JESSICA
I’ll be honest, it was good to see Dad. He’s old, he’s ornery, he refuses to quit smoking his hideous pipe or move closer to my sister and me, but he still feels like a safe place when I hug him. I wonder how I feel to him.
After Mom died I assumed Dad would simply fade away, because she was always such a driving force. But after wandering aimlessly around their big DC apartment for a couple of months, he pulled himself together. He moved to a smaller place in Philadelphia, worked a bit for old colleagues and clients, played bridge competitively, and still drove the ridiculous sports car he bought himself for his sixtieth birthday. He cooked for himself, or he went out. He got bored eating alone, so he dated, largely because there were more single women his age than single men. But he told me once that he still loved my mother and would never marry anyone else. And now, nine years after her death, it seems he spoke the truth.
Emily clambered out of the Lyft and ran to him, hugging him much the same way she’d hugged Anna, back at home. It’s weird, watching your kids having relationships with other people, especially people who loom large in your own life. For the first few years after Emily was born we’d lived in DC, close to my parents. I dropped off the baby at their house almost every day and went to my job. If it weren’t for them, I would never have been able to continue working, and even though I don’t think single motherhood was a dream they had for me, they made it possible because it was something I wanted. I’d appreciated it at the time, but not as much as I did now. Back then I appreciated the help with Emily, I really did. Now I realize my baby was very much their secondary concern; their own baby was the one they were caring for.
I watched Dad now, talking to my sixteen-year-old about the little metal model kit he’d given her. (Sidenote: On the one hand I love the fact that this is a bonding thing between them, and I appreciate how good she is at making shiny little aircraft or tiny wooden buildings or whatever, but it’s my house that’s filling up with all these pointy little objects. How many of you—be honest—have stood with a black plastic trash bag in one hand and a child-made creation of questionable value and struggled with throwing it away? Right, all of us.)
Maybe I was jealous. I don’t remember him talking to me very much at all when I was sixteen, except to ask about school. My sister Lizzy was the sociable one, and he always seemed to have time for her. Mind you, she’s easy to hang out with; it’s not her fault. I wanted to debate Big Questions with him, like the LA riots and police brutality, whereas she wanted to show him her Breyer horses. I know which one I’d pick at the end of a long day arguing in court. Now that I had a teen of my own, I realized how reasonable my parents had been, twenty years too late. This is why grandparents look so happy all the time: They know they’ve made their point.
Dad had chosen Harrisons, one of those classic chain steak restaurants that haven’t changed in fifty years. This one, in Philadelphia, was pretty indistinguishable from the one in Washington, which we’d visited maybe once a month throughout my childhood. It was my mom’s favorite, even after they banned smoking at the tables. She’d always had filet steak, rare, creamed spinach, french fries with gravy, and a slice of cherry cheesecake. Emily had always loved it, too, and as we’d gone to DC several times a year throughout her childhood, going to this place was a highlight. We’d come less since my mom died because at first my dad couldn’t face anything that reminded him of her. But eventually it morphed into Emily’s favorite restaurant and shook off its sadness.
My grandfather is pretty cool. He was standing outside the restaurant, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking exactly the same as he always has. Maybe once you get really old you stop aging, if you know what I mean.
Grandpa and I have an excellent relationship, despite his bizarre attachment to Facebook. I think he’s stoked to have mastered social media, and I don’t have the heart to tell him Facebook is for old people. Plus, he is an old people, so, you know . . .
I ran over and gave him a hug. He smelled of pipe tobacco, probably on account of the pipe he smokes, and even though I’ve told him a million times about mouth cancer (I even sent photos), I kind of like the smell. No one else I know smells like that. Probably because they’re all dead.
“You’re still smoking?” I asked accusingly.
“Sweet Emily,” he replied, “I am seventy-nine years old. I smoke a pipe once a day, and don’t inhale. The tobacco scares away the germs. I’m fit as a flea.”
“You saw the pictures! Your teeth will fall out!”
Grandpa leaned closer. “Sweetheart, I take my teeth out every night, they’re almost certainly cleaner than yours.”
Then he straightened up as my mom came over, and beamed at her. Mom claims Grandpa likes Aunt Lizzy better than her, but it’s not true. Aunt Lizzy is a lot sweeter than Mom, possibly because she’s not as smart (sorry, truth) and she’s very easy to like. Mom takes more work.
“Dad,” she said, and hugged him. I’m surprised, but she holds it a little longer than usual. Maybe the scene in the bar upset her more than she let on. Adults are such an enigma.
I spent a fat three minutes outside Harrisons, taking pictures, because that place is a half-timber Disney dream of Olde England. They even have a red mailbox, which England doesn’t even have anymore! We used to spend a month every summer with my grandparents; they had a house in Lost River, in the Shenandoah Valley, with acres of woods and grass and streams and actual deer and things like that. But we’d fly in and out of DC, so we started and ended the trip at Harrisons. Not this one, the one in DC, obviously. When I was a kid, I thought it was genuinely magical, and even now I’m stoked, no lie. Mom likes it, too, even though she totally misses the point of a steakhouse and gets the pork chop. She says she never makes them herself, which I get, but still. It’s got steak in the name.
It was only after we sat down and ordered—I always get the same thing, steak, rare, creamed spinach, french fries—that I realized Grandpa was about to make a speech. Shoot me now. No, really, take me outside, blindfold me, let me say something memorable, then shoot me.
Grandpa was a lawyer, like my mom, but I think he spent more time in court or something, because he loves to give a speech, and it’s impossible to interrupt him. I guess years of rolling right on over the objections of opposing counsel (not sleeping through Law & Order, that show is a classic) gave him plenty of practice.
“So, Emily,” he began, and I knew right away I might as well rest my elbows on the table and get comfortable. “You’re here to look at colleges, correct?”
“Correct,” I replied, and glanced over at Mom. She was looking at Grandpa with one of those little lines between her eyebrows. She was wondering where he was going. She’s always slightly on edge around Grandpa, I’ve noticed, even though he’s completely harmless.
Right then he had his serious voice on. “I want to give you some advice.”
As this was not a shocking development, I nodded.
“College is a wonderful opportunity,” he said. “A time to really dig deeply into a subject that interests you, and hopefully discover the calling in your work we all really need. For me, and for your mother, it was the law. I have long suspected that law isn’t something that interests you, am I right?”
I squirmed a bit. How to tell the truth without being savage?
“Not really, Grandpa. I don’t think I’m smart enough, for one thing. I’m a pretty solid B student.” Apart from those Cs, of course, but we don’t need to get into specifics.
“But you can get your undergraduate degree in anything. You could study art history or something pointless like that.”
I frowned at him, ignoring the diss to, you know, the entire creative output of humankind. “Well, not really. Most lawyers study political science or criminal justice or psychology as undergrads.”
He frowned back, then asked my mom, “Is that true?”
She nodded and shifted in her chair. “It’s not like it used to be. It’s not even like it was for me. These days getting into college and law school is like a blood sport. It’s insane.”
She sounded tired and irritated, and gazed around as if hoping the bill would miraculously appear before the actual meal.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I know the deans at several excellent schools. I’m sure I could put in a good word.”
I had to cut this off. “But, Grandpa, I don’t want to be a lawyer. It’s not my jam, all that studying and memorizing.”
“What, then?” The waiter came and refilled Grandpa’s wineglass. Grandpa raised it at me. “Where are you going to triumph?”
Crap. How about nowhere?
“Uh, I’m not sure, Grandpa. I really don’t like school very much, not sure four more years of it is . . .”
“College is nothing like high school. You’ll love college.”
The food arrived, thank god. Grandpa always chills out after he eats and has some wine. He also has a strict rule never to discuss serious matters while eating, so we talked about baseball, which I happen to enjoy talking about more than most girls I know—not a sexist comment, just an observation. I wish I could talk about baseball for a living, but I can’t imagine that working out for me. When I went to the bathroom I googled it. As I suspected, I’d still need a bachelor’s degree in journalism or something.
Everyone tells you middle school is fun, and then you get there and it sucks. Then high school is going to be fun, but you get there and it both sucks and is really hard. Now, apparently, college is going to be fun, but it really seems like one more hurdle standing between me and actual happiness. Whatever that is.
So, Dad started grilling Emily about college, which is not the best way to get anything out of her. But I couldn’t exactly interrupt his flow to say, Dad, wait, you’re going about this all wrong. She won’t tell you anything if you come at her head-on; you have to approach her obliquely, sneak attack. Besides, she never tells me anything anyway, so my way isn’t exactly coming up trumps.
I remember the conversation my dad and I had about my decision to become a lawyer, like him. It went like this:
Me: I’ve decided to become a lawyer.
Him: Are your grades strong enough?
Me: Yes.
Him: Good choice.
That’s it. That was the whole thing. I finished my degree, I got into Columbia Law, which was a lot easier back then, especially for Columbia graduates, and was about to start my first job when I got pregnant with Emily. I remember that conversation, too:
Me: I’m pregnant.
Him: You’re about to start work.
Me: Yeah, I know.
Him: Are you going to have an abortion?
Me: No. I don’t think so.
Him: You’ll ruin your career.
Me: No, I won’t. I have it all figured out. I’ll work part-time. When she’s older I’ll work full-time. It’s fine.
Him: Good luck.
And again, that was it, the whole thing. The conversation with my mother was slightly different:
Me: I’m pregnant.
Her: Are you keeping it?
Me: I think so.
Her: Do you know who the father is?
Me: Of course, but he’s not interested. If I keep it, I’m doing it alone.
Her: Aren’t you worried you’ll end up a lonely single mother who no man will ever want?
(Pause)
Me: Well . . . I wasn’t.
And that was it, her version of the conversation. It wasn’t that they didn’t have any faith in me, it was that I was twenty-eight. I was an adult. I was expected to know my own mind, and I did.
Dessert might even be my favorite thing about Harrisons. You can have Spotted Dick, lol, which is actually a super-yummy spongy cake thing with raisins, or cheesecake, or chocolate cake, or that thing where they cook the top with a tiny blowtorch right at the table. You’d think the sprinklers would go off, and I kind of always hope they will. I had cheesecake. Cherries are my go-to berry. Are they a berry? (Googles under table.) Go-to drupe, new word of the day.
Grandpa took a forkful of chocolate cake and said, “But really, Emily, what’s your plan for the next few years?”
I swallowed my cheesecake and shook my head. “I’m not sure, Grandpa. Go to college, I guess.”
Mom jumped in. “She doesn’t have to decide until the fall, Dad. Part of the point of this trip is for her to look around and see which colleges appeal to her.” The irony of the Great Questioner defending me from interrogation is not lost on me.
Grandpa pointed his fork at my face, which was rude. “If you’re not sure what to do, pick a major you can live with and go to the best school you can. The people you meet are far more important than what you study. You’ll make the connections that matter.”
I wanted to talk about how elitist that is, and how it perpetuates inequality (two semesters of sociology elective) but decided to nod thoughtfully and eat my cheesecake. Did I mention it had cherries?
After dessert I escaped to the bathroom again and ended up FaceTiming with Sienna for about ten minutes. She was over the Becca thing because something more serious has happened: She got a B on her test and thinks her life is over. She was literally in tears. She’s dramatic at the best of times, but now she really gave it her all.
“Cornell’s out of the question now,” she sobbed. “They haven’t taken anyone with less than a 4.2 in over twenty years. I might as well take Northwestern off the table, too, and UPenn isn’t happening.” She’s a madwoman, of course; one B isn’t going to make any difference in an otherwise perfect record. Sienna kept going but I kind of drifted off. Everyone wants to get into a “name” school, one that when you tell people you got in, they make that face, the face that says, You won the game, you’re set for life. Of course, only very few get in, which makes those schools even more special. They’re like the girl who turns everyone down, so everyone wants to date her and no one ever discovers she’s completely boring.
“Did Mrs. Bandin call anyone else in?” I asked suddenly.
“No,” said Sienna, “are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I said, “what about your safety schools?”
After another few minutes I suddenly remembered where I was and shot back out to the restaurant, surprised Mom hadn’t come looking for me.
But they were talking and hadn’t even noticed my long absence.
Emily went off to the bathroom, and my father cleared his throat. “Is Emily a good student?”
I looked at my dad and wondered about his definition of good. “She maintains a steady B. She tries hard, she does her work. I don’t think she’s a rocket scientist. She’s still better and happier drawing and making stuff than she is at schoolwork. Always has been.”
His eyebrows drew together the way they did at least once in every conversation we’d ever had.
“Sure, but now she’s a young woman, not a child. Time to put aside childish things, correct?”
I tried to channel my mother’s neutral tone. She frequently disagreed with my father, but never made him frown the way I did. “News flash, Dad, adults draw and make things, too.”
“Maybe she could be an architect?”
I sighed to cover my irritation. “Dad, she’s sixteen, she doesn’t know yet. She’s struggling right now, you need to leave her alone.”
“We left you alone and look what happened.”
I frowned at him, my eyebrows a perfect echo of his, not that I could see it. “What happened? I got my degree, finished law school, moved to LA, succeeded despite being a single parent, and now I’m a partner and making a frankly ridiculous salary. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He was silent for a moment. “It’s what I wanted for you. Your mother thought you would have been happier staying in school.”
I laughed. “What, forever?”
He shrugged. “She thought you were too deep a thinker for the law, not pragmatic enough for the constant compromise.”
I was surprised. “This is news to me. She never told me that.” My mother had talked to me constantly, her voice the birdsong of my childhood. I wish I could remember more of what she actually said. Listening might have helped.
He shrugged again and moved the knife on his plate. “You never asked her opinion. You went off to college and we rarely saw you, then you were at law school and we saw you maybe twice a year, and then you were pregnant.” He drank his wine, unable to sit still for a moment. “At least then she felt needed. Helping you with the baby made her very happy, although it was bittersweet.”
I refilled my glass, largely to give myself a moment to think. My mom had only rarely given me her opinion, whereas my dad had an opinion about everything. He and I argued all the time about this and that, starting when I was around nine and really settling in once I was a teenager. My mom used to roll her eyes when we started and go outside to smoke (later on I’d banned her from smoking in her own home when I was there with Emily, something I feel a little guilty about now). I regret not going and sitting with her outside every time she left the room; I wish I’d spent more time asking about her rather than telling her about me. We’d spent time every summer with my parents at their country house in West Virginia, but I’d seen it as a chance to rest while she played with Emily and watched her build her forts or make dams in the stream. She and Emily were so happy together, I felt fine leaving them alone. Now I wish I’d joined in more.
Dad was still talking. “She always felt she’d given up a lot once she had you two, and she wanted you both to have as much freedom from responsibility as possible.” He cleared his throat. “Not that she regretted having you two, she loved being a mom. But when Emily came along, she was sad, not because she didn’t love children, but because she loved you. She wanted you to have more time to yourself. More space.”
I wasn’t sure how to process that, so I said, “Did she miss working?” My mom had been a graphic designer, working in an advertising agency in New York when she met my dad. He was already in DC; they’d met at a wedding. For a year or two they’d dated on and off, then she’d moved to an agency in DC and they got married. I realized I’d never heard her talk much about her career. Maybe I wasn’t listening, the same way Emily wasn’t listening to me.
Dad nodded. “Sometimes, although she never really loved her work. She was much happier puttering around the house, putting up shelves, or whatever it was she did in that workshop she had. Besides, this was the seventies, remember? Everyone thinks it was a time of social revolution, but after taking a few years off when you two were small, it was really hard for her to find another job she actually wanted.” He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for the check. “Employers knew women would put their children first, and felt comfortable not hiring them because of it.” He looked at me. “These days I would probably get fired for saying that, despite the fact that it’s true.”
“Not all women, Dad.”
He shrugged. “Your mom used to say she’d made a trade, and sometimes it felt worth it and other times”—he made a face—“like when you stayed out all night in tenth grade and she nearly called the police, it didn’t.”
I smiled. “Emily certainly wouldn’t get away with that. I track her every movement on her phone.”
He made a noise under his breath. “Well,” he said, pulling out his wallet to pay the bill. “I can’t imagine that’s very much fun for either of you.”