Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (28 page)

“No,” my mother says as I try to force the joint into her hand.

“Yes,” I say. “If you want, I’ll leave so that I don’t breathe any of it in. But, yes. Take it.”

She does as I say, and then waves me off so that she can smoke without worrying about my baby. I refrain from making a comment about how the smoke is no match for the fumes from the dark room, and walk upstairs without saying a word. My mother comes up to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, and I’ve already got a cup of hot tea ready for her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the mug from my hands.

“No problem,” I say. “Feel any better?”

“It takes the edge off,” she says. “But we’re not done talking about you and your job.”

“What else is there to discuss?” I ask, taking a sip of my water. “You want me to be miserable at a job I hate.”

“I don’t want you to be miserable. Of course I don’t want you to be miserable,” she says. “But you have a profession, for chrissakes. You’re really telling me that you don’t have any other options? It can’t just be either a job you hate or you don’t work at all.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But even if I did have options, I have no idea who would hire a pregnant woman.”

“They can’t not hire you because you’re pregnant,” Hunter says in lieu of “hello” as he and Skylar come into the kitchen. Skylar gives my mother and me each a kiss on the cheek and a big hug. “That’s discrimination.”

“Now you want to be a lawyer?” my mother asks Hunter with a smile. “I thought you were going into movies.”

“There are a lot of great legal thrillers, Gray,” Hunter responds gravely. “It’s good to be well-rounded.”

“You’re right,” my mother says. “Then I guess we should start today’s lesson.”

*   *   *

“If the pictures should tell a story,” Hunter says, “then I need Mrs. Morganfelder out here.”

“I really don’t see why you should need my mother,” my mom says to Hunter. She claims she’s not angry with my grandmother anymore, but she goes out of her way to not see her. I’m in no position to judge, since, lately, I’ve been doing pretty much the same thing.

“I’m telling a story about love through the ages. So, I’ll shoot Mrs. Morganfelder and Adan, and they’ll represent old love, then I’ll have Hannah and we’ll get Sugar out here, and they can represent middle-aged love, and then you’ll shoot Skylar and me. We represent young love.”

I’m not sure which of these statements to address first: that Hunter thinks I’m middle-aged, or that he wants me to do a photo shoot with Nate. I decide to tackle the easiest first:

“Why don’t you shoot Jaime and me?”

“Jaime doesn’t like us,” Skylar says. “He’s mean.”

Both statements are true.

“I think it’s a great idea,” my mother says. “Why don’t the two of you go into the house and grab my mother and Adan. First, think about wardrobe, and then think about setting. Don’t forget what we’ve been discussing about use of light. How will you use light to help tell your story?”

“Okay,” Hunter and Skylar say in unison, and rush off to the main house.

“So, what story should we try to tell?” I ask, sitting down on my grandmother’s favorite chaise longue. “One about a thirty-four-year-old who becomes middle aged?”

My mother puts her camera up to her face. She gives me no direction, just shoots, so I stare into the lens, expressionless.

“Did I ever tell you why I named you Hannah?” she asks, camera still up to her face.

“No,” I say, and she takes a shot.

“Because the name Hannah means ‘grace.’ You are a part of me,” she says. I furrow my brow, and she takes a shot. “I know you hated the way I had you, but you have to understand. I wanted you more than anything in the world. You are the love of my life. You’re a part of me.”

I’m so taken aback by this that I don’t know what to say. Why didn’t my mother ever tell me that before? It’s the sort of thing I would have loved to hear when I was younger. Why did she wait until now to tell me?

There’s so much I want to say to her, but I don’t know where to begin. As I formulate the words, she continues to shoot me, in rapid succession.

“Thank you,” I say, since I don’t know what else to say.

“For what?” she asks, and takes the camera down from her face.

“For telling me that.”

Later in the day, when we develop the photographs, I’ll think about what my mother said to me and smile. For the first time, I will hold on to a photograph my mother took of me and treasure it.

Forty-seven

My mother still hasn’t forgiven my grandmother. She claims she’s not angry anymore, but her eyes betray her. She refuses to look at my grandmother when she speaks to her, and she can barely stand to be in the same room with Adan.

When I try to broach the topic with my grandmother, she, too, pretends that everything is okay, that all is forgiven.

“Why would anything be wrong?” my grandmother asks with a slight smile, as if she hadn’t revealed her deepest, darkest secret just days earlier. We’re lying poolside together, just the two of us. Adan is off playing golf. Jaime is practicing his music. My mother is inside her room, getting checked out by her doctor.

“No reason,” I say to my grandmother. Two can play this game. I can pretend everything is perfect, too. But I’ll still get it out of her. I am a lawyer, after all. I’ve had witnesses who were far more difficult than my grandmother, and I always got them to tell me what I wanted to know. “Feel like taking a walk?”

“Sure,” my grandmother says, and in minutes we’re out on the beach, both in wide-brimmed hats and wearing liberal amounts of sunscreen. My grandmother’s advice is infectious. Once I began following it, I just couldn’t stop. I wonder, for a brief instant, just what else of my grandmother has rubbed off on me.

As we hit the sand, my grandmother walks toward Nate’s house. I think about objecting, but then remember that in order to get my grandmother to tell me what I want to know, I have to play her game.

“It’s been quite a summer,” I say. It takes all of my energy not to look up at Nate’s room as we pass his house.

“It most certainly has,” my grandmother says.

“I spoke to the firm,” I say. “I’ll be headed back to the city sometime soon. I think it’s time for me to get back to work.”

“How are you feeling?” my grandmother asks.

“Okay, I guess. The nausea seems to have passed.”

“No,” she says, turning to face me. Her eyes are a faint blue. I can just make them out from behind her sunglasses. “I meant, how are you feeling? How do you feel about everything?”

I pause for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then, I let loose.

“About what, exactly? My mother, who I never really got along with, is dying. I’m pregnant with Jaime’s child, and our relationship is falling apart. And then, I find out that the one person I’ve looked up to my entire life has been living a lie. So which part do you want to discuss?”

“All of it,” my grandmother says, taking a deep breath of salty ocean air.

“I’m angry with you,” I say, practically under my breath. And then, a bit louder: “I’m so angry with you.”

“I know,” my grandmother says. Her voice breaks slightly, and when I look at her, I can see tears forming at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, and we stop walking. We’re just standing there, on the beach, looking at each other. My grandmother begins to cry and I don’t do anything to comfort her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“It’s okay,” I parrot back, but the more she cries, the angrier I get. “Actually, it’s not okay. I’m so, so angry at you. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Who are you?”

“I’m still the same person,” my grandmother says, wiping her tears away with her hand. “You know who I am.”

“I don’t,” I say. “Not anymore. Let’s just go back to the house. I’m too angry for a walk on the beach.”

“I know you’re angry,” my grandmother says. “You should be angry. But hopefully, once that subsides a bit, you’ll come to realize that I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Hiding such a huge secret from my mom? How can that be the right thing? How can lying to someone you love ever be the right thing?”

“I just wanted her to be normal. To have a happy, normal life with a mother and father. Under one roof.”

“Maybe normal isn’t so great,” I say, channeling my mother. Which is weird, because I never agree with my mother. And normal is what I’ve been striving for my entire life. Why am I fighting my grandmother on it now? Would I hide something from my child if I thought it would protect her? Probably.

My grandmother barely notices that I’ve cut off her train of thought. She continues speaking as if I’d never interrupted. “And your grandfather was a great man. A great father. Your mother had a very happy childhood with him, you know. Until he was taken from us, of course. But he was a wonderful father.”

I don’t respond, I just look out to the ocean. I think about the way my mother used to speak of her father, about what a kind, gentle man he was, and how he always made her laugh. Always protected her. Made her feel safe.

“I think that what you need to know is that I always tried to do what I thought was the right thing at the time,” my grandmother says.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing now?” I ask. “With the choices I’m making?”

“There’s no right or wrong,” my grandmother says. “There’s only what you do and what you don’t do. You’ll never know what the path not taken might have held for you, so you should just try to make the decision you think is right. That’s what I did.”

“I need to sit down,” I say. Suddenly, I feel faint. I’m not sure if it’s the walking or the sun, but I need to sit immediately.

My grandmother ushers me to the edge of the beach, where the waves lick the sand, and we sit down together. The cool water makes me feel better, and once I no longer feel like I’m about to pass out, my grandmother pulls two bottles of water from her beach tote.

My grandmother puts her hands into the cold ocean water and presses them against my forehead, my back, and my neck as I drink the bottle of water.

“Any better?” she asks. I nod my head yes.

“So maybe I should do the same? Stay with Jaime so my child can have a normal life?”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Isn’t that what you did? You sacrificed the man you loved so your child could live a normal life.” I ask.

“Adan was my first love, the love I never fully got over, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love your grandfather. I never saw it as a sacrifice.”

“So what are you going to do about Mom?” I ask.

“Your mother came back. She has forgiven me,” she says, but we both know that it’s not true. Gray may have come back, but she’s a long way from forgiving my grandmother.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. I’ll continue to ask until she tells me what is really on her mind.

“She’s forgiven me, so there’s really nothing else to do,” she quietly says.

“What are you going to do?”

My grandmother puts her hands into the water and presses them to the back of my neck and my forehead. Then she dips her hands in the water again and does the same to herself. Quietly, she says, “I don’t know.”

*   *   *

The walk back to the house is lovely. Late afternoon—my favorite time of day. The heat is gone, but the cool breeze from the evening hasn’t yet set in. The sky is breathtakingly beautiful, and the wind coming off the ocean is just wonderful, like that first burst of spring air after a freezing cold winter.

As we near the house, we pass by Nate’s family’s home again. This time, I look up at his window. And I don’t hide it either—no sly glance out of the corner of my eye. No, this time I just turn my head and look. But he’s not there.

He’s standing right in front of us, out on the beach.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, and smiles.

“Nate,” I say.

“I’ll see you at the house, darling,” my grandmother says, and walks off before I have a chance to protest.

“Nate,” I say. I’m not sure of what else to say.

“I’ve been wanting to come by, but I just never know when it’s the right moment,” Nate says. He’s tracing something in the sand with his right foot. “You still haven’t told me that you love him. If you tell me you love him, I’ll leave you alone.”

“You could’ve come by,” I say, crossing my hands in front of my chest. “Jaime knows about us, and he’s okay with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nate asks, looking up from the sand, right into my eyes.

Now it’s my turn to look down. “He knows that we had something, but he doesn’t feel threatened. He’s okay with it,” I say. “We’re going to try to make a go of it. For the baby,” I quickly add.

“Is that what you want?” he asks. “Do you love him?”

I hesitate for a moment, and Nate seizes on my uncertainty.

“I didn’t think so,” he says, his eyes never leaving my face. “Then why be unhappy?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing here,” I say.

“Who says that being with Jaime is the right thing?”

“This baby is his.” I’m suddenly very aware of my body. From my chest that’s beginning to burn in the low afternoon sun, to my belly, which is beginning to poke out just the tiniest bit.

“I want to see you,” Nate says, putting his hand on my arm.

“I don’t know if that would be such a good idea,” I say, wriggling from his grip. I wonder if Jaime will be able to tell that Nate has touched my arm. If it will somehow leave an invisible mark.

“Please,” Nate says. “I want to see you.”

I look back at my grandmother’s house for an instant. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, but I feel like a teenager out past curfew. “Jaime has a gig tonight. We could meet up at around eight. I think he’s leaving at seven.”

“Okay,” Nate says. “Then tonight it is.” He leans over to kiss me, but I give him my cheek.

I feel shivers run up and down my spine as I race back to my grandmother’s house.

Forty-eight

It’s a beautiful night for a date. Not a trace of humidity in the air, the sun still high in the sky at eight o’clock. You couldn’t ask for a better evening. Surely it can’t be wrong to be going out with Nate on a night like this? If I were doing the wrong thing by seeing Nate while Jaime’s at his gig, the air would be colder, the wind would be sharper, and the temperature would have dropped. But we’ve got the sort of night that’s just meant for going out.