forty, get empowered and stuff. These will probably be your bad-ass years.”
Charlie Smith, bad-ass at large. I laughed, despite knowing in that moment how keenly I would miss her.
Encouraged, she continued. “I hope when I’m forty, I’ve still ‘got it’ enough that strange men risk sexual harassment suits just to hit on me.” Her joking helped take the edge off the awful interview I’d had early in the week.
“You’re deranged,” I said affectionately.
“Yeah, and I can’t bake a cake to save my life. When you start making new friends in Boston, try to trade up, would you?”
“Not possible.”
Her expression sobered. “Are you going to tell them tonight? I could stay if you want.”
“Your boss refused to give you the night off,” I reminded her. “You should probably be leaving now.”
“True. But I’m starting a new job in two weeks anyway. What’s he going to do, fire me?”
I sighed, torn between wanting her there when I broke the news to the kids, and being afraid that when they realized they wouldn’t see her anymore, the conversation would go even worse. “No, you get to work. I’m not going to tell the kids tonight, anyway. Sara’s been insistent about celebrating my birthday, and there’s no reason to bring it up before morning.”
Maybe by then, I would have found the right words and the confidence to assure them that everything was going to turn out great.
Nights were the worst. It’s so much easier not to worry during the day, not to remember, but when it’s dark and still, the things you don’t want to think about have a way of finding you. Especially if you’re alone.
It was a little pathetic, the way I wished Sara were here to stay up and watch movies with me, but Callie’s mom had invited my daughter to spend the night. Since I knew Sara and Callie wouldn’t be seeing much of each other in the months to come, I’d instantly agreed.
Ben was asleep in his room and I was doing my best to fall asleep in the living room watching television. Our powder-blue couch was nubby and going threadbare in the arms, and so many of the pillows were stained that I had to turn them backward when company came. The sofa was comfortable in a favorite ratty sweatshirt kind of way, though, and I didn’t think I could sleep in my room tonight.
When I’d turned thirty-nine, Tom and I had celebrated alone together, our first big night out since I’d had Ben. Tom had joked that the romantic dinner was for me, but that our having sex afterward was more like a present to him. Since it’s not always easy to work up enthusiasm for intimacy when you’re the mother of a newborn, that night had been the last time we’d made love. I wished now that there had been something unique about it, something special that stood out that I could hold on to in my memory. Like what, rose petals strewn across the comforter? But it had just been us, my husband and me, coming together as we had hundreds of times before. No more, no less. We’d had no idea that we didn’t have many nights left.
Tom had been hale and hearty in that macho “I don’t need doctors” sense, proud of how few sick days he’d taken at the construction firm where he’d worked his way into management. Although fiercely protective of his wife and kids, he wasn’t by nature a worrier and refused to stress over intangibles like his cholesterol count. I was the one who’d nagged him into that last checkup, reminding him that his own father had died of a stroke when Tom had still been in high school. Though he’d humored me by eventually making the appointment, he’d pointed out not unkindly that my dad had been perfectly healthy before the fall that had killed him, so there was no sense in obsessing over what we couldn’t control.
Even when the doctors had concluded that Tom needed the angioplasty and could no longer dismiss the chest pains he’d tried to downplay, my husband hadn’t seemed concerned. He’d told me everything would be fine—a frequent reassurance I missed but that had turned out to be hollow in this case. He reminded me that angioplasty wasn’t even considered a surgery anymore but just a procedure, that’s how low-key it was. He’d still been chiding me about it before they’d wheeled him away, before the arterial spasm that had caused damage, leading to an emergency bypass and freak fatal heart attack.
You worry too much, baby. Haven’t I always taken care of you?
He always had. But now here I was, my first birthday without him since I’d been eighteen—a lifetime ago.
The children had each had birthdays over the summer. The night Ben had turned one, after the kids were in bed, I’d sobbed until I threw up. Earlier in the day, well-meaning Gladys Winslow had assured me Tom was witnessing the milestone in heaven. My spiritual belief that he was indeed in a better place hadn’t stopped me from briefly wanting to shake my elderly neighbor by her frail shoulders and scream, “How is watching from some ethereal distance doing the kids and me any good?”
Anger was supposed to be one of the early stages of grieving, followed later by depression and eventually acceptance, but I seemed to experience them in a random and sometimes repeating jumble.
For Sara’s sixth birthday, I’d thrown an all-out bash, even scrimping and saving beforehand to rent a pony. There had been brief, teary moments that day when I knew she’d been thinking about her father, but, mostly, the sugar-charged five- and six-year-olds running and screaming through my house had served as a decent distraction. Maybe I should have invited them all back for my birthday today. Even if I had, I’d still have to deal with now, the night, and the realization that I was forty and alone.
Forty was fine, in theory, this just wasn’t where I’d planned on being in my life. When Tom and I had married right after his winter graduation, I’d been young and uncertain in some areas. Moving away from the shelter of the small Georgia town I’d grown up in had been a huge change; losing my dad had been devastating. But I’d had Tom at my side to help me work through it, and I’d possessed lots of youthful optimism. Convinced I’d become accomplished and assured as I grew older, I took a part-time job as a receptionist and threw myself into efforts to be the perfect wife and, one day, mother. I’d had visions of hand-knitted booties, future PTA presidencies, the day when Tom would brag to an unhappy co-worker on his second marriage to a petite trophy wife that I was more than enough to keep a man happy at home.
I’d thought that by forty, Tom and I would be raising teenagers. I hadn’t counted on the two miscarriages before having Sara and being over thirty when I had my first baby. I had imagined we’d be financially secure after wisely investing for several years, maybe sneaking off for the occasional romantic cruise. I hadn’t expected to be dashing around town trying to find a job, second-guessing the decisions I had to make for myself and my children.
That was what really pissed me off about this birthday, about my age. Not the wrinkles, which were so far mostly limited to the laugh lines around my blue eyes; not the streaks of silver, which didn’t stand out too much yet in my pale hair; not even the sagging boobs, which I could claim to have earned nobly by nursing two children. No, what grated my cheese was the fact that I’d pictured having a stable life by forty, one in which I knew what the hell I was doing.
Boy, had I been off the mark.
After breakfast in the morning, I still had a few minutes before I needed to pick up Sara. Deciding there was no time like the present to take proactive steps toward our new future, I phoned a woman who had been in Sara’s and my Mommy and Me group. Having heard through the grapevine that Lindsay and her husband had sold a house not far from us a few months ago, I was curious
