“Ohhh, so you’re not exactly writing the book,” one woman said. “It’s like . . . what was that thing called, PostSecret? Do you remember that? And it was like . . . super raunchy?”
“We saw some wacky movie called She, no, it was called Her, Her?” Another wife looked to her husband for confirmation, but when he didn’t give any, she still went on. “Maybe it was Them. But anyway—this guy’s job is to write love letters for people. People he doesn’t even know. It was so strange, is that what you do?” Alix pretended to hear Catherine crying and politely excused herself.
Laney Thacker, Peter’s co-anchor, arrived with her four-year-old daughter, Bella. She also brought yellow roses, a bottle of wine, a mason jar filled with cookie ingredients and a recipe, and wrapped presents for both Briar and Alix. She greeted Alix with outstretched hands, and a look that said, It’s finally happening. “Ohmygosh, I just feel like I know you so well,” she said. “Gimme a hug. You’re Philly Action family now.” Twice, Alix thought their hug had reached its limit, but Laney hummed as she kept her hold. She gently rocked Alix from side to side. Bella went to Briar and rocked her back and forth as well.
Back in Manhattan, Alix went to birthday parties at least twice a month with Rachel, Jodi, and Tamra. They sat in corners drinking wine from paper cups and took turns dancing with the children. They whispered about obnoxious extravagances like chocolate fountains or complete toddler makeovers, and they rolled their eyes at monogrammed favors and the hired Disney princess look-alikes who were always from New Jersey. But the guests attending Briar’s very simple birthday party seemed to be trying twice as hard. The women dressed as if they were pretending to live on the Upper East Side, not as if they actually did, or as if they’d actually been there. There was no way they were comfortable standing in pumps, and why wasn’t anyone wearing jeans? Alix felt out of place and uncomfortably large.
But Peter had smiled through Alix’s luncheons and parties and conventions. He’d stayed up late, next to his wife, stamping five hundred letters that high school girls had written to their future selves. He’d put the children to bed when workshops ran late, after convincing Briar that her mother would come in and kiss her the very second she got home. Alix tried to remind herself of this and find someone she could relate to, someone she wouldn’t mind coming over to plop her kid in front of the TV with Briar, someone she could go to yoga with. But these women were as pleasant and sweet as they were old-fashioned and disconcertingly uncool. Peter’s co-anchor, Laney, fondled the wrap on Alix’s jumpsuit affectionately. “I always want to try one of these,” she said, “but I could never pull it off.” She leaned in to laugh and ask how Alix could pee in that thing anyway.
Then it was apparently time for gifts. Children in Manhattan never opened presents at a party. Gifts were put in cabs and trunks, or in large, clear plastic bags to be taken home with leftover cake. If you remembered, you could hide a few in a closet and save them for a plane ride distraction, or for when your child peed in the proper place. But as Peter and Alix talked to a WNFT staff member, her five-year-old child came and clung to her knees. “When are they gonna do presents and cake?” he whined.
Peter looked at Alix. “Should I set up a chair?”
Briar sat on Alix’s lap while Emira handed them presents. After the second gift, Briar became overwhelmed, flapped her arms, and said, “I don’t like it I don’t like it.” Emira and Peter soothed her as Alix unwrapped each gift.
In between a Make Your Own Jell-O Princess Mold and a tiara that reeked of toxins and plastic, Alix retrieved her cell phone from her pocket to text Rachel, Jodi, and Tamra. Kill me, she typed. I hate everyone here. Every present given to Briar was completely ridiculous, borderline sexist, or horribly clichéd. The three-year-old received a silver Fendi snowsuit, a white and pink Little Ladies Tea Set, an Edible Arrangement (had they ordered this online?), and a “birthday cake” scented Yankee candle with a Build-A-Bear gift card attached to the lid. At Alix’s feet, Emira stuffed wrapping paper into a large recycling bag. Briar held up a gift in confusion, a frilly blue apron with matching bonnet. Emira said to her, “That’s for you, birthday girl.” Alix wanted to grab Emira’s shoulders, both of them, and say into her face, This party is not me.
Alix’s home was filled with the types of mothers she often saw in airports and had come to completely despise. Women with full faces of makeup, way too much luggage (Vera Bradley carry-ons and Lilly Pulitzer passport cases), cork wedge sandals, and plastic bags with souvenirs that took up all the room in the overhead compartments. They noisily called their husbands as soon as they landed or to let them know they’d made it to the next gate. They held up the line to get off the plane (“Do you have everything? Because we cannot come back”). In bathroom stalls, they detailed their activity of papier-mâchéing the seat with toilet paper, rather than doing what Alix always did: chalking up public bathrooms to exercise and just squatting over the bowl.
Alix didn’t even own a stroller until she was pregnant a second time. She was an incredible packer, often only brought a backpack on weekend trips, and frequently found herself texting Peter that she’d jumped on another flight that got her home quicker. So as she looked around her living room, Alix wondered how she would ever call Philadelphia home. How she could keep her dexterity as a mother and small-business owner while surrounded by the type of woman who halted security check flow because she’d forgotten to remove her jacket.
Alix stood by the door as parents struggled to squeeze shoes back on their children’s feet and the toddlers began to rummage through their favors. She said, “We have to get the kids together,” about four times as her cheek was kissed and her hands were squeezed.
Again, Laney made her way to Alix for a heartfelt moment of connection. “I’m just so glad you guys are here,” she said. “We gotta do some cocktail time after the babes fall asleep.”
It was clear that Laney was being very friendly, but also assuring Alix that while she sat next to her husband every day, she was a girl’s girl, and that there was no funny business going on. This had never even crossed Alix’s mind, and she felt guilty that it hadn’t. Laney had an embarrassing laugh, a disproportionate gum-to-teeth ratio, and she often said things like, “Holy moly.” Laney was the definition of sweet, and as Alix hugged her, she thought, I want to like you. Why is this so hard?
Over Laney’s shoulder, Alix watched Emira bend down to help a little boy into his jacket. “We didn’t play my favorite game,” the five-year-old told her.
“Oh yeah?” Emira pulled the sleeves down onto his hands. “What’s your favorite game?”
He turned around to her and said, “My favorite game is called I’m a Murderer!”
“Cooool.” Emira stood up and walked to the next room, calling out, “Hey, Briar? Come hold my hand real quick.”