Дуглас Кеннеди: Five Days

‘He’ll be in that fancy Ivy League college in New Hampshire and I’ll be up in Orono at stupid U Maine.’

‘U Maine is where I went.’

‘Yeah, but you could have gone anywhere you wanted to.’

‘U Maine offered me a full scholarship. My parents didn’t have any money and—’

‘Well, if I had the grades to get into Dartmouth, would we have the money to—?’

‘We would find the money,’ I said, sounding a little tetchy on this subject, as Sally will sometimes bemoan the fact that we have to live so carefully right now — though, thankfully, she only targets me for these comments, as she knows it would devastate her father to hear his much-adored daughter going on about the lack of family capital. But she also chooses me to vent her frustration to about most things to do with her life — especially the fact that she wasn’t born into a family of Wall Street big shots. For Sally there are always points of comparison. Brad’s father made a lot of money opening a small chain of big box hardware stores around the state — but still decided to send his very ambitious youngest son to the local public school (I like that fact). Brad’s parents live in a big waterfront house with all sorts of deluxe fittings (a sauna, a jacuzzi, an indoor gym, an outdoor pool, plasma televisions in every room). They now also have a home in ‘an exclusive gated development’ (Sally’s exact words) near Tampa. She spent a week with Brad down at their Florida spread, and went out with Brad and his father on the family cabin cruiser. And Brad already has his very own ‘cool’ car: a Mini Cooper. And.

I truly love my daughter. I admire her optimism, her verve, her forward momentum. But I also wonder often what she’s driving towards.

‘I know Brad’s going to drop me as soon as we graduate next summer and we both head to college. Because he thinks of me as his high-school fun, nothing more. And he’s after somebody who can be a future senator’s wife.’

‘Is that what you want to be — a senator’s wife?’

‘Do I hear disappointment in your voice, Mom?’

‘You never disappoint me, Sally.’

‘I wish I could believe that.’

‘I don’t want you to be anything you don’t want to be.’

‘But you don’t like the fact that I want to marry a man like Brad.’

As opposed to specifically marrying Brad? Was that the underlying theme here — marrying a guy with money who has firmly planted himself on the career escalator marked ‘Up’?

‘Everyone has their own agenda, their own aspirations,’ I said.

‘And there you go again, putting me down.’

‘How is what I said putting you down?’

‘Because my aspirations strike you as small. Because I am not going to do anything fantastic with my life. ’

‘You have many gifts, Sally.’

‘You consider me shallow and vacuous and someone who, unlike you, never picks up a book.’

‘You know that I think the world of you.’

‘Ben is your favorite.’

‘I consider you and Ben equally wonderful. And the thing is, you honestly have no idea what your life is going to turn out to be. Or where it will land you. Even when you think: “So this is what my life is now,” well, things can change in an instant or two.’

‘You think that because you look at other people’s tumors all day.’

Ouch. I smiled tightly.

‘Well. it does give me an interesting perspective on things.’

‘I don’t want to be a slave to routine.’

‘Then don’t be somebody’s wife.’

There. I said it. Sally flinched, then shot back with:

‘You’re somebody’s wife.’

‘Yes, I am. But—’

‘You don’t have to complete the sentence, Mom. And I know if I were a really creative type like Ben. ’

There are certain arguments with children that you simply cannot win.

‘There’s a sister, isn’t there?’

‘That’s right, Sally.’

‘And they are rather different, aren’t they?’

I was snapped back into the here-and-now of Dr Allen’s office.

‘Sally is a rather different person to Ben,’ I said, hopefully sounding neutral.

‘Ben intimated that to me. Just as he intimated he feels closer to you than to his father.’

‘Dan stills loves Ben.’

Dr Allen looked at me with care.

‘I’m sure he does, in his own way,’ she said. ‘But let me ask you something, Laura — do you always feel the need to make things better?’

‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

‘It can be rather disheartening, can’t it? I mean, other people’s happiness — it’s ultimately their own concern, isn’t it? And that also includes your children at this point in their lives. You can’t blame yourself for Ben’s problems.’

‘Easier said than done.’

Half an hour later I met Ben — as arranged by Dr Allen — at a cafй off campus. He’d lost a noticeable amount of weight — and he was already skinny before all this. His face still looked a little pasty. He let me hug him, but didn’t respond in kind. He had difficulty looking at me directly during the half-hour that we spoke. At first, when I told him how well he looked, he said: ‘Mom, you’ve never lied to me about anything. so please don’t start now.’ He then proceeded to ask me how things were going at home, whether his sister was ‘still hung up on Mr Jock Republican’ (I was very reassured to hear his natural acerbity hadn’t vanished), and how he’d actually started a new canvas that was not a collage.

‘It’s a painting this time. So it doesn’t contain body parts or try to replicate a car crash with me behind the wheel of a Porsche.’

‘You mean, like James Dean?’ I asked.

‘My mother the Culturally Aware Technologist.’

‘Not that culturally aware.’

‘You just read more than anyone I know.’

‘That’s more of a hobby. ’

‘You should try and write, Mom.’

‘What would I have to write about? I’ve not done anything that interesting or important with my life. outside of raising you and Sally.’

‘You were under no obligation to add that.’

‘But it’s the truth.’

Ben reached out briefly to touch my arm.

‘Thank you.’

‘You look a little tired,’ I said.

‘I’m finally starting to sleep again without pills. But I’m still on other medication. Pills to keep me happy.’

‘There’s no real pill for that,’ I said.

‘Isn’t that the truth,’ Ben said with just the barest hint of a smile.

‘But you seem stronger. ’

‘You’re being far too nice again.’

‘Would you rather me be far too mean?’

Another half-smile from Ben.

‘You’d never pull it off,’ he said.

‘It’s good to see you OK, Ben.’

‘I’m sorry if I freaked you out.’

‘You didn’t freak me out.’

‘Yeah, right. ’

‘OK, I was very concerned. So was your father. ’

‘But you’re here today.’

‘Your dad’s got a job interview this morning.’

‘That’s good news. Because it’s all such bad news with him now.’

‘That’s a little extreme, Ben. He loves you very much.’

‘But we’re not friends.’

‘That will change.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘At least we’re friends,’ I said.

Ben nodded.

‘You’re sure you’re not angry at me?’ he asked.

‘I’m never angry at you.’

Upon returning home that evening from Farmington I wrote my son a text, informing him that, though I was always here for him day and night, I still wouldn’t crowd him.

Take your time, know that I am always at the end of the phone — and can be with you in ninety minutes if you need me.

Since then, I’ve had at least two texts a day from Ben — often funny/ruminative (Do you think the only real broken hearts are in country and western songs?), sometimes troubled (Really bad night’s sleep. Session with Dr Allen today), sometimes just a hello. Twice a week there’d always be a phone call. But still no indication that he wanted to spend a weekend at home, or wanted to see me.