Rachel had always loved the sensation of power and desirability when sweeping through public places.
She considered herself a feminist, but nothing beat that zippy feeling of striding in a tight dress with high heels through a restaurant of well-dressed people, feeling endless eyes stalking her from behind.
Rachel was 27 years old, and a journalist. This was a word she used eagerly – but not too earnestly – when describing her life. She had graduated with a degree in journalism, taught by staunch leather-faced creaky professors, who cornered her for four long years to teach her iron integrity and golden ethics - with the apparent goal of describing every principle she would have to utterly abandon in order to succeed in her slippery field.
Rachel chose journalism because she wanted to be a “change agent” in the world, which was a term she had never been asked to define objectively – much to her hidden relief.
Rachel enjoyed watching the sliding squares of her own reflection in the mirrors over the bar. With her boyfriend’s help, she had achieved the holy grail of the modern silhouette – she had a reasonable bust, a protruding butt – and a flat belly. (Of course, she spent more time on lunges than sit ups, on the entirely reasonable premise that one could suck in one’s belly, but one cannot push out one’s butt.)
Rachel had always had what she considered a most unfortunate face – though honest male friends rated her at an 8 or 9 on a scale of ten - because each individual component seemed perfect, but somehow together, they produced a kind of late-stage desperation jigsaw, with some of the pieces hammered in. Rachel possessed wavy brown hair which drew glances of envy on a good hair day, and glances of pity when it rebelled. Rachel’s body was generally quite disobedient to her will – she gained and lost weight without understanding why, slept deeply one night, and peed like a lawn sprinkler the next; her hair fell neatly into place on a Tuesday, and then danced on a Saturday like a drunken bridesmaid. Her periods were flat-out abusive in their unpredictability – one month she barely noticed them; next, they horse-kicked her into couch-bound immobility.
Her emotions worked the same way, in that they never worked the same way. She was a Libra – the scales – but she was always striving for balance, never quite achieving it. (She was far too trained in post-modernism to believe in astrology in the superstitious sense, but she did accept that, in colder climates, being born in the fall gave people significantly different initial experiences of the world than being born in the spring.) Because her life was constantly changing – new boyfriends, new apartments, new friends, new contacts, writing assignments in new fields – her emotions had no more chance to put down roots than a sycamore in a windstorm.
Rachel’s hazel eyes were constantly pleasing – at least from the outside. Her left eye was stronger than her right, which meant that the world looked both slightly in focus and out of focus at the same time.
As a result of all these characteristics, Rachel was close enough to beautiful to be maddened by it, like a thirsty man clawing at saltwater. If she had been less attractive, Rachel would have shrugged and given up – more so, and she wouldn’t have had to wear herself to a thread chasing it. As it was, the hot pursuit of beauty had landed Rachel a very pretty boyfriend, who was kind enough to reach back and try and help her up to his own flawless pedestal.
Rachel spent her 20s having fun – it was the decade of fun, so she had heard – and she had roamed and written travel pieces and interviewed unusual people and been published, for sure – not anywhere mainstream or high profile, but a few low to middle tier websites had been content to cover the odd expense or two in return for a few thousand words of obvious analogies and high-school-level prose simplicity.
Rachel had lofty ambitions, of course – having been suckled and weaned on manic girl-power grandiosity, she had a vague sense that anything less than a mantelpiece of blinding awards would be an insult to her feminist potential.
The secret truth was that Rachel really liked to travel, to splurge the coins of her days as if she sat on an inexhaustible treasure – but she couldn’t just say that she was a traveller, because that would seem frivolous and wasteful and – well, not at all carbon friendly. Oh no, Rachel was a change agent whose calling found it necessary to travel to Guatemala, to write worshipful pieces on communities that appeared to be full of love and togetherness and oddly-shaped native art made by other travellers who weren’t at all natives. These communities always seemed to fall apart shortly after Rachel left – but she explained (mostly to herself, since people – even her boyfriend – rarely asked) that the article was still necessary because it brought inclusivity and curiosity and acceptance to the world as a whole.
To her credit, Rachel did have good instincts about her audience. Most of her readers were young women addicted to mismanaging their anxiety. To distract them, Rachel invited them into a kind of paradise, or Shangri-La – a wondrous place with the magical power to eliminate anxiety - usually through a stained-glass mosaic of pottery, chanting, meditation, incense, trying to fit together with other broken people, beautiful views and close murmuring voices. Young women flocked to her articles – and some to these locations – hoping against hope that the portal of her words would lead anywhere except into the broken remnants of their own heart-shards.
Over the years, Rachel had tried doing follow-up articles on these communities, but always found them either embittered or broken, because the anxiety these women tried to flee always followed them and brought them down, like a snarling pack of dogs that only attack if you run. When it turned out there was no magical location that purges anxiety, Rachel’s readers would turn on their own communities, pick fights, cause problems, provoke hostility, and then run to some other location or occupation or hobby or man – casting venomous backward glances at the betrayal of the universe to free them from their self-inflicted - and self-maintained - wounds.
Rachel’s parents currently funded a good portion of her career – as they had funded her university – because they seemed to feel that she was capable of something extraordinary – at least that’s what her father always said – but it was never defined what that was going to look like in reality.
Until recently, her mother’s sister had been a famous journalist who travelled the world, covering politics, war and famine. Aunt Crystal had lived a life of extraordinary danger – and considerable achievement – but that life had taken a slow, shocking toll, and Aunt Crystal currently lolled about in her Midtown condo, trying to shake a desperate malaise of indeterminate origin, and dodging calls from her agent, who was becoming rather insistent that she actually produce her long-awaited memoirs.
Rachel had a sister, Cassie, who followed the general pattern of younger siblings, which was to live a life of scant self-definition, instead generating goals in reaction to her older sister’s strengths and weaknesses. Older siblings generally carve deep, wandering paths – while younger siblings choose paths either in conformity with – or in opposition to – the confused originality of their elders.
Rachel was the prettier sister – which wasn’t supposed to matter, but always gave her a guilty pleasure. Cassie was more grounded, more sensible – having grown up in her sister’s windy shadow, she had little choice but to extend her roots deeply. It gave her less mobility, but more strength.
To Rachel’s mind, Cassie had done the utterly unthinkable – she had avoided dating around - “like the plague” as she put it – and actually married her high school sweetheart. Ian, her husband, had taken a preteen obsession with computer programming, hitched it to a one-year community college degree, and ended up in a grey cubicle rat-maze, typing furiously at a rather crazed crypto start-up.
In her early 20s, Cassie had given birth to a child – a son, robust and clingy and lusty and ridiculously thirsty. This had given rise to a cliché only deeply understandable to elder sisters – the tight smile of judgmental encouragement. “That’s great, congratulations…” Rachel would murmur, feeling slightly dizzy, and bringing her hands to her mouth not from shock, but because she wanted to hide any potential contempt.
Getting married young, giving birth, raising children, wrecking your figure and your future – cutting off your options, becoming – shudder – dependent on a man – this all reminded Rachel of her first college roommate, a goth girl with black hair and downcast eyes who only lasted three months, due to a truly ghastly habit of self-mutilation.
Since Rachel had a deeply passionate affair with her potential, she viewed any early compromises or distractions as deep, dishonourable betrayals. She only survived her mounting contempt for her sister by repeating to herself that: Not everyone is designed for great things, many people who cannot produce creative works take comfort – the biological consolation prize – in having children. I suppose that my view of what she’s doing – or rather, not doing – is similar to her view of what I am doing – or rather, not doing – which is turning myself into a broodmare for a decidedly average man.
If Rachel had felt comfortable having any confrontational people in her life, he - or she – would have said: “Your contempt for the average is a sure sign of snobbery – you, who claim to be a good progressive, a friend of the working class, a champion of the underdog – you look down your nose at the very people who provide the infrastructure that allows you to fly and type and sip and tan!”
Of course, Rachel had no such people in her life – they are as rare as stars on a cloudy night, and people like Rachel are generally not drawn to those who can puncture vanity with the hot needles of astute observation.
Perhaps the greatest difference between the two sisters was their perception of that most essential word: settle.
In Rachel’s theology of the self, “settling” meant a betrayal of your potential – which in turn led to resentment of your own compromises - and rage towards anyone who encouraged such slouching. The greatest demon that haunted Rachel’s imagination was regret - she had to live a life that avoided regret – at almost any cost. Regret was a kind of abstract lightning that could strike at any time – even from a clear blue sky – and shock your life into scattered smoke. If she could do more, but didn’t do more, that more would haunt Rachel like a ghost trailing its murderer. Rachel had to try, dammit, because otherwise regret would leech the joy from her bones, and any contentment from her future…
For Cassie, “settling” meant settling in, having a sensible life free of petty drama and wild ambitions. She loved her husband, loved her son, and had no big ambitions to become a “change agent” - or whatever new phrase Rachel was using to describe the next phase of her career.
As she crossed the restaurant floor, Rachel felt every movement of her body with great pleasure. She felt regal, because she was having a great hair day - and because she had applied so little makeup that she looked like a real ball-busting natural-earth feminist.
She reached the dark mahogany corner where Cassie waited, and sat down lightly, so that her butt would not spread too much.
“I’m so sorry,” said Rachel. “Traffic was a bear.”
There was a slight pause, because Rachel knew all about Cassie’s view on immigration.
“No worries,” said Cassie, swallowing a piece of what looked like bread.
Rachel’s eyes darted to the breadbasket, and she willed herself not to judge Cassie for how much was gone. She looks heavier, no question…
Rachel was always mildly annoyed when waiters failed to immediately materialize. “You’ve already talked to someone?” she asked.
“Yeah, I ordered some wine for you, but nothing else.” Cassie laughed. “Geez Rachel, take a breath, you just got here!”
Rachel sighed. “I know, I know. Sorry, I’m…” Her voice stalled, looking for an excuse, and finding nothing.
“Someone will be over soon,” smiled Cassie. “No reason we can’t get caught up while we’re waiting – and you won’t die if you have a piece of bread, for heaven’s sake!”
And the butter! cried Rachel silently, shaking her head rapidly. “I can do the sugar in the wine, or carbs in the bread – it’s either/or.”
There was a pause. Cassie was obviously biting her tongue.
Rachel sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Well, we can’t stop saying things right at the beginning… What is it?”
Cassie pursed her lips. “How is Arlo?”
Rachel laughed. “Yes, I suppose that is related… He is – viciously active. He’s graduated from surfing to rock-climbing. Better for the abs, he wants a leaner butt, something like that…”
“He’s so active at the zoo – I can’t imagine doing all that exercise in his spare time as well.”
Rachell frowned. “Yeah, the zoo…”
Cassie leaned forward. “What?”
“What can I get for you ladies?” Rachel looked up, noticing a young man who had clearly given up on hair, and shaved everything – including his beard – to a short even scrub. The look always reminded her of iron filings on paper, from a long-ago school science experiment.
Rachel grabbed a menu. “Oh, I haven’t even looked, but please wait, I’m starving!” She always liked saying that; it showed self-control. Also, he had to linger for her.
The waiter smiled thinly. He turned to Cassie. “And you?”
“Oh, I’m craving mac and cheese – and can you throw a little bit of tomato in as well?”
“Of course!” The waiter paused briefly, and both women fully understood that, after evaluating Cassie, he had decided not to suggest an appetizer – or, God forbid, a salad!
Rachel drummed her red nails on the edge of the plastic menu. “I’m a vegetarian, and lactose intolerant – I can do a little bit of fish, once in a while – but I really need it to be wrapped in something that doesn’t taste like fish… I suppose I could do the fish and chips, but could I get a house salad instead of the fries, with the dressing on the side?”
The waiter sucked a tiny breath of air through his teeth. “Mmm, so sorry, but we don’t have any fish – I mean, we have some salmon, but we haven’t had any halibut delivered this week.”
Rachel pursed her lips – she knew it wouldn’t do any good, but wanted to register her disapproval – perhaps to the universe, it was hard to say.
She sighed. “Okay, what would you suggest?”
“Vegetarian and lactose intolerant? Pasta with – garlic aioli, maybe some vegetables? We could do that, no problem.”
Rachel closed the menu quickly, wishing it was made of something more solid, and could give a louder whap. “Yes, fine, always the same – not your fault, I appreciate it, thank you. I’ll take a side salad too.”
“No problem. I’ll be right back with the wine.”
He turned and left, and Rachel found herself glaring at Cassie, expecting to receive an imaginary lecture on rudeness. It’s not my fault I can’t eat everything! Rachel cried silently.
“Where’s Ben?” she asked.
Cassie looked surprised. “At daycare…” Rachel could hear the unfinished end of the sentence. As he has been every single weekday since he was 8 months old!
Rachel shrugged. When she was bored, she made simple mistakes. It happens…
“Okay,” said Cassie decisively, jumping off her slow train of willed pleasantries. “Let’s talk. How is Arlo?”
There was another pause – they just could not get the rhythm of the conversation going – and Rachel was annoyed that Cassie had asked her about her boyfriend first, not her career. She is so typical, so basic – she’s more interested in people than things… Ugh, all the worst female stereotypes. Always making things more difficult for the rest of us…
Rachel pretended to think for a moment, as if her boyfriend was the furthest thing from her mind. “He’s well,” she said finally. Against her will, Rachel’s eyes drifted hungrily over the breadbasket – and then on, to her sister’s belly, stretching against the fabric of her dress.
Rachel briefly thought of making up a story about her boyfriend being up for a promotion, but squelched the idea in her mind, because a strong woman should not be particularly interested in her man’s career - I mean, maybe if she’s pregnant or something, but…
I need to make up something, or say something, I’m being terribly judgy. “He finally cut his hair a little bit, starting to look like a real grownup!”
“Oh, I’ve always loved his hair!” said Cassie, before adding rapidly: “I’m sure it looks great now!”
There was a slightly awkward pause as the waiter returned and poured Rachel’s wine. Cassie put her hand over her own glass, and Rachel’s heart suddenly sank, despite her best and most noble intentions.
“Okay,” said the waiter, and both women could see him deciding not to say the word: “Congratulations.”
Rachel took a deep breath and turned to the waiter. “Give us a few.”
Cassie stared at her placidly.
Rachel frowned. “Okay, I remember the last time you refused wine – for about nine months, I guess.”
Cassie smiled broadly. “Well, a little less than that, but yes.”
“How long along?”
Cassie beamed. “11 weeks.”
“And everything is – going well?”
“Everything’s great – this one is so much easier than Ben – so far at least!”
“And Ian..?”
Cassie’s smile froze for a moment, like a tiny stutter in an online video. “He loves it, it was his idea…”
The silent word hung between the two sisters. But…
“Go on?”
Cassie let her breath out harshly. She waved her hands. “Nothing – a little frustrating, of course, it feels like there’s always – something, in life, you know? One thing after another… I had that pain in my heel, then my elbow started clicking, then I had water in my ear – and that’s just over the last six months.” Cassie tore off a piece of bread and played with it. “It’s always something that keeps my mind nagging at itself, to distract me from life’s pleasures, which are – considerable… I don’t want to take any of this for granted, but it’s… You know like when we went camping, and there was a mosquito in the tent, and we couldn’t get to sleep, but we couldn’t find it either.” Cassie laughed. “I’m not making any sense, but…” She leaned forward conspiratorially, casting her eyes from left to right. “Look, I’ll be blunt. I have nothing to hide, it’s not a bad thing, it’s just a – different thing. I mean – Rach - have you ever heard of men’s rights, or looked into that – at all?”
Rachel’s eyes widened. The phrase was unknown to her, and because it was unknown, it automatically seemed extreme. “No.”
“Do you want to know?”
Rachel hesitated, then nodded finally.
Cassie rubbed her chin. “Well, if Ian were here – and he’s joining us later, by the way, he’s getting Ben – he would say that that is the exact problem, that all we ever hear about are women’s rights, and we never hear about men’s rights, and that’s – bad, you know…”
Rachel took a deep, cautious breath. “I guess I think that – every right that isn’t explicitly women’s, falls to men – they literally have everything else!”
Cassie pointed at her, imitating her husband’s monotone. “Yes, well, there you have it, that’s exactly it.” She laughed. “You should totally write about this, it would be – something…”
Rachel laughed incredulously. “Oh God, I warned you that a computer programmer would spend way too much time online – what is he talking about, what does he mean?”
Cassie sighed. “Look, he’s a good man, a great dad - provides, you know… And we – and you in particular – had all that girl power stuff, the feminism – and I think he’s just – going that way, like we did with the female stuff, he’s just approaching it from the male – angle.”
Rachel snorted. “Cassie, what the hell? Word salad!”
Cassie laughed – incredulously, but not unsympathetically. “I know, my heart is pounding. I find it – weird, to be honest, but I don’t want to judge him… I suppose that feminism seemed weird when it first started too…”
“Yes, but feminism started from the patriarchy – in response to male dominance and – no rights for women!”
Cassie swallowed nervously. “Yes, but – has it – he would ask, has it – gone too far?”
Rachel echoed her in disbelief. “Has it gone too – far? We just lost the right to abortion!”
Cassie flinched visibly.
Rachel felt slightly dizzy. Should I apologize? “We don’t want to be that cliché, do we? I can talk about abortion with a pregnant woman, right?”
Cassie nodded distractedly. “Sure, sure…”
Where do you stand on Roe v Wade? Rachel wanted to ask – no, demand! But she felt on a cliff edge, with her sister. Her toes even curled inside her tight shoes. What a maze…
“Look,” she said decisively, “tell me about the pregnancy, the baby, how you are doing.”
“Ian wants to pull Ben out of daycare,” said Cassie abruptly.
Well, that’s quite the leap, thought Rachel in amazement. As if to give them time to process, the waiter arrived with their food.
“Mac and cheese, pasta and – salad… I’m so sorry, we’re out of tomatoes, can’t get them for love or money… I put some extra cucumbers on the salad instead, I hope that’s alright.”
Cassie smiled sympathetically. “It can’t be much fun, telling customers everything you are short of.”
The waiter nodded at Rachel. “I’m actually a part owner. I spent half the early morning trying to find ingredients, but everyone seems to be out of – everything. It’s a little…”
It seemed that the word creepy hung at the end of his sentence, but he clearly didn’t want to upset them in any way, so he just smiled awkwardly. “I’m really sorry.”
“That’s fine,” said Rachel shortly, waving her hand towards the bread – and realizing, to her horror, that it looked as if she were waving the waiter away. Oh well, he’s a part owner, not exactly a downtrodden employee… She felt a strong urge to apologize, but didn’t know how to even identify her wrong without feeling paranoid. Oh my God, how hard we have to work to avoid clichés – oh look, here’s another woman overthinking everything and tangling herself up in unnecessary interpretations and apologies!
The waiter’s cheeks were flushed. “Well, let me know if you need anything…” he said, darting off to another table.
Rachel sighed. “I really dislike waiters who tell you that you are the one who has to inform them of what you need – isn’t it their job to come over and ask?”
Cassie smiled. “That might be a good article – 10 Things I Hate About Waiters!”
Rachel inhaled sharply. “You know, I do write about more important things than… Oh, sorry, I’m being ridiculous. Please, tell me about the baby – and what’s this about – Ben?”
Cassie leaned forward slightly, covering her belly with her hands. “Well, he’s having some – behavioural issues, I suppose that’s the word, the phrase, these days. That’s actually what started Ian down this – rabbit hole he’s on, or in.”
Rachel felt some annoyance at this beating around the bush stuff. For heaven’s sake, get to the point, I’m pushing 30!
She said nothing, though, because she could see her sister gathering her resources for a carb-fueled onrush of honesty.
Knowing how much Rachel disliked a mouthful of words, Cassie swallowed deliberately before continuing.
“So - it was really Ben that started me on this – sympathy for men, I guess, in a way? He was such a sweetheart as a baby, so positive and friendly and affectionate and strong and – bonded. He was like my boomerang, you remember that phase – he would go to explore, come back to feed, go to explore, come back to cuddle, go to explore, come back to point at everything. I loved being the centre of his world, and watching that centre shift to wherever he was - exploring, you know. I don’t have much experience with men, compared to…” Cassie looked away and waved her hand, as if to ward off the next word. “And I guess I got my view of men from dad, and Ian of course – and I’m educated, but not like you, at least not in the arts, so I didn’t get a lot of that – view of men as tyrannical and bullying and whatnot. They work hard, they provide…” Cassie took a deep breath. “I guess I got to see Ben as a – male, in his original form, unspoiled…” Her voice caught in a sudden wave of emotion.
Rachel had an impulse to reach out and touch her sister’s hand, but was too busy scanning for evidence of all of the extra cucumbers she was promised.
Cassie took a deep breath, pushing her macaroni around. “I’m not sure this is what the baby wants…” she murmured.
Rachel looked up suddenly. “Ben?”
Startled, Cassie nodded. “Yes, yeah… Mommy brain, it’s got me… But the hospital needed me, my boss was pressuring me to come back, and I was having endless dreams about all these patients getting sick - or at least not getting better – because I was home feeding my baby boy… I had a great mat leave, Ian was wonderful, and it felt – right, in a way that I hadn’t…” She leaned forward. “Everything seems at odds for us, these days, you know, as women… Everyone tells us what to do, and it never quite feels right… But this, this felt right, Rach – and that little nagging voice in my head – our heads I think – that comes from mom a bit I suppose – that is always telling me to do something slightly different than what I’m actually doing – that voice actually shut up for once, and I was able to sit in total peace for like hours at a time – and it didn’t even bother me when Ben was having trouble latching on, that’s just – part of the process - that’s what kept going around in my head, that Ben and Ian and me were just - part of the process – and I didn’t actually have to be doing anything other than what I was doing, in the moment.” Cassie’s dreamy eyes sharpened suddenly, focusing on Rachel. “I’m sure you get the same feeling when you’re writing, or whatever – sorry, I don’t mean whatever like writing is not important, you know what I mean…”
I have 14 pieces of cucumber, but I have no idea what the average is, or whether I got more, thought Rachel, before reaching over and patting her sister’s hand. She lifted the glass of wine and took a medium sip – not so little as to look pretentious, not so much as to look like an alcoholic. She consciously prevented her nose from wrinkling – she didn’t really like the taste of wine, but she knew how good it looked in her hand, what it said about her to discerning eyes. She could feel the wine seeping into her delicate gums, and felt a flush of anxiety about avoiding the dentist.
Rachel swallowed. “And then?”
Cassie sighed. “And then, the nagging voice started to come back, you know, that the world needed me, that we needed the money, that there was no point getting educated to just - sit in an armchair reading a magazine while Ben fed. My education, my responsibilities, the needs of everyone – they all began to pile up in my head. And so…” Cassie’s voice caught again. She took another deep breath. “And so, we put him in daycare… He was about eight months, give or take a week or two, and of course he cried and wailed and – reached for me, with the same pleading eyes he gave me when I held him when he got his – shots. But you know what they say, what the voice says – it’s good for him, he needs to be – socialized – he needs his independence, just like you do – and I really wish it had been more of a battle, but all these – thoughts came between us… You know those moving sidewalks at the airport – it’s like being on one of those, in a bad dream, and your child is just – moving away from you, or being moved away from you by – something, other… I don’t know…”
“Gosh,” said Rachel, counting down the cucumbers as she ate. She felt dizzy, distant – and a giant tolling bell of fear echoed from somewhere deep within her. She shivered, and thought of asking the waiter/part-owner to turn up the damn heat in the restaurant. Another cliché, the ‘eternally cold woman,’ that I refuse to inhabit…
Cassie leaned forward even more. “So then, he’s in daycare, and there’s this period of relative peace, like he’s in shock or something… But then he starts to get – aggressive, which I had never seen before, not even a hint… And I guess I hadn’t thought of what happens over the course of the day in that – place… I was back at work, back in the groove, helping and helping and helping, you know, as I’ve always done. It’s always a blur at the hospital, just running from one need to another, the only moment you get to think is – doing paperwork, but then you have to really concentrate, so… But there was a – kind of – darkness in Ben, growing thicker… I noticed it at home at first – he was always rough with his toys – rough for a girl, I guess, normal for a boy – don’t give me that look, you just wait… But he began to be sort of – cruel to his toys. He started pulling the arms off his figurines – before, he would launch them and throw them at Lego and drop them off things – so they got some wear and tear, but that was all part of his – exploring, I guess. But then he started – dismantling them, if that makes any sense…”
Cassie’s eyes were wide. “Then he started to – bite…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And hit… He actually hit me one morning when I was getting ready for work, he was – 15 months, maybe, something like… A real hit, full-strength, left a real mark… I had to cake on the makeup, so Ian wouldn’t get arrested or something… And Ian really stepped up, began doing all this research - wild stuff, really out there. I didn’t know what to make of it, to be honest… I have this belief – which really makes Ian roll his eyes – that if something were this important, it would be all over the place, on the news, talked about, you know… It feels kind of paranoid to imagine there are these shadowy hands all over our information…”
Rachel stared at her, then laughed suddenly. “Wow, lot of landmines today!”
Cassie frowned in genuine confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I suppose I would be one of these ‘shadowy hands,’ right?”
Cassie’s cheeks coloured slightly. “Oh, I don’t think he means…”
Rachel glared at her. “What, Cassie? What does Ian mean?”
Rachel could see her younger sister find some kind of bounce, some kind of strength.
Cassie stared back at her sister. “Do you want to talk about your career at the moment?”
There was a pause, then Rachel shook her head. “No, it doesn’t…” She desperately tried to think of another topic - but realized it would be obvious cowardice and manipulation to try changing the subject in such a tense moment.
Cassie said: “So many – paths we could take this conversation – at the moment… But I won’t wait, or ask - I’m tired of waiting and asking all the time. Ian says that what he’s learning is like sticking his head through a wall – you think it’s a wall, but it turns out you can just – put your head right through it, and see – outside, if that makes any sense… Anyway, there are these – studies – not really reported on, but by some real scientists – that daycare is not always super-great for kids, particularly boys – and it’s … I can’t help… noticing that he went from this strong-willed sweet baby to this aggressive – and mean – little… almost bully… I tried talking to the daycare teacher, but it’s a different one each time…” Cassie laughed sadly. “I even thought of pinning some kind of recording device to Ben, to try and figure out what he’s dealing with, but that would be crazy of course…”
Through her annoyance, Rachel could hear the half question mark at the end of her sister’s sentence.
“I don’t know much about this… I’ve never heard of that,” murmured Rachel, sitting up and brushing her hair back from her face, for fear that the salad dressing could ruin her great hair day.
But she had to lean forward again, because Cassie was almost whispering. “But we need the money… Interest rates are up, taxes are crazy - it feels like every time we get ahead, something comes along and takes it away…” Her voice lowered even further. “And it kind of freaks me out that the daycare teachers never told me about what was happening with Ben. We have occasional play dates – fewer now of course - and he plays pretty well with other kids, I guess. He kind of huddles over his blocks, doing his own thing, but he seems so – constrained… He was so – spontaneous and energetic when he was little… Now he seems so – fierce, self-protective, it’s hard to say… I mean, you were a daycare kid, when mom was – unwell…”
Rachel felt a deep cavernous shudder in her belly. Her face jerked back. “I loved daycare, it was better than…” A sliver of cucumber seemed to be trying to crawl back up her windpipe, and she swallowed violently.
Cassie sighed in relief. “I’m totally glad, sis. Totally. I mean, mom was home with me, and sometimes I wonder, looking at Ben, whether we ended up – a little different, maybe more than if – I don’t know, you know…”
Rachel was relieved that she had suddenly lost her appetite. Not being hungry always improved her thigh gap, and Lord knows her boyfriend barely ate anything - she was quite convinced that Arlo lived on the cranberries he fed to his damn lemurs at the zoo. Not for the first time – and not even for the thousandth time – Rachel felt deep annoyance at the word “zoo.” It all sounds so great and important until you put the word ‘petting’ in front of it!
Cassie was using her fork to push around the remnants of mac and cheese in the depths of her bowl. “Anyway, I started thinking how strange it was that the teachers never told me about any of the – problems that Ben was having… I mean, didn’t they notice any kind of change? And then – and I hate to say this, but it was Ian who clued me in… It was probably because all the kids were going the same way, he said, so there was nothing – unusual about Ben, for the teachers. It’s a kind of zoo, I guess – no offense…” Cassie added the last words in a nonsensical rush. She touched two fingers on each hand to both temples. “And it feels so – strange – wrong – to even speak this way… Thank you so, so much for listening… My heart was pounding on the bus getting here, it feels like breaking ranks, betraying – I don’t know, something… But I’m really torn, Rach - I really am, torn in two…” Cassie took a deep breath and whispered: “Did I break my boy?”
A tear fell from Cassie’s eye, and Rachel felt a kind of panic. In the moment, she would have surrendered a fairly important internal organ to ensure that the waiter did not return.
Rachel reached forward, terrified that Cassie’s emotions would draw glances.
“Cassie, no, no – it’s fine, I’m fine, you’re fine, Ben is fine.” Her mind went blank, but she forced herself onwards, whipping the words out of her mouth. “It’s just the terrible twos – like the teen years, but smaller, and earlier… He’s just – trying to find his way in the world… I’m sure there are challenges in that daycare, but there are challenges for all of us, every day. He’ll emerge stronger, you’ll see.”
Cassie wiped her eyes. “I don’t want him to ‘emerge stronger…’ Not yet… He’s so little…”
The waiter approached, then beat a hasty retreat.
Oh God, thought Rachel, this is the worst part of being a woman! How do you support a sister when she’s not supporting the sisterhood?
She strove to speak evenly. “Look, Ben was born with all sorts of – advantages – sorry, do you know the sex of..?”
Cassie shook her head quickly, guiltily. “No, Ian doesn’t want to…”
WHY SHOULD THAT MATTER? Rachel was surprised at the volume of her internal shriek, and shook her head, shocked.
Rachel found her eyes staring at her sister’s swollen belly. A bod with a rod in a pod… A singsong nursery rhyme scampered through her mind, chasing something – or being chased, more likely…
A sudden fissure of unanticipated depth cracked open within her. “Cassie,” she whispered, “what’s really going on?”
There was a charged, stagnant pause. Cassie’s decades-long pursuit of Rachel’s true self paused momentarily.
The waiter appeared.
“All done?”
“Absolutely,” said Rachel, pushing her plate slightly forward, evident relief in her voice.
Cassie grabbed the few remaining bites, then handed her bowl to the waiter.
He paused, faced with the daunting and delicate task of suggesting dessert to women.
“What do you have for dessert?” asked Cassie, resting her hand on her belly, as if to blame the baby for her desires.
“I have a dessert menu right here,” replied the waiter, reaching behind him like a surprise gunslinger. He handed over a small laminated card. “Sorry again, only the top two are available today – all week, actually. It’s kinda crazy, we’ve been trying to get a part for our side-oven for – what, five months? Something about the supply chain, which I don’t really understand, but it just means that there are a lot of… bare shelves these days.”
Cassie glanced at Rachel. “Would you take a bite or two of bread pudding?”
Rachel weighed her options. To say ‘no’ would seem calorie phobic – to say ‘yes’ would appear weak-willed. She settled on an indulgent: “Sure.” I’ll do it for you, sis!
“Then let it be… so,” smiled Cassie, handing the card back.
To make up for the impression of liking sugar, Rachel said: “And a black coffee for me – decaf for you, sis?”
Both sisters saw the waiter glance at Rachel’s empty wine glass, then at Cassie’s belly – and once more decide to say nothing. Rachel felt a pang of sadness, that a simple ‘congratulations’ had become so complicated, so impossible, so inaccessible… Rachel could easily imagine the waiter’s thoughts:
Sure, it’s 99% certain that the blonde is pregnant, but if I offer her any congratulations, and I’m wrong – or even if I’m right – she’s could whip up a post on social media hash tagging my restaurant – and my name, from my tag… She’ll suck in her cheeks, post a duck-face selfie, incredulously exclaiming: “Can’t believe JOSH at STEPHANOS just ‘congratulated’ me on being PREGNANT! #MenNeverLearn.” And dear God, what if it goes viral? Bored people will end up protesting out front of my restaurant, and I will end up cornered by a sitting committee of plus-sized women, endlessly apologizing for ‘thin privilege…’
Of course, Josh knew that if he didn’t say anything, he couldn’t really get in trouble – these are the endless thoughts of those who live in the modern tyranny of constant recording and perpetual sharing. Socrates dreamed that evil could be cured by knowledge – who dared imagine that free speech and social graces would end up murdered by petty publicity?
And so, the moment of fertile praise and flickering human communion passed, and the space between souls widened another few inches, and each was left a little more alone with their solitary thoughts...
Continued here:
https://freedomain.locals.com/post/3411621/the-present
