I was driving him to Newport on Thursday. It was comfortable--there was a little zing because I'm still attracted to him, and the Like Liking got worse because he didn't care about my disfigured mouth--and we chatted, here and there, about any number of things. He said: "You don't talk about your mom that much. You talk about your dad a lot, but not your mom."
I tried to explain my mom thing, and did it badly; Sherman, during my visit to Portland last week, actually did more than any close friend has ever done to cut through the fog and bullshit to reveal more (or fewer) feelings than there were. But I started thinking, then and now, about my dad, and about my stepmother, and about the relationships therein.
My dad was never single. A serial monogamist, if you will. I wonder at that: he was hard to live with, imperturbably difficult, unapologetic, moody and often cruel. Yet he had met and married my mother--who was obviously dealing with her own psychological issues, but who was as bright as he, and absolutely beautiful. I have pictures of my mother, at my uncle's wedding, drinking a cocktail with my father, and the two of them are so glowing and modern and fresh, they look as if they are in an advertisement for the late sixties-early seventies, the clothes are fantastic and my mother--my mother is beautiful. Her hair is glossy and arranged just-so, in a sweep of over the eye perfectly flatironed (did they have flatirons then?) STYLE; her dress is geometric black-and-white print, sleeveless, short, and it hugs her slender body like a lover. My stepmother was no slouch in the looks department, either, and she is so well-traveled and well-read. Dad had excellent taste in women, after all. But I wonder how they could deal with him. And then I wonder if that's something that affects how they dealt with me--if my resolute singletonhood is threatening to them--was threatening, in my dad's case, because he echoed or underscored my stepmother's occasional cawing about my marital status.
Nowadays, it's not as big of a deal, but it's also still there. My stepmother let it be known (with help from Daisy, who probably, if pressed, would admit that she doesn't care much one way or another, but does not pass up an opportunity to nag me about pretty much anything; quid pro quo and all that) that she thinks I should partner up. "Why?" I asked. "I'm perfectly happy."
"You're alone, you need someone."
"I have lots of friends," I replied.
"You need someone there for you," she said. "You need a partner for financial reasons as well as emotional reasons."
"I can take care of myself," I said, but I was already losing ground. CAN I take care of myself? I'm so in debt and I don't own a house. If I had zero credit card debt and was paying a mortgage, I could have shut her up with that ninja move; but she could sense doubt and zoomed in.
"You need someone! Daisy's going off to college in four years, and you'll be alone. What are you going to do, get more cats?"
I giggled. NO MORE CATS. Then I thought: why was Dad partnered all his life, and I'm alone?
Then I thought: he wasn't partnered all his life. He was separated from my stepmom, because he was so fucking hard to live with (Elaine was annoying at times, but she works really hard to make things smooth and I know it wasn't her fault they split up), for years. They almost filed divorce papers, but I think my father snapped back into reality when he contemplated the thought of Divorce Number Two. After his stroke, he wasn't as strong as he had been, and he turned to her, which helped their relationship (although they might argue that, the truth is that he needed her openly, and even if that bothered her sometimes, it probably relaxed her).
I remembered my Irvington fantasy. I had told it to Olivia, then Jesse, but I'd thought it up, dreamed it up, years ago, while visiting Rachael in her beautiful Irvington house in Portland. I thought: this would have been my life, had I made different choices. I gave myself free rein. I would have gone to Reed, all four years; I would have probably seen a counselor and gotten a jump on mental health and clarity. After school I would've moved to some humid Midwestern city, for my job: I might have been an editor, a journalist, a producer. I'd always have known I'd head back to the West Coast, but I'd happily serve my time gaining work experience so that I could afford to live in the style I wanted to, back in Portland. I'd meet and marry my husband--who resembles my dad, in some ways, my dad crossed with a Judy Blume hero, Jewish, short, hilarious, brilliant. We'd have a couple kids right away, then a third--a girl, finally--after a few years for my poor uterus to recover. Three kids, a station wagon, and he'd climb the ladder to corporate success. We'd move back to Portland before the kids started school, and buy a house--a huge fixer-upper--in Irvington. I'd go back to work part-time. I'd worry about my weight--I would look like a slightly harried and sloppy version of my mother, at my uncle's wedding. My oldest son would be a football player, my second son withdrawn. The girl would be spoiled (I still put Daisy's face on her, even though she doesn't appear in this fantasy--even in my air castles, Daisy still owns most of the real estate). My husband would have an affair with a co-worker, and we'd work through that, but the pain would stay, even though I'd avoid talking about it with everyone.
I thought of this, and the world seemed so real to me. But I wouldn't have Kerry, or Daisy, or my independence, or my classroom, or my dog, or my autonomy...and my shadow husband's betrayal hurt so badly just in the corners of my mind, it almost made up for the lack of the Reed degree, the two kids I didn't have, the three-story full-basement gorgeous-neighborhood equity.
Can any man live up to my Jewish phantom husband (that cheating bastard) or my dad's memory? Am I too much like my dad to really cleave to anyone...because women will bend for that relationship, and we know my dad wouldn't. I am too much like him to bend, and perhaps that is what my stepmother is saying to me. You need to bend. You need to give.
I don't know if I can.
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