Elizabeth the First Wife (13 page)

Maddie stood in the doorway of Smiths Coffee, searching for my table and the iced mocha latte I'd ordered for her. Tucked into a table for two in the back of the warehouse-like space, I'd been watching the door and waved her over enthusiastically. With her short, dark bob and hipster-dorky glasses on top of the distinctive plaid skirt and blazer from the Eastmont School for Girls, Maddie almost looked like a character from a CW show. Almost, because she lacked the sophistication needed to pull off her look with irony. She had been wearing the same uniform skirt to school since she was five. She felt so cursed with dark hair in a sea of blond ponytails that she simply cut it off. And she wore glasses because she needed them, not because they made her look like Zooey Deschanel. She was a work in progress but she was years from completion.

Even though she was nowhere near her adult self, Maddie already had an impressive resume that included a half dozen AP classes, a GPA of over 4.0, the mastery of a sport and/or musical instrument,
and the standard travel-abroad experience that typically blossomed into a fully funded 501(c)3. At school she excelled in languages and the arts, so her schedule was packed with classes like AP Studio Art, a concept that struck me as a crime against creativity. After a family safari/humanitarian mission to Kenya, she started an organization that supplied sanitary napkins to schoolgirls in East Africa so they could continue with their education after they reached puberty. It was called the Big Red Tent and she'd received several national commendations for her work, though I suspected the Congressman might have had something to do with that. On the athletic front, Maddie had zero skills, but she was the manager and token white girl on the school's all-Asian table tennis team, a nationally ranked powerhouse. To top it all off, she played the flute.
The flute!

But in the high-stakes world of trophy teens, Maddie was just another super-smart, super-talented supergirl. Girls like Maddie were a dime a dozen, according to every parent who ever said the words “college” and “admissions” in the same sentence. (Believe me, as a college professor at a community college, I'd heard the same story a million times about the brilliant kid who got in nowhere and ended up in my class. Thanks, Mom and Dad! Insults all around.) As a congressman's daughter, Maddie would be an excellent candidate at many fine colleges by her senior year, but she had her heart set on Swarthmore. She followed the acceptance rate like others follow the stock market. She put so much pressure on herself that sometimes I wondered if she might implode. Or develop an eating disorder and simply fade away. But Maddie continued to thrive, despite her stunning success.

Sometimes I felt sorry for high school boys. How could they compete with this whole new brand of girls? The Alpharellas, I'd heard them called by the proud parents who pretended to be at the mercy of daughters who combined the traits of academic and social Alpha Girls with the personal grooming standards of Cinderella. The
poor boys in my classes were outmatched in almost every area except one: confidence. Apparently, confidence paid off in the end, because men were still running the world and making more cents on the dollar. How was that possible? I was rooting for the girls of Maddie's generation, but I feared they'd be too burnt out from achieving by the time they reached their twenties to muster the energy to upset the status quo.

“Hi, Elizabeth!” Maddie dropped her ninety-pound backpack and plopped into the well-worn club chair next to me. “I love your scarf! Is that H&M?”

Good eye. “Yeah. I was out to lunch the other day and spilled something down the front of my shirt right before class. So I bought this to cover up the damage.”

“So funny. It looks great. Thanks for this,” she said holding up her drink. “I wish we had a coffee bar at school.”

Well, in truth, the Eastmont School for Girls did have a sushi chef and a forty-seven-ingredient salad station, so her wish for a coffee bar was not completely unreasonable. “From what I can see, your generation needs less coffee and more sleep. My students are exhausted but wired most of the time. It's not a good combo. What's happening at school?”

“I'm in the middle of AP tests, so it's been really brutal. I have sooooo much work to do. Did you take all these tests?” Maddie often used me as a cultural historian, which delighted me but also made me wonder for the millionth time why her mother had left her. It's like she was trying to create a high school yearbook for her MIA mom. Did your parents let you go to a lot of concerts?
Only to see the Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl
. Did so many kids smoke weed in your day?
Yes, but it wasn't as strong as it is these days, so nobody cared
. Did you really wear those high-waisted jeans?
No, those were for moms. We were the first generation of leggings-wearers, with slouchy white socks and Keds. Super-hot
. I loved my role. “You are the
standardized-test generation. We didn't have a million AP classes, only a couple, and some people took the class without even taking the test. I feel sorry for you all, having to be judged all the time, having your intellects poked and probed and labeled. It's crazy.”

“Don't let my father hear you say that. There's nothing he loves more than a standardized test!” Maddie was right. Congressman Ted was pro-testing, both publicly and privately. The papers referred to his stance as No Test Left Behind. On the home front, Maddie had already taken the SATs three times, starting in her freshman year.

“So, I wanted to ask you something. I don't know what your plans are for the summer, but you may have heard that I'm going to Ashland to work on a production of. …”

“Midsummer Night's Dream
with FX Fahey. Yes, I think I've heard, Elizabeth.” Maddie was on top of things.

“So I was wondering if you might want to come with me to Oregon. To work for me as my assistant. I'll need some help on the production and I'm working on a book. …”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. YES! I can't believe this. Thank you. I'll do anything. Get coffee. Make copies. Scrub floors. Anything!” Maddie was beside herself, and I had suddenly become World's Coolest Aunt, as if that title was in jeopardy. “Oh, wait, did you ask my dad yet? He might want me to do one of those summer school sessions at Stanford. I so don't want to go back there.”

That's why I loved Maddie, because Stanford didn't impress her. I laid down the law in my best Professor Lancaster, Academic Advisor tone of voice. “I did. It's all cleared with your father. You'll live with me, and there's even a salary involved. But I want to be clear, this is a real job. It's work, not camp. I'm not your babysitter.”

“I get it. I'm so excited. Best summer job ever. Oh my gosh, this experience will make the best college essay! I will work so hard. Thank you. Wait until I tell Emma!” Maddie really seemed to understand, because she was already texting her people. Then she added, “And FX Fahey is so cute!”

Oh boy.

The message read: I am here. Where are you?

It was either the existential question of all time delivered via text or my father was wandering around the PCC campus looking for me. I guessed the latter and responded: In my office. Will meet you in sculpture garden in 5.

My mind was racing.
What was my father doing on my turf?
The text was slightly alarming, but it did serve to jolt me into action. I had been daydreaming at my desk, more focused on what to pack for Ashland than grading my students' final papers. At this point in the semester, my students were barely hanging on, and I was even more burnt trying to get them to the finish line.
King Lear
was the final play on the syllabus, and it always freaked me out a little. The powerful father, the three daughters vying for his attention, the ensuing battles. It was all a little too close to the Lancaster family teen years, so the interruption from my father at this particular moment was eerie. I gathered my folders and headed out the door, happy to escape yet another paper entitled,
“King Lear
and the Origins of Tragic Irony.”
Really? Ya think you're the first to think that one up?
I wanted to scream. That kind of attitude was my clue that the school year needed to come to an end.

My father had been on campus only a few times, even though we worked less than a mile apart. I'd occasionally invite him to a president's reception or trustees' cocktail party if I'd been summoned to attend. We didn't have too many of those in the community college system, but when we did, I realized the advantages of arriving with a Nobel winner. You could walk straight up to the president and shake hands, and then leave early because you'd brought such a distinguished guest. It was an excellent partygoing strategy, and my father was happy to oblige because afterward we always hit Señor Pescado for fish tacos.

But today's visit was so unexpected it made me worry. Was he sick? Was my mother sick? Oh my God, did Roger Federer die?

I hustled over to the Boone Sculpture Garden to find out. Though the PCC campus lacked the romance and history of Caltech, it was bright and inviting in its own way, a jewel in the California community college system. Current budget issues aside, the campus featured new buildings, well-maintained gardens, and athletic facilities that rivaled those of any private college. The school was well supported by a foundation that made sure the campus befitted the impressive list of alumni and the aesthetic standards of Pasadena. It was a pleasure to stroll the grounds on any given day, but especially on a beautiful April afternoon like today. My office was a short walk from the sculpture garden, and I spotted my father immediately, wandering the outer perimeter of the Jody Pinto–designed water feature.

He waved me over, pointing to the massive water channel and sweeping his hand outward to invoke the whole plaza. “The water creates the effect of a galaxy spinning on its axis. All the forms seem to rotate around the center of the plaza. This is a special spot.” He didn't look well.

“It is. It's also a great place to have lunch.” I laughed, reminded of the mantra with which my father approached life: Physics is everything and everything is physics. Charming now as he stood mesmerized by the massive public art installation, not so charming when he tried to teach me how to drive, yelling phrases like “gyroscopic force” and “threshold of motion” instead of “Turn!” and “Stop!”

“This is a special spot, Elizabeth,” he repeated, as if he was working up to something bigger.

“Yes.” Again I agreed but was pretty sure the next sentence out of his mouth was going to include the words “brain tumor” and “three months to live.”

Much to my surprise, he offered some unsolicited advice. “But maybe you do need more of a challenge. In your career pursuits.”

Relief then anger rushed over my being. Oh, I see, he wasn't dying, but my career was. I sighed,
“Et tu, Brute.”

“Now hear me out. I'm not like your mother, but I don't understand this nonsense this summer. Why are you running off to Oregon with that actor if you're satisfied with your work? It's a sign that something is off.” I was taken aback at his surprising display of emotional awareness. He'd never acknowledged my emotional equilibrium before. (There's no crying in physics!) If I wasn't so annoyed, I might have been touched.

“Nothing's off. I just need to get away.”
Mainly from these kinds of conversations
. “The work sounds fun and challenging, that's all. I'm not pining away for my ex-husband, if that's what everyone is concerned about. It's a change of scene, and I need the money to remodel my kitchen. It's a smart work move, not a step backward.”

I was stomping around the plaza a bit, behavior not befitting a grown woman. And that indeed was my problem: Outside my family, I was capable; inside my family, I was thirteen. “I don't understand why this is such a big deal.”

“Your mother and I are worried about you.”

“Both of you are worried?” I was skeptical that worry was the main motivator here. My father never, ever worried; he believed in the Theory of Everything, so for him, things happened whether you worried or not. And my mother wasn't a big fan of worrying either; she was a doer, not a thinker.

“‘Well, I'm worried. I don't trust that man. Is he really being honest with you? Your mother, on the other hand, is enjoying spreading the news,” he admitted, not making eye contact. Richard Lancaster was not a big fan of the heart-to-heart (kinetic friction!), but I could tell he was really trying to have a meaningful conversation. He must really not trust FX. His instincts were worth something.