Chapter 19
“Yes, Genevieve,” Anne said into the phone and tossed her reading glasses onto the dining room table.
“Yes, that’s correct. Like James, but with women.
Yes. Both James and I. You’re right, the odds are probably very small.
I understand why you’d be surprised. Of course.
No, I’m not going to stop wearing high heels.
No, Genevieve, I have never, nor will I ever think about you in that way.
Well, I’m glad to know you’d find it flattering, but it just isn’t something I’ve ever—look, I’m sure there are plenty of other lesbians out there who’d find you very appealing; I just don’t personally—no, I don’t know of any.
How would I—it’s not like there’s a gay directory, for crying out loud, I was just making a—”
Sadie, if she were here, would be covering her mouth with both hands and laughing delightedly into her palms.
“Well, thank you for your support. Well, yes. I agree completely. Your friendship is important to me, too. Yes.” And then, “Oh, Gen. Of course you’re allowed to say ‘congratulations.’ That’s—gosh.
It’s a very nice thing to say. I appreciate it.
I really do. Yes. Yes. Talk soon. Okay. Sounds good.
Gen, I really do have a lot of—okay. All right. Same here. Bye-bye.”
That took care of Genevieve, who was really the only person at Conserve Malibu Anne socialized with and the last person she felt the need to officially tell.
She’d already spoken to Margaret, who’d been infuriatingly unruffled.
Not that Anne had wanted Margaret to be ruffled, exactly, but her big sister could’ve at least pretended to be more shocked by the news.
I remember that time you tore out a magazine picture of Sigourney Weaver, Margaret had told her. Probably should’ve realized it wasn’t her hair you were into.
Anne had admired Sigourney Weaver’s hair. Almost as much as she’d admired that scene in Alien where Sigourney had worn a tank top with no bra.
It was nearly lunchtime. Maybe Anne would leave the house and treat herself to someone else’s effort. Geoffrey’s had an impeccable Thai grilled salmon salad with a creamy ginger peanut dressing Anne always ordered on the side, never once touching the little bowl.
She’d always wondered what that dressing would taste like.
Ten minutes later, she was in her car and pulling out of the driveway, her Kindle resting in the passenger seat. She’d start the new Ann Patchett on Geoffrey’s patio, fall into it, let the book take her just far enough away so that the dressing-strewn salad might go down along with her anxiety.
* * *
Later that afternoon, while she was folding laundry, Anne’s phone buzzed once, then a second time.
Suddenly fearful and hopeful in equal measure, she pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. Was it—?
It was.
I hear flavored sparkling water’s good. You know, as a substitute
But don’t get the citrus ones. They taste like someone remembering an orange
Anne grinned, delighted. She’d restrained herself from reaching out after their Tuesday phone call, wanting to respect Sadie’s space, but it hadn’t been easy.
Maybe it hadn’t been easy for Sadie either.
That text seemed to suggest she’d been thinking about how Anne was doing with her sobriety exercise.
And worrying, knowing Sadie. Was that why she was approaching the subject so tentatively, as if she thought being direct might scare Anne off the abstinence track?
Sadie didn’t need to worry. But her worry felt good to Anne, too. A little like an embrace.
There’s a few six-packs of raspberry nectarine in the fridge. I’m going through cans like I’ve got a sponsorship.
Three days alcohol-free. So far so good.
Well, not good. Successful.
How did the campus interview go?
Some old timer with an asshole goatee tried to grill me on semiotics like I was a graduate student
So I told him the gap between signifier and signified was about as large as the gap between him and appropriate behavior
Probably not the wisest move, but the women in the room sure loved it
Otherwise, it went just fine
That’s wonderful. I’m very glad.
Anne sat down on the side of the bed. If Sadie were here, Anne would ask her for a thorough retelling of the asshole goatee anecdote; no one told stories like Sadie, with timing and emphasis a stand-up comedian would envy.
And Anne would listen. Or she’d try, she really would, but, inevitably, her attention would settle on the impish delight playing over Sadie’s face, the way Sadie’s unrestrained, uninhibited pleasure made her more beautiful than any woman Anne had ever known.
Yet another joy Anne would wait for, as patiently as she could, and tell herself she didn’t need to claw at her own insides trying to get to a future where she’d have Sadie’s pleasure, over and over again, all the way to forever.
So you’re at Sam’s now?
Safely ensconced in his guest room
He’s making our mother’s brisket for dinner, the mensch
I just took a much-needed fifteen-minute catnap
Woke up to yet another text from Hal asking if I’m all right
He’s a very compassionate person.
You’re lucky.
We talked on the phone two hours ago
Yes, you’re right
No mother’s more lucky than I am
He’s mayn neshomele, my little soul
But
I’m trying to figure out how I want to put this
Anne knew better than to reply, even with encouragement. Any distraction would disrupt Sadie’s thought process.
For nearly a minute, there were no more texts. Then:
I’ve been thinking
About Hal, I mean
On top of all my other contemplations
Or maybe it’s not on top, maybe it’s part of everything else
Typing dots sat on Anne’s screen, and she waited, curious. Sadie might’ve despaired of Hal’s career choice, but in all other respects, he was her golden boy, her perfect baby, her beloved confidant. They were inseparable.
The thing is, after Fred left and before I met you, Hal was my primary emotional support
Of course I also had Rabbi Aviva, and the girls in my yoga class
And Manny
And Hat Dan, too, although he thinks home-rolled tobacco solves every problem
Oh, and Lisa, she manages the Calabasas Trader Joe’s, she’s the sweetest little thing
Sadie.
Yes, yes, I know, I’m getting refocused
What I’m trying to tell you is that I leaned on Hal that year
Too often and too heavily, I think
I made him hold too much of my grief
I made him responsible for keeping me together
Oh. Well, Anne supposed she could see some truth in that.
She hadn’t had a front row seat to Sadie’s post-divorce period, or to the way she’d relied on Hal for support, but the aftermath of it was still visible.
What had Talisha said to Hal in front of Anne the other day?
Remember, your mom’s a fully capable adult.
She can take care of herself. The kind of comment that was built like an iceberg: a small peak jutting out into a single reminder, hiding the huge underwater mass of a years-long conflict.
You didn’t tell Hal he was responsible for you, did you?
It wasn’t your intent to make him feel that way.
No, but we’re not living in the aftermath of what I intended
It’s what I did that matters
He was almost frantic when I showed up at his place on Monday
Jumping wildly from possible problem to possible solution
And he’s sent me about a dozen anxious texts since then
If I made him responsible for me
Then I need to be responsible for what I’ve done to him
Hal was an adult when Fred left, Sadie.
He has some agency here. Don’t put all of that on your shoulders.
Agree to disagree, dollface
It’s long past time I put some weight back on my shoulders
Hal might be an adult, but he’s still my child
And I don’t want my child to take care of me like that
Not anymore
Anne couldn’t imagine Brooke or Claire ever being anxious to take care of her, but Sadie’s texts still struck a familiar chord.
For her daughters’ entire lives, Anne had modeled an existence characterized by restriction, sadness, anger, and self-denial.
Now Brooke was an anxious perfectionist who never lived up to her own impossible standards, and Claire ran away from vulnerability almost every chance she got. That wasn’t a coincidence.
She’d made mistakes. She’d hurt her children. So had Sadie. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t walk a different path moving forward.
I understand.
The Sadie I want to be doesn’t put her grief before anything else
Or anyone else
As a wise woman said on Monday
I’m very, very proud of you
Well, I’ve got a lot to live up to, sunshine
If I’m going to be the bravest woman you know
You already are.
Speaking of self-challenges (she said, changing the subject):
I’m co-organizing Brooke’s party on Sunday.
Oh?
What’s the theme?
Which reminds me, I’ve been thinking I’ll theme my next shindig “potato”
Just potatoes
Potato everything
But we can talk about that later
No theme, actually.
We’re having deviled eggs, blueberry scones, and raspberry lemon spritzers.
I bought plates shaped like rocket ships.
None of it goes together, and absolutely none of it has anything to do with motherhood.
It’s surprisingly freeing. We’re having fun with it.
You’re
You’re having fun
You bought rocket ship plates
I’m talking to Anne Lowell, right?
I didn’t accidentally text some other stunning acerbic blonde?
I want to show you I can make a space where you belong, too.
A space that feels like you.
Warm and happy and made from the most outlandish combinations that somehow still work.
Oh
Anne
You’re doing that for me?
Yes.
And for Brooke.
And for myself, too, I think.
Sweetheart
You know exactly how to please me, don’t you?