the fact that your doctor thinks you’re depressed.”

“And the kids aren’t going to get into Harvard because they don’t have family dinners with us.”

“Ah, well,” says Jesse, “We can’t afford to send them to Harvard anyway. No biggie.”

“Be serious!” I elbow him.

“I’m sort of serious. Do you know how much tuition is at Harvard?” I elbow him again. “Sophie, we’ll have family dinners with the kids when they are old enough to eat after we get home from work. We’ll get there. Can we agree not to obsess about issues more than five years in the future, at least for the next few minutes?”

“If we must,” I say.

“On the ADHD issue, Jamie is a normal little boy and we are not going to worry about him just because an elderly female teacher finds him high-spirited. Anyway, aren’t we calling kids with ADHD ‘gifted’ these days?” I muster a small grin and Jesse continues. “He’ll get more focused as he gets older and eventually he’ll go to university, although probably not Harvard. Then he’ll graduate, get a job and have a productive life, just like me and all the other high-spirited boys I knew growing up did. And I’m pretty sure that Scotty will too. He’s not going to turn into Hannibal Lecter. We may need to find another childcare solution for him, but we’re not going to do that until we’ve sorted out our jobs.”

I feel the tension unwinding in my neck and shoulders. This is Jesse at his best: solving concrete problems. I’ve always loved and half-envied his unselfconscious pragmatism. “On the Gala issue,” he continues, “I have no idea what the theme should be, and I think you know that it doesn’t actually matter. I have every confidence that you’ll come up with a fantastic solution if we can get your stress level down to sustainable levels. So let’s talk about why you’re having so much trouble doing that.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m incredibly fortunate by any objective measure. I know I have first-world problems. But I feel like I should have some greater sense of purpose or something. Maybe I thought I’d have achieved more by now, or that I’d have made peace with not achieving more. But instead I’m restless and anxious and tired all the time. Last night at Lil’s party I looked around the room at all of those students, and I felt really, really old.”

“Compared to them, you are,” says Jesse.

I muster a half-smile. “This is you trying to make me feel better?”

“This is me trying to give you a little perspective. We’re not in university anymore. That’s a good thing. Adult life has a lot to recommend it, even if it’s tiring. We’re building our careers and raising our kids and it’s a lot of work. Being tired is just part of the package. Being miserable is a problem. Do you want to change your job?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think so. And this offer from Lil … it’s a dream come true in a lot of ways. But it comes with some strings.”

“Will.”

“Not just him, but yes.”

“Sophie,” he says, “I trust you. It’s your decision. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t shed a tear if Will disappeared off the face of the earth. I don’t like what he does to you. He unsettles you, and that has an impact on me. If you go the Foundation, you’ll have more contact, and I’ll have more angst. But I can live with that, if it’s what you want.”

“You know,” I say, “For what it’s worth, according to Zoe’s new theory about relationships, I married the right person.”

“What a relief,” says Jesse drily. “My own theory of relationships, which I’m guessing is different from Zoe’s, is that you should avoid discussing them, since conversations along those lines have little or no probability of ending well. You may have noticed that it’s a widely held theory among members of my demographic.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Zoe’s is different.” I shift a bit closer and put my head on Jesse’s shoulder. “What about you?” I ask. “What are you going to do about your business?”

“In the immediate term, I’m going to have to give notice to most of my employees. I can pay the bills for another six weeks, but if I haven’t found a new investor by the end of the month, the lights go out. I called a headhunter on Friday who seemed optimistic about my options, so I guess I’ll put on a suit and lick my wounds in a corporate job for a few years. The good news is that I have technical expertise in one of the few growth areas in the economy.”

“But it was your dream,” I say.

“It was my dream job,” he corrects me. “My job, not my life. You and the kids are my life. Never doubt that.”

I find myself crying again for the umpteenth time this week.

“Now you see?” says Jesse. “If you want me to shower you with affection, you can’t go bursting into tears. It’s a major deterrent.”

I give him a watery smile.

“Better,” he says. “Here’s the goal for this week. You are going to get rid of all the noise in your life – by which I mean the stupid problems that are distracting you from dealing with the real ones. And then you are going to try to figure out how to have more fun.”

“Operation Fun,” I say. “I’m on it. But I need a nap first.”

Jesse throws an arm over my waist and pulls me close. “I have a better idea,” he murmurs in my ear, as his hand eases up under my shirt. I bite my lip as his hand moves higher, and I hear him chuckle, and I remember that what married sex lacks in anticipation, it makes up for in certainty. I shiver as he plants a delicate row of kisses along my cheekbone. “You know what I was thinking last night at the party?” he asks.

“Mmmm.”

“I was thinking how lucky I was to be able to take you home at the end of the night.”

I run my hands up under his shirt, grounding myself in the familiar texture of muscle and bone. “I love you,” I murmur.

“I love you too,” he says. “You were always the girl I wanted to go home with.”