Daughters for a Time Read online

  “It still cracks me up that you have to ‘rehearse’ cooking,” I said, instantly regretting my snotty tone.

  Tim raised his eyebrows, probably wondering where the woman he married had gone. I used to be funny, but now I was just sarcastic, as if I’d forgotten the mechanics of a good joke.

  “Sorry.” I walked toward Tim and took his hand. The clot in my throat left me unable to say more.

  Tim kissed my forehead, and for a second, I wished that I could burrow into his chest and go to sleep. I wished that things were as they were when we’d first met. The two of us, broke and in love, traveling through Europe following our graduation from cooking school, lying side by side in our sleeper cabin as the train thundered through the night. Back when having children was just a fantasy. We’d split our time between DC and Paris. Our children would be so international they’d speak three different languages. It would be no big deal to pull them out of school for a holiday in Naples.

  We’d exhale, lying back with our arms crossed over our chests, dreamily resolved in our plans. Back then, anything and everything seemed possible. Our love and curiosity and ironclad loyalty to each other insulated us from any wrong turn.

  Those were happy days for me, two special years spent overseas with Tim, traveling with no itinerary, an unfolded map spread out before us. Those were the years when I actually found some peace following Mom’s death. Something about feeling so small in comparison to a gigantic world gave me a perspective I hadn’t had before. After years of blaming Mom for leaving me too early, I was finally able to mourn her loss, finally able to see that she was a woman who had been robbed of her future, too, and forced to leave her girls to fend for themselves.

  “Sorry I’m such a crab,” I said. I wrapped my arms around Tim and let my head rest on his chest. Closed my eyes. Breathed. More tears ran down my cheeks.

  Tim hugged me back, unwrapped my arms, and went to the cupboard for a coffee cup. “If I don’t see you sometime today, then I won’t see you until late tonight.” He feigned sadness, turning his bottom lip over.

  “On a Wednesday? Why can’t Philippe close the kitchen?”

  “We have a special group coming in. I want to be there ‘til the end, just in case.”

  “I’m sure Philippe could handle it.”

  “I’m sure he could, but I’d rather stay. If you need me, just call. Or even better, come in and work.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  These days, feeling sorry for myself reigned supreme. Somewhere below the self-pity was a nagging guilt I felt for shirking my responsibilities at the restaurant, welshing on our “co-owner” arrangement.

  “I’m sorry I’m not more helpful,” I added.

  “It’s fine,” Tim said. “By the way, I looked at the draft of the new menu format you designed. I think it looks great.”

  “Thanks.” I had spent hours on the Internet, pulling up actual menus from restaurants in France and Italy, getting ideas.

  “And when you come back to work, you’ll be even more help,” he said.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  When you come back to work. The words splashed a wave of acid in the bowl of my stomach. More evidence that there would be no baby in my future. Tim was never one to initiate a fight, but he was a champ when it came to putting his foot in his mouth, always pushing the buttons that hurt me most.

  “What are Claire and Maura up to?” Tim asked. “Maybe you could get together with them.”

  Four years ago, my sister and I started trying to get pregnant at nearly the same time, only Claire succeeded and I failed. Claire got the starring role and I was cast as the understudy, the one who only got to play mom while babysitting my young niece.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said to Tim. “Maybe I’ll get outside, do some gardening.”

  Tim smiled, more smirked. Not even he bought that load of crap.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, shrugging, palms up.

  “No, of course not,” I said, forcing my face into a smile. “I’m good.” I rose from the table, kissed Tim on the cheek, and then submerged my hands into the warm, sudsy water. Tim walked up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and waited for him to say, “Don’t worry, maybe next month will be ours,” but instead he said, “Take a look at the adoption packet, okay?”

  Once Tim left for the restaurant, I walked through the three-bedroom, two-bathroom house we’d lived in for the last six years, opening all of the blinds and a few windows, letting the breeze hit my face, smelling the wet grass from last night’s rain. Feeling something.

  I went upstairs and sat at my vanity, a walnut Queen Anne antique we’d purchased in Hong Kong. I rummaged through the top drawer. Brand-new lipsticks, pencils, blushes, all designer names: MAC, Estée, Bobby Brown. Claire showered makeup on me regularly, singing, “It’s gift time at Lancôme.” The one-ounce containers of makeup were invariably accompanied by at least two ounces of uninvited commentary: “Helen, if you line your lips in a lighter shade than your lipstick, you’ll have a much fuller, natural look.”

  I stared in the oval mirror and took inventory of my face. Where had my color gone? I looked gray, the skin under my eyes translucent and bruised. My naturally curly hair was dry and frizzy, in desperate need of a cut and moisturizing treatment. Claire had a natural, girl-next-door beauty: perky cheekbones, rosebud of a mouth, shiny thick hair. My looks verged more on the exotic: darker skin, almond-shaped brown eyes, unruly hair.

  I opened a tube of lipstick, dabbed the rose color onto my lips, and then tossed it back in the drawer. “I always find that when I’m down in the dumps, a fresh face of makeup and a nice outfit perks me right up!” Classic Claire. I squeezed a dot of a beige concealer called Disaster Cream onto the tip of my finger and dabbed it under my eyes. Now my bags looked like bruised fruit covered in a layer of primer.

  I picked up a silver frame with a photo of Tim and me in St. Tropez, arm in arm, beaming. I was wearing a turquoise batik halter and a wrap skirt. My body looked good: tight, tanned, and healthy. My curls were piled atop my head, with loose tendrils falling around my face. Tim was in a salmon-colored Tommy Bahama shirt. We were glowing, we were having fun, we were happy. I looked to the ceiling, recalling the date—2008. Only four years ago. Things were so different.

  We had just begun our efforts at getting pregnant—month four, and already I was growing anxious. On a whim, Tim cashed in some airline miles and whisked me away for a long weekend in the South of France. “We’ll get pregnant here,” he had said. Looking out at the tangerine sunset, I had nodded, certain he was right. Though a pinch of worry had already dug in her first claw, I was still optimistic. Never could I have imagined that four years later I’d still be empty-handed.

  Tim and I had met in Lyon, France, where we both were enrolled in culinary school. It was a two-year program designed to impart a classical education in French culinary skills, cuisine, and pastry. On our first day of class, when it was my turn to introduce myself, I said that I was from Arlington, Virginia, that this was my first time abroad, and that I had a weakness for good bread: I was liable to eat an entire loaf in one sitting. I saw Tim look up and smile. A few students later, it was his turn. He looked right at me when he said he was from Fairfax, Virginia, that he was a smothered only child to well-meaning parents who flew him around the globe, and that his weakness was red meat and red wine. I smiled, looked down, blushed. There we were, halfway around the globe, two kindred spirits from Virginia.

  By the time summer rolled around, Tim and I were nearly inseparable. We’d spend our weekends exploring the city, navigating our way through the cobblestoned old town, accosting one pastry shop after another, devouring brioche and lemon tarts. We’d visit wineries, olive groves, outdoor markets; stroll into galleries, churches, antique shops. Summer came and we ventured farther, boarding trains and buses for the adventure of experiencing each other, trying the unknown, eating interesting food, and mingl
ing with the local culture.

  Our first week was spent in Paris. We did what all young tourists do. We toured the Louvre, lit prayer candles at Notre Dame, walked hand in hand along the Seine. We smoked French cigarettes; we gorged ourselves on crusty loaves, creamy Camembert, and fruity Beaujolais. We ditched our originally booked hotel in lieu of a quaint little inn with second-story, wrought iron balconies in the red-light Pigalle District. Prostitutes solicited on the corner, and sex shops and shows lined the streets. We felt naughty and exhilarated, embarrassed and invigorated, all at once.

  On our last night in Paris, Tim and I lay on our backs on the cool grass surrounding the Eiffel Tower, dozing on and off, kissing and cuddling each other. As day turned to night, fireworks were ignited against the backdrop of the great Tower as the city celebrated Bastille Day.

  “I think I love you,” Tim said tentatively.

  “Oh, thank God,” I exclaimed. “Because I am madly in love with you.”

  Chapter Two

  Lately I had been driving by my father’s house—my father whom I hadn’t seen in seven years. He lives in Arlington, mere blocks and a thousand memories away from where I grew up. Only blocks from where, once upon a time, I had a mother and a father. Now Larry lives in a bungalow on a tree-lined street that circles a park. The park isn’t big, but enough for a playground and a walking trail and a few scattered benches. A perfect park for grandchildren, if only my mother were still alive or my father were someone else.

  Today I parked across the street, the closest I’d allowed myself to get. His house has a substantial porch with a set of Adirondack chairs and a hanging swing. The landscape is well done, shrubs and grasses and colorful annuals; it seemed like a lot of work for a guy who had a history of walking away from living things. His carport was empty this time. Last time it was occupied by his Buick LeSabre, the very same car he’d had when Mom was still alive. The very same car that we had used for family trips, Claire and me hunkered down in the backseat, slapping down our cards in heated games of War. The very same car in which he drove away from his family.

  After Mom died, Claire had decided that we would stay where we were, in the house in which we’d grown up. She figured that it was best—at least until I finished high school. At fourteen, I was just a freshman; Claire had graduated a few years earlier and was taking her core courses at the community college.

  Larry would come around every now and then. Claire kept him at an icy distance, always getting right to business. She’d give him a list of expenses that needed to be covered. “I paid to have the loose brick on the walkway fixed. I wasn’t sure if you’d think that was important or not. But I didn’t want anyone to trip over it.” Larry nodded, assured her that of course he’d reimburse her, that it was smart of her to get it fixed. At the time, I didn’t fully get why she was so curt with him, but later it was easy to see that she was hurt and angry, and martyrdom fit her better than grief.

  Back then, I always wanted to get between Claire and Larry and say to my sister, “At least he’s trying now!” All I knew was that I was sad, I missed my mother, and I wanted someone else to be sad with me. And Claire had no interest in being that person. Each of us had been broken by Mom’s death, but we mourned differently. Claire shifted into overdrive, pushed herself forward with the steam of efficiency, productivity, and accomplishment. I remember so well how rushed I felt by Claire’s antiseptic process of boxing up, giving away, and saying good-bye to Mom. That was her way.

  My way was to wallow. I found comfort in walking through the dark house, opening and closing cupboards, staring at odd items like Mom’s favorite coffee mug. I’d sit on the rug in Mom’s closet, brushing my hand through the drape of her clothes. I’d slip on her shoes. I’d go through the pockets of her purses. The smells would bring her right back: an old piece of bubblemint gum, a tiny bottle of Tresor, a Lancôme lipstick.

  I was sad, and I thought I’d recognized the same sadness in Larry. Part of me felt like he and I could have done some good for each other—fellow wallowers. But the three of us were each coping in our own way, and the path of least resistance was to drift apart.

  One day he stopped by to give Claire the monthly child-support check. Claire was on her way out. “You can’t stay,” she told him. “I’ve got to get to class, and Helen has the day off from school.”

  He agreed, and I didn’t argue. I knew that Claire would never let Larry visit with me alone, without her watchful eyes serving as chaperone. He waved to me as he walked back to his car. Ten minutes later, after Claire had left for school, Larry knocked again on the door. “Do you want to talk?” he asked.

  I let him in and for the next two hours we sat at the kitchen table with Dr. Peppers, poring over a tattered pink photo album: Claire’s kindergarten school picture, in which she wore a plaid dress with a wide white collar and her hair in pigtails; me as a baby, finger-painting with orange squash baby food; Mom displaying a chocolate cake with sprinkles. We turned the page: Claire riding her Barbie bike; me playing dress-up in Mom’s heels and clip-on earrings. Now older: Claire in her soccer uniform; me cooking with Mom, smocked in a too-big apron and floppy chef’s hat. The next page: Larry with Claire, sitting at a table. He was still in his suit and tie from work. An insurance salesman, he always dressed sharply in starched shirts with French cuffs and shined wingtips. Claire was wearing blue leggings and a turquoise tunic. He was quizzing her on multiplication tables with index cards. Her mouth was pursed and serious, showing her concentration, but her eyes were bright. I peeled back the sticky, clear cover and gently pried the photo from its spot, leaving a visible square in its place. Claire—nine years old was written on the back. A happy girl, basking in the glow of her father’s attention.

  He’s not so bad, I remember thinking at that table with him. Why does Claire have to be so hard on him? Now, I looked again in the direction of my father’s house, wondered if he ever thought about me as I thought about him. All these years later, and I still felt so alone. Even with Tim and his loving family, and Claire and her family, in the same town. It should be enough. But it wasn’t. I missed the family I had had as a kid. I wanted to remember. And while Claire had filled nearly every void in me over the years, the one thing she was unable to do was to talk about Mom and Dad. It was her way; I got that. She wasn’t a talker. She didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. She had no intention of letting her guard down. That left Larry, the one person who might want to remember with me. But Claire and I remembered our father differently. I remembered more good times than she did. If I attempted to reconnect with him, Claire might not forgive me.

  I took one last look, wondered if my father had any dad-telepathy that made him feel my pain, wondered if he ever thought about Mom, wondered if he missed her even a fraction as much as I did, wondered if he had a hole in his heart that matched mine.

  I looked at the clock and then drove in the direction of the Target shopping center. Nestled in the corner was Gymboree, a tumbling haven for little tots. My niece Maura’s class was just starting. I ducked into Starbucks for a latte and then slipped into Gymboree, pulling up a chair next to Claire.

  Claire looked at me, then at the handful of little girls tumbling in front of my eyes, and pulled her mouth tight, like she wondered whether it was a good idea for me to be there—an addict so close to the open drug cabinet.

  “What have you been up to today?” she asked.

  “Nothing much,” I said, my voice sounding odd. Certainly not driving by our father’s house.

  All of the waiting moms bustled about. Former lawyers, CEOs, and lobbyists who had chosen to be full-time moms now crowded the lobbies of gymnastics and dance classes, selling candy bars and wrapping paper. One of them was passing out catalogs. “It’s for the school,” she said primly. “We could really use your support.”

  I took her catalog, but after she’d gone, I whispered to Claire, “These women make me want to vomit. The way they all flaunt their mommy-hood like a badge. Look at me
! Devoted Mommy. Gave up my career and I’m raising money for the PTA!”

  “I know,” Claire said. “They’re a little overboard.”

  Claire was different. She’d smoothly transitioned from being a top investment advisor to a mom, and had never looked back. But that was Claire. Claire slipped into motherhood like she slipped into everything else—with perfect ease. She wore her roles as comfortably as her size-four jeans. I was anything but smooth. Everything I did required a certain amount of tailoring to fit me just right. And even then, the trained eye could see how many times I’d been taken apart and put back together.

  Claire was six years my elder and, at five foot four, a good four inches shorter than me. At Goldman Sachs, her boss had nicknamed her “Dynamo” for the indomitable energy with which she’d worked fourteen-hour days, brought in big clients, and held her own with the big boys. With a bouncy brown bob and giant chocolate eyes, she’d be mistaken for sweet and pliable. But Claire was the toughest person I knew, the type of mom who would find the adrenaline to lift an SUV single-handedly to free a pinned child.

  I had spent most of my high school and college years trying to be different from Claire. Claire was conservative, wore Ann Taylor, and carried a day planner; I wore vintage clothing, shopping at the Army surplus store or the Salvation Army, balked at convention, and showed up late. Claire would bristle, offended by my behavior—just the response I was looking for. The weird thing was, I never disliked Claire, nor did I not want to be like her. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to “do Claire” as well as Claire did Claire.

  In class, the kids practiced somersaults, looking more like overturned turtles than gymnasts. Maura had the typical body of a three-year-old: arched back, distended belly, and bowed legs. Her underwear crept from the legs of her shimmery blue leotard. She was adorable, with pigtail knots on top of her head and eyes as bright as diamonds.