The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 4
“No, I’m good, thanks. You’ve always been the one who needed to leap from one dick to the next, like a logrolling contestant.”
There was a pause. “How do you mean?” she asked.
“You know . . . when they’ve got all those logs in the water and they have to keep going from one to the other really fast so they don’t fall in the water and get crushed.”
“No, I meant about me. The logrolling simile was bizarre, but I knew what you were referring to.”
I sighed, and tried to include her forehead frown lines in my sketch. “I just meant you like to have a boyfriend. Sometimes several. Apart from the brief period you were married.” We both turned our heads and pretended to spit on the ground. It was a family tradition when anyone mentioned her ex-husband. “You’ve never dated anyone for very long.”
“And that makes me a cock-hopper?”
“Is that a thing? An actual term?”
“It could be.” She put the little brush back in the jar and put on her earnest expression. I’d seen it many times before. “Look, this isn’t about me and my healthy sex drive. It’s about you and your apparent disinterest in meeting a guy. Or a girl. Or two girls and a guy, whatever. Dan has been gone for a long time now. You’re still young and attractive and funny and sexy, and it’s time you got out there and lived a little.”
“Rachel, he didn’t move to Nebraska to live with a cocktail waitress named Lurlene. He died. Killed suddenly in a horrific accident that I basically witnessed. It’s a shock to have your soul mate ripped off the planet like that. It takes time to recover. I haven’t recovered yet. Let it go.”
I didn’t want to get angry with her, because I understood she meant well, but this conversation was always exhausting. I got up to go check on the kids, hoping she’d get my less-than-subtle hint and change the subject.
It worked. When I got back, she had finished her nails and was ready to move on. “Hey, in other news, I totally forgot that Alison asked if she could babysit sometime.”
This was something that mystified me. People I barely knew would offer to babysit my kids. Of course, they didn’t know them as well as I did. I looked around: Frank was on the armchair, and Rachel was lying on the sofa. I sat on the floor. “Why on earth would she want to do that?”
“Because for many people children are fun. Presumably, you thought they would be fun, too, or did you conceive them as a condition of your parole? I know Dan wasn’t all that keen, so it must have been your idea.”
This was partially true. Dan had maintained a public face of indifference to the concept of babies before Annabel was born, but from the minute we found out we were pregnant, he was into it. He would lie next to me, whispering to the bump, answering random questions he said he could hear. “No, it was Secretariat,” he would say. Or, “Just eat whatever you can find.” Or, “Yes, you can have a pony.”
“Well, Alison should come and meet the kids before she volunteers.”
Rachel sighed. “Lili, she’s met them about fifty times. Alison is the receptionist at my office. She babysat them loads when you were in the nuthouse and I had stuff to do.”
“It wasn’t a nuthouse. It was a hospital.”
“With locks on the doors.”
“Well, yes.”
“And lithium and Thorazine and people who thought they were Amelia Earhart.”
“That was just one guy.”
“Whatever. You’re trying to change the subject. When was the last time you and I went out on the town? When was the last time you had a little too much to drink and did something embarrassing?”
“I repeat, who’s the president?”
She reached for her phone. “That’s it. I’m calling Alison. Let’s go out tomorrow night.”
“Friday night? Surely you have plans?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m taking my sister out. She’s a spinster of this parish, and getting bony.”
I shook my head again, more firmly. “No, Rach. I don’t want to.”
But she was talking, and I found myself letting her arrange things with Alison. I could always back out at the last minute.
She hung up the phone. “Now, that’s all done. No backing out at the last minute. I know you’re thinking of it.”
“Me? No way.”
How to Grow a Beet
Beets are fussy about the pH of their soil, which isn’t unreasonable, as they’re buried in it. Use a pH kit and shoot for 5.5 to 6.
• Be generous with aged manure before planting, and make sure you’ve got plenty of phosphorus . . . but not too much nitrogen. Too much nitrogen and you’ll end up with lots of leaves but only very, very tiny beets. Cute, but disappointing.
• They also like soil above 50 degrees.
• Plant seeds ½ inch deep and 1 to 2 inches apart.
• When you’re ready to harvest, run out and buy some goat cheese. Nothing better than beets and goat cheese.
Chapter 3
On Friday, I left work early because I had an appointment with Ruth Graver, my grief therapist. At this point, she was really just a therapist, as the grief had subsided to a kind of dull roar, as if the monster in the closet had a toothache and wasn’t coming out right now, but I still went to see her a couple of times a month. I had always assumed the therapy, which had started when I left the hospital, was supposed to get me to a point of acceptance about Dan’s death. I wasn’t there, not even close, despite Dr. Graver’s best efforts.
“And why do you think Annabel got upset?” Ruth Graver was a no-nonsense dark-haired woman who looked almost as intelligent as she actually was. She had the air of someone who, following an alien invasion and the annihilation of half the planet, would be organizing the resistance and handing out blankets. For all I knew, she was privately a speed freak with tattoos over 80 percent of her body and an obsession with the early music of Frank Sinatra, but at work she was as cool as a cucumber.
I recrossed my legs. “For the obvious reason, I guess. She doesn’t want me to replace her daddy by marrying someone else.”
“She said you’re still married to him.”
“Right. It doesn’t make sense to her that death changes one’s marital status. It doesn’t make much sense to me, either, to be fair.”
“In your mind you’re still married.” Her voice was neutral, of course. No judgment here, Lilian. Just turn the handbag of your soul inside out and shake it.
I nodded. “Not just in my mind, but everywhere. When I have to fill out a form and the choices are single, married, or divorced, I check ‘married’ and write in ‘widowed.’ Why isn’t that box there, anyway? Bureaucracy is normally so all-encompassing. If I were a Native Alaskan or a speaker of Urdu, I’d have a little box, but as a widow, I’m supposed to revert to single overnight.” I found I was picking my nails, and stopped.
Graver’s office was decorated in “classic mid-century therapist,” and as she waited in silence for me to continue my diatribe, I gazed at the familiar things on her shelves. A small pot a child had made by coiling clay, a miniature Eames chair that matched the one she sat in, joke action figures of Einstein and Poe. I knew nothing about her, although I sometimes tried to get her to tell me about herself. She wouldn’t, which was annoying.
I realized I still hadn’t said anything, and smiled.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because it gives me something to do with my mouth. I’m tired of hearing myself complain.” I started picking my nails again. “I’m tired of people asking me questions, and looking hopeful when they see me with a man, tired of little pauses in conversation when I say I’m fine, as the entire world waits to see if I’m going to start seeing someone.” My throat felt tight, but with anger. “If Dan had survived the crash but been a vegetable, silently drooling in a hospital bed somewhere, nobody would be encouraging me to date, right? Well, let’s just pretend he’s Bertha Mason-ing somewhere and I’m not a free woman, because I really don’t feel free.”
She said nothing, but the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened. Concern. I knew that look well. I looked at my watch and smiled wider.
“Time’s up, Dr. Graver. See you next month.”
I left, imagining her sitting there motionless, gathering dust until I next appeared.
• • •
I had already tried, and failed, to get out of dinner that night, but Rachel had set her phone to go straight to voice mail. And she even had the nerve to change her message so it said, “If this is Lili trying to cancel dinner plans, don’t even bother to leave a message, because I’m going to ignore it. If it’s anyone else, I’m all ears.” Beeeeep.
The other irritation was that the kids were excited Alison was coming over. Strangely, as Rachel had said, they knew who she was and felt she was an excellent babysitter.
“I won’t be here,” I had reminded them, trying to upset one of them so I would have an excuse not to go out.
They nodded. “Alison has pink hair,” Clare volunteered. Ah, yes, now I could visualize her. Maybe I should have pink hair. It seemed to be so positively received.
“I won’t be putting you to bed.” Desperate measures.
They nodded again. It was Friday, going to bed was a more fluid concept, and there was no school the next morning. They were blasé.
“When she reads, she does all the voices,” added Annabel.
“I do all the voices,” I reminded her, somewhat hurt, the TV remote in my hand.
“Yes, but all of hers are different.” A pause. “Can you press PLAY now?”
• • •
When Alison showed up at five, she brought her pink hair and was wearing a miniskirt over the top of tartan leggings, with a T-shirt that said, TRANSCEND THE BULLSHIT. She pushed me toward the bathroom.
“Rachel said I should force you to take a shower and get all dressed up. She’ll be here at seven to get you.”
“Did she give you a dress code?” I was joking.
“Sexy casual.”
Puzzling. Alison pulled a piece of paper out of her jeans and read it out.
“That black top with the laces, a little undone, the nice bra I gave you for Christmas, jeans and boots; plenty of makeup; hair up in a loose knot.”
We looked at each other.
“She also said to touch up your toenails in case you took your shoes off.”
“You have to wear shoes if you’re going outside. It’s the law,” Clare chimed in.
“I’m not sure it is the law,” Annabel said, looking at Alison. “Mom says it is, but sometimes I think it’s not.”
Alison frowned. “Laws are just the prevailing rules of the hegemony; question authority.” Then she looked at me, quickly. “If that’s OK with you?”
“Oh sure,” I said, trying to remember what hegemony was. “Question away.”
I walked off. It was an incredible luxury to have two hours to myself to get ready, and I decided to just accept it. The kids were fine, I was fine, the dog and cat were fed. It was OK to take some time for myself and . . . I realized I was rationalizing taking a shower.
I considered my face critically as I put on my makeup. I had reached the age at which less makeup was starting to look better than more. Too much tended to get stuck in wrinkles. I honestly thought an exception was going to be made in my case. That my great complexion would last forever and my apparent invulnerability to cellulite was a genetic gift. Neither had been true, and having two kids had done the same number on my body that it did on every woman, not counting the airbrushed set. It was unfair, but there it was. I looked good when I was done, if your boundaries were generous. Slim-ish, young-ish, somewhat sexy, if you can be sexy when you’re totally disinterested in sex.
Rachel whistled when she came to pick me up. “Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. You look great.”
Annabel and Clare were giddy with the novelty of it.
“You look like a princess, Mommy,” said Clare, skipping about. “And you smell like Macy’s!”
Annabel was more discerning. “An evil princess, though, because regular princesses don’t wear black all over.”
“But her hair is like a regular princess, because it’s up.”
“Yes, but it’s got no ribbons or anything, so that’s more like an evil princess.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t have a short guy with her, and evil princesses always have a short guy.” Clare’s voice was getting louder; this was about to turn into a fight. Time to leave.
Once we were outside, I was overcome with excitement.
“I’m outside,” I said to Rachel. “In the dark!”
She laughed. “I know! It’s thrilling!” She pretended to look around. “Where are the kids? Oh wait, they’re not here!” We clutched each other and giggled.
Yup. The Anderby sisters were living the dream.
• • •
I might not have a rip-roaring sex life, or any sex life at all, but one pleasure is still open to me, and that’s eating. Once I’d accepted I was going out for dinner, I had suggested a restaurant where each and every tiny dish made me want to die a little. The menu offered a range of “small plates” that were rich, fattening, and tasty. It’s kind of sad how excited I was as we pushed open the big wooden door and greeted the hostess.
Twenty minutes later, I had butter running down my wrist and was happily licking it off when Rachel’s eyed widened at someone behind me.
“Hey! Charles! How are you?” She stood, presumably to greet this Charles person, and I quickly wiped butter off my chin and turned around.
Charles was tall, good-looking and, I assumed, trying to get into my sister’s pants. This was common. Most of her male friends or acquaintances were somewhere on the Rachel Anderby acquisition spectrum. Not that she doesn’t have male friends she has no intention of sleeping with—of course she does, she’s not a machine, for crying out loud—but she has eclectic taste.
I watched them to see where he fell on the chart and decided that she hadn’t slept with him yet, but that he still held out hope. He was smiling at me and shaking my hand as she introduced us, but he swiftly went back to watching her.
“Can you join us?” Rachel said, which surprised me. I moved my chair around, and Charles sat down, somewhat apologetically.
“I don’t want to interrupt you ladies.” He was across from me, and I noticed him rearranging the cutlery in a slightly nervous fashion. OK, he definitely hadn’t slept with her yet.
“Not at all,” Rachel replied, turning to me. “Charles is visiting from our London office.”
I smiled at him, wondering how long I needed to wait before starting to stuff my face again. “How nice. How long are you going to be in Los Angeles?”
He really was handsome. “About six months, Lilian.”
“Please call me Lili. Only my mother calls me Lilian.” I reached for the tiny plate of bacon-wrapped dates, assuming they would talk shop and I would peacefully eat more than my share, when Rachel’s phone rang. Normally she turns it off at dinner, so I raised my eyebrows at her when she answered it.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, heading out the door, “it’s work . . .”
And there I was, my mouth full of hot date, so to speak, all alone with Charles. As I watched out of the window, I saw Rachel hang up the phone and hail a cab. She didn’t even look back.
Traitor.
I broke the uncomfortable silence. “When did this get set up?”
He colored slightly. “This morning.”
“Did she tell you I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone?”
“Yes, but to be honest, I had told her the same thing, and she rolled right over me.” He smiled. “She said she thought it would be good for both of us to . . . I think the word she used was practice.”
His English accent was charming, but I was still annoyed. “Practice ambushing people?”
He looked contrite. “I didn’t realize she wasn’t going to tell you I was coming to dinner.” He rearranged the cutlery one more time. “I wouldn’t have agreed to an ambush.” He coughed; the poor bastard really was uncomfortable. “Not at all sporting.”
I laughed suddenly. “Not quite cricket?”
He shook his head. “Not in the least.”
I called the waitress over, and turned to him. “Are you actually hungry?”
He nodded. “Yes, famished. But it’s totally OK if you just want to get the check. I understand. I believe she left her credit card details with the restaurant in case you stormed out and refused to pay.”
I laughed. “Oh, then that was an error on her part.” I smiled at the waitress. “We’ll get two of everything, please.”
She hesitated. “All the vegetable dishes?”
“No, two of everything on the menu. Just start at the top and keep going.”
Then I turned back to Charles and smiled. We were both victims here, and he had a very pleasant face. “OK, Charles. Why don’t you want to date?”
“I’m still in love with my ex-wife. And you?”
“I’m still in love with my dead husband.”
And from that point we got on just fine.
• • •
I arrived home just after midnight and called Rachel. I knew she would be up, waiting for a report, and if she wasn’t, well, she was now. I opened the conversation with a proven winner.
“What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
She remained calm. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
I wasn’t having it. “That was a totally bullshit move, as you well know.” I was undressing, and threw my bra so it hung over Frank’s head. It’s the little things that keep me amused. “What if I’d punched your friend in the nose? I could have set back Anglo–U.S. relations for weeks.”
She was unapologetic. “You wouldn’t. You’re too considerate.” She paused. “Unlike me.”
