Young Jane Young(18)

“I’m not meaning to be. My point is, it may not seem like it but Aviva is lucky this came out now and not fifteen years from now. She still has choices.”

I sneezed.

“Bless you,” she said. “Are you getting a cold?”

“I’m never sick,” I said. “Never.”

I sneezed again.

“But I’m so tired,” I said.

She said she had some chicken matzo ball soup in the fridge. “I made it myself,” she said. “Lie down on my couch.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted my husband’s mistress to give me chicken soup, but I felt so run-down all at once. Her apartment was small but comfortable and clean. I wondered how long she had lived there. I imagined her getting ready to go on dates with my husband. Putting on lipstick for him. Tarting herself up. I imagined her young, waiting for Aviva to grow up so that Mike would divorce me. I felt sad for all of us.

She brought the soup in a pretty blue imitation delft bowl.

I ate the soup, and I immediately began to feel better. My sinuses cleared and my throat felt less raw.

“See,” she said, “it’s not just an old wives’ tale about chicken soup.”

“I hate that phrase,” I said. “Old wives’ tale.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, it’s not you. But it’s so hateful and sexist and ageist when you think about it. ‘Old wives’ tale’ means something that’s untrue or not scientifically proven? ‘Old wives’ tale’ is basically a way of saying ignore everything that dumb old woman says.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she said.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way either. Not until I became an old wife myself.”



Three months later, terrorists crashed two planes into the World Trade Center, and just like that, Avivagate was over. People stopped talking about the scandal. The news cycle moved on.

That winter, Aviva finished college. She received her diploma in a windowless office at the university.

That spring, she applied for jobs. She wanted to continue working in government or politics, but in South Florida, everyone had heard of her and not in a way that was helpful. Anyone who hadn’t heard of her googled her, and that was that. She switched her focus to finding work in PR or marketing, thinking that these employers would be less – I suppose the word is moralistic – than public sector employers. They were not. I will admit, I have more sympathy for her situation now than I did then. At the time, what I wanted was for her to move out, move on, get her life together.

By the end of the summer, she’d given up. I’d always find her floating in our pool, letting her skin bake to a deep brown.

“Aviva,” I said. “Are you even wearing SPF?”

“No, Mom. It’s fine.”

“Aviva, you’ll damage your skin.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“You should care!” I said. “You only get one skin.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

She was working her way through the Harry Potter books. I think there were four out at the time, but I don’t remember. I know that adults read Harry Potter, but I took it as a bad sign. They looked so childish to me, with the drawing of the cartoon boy wizard on the front.

“Aviva,” I said, “you like to read so much. Maybe you should apply to grad school?”

“Oh yeah?” she said. “Who’s going to write me recommendation letters? What school isn’t going to web search me?”

“Well, you could apply to law school. Plenty of people from dubious backgrounds go to law school. I saw a show where a convicted murderer did law school by correspondence so that he could try to get himself acquitted.”

“I’m not a murderer,” she said. “I’m a slut, and you can’t be acquitted of that.”

“You can’t stay in this pool forever.”

“I’m not going to stay in this pool forever. I’m going to float on top of it, and I’m going to finish reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the fourth time, and then I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the fourth time.”

“Aviva,” I said.

“How’s your job search coming, Mom?” Aviva said.

It is awful what I did.

It is awful.

I had never raised a hand to that girl. I walked into the pool, my belted summer-weight cashmere cardigan getting wet and billowing around me. I pulled the floating mat out from under her. Harry Potter fell in the pool and so did Aviva.

“Mom!” she screamed.

“GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN POOL!” I yelled.

Harry Potter sank to the bottom of the pool. She scrambled to get back on the floating mat, and I pulled it out from under her again.

“Mom! Stop being such a bitch!”

I slapped her across the face.

Aviva’s expression was hard, but then her nose turned red and she wept.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was sorry. I tried to put my arms around her. She was resistant at first, but then she let me.

“Sometimes I feel crazy, Mommy,” she said. “He did love me, didn’t he?”