Chapter 16 #3
Somewhere in Greenwich Village, maybe, where there were people like her, people who understood that this wasn’t a sickness you had but something that helped you breathe.
Always Anne Harris, never Anne Lowell. She would’ve made a life around an entry-level job while she kept looking for better opportunities.
Stretched her mouth into something men took for a smile, not seeing the corporate ladder rung between her teeth.
At work, a package of carefully constructed lies she’d tell about her personal life, designed to fend off setups and come-ons.
At home, maybe a wife in everything but recognition.
Or the occasional lover to keep her nights warm.
Years of long looks in small bars. She’d have known herself sooner, faster, and burned for longer.
But she wouldn’t know Sadie. Not if she hadn’t gone to Los Angeles with James.
Anne was thinking about that, about the sheer impossibility of a life without Sadie in it, when she said, “If I could do it over again, I’d marry your father. In a heartbeat. I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“You would?” No denying the relief in Brooke’s voice. “I don’t want to say I’m glad because that sounds really shitty, but—”
“You can be glad you exist.” Anne’s hand rested briefly against her stomach, a place Brooke had known a long time ago and left. “I am. And I’m very grateful that you’re my daughter. My smart, brave, kind daughter.”
It was true. Moreover, Brooke needed to hear it. And Anne needed to hear herself say it, too, a statement that warded against the pointless indulgence of a what if that still wouldn’t make life fair. Nothing would.
“Mom.” Brooke sniffed. “That means a lot. Thanks. And I’m—I’m really glad you’re my mother.”
That could be true, too. Or something close.
“My gay mom,” Brooke continued and then took a deep breath.
She put her hands on her knees. “I’m starting to get used to it.
It’s happening. Yeah, we’re pretty good.
I’m like forty percent there already. My mother, who is a lesbian.
My kids’ gay grandma. My mother, who—wait.
Mom. Mother’s Day. Next Sunday. Do you think we shouldn’t have brunch, given the situation? I can always cancel it.”
“Last I heard, brunch wasn’t just for straight people,” Anne observed, a wry note in her voice. “Your father says that it’s very popular with ‘friends of Dorothy.’”
“We really need to work on updating his slang. No, I’m not talking about the whole gay thing.
I mean the situation with Sadie. The part where she isn’t—” Brooke cut off.
“Oh, Mom. Oh no. You came out to Sadie, didn’t you?
That’s why she ran over to Hal and Talisha’s and wouldn’t talk to any of us.
Because she freaked out and didn’t know how to handle it. I’m so sorry.”
Anne pulled her cardigan tighter around her chest. That was close enough to the truth for her to feel uncomfortably exposed.
“Did you tell Sadie that you have feelings for her, too?” Brooke asked quietly. “Like we talked about?”
“I,” Anne said and then stopped. How did you tell someone you’d carried for nine months that you were just now realizing your body and heart were capable of miracles?
“I, uh. I don’t want to go into that. Not right now.
And brunch will be fine. Just nothing extravagant, no fuss.
It’s your day, too. You shouldn’t be working yourself to death on our behalf. ”
Brooke gave Anne a look but didn’t press the Sadie question.
“It’ll all be very minimal, promise. The central color theme is green—you know, new growth, mothers, etc.
I’m thinking celadon-green tapered candles for the table, plus a signature cocktail with gin, green Chartreuse, maraschino liqueur, and fresh-squeezed lime juice—we can call it the Fern Branch—and then, for the buffet, vegan miso-caramel dip with Granny Smith apples, a cucumber salad tossed in a light vinaigrette, roasted asparagus sprinkled with Bulgarian feta, spinach crostini, mafaldine pasta with pea shoots and homemade pesto, and seared steak strips with chimichurri sauce. But that’s it. I swear.”
“Brooke,” Anne said affectionately, “all of that sounds suspiciously like a lot of fuss.”
“I’ve only got two Pinterest boards and three to-do lists. And Dan’s making the pesto, once I show him how to use the food processor. Anyway, don’t worry, everything will be perfectly subdued and understated. Just the way you like.”
From the time she was six or so, Brooke had always begged to stay up late and watch the adults, fascinated by the way Anne had transformed the first floor of their house, until finally, at ten, Anne had let her.
Her daughter’s fascination wasn’t unwarranted.
Every party or fundraiser Anne had ever organized—and she’d organized plenty—had been planned and executed with the same attention to detail as the Battle of Normandy.
They were perfectly done: tasteful, thoughtful, inventive, and fresh without departing entirely from tradition.
Nothing like Sadie’s raucous shindigs, the entertainment equivalent of a fountain soda made from all the dispensers.
But if Sadie’s parties lacked regimentation, they were overflowing with warmth, the kind that made you feel you belonged, no matter who you were or what you did. An embrace. Not a battle.
Impulsively, Anne asked, “Would you let me help plan the party?”
Brooke looked taken aback. “Um. You don’t need to do that. Really.”
“I know. I want to. I think—I’d like to try something different from my usual. Or your usual. If you’re all right with that.” She stared at Brooke, who was biting her lower lip. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“If I let you help—” Brooke began, then stopped. “Mom, I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Just tell me.”
“If I let you help with the party, you’ll spend the entire time criticizing every decision I make.”
Anne was taken aback. “No, I won’t.”
“Yes.” Brooke looked very tired all of a sudden. “You will. You always do.”
It was the same resigned tone she’d had behind Hal and Talisha’s house, when she’d told Anne to stop interfering with her parenting choices. As though Brooke was positive that nothing would ever change between them, even if she spoke up. That Anne would never change.
“Look,” Brooke continued, “you taught me how to throw the perfect party. Nothing out of place. Would you just trust that I know what I’m doing?”
The perfect party, with nothing out of place.
And where nobody—including Anne—ever had any fun.
“I won’t push you,” Anne said slowly, “but I thought maybe this could be a chance for us to get out of our comfort zones. Not just with the planning, but with, well, the two of us.”
Once a year or so, they spent the afternoon shopping in Brentwood, but besides those excursions, Anne genuinely couldn’t remember the last time she and Brooke had been alone together. “It would be nice to, ah,” Anne said, “to share time with you that meant something.”
Brooke’s mouth was falling open.
“If you let me help, I won’t pick at you.
At least, I’ll give it my best effort. That’s a promise.
And if I do pick at you, then you’ve got a free babysitter for the kids while you and Dan go out.
” God, a whole night with three children under seven.
It was plenty of incentive to police her own behavior.
“Um.” Brooke didn’t seem to know what to say. “I—when you put it like that—okay. You’re on.”
Anne gave Brooke a smile of real appreciation, hoping her little spritz of anxiety hadn’t shown on her face.
Asking to help Brooke didn’t feel as overwhelming as putting a pause on drinking or looking at her eating habits, but it didn’t exactly feel easy, either.
What if she wasn’t capable of working side by side with her daughter without hurting her? Without pushing her further away?
She’d just have to do her best.
“Are you sure, though, Mom? You’ve got plenty of other stuff to deal with right now.”
That was the understatement of the century. Anne sighed. “Like figuring out how I’m going to tell your sister about me. But, yes, I’m sure.”
Brooke gasped. “Wait a minute. You told me first? Claire doesn’t know yet?”
“Well, no, not—”
“Can I be there when you tell her? Please? Oh, please? I’ll be so quiet. You won’t even know I’m there, except for all the waves of moral support I’ll be silently vibing in your direction.”
“Nice try. Forget it. You can vibe all the moral support you want from the comfort of your own home.” She yawned unexpectedly. It wasn’t even noon yet. “Brooke, I don’t want to kick you out, but there’s a lot I need to get done today.”
Brooke stood. “Sure. Absolutely. Um, Mom? Before I go?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe being out will make you happy,” Brooke told her with so much hope in her voice that it made Anne ache to hear it.
“I mean, happier. You’ve seemed, I don’t know, like things have been a lot better these past few years, ever since you and—since the divorce.
And—” She hesitated. “There are other women out there besides Sadie. You’re a total catch.
I bet all the older LA lesbians will be fighting over who gets to date you, and—you know what?
I’m gonna stop this train of thought right now before it makes us both really uncomfortable. ”
“Oh. Uh, thank you. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome.”
As Anne walked Brooke to the door, silence fell, the kind that always seemed to rise between them, despite Anne’s best efforts. She’d never known how to make it go away, or at least make it feel easier.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try.
Hand on the doorknob, Anne stopped. “You know,” she said quietly, the words coming from some deep place inside her, “I had an unhappy mother, too.”
I married down, her mother had told Anne when Anne couldn’t have been more than ten, old enough to see how the statement made her into proof of her mother’s bad choice.
I could’ve been a Rockefeller—one of them danced with me—but I married your father instead.
Learn from my mistakes, Anne Kathleen. You’re far too pretty to waste yourself.
Find someone better than I did. Aim for the stars.
Aim for the stars, Mother had ordered, and half a century later, Anne had gone to the desert at night and stood there bundled in Sadie Rosenthal’s warm embrace. They’d looked up at the stars together.
“Your Grandma Lil,” she continued, opening the door.
“She was deeply unhappy. And it wasn’t easy for me to be around her as a kid.
In fact, it was awful. I’m sorry I put you through that, too, Brooke.
I know what it feels like. But I can tell you’re trying to give your children something different from what you or I had.
Something better. And I’m proud of you for that. Really, I am.”
A shaky inhale. “Wow. I, um, I honestly don’t know what to say, Mom. Except that my therapist is going to completely lose her shit when I see her on Thursday.”
“We can talk more another time,” Anne told her gently. “After your therapist learns all of this very personal information about me.”
“Okay.” Brooke still sounded stunned. She walked through the front door.
“And Brooke? If you breathe a single word about this to your sister before I get the chance to talk to her, I swear to God, I’ll buy Maverick a drum set for Christmas this year. The loudest one I can find.”
“Mom!” Brooke spun around. “I would never—”
“I love you,” Anne said. “Very much.”
As she closed the door, she was still smiling.