Momfriends (28 page)

“Oh, thanks. Sorry I forgot,” she said.

“No problem.”

As I was about to bring the glasses to the kitchen, I changed my mind. I went back to my bag and grabbed my camera. I had no interest in studying the evidence again. It was something else.

I placed Ruth’s glass in front of her and sat down across the table. She gave me a half smile, but really Abe had all her attention. As it should be. She was focused on him. There was a bizarre combination of stress and serenity in her face. She had no idea how beautiful she looked. She would never know unless I documented it.

“Ruth, do you mind—could I photograph you?”

“Oh,” she said, beginning to adjust her shirt down a little to cover up her breast.

“No, just be as you are. I don’t plan on showing these to anyone. They are only for me,” I said. “And you, of course.”

“But I look awful. I haven’t showered today.”

“It’s ok, please try, and don’t think about the camera. You actually look gorgeous. Please.”

“Ok,” she said. She looked at me and I must have looked serious, because she did what I said. She looked right back down at Abe as if I weren’t there. She didn’t put anything on. That is to say, she was the perfect subject, just letting me photograph.

It had been a long time since I felt this way. I had forgotten what it felt like. And of all nights to feel it, but I did. I couldn’t stop what was happening. My hands and eyes wanted to take these pictures. It was as if I wasn’t there. I was shooting, but it was almost like I was channeling something else, something bigger. I wasn’t sure what had struck me, but I knew that I had to record it.

It was this amazing moment in her kitchen. We were all working together, Ruth and Abe doing their part and me and my camera doing ours. We each had an integral role. For what I wasn’t sure yet.

And then it was over. Abe pulled off, Ruth looked up, and I lowered my camera. The spell was broken.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Ruth asked.

“I think so,” I said. “I think those pictures are going to be beautiful.”

“Can I see?” she asked.

“Um, not yet,” I said. But I realized how selfish that sounded. “I mean, you can if you need to, but I would rather go through them first. I think I can make them better. Not make you better, you were beautiful. I want to make the photo better. I want you to see it when they are perfect. Can you trust me?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Thank you and thank you, Abe,” I said, reaching out and stroking his chubby baby chin. “You did a great job, too.”

He smiled at me. It was the first time I had seen him smile and I laughed.

“You know, I should go. I don’t think my babysitter really expected to be there this late.”

“Are you sure? I think I could probably give you a ride. I’ve barely had any of my wine.”

“No, you enjoy yourself. Enjoy these calm moments,” I said. I felt for a moment that I could again be the wise mother hen that I thought Ruth expected me to be.

I called a car and kissed Ruth and Abe good-bye to wait for it outside. I thought about the pictures I had taken of Ruth the entire way back to my house. I was a little bit buzzed from the feeling of it. My camera was serving me in so many different ways than it had been lately. I felt grateful for that. Just when I reached a low point, I remembered what was always familiar to me. I couldn’t wait to load those pictures in to my computer and look at them and play with them. I was so excited.

All of my best work had been this way. It was like it happened to me without my planning. It was the way a dream happens. I had no control. And it was so amazing to be giving into it again.

But then I got home. And everything was lifted and I remembered what I had been trying to forget or maybe what the camera, the art, had helped me try to forget. The smell of the place reminded me of him, reminded me of our life. I paid Amanda way better than she expected.

She hadn’t heard from David. There was no message from him on my cell. It was incredibly selfish of him. It was more than selfish, it was uncaring.

I said good-bye to Amanda with every intention of looking at the pictures of Ruth and Abe and figuring out what I was going to do with them, but as soon as Amanda left, I sat in the love seat and looked again at the pictures of David and the slim yuppie. I bet she got Brazilian bikini waxes and pedicures. The feminist in me didn’t want to hate her for any of it, but I did. And it probably wasn’t all her fault, but I didn’t know that it made it any better.

I sat there in the dark, staring at the pictures of them, just seething. And all the fire that I had from the pictures of Ruth and Abe burned out of me. Hours passed and I couldn’t move from the love seat.

At last, I heard his keys in the door. I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. It was after three. And I was sitting there in the dark waiting. I had been there for hours, just thinking, just stewing. He walked by the living room. He couldn’t even feel me. From the first time I saw him at school, I was always so aware of every place he was at. But now the scales were tipped in his favor. It was hopeless.

He went into the kitchen. He was humming low. He was happy. It stung. I felt tears fill up my eyes and slide down my cheeks before I could blink them back. How did I get into this chair and what if I never get out? I could go in there and demand to know. I could ask him. I could ask him straight out. Turn all the lights on and he would tell me. But then there would be no going back. This life we had would be over. I would be forced into action.

Another night. One more night. I slipped into our bed and hoped I couldn’t smell someone else on him. Eventually, I felt his weight beside me and I let it comfort me. I rolled into him, as I would if I was sleeping, and he wrapped his arm around me.

It’s pathetic I know, but I wasn’t ready to let it all go. Not just yet.

Chapter 15

Ruth Lets Go and Takes Charge

“I’ll just be next door,” I tell Steve for the umpteenth time. He is on the couch holding Abe who is awake but strangely not crying or fussing. He is watching me dash around the house.

“And as I said, I’ll be here watching the game,” he says. “Just because you are next door doesn’t mean you should worry any more about it.”

“I should worry less about it, you think?” It amazed me that he could be so blasé. He hadn’t really ever watched Abe by himself. The night I went to the restaurant his mom stayed for most of the time. He had maybe an hour alone with him. I hated that he acted like this was going to be a piece of cake. What I hated more was that Abe might make it an easy night.

“I mean you shouldn’t worry. At all. You should enjoy yourself. Have some drinks. Relax.”

“I’m relaxed,” I say. “So I told you about the milk and how to thaw it.”

“Yes, and you told me about the thawed milk and the fresh milk and to use the thawed first. I got it.”

“And you know there is also milk in the freezer, if you need it.”

“I think you mentioned that a couple of times,” he says, not exactly amused, anymore.

“Ok, ok,” I say, feeling myself getting pissy for no real reason. He is, after all, encouraging me to have a night off. I think it’s his carefree attitude about watching Abe that is bothering me. It’s like he thinks it’s no big deal or something. Abe has been better lately, but it’s still no cakewalk.

Claudia invited Kirsten and me over for drinks. She is making ceviche, she said, and cocktails. When I got her message, I was excited about the prospect of going out, but I didn’t call her back right away, I called Kirsten to make sure she was going. Only when I got a message back saying that she was did I agree to go.

“So are you going to try to put him in his crib soon and try to put him down awake or are you going to let him fall asleep?” I’m not sure which I think is a better idea.

“I’ll wait a while, but don’t worry I will be able to figure it out.” I realize I am being controlling, so I attempt to make amends.

“Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

“Another beer, might be nice, so I can have one on deck.” I almost question him about how much he is going to drink, but I don’t want to get into it with him.

I put on my lip gloss, grab my pasta salad, kisses to both boys, and I’m out for the quick walk over to Claudia’s. There is no sign of Kirsten’s car. Somehow, I know she is going to be late. I made every attempt to get out on time. Because of the proximity it shouldn’t have been a problem. I got the impression that punctuality was a sticking point for Claudia. Most times when you asked someone what time they wanted you to “stop over for cocktails and dinner” they would give you an estimated time “around 7” or “I don’t know, how about 7:30ish?” Not Claudia. She said, “Let’s say 7:15. Does that work for you. Can you be here at 7:15?”

So at twenty-two after I ring her doorbell. She opens it immediately, as if she had her hand on knob on the other side.

“Oh, hi,” I say, a little startled. “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine, how are you? Come in, please come in.”

“I made this,” I say, handing over my tupperware of pasta salad. One look at her table makes me want to take it right back. Everything is just so. There are sushi rolls and martini glasses full of ceviche. There’s a bowl of hummus set on a platter of dry chickpeas and two pitchers of colorful summer drinks, one bright pink and one golden yellow. The table is set like it’s featured in a food magazine. My pasta salad consists of cooked rotini pasta, canned beans and some bottled Italian dressing. I knew I had to bring something and that was all I had time for.

“Let me get a bowl for this,” she says. I would have plopped it on the table in the plastic bowl.

I wonder what time Claudia gets her kids to bed, so that she can get her house so immaculate. She has two toddlers. Aren’t they supposed to wreck the place with crayons on the walls and ice cream on the carpet? It didn’t look as if children even lived here. Where did she keep all the toys? It was like a museum installation about early twenty-first century middle-class life.

“Alright then,” she says, coming back in with a red ceramic bowl filled with my pitiful pasta salad. The bowl makes it look better than it actually is. She sets it down among all the other goodies and then gives the bowl a little twist on the table and then twists it back.

“Yeah, it’s not really about the presentation with that salad. It doesn’t really have a good side,“ I say. She looks up at me, not getting my sense of humor, not getting me. “What are all these treats?”

I’m really hungry, though part of me is happy that Kirsten isn’t here so I won’t be the late one. But I am kind of annoyed that the right thing to do is wait for her. As usual, I am starving and I really want to tuck in to the food without Claudia thinking that’s rude. But one look at the napkins folded neatly in the napkin rings (it was supposed to be a casual night!) tells me that she is a stickler for propriety. I am going to wait. With any luck, the growling of my stomach wouldn’t give me a way.

“Oh, well, let’s see, we have some hand-rolled sushi.” She pauses. She is waiting for something.

“Did you roll it?” I ask, realizing, truly impressed. “By hand?”

She nods, smiling. It’s a mixture of pride and disbelief that you wouldn’t roll your own sushi.

“And here is some ceviche, to continue the Latin theme from our last night out and I guess the raw fish theme,” she smiles, pleased with herself for making the connection.

The doorbell rings. Instead of going to answer the door, Claudia looks at her watch.

“Wow, she’s earlier than I thought she would be,” she says.

She opens the door and Kirsten is there, all smiles, arms extended for a hug. Claudia’s voice gets a little higher, which is new for her. Maybe she is relaxing around us a little. Maybe she just needed to warm up to us.

“Hey, you,” Kirsten says, smiling. She comes over to hug me. I called right after the stakeout, but she never returned my call. She apologizes. “Things have been a little crazed. I’m sorry I’ve been such a space cadet.”

“That’s ok. How did everything go?”

“Fine, fine,” she says, breezing over it. “Just a lot. Kids. You know how it is.”

“It’s amazing we have time to do anything,” Claudia says. “Can I get you a drink, Kirsten?”

“Oh, this is for you,” Kirsten says, holding out a bottle of rosé. That’s what I should have done. I should have brought a bottle of wine instead of´ making a half-assed salad. It looks fat and sloppy on the table with everything else. I can relate. I suck in my gut. Maybe I shouldn’t be eating anything.

“How lovely,” Claudia says, studying the label. “I never drink wine this color, but it looks refreshing.”

“It is,” Kirsten says confidently. She is not having hostess-gift remorse. She turns to the table. “What have we here?”

“She rolled her own sushi,” I offer, dumbly. Kirsten nods. She doesn’t seem as impressed as I was. I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose or if she is having trouble focusing on anything but the fact that her babydaddy is having an affair.

“So here is some ceviche and homemade wasabi hummus,” Claudia says. Something about the second time through with the food descriptions makes it seem like bragging.

“I love these chickpeas,” Kirsten says picking a few up and running her thumb over them in the palm of her hand.

“And here is Ruth’s pasta salad,” Claudia says, presenting it like Vanna White. “Onto the fun stuff. I made fresh watermelon margaritas and since they were such a big hit at the restaurant, I made mojitos with a ginger twist. Who knew this drink was so popular and had so many variations.”

“Wow, I’ll take the pitcher,” Kirsten says.

“Well, help yourself,” Claudia says. She looks around nervously. “How should we do this, should we sit at the table or should we go in the living room?”

“I’ll do whatever,” Kirsten says. “Whatever’s easiest.”

“Well, maybe we could keep it contained in here,” Claudia says. I giggle a little at her choice of the word
contained
. She puts together a nice spread as my grandmother would say, but it’s as if she never had people at her house before.