Eliza Starts a Rumor(11)
When there was a fight or a disagreement about ideas, as there was today with the tampon post, it was like watching a car crash on the side of the highway. Everyone slowed down to take a look or to comment. There was no way the majority of these women would say in person what they wrote online. She’d bet the most nail-bitten fingers typed the most venomous comments.
Olivia reminded herself to think twice before posting anything. The tampon post comments were relentless:
Teach your daughter to choose what she does with her own body starting now.
Is it your vagina or your daughter’s?
Please tell me you’re not worried about penetration. Tampons do not affect virginity. Sex does.
My mother taught me tampons were evil. I still can’t look at them. Don’t be like my mother.
And then the bohemian comment from a woman who made Olivia chuckle just last week when she asked: “Anyone know where to buy hydroponic, vertically farmed celery?” This time she wrote:
Don’t let her plug her delicate organ with bleached-out fibers of oppression.
Olivia laughed out loud, which stirred Spencer.
“Olivia, what are you doing? Turn off your phone.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to make my eyes tired.”
“Well, the phone does the opposite. I have an early meeting with my dad tomorrow to discuss transitioning me to CEO. Come on.”
Spencer was always threatening a big meeting with his father to discuss his becoming CEO. In Olivia’s opinion, his father’s retirement was anything but imminent. But still, out of respect, she knew she should turn off her phone and try to sleep. She scrolled down a little farther.
Anonymous: I just moved here from the city with hopes of starting over after an affair that my husband knows nothing about. The man I was having the affair with followed me here and keeps showing up at my door. Today I pretended I wasn’t home. He was banging so hard it scared me. I’ve told him I want to end things, but he won’t have it. I know it’s wrong to cheat. That’s why I want to break it off and start fresh. Please only comment with constructive advice.
“Wow,” Olivia said.
“What are you reading?” He flipped over toward her.
“That local bulletin board where I got the jogging stroller.”
“Let me guess. Is it about the KonMari method? Did someone throw out their husband because he wasn’t sparking joy?”
Olivia rolled her eyes as he continued what felt like his first foray into dad jokes.
“Did a shipment of cauliflower gnocchi arrive at Trader Joe’s? Should I warm up the car?”
He propped himself up on the pillow thinking he was quite funny. Olivia defended her enthusiastic “Wow.”
“Actually, it’s pretty scandalous stuff.”
“I’m sure,” he grunted.
“It is! This woman just moved here to get away from a bad affair, and the guy followed her. Page Six has nothing on this town!”
Spencer sat up and flicked on the light.
“Let me see that.” He grabbed her phone and read. He seemed to read it three times. Olivia noticed.
“One hundred sixty-one comments. I told you, it’s pretty scandalous,” she said victoriously.
“Well, now that you woke me, I have to go to the bathroom.” He held his stomach, indicating it may be a while.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m taking your bulletin board for reading material.”
“Ha! I told you, I see a Real Housewives of Hudson Valley spin-off!” she yelled out, to no reply. She waited to see if Spencer was OK, but eventually she fell asleep. In the morning, he was already gone.
CHAPTER 8
Eliza
Eliza set her alarm for 6:00 a.m. She had much to prepare for the day’s guests. She loved a full house, especially when it included the twins’ friends. She had missed the comings and goings of their posse since they’d been in college—the cheerful shouting, the stomping around overhead, and the whirlwind left in their wake. In contrast to her own childhood home, Eliza always tried to make hers the house that the kids flocked to. She mostly accomplished this with food.
Eliza’s Jewish grandmother was a first-generation American, and though not a particularly religious woman, she was deeply connected to her Judaism through food. The kitchen was her temple. And while Eliza’s own mother rebelled against it, Eliza was quite happy to become a member of that congregation.
Eliza’s grandma, or Bubbie as she affectionately called her, would spend hours in the kitchen replicating the recipes for stuffed cabbage or kreplach or kugel that had been passed down by her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother before her. While Eliza’s mother had no interest in cooking, Eliza, as her Bubbie would say, took to the kitchen like nobody’s business. Together the two of them formed a bond linking generations of Jews, not through the Talmud but through brisket. It bothered Eliza’s mother to no end, the way it does when you introduce two of your friends and suddenly they’re meeting for coffee without you.
Eliza headed to the kitchen to preheat the oven, then made a beeline for her desk. By the time they were all done catching up the night before, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. It was wonderful to have her children home. Being a whole family again made her feel more like a whole person again. The goings-on of the bulletin board seemed trivial in comparison. But this morning, not so much. As she turned on her computer, she crossed her fingers, superstitiously hoping her scandalous post had been a success.