I Liked My Life(2)
“Who knew you’d become such a domestic diva?” she said one night. “I thought the ambition of a Wellesley College valedictorian would shatter glass ceilings.” Right before I thought to be offended, she added, “Somehow you were blessed with perspective most intelligent people lack.”
That’s Meg for you.
When Brady got home he’d go straight for the stereo. Hellos and everything else commenced only after the music started. Harry Connick Jr. is Brady’s favorite. I joked it was because people say they look alike, with their brown flowing hair and eyes set wide apart, but really, Brady loves anything that relies heavily on the piano. Music floated through the house as I put the finishing touches on dinner. We’d often sit at the table long after we finished eating, announcing our roses and thorns of the day, making plans for the upcoming weekend, laughing, occasionally debating. I’d advertise the book that had my attention, and Eve and Brady would rattle off all the reasons they were too busy to borrow it when I finished.
Eve came out with some doozies during these meals, often putting her raging hormonal perspective out there to digest with dinner. One night, when her usual vivacity didn’t return with her from school, she said, “My thorn today was realizing that I have nothing to do with who I am. I’m whatever you’ve made me.” I choked on my wine and stared at my Freudian thirteen-year-old, recognizing it was a deep thought. But on a Wednesday night with no context it was also a little over my head. A scary moment for any mother.
Brady recovered more gracefully, laughing off her drama. “Whoa there. Mom and I aren’t signing up for that responsibility. You own who you are.” It still sounded strange to hear Brady call me Mom. We swore we’d never be that couple, but when Eve’s first word was Maddy we abandoned our adult identities without much discussion.
Eve looked down at her plate and let out a practiced sigh. “I knew you’d say something like that.”
“It’s true; I’m predictable,” Brady said. “But my parents didn’t make me that way. It’s who I am.” Eve gave a half smile at his cleverness and I beamed at the impressive level of communication from my highly functional family. There was always plenty to talk about then. Now our house, which used to be inviting with its oversized wooden door and broken-in welcome mat, is so dark and silent that passersby assume it’s empty.
“Miss Murray,” a girl shrieks, approaching Rory and ending my reverie.
“Well hello, Annie.” Rory abandons a sweet pepper mid-inspection to crouch down and squarely meet the girl’s eager eyes.
“Mom’s taking me to Boston tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell the class about it Monday.”
“Okay,” Annie agrees, the trip now more exciting. “See ya.”
She runs away but Rory remains caught in the moment. Her expression saddens. I need to know why. There must be a way to intuit underpinnings and have impact on the world I left behind. Why else would I be stuck here watching? I keep perfectly still, focusing all my energy on Rory. She clearly craves something, or maybe someone, but I can’t discern what.
I’m impatient as she walks to the parking lot. Without the ability to intervene, I can’t repair the damage done. My attention drifts as I recall Brady dutifully leaning in for a kiss good night. Sometimes a peck, but sometimes so much more. I linger there until my mind catches the impossibility and substitutes me with Rory. It’s a wrenching thought. During those nutty hypothetical conversations married people have I always claimed I’d want Brady to remarry if I died first. I pictured him in his late sixties, needing a partner to tackle aging with. I hadn’t realized how cruel afterlife would be, that I’d have to personally select my replacement because Brady would be disoriented and Eve would need support, that I’d have to watch the whole thing from this front-row seat.
I stay with Rory as she loads the trunk of her light-blue Volkswagen Bug. Everything about her is adorable. I struggle to think of the single adjective that would have described me. I come up with reliable, maybe charismatic on a good day. Certainly not adorable. My face was too angular and my opinions too sharp for a word like that. Rory shuffles around for the bag with eggs in it, moving the delicate goods to the floor. A planner.
Her cell phone rings as the engine starts. The noises compete, so Rory doesn’t hear the call until the second ring. The car is in drive as she rakes through her bag. She grabs the phone, looks over her shoulder, and releases the brake in one motion, not realizing the car is moving forward until she hears the crunch of metal. The collision is with a pristine Audi A7.
“Augh,” she says, tapping a palm to her forehead in an exaggerated gesture I’ve never seen anyone do without an audience. That was it—Augh—before answering the call on the fifth ring. “Hello?” She stretches her neck to assess the damage.
“Glad I caught you, honey. Your mother is having a tough go of it. Any chance you can get home early? She could use your magic touch.”
“I’m about to drop off groceries, but then I’m supposed to tutor. Did Brian show? He promised he’d grace you with his presence at lunch.” She laughs uncomfortably at the spite in her words.
“No, but he called. Said work was crazy. I’m sorry.” The woman sighs. “I hate to add to your plate, but I can’t fork over more meds without something in her stomach.”