Smart Women (29 page)

Lucy was asleep on Sara’s legs. Sara liked watching Lucy sleep. She listened for sounds that would tell her what kind of dream Lucy was having. If Lucy sighed and seemed serene, then she was having a good dream. If she shuddered and whimpered and her body twitched, she was having a nightmare. Sara wondered if Lucy dreamed about dogs or people, if she dreamed in color or black and white.

Sara heard someone coming down the hall. She could recognize each of them by their footsteps. Margo’s were soft and quick; Stuart’s, in his Topsiders, were squeaky; Michelle clumped in her clogs or hiking boots. These were her father’s footsteps and he was wearing his Nikes. “Dad . . .” Sara called.

“Yes, honey . . .”

“Could you come here for a minute?”

“Sure.” He came into her room and sat on the edge of her bed. She put out her hand and he took it.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too.”

“For how long?”

“What do you mean, for how long?” Daddy asked.

“You’re supposed to say,
For always and forever,
” Sara explained, “and then I say,
That’s how long I’ll love you too.
”

“Who made that up?” he asked.

“Mom. We say it every day.”

“Maybe we could come up with something new and original,” her father said.

“No! I don’t want something new and original. I want you to say this one.”

“Okay, sure . . . let’s start again.”

“I love you, Dad,” Sara said.

“I love you too.”

“For how long?”

“For always and forever.”

“That’s how long I’ll love you too.” Sara thought that saying it would make her feel better, but it didn’t. It sounded babyish and stupid. And probably her mother would be angry that she had taught it to Daddy. It was supposed to be their special ritual. Sara looked down at her father’s hands. She liked the way his fingernails ended in half moons. “Do you think she misses me?” Sara asked quietly.

“I’m sure she does.”

“Do you think I could write to her?”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” her father said.

She started her letter the next day, in English class. She slipped a piece of notebook paper into her American Poetry book and wrote:

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry you’re sick and I hope you feel better very, very soon. I had the flu. It lasted almost two weeks. But now I’m better. Lucy is fine. We had a lot of snow but now it’s getting nice and I hope to go skiing next weekend. I wish you could . . .

“Sara . . .” Mrs. Walters called. “Sara . . . are you listening?”

“What?” Sara asked. “Me?”

“Welcome back to earth, Sara,” Mrs. Walters said.

Everyone laughed. Sara could feel her face turn red.

“We were discussing what Robert Frost had in mind when he wrote the lines,
But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep.
”

“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“We know. Try to pay attention from now on,” Mrs. Walters said.

“I will.” Sara folded the letter and tucked it into her math book. It wasn’t any good anyway. It sounded like the kind of letter you write because you have to, not because you want to.

33

F
RANCINE, YOU HAVE A LETTER
FROM
S
ARA.
”

She would not speak.

“Would you like to read it?”

She would not think.

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

She would not feel.

“I’ll leave it here, on your table, in case you change your mind.”

And no one could make her.

She closed her eyes.

34

I
T WAS NO LONGER
AN AFFAIR,
Margo thought. It was no longer just a live-in situation. It was a merging of families, a merging of histories. She had wanted Andrew. She had wanted him to share her life, but she had not given enough thought to sharing his. She should have considered the possibilities earlier in the relationship. She should have sorted out her feelings in advance, so that they would not come spilling out now, when she needed to remain clear-headed. She had never expected Sara to move in with them. She had had no time to prepare, no time to get used to the idea, yet she wanted it to work. She had helped Andrew paint Sara’s room—which until a few weeks ago had been Stuart’s room—a soft violet color, hoping to make Sara feel more at home. But she was not sure that Sara would ever feel at home here.

Every time Margo approached her Sara put up a barrier. She was polite to Margo, but she did not relate to her.

“Sara, I know this is a hard time for you,” Margo had said once, “but if you ever feel like talking . . .”

“That’s okay,” Sara had said. “Where’s Dad?”

Another time Margo had begun, “Sara, if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

“That’s okay,” Sara had answered, and then she had quickly changed the subject. “Do you have an old shopping bag? I need to take a project to school tomorrow.”

“Sure, under the kitchen sink,” Margo had said.

Sara reminded Margo of the windup mouse that Stuart had loved as a baby. He would watch it travel across the room, waiting for it to bump into a piece of furniture, shrieking with delight each time it changed directions.

Margo was not at all sure that she would make a good step-parent. She thought of Aliza and what it must be like for her, trying to build some kind of relationship with Stuart and Michelle. She warned herself to go slowly, to be patient, not to expect too much.

W
HEN
M
ARGO AND
A
NDREW
had first talked about B.B.’s breakdown, Andrew had cried, blaming himself. Margo had held him in her arms, comforting him, telling him over and over that it wasn’t his fault, that his guilt wasn’t going to help B.B., wasn’t going to help Sara, wasn’t going to help any of them. He began to have nightmares. All through that long week when they’d been sick, he had dreamed about Bobby. He had cried out in his sleep, reliving the accident—the sound of the glass shattering, the bodies tossed at impact, the children screaming. Margo had urged him not to confuse B.B.’s breakdown with the accident. “This is her problem,” Margo had told him, “and the answer to it is somewhere inside of her.”

She’d sounded so reasonable then, so perceptive, so certain, she had almost convinced herself. But the feelings of guilt did not belong exclusively to Andrew. There were moments when Margo blamed herself for B.B.’s breakdown. If only she hadn’t met Andrew, hadn’t allowed herself to fall in love with him, hadn’t invited him to move in with her. Everyone has a breaking point, Margo thought. Everyone.

On the night Margo had told her children about B.B.’s breakdown she’d said, “This is going to be very hard on Sara. I hope you’ll both be understanding.”

Michelle, who had come down with the flu that morning, spoke in a whispery voice. “You don’t have to tell us how to behave. We can appreciate how it would feel to have your mother go bonkers. We came pretty close ourselves.”

Stuart had shot Michelle a poisonous look.

“Well, we did,” Michelle said, coughing. “Mother was just hanging on by a thread when Leonard’s wife came over with the gun. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“It was a difficult time in my life,” Margo said.

“You can’t count on anyone or anything,” Stuart said, his voice breaking. “Life is shit . . . this proves it.”

“Stu,” Margo said, going toward him. It was not like Stuart to break down, to show emotion, although Margo wished he would more often. “Is everything all right with Puffin?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I just thought . . .”

“This has nothing to do with Puffin.” He had spun on his heels and left the room.

Two weeks later, when they had all recovered from the flu, Andrew came into the bathroom one night while Margo was brushing her teeth. He sat down on the edge of the tub and said, “Do you think I should take Sara home and stay there until Francine comes back?”

Margo dropped her toothbrush into the sink. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not getting defensive. I’m just asking a simple question.” She looked into the mirror at his reflection. He had dark circles under his eyes.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked.

“Stay here.” If he left now Sara would never take them seriously, and neither would Stuart or Michelle.

“For better or for worse?”

“Yes.” She picked up her toothbrush and rinsed out her mouth.

“It’ll complicate your life.”

“My life’s already complicated.”

“What about your kids . . . I don’t want them to become resentful.”

“My kids will handle it.” She turned to face him.

“I like the idea of Sara seeing us as a family,” he said, pushing his hair away from his face. “And she’ll have a better chance of adjusting away from Francine’s house . . . won’t she?”

Margo nodded.

“There are too many memories over there.”

“Don’t worry,” Margo said softly. “We’ll make it work.”

He stood up and she rested her face against his flannel shirt, which felt warm and soft and reassuring.

B
UT NOW
M
ARGO REALIZED
it wasn’t as easy as she’d thought it would be. Andrew was overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility toward Sara. And Sara, understandably insecure, had become clinging and withdrawn. Margo thought she should see a therapist, someone to help her through the trauma of her mother’s breakdown. But Andrew believed she needed only love.

They did not agree on what Sara should be told. Margo felt she should be told the truth, about everything. That it was important to learn to deal with reality.

“Since when are you an analyst?” Andrew asked angrily.

“I’m not, but you don’t want Sara to grow up like B.B., do you, denying reality?”

“Sara is nothing like Francine.”

“Good. Then tell her about the marriage. Tell her about Lewis.”

“There’s no reason for her to know about that now.”

“It happened, didn’t it? It’s real . . .”

“It’s not my place to tell her . . . it’s Francine’s.”

“Oh, sure. And it’s Francine’s place to explain about the breakdown too . . . right?”

“I’ll talk to her about Francine and her illness, but I don’t see any reason to discuss the marriage and I’m asking you not to either. I’m not even sure, when Francine comes out of this, that the marriage will be intact.”

“Is that what you’re hoping?”

“I’m hoping she’ll come out of it . . . that’s all.”

“Suppose someone else tells Sara about the marriage?”

“Who?”

“Lewis.”

“I’ll ask him not to.”

“I don’t like secrets, Andrew. Secrets always backfire.”

“Just this one time,” Andrew said. “Please.”

“All right,” Margo sighed. “All right.”

She felt a growing distance between herself and Andrew, which frightened her. She missed him. Missed the closeness they had developed. Intellectually, Margo understood. Emotionally, she was having trouble. She would not allow herself to compete for Andrew’s attention with a twelve-year-old. How could she possibly resent the time he needed to devote to Sara? She was his child and she had serious problems of her own. Yet, at times, Margo did feel resentful and she was ashamed.

She needed to talk to Andrew about her feelings. But right now there was so much going on that they weren’t talking about anything except Sara and B.B. and what to have for dinner. They fell into bed exhausted each night. They had not made love in weeks.

“Darling . . .” her mother said over the phone, “are you sure you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”

“I’m taking each day as it comes,” Margo said.

“It’s a big responsibility, another child.”

“It’s temporary.”

“You’re sure?”

“No, I’m not sure of anything.”

“You have to do what’s right for you, and for your children.”

“I’m trying, Mother,” Margo said, choking up. “The funny thing is, all I ever wanted is what you and Dad have.”