I Liked My Life(65)

When class ends, Rory’s effeminate yoga instructor asks if she wants to grab coffee sometime. “Thanks for the invitation,” she demurs. “But I think we should stick to yoga.”

His shoulders drop a bit. “Boyfriend?”

Rory bites her lip. Lying is the easiest way to end the conversation without offense and this is the only hot hatha flow class that works with her schedule. “Um hmm.”

“Is it Frank? I notice you two always put your mats next to each other.”

Rory wasn’t expecting him to dig deeper. “Ah, nope. Not Frank. Definitely not Frank.” Frank has nipple rings. “His name is Brady. You wouldn’t know him.”

Rory tells herself to shut the hell up and offers a silent prayer that Brady doesn’t have time for yoga. It’s not exactly a common name and Wellesley is a small town. Once in the privacy of her car Rory sighs, wondering where that tall tale came from. I’ll never tell.

Just as my capacity starts to dwindle, I’m getting good at being a ghost. I enlisted Meg to reach out to Brady about dating again, which wasn’t easy since each message now takes a herculean effort to convey and she’s against the idea of it. To Meg, Brady remaining abstinent for the rest of his life seems a reasonable consequence for missing my depression. I used Eve as bait, forcing my sister to admit she won’t be Eve’s go-to person in life. Meg manages a global department of a thousand people. She’s on a plane more than she’s in a car. Over time, Eve will be pushed down her to-do list along with dusting the fans. My message to Meg was that Brady needs someone so Eve has someone.

My sister couldn’t bring herself to have the conversation outright, but she sent an email: It’s none of my business, she began, so there’s no need to reply. In fact she prayed he wouldn’t. But when Eve leaves for school this fall, no one would judge you for seeking companionship. They both knew that’s untrue; you can’t change babysitters in Wellesley without being judged. There will be times in life when Eve needs a woman she trusts. Maybe it will be Paige or me, we both hope so, but maybe we’re too intertwined with Maddy. Maybe deep down Eve can’t look at any of us without thinking we failed in some way. I appreciate you don’t need permission but, for what it’s worth, you have it.

Brady read it once and deleted it, but the message served its purpose: the idea that my replacement will inherently be linked to Eve is floating around. Have you ever noticed what happens to your house the moment you consider moving? Suddenly the rooms turn claustrophobic, the kitchen cabinets look outdated, and sharing a bathroom sink with your spouse becomes intolerable. The power of suggestion is real, and I’m becoming a master at leveraging it.

I even got through to Brady’s friend Bobby, who was so loaded when Brady called about tracking down Marie that he completely forgot to follow up with his brother. Eve keeps asking about it and I want Brady to get closure. It was wrong not to show him the letters when I found them. I thought I was saving him distress, but now I see it wasn’t my call to make. I had a bad habit of protecting Brady and Eve from life, which has left them with unreasonable expectations and poor coping skills.

Although Bobby’s brain isn’t in overdrive like Brady’s, his limited attention span made him a challenge. My first attempt was as a reminder: Brady asked a favor. He’d catch two words before being distracted by a billboard or good-looking passerby or the directions on a shampoo bottle. It doesn’t take much to grab Bobby’s eye.

My next tact was simpler: Call your brother. The hope was that Bobby would remember Brady’s request when they connected. I got him to make the call, but Bobby started describing a NASCAR crash and then said, “Christ, I can’t remember why I’m calling.” His brother laughed and asked Bobby to hold on for a sec. I took the break to remind him: Help Brady, I said, again and again. Help Brady.

When his brother returned, Bobby enlisted his assistance and I did the equivalent of a ghost jig. Watch out, Casper, here I come.

Eve

I assess how the journal was left in the drawer so I know how to leave it when I’m done. I do this all the time; I don’t know why it’s making me nervous today. I check the clock again. My father won’t be home for two hours. I need to chill the hell out.

I’ve started drinking tea, like my mother. I like to sit at the kitchen table with a glass of sweetened rooibos and read her heavy script. I pretend she’s in the chair next to mine and we’re in a real conversation where she’s choosing to share her deepest thoughts. Sometimes I swear I hear a voice-over like they do on soap operas when someone leaves a note before ditching town.

June 29, 2013

We had book club (aka wine and cheese club) tonight, and I was shocked to discover how often people sleep with their husbands. I was the one to start the conversation, saying how sad I found it that the heroine only had sex once a month. The conversation snowballed into everyone divulging their averages. Paige was the only one smart enough to remain silent. Christie Anderson claimed she couldn’t possibly keep track. (There were a few giggles at that—she and Todd are believed to be swingers, although I can’t imagine such a thing.) The lowest was Heidi, who said she and Grant were down to once a quarter, but the average of everyone’s average was once or twice a month. Apparently, Brady and I are rabbits at once or twice a week. Who knew?

What started as a lighthearted conversation turned intense. People became insecure over what the number implied about the quality of their marriage. Including me. At one point, Mary asked how on earth Brady and I find the time and I reconsidered how long it takes us. I mean, how do we find twenty minutes, twice a week? It’s not that hard. Is twenty minutes not normal? Maybe Heidi and Grant have three-hour sex marathons once a quarter. Is that normal? It was clear everyone’s relationships had evolved differently. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.