Beauty Read online

  Fashion is a small industry. Everyone knew, which made me feel all the more helpless and ashamed. Everything here, everything that’s yours is mine, Dad used to say.

  So, this is what I understood: Everything that was mine was Jeff’s; everything that was Jeff’s was not mine. I had signed the prenup. Still, one of the tabloids doctored a photo of me dressed in one of Jeff’s “Empress” gowns. The heading read: “Down with the Dowager.” The article described me as controlling and “money grubbing.” It said I married Jeff for social stature and to get a leg up in the fashion industry.

  I kissed Jeff at Helena’s party four years ago. Now, despite everything, I could never live it down.

  On TV, Jeff tunes into one of the food channels. Chef Donatella Arpaia prepares her famous meatballs, using ground beef and pre-moistened bread. I should watch this and learn to make something Alexander will actually eat. The show has barely started and Jeff’s already snoring his way to la-la land. Alexander’s still running around like he’s got a propeller on top of his head, and Jeff’s gonzo.

  Something like rage balloons inside me. He’s tired? While he’s at work and then enjoying his extra curricular activities, I’m stuck dealing with Alex. All day and now all goddamn night when Alexander’s misery is often at its very finest—and he’s tired?

  Arpaia takes the time to remove her wedding ring. With bare hands, she works her fingers through the beef and bread. She cracks an egg into it, adding fresh, flat-leaf parsley, parmesan, and “lots” of fresh chopped garlic. In my mind, I run the list of injustices I have endured, starting with the fact that we don’t have a nanny. The Great Jeff Jones needs privacy. How could he be expected to tolerate strangers in his house?

  I hear Alex in the play room next door, hammering at his Bob the Builder work table. On TV, Arpaia continues with the meatballs saying Italians don’t measure ingredients. They go by feel. Maybe it’s not just the Italians because Ma cooks that way. Since Georgie was the smart daughter and I was the stupid one who was going to get married and have kids instead of a career, Ma forced me to sous chef every night. “A pinch of salt,” she would say, intentionally vague, it seemed, or, “add water up to your knuckle.” Then she’d wonder why the result was overly-salted Chinese broccoli or rice so dry it crunched between one’s teeth.

  “Now, if you get into a fight with your husband, not that we get into a fight with our husbands,” Arapia says, digging into the mix and strangling it with her hands. “You really have to get in there.”

  Yes, I think. Now, we’re cooking. Frustration. Anger. Knead, baby. Strangle it into oblivion.

  Suddenly, the house is too quiet, again. Where’s Alexander?

  As soon as the thought comes into my head, Alexander appears, flying into the room with a toy plane. “Vroom!” he cries.

  “No stickers on the furniture, Alexander,” I remind, catching him by the arms and pointing out the sticky patch on the lamp post. “You know that.” Though I’ve removed the face of the sticker, the glue remains stubbornly fixed to the lamp.

  “Where do stickers go?” I ask. “Where is it okay to stick them?”

  Alexander stares blankly back at me.

  “On paper,” I say.

  “Paper,” he replies.

  “Right, on paper. Not on lamps, or walls, or anywhere except paper. Understand?”

  “Vroom…”

  I grab him by the arm before he takes off again. “Next time it’s going to be a time-out for you, Mister. Understand?”

  “Ow!” he yells, struggling to get away.

  “Understand?” I insist.

  “‘Stand,” he finally says.

  I let go and Alexander zooms out of the room.

  Jeff snores all the more loudly. I stifle the urge to yank the cushion out from beneath his head. Wake up, I want to say. I’m getting royally dissed by your A-hole friends. If I’m going to live in purgatory and take this shit, then the very least you can do is help me figure out what went wrong. Did I inadvertently say something to upset the bride-to-be? There had been an awkward exchange at the end of their engagement party. Could it have been that? The Maid of Honor had thrown a poolside “Hawaiian Luau” at her house in Queens. It was a casual barbecue with bamboo-skewered meats and frozen strawberry daiquiris, each decorated with pineapple and a mini paper umbrella. The day was memorably hot—in the high nineties, and humid. Perfect for swimming. And yet, Alexander refused to get in the pool. He insisted I carry him, screaming any time Jeff or anyone else so much as offered to hold him. I didn’t mind. Despite the fact that there were no new toys or other children to play with, Alexander was cheerful and well-behaved. I was proud of him. The bride-to-be said he was so cute, she wanted to pinch him.

  Then, as we were about to leave and Jeff had gone to get the car, she finished the last piece of chicken from a skewer and asked if she could poke Alexander with it. He was asleep in my arms.

  “That’s funny,” I laughed, but she stared back, more serious than ever. I switched Alex to my other hip.

  “Just a tiny pinch.” She pressed forefinger to thumb.

  I glanced at the Maid of Honor. Is she really serious? I wanted to ask.

  “Oh, stop,” the Maid of Honor said. “You’re scaring her.”

  “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

  “How many daiquiris have you had?” the maid of honor asked.

  “Come on,” the bride-to-be said. “He’s so pinchable, I just have to.”

  The Maid of Honor and I exchanged another glance.

  “What?” the bride snipped, defensively.

  “You’re scaring me,” the Maid of Honor said.

  “You guys are so funny,” I laughed, playing it off as if it was a joke. Later, in the car, however, I recounted the story to Jeff and noted how ironic it was that Alexander hadn’t gotten in one of his moods and stabbed someone with a skewer himself. “She wouldn’t have thought he was cute enough to poke then,” I huffed. The following morning, however, after waking with a hangover that felt like I’d jammed a cup of buttons into my brain, I realized the maid of honor had been right: the incident had a lot more to do with the daiquiris than anything else.

  An indistinguishable, thudding sound comes from the kitchen. Jeff wakes. When he sees me, though, he mutters, “Okay,” and sinks back into sleep.

  Okay? Please, God, not another concussion. I race into the kitchen and find Alexander standing on the marble counter. He’s used the bottom cabinet drawers as steps to climb up and reach the cupboards, and is helping himself to a bar of chocolate. The loud sound was a Costco-size bottle of agave, which, now cracked along the lid, is draining across the tiled floor.

  “Fuck,” I say.

  “Fuck,” Alexander parrots.

  I remove him from the counter and pry the chocolate from his hands. “No chocolate before bedtime,” I say.

  The kid screams. He flails his arms and tries to kick me. Clutching him to my body football style under one arm, I pick up the bottle of agave and set it on the counter, then throw a paper towel down onto the mess so Jeff won’t step in it before I have a chance to clean it up. Alexander squirms and struggles, continuing to writhe as I lug him upstairs, brush his teeth, and dump him, kicking and screaming, into bed. I take the plane from him.

  “Give me!” he yells.

  “It’s right here,” I say, setting it on the end table.

  He grabs the plane and attempts to climb down from the bed.

  “If you do that, no book,” I say.

  “Book,” he insists.

  “Then back in bed.”

  “No.”

  “Which book?” I ask, showing him the books. “Where the Wild Things are? Native American Children’s Poems? Trucks? Or I am a Bunny?”

  “Time to play.”

  “Play tomorrow.”

  “No,” he says. “Now.�
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  I take the plane from him again and shut the light. He screams, “it’s mine!” and flails around so violently that he headbutts me in the mouth. There’s an electric shock of pain, then throbbing numbness. My eyes tear. Am I bleeding? I check in the mirror over the bureau. No blood, no swelling.

  “Ice,” Alexander says. I pick him up and return downstairs. In the kitchen freezer, I dig out two toddler ice packs, each the shape of a different animal. Alex wants the mouse. I take an elephant. We head back upstairs to his bedroom.

  Who was it who said that there is nothing to fear but fear itself? Oh, yes. That’s right—FDR. The bombing of Pearl Harbor. One of America’s “darkest” hours. Well, here, it’s bedtime for Alex, and after two years, there is still no bigger and darker hour for me than now.

  Alexander holds the mouse ice pack up to his head while I keep mine to my mouth. He chooses I Am a Bunny. My voice is muffled: “I am a—”

  “Bunny!” he finishes.

  I fix the pillow behind me. “I live in a—”

  “Hollow tree!” he yells.

  We read to the end of the book, and then, taking the ice packs and setting them on the end table on top of the books, I say, “Okay, time for night-night.”

  “No!” He tries to jump out of bed.

  “Yes.” I block him with my body and hold him back. “We can read more tomorrow.”

  His arms flail. His legs kick. I remain beside him, keeping at a safe distance, using my hands to block, if necessary. I shut the light. “It’s okay, Alex,” I say. “I’m right here.”

  “No,” he says, hitting me.

  I catch hold of him firmly by the wrists. “No hitting,” I say, looking him in the eye. “That’s not okay, you hear? Not okay.”

  He struggles for another fifteen minutes. When he finally gives in, I can feel the tension drain from his body. It’s dark now, but the moonlight comes in from the window, and his face seems soft and peaceful. I release him.

  “Nai nai,” he demands. Milk, more milk.

  “No nai nai,” I say, gently.

  “Yes,” Alex insists, tugging at my shirt. “Yes.”

  “No,” I say more firmly, taking hold of his hands. But he claws at my clothing, at me, at anything, until my arms and hands are raw.

  “Stop,” I say. “It’s okay, Alexander. Stop.”

  After half an hour, he finally relents and starts to drift off. The Sleep Lady promised this would get easier each night if we followed the routine she laid out for us. But it’s been three—almost four—weeks now. Maybe we should try Ferberizing again?

  “Mommy sleep here,” he begs, patting the space beside him. He clenches my hand.

  “I’m right here,” I say, sitting in the rocking chair beside him.

  “No here,” he cries. “Mommy here.”

  I try to pry his hands free. The Sleep Lady’s instructions were for me to sit beside and talk to him, if necessary, but no hand holding. And then, over the course of days or weeks, I would gradually move away from the bedside toward the door. Simple, right?

  He tantrums again. And, again. I check the time. It’s 8:30pm. Then 9. Then 10. I try to remain patient. I close my eyes, and while I’m not religious, I find myself praying, “God, please help me. Please, please help me.” I need to see some kind of progress, some kind of change, just to keep from giving up entirely.

  Some time after 11 PM, when Alex starts screaming again, Jeff roars from our master bedroom: “I have to work tomorrow, God damn it!”

  My body feels like lead. I lie down next to Alex, and as he falls asleep, let myself drift away.

  A sound wakes me. I’m alone in bed. Where’s Alexander? Then I see him in the corner of the room. What’s he doing? He’s got markers in his hands. Where’d he get markers? Then, I see him scribbling on the wall.

  “Fuck!” I yell, and I jump to my feet, grab and slap him on the behind. “Alexander, no, fuck, no!”

  He turns and I get the back of the marker straight to the rib. A rage wells up inside me so deep that I spank him on the backside until I’m panting for breath. My parents used to hit. They said they had to “beat out the stubbornness.”

  “I’m doing this for your own good,” Ma said.

  “Do you think I would bother if you were the kid next door?” Dad asked. “It’s because I care that I do this.”

  And then he left us for good.

  I always swore I would never hit my own kids. Ma hit, and now, as much as I love her, there’s a sliver of me that despises her, too. I don’t want that with Alex. I want something different. Better.

  Hopelessness, I realize, is a swamp I’ve lived in so long that maybe it’s who I now am.

  In the morning, as soon as I drop Alex at pre-school, I call Ben to see if he can meet me for dinner tonight. No luck, he’s dining out with his new boyfriend. I feel foggy and exhausted, yet at the same time, I am buzzing with nervous energy. I try another close friend, but she’s going with her son to a party in Red Hook. I check with my masseuse, but he’s fully booked. The aesthetician already has a 5 o’clock appointment and can’t work past 6.

  There’s a scene in one of my favorite movies, The Hours, when actress Julianne Moore, who plays a woman feeling trapped by motherhood and life, checks into a hotel in the middle of the day. She needs time to read and re-claim herself. I could do that. Just go somewhere for some peace and quiet, a hot bubble bath, and some sleep. Or, I could go to the coffee shop, load up on caffeine, and read. As I walk the dog, I realize that neither option will work: I’m too exhausted to read and too anxious to sleep. A dull headache extends from the top of my head down the back of my neck.

  Later, I stop at the pharmacy to pick up some Motrin. While I stand in line at the register, I double check that Jeff hasn’t called. Any minute, now, he’ll ring to tell me he spoke with the groom and that it was all a silly misunderstanding. Or, he’ll just surprise me and show up, unexpected, in the late afternoon to say: “I told him to have a great rehearsal dinner without me, and I’d see him tomorrow morning at the wedding.” It’s stupid and naive, but there’s still hope; a part of me’s holding out for love.

  On the magazine rack, I notice the latest issue of People, and realize I’m no longer familiar with the personalities on the front cover. I used to feed off the latest designer fashions to inform my own closet, but somehow even these seem foreign to me now. I glance down at the sweats I’m wearing. My hair is back up in a messy ponytail. I feel myself slump lower. I don’t need a mirror to know what I must look like.

  There used to be a beautiful, sexy woman inside this body. Where the hell did she go? Did she truly exist? If this dis-invite had occurred pre-marriage, I wouldn’t have minded in the least. So why am I upset now?

  Then I realize. This would never have happened pre-marriage. Jeff would have known I’d be out with someone else the second he walked out that door. Jeff would never have allowed that to happen. But, now, I’m married. There’s a kid. I’m not going anywhere.

  “You okay?” the clerk asks, as she charges the Motrin.

  “Headache,” I say, trying to hold back tears. How is it possible for a person to devolve from believing that anything is possible, to someone who believes nothing is possible? The morning of our wedding, final pages of the prenup were still being faxed to me. I signed. Faxed them back. During the ceremony, as the pianist played the wedding march, I walked down the church aisle, fatherless and alone, and felt a confusing sense of mourning.

  It was us, I realize. The romance—we—were dead.

  I drive to the health food store and traipse up and down the aisles of the market, filling my cart with items on the list. I made a mental note to add something to the list last night—I remember that clearly—but what it was, I can’t recall. Come on, think, Amy. Think. Finally, when the time nears pickup, I give up.

  I check the phone.
Jeff hasn’t called. Instead of brooding about how clueless I’ve become, I search the internet for possible movies to see. Usually, I can find a film at the Jacob Burns Film Center, which is close enough in Pleasantville. Tonight, however, nothing seems right.

  It’s 11:45 AM by the time I get out of the store. It’s already time to pick up Alexander.

  “Playground,” Alex insists, as we leave the red, brick building of the pre-school.

  “Later,” I promise. “We can go after lunch.”

  “No,” he says, pulling away from me and running to the playground. His favorite is the twisty slide.

  “Alexander,” I call, running after him. “Stop.”

  He runs to the slide and climbs up its ladder. My phone rings. It’s Jeff! My heart balloons.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Everything set for tonight? You getting a massage?”

  “Maybe,” I say. Alexander dives head-first down the slide. Jeff starts to speak, but I tell him I have to go and hang up.

  I arrange for the sitter to arrive by 3 pm, telling her when she arrives that I’ll be home by 9 or 10 pm. There’s a new Star Wars Lego set in the closet. I give it to the sitter, then prepare dinner and run an early bath. When Alex is in his PJs and building the fighter plane, I shower and get ready even though I’m still not certain for what.

  The first thing I try on is a white Theory dress. It makes me look fat. The second is a Helmet Lang jersey dress, but that makes me look frumpy. Finally, I step into what I originally planned to wear to the wedding, a form-fitting, black Herve Leger dress with white piping. But this, too, looks wrong. How could I have possibly considered this dress for the wedding? I wonder now. I walk the dog, give the sitter my cell phone number, along with my permission for Alex to watch TV if things get hairy. Then, I drive straight to The Westchester mall and valet the car at Neiman Marcus.