It seemed like we were in the car a lot and I kept hoping that she’d open up more there—for some reason Matt and I would sometimes talk personally while I was driving us here & there—but nothing happened. So one day I just blurted out, “Are you seeing a therapist?”
Her No sounded wary; not inviting discussion.
But I decided to babble on about my own therapy. “This was the tail end of the Freudian era, when the analyst—who was supposed to be a kind of blank canvas upon which the analysand could project her fantasies—said very little…” I knew Ellen was interested in the 1960’s.
“You told me.”
I didn’t think she’d ever said that to me.
A little while later she murmured, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you…” We’d been unusually silent.
I had a feeling she was finally going to tell me how she’d ended up in such a mess.
Maybe I was a little nervous lest she ask for something it would be difficult for me to give.
But mostly I wanted to help.
Pulling back her hair into the unflattering ponytail, “I’ve been wondering what it was like, your women’s group—didn’t you belong to one before you got married?”
I didn’t mention that what had finally broken us up had been when some of us began having babies and then talking interminably about the minutiae of childcare.
Just stopping myself from saying something like, “You look so much prettier with your hair loose,” it crossed my mind that maybe it was lucky that I’d never had the daughter I’d always wanted.
Girls Night Out
My last night I insisted we get all dolled up and go out to a fancy restaurant. Ellen wore a long skirt, I borrowed a necklace, we tried each other’s perfume. As we walked to her car, the super called out, “Have fun, girls.” Ellen turned on the radio to a Golden Oldies station and occasionally we sang along—“Let’s Twist Again,” “Runaround Sue,”etc. I was surprised at how many songs she knew from my youth. Our ride was full of moonlit palm trees.
The restaurant looked tacky, but I had champagne, Ellen club soda, and we merrily toasted the baby.
But then while we were eating our (small, dried-out) lobsters, something weird happened and we started talking about Matt:
For some reason I mentioned the time his gerbil chewed off its own leg. Immediately I felt disloyal.
Ellen remembered my once telling her how “little Matt” used to complain that he was tired of reading about people “who are getting out and doing things while I have to just stay home & read about them.”
I’d forgotten he’d said that. “Now you’re giving me back my stories.”
Ellen looked pleased with herself.
I felt that almost-swooning feeling of wanting her to always be pleased with herself.
Something reminded me of the time little Matt and I were eating in a deli and at a nearby table a small Japanese man just sat there for a few minutes, staring at his sky-high pastrami sandwich. Matt had found this hilarious.
I was starting to feel guilty about talking about him so much, when Ellen said, “Did I ever tell you about the time Matt & I broke a chicken wishbone together?”
I didn’t think so.
“Well, we broke the wishbone, and he ‘won’ & made his wish, but then later he said that his wish had been that my wish come true. He said, ‘I wanted you to have two chances.’”
At first I was confused because although over the years Matt & I had certainly broken wishbones together, this “two chances” idea was new to me. (Maybe I was also a little jealous, because Matt had never introduced it to us. Maybe I pictured him and Ellen having this tender conversation in bed—and I certainly didn’t want to picture them in bed!) But soon I was charmed by the story. And although I’d be seeing Pete in less than 24 hours, I planned to call him that very night to tell him this new sweet thing about our boy. Grateful to Ellen for having told me, I was moved that despite her troubles, she’d wanted to give me something.
We were waiting to order tea and I was thinking about how it was my last night and I didn’t even know who the baby’s father was, when I noticed how exhausted she looked.
Although she protested that she was wide-awake, she let me drive us right back to her apartment.
Periodically and like an over-tired child she’d whine, “We never even had our tea.”
Since it was still fairly early when we got back, I was about to offer to make some, but she looked so tired I told her to go right to bed.
“But it’s your last night.”
She got undressed, and when I went over to kiss her good night (this would be a first), she was sleeping.
I boiled water for myself, but there was no more tea. I’d be leaving early in the morning.
On the Plane
I looked forward to coming back and seeing Ellen’s baby… I’d try not to go on for too long with Matt about what a splendid baby it was…before Tina and Tiny came over (bringing a delicious meal), I’d warn Ellen not to go on for too long about the minutiae of child care…I vowed that even when Matt has children, I’ll always consider Ellen’s child my other grandchild…at some point it came to me that Tina and Tiny were probably lovers…when I’d ask Pete if he thought Ellen was gay, “You’re always making up stories,” he’d tell me… although by the time we finished dinner it would be pretty late, maybe I’d get out our CD of “As Time Goes By,” and then—as we’d started doing after Matt went away to college—we’d move the coffee table out of the way, and we’d dance.
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