“Well,” said Lee, scanning desperately for a way to make her mother feel better, “there’s the big prize, right? A trip to Europe?”
“Oh, Lee,” said Charlotte, her face alight. “We’ll sail from Athens all the way to Barcelona! It’s called the ‘Become a Jetsetter’ contest. Even though you don’t actually get a private jet. You get first-class tickets. But still.”
“It’s going to be amazing,” said Lee, reaching out to touch her mother’s hand. “So we can look forward to that. Right, Mom?”
“Right,” said Charlotte. “You’re right, Lee!” Lee gulped another sip of wine. Charlotte gripped her hand so hard it felt as if she were hanging on for dear life. “You always make everything better,” said Charlotte, and something in her voice—fear, hope—made the words sound less like a compliment and more like a desperate plea. Lee felt nervous, and wanted to wrest herself free. But she didn’t move.
IN THE MORNING, CHARLOTTE went to mass. When she knelt after communion, during the time she felt she had the most direct and clear line to God, she prayed, Dear God, please let me win a Mediterranean cruise.
Charlotte felt lighter as she navigated the road home, rolling down her car window and taking in the marsh-scented air. In town, brick row houses lined historic squares, while on the Landings, giant, new homes had been made to look historic and Gone-with-the-Windy: imitation Taras with basketball hoops out front. Charlotte lived in a row of condominiums facing the ninth hole of the Deer Creek golf course. She parked her Volkswagen Rabbit and took a moment to revel in the fact that when she climbed the three brick steps to her front door, let herself inside, and called, “Helloooo!” someone would answer. Lee was home.
The first time Charlotte held newborn Lee, her first baby, Louisa was bustling around her hospital room, arranging flowers and neatening up, nattering about how thankful Charlotte should be that Louisa had insisted the doctors induce “twilight sleep,” which was on its way out of vogue. As later exposés predicted, Charlotte would endure flashbacks of horrifying bits of memories over the years, her brain having experienced Lee’s birth no matter how much morphine and mind-erasing drugs she’d been given that night. The exposés wrote that women were tied down as they labored, left screaming and terrified, doctors blithely monitoring their progress under the assumption that the women wouldn’t remember a thing.
A nurse handed Charlotte her daughter. She looked down blearily at the child. Lee’s eyes bored into Charlotte’s—so blue! So intense! Charlotte met Lee’s gaze and thought, Oh. At last. Here is the person meant just for me. Charlotte smiled at Lee, and Lee’s eyes fell shut. Pride made Charlotte warm and weepy.
“Look at her,” Winston said, appearing at Charlotte’s bedside, reeking of the cigars he’d been handing out in the hospital hallways and puffing in the TV lounge. His face was kind and flushed. He seemed happy—for the moment, at least. Or maybe—the wish flickered in Charlotte’s mind like the flame from Winston’s silver lighter—the baby would cure him. They had named her Elizabeth Lear, combining Winston’s grandmother’s name with the name of Charlotte and Winston’s favorite Shakespeare play, which they had seen performed outdoors in Paris at the very start of their friendship. Her name would be shortened to Lee within days.
“Look at our girl,” said Winston.
Charlotte nodded, her arms tightening around the infant. She thought, She’s not our girl. She’s mine.
* * *
—
IN FACT, WHEN CHARLOTTE climbed the brick steps and called, “Hellloooo!” no one answered. Lee was still asleep. Charlotte changed into her one-piece bathing suit and terry-cloth cover-up, then packed her monogrammed beach bag with two towels and three romance novels. When Charlotte was halfway through The New York Times, Lee emerged in a negligee. She held her cellphone to her ear, grabbing the coffeepot, pouring herself a cup, and heading back toward the guest room, waving to Charlotte wordlessly and gesturing to her phone, as if she were transacting an important business deal in her underpants.
“Would you like an English muffin?” Charlotte called to her daughter’s backside.
“Sure, Mom, thanks!” said Lee over her shoulder.
“Toasted? With lots of butter?” said Charlotte.
“Sure! Thanks!” cried Lee, moving up the stairs and down the hall, shutting the guest room door.
Well! Charlotte returned to the kitchen and pulled an English muffin apart, placed it in the toaster oven. Something was wrong with the toaster: it worked, but took fifteen or more minutes to make anything brown. Charlotte thought of replacing the appliance, but she wasn’t in any hurry—who cared if her muffins took a while? When Lee’s breakfast was finally ready, Charlotte carried it (on a china plate, with a folded napkin) toward the guest room. Charlotte heard Lee speaking, but couldn’t make out the words. When Charlotte knocked and delivered Lee’s breakfast, Lee was sitting on the bed with the phone still pressed to her ear, surrounded by junk mail. “What are those?” said Charlotte. “Credit card applications?”
“What?” said Lee. “No, no. I’ll be out soon. Thanks for the muffin!”
When Lee finally emerged, she and Charlotte went to the pool, where they read romance novels in the sun, shared lunch with margaritas, and then headed back to Charlotte’s house in the golf cart. “I’m going to Publix. Do you want anything?” said Charlotte.
“We might need some wine?”
“Got it.” Charlotte slowed the cart to stop at the mailbox, reached in, and placed a stack of envelopes on Lee’s lap. Moments later, Charlotte pulled into the garage. She’d hung a tennis ball from the ceiling: when the ball hit the windshield, Charlotte halted and plugged in the golf cart to recharge.
“Well, I’d better call my agent again,” said Lee, hopping off the cart. “See what’s new.”
“Ooooh, yes,” said Charlotte, gathering their wet towels and magazines. Lee dumped the mail on the counter and grabbed her phone. Charlotte sorted through a stack of catalogs and coupons before discovering a large white envelope with her name and address typed on the front. “Oh,” she said, hope like a hot balloon in her chest. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was: a letter from Splendido Cruise Lines.
“What is it?” said Lee.
Charlotte realized she was shaking. Was this another manifestation of old age, or simply nerves? Most likely it was shock. She gripped the letter, opened it slowly. Its words swam in front of her eyes: Congratulations! Pleased to inform; Please call as soon as possible; Charlotte Perkins; first-class; Athens, Greece.
Charlotte was suffused with joy. If only he could see me now, she thought, the “he” referring to a few men: the one she had written the essay about (those strong hands on her), the husband who had never known her (those small hands, kind of stubby and soft), the golf pro whose hands (she really did think, though perhaps she was deluded) lingered a bit too long on her hips as he adjusted her swing.