Marrying Up (13 page)

Instead, all I get is, “No, I don’t think so this time.”

I pull away and look at her. “This time?”

“This is the third time your father and I have separated since you left the house, dear.”

“What?”

“Things aren’t always as they appear.”

“Yes they
are,
” I insist. “Especially when it comes to parents. If they manage to make it through their kids’ teenage years without divorcing or killing each other, then they should automatically get to skip to happily-ever-after.”

“You’d think so, but that’s just not how things are. You’re old enough to know that.”

“No I’m not.”

“Holly, I just want to live my best life.”

Her best life?

“What?”

“I’ve been watching
Oprah.
I tape it at three o’clock and then I watch it from five to six every morning before your father wakes up.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I think I finally understand what she’s been getting at. At first I was really confused, let me tell you! But you see, we’re all here for a reason, Holly. And at last I’ve found mine.”

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

She takes a big slurp of tea. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

“I’m still trying to figure out how you learned to work the VCR.”

“Did you ever see that show
Flipper
?”

“The one with the whale?”

“Actually, it was a dolphin. Well, when I was younger, just before I got married, I wanted to be a marine biologist or a park ranger, like Porter Ricks on
Flipper
. Deb and I used to watch that show every Friday night. We’d sit together on Grandma’s comfy old couch and she’d make us grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup—Grandpa hated tomato soup, by the way—and we got to watch in front of the TV…”

“Mom, weren’t you, like, in your twenties when that show was on?”

“I was working at the bank, then, but I was so happy to finally find something that interested me. Even after I married your father, I came home to watch every week. I collected anything and everything from the show—lunchboxes, posters, dolls, you name it. And it’s all been sitting in boxes in the attic ever since.”

“Sounds pretty weird to me…”

“Well, your Aunt Deb didn’t marry until she was in her
midthirties, so she lived at home until then,” she says, then adds in a whisper, “She was lucky she found someone at that age. I was considered way over-the-hill when I married and I was only twenty-nine! That’s why I had your brothers one after the other—because I was so behind.”

“Am I on
Candid Camera?
”

“And then I had to quit working after your dad and I got married, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Why? I don’t know why, Holly. Because that was the way things were done back then. I had to look after the house. And soon I was pregnant with your brother and, well, you pretty much know the rest.”

“You lived happily ever after.”

“Not exactly.”

“So…let me see if I get this. Now you’re going to be a marine biologist?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Holly. That would take years of school, and I don’t have the time or the money.”

“So…”

“So I’ve decided I need to see him. That would be enough.”

“See who?”

“Flipper!”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes. He lives at the Miami Seaquarium. They gave him his own show there!”

“It must be a different dolphin, Mom.”

“They call him Flipper, Flipper, faster than lightning… No one, you see, is smarter than he… They call him Flipper, Flipper, King of the Sea….”

My mind reels with the insanity of it all. “Let me get this straight… You’re divorcing dad and making a pilgrimage to Florida to see a famous fish? And that’s going to fix what’s wrong with your life?”

“Yes. After Flipper, everything in my life went all crazy and haywire. If it wasn’t for your father and his seductive ways, maybe I could’ve made something of myself. I could have gone back to school….”

“Mom, don’t say that—you
have
made something of your life! And believe me when I tell you that even though I haven’t seen
Oprah
lately, I think you may be missing the point. Running away isn’t going to help.”

“It’s not running away. It’s doing something I need to do. For
me
.”

“Fair enough. I can understand that. But—”

“She had this guest on…a psychologist or someone—a life manager, I think she called herself—and she said that all you have to do to be happy is to find something you like to do and turn it into your job. Oh! And then there was this man, a man who loved macaroons, and so one day he decided to devote his life to making macaroons. And now he’s a
millionaire!
”

“I’m still confused….”

“Well, I wasn’t finished explaining it to you. This is actually the best part,” she says, taking a deep breath and exhaling dramatically. “I’m going to start collecting again!”

“
Flipper
memorabilia?”

“Yes! I want to be the world’s foremost authority! And there’s tons of it on eBay, so add that to the great stuff I already have, which is all in mint condition—”

“eBay?”

“Stop repeating everything I say!”

“Mom, do you have a computer?”

“Yes! I took some money out of your father’s retirement fund and used it to buy a laptop.”

I pick at a spot on the threadbare upholstery and look out at the falling snow while I let it all sink in. “I don’t know what to say, Mom. I honestly don’t know what to say.”

My mother deflates a little. “You think I’m very silly. I can tell.”

Only I don’t think she’s silly at all. Okay, well maybe a little with all that Flipper stuff, but I also can’t help but admire her. There is clearly a method to her madness, and in her own warped way, in the context of her life, it actually makes a lot of sense.

“Actually, Mom, I think it’s great…I just don’t understand why Dad can’t be a part of it.”

She squeezes my hand. “This is
my
dream. Your father has been living his dream his whole life—the kids, the house in the suburbs, the retirement, the toy trains. It’s
my
turn now.”

Going for Broke

M
y dad is the first one I tell.

“I think it’s great, Holly,” he says, bouncing a grandkid on each knee.

“Tell me I’m not crazy, Dad.”

“You’re not.”

Olivia comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pants. “I agree, Holly. Get outta here while you still can!”

With three kids clinging to her skirt by the time she turned thirty and a string of dead-end beauty salon jobs behind her, my sister-in-law likes to joke that she’s the poster child for higher education. But she also adores those three kids and is still totally in love with Cole, and my brother, despite all his teasing, practically worships her.

“I could have been a ballerina, you know,” she sighs as she bends over to pick up chunks of hardened Play-Doh off the carpet.

“Let me get those, dear. You sit down,” my dad says, placing Skyler and Mackenzie back on their feet. Instantly, they drop to all fours and begin chasing each other around the living room, trying to pull each others’ socks off.

“I didn’t know you wanted to be a dancer,” I say.

“Yeah, well, you know how things go.”

“Maybe you still could…do something like that…somehow…” I venture.

She lifts up her sweatshirt and grabs a fistful of her soft tummy. “Ya think?”

“You’re pretty light on your feet, considering,” my dad offers helpfully.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys, but I think my professional dancing days are behind me…”

“Mummy, Mummy!”

“Yes, Mackenzie.”

“I have an ouchee.” She holds up a rug-burned knee and Olivia lifts her up and carries her upstairs.

While Skyler takes advantage of his sister’s absence and plays quietly in the corner with her dollhouse, my dad tries to explain to me what’s going on.

“Your mother just needs a little time, Holly. She’ll come around. And you don’t have to worry about me—I’m fine. Enjoying spending some time with the kids. And I still sneak home to my trains every couple of days,” he winks.

I imagine my dad at home alone in our basement wearing his conductor’s hat, playing with toys, no one upstairs to fix him lunch….

“You’re killing me here, Dad. You gotta throw me a bone.
Please.
”

He musters a smile and gives me a
there-there dear
pat on the knee. “Don’t worry. Your mother and I will work it out. We always do.”

“I know,” I say, though I’m not convinced. It’s hard to tell
if he’s lying or not; I’ve never known my dad to be dishonest with me, so I have no idea what it might look like.

“The important thing now is for you to stop worrying about us old farts. Don’t get stuck here in all this garbage—leave for a while, get some perspective. It’s a good idea.” His watery gray eyes turn to meet mine, and he seems to choose his next words carefully. “Find something you love to do, Holly, before you get…tied down. We have enough grandkids for now.”

“But I
want
to have kids….”

“Of course you do, dear. All I’m saying is I’m in no rush for you. And neither is your mother. I never want you to feel pressured. Not by anyone or anything.”

“I don’t, Daddy.”

“Your brothers—Cole especially—they all…well… I guess they let their lives get away from them. But you’re different, sweetie. At least, we’ve always thought you were. Your mother and I both worry that you may be holding yourself back….”

They worry about me? They talk about me? It’s odd to imagine my parents discussing me, my life, who I am, what they want for me. My brothers, the Hastings boys, were so popular and so wild when we were growing up; they seemed to take up so much of the air in our house, provide so much of the noise and energy, that I always felt like I was just born to be their sister, their punching bag. A familial afterthought. Someone to wear their hand-me-downs. (Which probably accounted for my early reputation as a tomboy and later, with no chest to fill out those navy blue rugby shirts, a hermaphrodite lesbian.)

“…you’ve always had big plans. We don’t want you to forget about that.”

“Mom thinks that, too?”

“Of course she does.”

“I figured she’d think I was nuts to quit the
Bugle
. I thought you both would.”

“Not at all! Did she give you that impression?”

“I guess not…she didn’t really say anything when I told her.”

“Silence is definitely approval where your mother is concerned. You know that.”

He has a point. “And you?”

“I’m pleased, provided you use this opportunity wisely. It’s a risk, that’s for sure, but when you dream of big things, you have to take big chances. And if not now, then when? You’re still young—it’s still relatively easy for you to make changes in your life. Look at your mother. She’s so unhappy,
so
unhappy. And there’s nothing I can do about it now. Had I known, maybe…”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this! She’s been hiding her feelings for a long time.”

“Yes, so it seems…” He pulls his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and reaches across me for the paper, signaling the end of the conversation. “But we used to want the same things, your mother and I.”

I nod, but secretly I wonder if that had ever really been true.

The more I think about my parents’ floundering marriage, the more it amazes me. Is it really possible that my dad thinks everything is fine, even though my mom has apparently been leaving him for years? Why hadn’t he ever noticed anything was wrong? And why hadn’t she
made
him see, or simply told him what she was going through? I imagine they probably weren’t in the habit of sharing their dreams and goals and regrets and all the other sorts of things that to me seem so basic and obvious for the proper functioning of a couple of people who’ve chosen to forsake all others—legally, physically and spiritually—and bind their lives to one another’s
forever.

But maybe it simply isn’t fair to hold them to that stan
dard. Many mothers and fathers of our parents’ generation are likely still oblivious to the relationship rhetoric we’ve been virtually bombarded with since opening our very first
Seventeen
magazine, those mighty principles gleaned from self-styled relationship experts and talk-show gurus that have become so deeply ingrained within us that we don’t even question them anymore….

Mutual Respect. Communication is Key. Love Yourself First. Sex is Better than Chocolate. Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad for all that stuff. I
believe
in the trite dogma of modern love. But consider also that I was—that
we
were—indoctrinated from youth, so it feels pretty natural to demand open communication from our partners. How confusing it must be, though, coming to all that later in life,
after
you’ve spent decades dealing with your demons in silence, or simply seeing marriage as a convenient but necessary social arrangement in which each partner gives something and gets something in return, and I don’t mean love.

In many ways, the expectations our mothers and fathers had for their lives were probably higher than our own. By the time
That Girl
and
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
came around, it was too late—they had already imprinted on the Cleavers and the Nelsons, with their insidious portrayals of middle-American nirvana. The families I grew up watching on TV—which, let’s face it, is the greatest social barometer the world has ever known—were flawed. The Keatons, the Connors, even the Huxtables, had to contend with
real
problems, everything from their kids’ sex lives and drug dabblings to their own midlife crises and the deaths of their parents. June and Ward, meanwhile, spent half an hour each week helping the Beav with his paper route and getting the cat out of that darn tree.

Those of us who choose to walk down the aisle these days do so
knowing
half of all marriages fail, while my parents probably expected their union to be as delightful as Ozzie and Harriet’s, as pleasant as their own parents’ marriages seemed to be. How disillusioning it would have been to admit they actually had to work at their relationship. And so they didn’t. Otherwise, how could things so fundamentally important to each other’s happiness have gone unnoticed or overlooked for so long?

To make matters worse, my mother turns on the TV one day and instead of escaping to the world of crime-solving dolphins and Barbara Eden in genie pants, there’s Oprah telling her she has a right to expect more. But Mom’s no fool. She knows her marriage was never perfect, that she gave something up in order to toe the line, only now she’s beginning to understand that it was never really her job to serve up perfection in the first place. No wonder she has no desire to sit on an empty nest—she’s ready to stretch her wings. And no wonder my father’s in denial—he got the suburban bliss he always wanted, but to admit that he had it at his wife’s expense would take all the joy out of it.

Maybe my parents loved each other and got married for all the right reasons. But maybe—and I wish with every fiber of my being that this wasn’t the case—they willfully deluded themselves as to who the other one was from day one, just to fulfill other people’s expectations of them. Still, is it fair of my mom to resent my dad if she’s never been honest with him? And is it fair of him to expect her to never change just because he himself hasn’t? And what if…

…and what if I just stopped trying so hard to figure it all out?

My head is pounding, aching with the possibilities, the explanations, the analysis. An automatic habit of mine, I know, and one I’ve come by honestly through years of addiction to recreational therapy. I continually pick apart the motiva
tions behind my own thoughts and actions, deconstructing every feeling and exploring every potential path in order to come to the best possible decisions in my life. But Martindale once pointed out that attempting to apply my personal logic system to other people’s hearts and minds assumes facts not in evidence.

The end result? Frustration and disappointment for everyone, especially me. Martindale showed unusual insight when he suggested that when people don’t live up to my expectations, or behave differently than I would if I were in their shoes, I tend to believe they’re making a mistake. Which is, of course, ridiculously unfair and not at all true since everyone’s different and I don’t have the full picture.

So I silently vow to let my parents work it out for themselves from here on in, and to support them in whatever decision they come to. Even if that decision is one I hate with all my heart.

“How’s your dad doing?” George asks.

We’ve been meeting at the diner every day for lunch since my last day at the
Bugle
, almost two weeks ago.

“He’s okay, I guess. I think I’ve spoken to him more since all this started than in the rest of my life combined.”

“So at least something good’s come of it.”

“I suppose.”

“When God closes a door, she opens a window. You just have to be patient.”

“Okay, George. I get it.”

“Same thing with your job. I think quitting will really give you the impetus you need to get back into your book. Desperate times, you know. Are you gonna eat that bun?”

“Go ahead.”

At first, I thought the exact same thing. That without the whole nine-to-five thing to distract me, I’d be able to whiz
through my first few chapters, no problem. After all, I’ve been gathering information, researching, taking notes for almost four months—there’s a ton of material to go through. But still, something wasn’t right. I’ve begun to wonder how many copies a book tentatively titled
How to Marry A Millionaire (And Still Love Yourself in the Morning!)
would actually sell if the author is single and living at the YMCA. Or, worse, in her old room at her parents’ house.

It was a generous offer, made separately by both my mom and my dad, who weren’t using the house, anyway, but the implications were so horrible that it had spurred me to action.

George slathers the bun with butter and puts it down in about three bites.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, wiping the crumbs from her chest.

“Like what?”

“Like I shouldn’t have eaten that.”

“Are you insane? Do you think I care what you eat?”

“I know I probably seem ridiculous to you, Holly. I’ve been trying to lose fifteen pounds for ten years. God, even if I’d lost one pound a
year
…” her gaze hovers dreamily on something behind me, presumably the glass-and-chrome tower stacked high with cheesecakes and pies. “But in all this time, all the calorie-counting and fat-counting and cabbage-soup crap obviously isn’t working.”

“You look great the way you are, G.”

“So!” she claps her hands together and straightens up. “I’ve decided to try something different. Tell me if you think this’ll work. When I feel chubby, like I did this morning, I put on my tightest jeans and then eat, like, the
hugest
breakfast and lunch. The idea is, the pain I’m forced to endure all day as a reminder of my gluttony will inspire me to new levels of self-disgust, which in turn will fuel my resolve! Whaddya think?”

“Sounds good,” I giggle. “Very progressive.”

She leans back, undoes her top button and tries to breathe. “When I get home tonight, I’m going to get completely naked. Then I’m going to take one of those big black permanent markers and trace all the ugly red lines these jeans will have left on my stomach, and then just stare at myself in the mirror beneath bright lights for fifteen minutes. After a few days of that, I think I’ll be ready to hit the gym.”

“Health by humiliation—I love it!”

By this point, we’re laughing so loudly, people have begun to stare.

“Who needs Atkins? The Perlman-MacNeill Way will be the next big thing!” George shrieks.

“That’s just about enough, ladies,” our waitress says as she passes by with a tray of burgers for the next table, stopping long enough to toss our bill down.

“Sorry,” George apologizes. “We don’t get out much.”