We talk carefully and politely, like strangers making small talk at a party.
It’s Saturday. Caroline’s here, but both kids are gone for the day-a rare occurrence in our household. I’m trying not to feel panicked, but I am. In their absence, the day looms without structure. I usually shuttle Peter to piano and soccer and William takes Zoe to volleyball games or Goodwill (where she acquires most of her clothes). I try not to think about the fact that we often operate like roommates, and most of the time roommates is okay, a bit lonely, but comfortable. But a day alone together means stepping out of our parent roles and reverting back to husband and wife, which makes me feel pressured. Kind of like Cialis without the Cialis.
I remember that when the kids were young, an acquaintance confided in me how bereft she and her husband were that their son was leaving for college. I thoughtlessly said to her, “Well, isn’t that the point? He’s launched. Shouldn’t you be happy?” I came home and told William, and the two of us were flummoxed. Deep in the trenches of early parenthood, either one of us would have done anything to have an afternoon to ourselves. We looked forward to our kids becoming independent. Imagine being so attached to your children that you would feel lost when they left, we said to each other. A decade later, I’m just beginning to understand.
“Are the Barbedians coming tonight?” asks William.
“I don’t think so. Didn’t they say they had Giants tickets?”
“Too bad, I like Bobby,” says William.
“Meaning you don’t like Linda?”
William shrugs. “She’s
“Well, she’s your friend, too,” I say, irritated that he’s trying to pawn Linda off on me.
Nedra and I met Linda when our kids attended the same preschool. Our three families have been doing a monthly potluck for years. All the kids used to come to the potluck but as they got older, one by one they began to drop out, and now it’s usually just the adults (and occasionally Peter) who show up. Without the children as a buffer the dynamics of the potluck have changed, by which I mean it’s becoming more and more clear we don’t have much in common with Linda anymore. Everybody loves Bobby, however.
William sighs.
“Listen, don’t feel like you have to hang out with me while I do my errands. Probably the last thing you want to do is traipse around some plant nursery with me.”
“I don’t mind,” says William, looking irritated.
“Really?-well, okay. Should we ask Caroline if she wants to come?”
“Why would we ask Caroline?”
“Well, I just thought-well, maybe if you got bored, the two of you could run laps around Home Depot or something.”
After my one failed run with Caroline, William began running with her. It was a rough beginning. He was out of shape, and those first couple of runs were tough. But now they ran five miles a few mornings a week and afterward whipped up spirulina smoothies, which Caroline tried to foist upon me with promises of fewer colds and better bowel function.
“Very funny. What’s wrong with just the two of us?” William asks.
What’s wrong with “just the two of us” is that these days when we’re together, it might as well be “just one of us.” I’m the one who starts all the conversations, who brings him up to date on what’s happening with the children and the house and finances, and who asks him about what’s going on in his life. He rarely reciprocates, and he never voluntarily offers up any information about himself.
“Nothing-of course not. The two of us is great. We can do whatever we want. What fun!” I say, defaulting to my overly enthusiastic Mary Poppins/Miss Truly Scrumptious voice.
I long for a richer life with him. I know it’s possible. People out there, like Nedra and Kate, are living richer lives. Couples are making moussaka together while the Oscar Peterson channel plays on Pandora. They’re shopping at farmers’ markets. Of course they’re shopping very slowly (slowness seems to be a key element in living a rich life), visiting all the stalls, sampling stone fruit, sniffing herbs, knowing their lemongrass from their lemon balm, sitting on a stoop and eating vegan scones. I don’t mean rich in the sense of money. I mean rich in the ability to feel things as they’re happening, to not constantly be thinking of the next thing.
“Hey, Alice.” Caroline walks into the kitchen, waving a book.
So far Caroline’s had no luck finding a job. She’s had lots of interviews (there’s no shortage of tech startups in the Bay Area) but few callbacks. I know she’s anxious, but I told her not to worry; she could stay with us until she was employed and had banked enough money to pay the security deposit on an apartment. Having Caroline around is not a burden. Besides being great company, she’s the most helpful houseguest we’ve ever had. I’ll really miss her when she goes.
“Look what I found.
She hands the book to me and I let out a little gasp. I haven’t seen this book in years. “This used to be my bible,” I say.
“It’s
Caroline often uses old-fashioned terms like
1. Have an idea before you start writing.
2. Everything is potential material: the backyard barbecue, a trip to the grocery store, a dinner party. The best characters are frequently modeled after the ones you live with.
I shut the book and press it to my chest. Just holding it fills me with hope.
“
That William has no memory of the book and how important it was to me (even though it sat on my bedside table for five years or so) is not a surprise.
I text William in my mind.
Then I say to Caroline, “We’re off to do errands. Want to come?”
37
FESTIVE MOROCCAN POTLUCK AT NEDRA’S HOUSE
7:30: Nedra’s kitchen
Me: Hello, Rachel! Where’s Ross? Here’s the lamb.
Nedra (
