“JANE,” Dylan reprimands her, turning up the volume to cover her whining, “CHILL.”
She points out that it’s easy for him to chill, because he’s never tried at anything. She is right. And today was supposed to be for Jane, anyway; I just felt bad making Dylan go to school if I was going to force Jane to play hooky. Dylan needs no help relaxing or going with the flow. If anything, he needs to learn how to swim. Jane, however, is already mentally calculating the potential hit her GPA would take from her missing one reading assignment. There is no amount of Judge Judy or Price Is Right that can cure this. I need to do something more extreme. To take her to a place where she’ll have no access to screens or clocks or to-do lists. A sensory deprivation chamber would be ideal, or even a solitary confinement cell, but I don’t think that prisons allow you to just pop in for the afternoon.
“That’s it,” I say, standing up and brushing the crumbs off my jammies. “Jane, get dressed. Dylan, you’re on your own for the rest of the afternoon.”
CARLA IS ALREADY SMOKING BY THE SIDE DOOR WHEN WE arrive. “Welcome!” she coughs, tossing her cigarette in the dumpster and waving the air around her. “Get inside, and don’t make eye contact with anyone.”
Inside the spa, the air smells like eucalyptus and lavender, and, if you get too close to Carla, a faint hint of Marlboro.
“You’re a lucky girl,” Carla says to Jane, guiding us both to the lounge. “I never got to do this with my mom.”
Jane doesn’t say anything, and neither do I, because I’m too busy getting high on the essential oils flowing through the air.
“It’s a special blend that’s scientifically proven to relax your brain and also get you to spend a fuck-ton of money,” Carla says, “and I tell ya what, it works. I’m Zen as fuck after a day of work.”
“Now,” she says, handing us each a plush white bathrobe and a pair of slippers, “the place is yours. Tea and coffee and snacks are in the lounge. Steam, sauna, and Turkish baths are down the hall; mud baths are just off the atrium. If anyone asks . . . say she’s a Make A Wish kid. She looks sad enough.”
Carla’s right. Jane does look sad. She looks more than sad. She looks . . . depleted. She looks like me, and she doesn’t even have a boss or college debt to worry about!
“What?” Jane snaps, and I realize I’ve been staring at her like a mom in a life insurance commercial watching her baby sleep.
“Nothing!” I lie. I step out of my jeans and pull my sweatshirt over my head, and Jane squeals in disgust. I forgot how embarrassing it is when you realize that your mom has a body. I pull on my bathrobe and realize what Jane is screeching about. It isn’t her mother’s body that shocked her, it’s her mother’s body hair. Not just a little bit of stubble under the arms, but a full-on mane. And a coat of leg hair that makes it look like I’m wearing leggings. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little.
“This is perfectly natural, Jane,” I say, “so hush. And grab me some of those free razors by the sinks. Three at least.”
IT’S AMAZING HOW TIRED YOU CAN GET FROM DOING ABSOLUTELY nothing. Or, nothing that involves your body moving at all. Jane and I soak, steam, and bathe all day. We don’t even need to use Carla’s excuse. Jane blends in perfectly, probably because she’s the only twelve-year-old I know who worries about having a solid retirement plan. We sit in the sauna so long Jane’s glasses nearly melt off her face. We leap into the plunge pool, not realizing it’s freezing cold, then head directly into the steam room, feeling our bodies thaw in the heat.
“MOM.” JANE SIGHS AS SHE LIES ON A LOUNGE CHAIR IN THE sunroom after a relaxing lunch of sliced fruit and water with slices of cucumber floating in it. “Thanks for today. I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my entire life.”
I look at her, in her fancy bathrobe and her hair wrapped up in a towel, and I smile. My girl does look relaxed, really and truly.
“As someone who has known you for your entire life, I can guarantee that you have never been this relaxed. Ever. You were born tense. The only time you aren’t running at a hundred and ten percent is when you’re sleeping, and even then, I’m sure your dreams aren’t any fun.”
Jane considers this for a moment, nodding. “They’re mainly just going over the next day’s to-do lists. It’s a habit I developed from researching the world’s most efficient millionaires.” So much for Jane becoming a more relaxed person.
“The point is, Jane, you needed a break. It’s just a lot going on right now, with soccer, and school, and Mandarin, and Dad—”
Shit.
“Dad? What about Dad?” Jane’s voice is back to its rapid-fire, high-octave panic mode. “Oh GOD,” she shouts, melting into her chair, “is he sick? Does he have what Emily’s dad has? Is he going to get all skinny and then die??”
The few women on the other side of the sunroom sit up, alarmed or maybe just annoyed at the volume and pitch of Jane’s voice.
“No, honey! He’s not sick,” I reassure her while my brain tries to piece together a plan for how exactly to tell her the truth. But my brain isn’t fast enough, and Jane gets there first.
“You’re getting a divorce! You’re getting a divorce, and I’m going to have to stand up in court and choose between you!”
“JANE.” I grab her bony shoulders. “Your dad and I are not getting a divorce . . . I don’t think. Not yet at least.”
That didn’t help.
“Yet?! That means you’re getting a divorce! And I’m going to have to live in an apartment! And Dad’s going to get a trashy younger girlfriend, and everyone is going to ask if we’re sisters!”
Wow. Nothing gets past this one.
“Jane. I am going to be honest with you: your dad and I are probably going to get a divorce. I don’t know when. But the important thing is that you know that we both love you, and that this isn’t your fault.”
Jane’s eyes widen.
“My fault! Why would it be my fault? Now of course I think it’s my fault! Why would you even say that?!”
If there were a rewind button for this conversation, I would be smashing it at this moment, desperately trying to get back to the blissful moment when our biggest problem of the day was whether to order another pressed juice. But there is no rewind button. There is only the present moment, and my scared, insecure daughter, and a few women actively eavesdropping nearby.
“I don’t know why I said that!” I try to whisper. “Jane, I’ve never done this before. I think I saw a grown-up say that in a TV show once?”
Jane’s eyes soften.
“Where am I going to spend Christmas?!”
Christmas? I hadn’t thought about Christmas. Oh God, I’m going to have to split holidays with a man who has never picked out a Christmas present on his own?
“Christmas is months from now, Jane.”
Jane wipes tears from her red cheeks with the palms of her hands.
“This just isn’t how I thought my life would turn out. I just want a normal life where everything goes perfectly.”
Join the club, I think.
“Honey. A normal life is where nothing goes perfectly. And I should have probably done a better job of showing you that. Life is messy. I’m messy! I just hide it really well. But life can be messy and wonderful.” I sound like an inspirational Instagram meme, but it might be working.