If You Only Knew(113)

I want kids. I want a daughter or a son. I want to be a mother. I also want to be a wife, but it doesn’t seem fair to try to find a husband when I’m pretty sure I’ll be in love with Leo for a long, long time.

I Google a few terms, find a phone number and dial it. When a woman picks up the phone and says, “Department of Children and Families,” I say, “Hi. I’m interested in becoming a foster parent. Can you tell me how to get more information?”

Rachel

Jenny stayed with us for ten days. She seems different in her heartbreak over Leo than she was with Owen. With Owen, she was stunned, like an animal clipped by a car.

Now, she seems...gentled. Her edge is gone when she talks to our mom, and though she’s so, so sad, there’s something else, there, too. Kindness. Grace. I’m not sure, exactly.

When she told me about Leo’s wife and baby, I slept in the girls’ room that night, cuddling with each girl in turn, crying into my pillow. It certainly puts my issues with Adam in perspective. If I lost the girls...well. There are some thoughts that are intolerable, to which suicide truly seems like a happy alternative.

Poor Jenny. She wants so much to fix things for everyone—me, Mom, now Leo. But some things are unfixable.

On the marriage front, things are...fine. I’m feeling oddly neutral these days. Adam was furious that I went to see Emmanuelle. I found that rather uninteresting. When he asked why on earth I’d stalk her, I just shrugged and said I wanted to see where she lived, free country and all that. He seemed very concerned that I had “reopened a can of worms.”

“Whatever, Adam,” I said. “I don’t care what you think. It was fun, spying on her.”

“That’s so unlike you,” he said. “It’s sneaky, Rach.” His face was flushed with anger.

“Right. You’re more the sneaky one, aren’t you?” I smiled sweetly at him and left the room.

The girls will take swim classes this summer, and Donna will watch them one day a week so I can have Me Time for exciting things like grocery shopping, a nearly impossible job with three kids grabbing every sugary thing they can find. I can also get the car serviced. Repaint the porch. Clean out the cellar.

I’ve been talking with Kathleen a lot, bonded by our spy mission. She asked if I knew anyone who might house-sit for them while they’re in Nantucket. Jenny volunteered, saying she didn’t want to impose on Adam and me any longer. She still hates Adam, I know. Oddly, I appreciate it, since that luxury is denied to me, now that we’re together again.

I got what I wanted, I guess. I’m here, in this home that I worked so hard to insulate from the problems of the world, our happy little bubble. The girls have their father every night. Adam has a newfound respect for me, the New Rachel, for the glittering, sharp edge that’s emerged like a razor in the grass. When I think about my old self, I feel pity and yearning at the same time. Poor Old Rachel, the sweet, naive idiot. And lucky Old Rachel, so completely happy.

There’s one niggling thought I can’t shake, one that keeps me awake at night.

What would I tell my daughters if they came to me with the news that their husband had a mistress? That he told her, my precious daughter, that sex with the other woman was amazing? Stay and work things out. Oh, and get that STD panel ASAP, darlings! But do stay. Take all that hurt and betrayal and just ball it up and swallow it. Want to bake cookies?

When Owen told my sister he didn’t want to stay married anymore, she was out of the apartment the next day. The next day! At the time, I thought she was being a drama queen, to be honest.

Now I have a very different view. He told her he wasn’t in love with her anymore, and she left. Bing, bang, boom.

The first morning without Jenny, before I can think about it too much, I decide to update my résumé. Then, on a whim, I check Craigslist.

There are three jobs for graphic designers in the COH area. Two are part-time.

I reply to all three. If they want to interview me, we’ll take it from there. It might be nice to be something in addition to Mommy. After all, my own mom always worked, less when we were really small, more when we were older. I always loved picturing her at work at the nursing home, giving her clients a way to pass the hours that was filled with the good smells of paint, the rustle of paper and bright colors.

I loved working at Celery Stalk. I loved having coworkers despite my social anxiety, loved hearing their stories, going out for the occasional lunch.

Maybe I should call Gus and see if they could use me.

On second thought, no. If I’m going to have a job, I want to do it on my own. I want it to be new, where I can make a fresh start.

Later that day, when I’m doing errands, I run into Mrs. Brewster at the post office.

“Rachel, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she says without preamble. “Do you have time for a coffee?”

This is certainly a first. “Sure.”

We go to Starbucks, a place I’m sure Mrs. Brewster has never graced with her presence. I order a silly drink with lots of whipped cream and caramel sauce; she orders a cup of tea. No sugar, no cream, no milk, just lemon. It sums up her personality perfectly.

“What can I do for you?” I ask when we’re sitting.

She wipes off the table with a napkin. “Well. I’ll get right to the point. You and my son have been friends for many years.”