“Come on, Laine. What could possibly make you think that’s better than the best city in the whole world?” said Piper, gesturing to the skyline, which was shining over the park’s treetops.
Her comment reminded me of a trip my mother and I had taken to Bloomingdale’s. I remember it because it was a rare excursion we’d taken on our own. “Just think, each person you see has an entire life, filled with experiences and thoughts and people you’ll never know about,” she had remarked as we were going up the escalator. I couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven at the time, and I remember her comment making my head hurt. Every person browsing handbags or trying to sidestep the overly aggressive perfume sprayers—all with a completely different story! Even now, it broke my brain to think about it. It wasn’t like I’d chosen to move to a town of twelve residents in the middle of farmland. Still, Ann Arbor was certainly more manageable than New York.
It was also nowhere near Ben.
And now my sisters were staring at me with such hope—and yes, love—that I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the truth: their request had put me in an impossible position.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, but when they threw their arms around me again, I knew what they’d actually heard was yes.
FOURTEEN
LAINE
As a child, I didn’t cradle baby dolls in my arms or draw pictures of the family I imagined having one day. Nor did I attempt to parent Piper, who was three years younger than me—not the way that Hadley did, proudly pushing her around the neighborhood in a stroller and, in doing so, earning herself the nickname of Little Mama. For me, motherhood, much like adulthood, was a proverbial bridge I’d consider crossing if and when it materialized. Looking back, I suspect I got that from my own mother, who mostly took life as it came at her.
I can still remember the day I realized I wanted a child. I was in my midtwenties and I had taken Belle to the arboretum. I preferred not to run unless I was being chased, but she desperately needed the exercise, so I’d purchased a pair of jogging shoes and learned to mostly keep up with her. On this particular morning, I’d let her pull me down the winding dirt path all the way to the river. We’d just reached the water when I saw a man and a woman holding the hands of a small boy. “One, two—” They swung him into the air on “three,” making him squeal with delight, which made them laugh and look at each other like they’d just discovered gravity. I knelt beside Belle, who was happily panting, and watched the trio do this again, and again, and again.
Unlike Josh, whom I’d been dating for a year or two at that point, I didn’t want big things for my life. And sometimes I’d worried about that. Why didn’t I care about being rich, when it clearly made everything easier? Shouldn’t I want a fabulous career, a taste of fame, or an opportunity to do something that would change the world for the better? Or what about health? I could have been stronger, thinner, more energetic. I could have tried to be prettier or better dressed or at least charming. It seemed to me that I should’ve been attempting to becoming more, like most everyone around me seemed to be.
But when I watched that family, desire—so potent that it bordered on primal—finally emerged. Suddenly I knew what I wanted for my life, and it was the beautiful, mundane joy of being a parent. And after Josh and I got married and I casually mentioned being ready for a baby the first time, then the second, then the eighth—and he responded, just as casually each time, that he hoped for a baby, too, but he still wasn’t quite ready—I told myself, When you really want something, you’re willing to wait for it. Be patient.
What I didn’t know then was that every time you defer your dream, it grows a bit weaker, a little less urgent, until one day you’ve all but forgotten it’s there. Really, if Belle hadn’t died, I wonder if anything about my life would’ve changed. I didn’t have what I really desired. But things were easy, and you can almost mistake that for happiness.
I felt wretched as I rode the subway home after brunch with my sisters. I did want to help them, and, of course, my mother. There was no way she wasn’t aware that something was wrong, and even if she’d never admit it, that had to be terrifying for her. But doing the right thing—and I was pretty sure moving back was right—meant putting my dream on hold yet again. And this late in the game, that was akin to abandoning it.
When I got home, my mother wanted me to go grocery shopping with her, and I agreed, thinking it would be a good trial run for us becoming roommates. Our excursion turned into a two-hour trip; she sauntered down every aisle, considering all of her options, only to fill her cart with less than a dozen items. Then it was dinnertime, so after dropping the groceries off, we’d walked over to a little French place a few blocks away. There, she’d talked my ear off about her friend Mary and her wine club and how she and my father had met—they’d been set up at a dance by a couple of friends and hadn’t particularly liked each other at first. But her favorite Supremes song had come on, and he’d whisked her to the dance floor, and the rest, as she said, was history. She’d told this story plenty over the years, and she’d always looked so happy when she recounted it. This time, though, I had to plaster a smile on my face, because it occurred to me that they hadn’t really liked each other after that night.
“The place is a mess, Sally,” he’d often mutter under his breath as he read the paper.
“Would you prefer I spend hours scrubbing in a shapeless housedress?” she’d respond, reminding him that however messy our apartment may have been, she was not—her hair and makeup were just so, she was wearing a stylish outfit, and looked almost exactly as she had before birthing three live humans.
“Both, please,” he’d practically growl, and she’d laugh like he was hilarious.
But soon after, she’d disappear into their bedroom or go out to meet a friend, not to return for hours at a time. Sometimes I wondered if she ever thought about leaving us behind, like Ben’s mom had. Reggie was a lot chattier, and frankly nicer than my dad, and yet Ben’s mother had still left. What was to say my own wouldn’t have enough of my father—and yes, us—one day?
I always made sure to clean the apartment a little more than usual after my parents had one of these exchanges.
In spite of my less-than-happy recollection about my parents, dining with my mother had been really nice. It had been ages since she and I had sat and talked like that—just the two of us, without Josh or my sisters or anyone else there to join in. She didn’t have a memory slip all night, either, and this only affirmed my suspicion about her needing to be around people. What if my presence made all the difference in how the next part of her life unfolded?
But as I tried to picture what this life would look like if I were a bigger part of it, I kept seeing myself trying to jiggle an infant on my hip while running up and down the stairs to help my mother. I was again struck by the impossibility of caring for my elderly parent while trying to have a baby. It didn’t matter how much money I had, how carefully I structured my calendar, or whether I brought in an aide or a nanny (or both) to help. Heck, even if I decided to remain married to Josh and have him move to New York with me, it still wouldn’t make enough of a difference. There was no way to be the parent I wanted to be while also attempting to be there for my mother as she faded away. Which meant I had a decision to make.