Helen of Pasadena (7 page)

Even Tina Chau-Swenson had concluded the same.

“Of course our kids get better grades. What do you expect? Your people want your kids to be popular. We don’t care if our kids go to birthday parties. We want them to go to Yale.”

Tina had a point. Aiden was born into a certain life, and his future seemed to include a free pass into a decent high school, a pretty good college and a respectable career, if he could just hold it together and not do drugs, get into a car accident or get some girl pregnant. Aiden didn’t need the Ivy League; he was a Fairchild. Up until New Year’s Day, his life had been a series of expected steps on a clear path, just like I’d wanted at his age. In December, I hadn’t been worried about Aiden getting into Ignatius. That’s why he’d applied to only one high school. But now? He was just some average kid with a dead father and no economic influence, as Neutron Melanie had so clearly illustrated to me. He needed to get into Ignatius now more than he did a month ago.

But first he had to nail the standardized test.

“Yes, you do have to do the tutoring. You want to go to Ignatius, right?”

Aiden shrugged. Didn’t he want to go to Ignatius? Of course he did. Merritt had been taking him to Ignatius football games since he was little. He loved his Ignatius T-shirt. It was his dream to play water polo for Ignatius, wasn’t it?

“Aiden, I know right now it may not seem that important, but next September, you’ll be glad you made the effort.” I could see by the look on his face that “next September” might as well be a million years away. He clicked the unmute button. The conversation was over.

The Shelly Show was back.
Is your teen sexting while at school? Tune in at 10 and see what’s really happening on your child’s cell phone
.

Hey, Shelly, F-U! Try this promo:
Is your husband sexting me while driving? Watch out for that panda at 10 o’clock!

Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?

“Mom, are you okay? You were talking to yourself.”

“Lots on my mind. More enchiladas?”

CHAPTER 5

“I have to be honest. I have nothing for you, because you’re not really qualified for anything at the executive level, even junior executive,” said Elizabeth Maxwell, a tall, striking African-American woman in her early 30s. I was mesmerized by the most beautiful family photo I have ever seen, displayed prominently on her sparkling desk in her sparkling office at Maxwell and Mathers Executive Search, Inc. Elizabeth’s cool voice forced me to focus. “I have out-of-work MBAs who can’t even get interviews for entry-level jobs. There’s nothing on your resume that screams, ‘Hire me.’”

The only reason she didn’t hoot and howl at my situation was because I was a friend of Tina’s and a fellow Millington mom. The new widow bit was a plus, too. Her use of the word “resume” was the tip-off. My “resume” consisted of a list of charity activities compiled by me and jacked up by Tina to make my years as a mother, wife and community volunteer sound like actual work experience. My time on the decorating committee became “design and branding expertise.” Tina transformed my years as room mother into a position requiring “team-building skills” and “negotiating contracts.” (
With whom? The charter bus company for field trips?)
And the many charity dollars I brought in for various organizations were re-purposed as “raising capital” and “budgeting P&L.” My abandoned graduate studies at Berkeley had been redefined as “master’s track coursework.” The woman on the paper was someone with a career.

I had never had a career.

I had nothing to “go back to” but a half-finished thesis. I had no law firm like Tina or marketing department like Neutron Melanie to return to on a part-time basis. Instead of building a career in my twenties, I was building a family: getting married at 25, having Aiden at 27, happily staying home and being a mother. Now I was trying to pretend that all those experiences amounted to a job.

All those experiences amounted to a life, but not a job.

Even my new Banana Republic suit (
on sale in size 8
!) felt a little ginned-up for the occasion; I never wore tailored shirts or stockings during the day. And the bright pink silk scarf around my neck? Tina said it would make me look younger.

“If you refuse to use fillers like the rest of the women in town, then you’ll have to do something to cover up that neck!”

I’d rejected the traditional 40th birthday gifts of Botox, Restalyne or tummy-tuck surgery in favor of a nice dinner with friends. Tina had thought I was crazy. Apparently, my punishment was this scarf. I thought it screamed “Clinique Salesgirl at Bonus Time,” but what did I know?

Elizabeth Maxwell was not fooled by the resume or the outfit, but she was kind. “I‘ve seen a lot of women like you in the past few years, going back to work after the kids get older. Maybe they need money for college or the husband has lost a job or taken a pay cut. Honestly, your prospects are really grim. You’re capable of doing a job in marketing or communications. And I think your real-life experience is worth as much as any MBA. But corporate America doesn’t see it that way. You’ll end up making less than your housekeeper.”

Not for long, because I have to let Emilia go, but I knew she was right.

As I studied the young, successful Elizabeth Maxwell, I wished for the hundredth time since Merritt’s death that I could have a do-over of the last fifteen years. Obviously, I would never trade Aiden, but why wasn’t I more ambitious for myself?
Don’t cry
.
Do not cry.

“Do you have any advice?” I squeaked out, hoping I didn’t sound too pathetic.

“You’ve done a lot of volunteer work at the Huntington. Maybe there’s something there in the development office or public relations. They know you, so your dedication to the institution will make up for your lack of job experience. You’re bright, articulate, connected in the community. You just have no street cred in the real world. Start with the Huntington. You need to get your foot in the door and get some real experience.”

Among the moms at school and on the sidelines at games, I’d built up a reputation as a Scholar Lite, thanks to my academic past and my hours volunteering at the Huntington. The Huntington Library, Art Collections and Botanical Gardens—the official name, though no one in town ever called it anything but the Huntington—housed one of the finest rare book and document collections in the world, in addition to spectacular gardens and a first-class art and furniture collection. The Huntington was established on the former estate of Henry Huntington, railroad baron and book collector, and his lovely wife, Arabella, philanthropist and visionary garden designer. It stood on a marvelous piece of property on the border of Pasadena and San Marino, a quieter, even higher tax bracket to the south.

In addition to being a tremendous public space, the Huntington was a world-class research facility, thanks to the rare books and papers in its collection. Only select scholars were granted access to the collections for research. They repaid the Huntington by giving lectures on their esoteric areas of study. I served them tea and cookies.

Over the past ten years, I’d worked my way up the volunteer food chain, from Preschool Docent to Scholar Hospitality, by virtue of the fact that I was a quasi-academic and about 25 years younger than most of the other volunteers. The lovely retiree volunteers tended to talk the ears off the visiting scholars and curators, so my attentiveness minus the need to tell everyone about my grandchildren made me a favorite to staff the public lecture series. Tea and cookies were always served to those who could attend the midday talks. Sometimes, I was even allowed to introduce the speakers, giving out their long lists of credentials as if I was their equal. I loved it.

For the mothers at school, I did my own lecture series. I could take an hour-long lecture by a Distinguished Fellow of Historical Minutiae at Impressive East Coast University and boil it down to a couple of salient facts for busy women who didn’t have time to go to talks on a Wednesday afternoon. Sociability in the British Enlightenment (
Who knew the entire study of science started with well-connected British guys who could entertain the ladies with amusing stories of the natural world!
); the Reign of Charles I (
Disastrous king! The George Bush of England
.
Pious, but bloody. Executed as a result of civil war!
); Money Talks: Commerce, Classics and Taste in Late Imperial China (
Wow, those women of the Ming dynasty were every bit as label-conscious and conspicuously consumptive as the Hollywood wives. Think Late Imperial
In Style
magazine meets
Architectural Digest). Those lectures, and my retelling, kept me intellectually stimulated, staving off the boredom of motherhood. And earned me the nickname “Professor Fairchild” from the Millington mothers.

In all the years that I’d volunteered at the Huntington, it had never occurred to me to work at the Huntington. Thank you, Elizabeth Maxwell.

“I’m going to steal that phrase for my interview. ‘No experience but much dedication to the institution,’ that’s me!” I chirped a bit too brightly.

“Please do.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever consider giving up your job when you had your kids?” I nodded toward the photo of the whole family in the shallow surf in Hawaii. Two adorable girls in hibiscus print suits and Elizabeth in a big floppy hat and pareo. Cute husband, too.

“My mom was a single mom. I believe in work.”

“Simply put. Thanks, Elizabeth. I appreciate your advice.”

“No problem. Will I see you at the book fair?”

“Maybe. I could be running the development office at the Huntington by then.” I laughed. So did she.

“Yes, you could.”

“Mom, what are you doing here?” Aiden said, climbing into my Audi wagon in the carpool line. “And why are you dressed like that?”

I had to hand it to him. He could be very observant when he wanted to be, just not when looking for his backpack or water polo gear.

“I am here to pick you up. It’s time for me to get back into the world,” I declared, slowly pulling away from the curb, grateful that I didn’t bash into the SUV in front of me that suddenly stopped. “And I have just come from my first career counseling session.”

“What career?”

“Yes, exactly, what career? I believe you are more qualified to get a job than I am. At least you have your lifeguarding certification.” I looked over at Aiden, who was smiling for the first time in three weeks. I went with it. “Would you mind dropping out of school and lifeguarding to support us?’

“No problem. As long as I get to drive Dad’s BMW to the pool.” And we both laughed, really laughed, together for the first time since Merritt’s death.

Then, Aiden asked me the question that I’d been preparing to answer every night when I lay in bed and prayed for guidance.

“Mom, are we going to be okay?”

I stared straight ahead, watching the road and my words. “Aiden, we will be okay, but there will have to be a lot of changes. You know about the house, but besides that, we just won’t have as much money as we’re used to. We’ll sell the house, I’ll get a job, and we’ll be okay. But life will be different.”

He nodded, his brown hair falling into his eyes. “We’re kinda broke, right?”

Surprised, I snapped, “What do you mean?’

“I heard you talking to Candy and Tina, um, Ms. McKenna and Mrs. Chau-Swenson,” Aiden corrected himself. Pasadena was a “last names for grown-ups” kind of town. “It sounded kinda bad.”

I bit the bullet, trying to remember that he was my son, not my partner. “It is kinda bad now, but it will get better.”

“I don’t have go to Ignatius. There are public schools. And I can get a job. I can help.”

“Don’t worry. We can handle tuition, and your priority should be school, okay?”

“Yeah. I love you, Mom.” Aiden was never embarrassed to say that to me. He rarely said it to Merritt, who wasn’t a big fan of expressing emotions, not even in the ‘I love ya, buddy’ way that men use as a default. Merritt used to pat him on the head and say, “Good boy.” Like he was a Lab.

“I love you, too, Aiden,” I returned, squeezing his hand, then to ease the emotion, “Do you like my scarf? Do I look younger?”

“You look like a dorky French girl.”

“
Merci
.”

I figured it out. It was that vacation to Mexico about five years ago that was the beginning of the end for Merritt and me. Lying in the dark night after night, unable to sleep, I became obsessed with pinpointing the Incident That Changed It All. Figure that out, I convinced myself, and the rest of this mess would begin to make sense.

I settled on the Mexico trip.

“You make the plans,” Merritt had tossed out at me one morning in January before he headed into downtown L.A. to build his empire. “Wherever you want to go! Surprise me!” I think he’d even kissed me on the way out the door.

So I had, because I am a planner. Good at details, long-range calendarizing, airline reservations, packing lists, transportation supervision, weather charts, day trips, travel documents and shot records. “Good planning makes for good fun” was a needlepoint pillow credo that I lived by. I’d plunged into my new task. I was an early adapter to Internet vacation planning; it made me feel like I was back in school doing research. I thought Spring Break 2003 would be a high point in Fairchild family vacation lore. And in our sex life.

We’d spent the previous six years trying to have a second child, to no avail, despite the specialists and the fertility drugs and the planned-to-the-minute, medically inspired intercourse. Really, it’s a stretch to call that kind of coupling
sex
. Secondary infertility, the doctors called it. I was pretending not to be heartbroken, but Merritt hadn’t bothered to pretend anything. He blamed me, though Dr. Weston hadn’t come to that conclusion.

This vacation was going to be our big breakthrough. One last shot to relax and conceive before I threw in the towel. Not that Merritt and I discussed the matter much anymore at that point. But I thought if we could find an exotic new spot, we could cut loose and be our old selves.