Chapter Sixty-five
A
lmost two weeks Doug-free. It was hard but not as hard as I’d once thought it would be.
I wasn’t the only one moving on with my life, no matter how slowly. Abby had decided to go into therapy. She wanted to examine why she, too, was still single when she wanted so badly to be married. She also wanted to know why she wanted so badly to be married in the first place. At least, why she said she did.
JoAnne, on the other hand, had quit therapy, stating it wasn’t really her style. But I saw a change in her, a change for the better. It was subtle—JoAnne was never going to be all warm and cuddly—but it was there all the same. She’d begun to have feelings for a doctor, an oncologist she’d known for years and with whom she occasionally consulted on particularly difficult cases. His name was Merv Frankl and he was fifty years old. He’d been married once before and had a daughter in college. Most interestingly, he was a grandfather; his son had married young. On the surface, JoAnne said, he wasn’t the sort of guy she would ever have expected to fall for. He was even slightly overweight and hated Cancun. But things between them were moving along nicely and JoAnne was pleased.
I was pleased for her. I was pleased for us all.
Maggie Branley and Jan Ward tied the knot on December 18th at a little nondenominational church in Kendall Square. It was a simple ceremony. Maggie wore a red blazer; Jan, a red blouse. Each wore a sprig of holly, all in honor of the season. Afterward, the guests went to lunch at a family-style Italian restaurant, where more friends joined the party. Plans for that night included another gathering at Jillian’s to play pool and eat nachos. I declined that invitation out of sheer weariness. Weddings take it out of me.
“Well, that was depressing,” JoAnne said once we were back on the T after lunch.
“And lovely.” Abby was still dabbing at her eyes.
I thought for a moment. “And encouraging. At least one of us has found true love.”
“That doesn’t necessarily increase our chances, Erin.”
“I know, JoAnne. Jeez, I’m just trying to be optimistic.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Let’s get off at Park Street and go to the Federalist and have a celebratory drink. We’ll toast Maggie and Jan ...”
“And maybe I’ll meet my soul mate!” Abby said brightly.
I laughed. It felt good and genuine.
“Oh, Abby,” I said. “For our sake, I hope so.”
I was awake far into the night.
I was wiped out. It was a stupid, self-defeating thing I’d done, especially right after a wedding ceremony, looking at photos Doug had given me of his life before his marriage. All the photos he’d been able to sneak out of his house without Carol noticing them gone. The photos he’d kept in shoeboxes marked “personal storage”—shoeboxes I’d heard about but would never see.
“Why do you want to see this old crap?” Doug had asked when he handed over the photos.
“It’s not crap to me,” I’d answered.
“You’re sentimental.”
Doug, it seemed, wasn’t. He’d never asked me to return the photos.
I’d asked him once why he’d never put his childhood and young adult photos in an album. He had no answer. I’d wanted to ask if Carol had ever expressed a desire to see photos of her husband as a boy. I didn’t have the nerve.
Now, my decision had been made. I’d send all the photos back, have them delivered to Doug’s office, marked “personal and private,” of course, because no matter how badly I’d been hurt, no matter how devastated I felt, getting Doug into trouble was not going to make me feel any better. I’ve said it before—I’m no saint but I’m not an evil soul-sucker. And, the sorry truth was that I still loved the man. Hated him, too, but still loved him. The love part, maybe, was habit. Someday, hopefully, both feelings would pass into oblivion. For the time being, as odd as it seems, I still cared about what Doug thought of me and didn’t want him to know me as a vindictive bitch.
Even though you have a right to be, Reason pointed out.
Erin’s a victim of Love! Romance cried. How can one rail against Love?
She’s a victim of a shithead, Reason snapped.
I believe that someday Erin and Doug will be reunited... .
Stop it! I cried. The both of you are going to have to learn how to get along if I’m going to get to where I need to be.
But ... Reason.
But ... Romance.
No buts. Learn how to work together. That’s an order.
You’ll make a good mother someday, Erin, Reason said, albeit reluctantly.
Romance nodded.
Thanks, I said. I know.
I got back to work. One photo remained unboxed. I picked it up. Doug as a kid at someone’s birthday party. His face was surprisingly round, his hair super short, a haircut he’d told me he’d hated, a haircut his grandmother had taken him to get. I marveled at the innocence the little boy in the photo seeemed to embody, the smiling face, the uncorrupted energy ... We’re all innocent as kids, and never after that. How much of the hurtful things we do to ourselves and others is our fault and how much the fault of the burden of living? Of getting through the mundane challenges of each day and facing the prospect of another, and another? Can any of us who stick around willingly in this life really be blamed for our minor transgressions?
I had no answer then and still don’t. Why should I, when brilliant philosophers throughout the ages have been wrestling inconclusively with the questions of man’s—if not woman’s—free will, guilt, and redemption?
I peered more closely at the photo, hoping to see something else—some clue as to—what? The man the little boy had become? Doug had said he was four or five when the photo was taken. That meant it was taken in 1959 or 1960. Nine or ten years before I was born.
Who was Doug Spears before Erin Weston?
It came to me then that the man I’d fallen in love with was the boy in this picture. I loved the Doug I thought he must once have been. A shadow of a wish of a memory. My love had been poorly bestowed on something as insubstantial as a fantasy.
For one mad moment I decided to keep the photograph as . . . as a reminder of my folly? As a sort of talisman, a token for good luck? I had no answer. All I knew was that I wanted so badly to keep the picture—but I could find no good reason for keeping it. Plenty of bad ones, and they were so seductive, but not one that made clear sense.
Reason won that battle. If I was going to grow up, finally, I had to do it right out, full throttle, no backsliding—at least no conscious backsliding. I had to be fair to and honest with myself—and to the man who would one day be my husband. I put the photo of a charming little boy in the box with the others, sealed it, and went to bed.
Chapter Sixty-six
I
sat at my desk trying to focus on work. In the past, I’d found that I could lose myself in work and so forget—at least temporarily—whatever pain or heartache I might be experiencing. That was the past. Things were different now.
Maybe work alone just wasn’t enough for me anymore. Maybe I was indeed growing up, filling out emotionally.
Maybe it was time to take the next step.
A day or two earlier Maureen had told me she knew someone she thought I’d like to meet. I’d told her I wasn’t ready yet to date again and then felt sick when I realized what I’d said. As far as Maureen knew, I hadn’t been seeing anyone for the past months.
Right?
Maureen had come into my office then and closed the door behind her. She was due to give birth at any moment and I cringed as she lowered herself slowly into my guest chair. She was a trooper.
“Erin, it’s okay. I know about—that you were in a relationship.”
I put my head in my hands. “Oh, crap. Do you know the name of the guy?”
“Yeah. Look, don’t worry about it, we all make mistakes before we meet the right one.”
I raised my head. “Maureen, I’m so sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I violated another woman’s marriage and my friend Maggie says that’s like violating every woman’s marriage.”
Maureen grinned. “Your friend Maggie sounds a little grim. Forget it. Just don’t come near Mark. He’s my version of Prince Charming.”
We both laughed. “Okay,” I said, “I won’t.”
“So, you want to hear about this guy I know?”
“Sure. No promises though.”
So, she told me. His name was Nick Alexander. He was thirty-eight years old and an architect. He was divorced. He had a son aged ten with whom he was very close. Mark had met him through a mutual buddy in construction.
According to Maureen, Nick was “manly.”
“Not macho,” she said, “but manly. And a very good father. And his ex-wife is reasonable. She’s even getting remarried in a few months.”
I said I’d think about it.
I’d thought about it.
I dialed Maureen’s extension.
“Hi, it’s Erin. Okay. Tell Nick he can call me.”
“I will.” Maureen’s voice sounded—huffy. Puffy. “Right after I drop this baby. My water just broke, Erin. Get me to the hospital!”
The night before Christmas Eve.
Maggie and Jan were at a reading and book signing at We Think the World of You on Tremont and Hanson Street. The author had written a book on the latest fertility methods. Seems Maggie and Jan had been planning to start a family almost from the time they met. At least I knew something about infant T-shirts.
JoAnne, their prechosen pediatrician, was with Merv at some hospital function, probably ragging on him for not going to the gym.
Abby was on a date with a thirty-five-year-old accountant she’d met on line at Finagle a Bagel. Seems they’d both ordered the exact same breakfast. Joseph had asked her out on the spot. Seems he believed in soul mates ...
My father was on a date with Marilyn.
Damion was cuddling with Frederick; Coco and Chanel were draped across their laps; Lucy and Ricky were asleep at their feet.
Maureen and Mark were rocking little Jules to sleep.
My mother was in the air, somewhere over the Carribean, headed for Boston.
And I had a date the following afternoon, Christmas Eve day, with Nick, the architect. We were going skating at the Frog Pond. He’d promised not to let me fall. I’d dug out my rabbit fur pom-poms.
“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Fuzzer,” I said, rubbing his forehead the way he likes it to be rubbed. He began to purr. I smiled and opened the book on my lap, a collection of Lord Byron’s poems and letters.
I’d opened randomly to the play entitled Manfred, and to these words:
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey—
But was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter.
And my own saviour, I thought. I’m the one responsible for my life. It’s all up to me.
And I can have what I want, can’t I?
Fuzzer yawned, stretched, and settled back against my thigh.
Life wasn’t so bad at all.
Epilogue
S
o, there it is. A year in the life.
In case you’re interested, Marie’s big surprise was the news that she was giving up her “social work” in various Unnamed South American Countries for a spiritual quest. Seems she’d heard of a guru named Lancelot Ali Yen who guaranteed to bring his followers deep joy and fulfillment.
Two days ago, Marie left for his compound in New Mexico. I went with her to the airport and watched as the plane took off.
We’d spent a good deal of time together, Marie and I, during her brief stopover in Boston. I told her about Doug Spears. She’d taken my hands in hers and said, “My poor baby.” Then she’d asked for yet another loan. I gave it to her, of course.
Marie and John did not get together. She didn’t ask to see him and he didn’t ask to see her. I guess it was less painful that way, for both of them.
Nick Alexander was true to his word. He did not let me fall at the Frog Pond. I like him, a lot. He even has brown eyes.
So, maybe this is The Year.
Wish me luck?
Please turn the page
for a special Q & A with
Holly Chamberlin!
Q.
Though
Living Single
was originally published in 2002, its themes are still relevant now. Can you comment on that?
A.
Yes, when I reread
Living Single
I was glad to see that in spite of a few now obsolete cultural references, the story itself holds up nicely. Most young women have always and will continue to deal with the issues of crazy family, quirky friends, and demanding careers. And, since affairs will, unfortunately, never go out of style, the book should hold up for more years to come. At one point the characters talk about powerful men and their need to cheat on their wives. I think the large number of high-profile male politicians and entertainers who have, since 2002, waggled their private—er, aspects—in public further proves that
Living Single
is relevant to our popular culture today.
Q.
Describe the experience of reading
Living Single,
your first novel, ten years after having written it.
A.
Elsewhere I’ve said that I never read my work after it’s gone off to the printer. So when my editor asked me to reread
Living Single
after all these years, I actually felt afraid of what I might find. Would I hate the book or love it? What I found was that the story was a much darker one that I’d remembered. So much deception and cruelty! I suspect that part of my reaction to Erin’s story is due to the perspective I’ve gained after fourteen years of marriage. Somehow, the notion of an affair seems that much more awful now, even though when I wrote the book I had been married for several years. In a marriage or any long-term commitment, you make yourself so incredibly vulnerable. The idea of the sacred space of your relationship being violated—well, it’s deeply frightening. Which is not to say that I condemn the Erin character. I had and still do have deep sympathy for her. And I realized that my characters used far more foul language in the old days than they do now!
Q.
How has your writing process changed since you wrote
Living Single
?
A.
Huh. I don’t really remember much if anything about my writing process way back when. I can say that the feelings of stress and anxiety have not lessened over time. Nor has the back pain that comes from sitting so many hours a day!
Q.
In other interviews you have said that you don’t write about yourself or your friends and family. Is this really true?
A.
Yes, it is. The only sort of personal “reality” that slips into a book is incidental. For example, in
Living Single
Doug gives Erin a pink heart-shaped Lucite ring. I bought such a ring when I was a kid and it’s still in my jewelry box. Also, Erin’s cat, Fuzzer, was a small tribute to my cat at the time, Fifi. Which is not at all to say that I am or was Erin Weston! Sometimes I need a little help with details, so I crib them from what I see around me.
Q.
If you could change anything major in the plot of
Living Single,
what would you change?
A.
What a question! I really can’t think of any major plot change I would care to make, and I certainly would not change the outcomes for any of the four main characters. Each woman matures through the course of the book, though not all have yet achieved everything they hope to achieve. But that’s life. Better that Erin and JoAnne and Abby be single and emotionally healthy than settled down with a jerk. That said, it would be interesting—and challenging—to write the scene in which Erin and her mother meet after Marie’s wild adventures.
Q.
On that note, in the collection entitled
Let It Snow,
you have a novella, “All I Want,” which follows the Abby character from
Living Single.
Would you consider following the other three main characters from your first book in a new book?
A.
Absolutely. In fact, over the years many readers have asked for a sequel to this novel, as well as to
The Family Beach House.
I would definitely have Erin’s mother settle down in Boston, at least temporarily, which I think would be the cause of much chaos and hilarity. We’ll see what the future brings!
Q.
What are you reading now?
A.
Recently, I discovered the Mary Russell series by Laurie R. King and am devouring whatever volumes my local library has in stock. Ms. King’s talent for plotting boggles my mind. I just finished Alison Weir’s study of Richard III,
The Princes in the Tower.
And last week I stumbled across two volumes in a series of mysteries set in early fourteenth century England, written by the very prolific P. C. Doherty.
In This House of Brede,
by Rumer Godden, is waiting on my bedside table, along with Iris Murdoch’s
The Time of Angels.
Q.
What one of the novels you have written is your favorite?
A.
Wow. I have a fondness for each novel and novella, and I certainly like some more than others, but I can’t choose a favorite. And since I don’t willingly revisit any of my work unless specifically asked to do so, I have to admit that I largely forget much about each piece. That said, I do have a few favorite characters, like Harold the cat from “The Trouble with Witchcraft,” a novella in a collection entitled
Sex and the Single Witch,
and Henrietta the cat from the as-yet-to-be-published novella as-yet-to-be titled. Yes, I am obsessed with cats. I’m typing this with one hand because with the other I am holding Cyrus across my lap.