Midge called yesterday asking me if I’d join them at Marsden’s birthday dinner. Actually she said, “Elise, join weee for Marsden’s birthday din din tonight palease.” Midge speaks a sort of Eastern European Suburban Illinois baby talk. The only part of this verbal affectation that makes sense is the suburban Illinois. I wanted to answer, “Me no want to join we for this last-minute invitation to my own son’s eighteenth birthday. Me pushed this baby out without epidural and it is me who he should be with—not babyspeak youeee.” But I bit my tongue, swallowed a hefty intake of air, and said, “Midge, that’s a most lovely offer. I would love to join you.” And she replied, “Fantastic shmantastic!”
They had made a reservation at The Daily Catch in the North End. The three of them drove up from Wellesley and I drove into Boston from Dedham. I was the one-woman show, they were the ensemble, their bodies moving together as they walked through the restaurant to the table where I was already sitting.
Elliot apologized for them being 15 minutes late. “Midge wanted to skirt up the back roads, I insisted on the Pike, and it was crawling. I should always listen to Midge.”
“Don’t be silly. Elliot. We’d be latey-late if we took my way too.” Midge always agrees with Elliot, even when she doesn’t.
I hugged Marsden—squeezed him tightly enough for him to understand that I wouldn’t let go until he draped his limby arms around me. I reminded him that it was his 18th birthday.
“Eighteen. Can you believe it?” I asked him.
“Yup,” he replied.
Midge and Elliot sat down at the table while I was holding onto Marsden. They sat across from each other, which left me seated across from Marsden, sandwiched between my ex-husband and his girlfriend. Fucking sandwich generation.
Since I assumed Elliot was picking up the tab, I ordered the lobster fra diavolo. Midge asked me and Elliot if we remembered our 18th birthdays. It was the type of leading question that somebody asks because they have a story they want to tell. Elliot went first and told his tale of turning 18 that we’ve all heard many times before. His parents gave him a car that wouldn’t start. They wanted him to understand that now that he was legally an adult, he needed to figure out how to navigate a broken world. If he wanted a car of his own, he’d have to find a way to fix this one. And Elliot being Elliot got an afterschool job at a garage and learned how to repair cars. While he was telling this story and putting on a dazzling display of paternal engagement by emphasizing the lesson in it for Marsden, Midge smiled and nodded. I nodded too but probably didn’t break a smile until I noticed all the lines on Midge’s face. She’s five years younger than me and her face is already sectioned off into rows of cheek. She’s aging in double time. Keep smiling Midge. Keep smiling. My turning 18 story was about going out to famed literary hangout Elaine’s for dinner with Dad and Lucy and seeing what looked like a casting call for famous writers and actors. Everyone from the wimpy and horny—Woody Allen—to the burly and horny—Norman Mailer—to the sexy and horny—Warren Beatty—was there. And I drank Tom Collins after Tom Collins because the drinking age was 18 back then and Dad didn’t seem to notice that I kept ordering drinks for myself. After dinner, Elaine herself brought out a cupcake with a candle on it and informed me that there would be no singing tonight, but she assured me to wish carefully because my wish would come true.
“And so what did you wish for?” Midge asked.
I looked over at Marsden to try to gauge how tuned out he was.
“I wished that I would find a way to help make the world a better place,” I said.
“That’s beautiful,” Midge said.
Elliot gave me the eye. He knew I was lying. The truth was I had just seen Star 80 and Flashdance and I wished that one of the famous men eating at Elaine’s that night would discover me. For my 18th birthday I had one wish, and I wished to be discovered by a famous man. I wouldn’t tell that to my son, I wouldn’t tell that to anyone. I will burn these Morning Pages when I’m done because I’d prefer to go out with the mythology of my life, because whatever that mythology is it’ll be more posthumously palatable than the warty truth.
But I haven’t yet gotten to Midge’s inappropriate and probably apocryphal story about “popping her cherry”—her words—on her 18th birthday with a singer in a “super-duper” famous band that she refused to name.
So we guessed.
“R.E.M.?”
“Not going to say.”
“Rolling Stones?”
“I said I’m not going to say.”
“U2?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Talking Heads?”
“I wish.”
And so it went on until Elliot put a stop to it.
Then she told us that this famous rock star who most certainly wasn’t Bruce Springsteen or Jon Bon Jovi gave her herpes.
And I yelled out, “Yay!” At least I yelled it out to myself.
Midge wanted to use this story to lecture Marsden about the importance of using a condom. And she blathered on and on about STDs, and when she looked over at me for some parental reinforcement, I said, “I agree, it’s important to use a condom if you’re having sex with a rock star.”
And Elliot laughed.
My baby is 18 and now he has his own story.