One morning, while I French-braided Lily’s hair (Grace was waiting patiently next to me for her turn), Rebecca set up a station for all the kids to paint rocks. She had googly eyes, pom-poms, and some other accessories that they could glue on, and the girls were wiggly with excitement. Jonah looked less thrilled, and gazed longingly at the older boys playing Marco Polo in the pool.
Rebecca’s entire childcare regiment looked like it deserved its own Pinterest board. She had individual containers for Jonah’s snacks that he could carry around, kits of rainy day activities, outdoor art projects, scavenger hunts. Anytime she brought out one of her creations, I could feel Jenny and Nellie exchanging a look. Those two liked to act like they were too overwhelmed and busy to pay attention to what their kids were doing, let alone have time to put together crafts. They were constantly congratulating themselves on having three kids by saying, “Once they outnumber you, anything can happen.” They posted pictures of their kids with paint on their faces, with the caption “Mother of the Year.” They thought Rebecca was fussy, that she tried too hard. It wasn’t difficult to imagine them in high school, making fun of anyone who put forth effort and showed that she cared. And while they made sure their girls had enough Lilly Pulitzer dresses to choke a horse, they continued to give the impression that motherhood left them too busy to care about any of it.
—
Rebecca wasn’t a big drinker. Compared to the rest of the Kellys, she was usually downright sober. When she showed up at Sunday dinner, she’d have one glass of wine, which she’d sip on throughout the meal. I think it was her way of silently judging the rest of us. If someone tried to pour more in her glass, she’d put her hand over the top, which often led Babs to mutter “Teetotaler” at her, like it was a dirty word.
But on vacation, all bets were off. Maybe it was the close proximity to everyone, or the fact that she knew she was stuck on the Kelly compound, but most days she started drinking white wine in the afternoons and by dinner she was often tipsy.
On the last day of the trip, she and I sat on the patio, each of us relaxing in an Adirondack chair, a bottle of wine between us. The rest of the family was on the lawn playing a huge game of touch football—even Jonah was out there. When Rebecca said she didn’t want to play and the numbers became uneven, everyone looked at me and waited for me to bow out, which I did. It was just as well. I didn’t need to end up on crutches.
The two teams were huddled separately, shouting funny threats back and forth, pretending to whisper secret plays to each other. They were loud and the kids were laughing. The last game of the trip was always the rowdiest.
“They think they’re the fucking Kennedys,” Rebecca said, and I coughed on my wine as I laughed. She wasn’t looking at me, she was staring at them, and for a second I wasn’t sure if she even knew she’d spoken out loud, but then she continued. “Look at them. They think they’re so special. Charmed.” She paused and squinted like she was trying to figure them out.
“They do,” I said, because it felt like I had to say something. I’d always wanted Rebecca to like me, but I didn’t want to become her confidante. I wasn’t exactly like Jenny and Nellie, but I didn’t want to be included in the outcast portion of the family. I was quick to mock the Kellys, but not belonging to their club would be worse than belonging.
Rebecca turned to look at me. “You have it the worst though,” she said. She started laughing—hard, and not in a particularly nice way. I gave her a confused smile while I waited for her to continue, and then she said, barely able to catch her breath, “Because if they’re the Kennedys, then you’re married to John-John.”
Chapter 13
A couple of weeks after we got back from St. Michaels, we were sitting on the couch, watching The Daily Show, when Matt’s phone rang. We glanced at each other, wondering who would be calling, and then Matt looked down at his phone and said, “It’s Jimmy.” For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he swiped the screen and said, “Hey man, what’s up?”
He was quiet for a while, only saying, “Really?” or “Okay,” and once, “Wow.” I kept trying to catch his eye so he could let me know what was going on, but he wouldn’t look up. I bent my head in front of him, which was maybe a little obnoxious, and he held up a finger to me, telling me to wait a minute, and then walked upstairs. I muted the TV to listen to the conversation, but Jimmy was doing most of the talking. When Matt finally came downstairs, he looked a little shocked.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s fine.” He was speaking slowly, like he was trying to find the right words, and I waited for him to continue. “Jimmy was approached by some people asking if he’d want to run for the Railroad Commission.”
“What? What people?”
“Some ‘major Democratic stakeholders,’ he said. Apparently, they want someone new in the Democratic field. There’s one guy with some sketchy financial stuff and another old guy who’s run like three times already.”