I Will Do Better, page 9
That afternoon, Terri had a rehearsal but suggested coffee, and though I didn’t drink coffee, she insisted, even volunteering to schlep her instrument all the way downtown.
We were at an upscale spot not all that far from my writing space. A table in back, next to a busboy folding napkins, stacking them onto a catering cart.
Nibbling on a complicated scone, Terri Jay listened to and at the same time seemed to be studying me, tracking something about my shirt. Her napkin went to my water glass, dabbed at my chest bone, its blemish of soy sauce. She smiled, a bit amused.
“A lot of what you’re describing sounds pretty normal,” she said. “To me, anyway.”
“Oh,” I said. “We’re fucked beyond words.”
Her response was nonplussed, her expression staying placid, but in a way that somehow seemed to harden her. A good ten years older than me, her face still retained its classic, almost Grecian bone structure, its pristine beauty. Terri had always known things, always had appeared to be knowing, but she had a different, deeper depth now, the years adding unavoidable gravitas, an integrity that could not be impugned.
“Not—” I waved my napkin. “I mean, Lily’s a handful, but a great handful.” Eye contact. Something in me wanted to get out. Did I even know what I was getting at, how to make myself known? I kept trying. “Sometimes it’s just a lot, you know?”
“It is a lot.” Terri Jay set her hands in front of her. “But Lily’s such a fun little adventurer. I’m sure all kinds of good things are happening.”
Her goodwill was genuine. That smile so kind, almost letting me off the hook. Reminding me of my indebtedness. The neon sign, suspended over me, buzzing, blinking: Step in, save us.
“You were nice to volunteer to come down here,” I said. “Especially seeing that you have to drag that giant instrument.”
Terri Jay reached for my hand. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Everyone’s so nice like that, happy to check in on me. ‘Is Charles washing dishes? Is Charles keeping up the apartment?’”
Her hand stopped. I continued:
“‘Does Lily have clothes. Is Lily still breathing?’”
Keeping eye contact, Terri blinked, doing so in a manner that had specific purpose, a calming blink, a blink designed to clear this slate. She waited a count. “What about your private life? Are you getting out at all?”
“Honest? I get a break.” One at a time my fingers shot out: “Exhaustion. Relief.”
“Charles, I’m sure there are good—”
“Oh, definitely Terri. There are.”
“Charles.”
“What? You want the lowdown on my kamikaze wife fuck sessions down by the West Side Highway?”
That did it: her eyes bulged, her expression twisting, mouth dropping. Now Terri’s hand became a fist; that fist strangled her napkin.
“This is the best I can do, Terri.” I kept going. “Maybe that’s the worst of it, how bad my best ends up being.”
Her eyes trembled at the edges. She did not look away. She said my name again, but the way she spoke this time—“Charles,” soft, defeated—hit me.
“What’s wrong with you?” Terri asked.
And now, looking at the fragile woman across the table, I realized information I already well knew: Terri Jay Cello had tried for years to have kids—with her husband and also through science. All the efforts she’d made, everything I was saying—I saw their reverberations, all playing out across her face.
But I saw something else too.
ALL THAT AFTERNOON, my guardian angel’s expression tightened around my throat. Returning to my writing cubicle wasn’t an option. I needed to walk through my discomfort, and so I wandered the teeming streets of downtown. Hipsters were staring at their phones, busy with their texts, or whatever it is that keeps them from looking out straight in front of them. I almost knocked into a few, felt an urge to mow through them, felt uncertain of my destination, nonetheless eager to reach it.
Terri had been afraid. This was the thing I had to come to terms with. And her fear had not been for me. In no way was her concern for my benefit.
There was someone far more important to be worried about. Finally, I arrived up at the aptly named Books of Wonder, the only store in the city fully devoted to children’s books.
“We’re going to solve this bullshit.”
“Sir?” The clerk glanced around, maybe looking for security.
“Yeah. Could you look up any books for toddlers with these words in the title.”
Waiting, making sure the clerk was ready. “‘Wart.’ ‘Toon.’ ‘Leaf,’ and—right—‘ egg.’”
A tentative nod, typing.
“Maybe she jumbled them,” I said. “Add ‘heart.’ ‘Tin.’”
Polite, uncomfortable seconds passed. I might have called the clerk Galadriel. May have explained that Galadriel was the lady of light who helped Frodo on his quest. As the clerk led me into the aisles, I may or may not have apologized for my cursing. I may or may not have said the weird Tolkien reference was just to lighten the mood. I may have admitted it was a misguided attempt, one bad thing after another, and then thanked the clerk for doing me a solid. I may or may have not explained that I needed something to make my little girl happy, may or may not have let the clerk guide me to the toddler section, then rush the hell away, back to the front counter.
Fun fact: children’s shelves are built for the eye levels of kiddies, not those of parents. I felt things crackling through my knee and lower back, but knelt down and started reading spines.
At bedtime, I rushed Lily into her jammies, let her skimp on the teeth brushing, urging her forward. The moment of truth arrived: from the pile on the floor, I unveiled a specific hardback, its new cover shining forest green.
Lily stopped climbing on my shoulder and neck. She halted all of her tricks to delay bedtime.
Staring at the cartoon image on the cover, she listened to my instructions. Settling now into my side, she half pushed both feet against my arm, using it as leverage. She pulled on my earlobe, enjoying its flexibility.
I flipped to the title page, announced a title.
All pulls ended. Her voice was bright: “The Horton story?”
Hands to her mouth, light emanating her face.
At long last.
Horton Hatches the Egg. The story where the mother takes off and the elephant has to sit on the eggs.
The grin on her face remained a revelation.
On one level, it was true, I just hadn’t known the name of whatever that Elefegg title had been.
There also was another level. This particular book. I’d actually been staying away from it.
The fact is, Lily had already heard Horton Hatches the Egg. The day after Diana’s death. A gentle woman—Diana used to do spa massages with her in SoHo—was trying to help, giving me a break. When I returned with groceries, the woman was ghost white, apologetic. Lily had asked for the book. The woman hadn’t known what to do.
“You tell her NO,” I’d said. “You’re the ADULT.”
I’d thrown out that old copy. But you bet your ass, Lily’d remembered, she had desired this story, trying to sound out its title to her parade of sitters, asking me for her version of the title when she was scared, when she was nervous, the night before school started. Had they read it at Third Street?
I found the starting page. “Okay.”
Lily focused on each new illustration like a general receiving access to enemy plans. She similarly excelled at turning pages at just the right moment.
She inhaled that story. Devoured it.
To her that elephant was the real parent.
Twisting in place beneath the comforter, Lily celebrated that elephant.
And when the mommy bird returned, Lily was every bit as thrilled.
“I want Horton to stay in the nest with the mommy bird.”
Somewhere a plane was taking off. Somewhere a universe was being born.
Lily kept sitting up, those eyes waiting for my answer. Her solution seemed natural. Why was I taking so long to tell her the logical next step?
What could I say?
Whenever I’d thought about the story, the truth is, I’d fixated on the fact that Maizey, the dilettante mommy bird, had chosen to take flight, abandoning her daughter just so she could snort rails with the band. Meanwhile, in real life, Diana. It pissed the shit out of me. And now here we were, Lily explaining it to me again: “The mommy bird and Horton can take care of the baby together.”
I looked at her, felt wonder, felt more than I could even process.
And recognized something. Plugging into it now. Finally.
The schism.
Could I get beyond grimy daily mechanics, stop feeling sorry for myself long enough to just, you know, experience this little girl next to me?
Could I feel the value—in her, in this: taking care of my child, yes, but also all the residuals—emotional strength, stability, warmth—that came with being loved by her?
I’d been able to find the Horton book, yes. But being Horton, in all his Hortonness—was I honestly up to the challenge?
Because it was obvious, this child was desperate.
Like the way she always straightened up and listened close at the beginning of Cinderella, going still for that part where the mom dies, her eyes concentrating on those pages while Ella’s dad remarries.
Lily wanted to hear those stepsisters ragging on Cinderella. Was ravenous to watch those family dynamics play out.
A sense of awe had me: the completeness, the magnitude, of my child’s desire.
Here she was, searching every cloud.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dear Charles,
If I die in the next little while, I am afraid that you will let your darkness take over your personality. I just want you to know that I hope with all my heart that you will fight that eventually and not stay there. You can have a wonderful life without me. You can meet someone else who can be a good partner for you, a good mom to Lily. But that will only work if you open yourself to that possibility. If I die I will be an angel looking after you, putting the right person in your life, trying to help you however I can from the other side. Have faith in me. Have faith in my love for you, my desire for your happiness. We have so much to celebrate, so much love, so many amazing experiences together. If it all ends sooner than we want, that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy again. I will give you a year to mourn, and then I will start working for your joy. I’m more worried about you being OK than Lily. And I’d be less worried about her when I think about you getting back on your feet and moving forward with your life after I’m gone.
Right now you are the best partner anyone could ask for. You bring me so much joy and warmth and nurturing. I want to spend years with you as a healthy person, enjoying our connection and savoring this incredible bond we have, going through hell together as we have been. I want to co-parent with you and share that adventure.
If I don’t get to do that, I don’t want you to do it alone. I encourage you to be open to love. Be open to goodness. You deserve every happiness, and if I can’t be here to help fill your life with joy, then I really want you to find someone almost as wonderful as me who can be a great partner for you. People do this. They move on. You will. Wait a year, and then be back in the world fully. If my version of the universe is right, I will be helping from the other side.
You are such a source of joy and comfort for me. Thank you for everything. I love you.
THE ONSET OF summer, or thereabouts. Two women entered my life, pretty much at the same time. Their joint appearances set into motion events that, let’s say, uh, accelerated a certain unavoidable confrontation. and this mishegas forced me to address an issue that I quite honestly did not want to deal with, questions I had no intention of asking of myself. What, basically, amounted to potential ruin for me and my daughter.
So, yeah. A lot to unpack.
Stealing the words of Julie Andrews: Let’s start at the very beginning.
An invitation, a film screening. Like, once every nine months I got one, usually at random, some tangential connection, a favor, a friend who couldn’t use the tickets. Tonight’s show was an independent film, the adaptation of a legendary novel—exactly the kind of juxtaposition that results in either profound success or rollicking disaster.
On the end of the back row, in a half-empty screening room, I passed time before the lights dimmed, marking up pieces for class. A few seats to my left, a pair of fashiony, extremely hip women were having a great time, entertaining each other: the farthest one shut her eyes and leaned her head back, unleashing a deep laugh, all but howling at the moon. Meanwhile, the nearer one kept talking, rolling her wrist, gesturing with her hand, basking in this ridiculous story she was unfurling. These women were obviously fun, sharp, and easy to stare at, especially when the one nearest me (princess ringlets, oversized shades) dove into her purse. Hearing the emergent ringtone—the chorus of a popular hip-hop song—I was surprised.
“I didn’t know phones could have songs as their ringtones,” I managed.
The close one seemed to have heard me, her body language responding enough for me to continue, my voice going firm. “Me and my inconsistent ballpoint feel out-of-date.”
She took her time, gave me a once-over. “Did you just say your ballpoint’s impotent?”
“It’s tragic. You’d never guess, but this pen? In its heyday, a stallion.”
She almost smirked. Soon enough she was volunteering that she was a stylist, ran down clothes for magazine shoots. I scribbled her name in my homework folder so I wouldn’t forget. Let’s call her Z.
Days later, at the writing space, I mentioned her name to an acquaintance, a woman who freelanced for different fashion magazines and, as such, knew a web of media players. My acquaintance smiled—too wide?—and agreed to check about forwarding contact info. Days passed. Maybe Z said no? Was my acquaintance subtly waving a red flag: Ease away from this one?
I ignored the possibility, asked her again.
Little did I suspect this script was about to complicate: an email. Popping into my inbox. Subject: Been a while.
Let’s call our new entrant A. Publicist from the West Coast. Wiry and caustic, piercing green eyes, crafted Midwestern features, most of which ended in sharp angles. We’d met when my novel had come out. During a few professional conversations, there had been sparring, even a spark, maybe a sense that, in a different life, things might have lined up. In this life, however, I already was married. A also had gotten married, and Lily had been born, and Diana had gotten sick, and, well, we’d fallen out of touch.
A’s marriage was over. She was out east. Staying in Queens.
Wait until you are six months into a relationship before introducing any woman to Lily. One of my friends, the writer who sent me boxes of her child’s clothing and toys, had been through the dating wars. She dictated the guideline with a finality that left no doubt: she knew what she was talking about.
Of course, being a needy boy-man, I could not listen. The journalist came over one night. Slight, ponytailed, black jeans, thrift store tee. That cute shrewd girl you might see running a merch table for an indie band.
Lily, long accustomed to visitors, easily accepted A, welcoming her to the little white worktable. “Do you want to make princesses,” she asked.
A’s expertise was in massaging reporters and their questions, keeping backstage feuds out of the public. Her eyes darted around the living room. “Sure,” she answered. Lowering herself to the carpet, she positioned herself in a cross-legged, yogic stance, and picked up the child scissors. “Um, I don’t know how to operate these. Do I need a license?”
Lily didn’t blanch. A finger, its pads stained by orange marker, pointed. “You have to follow the lines when you cut.”
A’s work on the princesses was halting, self-conscious. Even in her little yoga pose, her body remained Republican stiff. She kept looking back toward me, wanting some arts-and-crafts relief, hoping to catch up with everything that occurred with my family, attempting, here and there, to volunteer information about the final throes of her own union. Lily cut off her questions, kept her on point.
Once I got Lily down for the night, I asked, “Do you want to stay and talk?”
At some point, the couch happened to fold out.
Breaking away from our kisses, A nodded toward the hallway. “You sure?”
“All the struggle it takes to get her asleep?” I answered. “When she’s down, she is down.”
A remained skittish. We maintained eye contact with each other. The otherwise silence, the rickety futon, the vibe of clandestine teenagers not wanting to be caught—all became their own turn-ons. Her pupils went large; my hand, covering her mouth, was answered by biting teeth.
But I’d also started seeing Z, the woman with the ringlets, from the screening. It took a bit but my friend did forward her email address, which led to our first meeting, at a dog park, Z and me sitting together while her oversized pug sunned himself atop our picnic table. A second date followed: Sheepshead Bay, old-school French-dip sandwiches. For each outing, she flashed bling, wore different, noticeably oversized eyewear. What I remember from those afternoons are her running monologues, her resonant and brackish laughter, arriving at the end of half-hour sentences that twisted around me. I was constantly disentangling myself, trying to get straight on just how she’d hustled up through the ranks of stylists, which celebrity may have been connected to which embarrassing anecdote, bar owners and financiers she’d dated, the big-deal model she no longer spoke with. I was intrigued but also confused, almost a front-row spectator.
