Still, sometimes I worry about Margo. I ask Sassy questions. Is she lonely up there? Who does she see? Who does she hang out with?
I wonder if she’s disappointed with her life, the way I sometimes am. And if she worries about the price she’ll pay for being a woman in the first place and not doing everything right, the way I often do. And then I calm myself with the mantra that has soothed women for ages when we ask those questions: It’s all about choices. Like we actually have control over our lives.
chapter seven
A Boy and His Father: An Adventure in Adjacent Mothering
The boy and his father arrived in the middle of a heat wave.
Inside my house, where I barely had air-conditioning, I took a deep breath and reminded myself not to be annoyed. Not to be angry. Not to be upset that Max promised—promised—that he and the boy would be here by two.
It was now six.
The phone rang and I grabbed it. Sassy. “Are they there yet?” she asked.
“No,” I said, between gritted teeth. “They only left the city an hour ago.”
“But I thought they were supposed to leave the city in the morning.”
“They were. But the tents didn’t arrive.”
“What?”
“The tents. I found out this morning that Max ordered them online last night. Who does that? Who orders online at the last minute? He’s known they were coming for weeks.”
“Honey. It’s called being a man,” Sassy reassured me. “If it gets too difficult, you can take them to Kitty’s. And Queenie’s. We’ll all help.”
“Thank you.” I exhaled gratefully.
“What’s the son’s name again?”
I froze. “Something Icelandic?”
“You don’t know?” she asked incredulously.
“I can’t remember,” I said. They hadn’t even arrived and already I felt like a loser for not remembering the kid’s name. “He’s only eight and he barely speaks English,” I added by way of an excuse. “But I’m sure it will all be fine.”
“It will all be fine” was my new mantra. MAM had moved on and I was in a good place. I was doing the stuff they always tell middle-aged people to do. I was “staying active,” “eating healthy,” and I wasn’t drinking “too much.” I always made sure to fill up my rosé glass with ice. And I was working. Five to six hours a day, from eight till two.
I was happy. I was calm.
And so, when one of my ex-boyfriends—let’s call him Max—called me up and asked if he and his son could camp in the backyard of my house in the Village for ten days, I agreed.
The kid was dying to go camping and Max had promised he would take him. The kid wanted to be near the woods to see animals in the night. The kid wanted to catch his own fish and eat it. The kid wanted to sleep in a tent.
My yard was big enough to provide all that, I pointed out. I even had what could be considered a “cabin”—the old barn in my backyard. It had a newly poured cement floor and electricity. Never mind that it really was a barn that flooded when it rained. What kid wouldn’t want to stay there?
I was sure I could handle the visit. I’d stick to my routine of working every morning while Max spent bonding time with his son. There was one snag: Max didn’t drive. He didn’t have a license and hadn’t had one for over thirty years, being one of those people who have always lived in cities and is used to taking public transport.
“No problem,” I exclaimed. “You don’t need a car in the Village. You can ride bikes everywhere. How old is the boy again?”
“Eight,” the father said. We agreed this was old enough, certainly, to be proficient on a bike?
We made a plan. One that, as usual, I pushed to the back of my mind and didn’t think about until the appointed day was less than a week away.
“Are they actually coming?” Sassy asked.
I shrugged. “Who knows? You know Max. He might change his mind at the last minute.”