off course. Where’s the grovel?
Nick holds up his hands. “While you were away, I realized that we don’t want the same things. You want a husband, children, and a house in the suburbs. You’ve had a successful career and now you’re ready to settle down. But I’m just starting to make it big. I want to enjoy it. Being the chef of a restaurant is like being a rock star.”
“So, what? It’s sex, drugs, and linguine?”
Nick glares at me.
“Anyway, you’re not a rock star. Dine International wanted you for your cooking skills, not your guitar work. Don’t forget that.”
Nick shakes his head. “That right there is why this relationship isn’t working. You can’t separate your work from your personal life. You’re not supposed to manage me like I’m a client. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriends aren’t supportive?” I say.
“There’s a difference between being supportive and being controlling.”
“I don’t want to control you. I want you to benefit from my expertise. Since when is me being a restaurant consultant a bad thing?”
“It’s not just the job,” Nick says. “It’s your whole life. You have a great career. You’re a world traveler. You have your own apartment. Your own stock portfolio. Your own everything. You don’t need me for anything.”
I stare at Nick’s black kitchen clogs and absorb his words. “So you would be more secure if I were more insecure?”
Nick leans against the brick wall and runs his hand through his hair. He knows he can’t out-logic me. I win the witty repartee contest. Fat lot of good it’ll do me.
Nick says, “You think you’re so smart, Mimi, but you don’t know everything.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, it is. You think men want to feel inferior? That we want to be pressured? Domesticated? You know a lot, Mimi. But you don’t know what men want.”
“Okay. Fine. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I mean, Nick, I just…”
“Nicco,” he says without looking at me.
Mathematics
“Ouch.” Madeline winces.
“Nick turned all of my attributes into faults,” I say.
“He’s wrong,” Madeline says. She’s perched on the arm of her couch, all of her muscles taut and ready to spring into action. But there’s nothing she can do. What’s done is done.
“Maybe Nick’s right,” I say, staring at a spot on the wall. “Maybe I am too independent. But I spent my twenties working so I could spend my thirties raising a family. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. I thought I had time. I thought I’d meet someone, eventually. Later. But it is later. And I’m alone. And old.”
“You’re not old,” Madeline says.
“Do the math, Maddie. I’m thirty. Let’s say I meet someone tomorrow. To date, get engaged, and plan a wedding would take a year, and that’s moving at lightning speed. I’d be thirty-one, at least. Say we spend a year being newlyweds, fixing up the house, whatever. Then I try to get pregnant. There’s no guaranteeing that I’ll get pregnant right away. So, allow a year to get and be pregnant. That means I’ll have my first child when I’m thirty-three. Then I have to recover, nurse, and try to get pregnant again. Another year passes. Then I spend another year pregnant. That means I’ll have my second child when I’m thirty-five. Thirty-five, Maddie. And that’s assuming I meet someone tomorrow. Which I won’t. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
“Mimi, lots of women today don’t even start families until after thirty-five. You are a strong, successful, intelligent woman. Nick’s not man enough to handle you. He doesn’t know what all men want.”
“Do men want women like me?”
“Who cares what men want?” Madeline says. “We know what we want. That’s all that matters.”
But Madeline is wrong. I look at her through glassy eyes.
“Yell,” Madeline says. “Scream. Let it out. Hit something. Not me. Something else. You’ll feel better.”
Strong, successful, and intelligent I may be. But right this minute, there’s only one thing that will make me feel better.
I want my mommy.
Sally
I schlep Olga four blocks to my garage, where sits my car. It’s a 1966 Mustang GT convertible. Beige leather interior, white body with black LeMans stripes and a black power top. Her name is Sally. She belonged to Dad, but now she’s mine. Stripping the car of her tarp, I whisper, “Hello, girlfriend.”
Home
To get to Mom, I have to get to Lenape Hill, New Jersey. It’s a half-hour drive from Philadelphia. When I turn Sally onto the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, I look out at the dark waters of the Delaware River and try to