Life After Yes (22 page)

I
wake up and find Sage in the kitchen cooking bacon.

“Morning, Bug,” he says like he does every morning. And I'm thankful he hasn't written a special script. He leaves the pan long enough to kiss me on the forehead.

He hands me a cup of coffee. And as I empty the sweetener into it, he looks at me disapprovingly.

“Don't say it,” I say. “I know it'll do me in.”

He nods.

“What is the point of monitoring our intake of sucralose or aspartame or wine when boom, just like that, we can be sitting there sucking smoked salmon off a sterling fork and, bam, it's just
over
?”

“Sweeten away,” he says, fear in his eyes.

And for a moment I wish there were something—artificial, carcinogenic, I don't care—that I could sprinkle to sweeten bitter moments like this one.

“Drink up and wake up,” he says. “We've got work to do.”

“We do?”

We sit side by side on our Pottery Barn love seat. It's years old, but newness still seeps from those synthetic stripes. We hunch over our coffee table, stuffing envelopes with wedding invitations, passing the small roll of American flag stamps back and forth.

And on the television, Katie sits there, nervously twisting her legs like pretzels, talking to someone, so very euphemistically, about “the events that occurred a year ago.”

Sage and I lick our last stamp at the same time.

He dangles an envelope in front of me. “Want to leave this one out?”

It's addressed to Phelps and his wife.

“If you don't feel comfortable…” I begin.

He laughs. “I'm kidding,” he says. “I won you, right? No worries here.”

“Am I a prize? A piece of property? A trophy? Is this ring your brand?” I say.

He pauses, sips coffee, collects words presumably.

“I'm willing to be your fucking punching bag today if you need me to be. Because I love you,” he says. “But not forever.”

I recant, retrace. “It's just that his family and my family are so close,” I say. “You know this is all about Dad. I'm sorry.”

“Stop the fucking rationalizing,” he says.

And I think:
But this is what I do.
I search for reasons. Collect them like stamps. Reasons for everything that happens, big and small. Reasons for why I became a lawyer (
it will open so many doors, the pay is good even if I don't really need it, it will screw with Mom, I don't know what else to do
), why I'm so scared of becoming a wife (
fear is normal, this is a big step, finality is daunting, maybe matrimony and career are not friends
).

I take the envelopes from him and place them down next to mine: little twin towers of a new beginning. I kiss him
hard. Straddle him. Katie chirps away in the background as Sage pushes me down onto those stripes—those prudent stripes that the saleswoman promised wouldn't show dirt.

I keep my eyes open, looking into his. The television flashes to a split screen of memorials at Ground Zero and the Pentagon. Crowds of people—mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives—huddle together, tears commingling, cloaked by a collective grief that maybe only time can dissipate.

As we both let go, Sage holds me tight and I wonder how many beginnings there were on that day when everything seemed to end.

 

We walk hand in hand to the corner.

People buzz about, gripping coffees, pushing strollers.

And I'm pleased to hear a cabdriver fire a good old “Fuck you” to someone who crosses on his light. We're coming back.

As the fighter jets fly overhead and the sun beats down, Sage grips my hand tight. And for the first time in too long, I feel safe.

My BlackBerry buzzes.

A message from Phelps. No doubt the first of many messages I'll receive today making sure I'm okay.

I open the message.

 

Carter and I proudly welcomed Phelps, Junior into the world at 2:13 this morning.

He weighed in at a hefty 8lb 2oz.

and is tall like his daddy-22”. We are all doing well!

 

At the bottom of the message is a small image of a pink face with Phelps's nose and trademark dimple.

Parents have agendas.

Another junior. Another poor kid stripped of his own identity on his very first day. Welcome to the Heart-Shaped Tub Club, little dude.

At the corner, Sage and I drop the invites into the fat blue mailbox.

Before parting, Sage takes my face in his hands, looks into my eyes, and says, “This is an impossible day. And it isn't going to be easy, and I don't really know what I'm doing, but I love you and I'm here and I'm trying.”

And though his words are hardly poetic, they are honest and humble and confident and patient. And, most importantly, they are his.

He loves me. And unlike a certain other man who loved me this much, Sage is still here.

“See you tonight,” I say.

“Our cozy couch, say 8
P.M.
?” he says.

“It's a love seat,” I say.

He smiles. “It sure is.”

And I watch him go, striding confidently, shaking the change in his pockets like Dad used to do. On the corner, he trips on the curb, and I'm happy to see he doesn't look around to see if anyone's watching.

 

When I walk through the glass doors of the gym, it all comes back to me. I was here. I was on the elliptical machine watching Britney's new video on VH1. In a single moment, we went from strangers, to New Yorkers, to Americans. One by one, televisions were taken over by breaking news. And those images of a plane flying into a building were played over and over. One by one, we shed earphones and looked around, stunned, searching, catching the eye of the person next to us.
What's happening?
Eyes and voices and news anchors asked. And bits and pieces swirled: Twin Towers. A plane. Another plane. The building collapsed. And the sirens blared on TV and outside those glass doors.

And for a while, I was just one of them. A New Yorker, scared, devastated-at-a-not-so-great-distance.

In the locker room, I tried calling Mom. To tell her that I was okay.

It took a while to get through. But when I did, she said, “He was there.”

“Who was where?” I asked.

“Dad,” she said. “Having breakfast with our banker. On the top floor.”

And just like that, I was in a different category.

 

I huddle in the back corner of the gym locker room, crying into a fresh towel that smells, predictably, of almonds. My fits of sobs are drowned out, I hope, by the buzz of hair dryers and gossip and music that's meant to soothe. Naked women chatter about diamonds and preschools and Labor Day barbecues.

“I can't
believe
it's been a year,” one woman says.

“This city's remarkable,” says another. “The way we New Yorkers have rallied. And everyone thought we were selfish bitches.”

A chorus of laughter muffles new tears.

“You okay?” a voice says.

I look up, and through the salty blur I see the kind face of an older woman, round, vaguely familiar.

She offers a sympathetic smile. “Today must be hard,” she says.

Instinctively, I nod.

She hesitates and then says, “He loved you very much, Prudence.”

I squint dizzily, trying to place her. I've seen this woman before. This supposed stranger. Who knew him. Who knows my name. Who knows too much. And it hits me—this is the woman from the street corner, who smiled at Sage and me, as we frolicked our way to Central Park, the woman who watched me from the bike she pedaled furiously while going nowhere.

“Caroline Lewis,” she says, her eyes watering, grabbing my hand. “I was your father's—your parents'—next-door neighbor for twenty years. Your brother used to play with my son Sam.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding.

Her tears fall harder and faster. And she does not let go of my hand.

And it doesn't take a JD to put two and two together.

And for mere moments, here we are, crying, longing for the same yet different man, for understanding.

And, again, just when I need it, the anger's run empty.

I look into her eyes, dark and wet. And my thoughts are those of a little girl. Brilliantly naïve.
But you aren't my mother. But my dad would never do this.

And like a little girl, I run away, carrying with me the silly belief that I can leave something like this behind, with the shallow hope that this moment, like this day, like Dad's death, isn't already part of me, of who I will become. But still.

My escape is a blur of cellulite and breasts and tan lines.

 

That night before Sage gets home, I call Mom.

I want to ask about that woman, her neighbor. But I know
I can't. And it occurs to me. It goes both ways. Sometimes parents need protection too.

“How's Sage handling all this?” she asks.

“I don't think he knows what to do,” I say.

“Men never know what to do,” she says. “They aren't perfect, you know.”

“You don't say? Good thing
we
know exactly what to do. Good thing we're perfect,” I say.

“Anger's a perfectly appropriate emotion at a time like this,” she assures me. “It can actually be very empowering. There's more agency in anger than sadness. If you're not careful, though, anger can give way to sadness, and sadness can be pathetic.”

Enough with the lecture. I'm not your student. I'm your fucking daughter. Or am I both?

“Good to know,” I say. “How's your wine?”

“Doing the trick,” she says, and laughs. “And yours?”

“Scrumptious,” I say.

Silence.

And I think:
One day we will be able to talk about this, not around it. One day we will have this conversation sober. One day we will stop theorizing, stop ranking emotions and talk about what we are actually feeling.

“I am angry,” I say, “but I'm sad too.”

“Of course you are, Prue,” she says. Pauses. “And I don't like it very much, but I'm sad too. I have been for a while.”

It's a start.

 

Sage walks in carrying flowers. Red and white roses in blue cellophane.

I see them and start to cry.

Men never know what to do. They aren't perfect.

“Dad was a…fucking cheater,” I say.

Sage approaches me gingerly, cradling those terrible flowers, fear in his eyes.

I tell him about the woman in the gym. And he's rational about this because men always are about these things and he tells me that I don't know the circumstances.

“Why would he do this?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Sage says. “But he was your dad and he loved you. And you loved him,” he says.

All true.

“But he wasn't the guy I thought he was,” I say.

“We never are,” he says.

Genius.

“He was human, Bug,” he says. “He fucked up. Plenty of good people, really good people, do.”

Yup, I'm one of them. I'm my father's daughter. Not only do I have his smile, his taste for Guinness, but I have his gray morals, his ability to betray.

“We're about to get married, Sage. And now this? How am I supposed to believe in marriage when my own father couldn't keep it in his pants?”

“Because you are not your father,” he says. “You are you. And we have our own shot at things.”

And I nod. Because he's right. We have our own chance. To get this right. Whatever that means.

“This isn't going to change things,” I say, trying to convince myself. “Dad was flawed, but he was a good person. And my parents had a good marriage even if it was far from perfect.”

Now it's Sage's turn to nod. “That's the spirit,” he says.

At 9
P.M
., W stands there, and the leader of the free world is a little boy, little Georgie, that little clichéd deer in the headlights.

At 9:01
P.M
., he speaks. About strength and salvation. About life and death. About good and evil.

“Don't you think there must be something between good and evil?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Sage says.

“I hope there is,” I say. “There must be.”

Buried there in the piles of sugarcoated hubris, one line grabs me:

“September 11, 2001 will always be a fixed point in the life of America. The loss of so many lives left us to examine our own. Each of us was reminded that we are here only for a time, and these counted days should be filled with things that last and matter.”

“I think she forgave him,” I say.

And maybe it's the little Christian boy from Savannah buried deep in this man I've snagged, but he nods and says, “I think forgiveness is underrated. There's nothing wrong with forgiveness. It's basically noticing and accepting that other people make mistakes, just like we do.”

And I swallow Sage's words and nod. And I hear what I want to hear because I'm allowed to do this today. I have a free pass. I hear:
I forgive you, Quinn, but I'm not going to forever.

I don't thank him for the flowers, but for something else.

“I love that you've started saying ‘fuck,'” I say. “It makes you a little less good.”

Sage shrugs and smiles, and a beautiful glimmer of mischief flickers in those incandescent, innocent eyes. “Well, then: fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

And on this day when tears are predicted, we choose a different catharsis. Good old childish laughter.

O
n Halloween morning, Hula's sandpaper tongue grazes my lips and nose. He balances like a seasoned surfer on my chest as I shift under him. He stares at me.

I'm convinced that today will be better than most days. For today's my bridal shower, and this is supposed to be exciting, a delicious taste of what's to come. Kayla's hosting at Cilantro. She sent out invitations on thick tangerine parchment. The theme is “Trick or Treat” guests are to bring lingerie (tricks) or goods for the home (treats).

Strong October sun slips through the shades to find us under the covers. Now that we're stirring, Hula chases his tail around the foot of the bed. This morning, the light is curiously welcome; I don't yank the sheets up over my eyes to escape the glow.

We hop out of bed and pull up the shades. I hold Hula and scrape the crusty sleep from his eyes. Barefoot, Sage and
I stand there for a moment, side by side in the morning's silence, and take turns cradling our cat before the inevitable wriggle and drop. He kisses me on the forehead.

“Happy Halloween, Bug,” he says. “You excited for your shower?”

“I guess,” I say. “I'm thirsty for sangria.”

“Well,
I'm
excited,” Sage says.

“Why's that? Because you're getting rid of me for a few hours and you can watch football in peace?”

“That and the fact that after today you have no excuses.”

“Excuses?” I ask.

“You are going to come home today with piles of lingerie and cookware. After all this time, I'm going to get me my sex-kitten cook. Just in time.”

“Very funny. Your sex-kitten cook?” I say.

We retreat to the bathroom to brush and shower. We fidget for space, expertly shifting, imperfectly avoiding one another.

I step on the scale and smile. I'm down five pounds. So far it is a Happy Halloween.

 

That evening, the doorbell rings. Kayla.

She walks in, carrying orange flower arrangements and bags of gifts. “I figured you could use an escort,” she says.

“How thoughtful,” I say.

Sage is home early from work too and busies himself in the kitchen. “How are you, Kayla?” he says, talking over the vibrating espresso machine.

“Getting fatter by the day,” she says. “Thanks for asking.”

And we leave to walk to the corner.

Thank God for morning sickness. Waves of nausea have left her pale and willing to flirt with reason. Powerful ex
haustion has etched dark circles under her bright blue eyes. Impending motherhood has in no time wreaked havoc on my dear friend, the formerly unflappable Kayla.

I follow her, walking the length of my block in slow motion, crunching leaves under high heels, sweating from nerves and fading sunlight. I give myself a timely pep talk. If I can survive the bar exam, I can survive a bridal shower.

“After all these years, I'm finally being punished for being a thoughtless slut,” Kayla says, playing with her newly snug waistband.

“I wouldn't call you thoughtless,” I say.

She smiles, but stops short of her trademark guffaw. “That's all I've got, Q. Full-on laughter requires too much energy, energy I apparently no longer have in unlimited quantities. Good to know I have twenty-eight more weeks of this shit to look forward to. Did you know that pregnancy is actually ten months and not nine? I feel duped.”

I didn't know this, but it seems I better learn. Without the support of her mother and with no man in the picture, she's tapped me to come to her prenatal appointment next week.

“K, I think the forty weeks is supposed to be the easy part. After that things get tough. After that, you are going to have a mini version of yourself to keep alive.”

“Fantastic. Good to know my stellar judgment has sent my life on fast forward down the proverbial toilet,” she says. “I still think it's criminal that you're not having a bachelorette party and that I'm letting you get away with it. Here I am, your maid of honor, and what do I do? I spread my skinny-ass legs, open the floodgates, get knocked up, and worse still, morph into a reasonable person, a pussy for the first time in my life.”

“Your legs aren't so skinny-ass these days,” I point out.

“Fuck off,” she says, and smiles.

Anyway, I'm thankful this pussy's given up on the clichéd bachelorette, the weekend of high-gloss strippers. I'm all for letting loose, for drinking a senseless amount of alcohol, for celebrating the last days before my freedom is snatched by the institution of matrimony. But I can do without the genetic mutants, high on creatine and self-tanner, with practiced gyrations and come-hither glances. I don't need to lose my precious dollar bills in the elastic of some lost soul's fluorescent banana hammock.

“I know you're a modern woman, K, but even you don't want to expose your dear fetus to the throbbing and thrusting. Give the little bugger a few decades to find the filth on her own.”

“Whatever you say, prudent one. Deep down, you're just a Jurassic feminist like your mother—no strippers, no leg shaving. I'm on to you, O'Malley. Anyway, you know I'll make up for it at the shower,” she says, scattering wedding cake–shaped confetti. “Just because I can't wear the slutty stuff anymore doesn't mean I'm going to spare you. Consider yourself warned.”

 

And soon I'm swimming in a sea of unseasonable pastels. Two generations of women buzz in and out of each other, trading cheek kisses and making wispy small talk, rearranging towers of gifts tightly wrapped in pale floral papers. For a moment, I linger in the corner and absorb the ordered chaos that is my initiation into the ranks, unsuccessfully escaping notice of these women, my friends and family, who are here for me, to prepare me for life as a wife.

“Maybe I shouldn't have worn black,” I say to Mom, taking stock of the faded rainbow that engulfs us.

“Oh, please. I didn't get the Easter egg memo either,” she whispers, squeezing my arm. She's head-to-toe in smart navy. “We're in this together, Prue.”

“Mom, I don't cook and I don't wear lingerie,” I remind her.

“Just pretend,” she says. “We're good at that.”

Sage's mother approaches. She wears a gingham suit in the softest of pinks. Her ashy blond bob just grazes her delicate shoulders. “Quinn, dear,” she says, her Southern accent thick and guttural. She stumbles as she always does on the one syllable of my name. She hugs me with all her might, which isn't much, momentarily displacing Mom. She frames my face with her fingers, cold, bony, meticulously manicured. “How are you, darling?” she asks, pinning me down with her doe eyes.

“Fine,” I say. “Good.”

And here they stand: my two mothers, more or less the same vintage, but still worlds apart. Their interaction is genuine, if strained, and they acknowledge each other with a polite nod and mumbled pleasantries. Despite their differences, these women have one important thing in common; each wishes I would get over the Quinn thing. Of course Mrs. McIntyre wishes this. Far from a closet Beatles fan, Mrs. McIntyre is a religious creature.
Prudence is such a beautiful name and such a wonderful virtue
, she's told me more than once. I've never taken the bait.

The moment Sage told his parents about me there was trouble. Not because I was a Yankee, a city girl headed for a high-wattage career, not because I didn't spend my Sundays at church. There was trouble because this little woman thought, if only for a few terribly confused moments, that I was a man.
I've met someone, Mother
, Sage told her, three short weeks after we met, as I curled up on his lap and lis
tened in. Sage's mother, hungry for grandchildren, had been waiting for this proclamation from her only child for almost a decade.
You're going to love Quinn. Quinn O'Malley.
His mother was quiet, very quiet, so quiet Sage feared a lost phone connection.
I'm not gay, Mother
, he assured her mere moments later, knowing his mother and her primal fears.
She has a beautiful and unusual name. Plus, her real name is Prudence.
This fact, it seems, rejuvenated his wilting mother; there was hope.

 

Kayla stands in the corner with her own mother, a slight woman clad in pale purple. Thanks to Botox, her face is devoid of wrinkles and expression. Mrs. Waters has always liked me, or so Kayla says, because she thinks I'm a good influence on her wayward daughter. The fact that I'm within a week of marriage surely confirms my utterly sensible nature; the fact that I, unlike her daughter, do things in order, abiding by the schedule society has for us.

Kayla sees me and seizes the opportunity to escape her mother's orbit. Unlike the others, she's dressed for the season, in the brightest of oranges. This notorious color, which washes out the vast majority of its wearers, only brightens Kayla's complexion and highlights her slight bump. In the sunlight-filled Mexican restaurant, the dark circles have disappeared and the color has returned to her cheeks. The ten pounds she swears she's gained is suddenly nowhere to be seen, except maybe in her breasts, proudly displayed by a brazen dip in her bold sweater. She pours a tall glass of sangria and walks over.

“Well if it isn't the bitch of the moment,” she says, as always a bit too loud, and hands me the sangria. She grabs at my black sweater. “What, are we mourning the death of your freedom?”

Mom smiles and Mrs. McIntyre looks stunned.

“I'm afraid you're going to need some booze to make it through this frilly fest,” Kayla says.

“Amen,” I say, and take a big swig. Outside, children dressed in costumes race by, and parents, as if on invisible leashes, half jog behind them, and race ahead when they get to a crosswalk. Sometimes, the parents join the fun wearing a witch's hat or mask. One day, I'm going to be one of these fun parents.

Avery and her mother walk in. Avery looks exhausted, and holds the sleeves of her shirt over her hands.

“Has someone developed insomnia?” Kayla says.

“Has someone developed a fetus?” Avery says, and flashes a smile. “Nice to see you, Kayla.” Her eyes drop to Kayla's ample cleavage.

“Just doing my best to steal the bride's thunder by going the push-up bra route,” Kayla says, shrugging. “I figured I'd test drive one of Quinn's gifts. Admittedly, a bit tacky, but who's counting?”

Avery hugs me, but avoids my eyes.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Of course I am,” she says, nodding. It's then that I notice the reservoir of tears in her eyes. “I will be.”

Avery's mother appears and throws a protective arm around her daughter, who's downed her first drink. “Everything's going to be fine,” her mother says. “Just a hiccup for my beautiful daughter.”

“Your beautiful daughter, it seems, needs another drink,” Kayla says, appearing with a fresh glass of sangria, and hands it to Avery.

Avery doesn't try to hide her tears. “Thank you, Kayla.”

“Not a problem,” she says. “Alcohol can cure most any
thing. I wonder what my dear mother over there is trying to medicate with the sauce.” Kayla's mother talks to a waiter in the corner and convinces him to bring her a glass of Chardonnay.

“I'm not a fan of the fruity cocktail,” she explains to the man in an audible whisper. “Keep them coming.”

Avery laughs and wipes her eyes. I grab her hand and interlock my fingers in hers. Her palms are clammy and cold. We sit down just as a waiter places a pot of fresh guacamole between us. The wooden table is blanketed in pastel candy corn. We each grab a handful.

 

“Time for the tricks and treats,” Kayla says, standing by the piles of gifts. “Stop feeding your face, Q. Don't you have a wedding dress to fit into in a few days?”

“
She'll
fit her dress fine. It's you I'd be worried about,” Kayla's mom mumbles over her disappearing glass of wine.

I abandon the guacamole.

Everyone pulls chairs into a circle around me.

In no time, I'm buried under boxes, holding up nonstick pans and thong panties, twirling spice racks and sheer teddies. A graceful pretender.

Leave it to Mom to give me books. I open the first; it's a cookbook.
The Practical Woman's Guide to Cooking
. The final book is not a cookbook, but
The History of Lingerie.

“Forgive me, I'm a professor,” she says. “I think it is nice to know the history behind things. Fascinating to know the genesis of those little strings you girls wear between your butt cheeks.”

Sage's mother blushes and smiles.

“Brilliant, Mrs. O'Malley. Are there instructions on how best to burn a bra in there too?” Kayla says.

Next, Kayla hands me her gift, two boxes. I open the first and pull out four pairs of thong underwear with Sage's name on the crotch. “Just thought it would be nice to give him directions,” Kayla jokes.

“Maybe I should get you some of those with a stop sign,” Mrs. Waters mutters.

The next box is thin; I open it and pull out a thick white certificate. It's not a gift card to Williams-Sonoma or Tiffany's.

“Dance lessons?” Mrs. McIntyre guesses. “That would be terrific. Despite our best efforts, our son isn't the best dancer.”

“Yes, this is for dance lessons,” I say, my face no doubt turning magenta, and look at my troublemaking maid of honor.

“Striptease lessons,” Kayla says. “If you're going to do the forever thing, you need to keep it interesting.”

“Why don't you just put up a stripper pole in your bedroom and call it a day?” Mom mutters, audibly to all. One generation laughs; the other's eyes widen.

“Not a bad idea,” K quips.

Sage's mother is a good sport about this. A good sport about the skimpy lingerie and the mystery cookware. She sits on the edge of her seat, thin legs folded underneath her, balancing a chipped teacup which I can see vibrating. When things get raunchy, her eyes fall, she looks down into that teacup that must be empty by now, and feigns a delicate sip until it's safe to look up again. Every now and then, a nervous laugh escapes her thin pink lips.