All the Difference (27 page)

After they said their good-byes, Molly placed her phone in her bag and laid a calm Dylan in her portable crib, spinning the mobile overhead as a distraction. She turned up the volume on the television just in time to catch her favorite scene in all the
Rocky
movies, a speech she remembered her brothers quoting from memory after she'd gone with them to see it over her winter break senior year. Rocky had just launched into his son with a lecture of epic proportions, and Molly sat down to watch it. There was always one line in particular she loved to hear her
brothers recite: “If you know what you're worth,” they'd shout, punching the air with glee, “then go out and get what you're worth.” Molly had heard the same speech over and over again for a month that winter. She'd always rolled her eyes at their enthusiasm, but not today.

Today, Molly thought about her conversation with Jenny and Dan over cheesesteaks in October. She thought about the exhaustion of caring for Dylan by herself while picking up after Scott. She remembered broken promises, and impatient yelling, and getting to know a man who was as shiny and fast as the Porsche he drove but with the same unyielding shell. Molly'd been depending on a lifetime with a man she wasn't even sure she wanted to marry. She had to realize that a man wasn't like a house—no one should sign the papers when all she's considering is his
potential
. A fixer-upper is still going to have pipes that leak, and a roof that's collapsing, and a foundation crumbling beneath her feet, all of them problems she must learn to live with because she'd already committed to the loan. Molly jumped out of an airplane once without being able to see where she was going. She wasn't going to do it again.

Molly thought about this, thought about going out and getting what she was worth, all while she was sitting on a couch that smelled like the greasy potato chips Scott always dropped behind the cushions, picking at a hole in her sweatpants because, like a blind woman, she'd been counting on Scott to walk with her down a road she was never meant to be on to begin with.

Molly turned off the television and laid a protective hand on Dylan's belly, feeling the soft rise and fall of her stomach with each of her breaths. Once she was sure the baby would remain content, occupied with the shadows dancing in the corner of the
Pack 'n Play, Molly picked her way up the stairs, her feet landing on each step with a firm purpose.

Scott was sitting in front of the laptop, as he did most days at home now when he wasn't watching TV. He was surrounded by piles of hospital paperwork and unpaid invoices, playing a game, swearing as he frantically jabbed at the keyboard.

Molly stood at the edge of the desk, waiting for him to glance in her direction. She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice when she spoke. She thought of Rocky dressing down his son in the middle of a Philadelphia sidewalk and braced herself.

“Scott, I thought of something.”

Scott cursed under his breath as a figure on the computer screen blew up in a mess of blood and machine guns.

“Huh?” he said, eyes still focused on the screen. “Can we talk about it later? I'm kind of in the middle of something here.”

“It's pretty important.”

He kept clicking away at the touch pad of the laptop, muttering under his breath.

“Scott. We're supposed to be getting married, right?”

“Yeah. What, are you still worried about the flowers for the church? I told you my mom was insisting on roses.” He was dressed as if he could pop out to dinner at a moment's notice in his dry-cleaned sweater and perfectly slouched jeans. “Take it up with her.”

“That's not it,” Molly said. “You moved in here because we got engaged and had a baby, right?”

“Of course.”

“And it's important to you that I be a stay-at-home mom, right?”

“Well, one of us has to do it, and I'm the one who has a job.”

Molly reeled back like she'd been punched. She'd been with Scott for three years. Three years with him, and still, she stood there, shocked into a momentary silence:
How did I miss this?

Molly moved over to the dresser that stood against the far wall and pulled out a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater. She could feel her body shaking as she changed clothes. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail, refusing to pay attention to how dry her mouth felt. When she turned around again, her hands automatically clenched at her sides. She found it difficult to look directly at Scott's face, but forced herself to do so. She kept looking at him, kept the pressure of her gaze trained at his head, and started talking again, because she knew that at some point he would have to listen.

“Scott.” Molly's voice was firm. “I can't do this anymore.”

“Mmm,” he replied. His eyes were locked on to his game. “Can't do what anymore?”

“This, Scott.” Molly's exasperation weighted every word. “Us. I can't live like this anymore.”

“Wait, what? What's the problem?”

Molly was breathing hard. “There are a few of them. For one thing, I've decided that I'm tired of you mooching off of me.”

She had his attention now. Scott pushed his chair away from the computer and turned to look at Molly. His eyebrows were pulled together, dark over his green irises.

“What did you just say?”

She repeated herself, louder this time, her voice firmer. “I'm tired of you mooching off of me. It stops now.”

Scott laughed. “Me, mooching off of you?” He shook his head. “You're kidding me, right, Molly? Aren't you the poor one?”

“Yeah, I am,” Molly said, “because of you. And I don't know
how it's taken me this long to realize it. You insist that I stay home, yet I'm still the one paying the rent on this house. I'm the one watching her savings disappear, even though I'm engaged to a man who can afford to lie around the house in a seven-hundred-dollar sweater. You live here full-time, but haven't paid a dime toward the place.” She paused to catch her breath. “You were never going to add me to your bank account, were you?”

Scott didn't say a word.

“I want you to start paying rent.”

Scott was staring at her now, his eyebrows raised. Molly saw the surprise in his eyes and felt emboldened.

“Actually, back-rent, for the last eleven months you've been here, and money to help pay for Dylan's clothes,” she continued. “And I need to have access to the bank account if I'm going to be the one taking care of the bills and groceries.”

She took a moment to look at him, making sure not to break eye contact. “I don't think that's too much to ask, do you? I mean, considering that we're a family now and all.”

Scott stood up. She used to love how tall he was, and strong, before the day it started to scare her. Now she just saw him, his chest at her eye level, and envisioned a wall. He was a wall, not big enough to block her way, and definitely not so big it couldn't be scaled. The computer game was on pause behind him, the voices of the gun-wielding soldiers yelling over and over again.

“We're getting married, Molly. I'm not paying rent to my wife.” Scott's legs were planted wide as he stood between the computer and the bed, next to the door. “As it is, do you really think your name's going to be on the mortgage? My parents already have their lawyers working up papers for the landlord. I'm going to control the money.”

Molly bent over to slip her feet into her boots, careful not to take her eyes off Scott for too long. She felt sick to her stomach.

“This is ridiculous.” Scott's face was red. “You're home all day anyway. You shouldn't need money, unless you're renting some hotel room somewhere when I'm not looking. I'm sure you've got old Liam on speed dial.”

Molly just shook her head in response. She'd heard it before.

She nodded toward the desk. “That's my computer. The cable you watch all the time on TV? I pay for it. The food you keep pulling out of the fridge while you leave the door hanging wide open? I buy that, too. And I'm finished buying it. You don't get a free pass anymore. Not from me, anyway.”

“This is bullshit, Molly.”

“I don't think so.” Molly was fully dressed now and standing tall. “We have a daughter you need to pay attention to. We have a house to keep clean for her, and a college fund to discuss, and preschools to look into before she gets wait-listed. It's time to be a grown-up, Scott.”

“I'm not buying into any of this,” Scott said. “You liked me just fine a few months ago. I think something's going on with
you
.

“You cheating on me?” he said. “Got somebody else you think is better?”

“I really wish you'd stop accusing me of that.” Molly sighed. “I can't believe you think I'd even have the
energy
to cheat, even if I wanted to.”

“Well, something's making you feel pretty good about yourself to make you think you can start bossing me around.”

“No, I'm on my own, here, saying that you can't walk all over me.” Molly's anger continued to boil, but now she could barely contain a smile threatening to sneak onto her face. “Why do you
automatically assume it's another guy? I'm getting a real job again, one in PR.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that,” Scott said.

“I've got two interviews lined up for next week.” Molly watched Scott's face for a reaction. He said nothing.

“And as for us?” Molly continued. “I'm finished taking your crap.”

He was shaking his head, muttering under his breath.

“Scott.” He looked up at her, his eyebrows pulled together in angry confusion. “This part is over. I'm taking Dylan to my parents' for the weekend.” Molly pulled the bag she kept packed for visits home out of the closet and hoisted it onto her shoulder.

Molly looked around the room, at the piles of his clothes dropped like used tissues in the corners of the room. “You can use the time alone to pack up your stuff and leave. I want you out of my house.”

Scott stood in place, running his hand through his hair. Molly could see him thinking, reaching for some plan of attack, but she stepped to the door before he could make his move. Dylan had started crying for her from the living room, ready for a meal and some comfort from her mother. Molly slid around him and was about to step over the threshold to the hallway when she glanced sidelong at Scott. He'd started to sputter in indignation, and she knew he wouldn't block her way. The computer game was still making its machine-gun sounds, punctuating the tense air with the screams of some invisible character getting blown up, over and over again, as it repeated its loop. Molly leaned over, slammed the lid of the computer closed, and walked calmly down the stairs to her daughter.

New Year's Eve

M
olly sat in her parked car on a densely tree-lined street in Merion Station, staring at the brick facade of a sprawling home. A half-moon driveway encircled an intricate English garden and brick wall. It lay between her and the front door. Dylan had fallen asleep on the drive, and Molly took a moment before disturbing her, trying to psych herself up to go ring Scott's parents' bell. She told herself that she only had to stay a couple of hours. She'd made sure that his parents had known ahead of time that she'd have to get home and let Dylan rest before Jenny and Dan's party tonight, so her early departure was already cleared. Now it was just a matter of going in.

Molly took one last deep breath and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror before getting out of the used Outback. She'd used a heavy hand to spackle concealer under her eyes, but there was no hiding the dark moons that seemed omnipresent on her skin. She took Dylan's carrier gently out of the backseat,
hoisted the heavy red quilted diaper bag over her shoulder, and gingerly walked up the path. It was the first time she'd worn heels since she'd entered her third trimester, and as soon as she'd stepped into them Molly had understood why most young moms she saw wore flats. It was an occupational hazard to even attempt to navigate stone pavers on stilettos while balancing a car seat. Molly picked her way through the garden, focused on not toppling over into Scott's parents' lawn.

Molly rang the bell beside the front door of the narrow entranceway, marveling at how such a massive home could possess such an unwelcoming, cramped front porch. She knew that Scott had spent most of his life in this house, his parents having moved in right after Monica finished her architecture program and Scott's father landed his job with the Eagles. Every surface inside had something interesting to look at, a vase or a piece of modern art framed to impress. Molly had never seen so much as a speck of dust on any of the furniture in the house, and the outside of the home was maintained to Stepford-like quality as well. None of the work, of course, was done by the Berkuses themselves. The boxwoods were trimmed into even squares along the front porch, and Molly noticed that the new evergreens planted in orderly little planters along the walk were well-tended and perfectly spaced. While the rest of the homes on this affluent street were adorned in white lights and tasteful wreaths for the holidays, here the trees were topped with so much gold garland and glittering ornaments it seemed the Berkus family was determined that their holiday spirit be witnessed from space.

As Molly stood outside the entrance, catching her breath, she focused on trying to get her pulse to stop racing. She had just enough time to adjust the car seat on her arm and brace her
shoulders back before the front door swung open with a clatter and Scott's mother appeared in the doorway. Her lean figure seemed to fill the length of the narrow space, and the diamonds in her ears flashed as she looked Molly over from head to high-heeled toe. Molly pasted an automatic smile on her face, set to endure the absolute awkwardness of this afternoon. A stranger would never have guessed that the two women used to bond over mani-pedis and afternoon leadership seminars. Molly's hand was clenched around the handle of Dylan's car seat, and she felt her heart thump with a little more forcefulness in her chest.

“Molly! What are you doing, standing out there in the cold? My granddaughter must be freezing. Come in, come in.” She made kissy faces at Dylan, but didn't touch Molly.

Molly blew out the breath she'd been holding and followed Monica into the house.

Once in the foyer, Monica placed her hands on Molly's shoulders and maneuvered her into the expansive living room. As large as the space was, it was crowded with Scott's relatives, many of whom stopped mid-conversation to turn and stare at Molly. She hovered there in the center of room, like a decorative urn being presented for auction at Sotheby's, still clutching the car seat.

Monica cleared her throat and looked around with a wide smile. Her square white teeth, set in straight rows in her mouth, snapped together once before she introduced Molly to the general crowd, speaking to no one in particular but addressing the entire room.

“Well. Molly, meet Scott's aunt and uncle. You already know Trudy, of course, and the cousins. This is Molly, everyone!”

Monica bent over the car seat in a dramatic swoop. “And
this—this!—beautiful girl right here is my very own gorgeous little grandbaby. Oh, doesn't she look like Scott? Hello, sweet Dylan!” Molly couldn't help but feel like Scott's mother was acting out her own one-woman show.

Monica turned again to the rest of her family after hearing someone whisper. “Yes, it's Dylan. I know, her name is a little, well,
different
, but Molly is Irish, after all. You know how it goes.”

Molly stood, staring at Monica in surprise, as the women rushed over to peer into the seat. The shiny demeanor, her smooth glamour, had all dropped away into a Northeast Philly accent now that Monica was inside, surrounded by her own family. Molly watched the women coo over the baby, mentally prepared to smack away any cocktail sauce–stained finger that made contact with her daughter's face. She still hadn't seen Scott, and she wondered if he'd declined to show up. She hoped he was there. She was ready to see him.

Monica finally acknowledged Molly again.

“Oh, let me take your coat, Molly. And let's get you off of those high heels. It's about time we saw you out of those sweatpants and UGGs, but my goodness, these certainly are high, aren't they?” she said. “Well, good for you for putting yourself together so well so soon after the baby was born!”

Monica turned to a woman standing next to her, a cousin, or aunt, possibly. “So many mothers today have to spend all their time with their little ones, but it's just lovely that she makes sure to take the time from this sweet baby for herself, isn't it?”

Molly attempted a smile. “Uh, thank—”

“Why, you only have a little bit of a stomach left, Molly! It's barely anything at all!”

“—you?” Molly lowered her voice a little, when all she
wanted to do was laugh.
Or scream,
she thought.
Really, either one would be fine.
“Um, Monica? Is there anywhere more private I could go to feed Dylan?”

Molly's daughter was stirring in her seat, with her face scrunched up in an expression that meant the hungry baby would be roaring for milk as soon as she opened those pretty blue eyes.

“Oh, honey, if you want to get settled in, Edward could feed her.”

Scott's father came into the room just then, holding a can of beer in one hand. He was almost shouting into the ear of a middle-aged man next to him.

“They should just bench him, anyway! If his own QB doesn't trust him, why the hell is he still starting?” He clapped his great paw of a hand onto Molly's shoulder and bent over to get a look at Dylan.

“What do you think of dose Iggles, huh, little Dylan? Oh, my pretty little princess won't like football, will she? Just tutus and ballet class for you, sweetheart!”

“Dear,” Monica addressed her husband, “I was just suggesting to Molly that maybe you'd like to feed the baby?”

“You were suggesting?” Edward's voice was jovial. “And here I thought I was in charge around this house!” He looked around at the small crowd for approval.

Molly watched Monica's head drop. She concentrated on her wedding rings, twisting the large, teardrop-shaped diamond around on her finger.

“Oh, I'm just joking,” Edward continued. “Yeah, Molly, I'd love to feed her! Where's the bottle?” He looked around the floor for the diaper bag, and Molly felt her cheeks go red.

“Um, actually, Edward, I haven't started her on a bottle yet. But thanks for the offer.”

Scott's father tilted his head and stared at her, his forehead wrinkled with bewilderment.

“How the hell does she eat, then? She's, what, four months old by now?” His voice was loud. Several people surrounding them turned to listen in. Monica's head snapped to attention.

Molly swallowed. “Edward, you know she's breastfed. I'm still nursing her.” She stifled a smile at the look of horror that flashed across Edward's face.

“Oh.” Edward sipped his beer and looked away.

“Still breastfeeding? Oh, my,” Monica murmured. “My goodness, I thought only poor people and vegans did that anymore.”

She gestured toward the staircase. “You can use the guest room upstairs, then, dear. Second door on your left. It has the pink wallpaper.”

Molly excused herself and got upstairs as quickly as she could without making it obvious that she was nearly running in her stocking-clad feet. She shut the door to the guest room and settled herself onto the flowered bedspread with Dylan, a burp cloth, and her phone, placing her bag on the floor beside her. Molly's heart was running around in her chest like a rabbit trying to escape a predator. She was used to being around Scott's parents with him by her side, but now the dynamic had shifted. Interacting with both Monica and Edward on her own was a little like throwing herself into shark-infested waters with chum tied around her neck. Though in this case, the chum was her defenseless daughter.

Molly and Dylan settled into their feeding session. Molly leaned against the floral pillow sham with her eyes closed, the top of her dress pulled to the side so Dylan could nurse. She relaxed to hear the baby's soft grunting sounds and felt the small hand where it rested against her back, kneading the skin with a
sort of absentminded concentration that didn't seem possible in someone so small. It was as if the small creature already knew her mind, already had it all together, and just needed to grow into a body big enough to make whatever she wanted happen. Molly wondered if she might not be a little jealous of her baby.

There was a brisk knock at the door. Before she could call out, it flew open, and the person she had been waiting to see broke into the room.

“Scott.”

Molly tossed a burp cloth over her upper body in an attempt to cover up and tightened her hold on Dylan in a quick, instinctive move. She smoothed her hair around her shoulders with her free hand before taking notice of Scott's face. It held a strange expression, an unnerving combination of purpose and preoccupation. Molly reached under her hip to make sure her phone was still there where she'd placed it and adjusted the cloth over her bare chest again.

“Oh, relax, Molly. It's not like I've never seen them before.”

Molly ignored his comment. “I didn't think you were here.”

“My parents are throwing a family party.” Scott stood at the foot of the bed, like he was unsure of where to go. “Why wouldn't I be here?”

He shifted from side to side in his shoes, which were scuffed on the top, most likely by the hand of an artisan cobbler in Europe.

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?” The house felt too quiet, and Molly felt her face flush hot. “I'd like to feed Dylan in peace, and then we can talk.”

Scott snorted. “That name's not great, but I guess it was the best one out of all the crazy choices you were dreaming up,” he said. “What was that one name on your list? Wait, it was Rhiannon, right? After that Fleetwood Mac song your dad likes so much?”

There was a moment of awkward silence while Molly watched him. Scott rocked on his feet, as if deciding what to do next. He was wearing a pair of tailored corduroy pants with a luxe button-front shirt he'd rolled at the sleeves. He looked as well-put-together as always, if one didn't notice the uncharacteristic way his eyes shifted, or how he kept running his hand through his hair.

“Seriously, can you go?” Molly said. “I'll talk to you downstairs, in a few minutes.”

Scott acted like he hadn't heard her and moved toward the bed. Molly scooted farther back into the cushions, clutching the startled baby to her chest. She could feel her breath quicken.

“Molly, I just want to talk to you, and then I'll leave you alone. I promise.”

Scott dropped down onto the foot of the mattress and looked at his daughter. Dylan had gone back to Molly's breast to nurse, her head and shoulders covered under the wide burp cloth, so that all he could see was a hand and her lower body in its brown tights and knit sage-colored dress.

“I gotta tell you something, Molly.”

He inhaled.

“It's hard for me to feel close to Dylan.” He glanced at the baby once again. “And it has nothing to do with her weird name.”

Molly's arm tightened even more around the infant. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean, she's my kid. I made her, but big whoop, you know? I don't see me getting . . . used to her.”

Molly swallowed. She stared at Scott's face, trying to discern some sort of emotion in his dull eyes. “And why are you telling me this?”

“Because it doesn't change the way I feel about you.”