Douglas Kennedy: The Pursuit of Happiness

Meg threw her eyes heavenward.

'Welcome to the human race, sweetheart'.

'You know what I mean'.

'No - actually I don't. You're successful at what you do, you've got a great kid...'

'The best kid'.

Meg pursed her lips - and a momentary flicker of sadness crossed her face. Though she rarely spoke about it, I knew that her childlessness had always been a quiet source of regret for her. And I remembered what she said after I announced I was pregnant: 'Take it from me. I mightn't have tied the knot, but I've never been short of guys. And the vast majority of them are useless, weak-kneed assholes who run a mile when they work out you're an independent broad. In fact, the only good thing a guy can ever give you is a kid'.

'Then why didn't you get yourself knocked up?'

'Because back in the fifties and sixties - when I could have done it - the idea of a single-parent family was about as socially acceptable as supporting the Russian space program. An unmarried mom was immediately labeled an outcast - and I just didn't have the balls to handle the heat. I guess I'm a coward at heart'.

'I think the last thing I'd ever call you is a coward. I mean, when you get right down to it, I'm the coward in the family...'

'You got married. You're having a kid. From where I sit, that's brave'.

She immediately changed conversational tack. We never spoke about her childlessness again. In fact, the only time she let down her guard on the subject was at moments like this one - when mention of Ethan would be accompanied by a hint of ruefulness, which she would then banish in a New York second.

'Damn right, he's the best kid', she said. 'And, okay, the marriage tanked. But hey, look what you got out of it'.

'I know...'

'So why get so down about things?'

Because... oh God... I don't know how to begin explaining that most ambiguous, yet all-encompassing of emotions - a pervading frustration with yourself, and with the place you've landed yourself in life.

But I was too tired - and too blotto - to get into this issue. So I simply nodded in agreement, and said, 'I hear ya, Meg'.

'Too bad your mother didn't raise you a Catholic. You'd make one hell of a penitent'.

We headed downstairs in the elevator. As we crossed the lobby, Meg slid her arm through mine, and leaned on me for support. The doorman hailed a cab. He opened the door and I helped her inside.

'I hope the hell all that Scotch will knock you out cold', she said, "cause I really don't want you to be sitting up there, thinking, thinking, thinking...'

'There's nothing wrong with thinking'.

'It's dangerous to your health'. She clutched me. 'Call me tomorrow - when you've emerged from the Twilight Zone. Promise?'

'Yeah - I promise'.

She looked at me straight in the eye.

'You're my kid', she said.

I went back upstairs. I must have stood in front of the apartment door for at least a minute before my nerve returned. Then I let myself back in.

The silence inside was overwhelming. My initial thought was, flee. But I forced myself to go into the kitchen and put away the last of the dishes. I wiped down the formica table twice, then dealt with all the kitchen surfaces. I got out some Comet and gave the sink a good scrub. I found a can of Pledge and dusted every item of furniture in the apartment. I went into the bathroom. I tried to ignore the peeling wallpaper and the large damp patches on the ceiling. I picked up a toilet brush and went to work. Then I turned my attention to the bath, scouring it for a good fifteen minutes, but was unable to lift the deeply ingrained rust stains around the drain. The sink was even more rusted. I must have spent another quarter of an hour manically scrubbing it... oblivious to the fact that I was doing all these domestic chores while still dressed in a really good black suit (an absurdly expensive, absurdly chic Armani number with which Matt surprised me five Christmases ago - and which I later realized was a major guilt gift, as Matt hit me with Surprise Number Two on January second by announcing he was in love with a certain Blair Bentley, and had decided to terminate our marriage, effective immediately).

Eventually I could take no more of this washer-woman act, and slumped against the sink, my white blouse drenched, my face beaded with sweat. The heating in Mom's apartment was always turned up to sub-sauna levels, and I suddenly felt in desperate need of a shower. So I opened her medicine chest to see what soaps and shampoos I might purloin. I was suddenly confronted with around ten bottles of Valium, and a dozen vials of morphine, and packs of hypodermic needles, and boxes of enemas, and the long thin catheter which Rozella had to insert in Mom's urethra to draw out her urine. Then I noticed the packages of Depends Adult Diapers stacked in a corner under her vanity table, on top of a plastic bedpan. I found myself thinking: somebody, somewhere, manufactures and markets all this stuff. And, Jesus, their stock price must always be buoyant. Because if there's one great certainty to life, it's this: if you live long enough, you will end up in a Depends. Even if you get unlucky and, say, contract uterine cancer at forty, chances are that, towards the end of your terminal drama, you too will need a Depends. And...

I was suddenly doing what I swore I wouldn't do all day.

I can't remember just how long I cried - because I was inconsolable. The emotional brakes were finally off. I had surrendered to grief's unbridled rage. A relentless deluge of anguish and guilt. Anguish because I was now all by myself in the Big Bad World. And guilt because I had spent most of my adult life trying to dodge my mother's clutches. Now that I had permanently escaped her, I wondered: what the hell was the argument between us?

I gripped the sink tightly. I felt my stomach surge. Falling to my knees, I just managed to reach the toilet in time. Scotch. More Scotch. And a surfeit of bile.

I staggered to my feet, brownish drool dripping from my lips on to my good black suit. I returned to the sink, turned on the cold tap, shoved my mouth under it, and rinsed it free of vomit. I grabbed the king-sized bottle of Lavoris mouth wash on the vanity table - why is it that only little old ladies buy Lavoris? - unscrewed the big plastic cap, poured around half-a-pint of that astringent cinnamon-flavoured gargle into my mouth, swirled it around, spat the lot into the sink. Then I lurched to the bedroom, pulling my clothes off on the way.

By the time I reached Mom's bed, I was down to my bra and tights. I rifled through her chest of drawers, looking for a t-shirt... but then remembered that my mom wasn't exactly a member of the Gap generation. So I settled for an old cream-colored crew-necked sweater: very Going-with-Tad-to-the-Harvard/Yale-Game-Fall-'42 vintage. Pulling off my underwear, I pulled on the sweater, stretching it down to just above my knees. It reeked of moth balls, and the wool felt itchy against my skin. I didn't care. I threw off the bedspread and crawled in. Despite the Florida-like heat of the apartment, the sheets felt eerily cold. I grabbed a pillow and clutched it against me, clinging on to it as if it was the only thing on earth right now that could give me ballast.

I suddenly had an overwhelming need to hold my son. I suddenly started to cry. I suddenly felt like Little Girl Lost. I suddenly loathed myself for this burst of self-pity. I suddenly wondered why the room was beginning to tilt and keel like a boat in choppy waters. I suddenly fell asleep.

Then the phone started to ring.

It took me a moment or two to drift back into consciousness. The bedside light was still blazing. I squinted at the elderly digital clock by the bed - so 1970s that it had mechanically flipping numbers. 9.48 p.m. I had been asleep for around three hours. I lifted the phone. I managed to mumble...