Olivia walked outside looking for her suitcase. Her bag was right where she’d left it before her mother waved her and Marco Barros into the house. What had possessed her to go back? She should have just kept right on walking to her car.
Her mother followed her now, carrying the baby. “I wish you wouldn’t run off,” Ruth said. “You’re already here. Why shouldn’t we have some more time together?”
“You seem to have your hands full,” Olivia said pointedly.
“That’s just an excuse and we both know it.”
“Did you ever consider,” Olivia said slowly, “that you’re taking care of an abandoned baby because you feel guilty about abandoning me?”
Ruth appeared momentarily stunned. “I didn’t abandon you, Olivia. That’s absurd.”
“Of course you did. Both me and Dad.”
“That’s unfair. Really, Olivia. You owe me an apology.”
“I owe you an apology?” Olivia snapped. The baby began to cry.
“Don’t raise your voice!” Ruth whispered loudly. “Yes, you owe me an apology. Just because your father and I divorced and I traveled for work does not mean I dropped the ball as a mother. Maybe I wasn’t the same type of mother as your friends’, or on TV shows, or whatever yardstick you’re measuring me against. But I worked hard for myself; I worked hard for you; I set an example of success. Who are you to judge?”
“I’m entitled to my opinion,” Olivia said. “I know you spent the past thirty years around yes-people telling you how brilliant and accomplished you are. And I admit, you are successful. You are a great businesswoman. But I can’t say you were a great mother.”
Ruth shook her head, mumbled goodbye, and walked back inside the house.
Olivia looked after her for a moment, wondering if she’d gone too far with that last remark. But it was true. Oh, it had been a mistake to make the trip. At least it was over.
She walked to the car. People strolled along the sidewalk carrying tall cups of iced coffee. Directly in front of her, two men walked matching black pugs. Their laughter drifted back to Olivia, mocking her bleak mood. She hadn’t intended to end the weekend with an argument. But, really, the irony was too much for her. How could Ruth, who’d never had time to be a mother to her, be caring for the child of strangers?
Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored the temptation to stop in town and eat. The sooner she was back in New York, the sooner this misguided trip would be behind her. She knew she should be relieved that her mother was not sick, that there was no reason to worry. But all she felt was the rawness of fresh disappointment. She’d thought that, after all this time, she was beyond hoping for or expecting something different. But deep down, she’d known she was not.
Her phone brightened with a voice-mail alert. Her father had called, no doubt wondering how things were going. She’d call him from the road. She opened her trunk, picked up her suitcase, and immediately dropped it. A muscle spasm gripped her lower back, immobilizing her.
“Fuck!”
All she could do was slowly lower herself to the ground. And wait.
It had been worth a try.
In the office-turned-nursery, Ruth held Mira in her arms as she sat in the wooden rocking chair. Just a few more minutes of motion would hopefully do the trick.
Ruth had reached out to her daughter. She had attempted to connect with her. She apologized for whatever shortcomings she’d had as a mother. But it wasn’t enough to change anything.
Mira squirmed, raising her little fists above her head and arching her body. Her eyelids fluttered and then closed.
If only she’d known way back when that infancy was the easy part.
Maybe she had been unrealistic in her expectations about the weekend. Clearly, she’d underestimated Olivia’s degree of resentment. As unfair as Ruth thought it was, she knew from her therapy with Dr. Bellow that defending herself was “invalidating” Olivia’s feelings. Still, it had been impossible not to push back. How dare she accuse her of abandonment? Ruth had not been running away from her daughter.
She had been running away from her marriage.
Of course, Ruth didn’t like to think of it that way. With the wisdom of hindsight, she knew it was just a case of meeting the potential right man too young. Really, it all went back to trying to make her own mother happy. (This understanding was also courtesy of Dr. Bellow.) She adored her mother and took her advice to heart. What was important in life? Marriage. Family. Who could argue with that? And yet, Ruth couldn’t help but notice that her mother’s financial dependence on her father put her at the mercy of his moods, his money, and, ultimately, his failures.
Her mother had disdain for the “women’s libbers,” as she called them, even as Ruth grew more and more fascinated by Gloria Steinem, with her big ideas and short skirts. When she finally summoned the nerve to admit this to her mother, Joan Goldberg just smiled and said, “Well, she does have great style.” They never got into a philosophical argument, though in later years, Ruth wished she’d taken the time to challenge her mother so that, in turn, her mother might have had the wherewithal to challenge her husband.
Ruth put her energy into a plan for her own life: She would not make the same mistake her mother had made. She would put her career first.
And yet Ruth was already in love with Ben Cooperman. Eighteen years old with a serious boyfriend—this was not the plan. But how could she risk losing Ben just to see what else was out there?
Was it any wonder her marriage failed?
Ruth paced the floor, the past rushing at her, triggering a wave of emotion she did not want to experience. The only antidote was to get moving; Mira, sleeping, could be transferred to her stroller. It was time to walk, to be swept along by the throngs on Commercial Street.
The last thing she wanted was to be alone in her perfect, empty, rented house.