We Could Be Beautiful (18 page)

“No macaroni?” The waiter looked disappointed. He was probably poor. He probably commuted here from an armpit in Queens. That macaroni would probably feed his whole family for days.

•

I came home drunk and delirious. I walked up the stairs, muttering, “Sell the stairs, sell everything.” I yelled for William too loudly and too many times. William William William! He wasn’t there. He was still at work. Herman skittered toward me, his nails tapping on the wood. “Fucking dog,” I slurred. I got to the bedroom, popped a Xanax, fell asleep.

•

In the morning William sat on the bedside, freshly showered, newly dressed. A hand on my hip. Concerned gaze. Fuck. I was still in the pantsuit, minus the jacket, which was on the floor. I reeked of cheese. My tangled hair on the white pillow like nasty dead vines, the unopened Pellegrino on the nightstand—oh yeah. My legs like metal pipes, the mucus-caked corners of my eyes, my head echoing, pounding like an empty room with rocks being hurled at the walls.

“You weren’t here last night,” I said. My voice sounded like a bulldozer.

“I was at the office.”

I smoothed out the fabric on his pant leg, rolled onto my back, put a helpless hand on my forehead. “I must look terrible.” It occurred to me then that with someone else I would have said, “I must look like shit,” but with William I said, “I must look terrible.” I had a habit of adopting my lovers’ language and mannerisms. I assumed all people did this.

“You look lovely.” He smiled. “And not a day over thirty.”

“You always say the right thing.” I sat up and gently rubbed underneath my eyes because I imagined there was makeup there.

“What are your plans for the day?”

I sighed. Would I tell him? I wanted to, but I was ashamed. “I’m, uh…” I fumbled. I unscrewed the warm Pellegrino, took a sip. It tasted like cheese.

He looked earnest when he said, “You know, Catherine, I love you very much.”

“I love you, too,” I said.

“The door was unlocked last night when I came home.”

“No.” I put a hand over my mouth.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

I couldn’t seem to breathe in deeply enough. “No, actually, things are not okay. My mother—my mother ruins everything.”

“She’s ill. I know it must be very hard.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s money. I—there’s no more money. There is no more money.”

He looked around the room as if to say, But yes, there is money here.

“She drained the proceeds from the house. Before she lost her mind, apparently, she made stipulations to donate almost everything. And the trust is gone. It’s gone. The art is gone, the money is gone. Caroline knew the whole time. I am such an idiot, I am such an idiot. And the shop isn’t doing well—it’s not doing well at all and I might have to sell it. And the wedding, and I am stupid, I am so stupid, and what are we going to do?”

He listened. He held me. He put a hand on Herman, who was freaking out next to us on the bed. “There must be more. Your family has so much. She couldn’t have possibly donated everything.”

“I think she did.”

He inhaled sharply. I remember he briefly touched his heart, maybe to see how fast it was beating. “It must be wrong.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Do you own this house?”

“Yeah.”

He looked relieved. “That’s something.”

“And there’s a loophole. Ten million dollars for every kid Caroline and I have. Oh, and we have to be married—that’s part of it. Which is so outdated.”

“Ten?” William was stunned. “My goodness.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s a lot.”

His shock made me proud. I was proud I came from so much, proud I could bring this to the table, proud I could provide for us. This lasted for about one second and was followed by an immense sense of dread, because I knew, deeply—deep in my body, deep in my heart—that I would never get pregnant again. I was forty-three years old. I’d had too many abortions. Nature had given me what I wanted and I had said, “Not right now, please come again later.” And nature didn’t work like that. You couldn’t make appointments with nature. When I pictured my insides, they were ravaged and dry. My period barely came anymore. I may have looked good, but I knew I wasn’t exactly healthy.

William twirled his hair, smiled. “That certainly gives us an incentive to follow in Caroline’s footsteps.”

“Because it’s something we want anyway,” I clarified.

“Of course it is,” he said. “Of course. Catherine, there is nothing I want more than to have children with you.” He trailed his fingertips over my wrist. “You don’t think it’s too late, do you?” he asked, and then he seemed to be holding his breath.

I didn’t want to tell him that it was probably too late. What if he left me? What would I have then? I would have nothing. “I hope not,” I said.

“Me too,” he said.

“William?” I pressed my legs into him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, my darling.”

My face got hot. I almost said, “Never mind, I’ll ask you later.” But I was desperate. I had to know. I remember looking at his hands. I remember he was fidgeting. He was straightening his tie, he was twirling his hair again. I remember my eyes losing focus in the detail of his charcoal suit. I remember his cuff links were simple silver squares that day. It took me a long time to say it. “Are you going to love me no matter what?”

“Catherine,” he said, as though surprised I had asked. “Of course I will love you.” And then he leaned down so his face was touching my face and said exactly what I wanted to hear. “It’s only money,” he whispered. His minty aftershave, his smooth cheek. “It is only money.”

“What about the wedding?”

“Don’t worry about the wedding. I’ll take care of it. I will take care of everything.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I’ll get us a joint credit card.”

And then I just blurted it out. “How much do you make a year?”

“Only three hundred thousand.” He scrunched his face. “Not nearly enough.”

He was right. That was not nearly enough. But it might be all we would have later. If, years from now, we sold the house, spent the money, ran out of everything, this would be all we would have: his measly three hundred grand a year.

“Will you stay home with me today?”

“I wish I could, but I really should be at work.”

“Please.”

“Maybe you can go to the shop this morning. It might make you feel better.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You can. You will go in, you will find all the records pertaining to the finances of the shop, and you will bring them home and I will take a look at them.” He didn’t say this sternly, but like it was the only obvious thing to do.

“Okay.”

“Good. And then tonight you and I can spend a romantic evening together. If we want a child, we should start trying now, don’t you agree?”

I punched the air with my fist like a tired cheerleader. “No more condoms,” I cheered. “Hoorah.”

“Hoorah.” He kissed my forehead. “We have a plan. We have a perfect plan.”

As I watched him walk out of our bedroom in that expensive suit, I felt almost spiritual. Maybe I had prayed for disaster. People had cancer and car accidents and awoke clear-eyed, happy. Those people understood how lucky they were. They were awake. They were together. Disaster had brought them together. Maybe this was why I had always dated poor, chaotic men. I had thought their deprivation would rub off on me and save me from my silly life. But it was never equal. They were deprived, they siphoned off me. I had this power I didn’t understand. It always became me saving them. But William was different. William was strong. William, I knew, would save me from my silly life.

16

W
e were early. We stood, browsing the wall of pamphlets, waiting for Evelyn. Caroline braided her arm into mine and I let her.

The Avalon smelled like wet moss and dryer sheets. Yellow-and-white-striped chairs, thick with padding and upholstered in sateen, dotted the waiting room. Yellow diamonds made patterns on the grass-green carpet, and large photographs of smiling old people (youthful-old, not sad-old) in sunny, manicured parks hung on lemon-yellow walls. The fan of magazines on the white table—
Redbook, AARP
—looked like it had never been touched, and the potted plants with their domed hedge tops stood with a whimsical pride like lollipops in a wonderland.

The plan was to stay here for lunch instead of going to the Italian place. Mom might be less disoriented if we stuck to her regular routine. I hadn’t seen her since the engagement party. Caroline had. Once a week and sometimes more. I would have felt guilty, but I reminded myself of how horrible she had been at the party and how stressed I had been about the wedding. It wasn’t personal. I’d barely seen anyone. So, okay, I felt a little guilty. And nervous. I checked my purse again. Yes, there it was: a copy of the living will. Ted had e-mailed it to me and I planned to show it to Mom if it came to that.

“Ladies.” Evelyn looked tired. Evelyn always looked tired. She strained her neck back to see us under the heavy hoods of her eyelids. The bright colors of her scrubs suggested we should be on an island: magenta pants and a manic floral top. Her shoes used to be white but had now taken on the coloring of an old, scratched-up dolphin. She had tied her long braids up in a purple scrunchie, but she had missed a lot of them. The loose ones dripped all over her shirt like a mess of electrical cords.

She motioned for us to follow with a sluggish hand, the nails of which were expertly painted in a zebra pattern, which was too perfect—those had to be stickers. “Come with me.”

We followed her down the yellow hall, past the few offices and into the residential area. The bronze placards on the doors said
Community Room, TV Room, Bingo Room
.

“Oh, how was bingo?” Caroline asked.

“No bingo today,” Evelyn said.

“Did they play a different game?”

“No games.” Evelyn did not explain further.

Caroline accepted this with a nod. “How’s Mom feeling?”

“Mrs. West has turned on me again.” Her voice became animated. “Thinks I stole her earrings this time.”

“Oh no,” Caroline said.

“Which earrings?” I said.

At this Evelyn turned. “You, too? You accusing me now, Catherine?”

“No, I’m not. I was just wondering which ones.”

Evelyn didn’t answer. When we got to the placard that said
Dining Room,
she said, “Ask her yourself. She’s right there,” and pointed to our mother, who sat alone at one of the round tables. It was a large room with a white tile floor and columns that attached to a very high ceiling. The other tables were sprinkled with residents and caretakers in paler scrubs than Evelyn’s. One wall was all glass. The light poured in on that side.

Our mother sat on the shaded side. She looked small in her black blouse. Too small. Disappearing-small. Her posture was excellent, as it had always been: straight spine, hands clasped elegantly on the table. She gazed ahead at a light yellow pillar.

“I’m taking my break,” Evelyn said. “You text if you need me. I can come back.”

I realized then that Evelyn was one of those people who worked too hard so she could complain about how she worked too hard.

“Thanks,” we said.

“Ease into it, okay?” Caroline pulled her spaghetti strap up onto her shoulder. She was wearing a microscopic black skirt. It was inappropriate, especially for a nursing home. People were looking. An old woman gawked. Her mouth hung open. There was food in it. My heels made a conspicuous tapping noise on the tiles. I tried to walk with more weight on the balls of my feet, which was uncomfortable and didn’t help.

When we got to the table, my mother did not look up. She was busy winning a staring contest with this pillar. I looked at the pillar to make sure there was nothing going on with it, and no, there was not. It was just a pillar.

“Hey Mom,” Caroline said.

She looked up then, her muddy green eyes. They used to be a much brighter green. Emerald, almost. It upset me to think that the people who met her now wouldn’t know this.

“Mom,” I said. “Hi, how are you?”

Caroline bent to kiss her on the cheek. I did the same. My mother took my wrist. This was new. She had never been one to initiate physical contact unless a social situation called for it. Her skin was old-person soft. “You look wonderful, Catherine.”

It was not surprising that my mother would say this now, on a day when each of my ribs was clearly delineated through my thin white T-shirt like a xylophone waiting to be played. Mom had always liked us thin. (“Fat people are weak people.”) She let go of my wrist. I sat on one side of her and Caroline sat on the other, looking sad that Mom hadn’t told her how great she looked, too.

She brushed a speck of nothing off her collar. “What are we doing
here
?” she asked, as if
here
were definitely the wrong place to be.

“We’re having lunch, Mom,” Caroline said too loud.

“Don’t yell, she’s not deaf.”

“I’m not. That’s my normal voice.”