It’s crazy the loops and circles that time takes. Here we are thirty years later, and even though Libby is dead, she’s somehow back in the picture.
Anyway, the Big Plan. The world has played dirty with me—with us—so perhaps it’s my turn to play a little dirty with the world. Apparently, the Starlings have so much money they don’t know what to do with it. And then there’s Gus—we’d finally be getting justice for his life. I don’t know. It still feels cruel, the Big Plan, if it’s even possible.
To be clear, if our finances weren’t in the toilet, I wouldn’t be considering any of this. When I got laid off from PK Adamson earlier this spring （I STILL don’t understand why Herb fired me, to be honest）， we’d just finished renovating the master bathroom. I’d been promising Heather we could renovate it since we moved in—she was desperate for one of those big Jacuzzi tubs and she loathed the preexisting tile—and after my Christmas bonus, a renovation was finally feasible. It would be costly, but it had been a good year at work, and I wanted to make Heather happy. Little did I know I’d lose my job four months later, a $7,000 balance still owed for the new master bath.
Where does all the money go? I ask myself daily. All I’ve ever wanted is to get to a point in life where money isn’t a topic that grips my mind like a pair of forceps around my skull. But it feels impossible, like I’m constantly logging in to Chase to find the outstanding balance on the credit card is twice what I’d expected, the number in my checking account ticking lower and lower until the ACH hits on payday and I can breathe again.
Except now there is no payday—thanks, Herb, thanks, PKA. You’re welcome for twenty goddamn years. What there IS now is our mortgage, both our car payments, Hope’s Eastern tuition, taxes, the renovation balance, the foreseeable and exorbitant cost of poor Hopie’s dental implants, and outstanding bills from couples therapy. Then there’s the family vacation to Yellowstone National Park in August that Heather already put on the Visa because she found “cheap” flights to Salt Lake City and Maggie is mortified to be the only one of her friends who’s never been on an airplane. The list of expenses goes on. Even when I did have a biweekly salary, there was never enough money in our house. Not even close.
Some time ago, I suggested to Heather that we move someplace where the cost of living is lower, where life is a little simpler. I made the mistake of mentioning Langs Valley, the idea of moving back there or somewhere like it. That didn’t go over well. The second I said “Langs Valley,” Heather’s face reddened, the way it does when a storm is brewing inside her. She looked at me, her expression full of venom, and asked why I would ever think to say a thing like that.
And I get it, I do. Heather and I promised each other a long time ago that we would never go back the way we came from, that we’d always do everything in our power to give our children a real shot in life—the kind of shot we never had. And I vowed to keep that promise, even after we came to terms with the fact that our life wasn’t going to play out the way we’d so diligently planned. After what I’d done to unravel us, it was all I could do to attempt to save us.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Heather
Dear Dr. K,
The fall after Garrett was born, I was supposed to go back to Fordham. Technically I still hadn’t finished my junior-year credits, but I could catch up and graduate a semester later than planned. Burke and I had saved what little money we had—including his summer-internship compensation from Credit Suisse, which wasn’t nothing—for day care.
But I was so attached to Garrett that the idea of going back to school was unthinkable. I couldn’t fathom pulling myself together and enduring the stuffy, crowded subway ride to Fordham, all the while imagining my perfect baby boy in someone else’s hands. The notion of pulling my attention away from Garrett to finish the term paper I still owed for Economics of Gender made my head spin.
So I didn’t go back. Burke had found out at the end of the summer that he’d secured a place in the two-year analyst program at Credit Suisse, contingent on his keeping his GPA close to perfect. The analyst job meant Burke would be receiving an annual salary of a hundred grand, which was more money than either of us could fathom. It would certainly be enough to get us out of our stuffy little studio, and I didn’t complain when Burke essentially moved into the NYU library that fall.
As the days grew shorter and the weather turned frigid, any lingering thoughts of returning to college were snapped by the cold. Garrett and I nested together in the apartment, sheltered in our warm bubble. I relished the feel of his chubby cheek against my collarbone, the way his tiny fist wrapped my whole pointer finger. Every moment with him was a miracle.
When January came and I didn’t return to Fordham, Burke didn’t object. He was too busy and tired to keep fighting me on it. I told him I’d reapply to schools in a couple of years—NYU, maybe—when the timing was right. I knew with incontestable certainty that what mattered most was being the best possible mother to my baby.
Burke started his job at Credit Suisse in May, shortly after Garrett’s first birthday. The one downside was his hours; they were worse than they had been during his internship, if that was possible. Still, it was a sweet summer, one I spent reaping the joys of motherhood and busying myself decorating our new apartment in Gramercy. With Burke’s analyst salary we’d upgraded to a two-bedroom with a renovated kitchen and huge, east-facing windows that flooded with morning light. The monthly rent was higher than we’d initially budgeted, but I reminded Burke that we weren’t paying for day care and that he would only be making more money as his career progressed. That Christmas, Burke got a five-figure bonus, which he used to buy me a long-overdue engagement ring—a brilliant cut diamond framed by two round sapphires.
Burke worried I’d get bored being home alone with Garrett all day, but I relished my life as a stay-at-home mom. I got to know some of the other young mothers in our building and, through them, joined a playgroup that met weekly at one of our apartments. While our babies played, we’d drink coffee—sometimes mimosas—laughing and ruminating about our babies’ futures and whose daughter was going to end up married to whose son. For the first time since I’d met Libby junior year of high school, I had friends.
When Garrett turned two, I told Burke I wanted to try for a second baby. At first he thought I was joking—he’d been sure I’d want to go back and get my degree before considering more kids. I did want my degree, but that could wait. I explained to Burke how many of the other mothers in Garrett’s playgroup were on their second or third babies, and how they’d made me realize the importance of giving children siblings without too great of an age gap. It took several weeks of convincing, but Burke finally agreed that it would be nice for Garrett to have a baby brother or sister.
I got pregnant again almost right away and was well into my first trimester by the end of the summer. My second pregnancy was light-years easier than my first; there was no morning sickness and my energy levels were through the roof. As my belly expanded, I grew more and more invigorated by motherhood; I prepared special arts-and-crafts projects for playgroup and took Garrett on outings to kid-friendly museum exhibits all over the city.