Condemn Me Not (13 page)

Simone
followed the taillights of a car as it drove down the crowded street, currently
lined with parked cars, sometimes stacked two deep during rush hour.  Navigating
the city roads was more like weaving a thread through a needle.  But that was
Boston.  That was city living.  However, at this late hour, streets were quiet.

Upon
further contemplation, Simone decided she didn’t much care if anyone knew what
it took to manage the traffic, the timetables that felt like a game of Russian
roulette. 
She
knew.  Finding satisfaction and reward in her work made
her a better mother, even if it made her a “late” mother.  She was happiest
when productive, happiest when fulfilled.  It made her feel whole.  How great a
mother would she be if she were forced to stay home and care for her children
when her heart wanted to work?  She wanted to help companies build their
businesses and, in turn, build her own.  She wanted to create financial
security for others and, in turn, create her own.  Was that wrong?

Simone
settled on the flickering lights of distant buildings, the shadowed outlines of
their structures against the hazy glow behind them.  The spindly fingers of a
migraine began to work their way around her head.  With purpose of thought, she
tried to ward the pain off by slowing her breath, taking deep inhalations
followed by complete exhalations.  Her life wasn’t perfect.  There were days
when Mariah was sick, when she wanted to be by her side, place a cool cloth to
her forehead, brush the hair from her face, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t
call in sick because her child was sick.  How irresponsible would that have
been?

Those
were the days her job hurt.  Days when her nanny June sat vigil, feeding Mariah
chicken soup, watching cartoons with her as she allowed a cold or fever to work
its way through her system.  Silly, but she felt jealous sometimes.  Envious
that she couldn’t be in two places at once.  But that’s how life worked.  A
woman had to make choices, sacrifices.  Whether society approved of her choices
or not, ultimately she believed kids needed to see their mothers happy.  They
needed to see them going after what they wanted, striving and thriving, not
miserable and stressed out, trying to be something they weren’t.  How else
would their children learn to do the same for themselves, if no one set the
example?

Especially
girls.  She didn’t want Mariah to grow up and think she had to be someone’s
wife, someone’s mother, in order to fulfill her lot in life.  No.  Simone wanted
her to be who
she
wanted to be, not what society and tradition dictated.

Allowing
her focus to soften against the building tension in her brain, Simone pondered
the crisis at hand.  How did it reflect on her that her own daughter didn’t
want to go to college?  Sure, Mariah wanted to start a business, playing career
woman in her own mind, but reality would soon hit.  She could wake up married
and pregnant, struggling for every dime she had.  Logan could end up running
this business—should it ever succeed—and Mariah would be home holding the
grocery bag.  A sense of looming disaster turned over in her stomach.  Then all
her talk about independence and running her own show would go poof.

Women
either worked, or they didn’t.  They either made a name for themselves in their
chosen field, or they assumed the name of their husband.  Her mother was a case
in point.  She had talked the talk of a career in law, but when push came to
shove and the third child was born, she quit.  Catherine Richmond,
Attorney-at-Law became Mrs. Richmond, wife and mother.  She went home to care
for the kids where her life became swallowed up and defined by her children and
husband.  When she wanted something for herself, she had to get it from her
husband.  She had her own bank account—which he funded—but for anything over
and above she had to ask permission.  She wanted to take a trip with her
girlfriends?  She had to ask her husband for permission. 
Permission
. 
As though she were a child.

Souring
in her gut, Simone allowed the bitterness to pass.  She resented the financial
dependence, much the same way she did her mother’s subservience.  Each and
every night, she freshened her makeup and spritzed her perfume in anticipation
of her husband’s arrival home.  She claimed it was to keep their fires burning,
their relationship warm and passionate.  After all, his days were spent around
beautifully dressed and perfectly coiffed women.  It wasn’t right his number
one lady should pale in comparison. As though a well-done face and sweet scent
were all it took to hold a man’s interest.  It was a charade Simone abhorred.  It
was Claire who saw the validity in the tactic. 
Simone, your mother is
shrewd.  She understands what you take for granted—an even playing field
applies not only at the office, but pertains to the home as well
.

Simone
begged to differ.  Her behavior wasn’t the magic she claimed it to be.  It was
weakness, submission, and everything Simone detested.  And what did her mother have
to show for her wisdom today?

Grandchildren. 
She had no career, no money of her own, no life outside her father.  She had
grandchildren and nothing more.  Simone gazed out over the back yard, a small
but finely landscaped space beneath the vine-entangled pergola.  Hidden
lighting subtly lit the area, making it inviting, romantic even.  Especially
when the wisteria was in full bloom, when clumps of purple sat tucked away in
dense green foliage, cascaded down the posts, delicate petals layering the air
with sweet fragrance.  It was beautiful and relaxing, the kind of space that
made her want to linger, rejuvenate, and it was hers.  Hers and Mitchell’s—but
without his paycheck, she would not lose it.  She could afford this home on her
own.

She
would miss this place when they left.  Ten years here in the South End, she
loved this old Victorian home.  It was Mitchell who insisted they live in this
part of town, declaring it an up and coming neighborhood with the best
potential for resale, should they ever decide to move.  But it didn’t take much
convincing.  One look at the line of brick row houses reminded Simone of her
hometown.  Chicago’s Hyde Park felt similar in both tempo and style.  During
her last business trip to the city, she had detoured from the financial
district for a nostalgic drive along Lake Shore.  The sky was crisp, the air
brisk, the lake dotted with boats against a glittering sheet of water.  It was
picture-perfect and she couldn’t wait to return.  Excitement swelled.  She was
looking forward to the move.  It was time.  It was her turn to shine.

But
first there was the business of Mariah to settle.  Simone turned from the
window and focused on the task at hand.  If Mitchell was right, if Mariah
wanted to walk in her mother’s shoes, no matter how obstinate and aversive she
appeared at the moment, then she needed to understand what it took to fit into
them.  Dropping out of college was not an option.  Moving in with Logan was not
an option.  But how could she get through to her?

The
veins in Simone’s head began to throb.  Unfortunately, it was she who was
running out of options.

CLAIRE

Claire
retrieved another undershirt from the dryer, a waft of warm lavender rose with
it.  Breathing in the fresh scent, she felt that fabric softener made the task
of folding clothes more enjoyable.  Knowing her family would pull their
favorite T-shirt or gym shorts from the drawer and be treated to the pleasing fragrance
gave her pleasure.  She was ensuring a cozy feel of home, of comfort, improving
the quality of their day.  Sometimes she thought it silly, but over time Claire
had learned to take heart in the little things.  It was the little things her
family would remember when gone from home, like the aroma of coffee drifting
through the air each morning, the reliable scent of bacon permeating the house
on Sundays and the ever-present hint of lavender in their clothing.  She
pressed her nose to the cotton and inhaled.  The scent filled her with calm.

Claire
knew these would be the things that evoked childhood memories, because they did
the same for her.  Though instead of fabric softener, with her mother it had
been the scent of paint.  Claire chuckled, shaking the cotton shirt free of
creases.  Something about the smell of oil and linseed stuck with a girl, but
rather than acrid and toxic, she had always found the scent comforting.  It
meant her mother was working, painting.  She was in her element, delighting the
kids with fanciful renditions of flowers and fields, skies and sunshine.  Trained
as a landscape artist, she could have made a bundle producing sceneries for
home décor, but she never earned the first penny for her efforts.  Her mother never
had the desire.  Home and hearth was where she made her living.  It was her
passion, the place she found happiness.

Deftly
folding Jim’s shirt, Claire placed it on the pile taking form before her and
reached for another.  Funny how staying home was the last thing she ever
envisioned for herself.  As a teenager, Claire imagined herself a professional
artist.  Like her mother, like Sarah, she had the gift.  But rather than paint
as a hobby like her mother, she was going to make it her career.  She was going
create masterpieces, display them and sell them.  And if that didn’t work out,
she could always teach others at a university.  Claire glanced up at the ceramic
plate.  It was adorned with the image of a camellia.  A very basic camellia, painted
in ten different shades of pink.  Displayed on top of the cabinets, it was her
first try at painting, accomplished beneath her mother’s watchful eye.

Claire
smiled as she recalled her mother’s patient tutelage. 
Easy, Claire.  Let
your mind’s eye guide your brush
.  Although Claire thought it horrid and
completely asymmetrical, her mother adored it.  Raved about it to all her
friends, embarrassing Claire beyond reason.  But that was her mother—her number
one fan and head cheerleader to this day.

Smoothing
the shirt onto the top of the others, Claire thought back to the day she
announced her plans to move halfway around the world to work with a Frenchman
at his gallery.  Her mother had been thrilled.  Her daughter was going to be an
international jetsetter, a globe-trotter.  Her baby was going to take Europe by
storm!  Then Claire met and married Jim and somehow felt like she had failed
her mother, as though she were a coward in her decision to stay close to home.

Claire
hoisted the stack of clothes from the dryer top and set off to put them away. 
It had been the summer between her junior and senior year of college.  She and
Jacques decided she would return to Brown to finish her final year of school
before moving to Paris where the two would begin their life together.  The
choice was easier academically, but harder emotionally.  Yet both were in
agreement.  They’d survive the separation while Claire finished her degree.

That’s
when she met Jim.  Enrolled in the same business finance course—a course she
signed on for as forethought for the gallery she planned to own one day—they
sat next to each other and the proverbial sparks flew.  Claire had been
attracted to Jim from the very first day.  But attributing it to the fact she
was high on life, high on love, she didn’t pay it much heed.  Everything and
everyone around her seemed brighter, more alive, more exciting.  After all, she
was moving to Paris!  She was living her dream.

But
when they began studying together, he mostly helping her, Claire soon
discovered it was more.  Jim made her feel like a star, like the most
brilliant, radiant star in the universe.  Soon after, he made her feel like his
whole world revolved around her.  It had been a heady experience indeed, and so
different from her relationship with Jacques where it was he who took center
stage, she nothing more than a willing stage prop to his glorious performance.

Claire
pulled out the top drawer and packed it with undershirts.  Jim had worked
himself into her life, something she didn’t fully grasp until she traveled to
Paris over winter break.  No longer did Jacques seem the incredibly sexy and
passionate lover of art and women and all things indulgent.  He was simply a
man—a man with a free-spirited life and a job offer.  The transoceanic flight
back home had been consumed with thoughts of Jim.  Claire had missed him terribly
during her two weeks abroad and couldn’t wait to get back into his arms.  She
felt no remorse where Jacques was concerned.  By his own admission, he was a
lover of all women.  He wouldn’t miss her.

Claire
pushed the underwear drawer closed.  Theirs had been a mere infatuation.  At
the time she had been fairly full of herself, making it an easy step to the
perch Jim held up for her.  By spring, she knew.  As much as she had once
wanted Paris, Claire knew in her heart she would not return.  That’s when her
life took its biggest turn.  She and Jim were married and a year later, Rebecca
was born.  Pausing, Claire thought back to her daughter’s statement, her
assertion that her mother had no life, had wasted her degree.

It
saddened her.  To think that Rebecca had no idea how much she’d enjoyed the
last eighteen years nurturing and caring for her was upsetting.  More than
changing diapers and feeding her, Claire knew what every cry meant, every
gurgle, every expression.  She knew what her child needed when she couldn’t
express it for herself.  And when she started walking and talking, Claire alone
understood Rebecca’s awkward employment of the English language.  Along came
Jimmy and Joe, and the same proved true for them.