Read The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D Online
Authors: Nichole Bernier
The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D (24 page)
There was a pause, and she heard him take a drink. “So. How far along are you?”
She paused, and knew that he heard her hesitation. How she responded to him now would set an expectation going forward.
“Do we really want to do this, Dave?” she asked. “Isn’t it kind of raw?”
“Don’t tell me about raw, Kate,” he snapped. “At least tell me where you are in them. What year.”
She pressed the paint chip between her thumb and forefinger, and it crumbled into tinier pieces. Every sentence made it that much less likely she’d be able to tuck away the journals quietly in an attic when she was done. “Just after Elizabeth went to see the Southbrook house for the first time. Before Jonah.”
He made a guttural sound like the scuff of heavy furniture being moved. He might have been thinking of the miscarriage, or the fact that Elizabeth waited for weeks to tell him about the second pregnancy. Or maybe that wasn’t strange to him; hard as it was to imagine, maybe he was the kind of old-world husband who hadn’t expected to be let in on women’s matters until the women had them under control.
She reached for something neutral. “She was excited about the house, planning to do a lot of work on it herself, even pregnant. She was tough.”
He snorted. “Tough, yeah. She was strong all right.”
Kate heard the sarcasm like something cracking open, wide and ugly. She reached for something that would press it closed, the first distraction that came to mind. “Dave, was there a second key to the trunk?”
“A second key? What do you mean?”
“She wouldn’t have given her only key to the lawyer. Maybe you found another one in her jewelry box or nightstand or something?”
He exhaled, irritated. “What are you trying to say, Kate? Are you asking whether I had another key and read more of the books before I gave them to you?”
“No, that’s not what I’m talking about.” This line of conversation had been a mistake, but it was too late now. “I’m actually locked out of the trunk. I kept the key in my wallet, and it was stolen last weekend on the beach.”
“You lost the key to the trunk?”
She tried to read his tone: angry, or incredulous? She spoke carefully, trying not to sound defensive. “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen.” She touched the sensitive spot on her neck as it began to flame.
“No. I do not have another key. Life has never really given me that kind of a safety net, Kate.” His voice was as controlled as hers. What she wouldn’t give for one of her children to wake now, granting her an excuse. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked.
“There are some locksmiths I’ve been talking to.” It was partly true; she had left them messages and stopped by the shop of one, but it had been closed. “Worst-case scenario, I don’t think it’s that strong.”
“So you’d break it.”
“I could. As a last resort.”
She turned toward the house, turned her back on the sound of the tackle of the smaller boats moored nearby, tinkling agitated and sleepless. She looked at the lights of the loft through the window and saw the top of the chaise against the wall. Depending on how many pages were left, the last resort could be coming soon.
“I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow. It’s been a long day.” He sounded suddenly very tired. She could imagine him rubbing his face, sighing.
This is the last thing I need
. “You take care, Kate.”
He hadn’t reacted to her saying that she might break the trunk. He might be unhappy, but he hadn’t told her not to. Maybe he didn’t even blame her, she thought. You could never tell with him.
September 20, 1995
Totally wiped out from wallpapering, painting, and hauling garbage from the attic left by the old owners. I like our new neighborhood, a quiet street with families. But still getting used to this town. There’s a certain attitude—women in SUVs who pull into parking spaces at the mall without caring who might already be waiting for the same space. Moms who get all dolled up to go to the grocery store. Even the way they talk to their children is self-consciously perfect, as if they think everyone is listening and grading their performance.
Dave loves it here. There’s a very good town course, no membership required, and the starter pencils him in for tee times even when they’re fully booked. He’s gearing up to try at qualifying school again, determined to get his tour card back for next season. Which begins in January, right when the baby’s due
.
November 3, 1995
Dave and I finally had the talk about work and child care. We’ve been avoiding it, or maybe I’ve been avoiding it, the big fat proverbial elephant in the room. He’s never said it openly, but I think he feels one parent should stay at home with the kids. It’s tied up with his ideas about his own upbringing, distrust of strangers, willingness for
self-sacrifice, control. He’s never cared much about money, at least in terms of letting it be a driving force. So the economics of a two-income home against child care costs isn’t really part of the equation. It’s just not the point. The truth is it’s not for me, either. But for different reasons.
I told him I’d like to negotiate working part-time, that I thought the agency would go for it and I could make a decent salary with not too many hours. We were having dinner and he went quiet. I suspect he thinks my being at home full-time will make up for his being gone. When I talked about working part-time, he sat there fingering the neck of his beer bottle with the smile of someone who’s gotten underwear for his birthday.
I didn’t realize you really wanted to keep working, he said. You complain about the deadlines, and I thought you’d be glad to be done with it. You’ve been so excited about this baby.
A bolt of anger went through me, the way I used to feel when my mother made assumptions about what I did or didn’t believe. It was like my enthusiasm for the baby was being used against me, and the miscarriage, too; if I was relieved enough to be carrying to term, if I loved it enough, I’d want to give myself over completely. You can’t really think that, I wanted to say. You can’t really think that being excited about a baby automatically means being excited to walk away from ten years of work that you love. But I knew it would come off all wrong.
It’s funny—as like-minded as we are about most things, they’re really just voting issues, theoreticals. This is something different altogether, and I don’t think he honestly thinks men and women are the same, that my work can be as integral to who I am as his is. I think he really believes that women’s love for children is automatically tied to self-sacrifice. Any time I even hint at suggesting otherwise his eyes cloud over, confused or disappointed. I haven’t even become a parent yet, but this is my first taste of parental guilt
.
In hindsight, Kate had been naïve when she left for her maternity leave. She hadn’t thought to be wistful or protective of the parts of herself she might be leaving behind, because she did not have an
inkling she wouldn’t be coming back. She said good-bye to her colleagues as if she were going on sabbatical.
She and Chris loved their work and both assumed they could manage the juggling act with hard work and determination. But in the end, both were as inexperienced with the work of parenthood as they were with the possibility that their feelings about it might change. At first it did not seem plausible that a person awake every hour, roused like a victim of a sleep study, might be able to function safely the next day. Then the intervals became more regulated, and Kate came to enjoy those hours of quiet darkness with James. She’d never imagined that when the time came to return to work, she would feel so needed at home, or find it so difficult to leave.
The last weeks of Elizabeth’s pregnancy progressed through late autumn and early winter. At the maternity store she met other women who were expecting, and they told her about playgroups organized through the town’s Newcomers’ Club. By December she outgrew even her largest clothes and could not imagine getting any larger.
Dave has started calling the baby Jonah because the rest of me is the Whale. We laugh because it’s terrible, but it’s sticking
.
Dave advanced through the stages of the PGA Tour Qualifying Tournament in hopes of earning back his tour card, playing white-knuckle rounds against hungry amateurs and top competitors on the Nationwide Tour. Tucked between the pages of the journal was a clipping from a golf magazine. The photograph showed Dave sinking the putt on the last hole to reclaim a place on tour. Alongside the green, just on the other side of the ropes, was a very pregnant Elizabeth.
Kate examined the photo, held it closer to the dim light of the wall sconce. Elizabeth’s hair was quite long, as it was when Kate had first met her, and she wore small round John Lennon–style sunglasses. Her enormous belly bloomed under a bright floral shift and
was further accentuated by the fairway ropes she leaned against, draping beneath her stomach like the belt on a friar. Her hands were pressed together in front of her open mouth as if in prayer, but her eyes were wide, newly informed. The photograph had been snapped at the moment hope turned to celebration.
January 22, 1996
Jonah William Martin arrived six days ago, nine days late. I went into labor just as Dave got on the flight home from Tucson. Which would seem like perfect timing, but it wasn’t until thirty-six hours later that the baby came, barely in time to meet his dad before Dad had to go to Palm Springs. He came back yesterday, leaves again tomorrow. I can appreciate that he needs to get back in these tournaments with a vengeance, that he’s clinging to his card, etc. etc. But I don’t have to like it. I do, however, have to be a good sport.
The baby is fascinating, all odd instincts and raw nature. The squinty efforts to focus on me, the flailing fists and chicken legs and bony little heels. One of his ears folds over a little, as if it was pushed that way while he was growing. His lower lip disappears into an overbite while he’s sleeping. I can’t stop watching him
.
February 15, 1996
Went to the first meeting of the newcomers’ playgroup I was assigned to, eight mothers, Wednesday mornings. The idea is that the kids roll around on the floor and make little friends, and the moms throw Halloween parties and birthday bashes together. Today was at Brittain’s house, massive and filled with sculptural furniture that you can tell is named after some French king instead of a category in the Pottery Barn catalog. We sat in a circle on the playroom floor with our babies on blankets in front of us like we were a postpartum Lamaze class.
Apparently there are all kinds of things I’m supposed to be doing or not doing that I’ve never heard of. Using cloths for wipes instead of disposable store-bought ones, because of chemicals and rough fibers. Questioning immunizations, even if the pediatrician encourages them
and the state requires them. Putting your child’s name in for nursery schools now, or they’ll flip burgers for life. They were perfectly nice, if a bit much, but they talked about baby things the whole time. No one said a thing about her own interests or jobs (from the sound of it no one is going back to work), and when I mentioned mine they were polite but really not interested.
We had coffee in hand-painted European mugs, decaf all around as if it were a given, since everyone is breast-feeding. I guess I missed the memo, because I made the faux pas of asking for regular. It turned out Brittain hadn’t even brewed regular. After she made it just for me, over my protests that decaf was just fine, everyone stared as she poured. Then Petra said, “Top me off with regular too, that sounds good.” God bless her.
I felt like I was the only one who’s rattled by motherhood, because no one mentioned the kinds of things I can’t stop thinking about, like whether they missed their old lives or looked at their baby’s flaws and wondered whether they’d fade in time or grow into something truly hideous. Whether anyone else wanted to beat their husbands with a diaper pail when he slept through the baby’s crying. Or if sometimes, instead of being flooded with love and wanting to spend every minute cradling this little miracle you’ve created, you want to step back in time just for one hour of nobody touching you, waking you, needing you
.
Kate heard coughing from the children’s bedroom. James had had some bronchial irritation all day. So far it had just been a dry cough, nothing that rumbled, and she hoped it wouldn’t develop into anything that required a doctor’s visit. She went downstairs, propped him at an angle on the pillow, and held a glass of water to his mouth. He drank with only half recognition of his mother or the glass, eyes clouded with sleep.
When Kate had joined their playgroup, the women had struck her as a bit precious initially, but not as judgmental. Perhaps they had been more wooden in the beginning, before Kate had joined.
She could imagine Brittain, anxious in ways they had not known until later, pulling out the best dishes for their first meeting. It was also possible that in Elizabeth’s self-conscious first months as a mother in the suburbs, she had imagined herself more isolated than she was, or needed to be. Fortunately, she’d become at ease with the group quickly. By the time Kate moved to Southbrook, ten months after the group began meeting, Elizabeth had become the de facto leader.
