Chapter 8 Liz
Did you return the mouse?”
Liz froze, clutching a piece of pretzel bread in her hand.
When she was younger, all Liz had wanted was a best friend—someone to pass notes to in class, to giggle over crushes with, and to have sleepovers with on the weekends, filled with makeup Caboodles and Ouija boards.
She’d yearned for the classic American dream: childhood edition.
Unfortunately, Liz had moved around too much, pulled by the unpredictable tides of Angela’s moods or the predictable threat of her debts.
Every time it seemed like Liz might be making some headway socially, she was uprooted like a garden weed.
Eventually, Liz gave up. She loved to read and watch old movies on AMC; she understood the anatomy of solitude.
Liz had made a brief stab at reinventing herself and adjusting the social calculus when she went to college, but she discovered that a new haircut and optimism didn’t translate into becoming close with her roommate or being able to belt out the words to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” while dancing on top of a bar.
Personalities couldn’t be remade overnight at will.
Patterns were entrenched, and Liz wasn’t a social butterfly or even a popular moth.
It was after college, when Liz stumbled into an entry-level job as an assistant to a TV editor through Wesleyan’s alumni network and moved to LA, that things changed.
Cara, an assistant across the hall, had launched a spirited campaign to befriend her.
It hadn’t taken Liz long to realize she was the only other person in the office under the age of fifty aside from Ilia, a second-generation Russian who flooded his conversations with anecdotes about Siberia.
Liz would sit, wide-eyed, as Cara spilled about the affair she was having with their married boss, Peter, and detailed their trysts, decoded his intentions, and showed off the dick pic of the day.
Before Liz knew it, she was a warden of dalliances, gatekeeper of dick pics.
Over time, in deference to Liz’s critical post, Cara felt obliged to include Liz when she made plans with her real friends, Madison and Freya.
In this way, Liz was slowly absorbed into their group, an osmosis that might have otherwise been unlikely.
When Cara, Freya, and Madison approached thirty and locked down husbands in rapid succession, Liz knew her time by their side was limited.
Our dick-shopping days are over! Freya had announced.
It was true. Their stint in the clubs was finished.
Single life and nightlife were behind them.
The bell for last call had rung, and thanks to Liz, everyone had gotten home safely.
Once the tasks of bridal shower organizing, bachelorette planning, and wedding wrangling were dispensed with, Madison, Cara, and Freya started procreating.
They were busy, preoccupied, and increasingly unavailable.
When Liz did see them, she tried to coo over their babies or discuss preschools, but she was terrified of holding their newborns and didn’t know anything about Montessori versus Reggio Emilia.
Still, she had been surprised when her pregnancy news—casually dropped over a group text—elicited a flurry of excitement.
Cara, Madison, and Freya had started texting her at all hours with advice (get in as much sex and sleep while you can) as well as links to Japanese bottle sterilizers and reminders to play Mozart to her embryo.
Liz’s friends seemed thrilled and relieved that Liz had made it to the other side, but also maybe a bit mystified that she wasn’t at the club handing out mints alongside the bathroom attendant.
“You should get the kale salad,” Cara said, jarring Liz back to the present. “Iron is good for the baby.”
“I’ll have the kale salad, with chicken, please,” Liz told the waiter. Eggplant Parmesan would have to wait.
“Our kale salad is bomb,” the waiter promised with the enthusiasm of someone praying his impossibly symmetrical features would be noticed by a casting agent and vault him out of the service industry. He walked away and Freya checked out his ass, drawing a conspiratorial look from Madison.
Liz observed the new dynamic between her friends, mentally taking notes about how marriage and motherhood had changed or solidified aspects of their personalities.
Cara had replaced her taste for married men with a competitive bloodlust when it came to her children’s achievements.
She was big on the performative aspects of parenting.
Mother as a verb. Freya seemed to have changed the least, although since Liz saw her last, she had acquired a new face.
She’d married a socialist who had a trust fund equivalent to the GDP of a small European nation.
Even though Freya got exactly what she said she wanted, Liz questioned whether she was as content as she said she was or advertised on social media.
As Liz watched Freya polish off her first cocktail before the appetizers arrived, Cara asked, “Liz? Are you listening?”
Her thoughts had drifted off again, a paper sailboat in a current. Liz looked over at Cara and made an oops face. “Sorry!” she added. Freya gestured to the hot waiter for another cocktail.
“Don’t worry,” Cara said. “The hormones can make you so loopy. I was just saying that it’s never too early to figure out your values and the kind of boundaries you’re going to set.”
“Gentle parenting is my religion,” Madison said, looking at Liz intently.
“I didn’t know you converted,” Liz joked.
“I did,” Madison said, as serious as a priest in church. “It’s my bible.”
“Gentle parenting is a bunch of hype,” Freya said.
“No, it’s not,” Madison shot back. “Because of gentle parenting, now I know that my early-childhood trauma was the cause of all the issues I had when I was a teenager. If only my parents hadn’t used such brutal tactics.
But it was a different time. They didn’t know better.
” Madison’s mother and father were nationally recognized physicians, a cardiologist and an oncologist, respectively.
“What kind of tactics?” Liz couldn’t help but ask.
“Raising their voices, withholding affection, punishing me,” Madison answered gravely.
“Doesn’t every kid get punished? Isn’t discipline an important part of parenting?” Liz asked. She tried to banish the hopeful tone from her voice. Oh, how she had wished to be grounded. Obviously, Angela didn’t believe in curfews. Or rules. Or parenting.
“No!” Madison and Cara yelped in unison. Freya downed another drink. Was that her second or third?
“Punishing kids only encourages the behavior you want to prevent,” Madison said. “Plus, it creates a divide between the parent and child.”
“I’ll give you my copy of the book,” Cara told Liz.
“Gentle parenting.” Freya snickered. “Doesn’t work for some kids, let me tell you.”
“If it’s not working, that’s on the parents,” Cara said. “It works if you do it right.” Freya shrugged. Liz wondered if this was what happened when your blood alcohol level and bank account balance tipped the scales—did you simply stop caring what anyone else thought?
“I’ll tell you what works,” Freya said. “Time-out! No dessert! No TV time!”
Madison flinched. “It really all goes back to healthy limits. That reminds me! Did I tell you about this mom from dance class…”
As Madison prattled on, Liz caught a glimpse of a gelatinous eggplant Parmesan on the tray of a passing waiter. Her hormones shouted, Me want that! Her better judgment said, Remember what the doctor told you: You’re not eating for two. Don’t give in to every craving. Stick with kale.
Yuck.
Liz doubted that Cara, Madison, and Freya had ever pounded Twix bars or double-fisted french fries, two fantasies that had been playing out in Liz’s mind on repeat.
She was sure the woman from Mother’s Haven hadn’t ingested one extra calorie.
Liz thought Victoria looked like the kind of person who had a private chef serving up gourmet meals and a professionally organized pantry stocked with superfoods.
Liz knew Victoria operated in a league far, far beyond her.
Sure, it was the immaculate designer clothing, the perfectly manicured appearance, and the tasteful jewelry that gave off “quiet luxury” vibes, but it was so much more.
This woman had a presence, like she had everything figured out.
Victoria exuded a confidence and grace that astounded Liz, who never corrected someone if they got her name wrong.
Liz found it exhausting to inhabit a vessel that could constantly betray her.
Dandruff, ingrown nipple hairs, buccinal farts—the possibilities were endless. A sliding scale of terror.
Cara slapped the table. “Omigod, did you hear what Madison said? Dying.”
“Dead! I am a corpse,” Madison agreed.
“The deranged dance mom sent an Uber for Sparrow!” Cara said. “Can you believe it?”
“Is Sparrow…a person?” Liz asked. Madison and Cara looked at her strangely.
“Obviously!” Cara said. “Why would she send an Uber for a bird?”
“Right, sorry.” Liz cringed internally.
“Anyway,” Freya said. “Could we please talk about something a little more spicy?” She turned to Liz. “How’s the pregnancy sex? I wanted it all the time.”
“Good!” Liz lied, then stuffed another piece of pretzel bread in her mouth so they couldn’t expect her to go into any more detail.
“Uh-oh,” Madison said, tilting her head suspiciously at Liz. Good lord. When had Madison started moonlighting for the FBI? Did she have a lie detector test nestled in her Celine Triomphe?
“You gotta take care of your man too,” Cara told Liz.
All three women nodded their heads like they were bobbing for apples—or mimicking blow jobs.
“Totally! We’ve just been busy,” Liz said. “But it’s all good.”