This Time Tomorrow(57)
“Oh, please, honey,” Deborah said. “You know I’m just your Debbie.”
“I always wanted him to find someone,” Alice said. “I really did.”
“I know that,” Deborah said. Debbie. Her stepmother, Debbie, who called her honey. “He never would have asked me out if it weren’t for you.”
“Can I have the Snickers, too?”
“It’s still your birthday as far as I’m concerned, love. You can have it all.” Debbie trudged forward until the toes of their shoes were touching, then stretched up to kiss Alice on the forehead. She smelled like warm milk and bad coffee and jasmine perfume. Alice thought of all the articles she’d ever read, and the self-help books, every stupid piece of advice about women having it all, and how only counting the things that one was trying to balance in a single life was actually a cosmic lowballing. She’d never even considered all the things she could have, or all the things she couldn’t.
“I’ll try,” Alice said.
40
Tommy said that the party was going to be casual, but then he said that the caterers were arriving at four to set up by six, and the bartender was coming at five, but the booze had already been delivered, and when people in crisp white shirts and black vests started arriving, Alice knew that she and Tommy had different definitions of the word casual. Alice remembered some things—she remembered wanting the party. She always wanted a party, and then didn’t enjoy it.
Her closet was incredible: not quite Cher Horowitz’s motorized racks from Clueless, but not far off. In addition to all the vintage dresses, many of which she recognized, and the stack of blue jeans, the walk-in closet was overflowing with expensive, well-made designer things that she never could have afforded on her salary at Belvedere. Okay, Alice thought. This was more like it—this was the fun part of time travel, this was a scene she knew. Alice pawed through them like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. She kept the closet door open and went back and sat on her bed. She wanted to know who was coming to the party—Alice opened her email and began to scroll. It was mostly junk, as ever. She searched Belvedere in her inbox, and about a thousand messages appeared—about vaccination forms, about school fundraisers, about holiday gifts for teachers.
“Fucking hell, I’m a parent,” Alice said to herself. Not just a parent, but a Belvedere parent. There was a range of parents, of course, but the range was a puddle, not a river. Leonard had always stuck out like a sore thumb in his T-shirts and clunky sneakers, but he made enough money that people simply excluded him, instead of looking down on him. Alice had had lots of friends at Belvedere who taught and sent their kids—Melinda had; so had most other parents on staff. It was a huge perk, a massively reduced tuition for the children of faculty and staff, though Alice knew from some of her friends that the reduction had gotten less massive over time. Those were the school parents she liked. The other ones—the full-ticket-price parents, as she and Emily would refer to them—were not.
But she knew what they looked like. Alice pulled a few dresses out of her closet—drapey ones, snug ones, ones with elaborate beading and even a few stray feathers—and laid them across the bed. It was like playing dress-up in her own life. At least, this version of her life.
Dorothy toddled in to check on her and immediately ran a jam-covered hand across the bedspread and toward one of the dresses, a beige thing that looked right for a very, very rich nun.
“Hi, Dorothy,” Alice said. “You like that one?”
Dorothy licked her palm and then shook her head. “I like the pink one.”
The pink one was pretty good, Alice had to admit. It had a high neck with a wide ruffle that reminded her of the prom dress in Pretty in Pink, and then stopped short midthigh, where it continued with enough feathers for a dozen ostriches.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Alice asked. Dorothy shook her head vigorously.
“It’s like a flamingo.” Dorothy seemed like a very direct person. Alice was sure that she would love her very much, if she were her mother, if she could remember being Dorothy’s mother. Alice could feel something—love, maybe, or devotion—entering the room like an invisible cloud. It wasn’t exactly what she imagined motherhood would feel like, but what did Alice know about mothers anyway? Alice could hardly remember being in the same room as her own mother—she had three or four memories, and that was it; everything else was long-distance, and came after Serena had left. People told Alice all the time that it was hard for a mother to lose custody, but it wasn’t hard when the mother agreed. Mothering seemed like downhill skiing, or cooking elaborate meals from scratch—sure, anyone could learn how to do it, but it was much easier for the people who had seen other people do it first, and well, from a very young age.
Sondra called Dorothy’s name and the girl dutifully trotted back to the kitchen, where dinner was being presented for the children. Alice checked her phone again—she tried calling Sam, but there was still no answer. Her mother had left a message, which was just about the only part of her life that felt unchanged. There were half a dozen texts from people whose names she didn’t recognize wishing her a happy belated. Alice was popular.
Tommy came in, shutting the door behind him. He was sweaty again, in exercise clothes. A rich-person marriage with small children seemed to involve parents taking turns exercising and then bathing. Alice remembered the sex that she and Tommy had had, and how long ago that night must feel to him.