— I’m not sure this scene is doing what I want it to, Mom. I feel like I’m just having you say things I think.
— Maybe we think some of the same things.
—. .
— Can we go to the future now?
— That’s gonna be weird.
— It’s weird now.
— Let’s wrap this weirdness up first.
At the bride and groom’s table, you have a chance to talk to Dad and his wife. It’s not the first time you’ve seen Dad since the divorce, but it’s been a good number of years, and though he and Jeannie have been married for decades, you’ve never met her. You offer Fred a hug; his illness has now aged him to the point where there are barely traces of the man you remember, but the sparkle in his green eyes is still there and it’s hard to call up the limitless anger you once had toward him. Betsy’s missed you so much, Jeannie says, the kindness in her voice settling into you. All you’ve got is a sad smile of gratitude. She thinks I’m mood-oriented. Jeannie is too polite to know how to comment on that, but I’m not. Mom, let it go. Did you bother reading the part of the story where I cry for a year? No. Hm. You turn to me and whisper It’s too bad Jeannie didn’t meet Fred first. Nobody’s sorry things worked out the way they did, Mom. I caused him a lot of pain. Yeah, you did. But he recovered. I have a sister. Jeannie has three sons. I wouldn’t exist at all. Well, maybe that would have been for the best. What? No, I just mean, whoever you might have been would have had a more normal childhood, a more normal life. I should have probably never had you. Mom! So you’re sorry you had me. What if I said I was? Are you? No! You just said you shouldn’t have had me. I said probably. So you’re not sure. That’s what probably means, yes. So probably I shouldn’t have been born. That’s not what I meant. It’s fine that you were born. Fine? It’s great that you were born, really, it’s great. Great? It’s the greatest thing in the history of great things that happened to me. Honestly. Honestly? Yes, Betsy. Why won’t you say what you meant? I don’t want to. C’mon. I’m dead. Can’t you just cut me some slack? I’ve cut you plenty of slack. I misspoke. That’s all. I’m not sorry you were born.
— I feel like I’m losing control of this narrative.
— I don’t know what you just said.
Honey, I’m sorry. Of course I’m glad you were born. I only meant that I wish I could have given you a more normal upbringing. You could have, you just didn’t want to. Okay, well, maybe not normal, exactly, I did love that our life was — even in poverty, it seemed extraordinary to me. Yes, sometimes a little too extraordinary. I guess if I could change anything I might have wanted things to be like they were, but less. . sad. You kiss me on the head. But look at you. You’ve done better without me. Mom. You were there for thirty-seven years of my life. There is no me without you. That’s a good thing. Or — it’s a complicated thing that’s also a good thing. You nod, pull a crumpled tissue from your beaded sleeve to wipe your eyes. Oooow! I scratched myself in the face.
Colorado
You’re now sixty. How the hell did that happen? Sixty is old. Victor tells you that you’re as beautiful as ever; one glance in the mirror tells you he’s out of his mind to think so, and you are certainly glad you avoided the sun your entire life, but sixty is sixty and you were a young woman only moments ago. You never thought about what sixty would be like. It feels close to over. You’re tired now, all the time. Which makes your brain start to do what it does, again. If you have another twenty years, what do you want for that? You try to picture yourself like your mother after sixty, a tight gray perm, senior cruises to Alaska. Haven’t you traveled enough? Would you really want to do anything like getting on a boat you can’t get off, just to spend two weeks playing shuffleboard with a bunch of old people? No. What you would like is to get the hell out of New York City and be with someone who understands you. You will never be Callas-level famous, it’s finally clear. You haven’t made peace with it, but you know it’s true. New York has taken its toll. So you live in a nice apartment in the Schwab House, with a view of the river and your long-awaited second bathroom. You want out. You’ve always loved Colorado. Your high school friend lives there, she’s always wanted you to come, has a guest house you can rent. Done. Within the space of about a month, you go from turning sixty to telling Victor you want a separation and packing up a U-Haul with furniture and driving yourself to Boulder. You have no idea what this looks like to everyone else. You try to explain your reasons to me, that it’s all Victor’s fault, and that he doesn’t even try to understand you. He’s not the person you think he is. Hm, where have I heard that before? I say, you say What are you talking about? I say Never mind.
Colorado lasts six weeks. Long enough to unload your truck, hang curtains and pictures (well, who are we kidding, that part is accomplished in about three days), make a sweet little home in your carriage house apartment with a deck above a stream in the woods. It’s peaceful, which only serves to make you understand clearly now that there is no peace for you. Attempting a task as basic as ordering telephone service results in full-on screaming at an automated voice system until your throat hurts, which in turn magnifies your existing self-hatred for possibly damaging the only good thing you have to offer. You do some writing, a life review to date, pluses and minuses and in-betweens (not many of those). You are able to get the briefest glimpse of what it looks like from the outside. You’ve sung with La Scala. You’ve been married nearly twenty-five years to a man who adores you; you’ve traveled the world, raised a beautiful daughter. These are things to be happy about. You have had your joys, but you have never really known peace. Still, a few things come into focus. Your brain doesn’t work quite right, you know this now, though you still haven’t pinpointed the whys or hows. You’re beyond tired. Physically, mentally, spiritually. You want to rest everything. And you realize, here in Colorado, that that’s been available to you all along back east. So you tearfully ask Victor to take you back. There was never any question that he would. You ask if you can move to New Jersey, though; you can’t live in the city anymore. You call Betsy and tell her. She seems surprised, but weirdly relieved.
Jersey
You and Victor buy a beautiful four-bedroom house in Upper Montclair with a big front yard and a big backyard. Why didn’t you do this sooner? You have a guest room, an office, a sewing room. You spend three months decorating, allowing yourself to buy some new living room furniture for the first time in twenty years. (Victor would have done this years ago; you saw no reason to spend the money when you were fully capable of reupholstering sofas and chairs.) You celebrate your twenty-fifth anniversary together with a backyard party. He buys you a puppy. At the end of these three months, with no new projects yet begun, you’re restless again. What the fuck is wrong with you? Victor asks if you want to take a couple of engagements that come in, you say sure, get back to practicing. He drives you into the city for a lesson; you get your foot stuck in your purse straps, on the floor of the car, and fall out onto the sidewalk, breaking your hip. You’re pissed. You’ve taken vitamins for decades to prevent this; fuck those snake-oil-selling con artists. Everything is X-rayed, hip-replacement surgery is scheduled, but there’s more news as well.