Interstitial #4
When there’s a lull in the conversation Natalie says, “Do you think Dad is doing gentle parenting with the kids?”
“Definitely not,” hoots Mae. “Definitely not.”
“What is gentle parenting?” asks Jordan, mystified.
“It’s a parenting fad,” explains Mae.
“It’s a parenting style,” corrects Natalie. “Not a fad.”
“Give me the sound bite.”
“Well,” begins Natalie. “The idea is that you focus on empathy, understanding, and healthy boundaries. So, if you’re trying
to get out the door and your kid is throwing a tantrum, instead of screaming, ‘Put your shoes on!’ like an old-school parent,
you’d explain why the kid needs to be on time to school and how you, the parent, need to be on time to work, and the tantrum
is making you feel anxious, so maybe you can talk about why the kid is upset and both get out the door together.”
“Oh my god,” says Jordan. “That sounds really time-consuming.” She does not point out that Natalie’s kids don’t go to school
and Natalie doesn’t go to work. Does she have to rush them to the milking barn? “Does anyone ever actually get out the door
that way?”
“Sometimes,” says Natalie, chewing her lip, considering. “Not always.”
“Don’t you read Natalie’s Substack?” Mae says. “She did a whole piece on it. ‘The Ungentle Part of Gentle Parenting.’ It was
really good! Natalie, you’re such a good writer.”
“Thank you,” says Natalie. She looks expectantly at Jordan, as if for her to corroborate.
“I don’t always have time to read. My job keeps me really busy.”
“I have noticed you’re not a subscriber.”
“Really? You check who doesn’t subscribe?”
To her drink Natalie says, “Sometimes I forget that you only have time when it suits you.”
The air stills. “Whoa,” says Mae. “Major mood shift.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Jordan. She looks at Natalie’s glass. It’s empty, and she’s looking again at the cocktail
menu.
“Another round, please,” Natalie tells the bartender.
Mae says, “But I’m not—” and Natalie says, “So drink the first one down, sister.”
When they have their second drinks Jordan repeats, “What did you mean, Natalie?”
“Nothing. Just that sometimes you have time, and sometimes you don’t have time.” Natalie shrugs. “That’s how it is.”
“What did you mean?” she repeats. Natalie shakes her head, still bowed over her glass. “What did you mean that sometimes I have time and sometimes I don’t? Natalie?”
When Natalie looks up her eyes are blazing. “I mean that you don’t have time to help me with what I’m going through. Right
now, today.”
“Hang on,” says Mae. “What am I missing? What is Natalie going through? What do you not have time for?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have time—” What she doesn’t have, Jordan thinks, is desire.
Natalie cuts her off. “And how about when Mom was dying? How much time did you have then?”
“Whoa,” says Mae, shocked. “Natalie!”
“I was there when Mom died!” cries Jordan. “We all were!” She’s not crazy, right? They were all there! Calvin, Kara, Mae, Natalie—the gang
was all there. They heard the death rattle.
“She was dying for longer than just two days, Jordan. Until I was too pregnant to travel often I was there a lot more than
you were.”
This is so unfair Jordan can hardly believe it. “You live an hour away. I was three hours away, with a demanding job.”
“I was pregnant, with two little kids, and I made it work. I went to her appointments.”
“Being pregnant isn’t a job, Natalie.”
Natalie laughs meanly. “Well, it sure isn’t a leisure activity.”
Mae is looking back and forth as though her sisters are playing pickleball. She keeps opening and closing her mouth like a koi, saying nothing.
“Where is this coming from?” But Jordan doesn’t really have to ask this; she knows where it’s coming from.
“You may hate my traditional view of motherhood—”
“I don’t hate—”
“But at least I was there for our own mother!” Natalie has too much composure to yell in a bar, but she’s close.
“What?” Jordan can’t believe those words just came out of Natalie’s mouth.
“Yeah. And not only did you put work ahead of her, now you’re just fine with tearing down her house!”
Okay, thinks Jordan. “Oh my god,” she says. “You both need to stop talking like I’m standing outside the house with a bulldozer. None of this was my idea!”
“But if we all agreed,” says Natalie, “if we were all united, maybe we could do something about it. If you cared.”
Now the gloves are well off. On the inside Jordan is seething and shaking, but she knows from years of experience that the
antidote to Natalie getting too emotional is to remain cool herself. It was the same with Audrey. Maybe we purposefully find
in the outside world the patterns we grew up with because we think we know how to manage them. She draws herself up with as
much dignity as she can summon, and, keeping her voice steady and even, says, “Well, Natalie, you may think your memory is
pretty good—”
“My memory is very good,” snaps Natalie.
“—but one thing you’re definitely forgetting is that you aren’t the only one with things going on.
As usual, you think you are. I’m going to the bathroom.
” And with that, she pushes in her barstool (because even as angry as she is she doesn’t want anyone to trip) and heads to the back of the restaurant.
“Oooooh,” breathes Mae once Jordan is gone. Natalie rattles the ice in her glass. “What was that all about?”
Natalie gives Mae the CliffsNotes: the article, the backlash, Austin’s refusal to see any of it as a problem. Mae winces and
nods at all the right times, and Natalie is grateful for that.
“I hate that reporter,” Mae says loyally.
“Me too,” says Natalie. But she’s mostly angry and scared about Austin. She’s scared that she’s taken this beautiful part
of their life and broken it. In all the time she’s known him, Austin has never gotten off the phone without a goodbye, without
saying Love you.
Natalie considers. “To be fair, maybe it was the editor or the designer who decided to highlight the quote and write the caption,”
she says.
“Then I hate them too.” Mae takes the last, exuberant sip of her drink. Natalie tells her about her hope for Jordan to fix
it, and Jordan’s refusal.
“But Jordan fixes everything!” explains Natalie. “She’s being so weird about this.”
“Jordan does fix everything,” Mae agrees. “She used to fix my American Girl doll when the leg kept falling off. Grace? The
one who baked? That girl’s leg would not stay on.”
“Tough to be a one-legged baker,” observes Natalie. Then she says, “She always untangled my necklaces.”
“She organized the drawer that held the food containers, like, once a month.”
“No, I did that,” says Natalie.
“That was you?”
“Definitely. I always wanted them to be matched with their hats but nobody ever put them away properly. It drove me crazy,
all those orphans.” In Natalie’s kitchen, her beautiful, grown-up, endlessly photographed kitchen, every container has a lid
and every lid has a container. There are no orphans.
They’re quiet for a minute. The bartender comes by and says, “Another round?”
“Yes,” says Natalie, at the same time that Mae says, “Probably not.”
The bartender raises an eyebrow and waits. “We’ll decide when our sister comes back,” says Mae.
“I’ll be over there when you do.”
“She’s taking, like, a year in the bathroom,” says Natalie. Then, “Was I too harsh with her?”
“Well,” says Mae diplomatically. “That depends on your definition of harsh.”
“Ouch.”
“I mean. You’re angry with her about being okay with the house sale. I get it. I’m angry about that too.”
“The Realtor pretty much said the next owners are going to tear it down!”
“I know. I know! I can’t believe it. I can’t even really let myself think about it or imagine it. But the stuff about when
Mom was sick . . . I wasn’t there as much as you were either, if we’re keeping score.”
“You live in Colorado. You took a leave of absence from your job!”
“A short one.”
Natalie can’t decide if she’s being too hard on Jordan or too easy on Mae. “Okay, okay, fine. What do I do?”
“You could start by apologizing.”
Natalie thinks about this; she thinks long and hard. Apologizing is not her favorite thing to do. “I don’t know if I’ll apologize. But I will order a round of shots, and that’s sort of the same thing.”
Of course Simone is sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant, and of course she looks up and sees Jordan at the same time that
Jordan sees her. Simone’s face breaks into that warm, beautiful smile—summery, if a smile can be seasonal—and Jordan, who’s
so angry at Natalie that she could shake her fist at the gods, if she believed in the gods, sees the smile and feels like
she’s eighteen again. Unmarred. Simone is wearing a long gauzy white skirt and a fitted coral tank top. Minimal makeup, suntanned
face, those freckles. This, Jordan realizes, is exactly who she wants to see at this moment. Simone.
Simone stands and hugs Jordan, introducing her to the woman she’s sitting with: “Jordan, this is Marnie, my partner.” Jordan
raises her eyebrows—Marnie is at least fifteen years older than Simone, and hadn’t Simone said she was single?—and Simone
hurries to say, “My business partner. For the yoga and smoothie bar. Marnie’s taught yoga all over the Seacoast area.”
“Nice to meet you.” This Marnie does have a certain taut, flexible look to her. “I’m here with my sisters,” Jordan tells Simone.
“Girls’ night out. My dad and his new wife are babysitting.”
“Fun!” says Simone.
“Well,” says Jordan, “sometimes.”
To Marnie: “Jordan has the best sisters.”
“Sometimes,” repeats Jordan.
“You weren’t even here the last time I saw them. You were working. Did they tell you we saw each other on the beach a few
years ago?” Jordan nods. Simone tells Marnie, “Jordan has the most interesting job.”