I Liked My Life(13)

What could possibly be happening in the software world that trumps your daughter’s birthday, you number-crunching, tunnel-vision, selfish, selfish man?

That’s it. Each word was penned with such ferocity that it dented several subsequent pages. Maddy never said a word about it after the fact. Or had she and I disregarded it? It’s disconcerting how little I recall from our daily conversations. I search my laptop to see what meeting I chose over this extra memory. All I had on the evening of June 16, 2013, is a chunk of time reserved to catch up on Q2 numbers for an eight a.m. board meeting, with a note from Paula that I might be asked to present. That’s it. That’s what I did instead. The possibility of speaking at a board meeting felt bigger than my daughter’s actual birthday dinner. I was a new CFO. Work felt so important. I felt so important. And now look at me. I’m the guy whose wife offed herself.

I should have gone shopping with Eve for a prom dress yesterday. I’m still a number-crunching, tunnel-vision, selfish, selfish man.





CHAPTER THREE

Madeline

Seems silly to pray given the mounting evidence I’m stuck here for eternity, but please God, if I haven’t been forgotten already, let today be the day I do more than just comfort them. Let today be the day I sway their future.

Brady’s boss, Jack, is an active Exeter alum who pulled strings to get Eve accepted even though they don’t usually take senior applicants. Jack knows all the right people. Looking for a good price on a luxury car? Want to rent an oceanfront house in Nantucket during the height of the season or get your hands on a rare black truffle? Jack is the man who can make it happen. He could arrange to have a word added to the dictionary while it was his turn at Scrabble.

I was disappointed at first—Exeter’s rejection would keep Eve home—but then reality checked in. Brady and Eve are at war. Distance will at least make it harder for the damage to be permanent. Exeter’s acceptance came with the condition that Eve complete precalculus this summer, and, lucky me, Rory’s name showed up on the list of eleven local math tutors. A first grade teacher helping with calculus might not be in Eve’s best academic interest, but her emotional well-being is more important. If Eve picks Rory, the two of them will be together on a weekly basis for the entire summer.

In past attempts, I’ve padded my guidance with reasoning and related emotions. My intent was to be compelling, but perhaps it’s too much to transmit. Catchy songs and laughter get through; simple equals successful. I knead Eve’s subconscious, repeating Rory’s last name. Murray. Murray. Murray. There’s no evidence it’s working. She moves through her day like a puppet, every action forced. At lunch, John, Kara, and Lindsey surround Eve at the table farthest from the smelly lunch line, a coveted spot. Kara doesn’t acknowledge Eve, her remorse won’t allow it, but John and Lindsey study my daughter as if she’s a research project. Their hovering drives Eve batty.

Murray. Murray. Murray.

My daughter never struggled to fit in the way I did. High school didn’t interest me. I spent all four years buried in novels. Sal Paradise, Holden Caulfield, Jay Gatsby—these were my people. My mom never understood. “You’re gorgeous,” she’d say, not as a compliment. “Why don’t you have friends?” Once, when I was a junior and she was on a bender, she asked if I was a lesbian. “Nope,” I said to the relief of the Catholic still in her. “I want to kiss boys; I just don’t want to kiss any of these boys.” What I wanted was hot sex with Jack Kerouac, but Mom didn’t fish for details. I was prepared to support Eve through the isolation I associate with that time in life, but there was no need. Even now, in her grief-stricken funk, people seek her out like a front-row seat.

Despite Eve’s popularity, I remained detached from the other mothers. Paige was the only one who got me, and she was a decade older. We met at a PTA meeting nine years ago when the then president, Evelyn something, shot down my request to set aside a small field-trip fund for the few kids in Wellesley who qualified for lunch assistance. When I pointed out that teachers often paid their fees personally, Evelyn said, “If no one steps in, the families will step up. We’re talking about twenty dollars a year for a couple dozen students. Wellesley doesn’t have a low-income issue.”

The meeting proceeded. What I should’ve said was, “You mean the people in this room don’t have a low-income issue, which makes it all the more insane that teachers are the ones jumping in.” But I was paralyzed under the fluorescent cafeteria lighting. I hadn’t yet hit the fuck-you forties where you say and do whatever you damn well please. I was about to grab my purse and leave when Paige pulled a chair next to mine and whispered, “Have you met Evelyn’s high horse? She rides it quite a bit.” I failed to suppress my unexpected laughter. From then on, Paige and I sprung for the field-trip funding and replaced PTA meetings with a glass of wine in town. God, I could use her practicality right now. We think so much alike; she’d be easy to influence. The thought inspires me: Paige can be my courier for Eve. Meg can’t. She’s too bogged down with her own guilt-laden grief and she isn’t local. But Paige … Paige I can prod on my behalf. I need to get creative.

I drone on: Murray. Murray. Murray.

A girl I don’t recognize leans toward Eve, unaware her personal space is protected. “Are you gonna eat your turkey?”