Pretty in Ink (17 page)

I roll my eyes. “Of course you did.”

“So what’s new in Hell?” she asks, waving to a pair of women who walk in pushing strollers.

“Now Mimi wants us to whore ourselves out on Twitter.”

“Leah, everyone’s on Twitter. I follow this coffee shop’s feed, and if you can match the tweeted quote to the author who wrote it, you get that drink for free. It’s fun.”

“Oh, spare me. Also, all these random freelancers have started appearing in the office. It’s like we’re hosting the Oscars and we’ve got seat fillers.”

“The parade of new faces. It’s inevitable, right? Believe me, you’ll be thrilled when you’re finally gone.” Liz doesn’t even pretend she thinks I won’t be fired. A woman taps her on the shoulder and says she’s looking forward to baby sign language tomorrow.

“What is this, a flipping commune? A cult?” I whisper.

“I know, I know, but it’s great. Doesn’t it feel isolating not to be around people who have babies your girls’ age? Ooh, I know, you should start a club in Westfield for moms of multiples!”

“And when exactly would I do that, Liz? At four a.m. before the rest of my day begins? We could meet at one of those after-hours clubs where our screaming babies would fit in quite nicely with the wasted clientele.”

“OK, I get it. All hail Leah Brenner, the busiest person in the world.”

“You got that right. So, do you really like this new life, the whole no-job thing?”

“I do. I adore it, genuinely.”

“Huh.” Liz does look fantastic. She’s replaced her prebaby full face of product with just a dab of blush, mascara, and lip gloss, and it suits her. She even looks like she’s been sleeping. I wonder why I’m not dripping with envy. “No offense, but do you feel like your brain has gone to mush?”

“Hmm, it’s possible. But to tell you the truth, I don’t really mind. I’m high on the endorphins of motherhood.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say, meaning it, although I’ve only gotten an endorphin rush from a long run. Certainly never from an afternoon with my triplets.

“Listen,” I say. “Rob and I are taking a trip to Vermont this weekend, just the two of us. We’re hoping to live out the illusion that we’re still actual people, beyond just our identities as parents.”

“So you’ll hit the clubs and dance all night? Swig mimosas at breakfast?”

“Yeah, right, I hear there’s a crazy club scene up in rural Vermont. More like, I can’t wait to get eight hours of sleep and to take a shower without three separate interruptions while I’m working up a lather.”

“This is it, huh? You’re shipping out and abandoning all your dear friends in the tristate area?”

“Hey, you abandoned me first, remember? I’m down in the
Hers
trenches every day, while you, my supposedly trusty comrade, went AWOL to go sip lattes on the sidelines.”

“Amen.” Liz raises her mug. “Seriously, I think you’ll love it up in Vermont. Send me some maple syrup. So, who’s watching the girls?”

“Well, Maria’s staying over on Saturday, and my mom, God help us, will be there on Sunday. Actually—”

“I know, you want me to come over and supervise so your mother doesn’t get your daughters drunk on martinis or start reorganizing your bookshelves by degree of feminism, right?”

“Oh, would you please?” Liz is such a gem. “Just for an hour or two. And afterward, you can fill me in on exactly how much terror my mom’s inflicted on her granddaughters.”

“Tilly and I will be there, no question.”

I throw my arms around my friend, whose chest is even more substantial than usual. “Wow, your boobs are huge.”

“I know, isn’t it great? Speaking of which.” She whips one of them out and Matilda latches on. It looks sort of peaceful, breastfeeding just one baby. No one in the coffee shop bats an eye.

After Tilly is done feeding, Liz and I stroll through Prospect Park and visit the zoo. The monkeys entertain us with their unabashed copulation, and Liz shields her daughter’s eyes. Then we break for more drinks, this time at a teahouse where you can mix your own blend from a list of fifty flavors. It’s all lovely and pleasant, and when it’s time to go home, I board the train, wave through the window at my old coworker friend, and feel genuinely happy for her that she’s in such a place of bliss.

I settle into my seat, and at first the buzz of overcaffeination is a thrilling rush. The train lurches forward, and I’m content to watch the scenery whoosh by and to half listen to the conversation of the couple behind me. But I quickly grow antsy, at once overstimulated and listless. I pull out my
Hers
folder and begin editing a story about limiting your kids’ Halloween candy intake. I cut words to clean up the prose and tweak the structure to crystallize the service. The work calms and centers me.

“You must be dying to get home to your daughters,” Liz said to me before we hugged good-bye. It somehow seemed shameful to admit that I wasn’t, so I just nodded. I love my girls, of course, but I haven’t missed them while spending the day with Liz and her kid instead of with my own. In fact, as a rule, by Sunday night, after two full days in mother mode, I’m usually itching for Monday morning—to get back to work and to using my brain.

The thought of not having a job strikes terror in my heart.

 

The preparation required for parents of three toddlers to skip town for twenty-four hours must be on par with orchestrating the invasion of a small country. I call on my own army of help: Maria has agreed to stay the night, but needs to duck out early on Sunday for a niece’s baptism. My neighbors on either side are on standby for emergencies. And though my mother moaned plenty about it—she has Cara’s play programs to finish, and tickets to a Broadway matinee, plus she could use some peace and quiet considering all the stress I’m putting her through with my job insecurity (thanks, Mom!)—she’s agreed to watch the girls on Sunday. Reinforcements will arrive in the afternoon in the form of Liz and her daughter.

I’ve bottled what feels like a lifetime supply of breast milk, written out a book’s worth of instructions for the various caretakers, and even managed to throw a few things into a duffel bag for our trip. Finally Rob and I bid a weepy good-bye to the girls (the tears are ours, not theirs) and make our escape.

I’m not sure if it’s the fresh country air or the fact that it’s our first adults-only getaway in over a year, but after five hours in the car of rocking out to Radiohead, Talking Heads, and (though Rob barely tolerated it) Katy Perry, I am positively giddy. It’s late afternoon—the sky cerulean and cloudless—when we pull into the dirt driveway of the first house we’ve arranged to look at in Windham County, Vermont.

“Hey, folks!” Our realtor is waiting for us outside, clipboard in hand. He proceeds to tour us through three so-so houses. The dullness of hearing about yet another set of stainless steel bathroom fixtures is mitigated by the fact that his spoken words are just as entertaining as the script he wrote for that PowerPoint he sent us. How he describes it, a house doesn’t have two half-baths, a mudroom, and central AC, but rather “two additional cozy sanctuaries to steal away for some privacy,” “a designated spot for the hustle and bustle of transition, a veritable way station between public and private life,” and “a cool sense of comfort in every nook and cranny of these 3,400 square feet.” You’d think he was selling enlightenment rather than real estate.

Just as I’m starting to think the house featured on the PowerPoint was a fake, the kind of bait I remember Manhattan realtors would use to lure you in to the dumps that were actually in your price range, we pull up a long, winding drive, woodland all around, and there it is: the dream house, even more dramatic than it appeared on our screen. Inside, the decorating is terrible, just as I remember, but it smells like chocolate chip cookies. I know it’s an old seller’s trick to bake before showing your house, but I don’t care; it smells like home.

Rob listens diligently as the realtor goes on about the post-and-beam construction that will give us a special historical link to the Ancient Greeks who first popularized the architectural style; meanwhile, I slip upstairs. I discover an alcove off of the bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling windows give me a spectacular view to the backyard, all hills and running water. The setting sun is a fireball hovering over the creek, and the sky’s the color of ripe peaches. It’s easy to imagine transporting my basement office hovel to this grandiose spot. I immediately cook up several coverlines I wish I’d pitched in our recent meeting. Here is a place I could be creative.

A moment later, I feel a pair of arms envelop my waist. “Hey, Ms. Vermont,” Rob says in my ear. “Our realtor-slash-spirit-guide is taking a call. Remember the PowerPoint slide of the bedroom, the one with the couple?” He’s kissing my neck.

Rob obviously wants to reenact that scene of copulation, but I’m preoccupied by the fact that this is someone else’s bed, and who knows when they last washed the sheets. “We’ve got a B&B for later, sweetheart,” I say. I lead him down the hall, hoping he doesn’t get the idea to undress me on the staircase.

“This is double the size of our house,” Rob says. “And half the cost. We could afford to send the girls to that fancy private school.”

“Well, at least one of them. Maybe two.”

“I read about this great cheese shop for dinner,” Rob says, and I realize I’m starving.

After devouring three grilled cheeses between the two of us and buying two blocks of cheddar to go, Rob and I discover a general store that sells two-dollar pints of “reject” Ben & Jerry’s, meaning the factory screwed up and put in a double dose of chocolate chunks in the Chunky Monkey. I think I could be forever happy here. Happy and fat, but who would even care so far from civilization? We browse a thrift shop, and all the skirts are long and flowy, all the tops empire waisted. Picturing the future fat and happy me, I buy a paisley-printed peasant blouse for twelve dollars.

On the drive to our inn, I spot a sign that reads
MAGAZINE SHACK
. “Pull over,” I tell Rob, then hop out of the car. I’m on autopilot, scouring the racks for
Hers,
like I do in every airport and supermarket. It’s usually front and center in the women’s section (and when it’s not, I take it upon myself to rejigger the display). But here, the title is nowhere to be found. “Excuse me,” I ask the clerk. “Do you have
Hers
?”

“Uh, her what? And whose?”

I wave her away, not wanting to get mired in an Abbott and Costello exchange. I content myself with browsing through the titles about hiking and skiing and environmentally sustainable cooking. I’m sort of intrigued by a place where
Hers
doesn’t seem to exist, where it might as well be a figment of my imagination.

“The new
Brattleboro Bulletin
came in yesterday, if you’re interested,” the woman says. I smile, wondering if I really pass for a local. She brings me a copy.

The cover image is beautiful—a pair of backpackers perched on the precipice of a waterfall—though the coverlines could use some work: “6 Tasty Microbrews of Summer” takes the top left spot. Apparently no one told the editors that even numbers don’t sell on the newsstand. Or maybe they do here in Vermont; who knows?

It comes to me like a bolt:
I could be the editor in chief!
Before I even open the darn thing, I’m already dreaming of my future life in command of the
Brattleboro Bulletin.

When I do crack the issue’s spine, I’m appalled to discover—on the very first page, no less—a grammatical error of the most egregious sort: the presence of an apostrophe when none is needed. It’s a blunder I’m barely willing to excuse on a sign for an immigrant-owned business (
YUM YUM SOUP AND SALAD’S
). I keep flipping pages. The editors’ page features photos of haggard, makeup-free women: One identifies her hobbies as canning and bird watching, and another says she’s a romance language enthusiast and full-time mother to Uno, Deux, and Tre, which is apparently not a joke. I flip back to the well. The features are a four-page story on how to start beekeeping in your backyard and a six-page profile on a local woman who’s been championing an “If it’s yellow, let it mellow” initiative, with considerable success. I gag, discarding the magazine.

“Do you want to buy it?” the clerk asks. I shake my head and flee.

In our room at the inn, Rob settles onto the bed with a stack of mortgage literature, and I’m rattling on about the
Brattleboro Bulletin.
“They would probably kill to have an experienced editor like me heading up their quaint little publication,” I say, trying on my new top.

“You do know who you sound like, right?” Rob says.

“Don’t you dare say it!” I shout, knowing he means my mother. I’m suddenly nervous about my daughters being alone with her for several hours; so much could go wrong. “So, what do you think?” I spin around, modeling my new purchase. Rob cracks up. “What, that bad?”

“Baby, you’d look gorgeous wearing a potato sack, but that is just not you.”

I pout and go to check myself out in the mirror. I have that saggy-boob, bloated-stomach appearance of someone who has everyone wondering if she’s pregnant or not. “You’re right, I look awful.” I flop back onto the bed, and hot tears start streaming down my cheeks. “I’d never fit in in Vermont. I don’t even like maple syrup!”

“Baby, come here.” My husband reaches out his arms, and I crawl onto his lap. “When we moved to New Jersey, did you start buying hairspray in bulk? Did you become a Bruce Springsteen fanatic?”

“No, I hate The Boss.”

“Exactly, and hairspray makes you sneeze. Moving somewhere new doesn’t mean you need to change your identity to fit some made-up idea of what the people there are like.”

“I know,” I say, whimpering.

“Come on, let’s get you out of this ridiculous shirt.”

“It smells like mothballs.”

“You’re right, it does. Here you go.” Rob eases the shapeless piece of cotton over my head. He kisses me, and I kiss back. It makes me feel good to know my lips are the luscious hue of ripe strawberries and the glossy sheen of pearls, thanks to meticulous reapplications of my favorite Dior lip stain. I could never give up my makeup. “You’re beautiful, you know,” Rob says, before laying me back onto the bedspread.