Lauren Weisberger 5-Book Collection: The Devil Wears Prada, Revenge Wears Prada, Everyone Worth Know (87 page)

‘He's great,' Sammy said as we worked our way slowly through traffic up the West Side Highway. ‘Like a little kid who got out of school by pretending to be sick.'

I stuck
Monster Ballads
(ordered from an 800 number in an insomniac three
A.M
. fit) in the six-disc changer and skipped through until I found Mr Big's ‘To Be with You.' ‘He is really great, isn't he? I honestly don't know what I would do without him. He's the only reason I'm normal today.'

‘What about your parents?'

‘They're sixties throwbacks,' I said, ‘and they take it very seriously. My mother cried the first time I shaved my legs, when I was thirteen, because she was afraid I'd subjugated myself to the male-dictated cultural expectations of female beauty.'

He laughed and started to settle in, stretching out his legs and putting his hands behind his head. ‘Please tell me she didn't talk you out of that particular practice?'

‘No, she didn't, at least not now … although it took me until college to shave again. They once insisted that I alone was responsible for disrupting an entire ecosystem because I bought a snakeskin keychain. Oh, and then there was the time I wasn't allowed to go to the biggest slumber party in fourth grade because they noticed that the parents of the girl hosting it refused to recycle their newspapers. They thought it was a potentially evil environment for a child to spend twelve hours in.'

‘You're joking.'

‘I'm not. It's not to say they're not really great people, because they are. They're just
really
committed. Sometimes I wish I were more like them.'

‘I sure didn't know you well in high school, but I remember you being more like that than, uh, than this New York thing.'

I didn't quite know what to say.

‘No, I didn't mean it like that,' he hastened to say. ‘You know, you just always gave the impression of being really involved in so many causes. I remember you wrote that editorial on a woman's right to choose in the school paper. I overheard some of the teachers talking about it in study hall one day – they couldn't believe you were only a freshman. I read it after I listened to them and I couldn't believe it, either.'

I felt a little frisson at the thought that he'd read and remembered my article, as though we all of a sudden had an intimate connection.

‘Yeah, well, it's hard to maintain. Especially when it's something chosen for you, and not something you come upon yourself.'

‘Fair enough.' I could see him nod out of the corner of my eye. ‘They sound interesting.'

‘Oh, you have no idea. Luckily, even though they were hippies, they were still
Jewish
hippies, and didn't much love the deprivation lifestyle. As my father still constantly points out, “One is no more convincing coming from a place of poverty than coming from a place of comfort – it's the argument that matters, not the material trappings or lack thereof.”'

He stopped sipping his coffee and turned to look at me. I could feel his eyes on my face and knew that he was listening intently.

‘Oh, yes, it's true. I was born on a commune in New Mexico, a place I wasn't totally convinced was an actual state until I saw the 2000 electoral map on CNN. My mother loves recounting how she gave birth to me in their “marriage bed” before all the commune's children, who'd been brought in to watch the miracle of life unfold before their little eyes. No doctors, no drugs, no sterile sheets – just a husband with a degree in plant science, a touchy-feely midwife who coached with yogic breathing, the commune's chanting guru, and two dozen children under the age of twelve who most likely went on to remain virgins well into their thirties after witnessing that particular miracle.'

I don't know what it was that kept me talking. It had been years and years since I'd told that story to anyone – probably not since Penelope and I met during orientation week at Emory, smoked pot in the bushes by the tennis courts, and she admitted that her father knew his office staff better than his family and that she'd thought her black nanny was her mother until she was five years old. I figured there was no better way to cheer her up than to show her just how normal her own parents were. We'd laughed for hours that night, stretched out in the grass, stoned and happy. Though my boyfriends had met my parents, I'd never talked to anyone about them like this. Sammy made me want to tell him everything.

‘That's absolutely incredible. How long were you there? Do you remember it?'

‘They only lived there until I was two or so, and then they moved to Poughkeepsie because they got jobs at Vassar. But that's where my name came from. First they wanted to name me Soledad, in honor of the California prison that housed Berkeley protestors, but then their shaman or someone proposed Bettina, after Bettina Aptheker, the only female member of the Steering Committee of Berkeley's Free Speech Movement. I refused to answer to anything but Bette when I was twelve and “The Wind Beneath My Wings” was a hit and Bette Midler was actually cool. By the time I realized I'd renamed myself after the redheaded singer of a sappy Top 40 inspirational, it was too late. Everyone calls me that now, except my parents, of course.'

‘Wow. They sound so interesting. I'd love to meet them sometime.'

I didn't know quite how to respond to that – it might be a bit unnerving for him if I were to announce that they were his future in-laws – so I asked him about his parents. Nothing came to mind when I tried to recall Sammy from high school, and it occurred to me that I had no clue about his home life. ‘What about you? Anything juicy about your family, or are they actually normal?'

‘Well, calling them normal seems like a bit of a stretch. My mom died when I was six. Breast cancer.'

I opened my mouth to apologize, to murmur something ineffectual and clichéd, but he cut me off.

‘Sounds really shitty, but I was honestly too young to really remember. It was weird not having a mom growing up, but it was definitely harder for my older sister, and besides, my dad was pretty great.'

‘Is he okay now? You mentioned something about him not being well.'

‘No, he's okay. Just lonely, I think. He was dating a woman for years, and I'm not totally clear on what happened, but she moved to South Carolina a couple months ago and my dad's not taking it well. I just thought a visit would be good for him.'

‘And your sister? What's her story?'

‘She's thirty-three. Married with five kids.
Five
kids – four boys and a girl – do you believe it? Started right out of high school. She lives in Fishkill, so she could see my father all the time, but her husband's kind of a prick and she's busy now that she's going back to school for nursing, so …'

‘Are you guys close?' It was strange to see this all shaping up, a whole world that I never knew existed for him, that I could never have imagined existing when I saw him slapping backs with the various moguls and moguls-in-training at Bungalow 8 every night.

He seemed to think about this for a second as he popped open the can of Coke he pulled from his backpack, offering me a sip before he took one.

‘Close? I don't know if I'd say that, exactly. I think she resents that I left home to go to college when she already had one kid and another on the way. She makes lots of comments about how I'm Dad's reason for living and at least one of us has a chance of making him proud – you know, that sort of stuff. But she's a good girl. Christ, I just got heavy there. Sorry about that.'

Before I could say anything, let him know that it was okay, that I loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything, a Whitesnake track came on and Sammy laughed again. ‘Are you serious with this music? How do you listen to this shit?'

The conversation continued easily after that – just chitchat about music and movies and the ridiculous people we both dealt with all day long. He was careful not to mention Philip, and I returned the favor by steering clear of Isabelle. Otherwise, we talked as though we'd known each other forever. When I realized we were only a half-hour outside of town, I called to let my parents know that I was dropping someone off and would be there shortly.

‘Bettina, don't be ridiculous. Of course you'll bring him by for dinner!' My mother all but shrieked into the phone.

‘Mom, I'm sure he wants to get home. He's here to see his family, not mine.'

‘Well, be sure to extend the invitation. We never get to meet any of your friends, and it would make your father very happy. And of course, he's more than welcome at the party tomorrow. Everything's all set and ready to go.'

I promised her I'd relay the information and hung up.

‘What was that all about?' he asked.

‘Oh, my mother wants you to come over for a late dinner, but I told her you'd probably want to get home to your dad. Besides, the stuff they try to pass off as food is atrocious.'

He was quiet for a second and then said, ‘Actually, if you don't mind, that'd be really nice. My old man isn't expecting me until tomorrow, anyway. Besides, maybe I could help out in the kitchen, make that tofu a little more palatable.' He said this tentatively, trying to sound indifferent, but I sensed (prayed, hoped, willed) that there was something more.

‘Oh, uh, okay,' I said, trying to come across as cool but instead sounding mortally opposed to the idea. ‘I mean, if you want, it'd be great.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive. I'll give you a ride home afterward, and I promise not to keep you trapped any longer than absolutely necessary. Which will still be long enough for them to try to convert you to a meat-free lifestyle, but hopefully it'll be bearable.' The awkwardness was over. I was ecstatic. And slightly terrified.

‘Okay, that sounds good. After the stories you've told me, I feel like I have to see them now.'

My mother was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in multiple layers of wool when we pulled into the driveway, which bisected the nearly six acres of land they'd lived on for a quarter-century. The hybrid Toyota Prius they kept for emergencies (I often wondered what they'd think if they knew that Hollywood's entire A-list drove them, too) sat in the driveway, covered by a tarp, since they rode bicycles 99 percent of the time. She threw down the book she was cradling in her mittened hands (
Batik Technique
) and ran to meet the car before I'd even put it in park.

‘Bettina!' she called, yanking open the driver's-side door and clasping her hands together excitedly. She grabbed my arm and pulled me out into an immediate hug, and I wondered if anyone besides my mother or my dog would ever be so happy to see me. We stood there for a moment longer than was necessary and I immediately forgot how much I'd dreaded this visit.

‘Hi, Mom. You look great.' And she did. We had the same long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back, parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman whose determined expression is the only clue that she's not quite as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. ‘This is my friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother.'

‘Hello, Mrs Robinson.' He paused. ‘Wow, that sounds weird, doesn't it? Although I suppose you're used to it.'

‘I sure am. “Jesus loves me more than you will know.” Either way, please just call me Anne.'

‘It's really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I'm not intruding.'

‘Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now come inside before you freeze.'

We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the small greenhouse they'd installed a few years earlier ‘for contemplating nature when the weather wasn't cooperating.' It was the only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you'd discover tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond, slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks (‘No need to buy those German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well,' he liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.

‘Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest,' he sang, pulling me into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him quickly on the cheek.

‘Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is my dad.'

I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly what he'd say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The first time my parents came to the city after I'd graduated from college, I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She'd met them at graduation and once before – she probably barely remembered a thing about them – but my dad didn't forget much. He'd kissed her hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, ‘Penelope, dear, of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember him being very bright and very articulate,' he deadpanned without a hint of discernible sarcasm.

This was my father's subtle way of inside-joking with just me. Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he'd had trouble responding to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even though he hadn't seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery's fictional dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I'd like to purchase a pound of ‘some really good shit.' We thought it was hysterical, and he clearly couldn't resist taking a quick shot now and then. Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.