Chapter 13 The Last Grown-Up
The Last Grown-Up
She heard their footsteps on the stairs.
Water running in their bathroom. She sensed her daughters everywhere—but it was just her imagination.
They were gone. Of course, they would come back.
They were safe, and it was just till Sunday.
It wasn’t death—it only felt like that. Her friends said, “Now you can rest! You can think. You can work out!” Theoretically, she could have done these things.
She could have been thinking and going to the gym and resting, but when the girls left with their father, Debra sat on the couch and cried.
Which was fine. Crying was good. Divorce was hard!
All she had to do was call and her sister Becca would drive over, but Debra didn’t want sympathy, so no one saw her tears, except the dog.
Max was a Samoyed, and pure of heart. If anyone was injured, he came running. When Lily fell headfirst from her bike, Max had rushed to lick her better. But where was Debra hurt? She could not explain, so she buried her face in his white fur.
Eventually Debra got up and preheated the oven to four-twenty-five.
She poured a bag of frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet.
A sprinkle of salt, a dollop of ketchup, and that was dinner, which she ate right on the couch.
It wasn’t good for her, but she was listening to her body, and her body said, Who cares?
She called her parents down in Florida and her mom said, “Hi, honey. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” Debra said, balancing her plate on the arm of the couch.
“Ed?” her mom said. “Debra’s on the phone.”
Debra’s dad picked up and said, “What’s new?”
“Our paperwork is finished.”
“It’s finalized?” Her mom was disbelieving. It had been so long.
“Done.”
She could hear her parents mulling what to say. The paperwork was done, and it was weird and painful, like picking off a scab, because the marriage itself had ended two years before.
“Well, that’s a relief,” her mom said.
But Debra’s dad spoke in the voice he reserved for his deepest disappointments. “All right. That’s that.”
“I’m wondering,” Debra’s mom ventured. “Should I take down your wedding picture?”
“Cindy,” her dad chided.
“You’ve still got that picture up?” said Debra.
Her mom sounded embarrassed. “I was just—”
Debra said, “It’s fine. Either way.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why should I mind a picture?” Debra asked, although in retrospect she thought her beaded gown unfortunate. “I have the whole album.”
Her mother gasped. “You look at your album?”
“No, but I’m not going to get rid of it. The girls might want it! I’m not erasing history.”
Silence, and she knew her mom was gazing at the photo in its gilt frame. “You look so happy.”
“I was happy,” Debra said.
“And Richard was so young!”
“Yes, Mom. He was young.” Debra almost laughed—and then she felt guilty for mocking, even inwardly, because how could her parents know what to say?
How could anybody? What clueless things would Debra tell her own daughters?
They were in tenth and seventh grade, obviously a million years from marrying, let alone divorcing—but if they did.
Would you admit the truth? Debra asked herself.
Would you say this was not what I imagined? This was never what I hoped for you?
Debra took out the trash and picked up a package by the door.
New earbuds for Sophie, who had lost hers.
Then she took Max out to romp and sniff and chase his rubber ball in the backyard.
The girls never set foot here anymore. At sixteen and thirteen, their days of romping and foraging were done, but Max never outgrew anything.
“You need a yard, Maxy. Yes, you do!” She threw the ball, and he streaked off, untiring through the autumn leaves.
Did he wonder where the girls had gone? Debra was sure he missed them—and she was glad he didn’t know it would get worse.
In just two and a half years Sophie would leave for college, Lily would follow, and then what?
Debra didn’t want to sell the house, but could she and Max afford to stay? Would he even live that long? Oh no!
Admittedly, Debra tended toward the worst-case scenario.
It made Richard crazy because she was always, as he said, fast-forwarding.
But she had foresight. She prepared. She planned meals and vacations, scheduled lessons, preregistered for summer camp.
Slow down, Richard would beg her. Cut back, get help!
(Of course, he never considered helping.
When they fought he said, But you insist on doing everything.)
This was true. No one had told Debra to stay home and do everything; that came from her.
Nothing compelled her but her conscience and her common sense.
When the girls were babies, she had given up free time and exercise.
When they were older, she gave up her job, because she could not work the kind of hours Richard did and see her children while they were awake.
And because she wanted to eat real food.
And because she did not want to outsource every single aspect of her life.
And because those were years you could not get back, and because she hoped someday she would return, if not to law, to something new. Education? Social justice? Counseling?
Together, Debra and Max examined icy puddles under the girls’ old climbing structure and green slide.
It was exhilarating to think of all the possibilities—how she might teach or advocate for immigrants—but when she thought of Richard, she saw his future as domestic.
He would remarry. It was obvious to her—to everyone.
He was already living with his girlfriend, Heather, who was smart and beautiful and sane.
He had kept his relationship secret, which was childish, to say the least, but the relationship itself was great.
The girls loved Heather, and Debra approved.
As for Richard, he was better than he had ever been.
Eating healthy, losing weight. The girls said he’d stopped sneaking cigarettes.
“Good for you,” Debra had told him a few days earlier.
“Yeah, I’m doing it,” Richard said.
She looked at him with sudden insight. He was taking the plunge. The paperwork was done. “You’re going to propose!”
He looked startled. “I meant quitting.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“I wouldn’t propose without talking to the girls.” He was reddening around the ears.
She nodded. “That’s good.”
“We want them to be—”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Comfortable. We want it to be natural.”
“They’ll be ecstatic,” she encouraged him.
“Thanks,” he said.
A sweet moment, a really good exchange. “I was proud of us,” Debra told her therapist, Suzanne, the next day. Truly she was happy for Richard, and relieved he was done dating women half his age. Heather was someone Debra could work with. Someone she could respect.
It was a good thing. It was the right thing—and at the same time, Debra knew Richard’s remarriage would sting. The greater good would be another loss. “Does that even make sense?” she’d asked Suzanne.
“Totally.”
“But what can I do about it?”
“Do you always have to do something?” Suzanne answered.
Debra sighed, because she knew that there was nothing to be done with feelings but to feel them.
There was nothing to do about her ex-husband and his new relationship except to watch events unfold.
Debra understood that. (She was good at therapy.) If only Richard and Heather would hurry up and get it over with.
—
That evening Lily called from Richard’s place. “Guess what?” Lily said, and Debra’s heart jumped. This was it.
“What?”
“We’re making pizza from scratch.”
“Oh.”
“We should do this sometime,” Lily told her.
“Okay. Sure!” Debra heard laughter in the background.
“Mom, we have to get a pizza stone.”
“We have one.”
“But it broke,” Lily reminded her. “We should get another one.”
“Okay.”
“Then after dinner we’re getting gelato.”
That was when Richard and Heather would tell the girls—except they wouldn’t tell them; they would ask.
They would sit together, the four of them, and Richard would say, Girls, we have a question for you.
Or Heather would speak humbly: I will never replace your mom, but I want to ask if I can be on your team and support you forever.
Or they would say together, Girls, we have a present for you.
You don’t have to wear them all the time—or ever—but we want to give you these necklaces.
Debra could imagine it every which way, the squeals of delight. The delicate gold chains, everything sensitive and meaningful. Richard would be kneeling, or Heather—or both! And there would be hugs and happy tears. “Have a wonderful time,” Debra told Lily now. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Bye, Mom, love you.”
Lily always said goodbye like that, and Sophie too.
Love you, they chirped on every occasion—even when they called to say carpool was late.
Love you, love you, until the words meant nothing.
They might as well have said, Talk soon.
Where did the kids get it from? Summer camp?
It irked her, although it didn’t bother anybody else.
Plenty of parents spoke to their kids that way as well.
Becca declared, “I always say ‘Love you’ because who knows what could happen? What if you were hit by a bus? Wouldn’t you want your last words to be ‘Love you’? ”
Debra said, “Not if it’s just habit.” Love you. Killed by a bus. The whole thing made her sad. She walked through her empty house. Then she vacuumed the first floor and cleaned the girls’ rooms.
The kids won’t learn to clean up after themselves if you do it for them, Richard used to tell her. He had been scrupulous about ordering the girls to do whatever task Debra required. Do as I say, not as I do.