The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 3
Rachel leaned against the counter and examined me. “You’re pissed about the Cousin Itt thing, right? I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. Besides, it’s not Itt so much as it is Morticia. I can still see a slice of your face. And it’s a good slice.”
I looked at her silently, poking my wooden spoon at the bacon, breaking it apart. She was lovely, my sister, both to look at and as a person. She was single, but not celibate, largely by choice. She had been married once, very young, and had taken a pledge not to do that again. Taller than me, thinner than me (which was forgivable, seeing as she didn’t have kids), with better hair and firmer thighs, she nonetheless made it clear that she put the kids and me above her own plans. I worried sometimes that the sad circumstances of my life had curtailed her freedom. I said as much, once, and she pointed out that the sad circumstances of my life were also the sad circumstances of her life.
“Hey, my brother-in-law, who I really loved, got killed in a car accident, and my sister went insane for a while, so I had to take care of her kids. That happened to me, remember? You are just a bit player in the drama that is Rachel Anderby’s Life, starring Rachel Anderby, written by Rachel Anderby, directed by Rachel Anderby. In my life, you’re simply a supporting character. Lili, the kids are billed above you.”
But I knew it had cost her something, to be available for me, and I knew that she knew that I knew, and that if it ever came to kidney donation or taking a bullet, I was her girl. Mind you, she did have a hectic social life these days, and was even, on occasion, busy for an entire weekend.
I drained the spaghetti.
“So, what are you doing on Saturday afternoon?” I asked her. “After our thrilling new gardening class.”
“A date, what else?” She was folding the napkins into swans, a trick she had learned one summer waitressing at a theme-park restaurant. At the time, it had seemed as though the entire three months had been one long, drunken orgy of seasonal workers in the sun, but the napkin origami had made it all worth it. Otherwise, it would just have been fantastic and frequent guilt-free sex with other happy young people, and who needs that?
“With whom?” I raised my eyebrows but kept my tone neutral, a trick I had learned one summer interning at a publishing house (no sex, no origami, but loads of free irony and all the bookmarks you could carry).
“A new guy.”
“From work?” Rachel worked at an international import-export firm that specialized in art and artifacts. She was the head of logistics for them, and could routinely be overheard on the phone saying things like, “Well, the sarcophagus can overnight in Cairo, then, but it better be in Budapest before Tuesday, or the Pope’s going to throw a shitter.” She often met men through her work, but she never dated anyone who worked for her company. She was a bit of a slut, to be honest, but a slut with rules.
“Kind of. I met him at an opening.”
“Cute?”
She grinned at me. “No, repulsive, with knock-knees and a squint. I thought it was time to broaden my horizons.”
“Nice.”
“Mommy?”
I looked down. Clare had appeared. “Yes, honey?” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smoothing her cheek. The physical perfection of a small child is sometimes too much to deal with. Did the kid even have pores?
“I want to paint.”
“Not now, sweetie. Dinner’s ready.”
“But I really, really want to.” Sadly, the physical perfection is often paired with immense self-interest. The strand of hair popped out, and I started to reach for it again.
“I hear you, honey, but now is not a good time. Maybe in the morning.”
“No. Now.” Clare was hungry, apparently. She ducked her head away, not letting me tidy her hair.
“Go tell your sister to come and sit down for dinner, OK?”
She debated throwing a fit about the painting, the struggle between hunger and rage apparent in her puckered brow. Rachel intervened, picking her up and carrying her, upside down, to get Annabel. I tossed the drained spaghetti; threw in the egg, cheese, bacon, butter, and onions; and stirred it fast to cook the egg. Carrying the pan across to the table, I beat the kids to it, and by the time they sat, their dinner was steaming on their plates. I gave myself a small round of applause because no one else was going to do it.
Rachel looked up at me. “You can join me on my date, if you like. I’m sure this guy has a friend.” She put a forkful of food in her mouth. “Actually, I hope he has more than one, but the squint could be putting people off.”
I frowned at her. “Don’t be silly.” I never talked about dating in front of the kids, which made it easy to avoid the topic completely, as they were always there. I wasn’t ready to date, the kids weren’t ready for me to date, and, in fact, I was planning on not dating until they finished college. I would encourage them to take a year off first, to tour Europe. Plus there was the strong possibility of several years of postgraduate studies. I was safe for at least two decades, at which point my lady parts would have fused together like Barbie’s anyway.
I got drinks for everyone, a plate for myself, and finally sat down.
“Mommy,” Annabel said. She was twirling spaghetti around her fork, a freshly acquired skill. Often the twirling went on much longer than it needed to, but these things take practice.
“Yes, sweets?” I reached for extra cheese.
“Did I tell you I have a boyfriend?”
I flicked a glance at Rachel. “Nope. Who’s that?”
“James.”
OK, at least it was a kid I knew. An actual kid, not an imaginary kid.
“Really? I like James. He’s nice.” I filled my mouth with spaghetti and thanked God for the Italians. Spaghetti, pizza, ice cream. If they weren’t so busy making love and whizzing around on Vespas, they’d probably rule the world.
Annabel made a face.
“He’s silly. But he’s my boyfriend.”
“Does he know it?”
She looked scandalized. “No! Of course not!”
Rachel looked at Clare.
“Do you have a boyfriend, too?”
“No, I’m married.” Clare had a mouthful of spaghetti, but she smiled around it.
“Oh yeah?” Rachel kept eating. “Who are you married to?”
“Frank.”
Frank banged his tail on the ground, hearing his name.
“Huh. Did you know your husband has worms?”
Clare nodded.
Annabel was patient but firm. “Clare, you can’t marry the dog.” She put down her fork.
“I did. It’s done.” This was one of Clare’s favorite things to say. “It’s done” covered a lot of things, like drawing on the wall, peeing on the floor, eating candy. It’s done, nothing can be changed, it’s over. She was all about closure, that one.
“But people can’t marry dogs.”
“Why not? I love Frank.”
Annabel nodded. “Yes, so do I.”
“And people who love each other get married.”
Annabel nodded again, although Rachel opened her mouth to object. I frowned at my sister, and shook my head, subtly.
“So the dog is your husband?” Annabel was skeptical and turned to me. “She can’t marry the dog, Mom.”
“Bel, she’s too young to really marry anyone. But if she wants to say that she and Frank are husband and wife rather than mutt and kindergartner, who are we to rain on her parade?”
She looked at me, thinking.
“Look,” I continued. “Last week she spent three days pretending the bathtub was a coral reef infested with deadly eels, and you let that one slide.” I smiled at Annabel. “She’s only five, after all.”
“Although,” Rachel chimed in, “Frank’s nearly eight, a much older man.”
I looked at her. “Yeah, that’s the worrying part, the age difference.”
“But it’s silly.” Annabel was really not having it.
“So? Lots of things are silly, honey, and usually that’s a good thing.”
Clare misinterpreted her sister’s unhappiness. “Hey, you can marry Henry if you like.” Henry was our rabbit. He lived in the garden, in a hutch, and I have to admit that more than once I totally forgot he existed.
Rachel laughed. “Wait, I want to marry Henry, he’s supercute.” This was undeniable.
“He’s a bit short for you, isn’t he?”
“He’s very fluffy.” Annabel was entering into the spirit of the thing, finally. “He has very big ears, like that boyfriend you had at Christmas.”
Rachel snorted. “How do you remember these things? I barely remember that guy.”
Clare was on a roll. “And Mommy can marry Jane.” The cat.
Annabel lost her smile again. “Mommy can’t marry Jane. One thing, Jane is a girl, and girls don’t marry girls . . .” Rachel opened her mouth to correct her, but Annabel was getting louder. “Two, Jane is a cat, and cats don’t ever get married, and three, Mom is already married to Dad, and you can’t marry two people at once.”
“Who wants dessert?” I said, chirpily, getting to my feet.
“But Dad is dead,” said Clare, firmly.
I started clearing plates, noisily. “How about ice cream?”
“Yes, but they’re still married.” I pulled open the freezer in a hurry.
“But he’s dead. It’s done.”
Annabel started to flush, which was not a good sign. “Yes, but they’re still married, so she can’t marry anyone else. Ever.”
I gave it another shot. “Ooh, who wants chocolate sauce?”
Clare frowned back at her. “But what if she loves someone? She can marry them.”
“Marshmallows?”
Annabel stood up, and I realized this was about to go south. Luckily, so did Rachel.
“Bath!” she yelled, leaping up and grabbing Clare.
I picked up Annabel, who was starting to shake. Often weeks would pass when she wouldn’t mention her dad at all. But other days she would just crumple. Clare often set her off, because the whole thing meant less to her. She’d been less than a year old when Dan died. To her, Dad was just a word, something other people had, like a horse, or measles.
As Rachel headed to the bathroom, blowing raspberries on Clare’s tummy, I sat down with Annabel on my lap.
“Honey, I love you and Clare and Aunty Rachel. I’m never going to marry anyone else, OK?”
She was crying a bit now, and just nodded. I rested her head against my shoulder and stroked her head.
“I’m always going to love your daddy, OK? No one else will ever be your daddy—just him. And I will always be your mommy.”
“And Aunty Rachel will always be my aunty?”
I nodded, against her hair.
“And grandma . . .”
“Will always be your grandma, yes.”
“And Frank?” More tail banging under the table.
I smiled. “Will always be Clare’s husband, yes.”
She laughed, finally, and I carried her to the bathroom.
Essential Equipment
All new activities are excuses for shopping.
You’ll need these basic supplies:
• Garden gloves
• Fork
• Rake
• Hoe
• Hand cultivator or trowel
• Watering can or hose
But if you don’t have money or room for these things, just buy seeds and use your hands. The plants don’t care.
Chapter 2
The next day, Clare had an afternoon playdate. Samantha was in her class at school, collected Littlest Pet Shops, and could rattle off the names and evolutions of three hundred Pokémon, ergo they were best friends forever. In this way, little girls are like grown men: They only need one or two things in common to become official buddies. Fishing. Golf. An interest in breasts. Unfortunately, Samantha’s mother and I couldn’t even find two things in common, so I just dropped and ran. Not a mortal sin in mothering terms, but probably a faux pas. I don’t care. If they want to drum me out of the Mother of the Year club, fuck them. It’s a stupid club, anyway.
Rachel called me just as Annabel and I were getting close to home.
“I was going to offer to pick Clare up from her playdate and bring her home.”
“You’re back again tonight? Two nights in a row?” I paused. “Is the hazmat team at your house again? Or that guy who’s convinced you’re married?”
“My ex-husband? No, I just prefer the conversation of the kids to the silence of my apartment and the taste of my own cooking.”
I waited. She was an honest woman, she couldn’t lie.
“OK, the taste of takeout pizza. But, of course, if you just want to be sarcastic, you can pick up your own goddamned kid yourself.”
But she did, of course, and I was grateful. There was a price to be paid, though, and once the kids were asleep, Rachel launched into her campaign to reinvigorate Lili’s love life.
We were collapsed in front of the TV in my living room. We weren’t watching it, but it was on, the constant companion of modern life. God forbid we’d sit in silence with our thoughts. When Dan was alive, we would often spend hours not saying a word. It was bliss.
“So, you haven’t had sex in nearly three years, right?” Rachel had pulled her socks off and was examining her toes.
I shrugged, trying halfheartedly to throw Lego pieces into a bucket in the corner. “More than three years, if you count the last year of my marriage. I was pregnant, then I had a baby.”
She frowned at me. “Presumably, some married people have sex all the time?”
“Sure, on TV.”
“You’re not selling it.”
“I’m not trying to.”
I ran out of Legos to throw, just when I was getting good at it, and moved on to My Little Pony figures. Different bucket, and you have to compensate for the mane when you calculate trajectory. My house was tidy once a week, when the cleaning lady came, and for about twenty minutes. It was decorated in “early childhood education,” with an underpinning of “young married couple try to create a peaceful oasis.” Calm colors and natural fibers mostly, covered in a patina of finger paint and plastic animals. As if a toy store and a Zen monastery had fought, with the toy store getting the upper hand and the monastery passively resisting. As it would, presumably.
Rachel was lying on the sofa, halfheartedly doing sit-ups. I was shocked.
“Are you exercising?”
“No, I’m trying to reach the remote.”
“Ah.”
“Yup.” She found it under her butt and started flipping through the channels. She settled on a cooking show and went back to her toes. “Do you have any nail polish?”
I got up slowly. I used to be able to leap to my feet. I used to be able to stand up and sit down without thinking about it. Now if I sat in one position for more than five minutes, I seized up. I felt like the Tin Man: oil . . . can . . .
I crept into the kids’ room and fetched a little basket. “There are five shades of pink, three purples, some gold, some glittery, a green that smells of mint, and a miniature music stand that presumably went with something at some point . . . that’s it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is this Annabel’s collection?”
I nodded.
“When did you last paint your toenails?”
I shrugged. “Who’s the president?”
She sighed, despairing of me. “You used to be vain, for crying out loud! I used to make fun of you for spending hours in the bathroom every morning. You color coordinated your eye makeup with your shoes.”
“I got married. I had kids. My husband died. I let myself go.”
She frowned at me. “You’re still totally gorgeous. Underneath all that . . . scruff.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean. You and Dan were like the arty-hipster prom king and queen. Golden couple. Yearbook hotties.”
“OK, keep your hair on. I was cute. Dan was cute. I get it.”
“And you’re still totally hot. You’re just hiding out in a middle-aged-mom costume.” She had leaned forward on the sofa, the better to underscore her point, and if I’d wanted to, I could have punched her in the nose. I considered it.
“Wow, Rach, that’s motivating. Let’s change the subject before my last remaining shred of self-esteem unravels.”
She glared at me for a moment but gave up and started painting her toenails different colors instead. I pulled out my sketch pad and began drawing her. She was beautiful, despite her tendency to micromanage my personal life. Long dark hair, all thick and wavy in a way mine wasn’t, the face of an angel and the brain of a very successful tax accountant, or something. Great figure, strong and full, which she did absolutely nothing to maintain. Not to worry, she’d fall apart once she had kids.
“I’m just saying you need to get back out there, and let someone get back in there.” She was focused on her toes, but I wasn’t fooled.
