Young Wives. Olivia Goldsmith

position, her back now pressed against the stupid leather sofa. The hide was cool on her back, since it hadn’t been leaned on. Angie shivered. Yes, that was what she should get used to. She would spend her life untouched by real skin. She would spend her life pushing herself against coldness, hoping for a tiny bit of warmth.

      Angie looked over at the flowers her son-of-a-bitch husband had sent. She hadn’t put them in water and the heads were already drooping, the edges of the petals already brown. The bouquet was a metaphor for her life—she would wither long before her time because of a tragic lack of caring. She hadn’t taken all those comparative lit courses for nothing. When her father put his hand on her ankle, she turned away from her dead flowers to look at him.

      He’d done this to her mother, she thought as he began to speak. “Angie, listen to me. You can’t just lie here. Reid was a spoiled bastid. He always was. You can get over this. What he did was wrong, but the fact that he told you was unforgivable. You—”

      “What do you mean?” Angie asked, but she knew about her father’s double standard. It was an Italian thing. “You mean it would have been okay if he was screwing some other woman as long as I didn’t know about it?” She pulled her knees the rest of the way into her chest, away from her dad, and shook her head. “Thank God he was guilty—or idiotic—enough to tell me. Otherwise I might still be there, a marble-head in Marblehead, living a lie.”

      At that moment, Angie hated her father and all men. Clueless, rotten, selfish, insensitive bastards. But Reid was the worst. As she lay on her back all these days—what, five? a week?—Angie had played scene after scene from her courtship, wedding, and marriage in her mind. The week she and Reid went to Vail and never got onto the slopes. The fight they had once in a Boston supermarket over mayonnaise. The way he had looked at her the first time she wore that taffeta dress. All gone. All useless, stupid memories of a stupid girl.

      But a part of Angie couldn’t believe that the good times were over forever. If Reid had died, she thought, she would be able to cope because she would have known that he wanted the good times to continue as much as she did. Knowing that their lives could continue, were continuing, but with Reid having the good times with someone else, just tore her apart. The idea that she alone had experienced some of their most touching moments together, while he was merely waiting to go meet the Soprano, was unbearable to her. Her stupidity, her lack of insight, her bad choices … all of it was unbearable. Angie knew that many, maybe even most, people had to compromise and adjust their view of marriage once they were actually married. But she hadn’t had a marriage, though she’d thought she had. He’d been cheating on her, not married to her, except perhaps for the month or so after their wedding. She had had a one-sided fantasy.

      Her father, at the foot of the sofa, began moving one of his meaty hands up and down the sole of her foot. Hot tears rushed to her eyes. Being touched was excruciating. She wanted to kick him away and then crawl into a ball of shame and fear and rage, but instead she smiled and accepted the massage. He meant to be comforting. He loved her. But Angie stared at him and could only think that he, too, had betrayed a woman—her own mother. Well, at least Anthony hadn’t snuck around behind Natalie’s back. He had just gotten tired of Natalie, dumped her for another woman, and at the same time tried to hold on to every nickel he had ever made. He was her father, but he was also a man. She pulled her feet away from him.

      The only one now who could help her was her mother. Suddenly all Angie wanted was to be away from Anthony, to be next to Natalie and listen to Natalie tell her how she could fix her life. Her revulsion was the only thing that gave her enough energy to pull herself up from the sofa. “I’m going to go and see Mom,” Angie told him.

      “Angie, enough with the poor personal hygiene and the self-pity,” Natalie Goldfarb said to her daughter as she leaned across the table. “You lie down with dogs, you get up with low self-esteem.” Natalie reached out and stroked her daughter’s hair, but then pulled her hand away. “Wow,” she said wiping her hand with the napkin. “I need some of that in my Buick’s crankcase.” She opened her purse and took out a lip balm, handing it silently to Angie, who had been furiously chewing on her lower lip all week.

      As Angie applied the lip balm, her mother watched, then heaved a sigh. “I love you, honey, but a part of you always knew what a spoiled little bastard Reid was. Maybe you’re shocked, but you can’t tell me you’re really surprised.”

      Mother and daughter were sitting at the tiny table in the minuscule kitchenette of the small studio that Natalie sublet. It didn’t seem like a home—it was more of a big storage room, with cartons, books, and papers everywhere. Two chairs sat one on top of the other, rolled-up rugs leaned against the wall, and no paintings or pictures or photographs were displayed anywhere. Angie thought of the cozy home Natalie had made for her family, as well as the domestic way Natalie used to live with her law partner, Laura. She looked around with fear and distaste at this. Had her mother given up? Could she only make a home for other people? This was not a comfortable place to live and certainly not one that would give her shelter.

      “You should work in a shelter,” Natalie said. “You should see how bad some of our sisters have it. I was just in India, and let me tell you, when a husband is tired of a wife over there, he and his mother douse her with kerosene and set her on fire. They have a name for it. ‘Stove accidents.’”

      Angie shuddered. “Very nice. So am I supposed to be grateful that Reid didn’t use me as a luau torch?” she asked. Natalie got up, took the untouched sprout and sunflower seed salad away from Angie, and bustled over to the sink.

      “Do you want something else?” she asked Angie. “I think I have sardines, but I’m not sure about crackers.”

      Angie shook her head. She hadn’t eaten anything real in days, but if she did it wouldn’t be something as disgusting as that. All at once she felt very sorry for herself. Didn’t her mother even remember that she hated sardines? She’d always hated them, since she was little. Her mother and father had been such an odd mix: her mother was so domestic but not a physical person, while her father craved being taken care of. They’d battled over who should take care of whom for almost twenty years. Meanwhile, who’d taken care of her?

      Suddenly Angie felt as if she were very, very young. Five years old, or maybe four. And lost, like the time she’d been lost at the zoo and had wandered into the park only to realize she couldn’t find her way home. At the time, she’d decided she’d just sit down on a rock and wait until she grew up, because she knew she couldn’t make a home for herself until she was older. When her mother had found her, she hadn’t cried. She’d just felt very, very lucky.

      Her luck, though, had changed. If she had sat on the rock all those years until she was grown up, the way she was today, she still wouldn’t be able to make a home for herself. She thought of all the care and attention she’d poured into the apartment in Marblehead. Picking out the sheer curtains, buying the sofa, and carefully stacking their wedding china—it had all been exciting but exhausting. She couldn’t do it again.

      She looked around her. Was this what she was doomed to, then? A room like a warehouse with nothing but a few cans in the larder? Her mother had once run a household and served warm nourishing dinners and put starched linen pillow cases on all the beds. Angie remembered the comfort of that. What had happened? Was her mother falling apart, Angie wondered? She seemed cheerful, though distracted, and now concerned for Angie. Was this the way every woman lived when they weren’t living for somebody else? Or was her mother in more pain than she was showing? The break-up with Laura could not have been easy for her.

      Whatever it was, however her mother felt, it was clear to Angie that there was no place for her here. Angie might as well go out and find a rock to sit on.

      With that knowledge, all of her loss seemed to tumble in on her. She began to cry and then not to cry, but to sob. Her shoulders began to heave in spasmodic jerks and the noise she was making was almost obscene.

      Natalie’s arms were around her in a moment. “Oh, baby. Oh, sweetheart,” Natalie said, stroking Angie’s greasy hair lovingly. “Oh, my little baby. You loved him that much? You loved that idiot