Momzillas (25 page)

Fifty-two

Josh was coming home that night and we hadn't spoken in two days; I had left messages on his cell but I knew he was probably hunting and was unreachable. He had left me a message when he landed, which was our longtime pact, but his voice sounded wounded and distant. He couldn't possibly come home fast enough, and I was shaking so much I thought my ass would register on the Richter scale. After I read with Violet, I prepared a beautiful dinner of butternut squash soup with fresh chives and crème fraîche and a roasted root vegetable lasagna with a vodka sauce on top. Hardly a four-star plate served with a silver dome on top, but my Food Network watching was definitely paying off. I needed to set the table and decided to ransack our boxes until I found our wedding china. After cracking open about six boxes I almost gave up, until I saw one box that said, conveniently, “Wedding China.” I knew I was more organized than I'd thought! I unbubble-wrapped two place settings and carefully set the table, lighting candles and surveying the scene. It was truly the first effort I'd made to really make it like our old home; using our wedding china just 'cause, for no reason, not for guests, just us. I went online and found his flight had just touched down so I calculated forty minutes 'til he was home, since he never checked luggage.

As I looked around the living room, awaiting his arrival, I decided that very moment to shake the Etch-a-Sketch of my life and erase the messy mistakes I'd made. I wanted a clean slate, to turn the white knobs in totally different directions this time.

I thought about the havoc Bee's concocted drama wreaked, but in a way I was grateful, because it halted my time with Tate in its tracks and forced me to see what he really was—a male Bee who couldn't be happy with one person. Granted, he wasn't evil, although he obviously had no problem cheating on his wife, which to me meant a nonstop ticket to Hades. But it really stemmed from a desire to always be coveted, perhaps like the art he so salivated for. Bee, queen of the perfect Christmas-card picture, was like Tate is his breathless passion for the image. Controlled projections of perfection, or whatever it is the artist chooses for you to see. I thought about how Tate's love of images surpassed even his love of the real thing; perhaps for him true passion is only reserved for what is preserved in oils—not the actual starry sky, but van Gogh's heightened, saturated, swirling comet-filled crazy version of it. It's like he wouldn't be moved by a bunch of real wildflowers in a vase, only some painted collection of bursting hothouse buds. Funnily enough, as I reflected on this breakthrough of mine, I remembered how he had pointed out in a class once a still life that contained an assortment of different flowers that never actually bloom in reality at the same time of year. It was a surreal, contrived arrangement, just like his relationship with women. Trapped in a fantasy, and frozen, he might be wonderful—a flicker across a classroom here, a trip to a museum there—but he didn't love reality, only the hyperbolic, exaggerated, painted fantasy.

Way back when we shared this romantic moment that was arrested and frozen in time, this kiss that never went anywhere. Like a still life. And I suppose he preferred it that way.

But I need the real thing. The fruit instead of the painted fruit. The painted fruit never gets rotten, maybe that's why he likes it. There are no crags and bumps. With Josh and me, there were fights about radio stations or the toilet seat being left up, but we were bound together closer than Tate or Bee could ever be with anyone.

Because life, as we know, is not
still
. It's ever evolving, and a perfect moon in the sky doesn't have to be a faithful simulacrum in art to be perfect. What makes it so amazing is the fact that it's fleeting and tomorrow that big bloated moon will wane, and it's almost painful because it's
too
good. And it'll be gonzo with no rewind button, or pause button as the Old Masters tried to offer us on panel. Too bad for them. Because both Bee and Tate, always striving for that perfect image, that drama, will never be entrenched in reality and therefore will never, ever be truly happy.

Fifty-three

When my Josh walked in, I ran to him, tears streaming down my face. He matched my emotion in a hug so tight I knew he realized I would never betray him. I took him by the hand and led him to the feast I'd prepared. I didn't even need to whip out Maggie's printouts—exhibit 1A of the
Hannah v. Bee
meltdown in addition to my Trevi Nail eavesdrop of the century; he already knew all about it.

Parker had spoken with Bee from their trip and she had thought she'd hung up the phone with him, when in fact it was still on, leaving her husband to hear her phone sex with Troy on her landline. Stunned, he broke down to Josh, admitting he always suspected her of cheating. As Bee was suddenly proved a liar, Parker revisited all of her statements through the prism of her constant deception. He told Josh that he never actually believed it was true about me. Bee had either spread that lie to eclipse her own skankiness or just because she was truly mean.

“I knew deep down it couldn't be true,” Josh said, hugging me. “But Bee, she told these lies to Parker that she saw you kissing, and just the thought of it made me so sick and angry—”

“I can't believe you went through that,” I said, still dewy-eyed. “Sweetie, you are my life. And honestly I would freak if you ever were friends with some woman and strolled museums. You were right to be creeped, although I would never lay a hand on him. You're the only one for me.”

We hugged and went to watch sleeping Violet before a delicious dinner. And the dessert? Fresh baked brownies served with two Nine Inch Nails tickets for New Year's Eve sitting on top.

“Second row? No way!”

“Way.” I beamed.

“How? How did you get these? I had my assistant calling every scalper in town! They are impossible.”

“I went on Craigslist,” I explained, telling Josh about the odyssey, which was very amusing, to say the least.

Because the ticket broker company was a corrupt cartel and evil to fans everywhere, the concert sold out in thirty-seven seconds, which would be nearly impossible except for the fact that scalpers had staffs of engineers to write code that bought up chunks of tickets the second the online purchase service was activated. So they were all snapped up and essentially no one on the floor actually paid face value, it was all markup. One dude scored a pair, only to then discover he was being sent to Chicago over New Year's and had to unload them via Craigslist, which I had scoured, naturally, along with countless other people. I e-mailed the guy and he e-mailed me back, “I have to leave the office soon. Whoever gets here first with the cash gets the tickets.”

I threw Violet in her red stroller and literally ran over a mile to his looming glass office building on Sixth Avenue in the fifties. There was security galore in the enormous lobby where we'd agreed to meet. I was sweating like a pig and when I called his cell, he said he was downstairs already.

“Where are you?” he asked, seemingly peeved.

“Right in the lobby. By some potted fern.”

“I'm here and I don't see you. I just see, like, some mom with a stroller.”

I laughed. “That's me!”

I turned to see the preppiest-looking banker dude with a dumbfounded look approaching me holding a cell. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and khaki pants and looked me over like I was an alien.

“You're joking,” he said, looking at Violet. “
You're
the one buying my Nine Inch Nails tickets? Knock me over with a feather right now.”

“What, you're so edgy, Brooks Brothers?”

“Touché.”

I paid him the dough and we shook hands, wishing a bon voyage and bon concert extravaganza.

Josh was in stitches from the tale of my quest. “He must have thought you were bringing Violet, as like a sacrifice to the goths.”

“It was so funny, such a New York moment.”

“A New York, moment, eh?” Josh smiled—he knew I was finally getting it.

“I've had a lot of those lately,” I admitted. “You have to come to Vi's class—it's all these Broadway actors, you'll die!”

“I can't wait,” he said, taking my hand in his.

“Oh, and I had this idea, call me crazy, but I think maybe one good thing came of my museum trips with Tate Hayes: I had a lightbulb for a series of classes for moms. Normal moms. Not Momzillas who need to stare at their kids interacting as Dr. Poundschlosser takes notes; this would be something to get moms outside themselves. I figured if I could get some women, maybe eight or ten, and their kids to sign up, I could lead them through a different part of the art world each week. Galleries in Chelsea, artists' studios in Brooklyn, museums, everything—”

“That is such a good idea,” Josh said, putting down his brownie. “You're really on to something. Plus, you expose the babies to art at a young age, you stimulate the moms…”

“You think it could work?”

“I know it will.”

Fifty-four

That weekend, sealed back madly in love and rock-secure in my marriage, Josh and I went with Violet to brunch at Lila's for our “sit-down.” I was still wobbly over the cruel comments Bee had made about my not being worthy of Josh and how his mom didn't think I was up to snuff, but Josh never took his arm from my side and made me know I was the main woman in his life.

Lila's staff had prepared a huge spread, which we all ate together before Watts retired to his walk-in humidor and Violet went down for a nap in our stroller. Josh and I sat with Lila on a huge overstuffed burgundy couch. And we began to speak. And we didn't stop for a very, very long time.

Josh said we didn't appreciate the pop-bys. He said that it was invasion of our privacy and that while we were happy to see her, the buzz from the lobby didn't work for us. I told her that I sensed her disapproval of my involvement or lack thereof in New York society and that I no longer wanted to be told that I dressed inappropriately or that Violet looked like a ragamuffin.

And then I told her about Bee. Her precious, perfect Bee.

“She would have cheated on Josh, too,” I told her. “She can't be happy with anyone. And I may not be as put-together or wired or posh in your eyes, but Lila, I know one thing about myself: I am a damn good wife and a great mom. And that other stuff just doesn't matter to me.”

Lila remained very quiet, sipping tea from a porcelain gold-edged cup as she drank in my words slowly, looking to her son and back at me.

“Are you finished?” she asked, smiling slightly.

I paused, drawing in a breath to regain confidence after my spiel.

“Yes. And I hope you are, too,” I said calmly. “Finished with the school pressures, and the constant monitoring, and, after what I've told you, with quoting of Bee Elliott as the gospel.”

After bottling up so much with Lila for so long, it felt like an amazing release to get it all out. And all the while, Josh sat beside me, his arm around my shoulder.

“You remind me of someone,” Lila said, softly, looking me over.

Gee, who could that be? A stray dog? A
fille des rues
? A West Coast slob roller-skating on Venice Beach?

I must confess, I was stunned by her answer.

“Myself,” she admitted, looking down.

“Really?” said Josh, happily. “'Cause you stood up to Grandma and Grandpa just like that when you wanted to marry Dad?”

“Yes,” she said, wiping a tear from an eye I'd been so sure had never wept. “And because I realized then, as you've reminded me now, that the nest you two build together with your children is all the shield you need from the outside. I forgot that for a while.” She reached her hand to mine and held it for the first time ever. “I'm sorry.”

Bee, the dream daughter-in-law in her eyes, was not such a dream anymore. And while I probably wasn't suddenly now the golden child, I knew I had one thing more important than admiration for my clothes or compliments on my hair: respect. It wasn't about the power shifting; it was that I no longer cared and was freed of my obsession to gain her approval, or the world's for that matter. What I needed to be happy was in our newly solidified cocoon, and when I realized that, I felt free.

Fifty-five

As I brewed and stewed over my new idea that could in some infinitesimal way enhance the lives of some knowledge-starved Nickelodeon-glued mommies, I threw myself full force into all of Violet's classes as fall turned officially into winter. Besides the nannies in her Milford Prescott class, I started, little by little, to bond with some of the other moms and as the weeks passed felt more and more comfortable. It was weird how at first everyone looked each other over, Mexican-standoff-style, and by the end of the semester, most of the ice in the circle had melted away just as it started to form on the trees and canopies outdoors.

One mom, Helena, even walked a few blocks with us after school, as we talked about how nice the group was.

“I have to confess,” Helena said smiling, “I was kind of intimidated by you at first.”

“Me?”
I asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I'm a total loner! It's not like I had a posse!”

“No, but that's it—you did your own thing and had your cool earrings and stuff.”

I didn't know exactly what that meant, but I did know this: everyone has initial hang-ups. While our kids instantly united with toys and row-row-row-your-boats, and we had to slowly feel each other out, like high school. Part Deux.

I don't know at exactly what point that innocence of hugging another child just because they're the same size fades. When does one stop getting excited over, say, seeing a monkey in the zoo? Or a circus? Or a pinwheel? I suppose there's no way to trace that delicate crossover from naïve and innocent to “over it” and jaded, but one thing I discovered was that the more I threw myself into everything, immersing myself and making an effort and not being so worried about other people, the happier I was. I don't know why I had been so initially plagued by Bee and her cohorts, but now that they were fully in my past—sure, I bumped into Lara and Hallie occasionally on Madison—they didn't bother me anymore. It was small talk, then sayonara.

Obsessed with my Broadway Babies class, I talked more and more with one really sweet mom, Tina, who asked me if I wanted to join her at a cabaret where some of the teachers performed. I happily accepted.

Josh and I went with Tina and her husband and had a total blast—the performance was racier than the singers' normal shiny happy two-year-old fare, but I felt so thrilled to be out and enjoying the gifts of these incredible singers and still to this day pinch myself that my daughter gets to be exposed to such amazing talent.

By the time Christmas arrived, many people were solidifying their JetSet Baby plans to hit Antigua or St. Bart's or Lyford, but we happily plopped in New York City. The skyline glistened under the snow, and the cold was chilling but comforting since we were cozy indoors as well as cozy in our lives, finally in a place where I could exhale and enjoy the fact that the raging tempests were outside my window and no longer in my life. I made arts 'n' craftsy holiday cards and didn't feel the least bit el-cheapo about them despite the fact I knew I'd be receiving piles upon piles of Oyster Bay Printery–engraved quadruple-ply cards; I liked mine. They were made with love. And as I sat writing the names of the recipients, I realized I had more nice people around me than I'd thought. And as I hatched my plan to start my art world tours, I felt comforted by the feeling that there were way more women in New York who were like me than like Bee. Normal, nice, non–size 2 women who just wanted to love their kids and enjoy their lives and didn't make constant motherhood pronouncements beginning with the words “It's all about…” Sure, there would always be jerky, insecure, competitive type-A moms—hey, this
is
New York after all—but they weren't as prevalent as I once thought. Tucked between the probing questions about one of Violet's outfits or preschool applications were exclamations of her sweetness and offers for playdates. These were women who were lower-profile than their shiny, stylish Momzilla counterparts, and that's why they were harder for me to find. Except Maggie, who was initially in that scene, then found the calm happiness in being just plain normal, one of the more spread-out, lower-key type of moms who didn't need their pictures in magazines to make themselves feel better. Moms who just wanted to be quiet and real, who didn't need to have their kids vaunted in other people's eyes, just in her own, in the way a mother reads to a child and looks into that child's and knows how deeply connected they truly are. I hoped the women like that would join me in my quest to not only expose them to great art and reinvigorate any latent desire to learn, but also to bring the nice mellow moms together.