The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 23
“You’re really annoying, did you know that?”
“Yes. I’m going to take out all the rooms you did. Is that OK? They don’t go with my overall vision for this house.”
And with that she started disassembling everything I’d put together. I let her. I could always rearrange it when she was gone.
I thought about what she’d said. Maybe I should give Edward a chance, even though the thought of it made me break out in a cold sweat. It was the thought of it, though, not the actual reality of it, and maybe I should listen to my nose while I walk on my leg . . . Jesus, the whole metaphor thing was so tiring. I lay back on the sofa and drifted off, listening to Rachel rattle on about the dollhouse’s feng shui.
How to Grow Cabbage
Start cabbage seeds indoors 6 to 8 weeks before the last spring frost, assuming you know when that is.
• Put them outside a week before you want to put them in the ground, to harden them off and get them excited about the wider world they’re about to inhabit.
• Put them in the ground 2 or 3 weeks before the last spring frost, so they’re good and settled before it comes and startles them.
• Plant 12 to 24 inches apart in rows, depending on size of head desired. The closer you plant, the smaller the heads.
• There are many, many ways to prepare cabbage, most of them delicious. If you think cabbage is smelly, it’s because you’ve been overcooking it. Cook it for too long and it produces hydrogen sulfide, presumably as a comment on your cooking skills. Sorry, but that’s how they roll.
Chapter 18
I continued clearing out my desk at work. It was amazing how much crap had accumulated, simply mind-blowing. I wish I was one of those people who clean as they go, who are models of organization and clarity, but I’m just not. If I find myself with a piece of paper in my hand, and I’m unsure where to put it, I lay it down on the nearest surface and hope it folds itself into a paper plane and flies wherever it’s supposed to go. While optimistic, this approach has obvious flaws and irritated the office cleaner almost to apoplexy. She would pile the paper up every night, neatly squaring the corners, removing obvious bits of trash, doing her best, and every morning I would throw it all over the desk again looking for whatever it was I needed. In the end, we started leaving notes for each other:
Me: “Thanks so much for clearing my desk. Although it looks messy, it is in fact very organized. Please feel free to leave it as it is. Thanks.”
Her: “It is my job to clean your desk.”
Me: “Thanks so much for cleaning my desk. Please don’t worry about it any longer.”
Her: “It is my job to clean your desk. If I don’t leave all the desktops clear, I get in trouble.”
Me: “I have put a big cardboard box under my desk. Please sweep any papers into it, then we’ll both be happy.”
And that worked. She would throw everything in the box, I would rustle through the box and find what I needed, and my desktop was clear. Everybody wins.
It’s possible, of course, that I was following this paradigm in my own life, too: sweep it under the desk, keep the surface clear, no one will notice. It had worked for a very long time at work, but now I was dealing with years of accumulated paperwork and discovering that most of it was no longer needed. I sighed and ignored the obvious symbolism.
• • •
While I was mid-purge, the phone rang. It was Edward.
“I know you’ve made it clear you’re not interested in dating, but I’m near your office and I wondered if you’d like to have lunch?” He coughed. He was nervous. “Just lunch. Maybe more milkshakes?”
My first reaction was to frown. But then I remembered the whole leg/nose conversation with Rachel, and realized I was hungry.
We went to the diner, ordered burgers and malts, and sat there smiling vaguely at each other. Edward was wearing a suit, strangely, and looked a little tired.
“My son broke his ankle, skateboarding, and I was up early this morning talking with his mother on Skype. He’s fine, and apparently broke his ankle in front of a huge crowd of friends, performing some daring feat, and didn’t cry, so he has become a temporary playground hero.”
“How old is he again?”
“Twelve.”
“A good age to be a hero.”
Edward nodded. “His mom is thinking of getting married.”
I paused, fork in midair. “Did you know that was coming?”
“Yes, she’s been with the same man for the past several years, he’s someone we’ve known a long time.” He sighed. “She probably should have married him in the first place. They’re much more suited to one another. He is a good father to my son. It’s all fine.”
He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t push it.
“Do you always dress up to talk to your wife?”
He was confused for a moment, so I pointed to his suit. “I haven’t seen you in a suit before.” He looked fantastic, to be truthful. Men in suits are just so . . . dapper.
He made a face. “I rarely wear one. I had a board meeting. My family is vaguely irritated I am in America, but it doesn’t stop my sister from asking me to attend the occasional boring meeting on her behalf.”
He took another sip of milkshake and smiled at me. “Ex-wife.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said, ‘wife.’ She’s my ex-wife.”
“Right. Ex-wife.”
We ate in silence for a moment. “Are there more of your family over here?” I asked. “Or are they all in Holland?”
He shook his head. “No, I have a younger sister in college over here, but on the East Coast. I see her even less than my family back in Amsterdam.”
“Is she studying horticulture, too?”
“No, Mandarin and political history.” He smiled. “She plans to run the United Nations at some point. She’s at the age when everything and anything seems possible.”
He was really so handsome, his smile was so lovely and warm, and suddenly I was inspired, or possessed, or temporarily insane, or something. “Would you like to come to dinner on Friday night? At my house? My mother is coming, and Rachel . . .” I trailed off, losing confidence. I hadn’t actually invited anyone yet. It had just come to me. He looked surprised.
“I’d love to.” He paused. “I wasn’t sure if you . . . I mean, I know you’re . . .”
I smiled at him. “I have no idea if I . . . or if I’m . . . but I just thought it would be nice. Although I warn you, my mother is a piece of work.” I swallowed. “Besides, you can check on the garden.”
He smiled at me. “Yes, what a good idea.”
He and I both knew it had nothing to do with the garden. But if it made it easier to say that it did, then we were going to go with it.
• • •
Rachel did her level best to avoid coming to dinner, but in the end I threatened to post teenage pictures of her on Facebook, and she relented. She also agreed to bring Richard, as I pointed out that Maggie was coming, and so was Edward, so there would be plenty of targets for Mom.
“If you’re inviting a wolf to dinner, you might as well invite several lambs at the same time, so one or two might survive. Maybe she’ll pick on Edward, and Richard will escape with only minor surface abrasions.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’ll rip all our throats out and that will be the end of it.”
I looked in the rearview mirror. I was driving the kids home from school and had Rachel on speaker. Neither of the kids appeared to be listening. Which presumably meant they were taking notes.
“Let’s try and stay open-minded?” I don’t know why it suddenly mattered to me to make peace with my mother, but it did.
Rachel sighed in exasperation. “All right. But you must promise to make something delicious and soft, so if I have to fall face-forward into it to cause a diversion, it will be worth it.”
“I’m making lasagna.”
She cheered. “Perfect. A soft landing and a million calories per slice. Win-win.”
“I love lasagna.” Annabel was listening after all.
“Me, too.” And so was Clare.
“And for dessert I was going to make a chocolate cake.”
Rachel laughed. “You know she won’t eat it. You’re already messing with her by making lasagna. I hope you’re also serving a collection of dry twigs for her to nibble on.”
“I’m doing a dead-leaf side salad.” I turned into our driveway. “Besides, all the more for us.”
Our mother had carried two things forward from her modeling career: a cast-iron commitment to sun protection and an unwillingness to eat anything more than ten calories an ounce. She had been one of those mothers who rarely cooked, unless pasta in red sauce out of a jar counts, but had taken us out to restaurants all the time instead. She would eat a side salad, then encourage us to order dessert and watch us eat it. I knew what judgment felt like before I could spell it.
When Friday came, I felt surprisingly enthusiastic about it. I made the lasagna early, so I wouldn’t be rushing around at the last minute, and set the table with actual silverware. I bought flowers, I tidied the house, I even wiped the children’s faces with the wet corner of a towel—no effort spared. Maggie had come over early to hang out and seemed to be doing better. She’d only broken down in tears once, so hopefully she wouldn’t do it again during dinner. I gave everyone extra napkins just in case.
My mom showed up with three bottles of wine and two enormous presents for the kids. Gigantic stuffed horses, one pink, one purple. Clare and Annabel were thrilled, of course, and Mom preened like grandmother of the year as they dragged her to their bedroom to put their new toys with the others. Edward arrived, along with Richard and Rachel, and everything seemed fine, although I got suddenly panicky about the food and bustled around after all, pouring wine, tossing salad, heating that bread you get at Trader Joe’s that is already half-cooked . . .
I took the lasagna out of the oven and had to admit to myself that it looked good enough to stick your face into. I listened for the kids and realized my mother and Edward were both in their room. He was unprotected. I put the lasagna down and went to check for casualties.
But when I skidded around the corner, no one was bleeding. Clare had Maggie, Edward, and my mom sitting in a ring on the rug, adults interspersed with those little beanbag animals whose name I can’t recall right now, and was holding forth on some topic. My mother was looking at Edward thoughtfully, but not in a hostile or flirtatious way, and Edward was leaning back on his hands and listening to Clare. He looked up as I came in.
“Did you know that the primary source of power in Beanytown is heartfelt love?”
I shook my head. “Heartfelt love?”
He nodded at Clare. “That is what she just told us, and that is the exact phrase she used.”
Clare beamed at me. “I saw it on TV,” she explained. “I think it means that you love someone and squeeze your chest to make it come out.”
Annabel snorted. “It doesn’t mean that, you goofball. It just means that you really love something.”
Clare frowned. “I’m not a goofball, and it’s my game, so it can mean what I want it to mean, Mrs. You.”
I told them dinner was ready and went to the living room, where Rachel and Richard were hiding out.
“You realize, I suppose, that both your names begin with the same letter.” I poured them a glass of wine. Each. I’m generous that way. Richard grinned.
“Yes, we noticed that early on. We also noticed that if we have a child and give him or her a name that also begins with R that we can say we have the three Rs covered.”
“Wow, and maybe you can all have matching propeller beanies.” I was covering the fact I was suddenly excited at the thought of my sister having children. I had accepted it was never going to happen, and it was fine, but a baby is a baby, am I right?
Rachel shrugged. “Why not? How about Rapunzel, or Requiem, or Rumpelstiltskin?”
“Or Random, Rorschach, or Ritalin.” Richard liked this game.
“You could go techy and call them RAM or ROM.”
“Or medical and call them Rheumatism or Rabies or Rubella.”
“Rubella’s pretty.”
“Actually,” my mother said, making an entrance as usual, “Rubella is what we should have called you, Rachel, because you were so incredibly spotty in your teens.”
There was a pause, and the thin squeaking sound of air leaking out of a balloon.
“Hi, Mom, thanks for the memory.” Rachel gave Mom a hug and turned to Richard. “This is Richard. Richard, this is my mom, Karen.”
Richard shook my mother’s hand and said, “Well, I can see that despite a possibly spotty youth, Rachel inherited her beautiful skin from you, Mrs. Anderby.”
I met Rachel’s eyes, and we both did a roll in unison. But it was a good opener, and had the desired effect. Mom smiled her twenty-thousand-dollar smile, the one that had graced the cover of Cosmo back in the day, and Richard could be seen thanking his lucky stars for Rachel’s gene pool. Which, truthfully, was one good thing about having such a good-looking mother: People were forever commenting on how well she had aged, and how reassuring it was for us, which was true, but didn’t really make up for childhood neglect. Or for the problem of bringing home teenage boys who then spent all their time in the kitchen having Graduate fantasies. I had hesitated before bringing Dan home, too, but he had met her, been charmed by her, and then told me that pretty though she was, she was nothing compared to me.
“When I look in your eyes,” he had memorably said, just before removing my bra for the first time without help, “I see how beautiful your thoughts are, but with her I only see that she isn’t really thinking of anyone but herself.” And while this was somewhat cheesy, and doubtless motivated by the aforementioned bra removal, it stuck in my head.
We sat down to eat.
“Goodness,” said my mother. “This is a tight fit. If you girls end up keeping these men longer than usual, we’ll need to get a bigger table.”
I let it go, but Rachel has more energy than me. “Are all relationships just opportunities for home furnishings, Mom?”
Mom shrugged. “Mostly, Rachel. Yours don’t usually last long enough for furniture, though, do they?” She smiled at Richard, as if that made up for what she’d just said. “Maybe you’re a keeper, though, Dick.”
“Or maybe I’m just a dick,” he shot back, “but hopefully I’m a keeper.”
Great. I hadn’t even put food on the table and already there was fighting. Please, Dan, I prayed, if you’re up there in heaven, have a word with someone and prevent this meal from degenerating. He had always been very good at deflecting battles, and when he and my dad had both been around, there had been family meals that were totally without incident. Thanksgiving ’97, for example.
My mother turned to Maggie.
“At least you’ve lost one, so that leaves more room.”
Honestly, she was deadly. Maggie looked as though she might tear up, but she’d known my mom for a very long time and, remembering who she was dealing with, let it go. Edward had been busy seating the kids, and getting them drinks, and generally paying attention to them. Hopefully he hadn’t even heard Mom’s catty bullshit. He sat, and I brought the lasagna to the table. The children did their usual “whoo” noises, which I love. They’re very supportive and impressed by large food, and I basked for a moment before putting it down.
“Watch out, it’s hot,” I cautioned, handing Edward the large serving spoon. “Can you serve the kids for me?”
“Look out, Edward, she’s already put you to work.” My mom giggled, attractively. I waited for the other shoe to drop, but she didn’t say anything else.
“I am happy to help, particularly if it means I get to serve myself a particularly large piece.” Edward’s voice was like a temple bell or something else one might use for meditation. The counterpoint of the kids’ little fluting tones was very pretty, I thought.
“Edward,” said Annabel, “do you like the cheese-sauce part or the meat-sauce part?”
He shrugged. “I like the combination of all of it together, Annabel. What about you?”
She shrugged, too, mimicking him. “Me, too, I guess. But I like the meat sauce when it’s just on spaghetti, too.”
Richard looked over at me. “This is honestly the best lasagna I’ve ever had, Lilian. I’m not sure how I ever get Rachel to come out for dinner when she could be eating here all the time.”
He smiled at Rachel, but my mother answered him. “It’s lucky they inherited my good genes, isn’t it, Richard? My girls may not have quite inherited my bone structure, but they both got my metabolism. I can eat like a horse and still stay a size one.” She smiled. “I worry a little about Clare, though. She picked up her Dad’s slightly chunkier build, didn’t you, pudding?”
Rachel caught my eye and looked horrified. I was silent, but it was only because I was building up a proper head of steam. Just as I was about to get to my feet and order her out of my life forever, Clare spoke up.
“It’s not about how big or small you are, Grandma, you know.” She took another bite of lasagna, and talked around it. “It’s about being strong and healthy. You need to eat plenty and run around a lot and drink lots of water and go to sleep early, that’s what Mom says.”
There was a pause. I looked at my mom, who was looking at Clare with the sappiest expression of love and pride, and I suddenly realized she couldn’t help being who she was. My kids had inherited some of her genes, but they had also inherited my dad’s, and their dad’s, and mine, and apparently they could stand up for themselves much better than I had been able to.
