Mating for Life (24 page)

After they talked, she tried to enjoy being home alone. Helen had always told her, told all of them, that being able to be alone was an important life skill. But it wasn't working now. She didn't want to read, she didn't want to watch television, she didn't want to take a bath, and she certainly couldn't sleep. She wanted to go back in time and not have left Laurence's. But she knew she probably shouldn't have been there in the first place, that she wasn't wrong: her presence really was throwing the girls off. She wasn't sure what to do about this.

She called Ilsa.

“You're a stepmom,” she said when her sister answered. “How do you do it?”

“What do you mean? There's not much to do. They were practically grown when I came along, and Michael seems to only sire perfect children, so we've never had any problems.”

“True,” Liane said, feeling miserable.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“I don't know. Maybe not. I'm probably just overthinking it.” She explained what had happened that night. “It's hard, because we're at that phase in the relationship where all we want to do is be together, and I don't want to overlook that, because it probably doesn't last forever, right?” Ilsa didn't respond. “But at the same time, I know I need to be fair to his daughters. It's just so hard. I feel resentful. Maybe even a little bit envious. And I
really
don't want to feel that.”

“Don't beat yourself up. I'm sure it's completely normal. Back when Michael and I were in our first blush of passion, I probably would have been a bit annoyed if there was an almost three-year-old around.
And
a thirteen-year-old. Jesus. You do sort of have it bad, you know.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just being honest.”

“You always are.”

“It's funny you called, because I was thinking of you tonight. I was considering paying you a visit, but I didn't want to interrupt all the excitement. Sounds like you could use a visitor, though? A weekend to do your own thing, while he does his?”

“I would love that.”

“Good.”

“Are you bringing the kids? Maybe they and Bea can have a . . . what are they called, play appointments? And that will solve everything, because what can't your adorable kids solve?”

“They're called playdates. But no. I think maybe I'll just come on my own.”

• • •

On the day of Ilsa's arrival, Liane ended up telling Laurence she would look after Beatrice alone for the first time. It was a Saturday morning and Gillian was away for the weekend with her boyfriend. Isabel had simply said no, that she had a school assignment to work on and had to go to the library for the entire day—which Liane didn't buy but Laurence clearly seemed to. “My sister is coming,” Liane began, but then she stopped. Fear gripped her—
I can't be alone with Beatrice.
But she had to. Laurence needed her. He didn't have anyone else. And Ilsa would be there after the first few hours to help her.

She texted her sister.
I'm sorry, I can't pick you up at the airport, I'm babysitting Beatrice. Take a taxi to my apartment and I'll pay for it
.

This was how she ended up on the subway with Bea's stroller and all her stuff, which seemed an extreme amount for a person so small. The subway had been Liane's idea. She had imagined Bea would find it fun, that it would be a diversion for them—and, more important, that it would kill
some time. And true, Bea was entranced with the movement, sound, and people on the train, chatting softly to Liane, making her feel like it was all going to work out. But then on the subway platform, Bea screamed in fear when the wind coming through the tunnel hit her in the face. On the escalator, juggling stroller and child, Liane nearly cried with exhaustion; how did people do this on a daily basis?

Finally, she made it outside, and with a diaper bag slung over the back handle of the stroller, a diaper bag that Laurence had packed, with Pull-Ups (Bea was in the process of being potty-trained) and wipes and snacks and toys and extra clothes and all sorts of things Liane never would have thought of, Liane plodded up Queen Street, trying to think of a way to shelter Bea from the cold February wind. “We'll be there soon. Five more minutes.” But in truth, it was at least a ten-minute walk from the subway to her apartment. She longed to take the streetcar, but couldn't imagine how she'd manage to get the stroller up those stairs.

She continued to worry about the cold on Bea's face and leaned her head forward to make sure Bea's hat was still on and her blanket was still covering her legs. She felt like a mother, and knew she must look like one—except for the fact, of course, that Bea looked nothing like her, with her dark hair and dark eyes, and also for the fact that she had just started screaming, “I want my mommy!”

Liane continued to push resolutely, until Bea chucked her sippy cup and Liane had to brake the stroller and chase the cup as it rolled down an invisible hill. She gave the cup back to Bea without thinking. It was empty but Bea had been insisting on carrying it around for days, chewing on the spout. “It's BPA-free,” Laurence had said. “It's probably fine.”

Liane continued to push and Bea continued to cry and chuck her sippy cup. Liane would retrieve it and give it back, thinking each time that perhaps she needed to stop giving the
sippy cup back, especially since it had fallen on the sidewalk so many times it was likely riddled with bacteria. But when she tried to withhold it, tucking it into the side pocket of the diaper bag, Bea screamed even louder.

Finally she was home. Her apartment. The stairs. “Shit,” she said under her breath, parking the stroller just outside the door, grabbing the diaper bag—she could feel her shirt, underneath her jacket, soaked with sweat, despite the chilly temperature—and then picking up Bea. The child was quiet for a moment, but then she screamed, “No! I want my mommy. I don't want you!”

The taxi pulled up while Liane was still standing there. When Ilsa got out, she didn't say anything, just rolled her suitcase up to the curb, took the diaper bag, and somehow expertly folded the stroller and began to carry it, and everything else, up the stairs. When Ilsa was like this, it always surprised Liane. She was still Ilsa—unpredictable, lackadaisical—but when it came to being a mother, she was one of those women who was so relaxed she made it look easy.

Ilsa looked over her shoulder. “Come on, just walk. She'll keep screaming, but she'll get over it.”

Liane carried the wailing Bea up the stairs, and managed to unlock the door and get them all inside. “See? I'm a terrible mother,” she said.

“You're
not
her mother.”

“I know that, but still. I'm a terrible whatever. Step-­nothing.”

“Step-something. You and Laurence are clearly going to get married, or at least be blissfully together forever.”

“How do you know? You haven't even met him.”

“Instinct. And I'll meet him this weekend, and it will just confirm it. Now put her down. Let her calm down for a second.” Liane put Bea on the couch. “I'm Ilsa,” Ilsa said to her, speaking to her the way Helen always had, like she wasn't a sobbing child but rather an adult. Bea gulped in air, but she
didn't sob again. “I'm Liane's big sister. You have a big sister, too, don't you?”

Bea just sat silently, watching Ilsa and then glancing at Liane.

“What should we do?” Liane whispered.

“Take off her coat. Then pour a glass of wine for each of us. Quickly.”

“But it's not even noon!”

“Oh, come on! We're babysitting.”

“I'm going to try to pick her up again.”

“I'd leave her for now,” Ilsa warned. But Liane tried again, and again Bea wailed.

“Seriously. Wine. Do you have some?”

“Of course.” Liane went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of white. Then she washed the sippy cup with hot, soapy water and filled it with milk, finishing the small carton she always kept on hand for coffee and the odd bowl of cereal. She brought the drinks out to the living room. She gave Bea the cup, fished some toys and books out of the diaper bag, and sat on the couch beside her sister. Bea continued to watch them silently, then picked up her cup and started to drink. She sighed contentedly after a moment, picked up a book, and began to study the pages intently.

“My best advice to you would be not to try,” Ilsa said in a low voice.

“Not to
try
?”

“I don't mean don't try with her, I just mean don't try to be her mother. You're not. You never will be. Same with the other one, what's her name?”

“Isabel.”

“You're not Isabel's mom, either. I did make the same mistake, when Michael and I were first together. I was certain Alexa and Shane were going to despise me, because I was so much younger than their father and they were already almost
teenagers. so I tried to act like a second mom, draw a line, be . . . I don't know, kind of strict. I tried to force it, and that really didn't work. It didn't last long, I can tell you that. You just need to try to find another angle.”

“Like . . . like what? I'm supposed to try to be their best friend?”

“No! Cool aunt. Trust me, it works.”

“But I'm not cool at all. And anyway, I've been reading articles. I think I'm supposed to be trying to transition into the role of coparent.”

“Is that what Laurence is asking you to do? Does he use that word,
co
parent?”

“He's not asking me to do anything. He's just asking me to be around, I guess.”

“Then that's good. It's still up to you. Choose your role. And don't let it be
coparent
because that just sounds lame and clinical.”

Liane sighed. “She won't even let me pick her up.”

“A cool aunt wouldn't even
try
to pick her up. A cool aunt would sit on the couch drinking wine in the morning and ignoring her, which is exactly what you're doing.”

Liane's mobile phone rang. It was Laurence.

“How are things going?”

Liane glanced at Ilsa. “Oh, they're going great.”

“Well, my meeting is over already—not as many changes to this draft as I thought—so I can come get her if you want. You probably want to spend time with your sister.”

Liane thought about the amount of time it had taken to get Bea across town and into her apartment and also about the fact that they were drinking. “No. Don't,” she said. “We're planning a girls' afternoon. Go home, get some of those editorial changes done, and come get her later, maybe ­midafternoon.” Ilsa nodded and smiled.
Perfect,
she mouthed, and Liane felt grateful to her for not feeling like having Bea
around was ruining their time together.

“Don't forget about the potty, okay? Did she go when you got home?”

“Um, yes. It was no problem.”

Liane hung up and approached Bea. “I think it's time to go potty,” she said, trying to make her voice sound authoritative without sounding scary. Bea gave her a judgmental look, as if she knew Liane had just lied to her father. Liane opened the diaper bag, in search of the Dora the Explorer toilet seat, which, according to Laurence, was the only way she'd go to the bathroom. “I can't find the toilet seat. Maybe it fell out?”

“Hey, Bea, Liane has a big-girl toilet, for ladies only,” Ilsa said. “It's really special. Want to try it?”

“Big-girl toilet!” Bea exclaimed. “Yesssss.”

She didn't cry when Liane lifted her up and carried her to the bathroom. She did, however, fall directly into the water because her bottom was too small. Apparently there was a
good reason
for the Dora the Explorer toilet seat cover. But instead of crying, Bea laughed, and Liane started to run a bath and got some plastic cups and bowls and added bubbles.

Bea stayed in the bath for nearly an hour, until the skin around her fingers and toes puckered, while Ilsa and Liane perched on the edge of the tub with their wineglasses and added warm water every once in a while.

“I think this is probably her best play appointment ever,” Liane said at one point.

“Playdate,” Ilsa said. “It's called a play
date
. And usually, there needs to be at least one other kid invited. Anyway, listen. I have something momentous to tell you.”

And Liane was sure, in that moment, that Ilsa was going to say she was leaving Michael. Which was why she was so shocked when Ilsa said, “Fiona and Tim . . . they're in serious trouble. As in potential divorce.”

“
What?
How do you know this?”

“
Helen
told me. On the phone. Ever since that crazy spa weekend, and that fire ceremony thing, Fiona and Helen have bonded. Apparently they talk almost every day.”

“Are you sure? Maybe Helen is mistaken. Fiona and I—well, we've talked on the phone a few times, too, and she's never said anything.”

“Don't be hurt, Liane. It's probably really hard for her to talk about.”

“I guess. Or maybe I just didn't ask. My own life seems to take up so much space that I haven't really been worrying about anyone else.”

Ilsa put her hand on Liane's wrist. “Don't. Everyone is happy that you're happy. You deserve it. And you shouldn't feel guilty that Fiona and Tim
aren't
happy. But yeah, it's really serious.” Now Ilsa started to explain about Samira. Bea was watching them wide-eyed, and for a moment Liane thought she understood. “Shhh,” she said.

“Oh, please. Welcome to life, kid.” Ilsa trailed a hand in the water. “It's lukewarm again. Do you want to get out or do you want me to warm it up for you?”

“Warm up, please,” Bea said.

“Helen said Tim is asking for mediation,” Ilsa continued as she ran the water. “And I think it's all really affecting the boys. I was out for a run last week and I saw Beck at the park near our house, sitting with a bunch of other kids, smoking a joint. Which is small-time, I get it, we did it, maybe not a big deal—but this is Fiona's kid, this isn't the kind of thing
her
kids are supposed to do. And also, he saw me. We made eye contact and he didn't even seem alarmed. He seemed almost . . . belligerent. And like he knew I wouldn't tell Fiona because I wouldn't want to upset her in her current state. Which is so true. But still, the little bastard. Oops, sorry.”