Four of a Kind (42 page)

“I’m sure you felt unloved and unwanted,” he said. “Probably because I fell out of love with you, and stopped wanting you. I’m sorry. I know that sounds awful. I’m sure it was tied up with how bad I felt about myself. If it’s any consolation, falling out of love was very painful for me. I had, have, a lot of guilt.”

So there it was. Her worst fears about Tim’s rejection were right on the money.

“You felt nothing for me,” she said. “Not even enough to just use each other? For relief?”

He said, “It would have been bad, like the last time.” He meant the empty, angry sex they’d had a few weeks ago, which had been soul killing and dehumanizing.

If Tim had told Alicia the sad ugly truth a year ago, she’d have had a complete breakdown. But now? It hurt, to be sure. She’d been insulted and rejected. But Alicia was also free. Tim had completely severed their emotional connection.

“For what it’s worth, Tim, I never stopped loving you and wanting you,” she said, tears coming against her will. “At least, not until the very end.”

He nodded, seemed to tear up a bit. “We’ll have to tell Joe,” said Tim. “Thank God he’s on Zoloft already or we’d have to put him on it.”

“Up the dosage,” she joked. Not funny. “He’s going to miss you badly. You can video chat all the time. And I’ll bring him to LA for vacations.”

“He’s old enough to fly by himself,” said Tim.

“Oh no, he’s not,” said Alicia. And then backpedaling rapidly, she said, “We’ll figure it out.”

“People do this,” he said. “Get divorced.”

“We’re making a smart fold,” said Alicia. “Not to belabor the poker metaphor, but it has been the theme of the year.”

Tim said, “We should play tonight. For M&M’s.”

“Deal,” said Alicia.

Bess had always hated waiting for her period, eagerly counted days until it arrived. But for the last few months, she’d dreaded its arrival. Not since
The Shining
or Tim Burton’s
Sweeney Todd
had Bess seen so much blood. Convinced she had a gynecological cancer, she paid a visit to Dr. Able. He ordered tests and found nothing amiss, thank God. His theory? Bess, 41, was perimenopausal. Symptoms—heavy periods, light periods, the occasional hot flash, the occasional night sweats—would come and go for the next ten-plus years, until actual menopause.

Bess was supposed to have gotten her period yesterday. Instead, she experienced her first hot flash. The onset was confusing. She was at lunch at the Heights Cafe, with Anita Turnbull, who refused to confirm or deny that she and Tim Fandine had ever done more than flirt (a moot point, but Alicia asked Bess to crack the nut anyway, just out of curiosity). Bess took a bite of salad, and her cheeks felt hot suddenly.
Then hotter. Flaming red, out of nowhere. She took off her summer-weight cardigan. Fanned her face with her napkin. Then Bess took an ice cube out of her glass of lemonade, and held it against her cheek. Anita asked if she was all right, fake-concerned. Bess excused herself to the bathroom.

Her whole head felt like it was on fire. She bent over the sink in the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and chest. The mirror was hung stupidly high, and Bess had to stand on her tippy toes to see how much water splashed on her blouse. Quite a bit. After contemplating the hand dryer, and how she could position herself under it, Bess said, out loud, “Screw it.”

Why make herself even hotter for appearance’s sake? Why do anything for appearance’s sake? Hadn’t the time come for Bess to get through a day without fear of disapproval, especially from someone she didn’t particularly care about? And, if the time hadn’t yet come, when would it?

She exited the bathroom and sat back down to lunch. Anita squinted at Bess’s wet blouse, but she didn’t ask for an explanation, and Bess didn’t offer one.

Anita started talking. “I was in the middle of telling you a funny story about something Austin said. He was going through my closet, and found a pair of old Jimmy Choos, which I haven’t worn once since I got married. These are serious f-me stilettos, totally impractical for walking, you know what I mean? Anyway, Austin said, ‘Are these
shoes
?’ So cute, right? I said, ‘Mommy hasn’t worn those since I was single and had to look good.’ He nodded, and that was that. Or so I thought. Later that week, at school, the history teacher was describing how families disintegrated during the Great Depression. So Mr. Unger asked the class to give a reason that so many fathers abandoned their wives and children during the hard times. Austin raised his hand and said, ‘The wives stopped wearing Jimmy Choos.’ Can you believe it! Isn’t that so funny? I nearly died laughing when Mr. Unger told me.”

How many stories like this had Bess laughed at over the years? Always delivered to her by other nonworking moms, the stories seemed to reinforce three things: (1) how rich they were, (2) how hot they were, and (3) how witty/smart/sophisticated their kids were. Too many moms (
including me?
wondered Bess) had nothing to offer but “cute” stories about their kids that always reflected favorably on themselves.

Bess said, “That is so funny. My daughter, Amy? She’s been a real spitfire this year, too. She gained twenty pounds, started wearing ripped-up clothing, stopped washing her hair, painted her fingernails black—and not Chanel Vamp black, either. She decided she’s a lesbian. At sixteen, so precocious. She had a girlfriend and everything. They broke up. But they must’ve had teenage lesbian sex. Isn’t that
so
funny? I almost died laughing when my daughter told me how much she hates me and doesn’t respect me. And what’s the absolute funniest part? My mother tells me the same
exact
things! They have a lot in common. Except I don’t think my mom’s a lesbian. She might be. My mom and daughter could go cruising together for dates. Now, that would be
hilarious
.”

Bess started breathing rapidly.
Wow, that speech was a lung buster
, she thought.

“Are you okay?” asked Anita, glancing left and right, to make sure Bess’s rant hadn’t been overheard.
If Anita were so concerned about me
, thought Bess,
wouldn’t she be looking at me?

“I have to go,” said Bess. “I don’t feel very well.”

“What is it?” asked Anita. “Oh, no! Has the cancer come back?”

Christ. “I didn’t have cancer,” said Bess. “I had a benign cyst.”

“That’s right,” said Anita. “You hear ‘lump,’ immediately think ‘cancer,’ and the idea sticks.”

“Nope, no cancer,” said Bess. “I’ll live to be PA president next year. You’ll just have to wait awhile longer to take over.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Bess. “I used an ironic tone. You didn’t
hear it because we are not in tune. We have nothing in common besides our kids. And, frankly, our kids aren’t friends either. We force them together, but they don’t really like each other. Neither do we. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

That hot flash had lit a lightbulb in Bess’s brain. It shined on a blinding truth. She did not have time—measured in minutes, hours, or years left on earth—to spend with people she didn’t truly love or to do things she didn’t enjoy. That included having lunch with Anita Turnbull.

No slam to Anita. The woman was, for the most part, harmless. But harmless just wasn’t good enough for Bess. She needed more.

She dropped two twenties on the table, smiled, apologized again to Anita, and left the restaurant.

Bess walked home at a relaxed pace. She was in no hurry. Tomorrow morning, Bess was expected to surrender her daughter to her mother’s clutches for a month. Although Amy claimed to “hate the beach,” she said she wanted to go to East Hampton. As Simone told Bess, it was two against one.

Despite Amy’s repeated whine, “I can’t
wait
to get out of here!” Bess had to nag her to pack. Their last night together had been tense and uncomforable. At dinner—the three boys, Amy, Borden, and Bess—conversation focused on sleepaway camp and summer movies. Amy barely spoke, and when they got home, she closed herself in her room as always.

Borden promised Bess that time apart would be good for them. Bess was almost convinced. Around six a.m., she woke up in a puddle of her own sweat, literally dripping wet, the sheets soaked. She’d been having a dream about the East Hampton house’s pool. Her mother and daughter were floating in it, and then Bess threw herself in with them.

Bess got out of bed, rinsed off, and emerged pink, clean, and alive with a new sense of purpose. A plan had come to her—in the shower, where so many great ideas were born. She quickly put on shorts and
a T-shirt, and started typing on the computer. She had a lot of arrangements to make. By nine o’clock, she’s sorted through the logistics. As quietly as she could, she made a few phone calls.

She woke Amy around ten to get ready. They were supposed to arrive at Simone’s penthouse on Park Avenue by noon.

Leaving the boys in Borden’s care, Bess hustled Amy out of the townhouse and into the BMW. She locked the car doors, and then mother and daughter were off. Bess had been counting on Amy’s hostile silence and she wasn’t disappointed. Even better, Amy closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep for the drive.

Thirty minutes later, they arrived.

“What the hell?” asked Amy when she opened her eyes and saw where they were.

“Change in plans,” said Bess.

“LaGuardia Airport? Am I flying to East Hampton?”

Bess almost spat, “That’s just stupid!” but didn’t. She parked in the hourly lot, got Amy’s duffel bag out of the trunk, and started carrying it toward the terminal.

Amy, confused, curious, ran after her mother, demanding to know what was going on.

Demanding, ha!
thought Bess, feeling wonderfully in control. She’d figured it out, thanks to the trip to Atlantic City and her fear-melting hot flash yesterday. If she was okay with losing in exchange for the simple joy of being where the action was, then she could play her hand any damn way she liked. And sometimes, losing wasn’t a loss. She could win for losing—a free room, a memorable night with friends, respect, if not from her daughter and mother, for herself.

As Shakespeare wrote (definitely
not
in a poker context): The play’s the thing.

Bess made her play: “Your plane leaves in one hour,” she said to Amy. “You don’t have much time to get through security, so hurry up.”

“What plane? What’s going on?”

They were inside the JetBlue terminal. Bess was slipping her credit card into the e-ticket kiosk, and getting the boarding pass. She handed it to Amy.

The girl looked at it. “San Francisco?”

“Grandma Vivian needs you,” said Bess. “She’s very lonely, and she’s aged quite a bit since Grandpa died. I’m sure you noticed. You’re going to San Francisco to keep her company and help her clean out Major’s stuff.”

Amy opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Bess stood squarely in front of her, bracing for the onslaught to come. But it didn’t.

Bess added, “I thought, maybe you felt like East Hampton was your only option, so you just took it. You haven’t spent much time out there, but I can tell you: not a lot to do but go to the beach and seersucker and sundress parties. And correct me if I’m wrong, you hate the beach.”

“And sundress parties,” said Amy, squinting at Bess from under her hang of hair, unsure what it all meant. But then Amy said, with a micron of excitement, “San Francisco is a cool town.”

You can be as gay as you want there
, thought Bess.

“You seemed to like the city when we went for the funeral. And Vivian really needs you,” said Bess.
Simone, on the other hand, was using you
.

“One-way ticket?” asked Amy.

Bess nodded. “I could be completely wrong. And please tell me if I am. It seemed to me that your plans weren’t so much about East Hampton or being with Simone, but just to get away from Brooklyn for a while. It’s been a hard year. You’re smart, and you knew a change of scenery might help. I totally agree. Nothing like a new place, new walks, new people, to remind you who you are. San Francisco is an amazing city to find yourself in,” said Bess. “I didn’t want
to put a time limit on your experience. I leave it to you to decide when to come home. Vivian is happy to keep you until September.”

“Keep me? Am I some kind of human pet?” asked Amy. Her words were hostile, but there was little bile behind them. “Are you pawning me off on Grandma?”

“Now you want to stay?”

“No,” said Amy.

Bess paused, and then spoke the uncomfortable truth. “I’m not trying to get rid of you,” she said, tone measured. “But we can both use a break from each other.”

Amy nodded slowly. If Bess’s confession hurt her feelings, Amy didn’t show it. “Does Simone know about this?”

Not even close
, thought Bess, a wicked smile creeping across her lips. “I’ll take care of
her
,” she loved saying.

“Are you jealous of me spending time with Simone?” asked Amy.

Insightful
, thought Bess. But, then again, the tug-of-war over Amy wasn’t a state secret. “A little bit, yes,” she admitted.