Lady in Waiting: A Novel (14 page)

M
y parents had lived in that house since I was three. They bought it before they even knew my mother was pregnant with Leslie, back when Dad was head custodian at the local hospital and going to school at night to get a degree in mechanical engineering.

The floors were hardwood, and the rooms were spacious and square, just the right shape and size for my mother to reinvent every time a new home fashion made headlines.

The house was built in 1950, with the charm—like all the houses on my parents’ street—that architecturally defined the years of hope and renewal following World War II.

Inside, past its quaint exterior features, my mother had groomed her flair for interior creativity. She had toyed with English country garden quaintness, Scandinavian sparseness, Oriental mystical, and now the current—Moorish kaleidoscope—all of which have had as their foundational furniture my mother’s three white sofas with their square cushions. On that day the walls were a blend of apricot and amber hues. Crimson, mauve, and chocolate brown pillows were scattered about the trio of white couches. Sconces and mirrors framed in brass lined the walls. Ebony-stained pine accent tables and bookcases stood in contrast to the brilliant whiteness of the sofas and window trims. Honey and cedar scented the air. Gossamer curtains hung from the windows, flung easily over wooden blinds that my mother kept from genre to genre for nighttime privacy.

As I stepped inside, past the Moroccan landscape that dominated the living room, I saw that my mother had draped the dining room in swaths of coral fabric. Silver and sea-foam green helium balloons were anchored to chair backs and table legs. Bouquets of purple larkspur, iris, and Bombay dendrobium orchids in tall vases were everywhere. The décor extended past the dining room onto the back patio where the profusion of purple, coral, and sea foam continued.

Leslie leaned into me and whispered that if it weren’t for the balloons, she’d think it was a perfect setup for a rather elegant wake.

My mother had her hands on her hips as she watched me take in the birthday decorations. My father had taken my overnight bag up to my old room.

“Well?” she said. “What does it need?”

“It looks … great, Mom. I don’t think it needs anything else. Really. It looks fabulous,” I told her.

“I don’t know,” she replied, as if pining for a second opinion.

“Hey, Mom. Jane and I are going to do a little shopping and then take in the last half of Todd’s baseball game.” Leslie grabbed my arm.

Mom turned to us, crinkling one eyebrow.

“Can we pick up anything for the party?” Leslie added quickly.

“You’re going shopping? For what? It’s your birthday, Leslie. People will be bringing you presents. What could you need to shop for today?”

“I might want a different blouse to wear to the party tonight. Something that will match the, uh, color scheme.”

“I thought you were wearing white. You told me you were wearing white.”

“Oh, and we’re also going to stop and see David Longmont. Jane has a new ring!” Leslie thrust my hand toward our mother. I tensed without meaning to.

Mom peered down at the ring. “Did Brad get that for you?” She raised her head and our eyes met.

“I bought this for the store.”

“Hmm. Looks kind of fussy. Where’d you find it?”

“Well, actually it was hidden in some books Emma sent me for inventory. I think it might be really old.”

“Her name is in it.” My dad had appeared from the hallway, and my bag was no longer in his hands.

“Her
name
is in it?”

“The name ‘Jane’ is engraved inside.” I took the ring off and handed it to her. She squinted as she tried to read the inscription.

“Isn’t that the coolest thing?” Leslie said.

“I can’t read it. It’s too small. What are all those other words? They look strange.”

“It’s Latin.” I reached for the ring. I didn’t feel like telling her the translation.

“So can we pick up anything for the party while we’re out?” Leslie sensed my unease.

My mother slowly handed the ring back to me. “Why do you think it’s so old?”

I placed the ring back on my right pinkie. “Because I found it hidden inside the binding of a seventeenth-century prayer book.”

“Seventeenth century … Good Lord! Why on earth are you
wearing
it, Jane!” she exclaimed.

“Ice? Napkins? A fifth of gin?” Leslie continued.

Mom turned to my sister. “I am just asking a simple question, Leslie. And, no, I already have everything.”

“She likes knowing where it is.” My dad started to walk past us to go into the kitchen. Leslie reached for him.

“Dad, Todd has the Camry. Can Jane and I have the Volvo?”

He hesitated and then reached in his pocket for the keys and handed them to her. “Park in the shade, if you can.”

Leslie took the keys, and we headed for the front door.

“Just make sure you are back by five, so you can freshen up,” Mom called as she followed us. “And take sunscreen for the kids!”

Mom was just behind us as Leslie opened the front door. She touched me on my elbow.

“Jane, why can’t you stay Sunday night too? Brad’s not even here. And your father and I want to talk to you.”

Leslie mumbled something and stepped out onto the porch and headed to the car in the driveway.

I turned to Mom and delivered the line that came easiest to me. “Let’s just keep this weekend about Leslie, okay? It’s her birthday.”

“It’s not her birthday tomorrow.”

I practiced the next line in my head before I said it. “If it’s Brad you want to talk about, there’s really nothing new I can tell you. He’s still trying out the new job in New Hampshire.”

She frowned. “Something is wrong. We know it. We want to help you. It’s not normal for two married people to live in two different states in two different apartments.”

“It’s not normal for a forty-four-year-old to have to talk about private matters with her parents,” Leslie yelled from across the hood of the car. Then she yanked open the driver’s side door and slid inside.

My mother tossed Leslie an exasperated look and swiveled her head to face me. “We know something is wrong, Jane. Isn’t it about time you admitted it to yourself? You can’t fix something unless you admit it’s broken.”

I searched my brain for one of Dr. Kirtland’s gems, but my mind was suddenly blank of any other practiced response.

“It’s Leslie’s birthday,” I murmured. “And we’re going shopping.” I took a couple of steps toward the car. Mom followed me down the steps.

“You shouldn’t just give up on your marriage, Jane. Think of Connor and what this will do to him. You and Brad should see a professional instead of just throwing in the towel like this. I can’t believe you are just giving up on your marriage.”

Inside the car I saw Leslie shaking her head.
Let’s go
, she mouthed.

I turned toward my mother as a new thought, one that I hadn’t exactly practiced with Dr. Kirtland, crawled out of my throat. “Well, I am glad we at least agree on that. It’s
my
marriage, Mom. Mine. And you’ve really no idea what you are talking about.”

I walked to the car and got in. Leslie started the engine, and I waved to Mom—a gentle salute—as she stood there, staring at me.

We were out of the driveway before Leslie turned to high-five me. But I didn’t raise my hand to meet hers. I wondered instead if Dr. Kirtland would have congratulated me or merely offered me a pistachio.

For my sister’s birthday present, I had chosen an Edwardian
sautoir
necklace with colors that mimicked the odd beauty of gasoline in a wet gutter. I wasn’t a fan of the Edwardian look myself—too much lace and feathers and far too many pearls, bows, and tassels. But I knew Leslie would like it. It had an elongated art deco look that matched her flair for the unconventional.

I had found the necklace at a dealership in Philadelphia on a buying trip I had taken three weeks before Brad told me he was leaving. Brad had that weekend off, and I had invited him to come with me. He had declined, telling me he was going sailing with a bunch of guys from the hospital. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Brad loved to sail. I didn’t. I remember being happy that he was getting out with friends to do
something he really enjoyed. But I’d wondered since then if he declined because he knew then he was planning his escape. He hadn’t interviewed for the New Hampshire job, but he surely knew about it already. And I, likewise, wondered if any conversation with any of those guys on that sailboat began with, “I’m thinking of leaving Jane.”

Leslie was the one who told me later to waste no time trying to imagine what Brad might have said to anyone that day. Chances are he said nothing.

“Brad’s a quiet egghead who contemplates far more than he speaks. He always has been. That’s why you fell for him,” she told me. I’d called her two days after Brad left to tell her what had happened.

“Don’t obsess about why he needs some time away, Jane,” she’d continued. “It’s not attractive, and it’s not why he fell for you.”

“And how would you know why he fell for me?” In daring her to tell me, I realized, perhaps for the first time, that I’d wanted to know that since the day Brad proposed.

She hadn’t even hesitated. “Because you were safe and demure and you had that elegant Audrey Hepburn look going on.”

“Safe?” I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or complimented. “You’re saying he fell in love with me because I was safe?”

“Yes, safe. Of course, safe. He was probably under the same pressure you were to find a good marriage partner before he left college. Where else would a nice-looking nerd like him and a demure woman like you meet a future spouse?”

“I wasn’t under any pressure to marry anybody,” I’d exclaimed, but my face had already warmed with color. My parents told me the day I graduated from high school that college would be the best place for a shy girl like me to find a good husband. Pressure from my parents always felt like care before it felt like anything else.

“Yes, you were,” she said.

“Like you weren’t?” But I’d said it without conviction. My parents’ expectations for Leslie had been as heavy as the ones they had for me. But Leslie didn’t bend to pressure. And it was clear to me as we drove away in my father’s car that she also didn’t rely on my parents or anyone else to validate her choices. Or make them for her.

And she never had.

Leslie decided to reverse our plans and get ice cream first before going to see David Longmont. As we spooned ice cream into our mouths, she congratulated me for reminding our mother the only life she had the right to orchestrate was her own.

I felt no sense of victory. I wanted instead to pull my cell phone out of my purse and call Mom and at least apologize.

“Apologize for what?” Leslie was indignant.

“I think I hurt her feelings.”

“Well, she hurts yours all the time. Don’t you think she needs to know what that’s like from time to time?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t mean to.”

“What she
means
to do is call all the shots for you. You want her to keep doing that, by all means, call her up.”

I poked at my ice cream.

“Look. I’m sorry, Jane. The way she … It just makes me mad. It’s like they are still worried about how we make them look. It’s ridiculous. Drives me crazy.”

I held my spoon in midair as Leslie’s words—words that I’d actually not considered before—fell about my ears. My parents were worried how the future of my marriage would reflect on them.

On their choice for me.

Brad.