Always the Last to Know(38)
Juliet and I spent the most wonderful year talking about colors and flowers, church readings and dresses, without a single cross word or bridezilla moment. We went to New York to pick out her dress, just the two of us, because that was how she wanted it, and oh, yes, I cried when she came out, smiling . . . beaming, really. It seemed that just yesterday, we’d been playing in her room, or I was wrapping her up in a big towel after her bath, breathing in the smell of her clean skin, making her laugh.
My beautiful little girl.
Sadie was eleven when Juliet and Oliver got married, a tomboy with a sketchbook who said she didn’t want to be a junior bridesmaid, “whatever that was.” It was fine. It was better, really, without a sullen tween sighing dramatically and reading Sylvia Plath as the other bridesmaids laughed and chatted.
The wedding was every mother-of-the-bride’s dream. Every detail was gorgeous, from the cream and apricot flower arrangements to the delicious hazelnut cake. At the reception, Juliet thanked me for being a perfect mother in front of 250 guests, and said she could only hope to be half as good a mom as I was.
When she and Oliver moved into their Chelsea apartment, she asked for my help decorating it, “since you have such great taste, Mom.” There was a second bedroom painted in pale blue, my favorite color, and the bed had feather pillows on it, because Juliet knew I preferred them. My favorite tea was always in their cupboard, and Oliver was always wonderful when I visited for the occasional weekend, making us dinner the first night, then sending us out for some “lovely mum and daughter time.” The theater, or shopping, or best of all, just a long, drawn-out dinner at a quiet restaurant with my favorite person in the world.
Meanwhile, Sadie embraced every cliché of a teenage girl. The weariness, the cynicism, the all-black clothing. She became obsessed with painting, giving minimal effort in her other classes, lecturing me on the importance of art over all else.
“Really?” I said. “Over medicine? Do you think art is more important than, gosh, I don’t know, saving lives?”
“Life isn’t worth living without art,” she said airily. Spoken like someone who’d never been sick.
Honest to Pete. Did she think art would count for more than actual learning? We argued over her mediocre grades, but John always took her side. “As long as you’re doing your best, sweetheart, we don’t care about your marks.” Which was a total lie. Juliet had had the highest GPA of any child from Stoningham in a generation! She got into all eight Ivy League schools! Sadie never even made the honor roll, and it wasn’t because she wasn’t smart. She just didn’t try.
Then, that boyfriend. Did she think I was blind, the way she looked at Noah Pelletier? He was a nice enough young man, but I knew about teenage boys and what they were after. She only rolled her eyes when I talked about unwanted pregnancy, as if she already knew so much more than I did.
That was her attitude about anything. Whatever I said, she treated it as if she was vastly more intelligent than I was. If Juliet thought I was the best mother in the world, how dare Sadie dismiss and avoid me, or worst of all, simply tolerate me? Endure me, as if I was such a burden, such an embarrassment?
Art school. Honestly. It would’ve been one thing if she’d gotten into . . . wherever one goes if one is good enough. Rhode Island School of Design, or Savannah College of Art and Design, with a plan toward historic restoration or something like that. Instead, she went to Pace, a school I’d never heard of, so she could become an artist. Oh, she had talent, not that it meant anything in the cold, hard world.
Then Juliet got pregnant. Again, I was included in every detail. She brought me to a few appointments so I could hear my grandchild’s heartbeat. I came down four days before her due date and pampered her, and when she went into labor, I went to the hospital with them, right into the labor room, so welcomed and included, so needed. I held her hand and told her she was strong and amazing and I loved her so much, and when the baby finally came out, Juliet clutched my hand, crying tears of joy.
A girl.
They named her Brianna. “After you,” Juliet said. “I know you never loved your name, so we took letters from Barbara Marie Johnson and made Brianna. So she’s your namesake in a special way, Mommy.”
Was there ever a more perfect daughter?
And so, as Sadie drifted like a butterfly, living her New York dream of art, poverty and waitressing, my older daughter continued to be my pearl. When Brianna was one, they moved back to Stoningham. Juliet called me several times a day just to talk and invited John and me for dinner a few times each month, and came to our house most Sunday afternoons.
If Sadie had given me anything more than scraps from her heart, I could’ve done better, but the truth is, I got tired of trying. Sadie had her father; I had my Juliet, and Oliver, and Brianna, and a few years later, another beautiful granddaughter, Sloane.
John was a bit disappointing as a grandfather, frankly. He was fine when a child was deposited on his lap, but he wasn’t all that enthusiastic. He still worked a few days a week and played golf (the most unimaginative hobby in the world). Twice a year, he went away for a golf weekend with his friends, and I loved being in the house without him. Sometimes he’d go to the city to see Sadie and take her out to dinner and spend the night in a hotel down there, or at her place, once she got an apartment of her own.
“You never did that when I lived there,” Juliet said, a rare rebuke from our gentle girl.