Three

This Old House

I was lying on my side, half-awake. Rachel had crawled into my bed at 2 o’clock in the morning, burrowing in beside me, cocoon-like.

Life’s road bumps had taught me to be grateful for the smallest blessings, like the warm skin and gentle breathing of my lively ten-and-a-half-year-old. In my years of practice, I had seen countless families struggle as their children suffered with school problems, mood disorders, and serious eating concerns. Recently, a physician colleague and I had to hospitalize a teenager who ate nothing but sugar packets. Her parents huddled in my office, the mother weeping as her husband stared mutely into the ether. Sometimes raising a child was like trying to manage your own private tsunami.

I floated in and out of sleep until Rachel shook me.

“Mom, wake up.” Rachel’s tone was serious. I opened my eyes immediately. She sat surrounded by pillows, her gray eyes wide and earnest beneath yesterday’s messy braids, her hand resting on my arm.

“I have to ask you something.”

I managed to locate my glasses. There were still thirty minutes before I had to get up for work.

“Are you listening? Mom?”

I braced myself for the worst. She’d been at Barnum for a little over a week. Was something wrong?

She shook my arm. “Can I get an Instachat? Everyone at school has one. And pierced ears.”

Earrings I could handle; it was all the other things, like social sites, that were harder for me. They meant Rachel was growing up, but I wasn’t nearly ready, despite knowing all along this day would come. Separation was inevitable. I’d read that in a textbook, or maybe it was written on a message inside of a fortune cookie. Either way, I’d have to let go. At least she wasn’t asking for a tattoo, not yet.

“I’ll need to approve it,” I said, rubbing my temples. “Snaps” were supposed to disappear. But recipients found ways around their transience, and teens were routinely caught in compromising situations. “You know you can’t message strangers or send anyone photos of yourself.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Okay.” I sighed. “In a few minutes we have to start getting ready. We’ll talk more about Instachat and earrings later.” I was torn about breaking up our slumber party. Oops, there I was again, cataloging my feelings.

Good or bad, compulsive or not, feelings had always been my focus. That was why I became a clinical psychologist, to understand them. I learned to handle life’s challenges without becoming overwhelmed by emotion. Losing both parents at once at the age of twelve, my grief was so bad it felt like I was going crazy. I’d see others laughing at school and feel cut off, alien. The days blurred, and everything was muddled and bleak. I finally figured out how to compartmentalize and get through the long hours, the loneliness. Doctor, heal thyself. Except for barely dodging that bullet at the altar, I’d mostly done okay.

Rachel fell back to sleep and I tried to snuggle a little more. But my mind had started going and I could no longer relax.

Shoving the sides of my pillow inward in the manner of a crazed accordion grinder, I sat up and rolled back down, vertebrae by vertebrae. But nothing I did seemed to have any impact. At least my abdominal muscles were getting a workout.

My left eye insisted on peeking at the clock again: 5:48 a.m. I gave in; why rest when you can fret until dawn?

I made my way downstairs, thinking at least I was enjoying the house. I loved the polished oak floors, wide curving stairway from entranceway to second floor, and gracious landing that gave way to a large parlor. Outside, there was even a sprawling veranda. Veranda. That was a fun word to say.

But the good times ended there. The porch was elegant, but dilapidated, just like the rest of the place. The roof leaked, and the plumbing was shot. We couldn’t afford to do any major renovations. Rachel and I had figured it out, though. We would be okay as long as we didn’t run the shower and wash our clothing at the same time.

Coffee beckoned. I made my way through the darkness, down the old staircase, noticing the feel of worn brocade under my toes. There was a rustling in the wall next to me, and my heart screeched to a halt. Hopefully there were no mice or other vermin here—that was all I needed. I inched forward into the kitchen, picturing Stuart Little on the counter, balancing on hind legs, waving a welcome sign. As my hand brushed the worn piece of lace covering the windowpane above the sink, I told myself that worrying about mice was ridiculous, and flipped on the light switch.

A small spotlight shone beneath one cabinet, casting a single beam from countertop to floor, yet still leaving most of the room dark. Perfect. I could see enough to press the button, but still awaken gradually while the coffee brewed. Early morning was my time to think. I listened as each inky drop hit the glass carafe, and kept returning to the same thoughts: I was alone in the world with my wide-eyed pre-adolescent who was dependent upon me for survival. We had moved to the same village as two of my patients who had kids in the school that Rachel now attended, and which, according to one of them, was a place where a band of moms ran around committing all sorts of social atrocities.

I wondered why I was so bothered by Amy’s last session and her Hunger Games view of life in town. Everyone I’d been meeting seemed nice; maybe she was exaggerating—or there was more to the story. Still, my patient wasn’t the only one who’d warned me about Mayfair. My daughter and I would eventually learn the truth.

It would be fine. Rachel was lively and resilient; my helicoptering was the last thing she needed. I pictured her the weekend we’d moved in, friends visiting from the city. As I unpacked in the bedroom, she called upstairs: “Bye, mom. We’re riding bikes.”

There was a cacophony of sounds: a thumping, sneakers on wood mixed with peels of laughter. “Don’t forget your key—and you still have to do some unpacking!” I’d yelled over the din, but a resounding thud from the front door silenced my pleas. Peering out a window I watched as Rachel and her friends rode off over spotty crabgrass and patches of brown that had appeared where lawn was supposed to be, their Yankees T-shirts and baggy shorts fading into tiny blue dots before disappearing altogether.

There were now percolating sounds emanating from across the room. The scent of hazelnut began to engulf me, slowly, sensuously; the potent beans causing my nostrils to vibrate and desire to grow until that first sip was all I could think about. It was a welcome respite from patient conflicts and worry about my child.

The coffee pot beeped. Finally. Time to hit pause on the self-analysis and fight the shrink within.

I crossed the floor, tiled in an ornate pattern of white and black. The rest of the room was limited to painted white wood cabinets and light tiles above the counters. My aunt’s improvements were surface-level, but elegant. I sipped and smiled as I heard the sound of bare feet above me.

After drop off, I drove into the city, parked, and walked to my building. Ten minutes later, when my first appointment was scheduled, I opened my office door, noting the waiting room was free of occupants, human or otherwise. I got busy, filing paperwork and sorting through the mail.

More than halfway into the hour, my patient, Maureen, sailed in, having commuted from Mayfair. I wondered if she knew that we were now neighbors whose kids attended the same school. She strode across the room, flipping her straight dark hair out of her eyes and smiling in my direction.

Lowering herself into the patient chair, she began to speak. “I signed up to volunteer at a soup kitchen. Everyone around me is so focused on shallow and material things, like improving their tennis serve or lowering their golf handicap. I can’t wait to see my speech therapy friends after this. They’re doing good work, and I miss being part of that. Oh, and sorry I was late.” Maureen had quit her job as a pediatric speech pathologist when she’d moved out of the city.

“Sounds like you’re saying you’d like to get involved in something more meaningful,” I commented.

“Well, yeah. People where I live are mostly brain-dead idiots. I love my friends, and some of the other women in town are fun to go out drinking with, but they aren’t really aware of the larger world. I miss helping people.”

Maureen was deep in thought. “I’d like to go back to work, but all the hospitals and clinics have eliminated part-time positions to cut costs,” she finally said. “And since we can’t afford live-in help, I have to deal until the kids are older.”

“You sounded happy when you mentioned volunteering.”

“Yes. Last week, my friends asked me to serve as the cochair of our town’s Newcomer’s Committee. It’s the most important part of the PTA, helping new families assimilate into the community. I’ll be working with Lee DeVry, and that’s a big deal. Have you heard of the family? They’re charitable people, very successful. Their home is magnificent: over 11,000 square feet, on a private lake with two docks, floor-to-ceiling windows and—this blows my mind—no two walls the same size. It was in an architectural magazine, a huge spread. Lee’s husband, Jack, is a financier. He told Bob he’s building a helipad on the property.”

Lee? That sounded familiar. I thought back. Jess had mentioned her when we met in the classroom.

Maureen glanced at the clock and continued. “I’ve known Lee since sophomore year; we were in the same sorority. She’s a natural blond with a perfect body, a true southern belle!” Maureen laughed. “All good, unless you piss her off. One time she blackballed a cheerleader who went after her boyfriend. It got ugly.” She paused, furrowing her brow. “I forgot why I got onto this. Oh, right, the Newcomer’s Committee. Like I said, I’m glad to be working with Lee. She’s, like, the most popular woman in town. Our daughters are best friends, and our families are really close.”

“That’s nice to hear,” I said.

Her phone buzzed and she took it out of her purse. “Lee is in the city and wants to meet up. My speech therapy friends will have to wait.” She glanced at the clock. “Okay. I see it’s that time.”

I always found it interesting when patients told me it was time to end. I knew that for Maureen, this probably had to do with wanting to know when she should rein in her feelings. She had a lot of self-control, and valued her ability to compose herself.

I also found it interesting that Maureen was going to make her speech therapy pals wait until after she got together with Lee. I had a nagging feeling that maybe my patient wasn’t the Eleanor Roosevelt she made herself out to be.

She stood up. “Almost forgot to mention, I googled because I was going to leave a message, and saw that you also have an office in Mayfair. If you’re new to town, it’s my job to welcome you on behalf of the Newcomer’s Committee. But I can’t show you around. Obviously that would be weird.”

Obviously. I was sweating as she stood up and walked to the door. This boundary stuff was going to be tougher than I realized.

“Maybe we should switch it up, meet in Westchester next time. I’ll call you about that. Either way, see you next week.” She turned and threw me a parting grin, and I was struck by how pretty she was, by the friendliness in her smile. It wasn’t hard to see why Maureen had so many friends, and why she was head of her town’s welcoming committee.

After she left, I grabbed a sip of water and glanced out the window onto the busy city street. Maureen, official town greeter and soup kitchen volunteer, was standing next to her car, ripping up a summons and shoving it into her purse. She’d parked in a handicapped spot. Perhaps we would talk about that next hour.

This session had me thinking about Maureen and other women who felt hamstrung by the maternal role. So many seemed to be struggling to understand who they were now that their kids were a little older and they had more time on their hands. It was the moms whose primary source of identity was derived through parenting that struggled the most.

I was pleased when my phone pinged. It was Sharon, one of the women I’d met in the classroom, inviting me to get together: “Would love to meet up. Next couple of weeks, crazy, but after that?” “Sure! Love to,” I responded, and we signed off.

Rachel and I began to settle into a routine. We had breakfast together and I dropped her off and headed to work, leaving pick-up to Alva, our sitter since Rachel’s birth. The two of them were close. Knowing what it was like to feel the void of loss, I was thrilled when Alva agreed to work in Westchester.

“Can we have eggs today?” Rachel was asking. We’d make it to school, but if we didn’t leave in the next few minutes, I’d have trouble getting into the city on time.

“Sure,” I said, glancing at my watch. “You’ll need a big meal to get through school and unpack all of the cartons in your room.”

She stomped upstairs. “It isn’t fair! I should be allowed to keep my room the way I want.”

I cracked the eggs, thinking that being a mother was hands down more difficult than seeing clients.

As we were getting ready to leave, I walked past the powder room and noticed a small puddle where water was leaking. The place was in disrepair with antiquated plumbing and loose tiles everywhere. A team of construction workers would barely make a dent, and I had no idea how to stop a toilet from running over or fix a sink. Where was my old super when I needed him? I imagined calling him in an emergency; maybe he would come over for a repair, or if it snowed. Come to think of it, I still hadn’t purchased a shovel. Better get on that before I wound up trapped in a huge drift.

Rachel gulped down her breakfast and we drove to school. She accepted my apology for being short-tempered, and promised to start on the boxes later that day. Through the rearview mirror I took in her fitted V-neck, cropped jeans, and the Adidas sneakers she’d lobbied for—the ones all the Mayfair girls were wearing. For the majority of the ride she stared down at her phone, fingers moving across the screen. I asked how everything was going.

“It’s fine. Everyone’s nice. I like the teacher.” I’d hoped for more, but knew better than to probe. Once we arrived, she barely waited until I’d stopped the car before opening her door and catapulting out, knees bent, like a parachute jumper. “Bye.” Her departure told me everything I needed to know: The classroom and peer group were fine.

Since we’d gotten through drop-off ahead of schedule, I parked and headed for the Starbucks by the station platform. The place was packed, a magnet for commuters from several towns over. Inching my way in, I noticed that it reeked of too-potent coffee beans and vibrated like crazy whenever a train approached. Spending time there was like supping at the base of a live volcano.

There were a few women, including Jess, at a small café table across the room from the counter. While queuing up, I looked over a few times and tried to wave, but Jess was deep in conversation.

After my cappuccino was paid for, I grabbed it and squeezed through the crowd, stopping at her table to say hello. She and her friends were in yoga clothes, sipping hot drinks and laughing. “Hi,” I smiled. “How’s everything?”

“Good,” she nodded, as I glanced around at the group and smiled. One of the women was telling a story. The others were focusing on her and didn’t meet my eye.

“Just thought I’d say ‘Good morning.’ I’m on my way to work.” Jess waved briefly before turning back to the others.

I made my way toward the door, wondering whether it had been a mistake to go over. She hadn’t introduced me to her friends, but wouldn’t it have been rude for me to leave without saying hello? There was a catch in my chest. Something was wrong.

A fast search of my pockets told me I’d misplaced my cell phone. Pivoting quickly, I failed to notice the tall, dark-haired guy who’d been resting against the wall, coffee in one hand, Kindle in the other. I bumped into him, tipping his cup and spilling dark liquid onto the floor.

“Excuse me,” I said at exactly the same moment he apologized.

“Good reflexes. Did I burn you?” He was smiling.

I shook my head. “My fault. I’m sorry I spilled your coffee.”

A train rumbled its approach. “No worries.” My pulse quickened as he held my gaze for several moments until a buzzing sound—my phone!—pulled my attention toward my purse. I dragged my eyes away and dug around as a surge of commuters moved en masse toward the doorway. When I looked up, the cute guy had vanished.

Too bad, but he was probably married.