Emily & Einstein (37 page)

At mile fifteen she looked directly into the camera and waved. “Hi, Einstein!”

I felt certain the masses loved this story. The woman who lost her husband, got into shape, and realized
his
dream. Even I was moved.

But just past mile twenty, everything changed. Mile twenty is the proverbial wall for many runners, that place where one hits a limit. But I could tell it hit Emily especially hard.

The question at mile twenty is: Can you run through your limit? Can you keep going? Can you reach deeper and find a reservoir of strength you didn’t know you had?

I could see from the expression on my wife’s face that she had hit the wall and when she dug deep she found nothing to help her.

“Come on, Emily!” I found myself barking at the screen.

But she didn’t hear. She sat on the curb hunched over, her forearms on her knees, her head in her hands. I could see that her body was cramping, her energy drained, her blood chemistry off.

I was surprised when not even a part of me was happy. I felt a deep need to help, but I didn’t know how. Adrenaline got me up off the floor and I willed whatever energy I had left to her, but she didn’t move off the curb.

The reporter who had been interviewing her off and on along the course appeared and hunched down next to her.
“How’re you hangin’, Emily?”

I growled at the screen. “Not great, you moron!”

I saw then that Emily had tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I thought I could do it. I thought if I could, if I could do this for Sandy and Einstein, then I could move on. Not just survive but move on.”
She glanced up, blinked, seeming to realize the camera was on her.
“Sorry,”
she whispered.

“You can do it!” I barked. “Get up! Walk if you have to! Just get up!”

But pain darkened her blue eyes. During my own training I had never gotten to the point of being able to run as far as she had now, but I had read that if you settled down, if you relaxed your mind, most of the time you could run through the pain and find your way out the other side. Though there was no way I could share that with her now.

Then it hit me. I could share it with her. I could help my wife.

I went very still, closing my eyes and concentrating. I didn’t yell this time, didn’t bellow.

“Old man,” I practically whispered, “help her. Please.”

But nothing happened. The energy around me stayed the same.

I drew a deep breath, refusing to give up. “Please, help her.”

I kept my eyes closed, silently praying. Then I felt my world shift. I opened my eyes and watched the television screen in a sort of knowing surprise as Emily’s body stirred. She sat up straighter, tears streaking her face, her brow creased as if she were confused.

“Come on, Emily, you can do this,” I whispered.

Other runners ran past the camera, people calling out to her, cheering her on. But still she sat there lost to her misery.

Then I watched as the old man walked up and sat down next to her on the curb.

emily

Lillian Barlow was a mystery to many, including myself. It wasn’t until I dug below the surface that I learned the truth. My mother hadn’t stayed home to raise her girls because she suddenly wanted to bake cupcakes. She stopped working because she was pushed out of a movement that believed her wildness overshadowed the good she had done. What had been amusing antics in a carefree young woman became unattractive carelessness in someone who was old enough to know better. And when she put on a suit and carried a briefcase, no one believed that a brash woman who had been as free with her body as she was with her opinions could change her ways. Lillian Barlow had believed she was held in high regard, only to learn she was infamous instead of famous, the good she had done negated. That, as it turned out, proved to be the one thing she couldn’t survive.

—
EXCERPT FROM
My Mother’s Daughter

chapter thirty-nine

I had never felt such pain in my life. But it was more than physical. After finishing Jordan’s book, during the time I trained to run the race, I believed I had reconnected with my old self. Running through Central Park, I had thought about my job, about life, happiness. I was sure I would be able to move on completely once I crossed the finish line. But sitting on the curb I felt as if my physical inability to keep going was symbolic of something greater.

Perhaps because I was exhausted, my defenses down, I thought of my mother. In the beginning, I believed I understood her motivation. But I was wrong. If I hadn’t written my sister’s book I’m not sure I ever would have understood that Lillian Barlow had dreams she hadn’t been able to realize. She founded an organization that didn’t find prominence until she was pushed out the door—partly because she wanted the world to be different from what it was, partly because there was a restlessness inside her that men, children, even causes couldn’t ease. My mother had spent more time frustrated with the world for being unfair than she’d spent being content that she was doing what she could to change it.

A futile way to live.

What was it in some people that made them, or allowed them, to go on, to endure under extreme circumstances, when others burned up or gave in? Why had I picked myself up again and again as a child, but now since Sandy’s death, I couldn’t truly pull myself back together? And even if I wasn’t able to finish the race, why did it matter so much?

My circling thoughts cut off or eased, and I felt someone sit down next to me.

You have strength.

A sense of warmth surrounded me, and thinking a volunteer was there to help, I lifted my head. But no one was there other than the thousands of other runners streaming by.

When you didn’t think you’d ever make it to the top of the hill, you did. You didn’t think you’d ever return to the beach after nearly drowning, but the very next morning you went back.

Air rushed out of my lungs as my eyes narrowed in confusion.

Or even your attempts to save your marriage rather than give up on it. Every time you’ve hit a bump, you picked yourself up and persevered.

I listened to the words, or sensed them. I wasn’t sure.

The real question isn’t, why aren’t you strong enough? It’s, why do you keep doubting that you already are?

I tried to make sense of what was happening. I tried to make sense of the words.

It’s because you want life to be something that it isn’t.

Just like my mother. Fighting battles she couldn’t win, like Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

I dropped my head into my hands, recognizing the truth regardless of where it came from. I had wanted a mother who matched the other mothers at my school. I had wanted a father and a white picket fence even though my mother didn’t know who my father was and Manhattan didn’t have white picket anything, much less fences. I wanted Jordan to be sweet and responsible instead of rebellious and wild. And I had held on to Sandy, had blinded myself to reality, because I wanted to be his passion. I had dreamed of a man who would love me forever. I had wanted my storybook world so badly that I hadn’t been able to see the truth. Sure, I was angry at Victoria and Tatiana and even myself, but I hadn’t wanted to admit that I was angry at my mother, angry at Sandy, not because they were selfish or cheated on me, but because neither of them had loved me enough to complete the dream I had in my head. Whether I finished the marathon or not wasn’t going to change any of that.

Tatiana had asked me what I was hiding, just as my mother had asked. Sitting on the curb, I realized I hadn’t been hiding some truth from others. I had been hiding the truth from myself—that my perfectly constructed world was really just a house of cards. My lists or even my plans couldn’t save me. Only by accepting the messy complications of life could I really live.

I felt the warmth on my shoulders, as if someone held me tight, and I started to cry, really cry. Twenty miles into a twenty-six-point-two-mile race, I cried for my mother, cried for Sandy, cried for the little girl who had wasted thirty-two years wishing for something that didn’t exist.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but I began to feel a shift, the anger and sadness dissolving, replaced with the determination that I now recognized had gotten me through the difficult times in my life. I could do this. I could finish this race, for my mother, for Sandy, and most importantly, I could finish it for me.

A sense of being lifted came over me and I stood. Energy flooded my muscles and I shook out my legs. When I started to run again, the crowds that lined the road erupted in a cheer.

I emptied my mind, feeling my body, the rest of the world fading away. At first I barely moved. But as I made my way through the remainder of the Bronx, then ran over the final bridge into Manhattan, my pace picked up. When I hit Fifth Avenue, excitement carried me along, and with the turn into Central Park on the east side, I felt as if I were floating.

The trees were magnificent; the leaves changing colors. I was buoyant as I made my way back out of the park, then headed west on Central Park South, turning back into the park at Columbus Circle for the final stretch. The roar of the crowd that lined the way was deafening, the energy of the people wrapped in coats and mufflers carrying the runners along. And when I passed through the finish line I was euphoric, like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

The reporter hurried over to me. “You did it!” he cheered, hugging me. “You did it!”

I laughed, exhaustion and euphoria dancing through me. I had done it; I had gone the distance in more ways than he realized.

He stepped back to make room as the cameraman hurried up to us. When the camera started rolling, the reporter asked about the race, my fears, falling apart and pulling it back together again. Then he straightened and became very formal. “We understand that you have purchased a memorial plaque for one of the park benches along the finish line,” he reported.

“Oh, yes!” In the stress of the run, I had forgotten about how I had used the last of Sandy’s money from the joint bank account.

The reporter led me through the crush of runners and volunteers, camera following, and pointed to the small plaque attached to the green bench, the brushed stainless steel catching the sun.

“In memory of Alexander “Sandy” Portman, beloved husband, son, and friend. He will always be missed,”
he read.

I had made sure
My Mother’s Daughter
was written to honor my mother, my way to ensure that the world would always remember that Lillian Barlow had been more than brashness and affairs. The marathon and the park bench along the race’s finish line was my way to make sure that Sandy was never forgotten either.

I couldn’t say why, but I turned and looked directly into the camera. “I love you, Sandy. You will always be remembered. Maybe now we can both find peace.”

einstein

chapter forty

I sat in front of the television long after my wife dedicated the bench in my honor, trying to understand the change I felt deep in what I knew must be my soul. As the minutes ticked by everything came clear. I hadn’t simply wanted to punish Emily for living the life I had dreamed of, or even succeeding at her own. I had wanted to punish her for going for what she wanted regardless of the cost to herself. I had punished her first by getting her to give up her rent-controlled apartment and not deeding her mine, then by making her pay for things she couldn’t afford—as if somehow she would prove to be just as ordinary as I was and break under the weight. I had been shallow, childish, cavalier with her security. With her heart. I had squandered everything Emily had been willing to give me.

More than that, I had been jealous of the faith she had in something beyond what I had the ability to see.

Watching Emily sit on that curb in the Bronx, I realized that even though she was afraid she couldn’t go any farther, she had gotten to that point. The truth was, by watching Emily live her life day after day, I had been forced to see that even as a man I had always given up at the slightest discomfort. As Sandy Portman, if I hadn’t broken my leg, I would have given up long before I reached the starting line of the marathon. When the training had gotten too hard to keep going, I would have replaced that dream with another.

That, I realized, had been my way. It didn’t matter what it was—art, rowing, running, even following in my father’s footsteps at the firm—I had wanted it to be easy. And when it wasn’t, I quit.

Sitting there staring at the screen, I wondered if I wouldn’t have been better served if this God of hers had given me perseverance and drive along with the dreams … or not given me any dreams at all.

It’s always someone else’s fault, not mine.

I shut my eyes tightly at the thought and I began to understand that that too had been my weakness, just as the old man had tried to point out. I always found a way to blame everyone for my shortcomings. I wanted everything handed to me on a silver platter, and when I reached a limit, I pulled back. In life. In work. In running. With Emily when I was a man. And with Emily while I was a dog.

I managed to get myself from in front of the television to the gallery so I would be there when Emily got home. By the time she arrived, every inch of me hurt. This was beyond the sense of losing myself. Both my body and my mind ached.

She walked in, one of the shiny, paper-thin Mylar blankets they hand out at the end of the race wrapped around her shoulders, her hair a mess, her running clothes disheveled from dried sweat, a finisher’s medal around her neck. She had never looked more beautiful.

“Did you see me on TV?” she asked, that smile of hers lighting her face. “I couldn’t believe it when Hedda called to tell me she had arranged for the interview.”

“Yes!” I gave one staccato bark.

“Did you see the dedication to Sandy?”

“Yes!”

After those simple, exuberant barks, whatever energy I’d had left drained out of me and I realized with a start that it was time.