Too Good to Be True(49)

“I mean it, Grace. The Hartford Courant called me a postmodern feminist with the aesthetic appeal of Mapplethorpe and O’ Keeffe on acid.”

“All from a screwed up Christmas ornament,” Margaret interjected.

“The first one was accidental, Margaret. The rest are a celebration of the physiological miracle that is Woman,”

Mom pronounced. “I love what I do, even if you girls are too Puritanical to properly appreciate my art. I have a new career and people admire me. And if it tortures your father, that’s just gravy.”

“Yes,” Margs said. “Why not torture Dad? He’s only given you everything.”

“Well, Margaret, dear, I’d counter that by saying he’s the one who got everything, and you of all people should appreciate my position. I became wallpaper, girls. He was more than happy to come home, be served a martini and a dinner I slaved over for hours in a house that was immaculate with children who were smart, well-behaved and gorgeous, then pop into bed for some rowdy sex.”

Margaret and I recoiled in identical horror.

Mom turned a hard eye on Margaret. “He was completely spoiled, and I was invisible. So if I’m torturing him, Margaret, darling firstborn of my loins, you of all people might say, ‘Well done, Mother.’ Because at least he’s noticing me now, and I didn’t even have to go running to my sister’s house.”

“Youch,” Margaret said. “I’m bleeding, Grace.” Oddly, she was smiling.

“Please stop fighting, you two,” I said. “Mom, we’re very proud of you. You’re, um, a visionary. Really.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mom said, standing up. “Well, I have to run now. I’m giving a talk at the library on my art and inspiration.”

“Adults only, I’m guessing,” Margaret murmured, taking Angus from my lap to make kissing faces at him.

Mom sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Grace, you have cobwebs up there. And don’t shlunch, honey. Walk me to the car, all right?”

I obeyed, leaving Margaret, who was hand-feeding Angus bits of her roll.

“Grace,” my mother said, “who was that man who was here?”

“Callahan?” I asked. She nodded. “My neighbor. Like I told you.”

“Well. Don’t go screwing up a good thing by falling for a manual laborer, dear.”

“God, Mom!” I yelped. “You don’t even know him! He’s very nice.”

“I’m just pointing out that you have a lovely thing going with that nice doctor, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to date Callahan, Mother,” I said tersely. “He’s just some guy Dad hired.”

Ah, shit. There he was, getting into his truck. He heard, of course. Judging from his expression, he heard the “just some guy Dad hired,” not the “very nice” bit.

“Well, fine,” Mom said in a quieter voice. “It’s just that ever since Andrew and you broke up, you’ve been wandering around like a ghost, honey. And it’s nice to see your young man has put some roses back in your cheeks.”

“I thought you were a feminist,” I said.

“I am,” she said.

“Well, you could’ve fooled me! Maybe it’s just that enough time passed and I actually got over him on my own.

Maybe it’s springtime. Maybe I’m just having a really good time at work these days. Did you hear that I’m up for the chairmanship of the department? Maybe I’m just doing fine on my own and it has nothing to do with Wyatt Dunn.”

“Mmm. Well. Whatever,” Mom said. “I have to go, dear. Bye! Don’t shlunch.”

“She’ll be the death of me,” I announced as I went back inside. “If I don’t kill her first, that is.”

Margaret burst into tears.

“God’s nightgown!” I said. “I didn’t mean it! Margs, what’s wrong?”

“My idiot husband!” she sobbed, slashing her hand across her face to wipe away the tears.

“Okay, okay, honey. Settle down.” I handed her a napkin to blow her nose and patted her shoulder as Angus happily licked away her tears. “What’s really going on, Margs?”

She took a shaky breath. “He wants us to have a baby.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh,” I said.

Margaret never wanted kids. Actually, she said that the memory of Natalie hooked up to a respirator was enough to crush any maternal instincts she might’ve had. She always seemed to like kids well enough—gamely holding our cousins’ babies at family gatherings, talking to older kids in a pleasingly adult way. But she also was the first to say she was too selfish to ever be a mother.

“So is this up for discussion?” I asked. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty f**king awful, Grace,” she snapped. “I’m hiding at your house, flirting with your hunky neighbor, not speaking to my husband, and Mom is giving me lectures on marriage! Isn’t it obvious how I feel?”

“No,” I said firmly. “You’re also bawling into my dog’s fur. So spill, honey. I won’t tell anyone.”

She shot me a watery, grateful look. “I feel kind of…betrayed,” she admitted. “Like he’s saying I’m not enough.