She goes to Sylvia. She asks how she can live like this, what happened after her mother spent hers.
“I never put much stock in it,” Sylvia tells her. “I used it on something relatively innocuous. I never had anything that worthy of taking back.”
When Sylvia says it, it feels like a slight to Marcella, like the tragedy in Marcella’s life is by intention, not accident. Like she has done something to make it so.
“But what about my dad?” Marcella asks.
“Why would I have used it to bring back a man who didn’t want to be here?”
Her mother has never used the words that succinctly, has never said it that way, without filler.
“Why didn’t he want to?” Marcella asks.
Sylvia shrugs. They are outside on the deck. Below them the ocean presents and bows, presents and bows. It should be relaxing, it always was, but now it reminds Marcella of the cyclical nature of time. The way things repeat, circle back.
Sylvia puts a hand on Marcella’s knee. She leans forward, into her. “I don’t know,” she says. “I never got the chance to ask. When we met we were both young, and family wasn’t something either of us spoke about. It just happened. I knew I could take care of you alone. Even before you were born, I was certain of it.”
Marcella holds a tight smile. She is not certain, though. Her mother left her for long stretches of time in the company of neighbors. She learned how to cook at seven years old out of necessity. All she ever wanted was the stability of family, what she has now, and the fact that it could be taken away—that it was—leaves her breathless.
Help me, she wants to say.Help me live like this.But if her mother can’t help her, then at least she can help her daughter. Lauren. She needs to know.
“We’re going to tell her,” Marcella says to Sylvia.
Sylvia looks to her. Few things make Sylvia scared, but Marcella can tell that this is one.
“No,” Sylvia says. “It’s not right.”
“She’s my daughter,” Marcella says.
Sylvia tries to fight her on it, but what does she know? She might have made the best decision she could in waiting to tell her,but it was the wrong one. Marcella will not make the same mistake with Lauren. Lauren will live her life with full awareness. She will know what she has, how precious it is. She will make the choice on when to use it, and if they show her, if they express the significance, she will choose wisely. Tragedy will never find her unarmed.
Marcella does not understand her daughter, no, but she loves her. She will do anything to make her life easier. She regrets to admit this, but she wants her daughter to live with more ease. She wants her to live more closely to Sylvia.
Lauren finds her first. In the shower, the following day, crouched on the floor, the cascade of water running over her.
Lauren turns off the showerhead. “What is wrong with you?” she wants to know.
They sit her down in her room. For a moment Marcella thinks about how small Lauren looks on the bed, and how young the decor in this room is. They should get her something new, something besides this paisley bedspread and pink floral curtains. She is not girly, she never has been, and Marcella wonders why she did not notice before, why she ever picked this out at all.
“We have something other people don’t,” Sylvia says.
“What kind of thing?” Lauren asks, already, impossibly, getting it.
Later, after her questions and their council, Marcella feels lighter. Like in having the conversation she has relived herself of something significant.
It does not occur to her that the burden has not been extinguished but shared. That along with the gift, she has placed the weight onto her daughter’s shoulders as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Life in New York is idyllic. Nora Ephron great. For days, weeks, we have nothing but sunshine, cold sauvignon blanc, fifteen thousand daily steps, sex and harmony. I almost can’t believe how happy we are, how happy I am. From the moment I land we are just where we were always trying to get to. I don’t even remember feeling this way in the beginning of our relationship. Meeting Leo felt not like a puzzle piece snapping down into place but a softening. The point was not that our corners fit but that he dissolved mine. But now—now I can feel myself sharpening. In using my ticket I have done a lot more than choose to go back. I’ve chosen. And in some ways it feels like for the very first time. I feel powerful, omniscient. I turned the whole world back. I did it. I can do anything.
And it’s this knowledge of power that makes the decision to stop trying for a baby not so much a sacrifice but a shedding. Of the woman who wanted that—the one who was so clearly clinging to a sinking ship. All I had to do was let go and float to the surface.
“We miss you here,” Dad says on the phone two weeks later. His voice is quiet, but he’s outside, and the waves wash out every other word.
“I miss you, too,” I say. “But New York is amazing. I’m really so glad I came.”
Today is Tuesday, and Leo had an early-morning shoot, which means he’ll be wrapped by six, and I’m headed to meet him for a celebratory dinner at Gramercy Tavern. We never go to fancy meals—we can’t afford it, and in Los Angeles, it doesn’t seem worth it—but now we are people with $5,000 of disposable income and no upcoming fertility bills. We decided to celebrate our anniversary in style.
