The Paper Palace(4)

“It’s bizarre,” I say, going into the kitchen to dump the plates. “Self-esteem. She must have had supportive parents.”

“Well, I find it very unattractive,” Mum says. “Is there orange juice?”

I take a clean glass from the dish drain, go to the fridge. “As a matter of fact,” I call out, “that’s probably the reason Jonas fell in love with her. She must have seemed so exotic to him after the neurotic women he grew up with. Like a peacock in the woods.”

“She’s from Delaware,” my mother says, as if this closes the subject. “No one is from Delaware.”

“Exactly,” I say, handing her a glass of juice. “She’s exotic.” But the truth is, I’ve never been able to look at Gina without thinking: That’s who he chose? That’s what he wanted? I picture Gina: her petite, perfect little bee-sting of a body; curated dark roots growing into peroxide blond. Evidently, stonewashed is back.

My mother yawns again. “Well, you have to admit she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“Was there anyone at dinner you did like?”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, don’t be. Gina is family.”

“Only because you have no choice. She’s married to your best friend. You’ve been oil and water from the day you met.”

“That’s completely untrue. I’ve always liked Gina. We might not have a ton in common, but I respect her. And Jonas loves her.”

“Have it your way,” my mother says with a smug little smile.

“Oh my god.” I may have to kill her.

“Didn’t you once throw a glass of red wine in her face?”

“No, Mum. I did not throw a glass of wine in her face. I tripped at a party and spilled my wine on her.”

“You and Jonas were talking the whole night. What were you talking about?”

“I don’t know. Stuff.”

“He had such a crush on you when you were growing up. I think you broke his heart when you married Peter.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He was practically a kid.”

“Oh, I think it was more than that. Poor creature.” She says this idly as she returns to her book. It’s good she isn’t looking at me because, in this moment, I know my face is transparent.

Out on the pond the water is absolutely still. A fish jumps and, in its wake, leaves a trail of concentric circles. I watch them bleed out around the edges until they are reabsorbed, as if nothing ever happened.





2


8:45 A.M.

When the table is empty, dishes piled by the sink, I wait for my mother to take her cue to get up and go for her morning swim—leave me alone for ten minutes. I need to sort things out. I need clarity. Peter will be awake soon. The kids will be awake. I am greedy for time. But she holds out her coffee cup.

“Be a saint, will you? Just half a cup.”

Her nightgown has ridden up, and from here, I can see everything. My mother believes that wearing underpants to bed is bad for your health. “You need to let yourself air out at night,” she told us when we were little. Anna and I, of course, ignored her. The whole idea seemed embarrassing, dirty. The very thought that she had a vagina repulsed us, and, even worse, that it was out there in the open at night.

“He should leave her,” my mother says.

“Who?”

“Gina. She’s a bore. I almost fell asleep at the table listening to her blather on. She ‘makes’ art. Really? Why would we care?” She yawns before saying, “They don’t have any kids yet—it’s not like it’s even a real marriage. He might as well get out when he can.”

“That’s ridiculous. They’re completely married,” I snap. But even as I’m speaking, I’m thinking: Is she reading my mind?

“I don’t know why you’re getting so defensive, Elle. He’s not your husband.”

“It’s just an idiotic thing to say.” I open the icebox door and slam it, slosh milk into my coffee. ‘No kids make it not a marriage?’ Who are you?”

“I’m entitled to my opinion,” she says in a calm voice designed to wind me up.

“Lots of married couples never have children.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Jesus. Your sister-in-law had a radical mastectomy. Does that make her not a woman?”

My mother gives me a blank stare. “Have you gone mad?” She heaves herself off the sofa. “I’m going to take my swim. You should go back to bed and start your day over.”

I feel like smacking her, but instead I say, “They wanted kids.”

“God knows why.” She lets the screen door slam behind her.





1970. October, New York.


My mother has sent us next door to her lover’s apartment to play with his children while his wife babysits us. They are trying to decide whether or not he should leave his wife. I am older now—not old enough to understand any of this, but old enough to think it odd when I look across the interior courtyard from his apartment into ours and see Mr. Dancy holding my mother in his arms.

In the railroad kitchen, the Dancys’ two-year-old son is in his high chair, playing with Tupperware. Mrs. Dancy stares at a pregnant water bug that has rolled onto its back on the doorjamb between the galley kitchen and the dining room. Tiny little roaches are pouring out of it, quickly disappearing into the cracks of the parquet floor. Anna emerges from a back bedroom with Blythe, the Dancys’ daughter. Anna is crying. Blythe has cut off all of her bangs with a pair of craft scissors. The top of Anna’s forehead is now fringed by a high, uneven crescent of dark brown hair. Blythe’s smug, triumphant smile makes me think of mayonnaise sandwiches. Her mother doesn’t seem to notice anything. She stares at the exploding bug, a tear rolling down her cheek.