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Natalie laughs and says, “I don’t think that’s a law. Plenty of sisters hate each other.”
Jordan’s voice goes level, and she’s not meeting Natalie’s eyes. “I just don’t believe in everything you’re doing, I guess
is what I’ve been trying to say. And that makes it hard for me.”
Natalie can’t believe this. “Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t believe in what I’m doing? What about that guy from Congress you helped, the one who waved his dick around at his intern? You agreed with what
he was doing?”
“Natalie,” says Jordan.
“What?”
“First of all, no, of course I didn’t agree with what he was doing. And second, that’s not how we phrase it in the industry.”
“How do you phrase it, then?”
Jordan clears her throat again as if she’s making room for her professional voice. “We say, ‘Representative So-and-So was
going through a challenging personal time and is now seeking professional treatment. He fully owns the consequences of his
actions and has expressed to Intern So-and-So his deep sorrow and regret. He hopes to move forward from here and continue
to serve this great country as his constituents have trusted him to do for the past twelve years.’ ”
Despite herself, Natalie is impressed with Jordan’s smooth tongue, her facility with language. “Not bad. So why does it matter
if you believe in me? Why can’t you pretend I’m a client like that guy?”
Jordan takes a long time before answering, like she’s really thinking about it. “Maybe it’s different because I know you.
I can tell what’s authentic and what’s not.”
Natalie tries to take this in, but something isn’t tracking. “It’s all authentic.”
“Is it, though?”
“Of course.” Then: “Wait a second,” Natalie says. “Is it because of Jesus? That you won’t help me?”
Jordan makes a choking sound. “Excuse me?”
“Jesus, Jordan, the guy with the—”
“No, I know who Jesus is. I mean, is that actually what you’re asking me?”
“I think that is what I’m asking you. Is this really about religion? Because Austin is Christian. And because I’m Christian now too, and my
kids are Christian. You’re embarrassed by our faith.”
“Your faith?” asks Jordan. “You don’t believe in your faith! That’s just the thing. That’s what I’m struggling with. You believe for show. You do so many
things for show now.”
Tears prick Natalie’s eyes anew. “How can you say that?”
Now Jordan is looking straight at her. “I’ve known you for a long time, Nat. And you weren’t ever this person. Not until you
met Austin. Not until you went hard on social media.”
“That’s not true. I’ve always wanted faith. I just didn’t know where to get it. These may not be the beliefs we were raised
with, Jordan, but I came by them honestly.”
Natalie’s elementary school best friend, Ursula, was the most religious person Natalie had known growing up in Lenox.
Ursula’s family attended St. Ann’s devotedly, every Sunday plus each holy day of obligation.
If Natalie spent the night on a Saturday the family would tote her along to the 9:45 a.m. Mass the next day.
Ursula, newly First Communioned, would cast an apologetic look at Natalie as she rose and followed her parents and older brother down the aisle to receive the sacrament.
In a hushed, reverent voice, Ursula would explain to Natalie the significance of the colors of the priest’s robes, and the locked box (“the tabernacle”) that held the consecrated host (“the body of Christ”). Natalie loved it all.
“Can’t we go to St. Ann’s?” Natalie suggested one Christmas, when her friendship with Ursula was at its height (at that age,
best friendship can look a lot like love).
“We’re not Catholic,” Theresa said.
“What are we?”
“We are lapsed Episcopalians.”
(For years Natalie thought that was a proper-noun descriptor, Lapsed Episcopalians being somewhat equal to Roman Catholics.)
“What does that mean?”
“It means we sleep in on Sundays.”
Ursula moved to St. Louis in the fourth grade. Until she met Austin, Natalie equated God almost entirely with ceremony and
recitation, robes and secrecy, with the standing and kneeling and sitting that seemed like a special kind of choreography
reserved for the lucky. Austin’s family, members of the Journey Church in Bozeman, were altogether different. They talked
to Jesus not only like he was in the room with them but like he was an actual friend of the family. (“Jesus, bro,” Natalie
once heard Austin’s brother begin a prayer.) Austin’s family opened another doorway into faith, and Natalie at first wasn’t
sure how to walk through it.
Then Theresa got sick, and Natalie began to pray in earnest, all the time. She believed someone was listening to her, even
as Theresa got sicker. She believed and she believed and she believed, and she continued to believe, because if she didn’t,
there was only a void.
But Jordan doesn’t get this. “Look, it honestly all just seems . . . performative,” Jordan says now. “And on top of that,
a lot of it seems unfair. That you tell women how to live their lives. Making it look like it all comes so easy, when really
you have a lot of advantages not everyone has.”
“Like what?” challenges Natalie.
Now it’s Jordan’s turn to tick a list off on her fingers. “Well, you’re really pretty. And you’re naturally thin. Thick hair.
Effortlessly fertile. Good-looking husband who’s obviously devoted to you. There’s a lot to envy there. So when you tell people
how to live their lives, they tend to listen.”
Natalie touches a lock of her hair. (Her hair is very thick, though not as thick as Mae’s.) “I’m not telling anyone else how to live their lives. I’m just sharing mine. Nobody
has to follow me or do anything I’m doing.”
“Respectfully, I call bullshit on that,” says Jordan. “You’re exactly telling people what to do. You’re offering yourself up as an example. As something to aspire to.”
“An example of one way to live! Not of the only way!”
“Tens of thousands of young women, probably way more, who are trying to figure out their lives and their futures are looking
at you and wondering if they should be yoking themselves to a man—”
“I’m not yoked! I’m married. It’s not the same thing. Geez, Jordan.”
“It doesn’t have to be the same thing, no. But you’ve got to see those two things look pretty close from where I sit.”
Natalie can’t take it another second. “Oh, yeah? Up on your high horse? Is that how they look from there?”
“Burn,” says Jordan softly. But she doesn’t look ready to give in. She looks like she’s still got important things to say.
“What about your daughters? What are they taking from your example?”
Natalie’s eyes widen, dry now, flashing. She’s incredulous. If Jordan brings up that dropped napkin she’s going to lose it.
“What are they taking? I hope they’re taking an example of what a happy family looks like! I hope they’re seeing the power of dedicated, concentrated
parenting. I hope they’re seeing love! So one day when they—”
“When they become breeders?”
“Too far,” snaps Natalie. Her blood is nearly boiling.
Jordan concedes with a tip of her head. “Sorry,” she says. “You’re right. Go on.”
For a minute Natalie feels too angry to go on, and then too sad—she blinks at the ceiling the way people do when they’re trying
to keep a fresh flow of tears from coming out. “What I’m saying is, of course my daughters can make their own choices. Caspian
can make his own too. Like I started to tell you yesterday, my accounts make way more than the farm brings in. I’m actually
showing them an example of working motherhood.”
“Go on,” says Jordan.
“It’s really hard to make a profit on a dairy farm. We count on that income. Austin’s family isn’t handing money out all the
time. Most of Austin’s family money is in a trust as long as his parents are alive. Does that make a difference to you?”
Jordan thinks about it. A-ha! thinks Natalie. I’ve got her. But then Jordan says, “I think that might be worse, actually.”
“Worse? Why?”
“Because you’re telling women that financial independence doesn’t matter, that they should focus their time and energy on
their families, when you’re actually financially independent. Don’t you see what you’re doing?”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You have a million and a half followers, Natalie. Yes, you are doing something.” Jordan sounds remarkably like their mother
used to sound when she scolded them—which wasn’t so often, but it did happen. The time Natalie took the car out by herself
when she only had her learner’s permit; Mae’s failing algebra grade in high school; the summer of Simone, when Jordan stayed
out all night without checking in. “You know, it’s been more than a century since the first women got the right to vote.”
Natalie bristles at this. “I’m not suggesting women don’t vote, Jordan.
God, I’m pretty sure you know me better than that!
” She’s so angry she can feel her words coming out like little bullets from her tight pursed lips.
But Jordan is angry too, Natalie can see that.
Jordan is blinking so rapidly Natalie fears she’ll lose a contact, if she has them in.
“Then what,” Jordan says, “are you suggesting? Please explain it to me.”
“We made a choice that’s right for our family, together, Austin and I did. Of course I know what the naysayers say. I know what some of my own friends say, friends who are stressed out all the time and arguing
with their spouses over who ‘gets’ to focus on work and who ‘has’ to take care of the kids. But I’m doing what I believe is
right. And that actually takes guts.”
“It’s just not how I thought you’d turn out, Natalie. Under someone’s thumb.” Jordan stands as though she’s about to leave
the kitchen. Jordan has always been a fan of a grand gesture, of delivering a zinger and departing. But Natalie won’t let
her do it, not this time! Why does Jordan get to be so certain, so bulletproof? Why does she get to make the rules?
“What about you, Jordan?”
“What about me?”
“Why aren’t you ever the vulnerable one?”
“I’m sorry?”