It’s Only Make Believe

 
It’s been a year today since I last saw Amanda and Jessica. I miss them terribly, like an amputee misses a severed limb. I’ve phoned them again and again but my number is blocked. Ever since the Mexico incident, which my brother and his wife blew out of proportion, I’ve been denied all contact with my girls. Anyone can make a mistake. We all deserve a second chance. But some people lack the forgiveness gene.
        My husband has been sympathetic and supportive for the most part. Reid consoles me when I cry but reminds me too often to respect boundaries—Dr. Patterson’s admonition. As if boundaries could be painted in my brain like stripes on a highway.
        Not only am I not allowed to speak to the twins, but Ken and Sarah instructed me to stop sending gifts as I always have on their birthday and Christmas or any time I saw something one of them would like. When they turned ten, I bought Swatch watches. One Christmas, I ordered tickets to “The Nutcracker” and music boxes; Mandy’s played “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” and Jess’ played “The Waltz of the Flowers.” For their thirteenth birthday, I bought one-carat diamond stud earrings. After that, Sarah said she and Ken appreciated our generosity, but didn’t want me to buy the girls such expensive presents. “It’s okay,” I said. “We can afford it. “It’s not okay,” she said. “They’re getting unrealistic expectations.”
        That wasn’t fair. Reid and I are able to offer Mandy and Jess opportunities they might not have otherwise. My brother and his wife aren’t struggling, but they’re not in a position to frequent designer boutiques or take the girls on ski vacations. Why shouldn’t I spoil them?
        I remember the afternoon I shopped for gifts at Dottie Doolittle’s on Sacramento Street. The girls were turning eight and they were utterly identical: the same immense chocolate eyes, the same straight black hair like Ken’s and mine (not basic brown like Sarah’s), the same petulant pouts—matching miracles of birth. The only way to distinguish between them was the small mole on the bridge of Mandy’s nose that a plastic surgeon would remove when she was fourteen. Now fully grown, Jessica, at five-foot-three, is half an inch shorter than Amanda, but has slightly larger breasts.
        I loved buying cute, frilly outfits for the girls. Never matching—the thought of treating them as if they weren’t individuals and didn’t have an identity outside of twinship was repugnant to me—but similar in nature and price. I browsed through racks of dresses, skirts, pants, tops. A saleswoman approached and asked if she could help.
        “I’m looking for birthday gifts for eight-year-old twins,” I said.
        “Oh!” she said, “You have twin daughters.”
        “Yes,” I said. One. Tiny. Word.
        “I’ll bet they’re lots of fun.”
        “A handful sometimes, but definitely a joy.”
        I felt ebullient, uplifted, weightless—a kite soaring above a sandy beach. So this is what it’s like to be a mom! I bought a lavender ballerina dress by Viva La Fete for Mandy and a yellow floral knit one by Le Top for Jess. I so enjoyed sharing the experience with the saleswoman that I added a pair of leggings for each of the girls as well.
 
 
        Reid and I planned to have children when we married. Two we hoped. Mandy and Jess were flower girls at our wedding. They were five then, little dolls toddling down the aisle dressed in pale pink tulle, carrying baskets of white rose petals. I remember they gazed at me in my gown as if I were a rare bird. I was thirty-six on my wedding day, so Reid and I tried to have a baby right away. But after two years, when I still wasn’t pregnant, we met with a specialist.
        Dr. Cohen did a workup on both of us. She checked Reid’s sperm count and analyzed his semen—so robust he could populate all of California. She examined me, drew my blood, and ordered tests: a transvaginal ultrasound, a hysteroscopy, a hysterosalpingogram. She performed laparoscopic surgery to scrape away endometriosis. Finally, Dr. Cohen determined I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, a condition that affects ovulation and makes it more difficult to conceive. She prescribed Clomid pills to induce me to ovulate. After six months, when I failed to develop sizable egg follicles, we switched to a stronger medication—Pergonal—which Reid injected into my butt as if I were a pin cushion. The drug made me crazy. I wept at the slightest upset. Angered in a flash. Laughed for no reason. But the struggle was worth it, we believed, when the outcome would be our own baby. Maybe even twins, since fertility drugs increase the probability of multiple births. Like Mandy and Jess.
        The girls are seventeen now. I wish I could see their latest pictures, but I’m blocked from their Facebook pages, too. Did Mandy get her hair cut? Did Jess get her belly button pierced? What did they wear to Homecoming? Do they ever look at the photos from their San Francisco trip eight years ago when we grew close as strands of DNA? I was so thrilled to get them out of Ohio, away from that economically depressed Rust Belt city I had the sense to leave. While Reid was at a dental conference, I redecorated the guest bedroom. I hired men to paint the walls and lay plush carpet. I bought twin canopy beds and matching dressers and desks. I asked my friend Lauren, an artist, to create a whimsical mural weaving the girls’ names into a scene with castles, unicorns, and fairies. I arranged armfuls of stuffed animals on the beds.
        When Reid returned from Frankfurt, he did not share my excitement. “Good God, Mara!” he said. “Adults have to sleep here, too.”
        “I want the girls to feel at home.”
        “They don’t live here.”
        “I know that,” I shouted, ignited by the Pergonal.
        I decided to moderate my maternal enthusiasm around Reid. My girls, however, reacted to their bedroom just as I’d hoped. When I opened the door, they twirled and trilled with surprise.
        “Ohhhhh, it’s beautiful!” Mandy said.
        “It’s soooooo perfect,” Jess said.
        They hugged me, one on each side—an Aunt Mara sandwich, they called it.
        After the Mexico incident, Reid suggested I redo the room—a painful reminder, he said—but I haven’t gotten around to it. Sometimes, when he’s not home, I lie on one of the beds, cuddle a stuffed lion or leopard, and relive the girls’ visit. Such fun! We rode on cable cars and zigzagged down Lombard Street. We drove south to Monterey to visit the aquarium and north to Muir Woods to see the redwoods. I showed the girls how to use my camera and taught them to gauge light and balance shots. “Auntie Mara,” Amanda said, “can you buy me a camera, pleeeze?” Of course, I said. I hoped she’d become a photographer like me. We spent an afternoon at Reid’s dental office. Jessica asked lots of questions and I thought she might follow in Reid’s footsteps, maybe even become his partner one day.
        We browsed through Ghirardelli Square and stopped for ice cream at the famous chocolate shop. Our server, a twentyish girl with magenta-streaked hair, poured glasses of water. The twins were huddled, debating the relative merits of The World Famous Hot Fudge Sundae versus The Golden Gate Banana Split.
        “Your girls are so cute,” the server said.
        “Thank you.” I said.
        “They look just like you.”
        “Do you think so?”
        “Definitely. They have your eyes.”
        I beamed. They do look like me. Not at all like Sarah.
        At bedtime, I brushed my girls’ hair and massaged their feet with lotion. I tucked them in and kissed them good night, my lips pressing against their smooth, soft cheeks.
        To chronicle our time together, I took dozens of photos, including a family picture of the four of us with our Golden Retriever, Amber. Once, I clicked the remote just as the dog licked Jess’ cheek. I framed a sixteen-by-twenty and hung it in the master bedroom above the bed. Reid insisted I move it to another room which led to an argument. I sent an eleven-by-fourteen to Ken and Sarah but, oddly, they never displayed it.
        After Mandy and Jess left, my longing for a child grew even deeper. I experienced a metamorphosis, a palpable sharpening of my senses to all things baby as if I were a poodle or a Persian cat. In grocery stores and office buildings and restaurants, I heard cute baby coos, little lilting giggles, whimp, whimp, whimpers, cries of mwahhh, eeee, and eh eh eh. In parks and playgrounds, I smelled baby oil, baby powder, and baby poop. Everywhere infants beckoned me, beseeched me, searched for me, sought my succor and affection. Soon I would hover over my own baby’s crib as he slept. Pull up her blankets when she was cold. Hug away his hurt when he was sick. Wipe away her tears when she fell. I would comfort, caress, kiss, calm, and love, love, love my baby.
 
 
        Two more years passed and I still hadn’t conceived. Reid joined Big Brothers and developed a warm relationship with a ten-year-old boy. I was chronically depressed, but every time my girls called or emailed, I cheered up. We were in touch almost daily. I knew what they wore for Halloween. I knew when they got As on a Spanish or math test. I knew what music they listened to. I knew which boys they had crushes on. I knew which friends were no longer friends. I knew when they fought with Sarah or refused to talk to her or hated her. Your Mom is so impatient, I said. Your Mom doesn’t understand you. Your Mom doesn’t trust you.
 
 
        When the twins were twelve, I flew to Ohio for my twenty-fifth high school class reunion. To maximize my time with Mandy and Jess, I stayed at Ken and Sarah’s even though their guest room, which doubled as an office, was cramped and furnished with a saggy sofa bed. I spent a day with the girls at Cedar Point and we rode on six of the rollercoasters, screaming in unison. We ate waffle fries and chili dogs and fudge. At night, we watched the fireworks and picked out our favorite starbursts and chrysanthemums. Whenever Amanda or Jessica called me Auntie Mara, I wished she were saying “Mom.”
        On Friday night, I arranged to drop the girls at a party on my way to a pre-reunion gathering. They emerged from their bedroom looking adorable and so grown up; Mandy in a red and white striped sun dress; Jess in a turquoise miniskirt and lacy, black halter top, her lovely cleavage displayed in the scalloped neckline.
        “Where did you get that top?” Sarah barked.
        “I borrowed it from Lindsay,” Jess said.
        “Well, you unborrow it. You’re not leaving the house dressed like that.”
        Jess scowled.
        “Oh, Sarah,” I said. “That’s just the style now.”
        “Mara, stay out of this!” Her words singed the air. “Jessica, go change this instant.”
        She stormed to her room. Mandy ran after her.
        Sarah steeled her eyes on me. “Don’t ever interfere again.”
        “I’m sorry,” I said. But I wasn’t. Not one bit.
        Jessica marched from her room fuming, wearing a “Hello Kitty” t-shirt.
        In the car, Mandy sat in the back seat and Jess sat in front with me.
        “I have a surprise for you,” I whispered. “Look in my purse.”
        She pulled out the black lace top and squealed. “I love you so much!”
        At the reunion, I reminisced and laughed and shared stories with my classmates. When they bragged about their children and grandchildren, I felt barren and sad. Toward the end of the evening, I remember chatting with Ellen Berko, who I wasn’t likely to see again since she was moving to London. I showed her our family photo on my iPhone and said I felt blessed to have children who were so happy and healthy.
        “Do you ever have trouble telling the girls apart?” Ellen asked.
        “Never,” I said. “A mother knows.”
        It’s true. Mandy’s voice has a slight rasp. Jess raises her right eyebrow if she’s suspicious. Mandy lifts her chin when she walks into a room. Jess’ left pinkie is slightly bent; she broke it when she fell off a balance beam. I’ve memorized every nuance.
        When I returned home, Reid and I tried another round of in vitro fertilization. Once again, eggs were extracted from my uterus, fertilized with Reid’s sperm, and transferred back. A single egg took hold and began to grow into a baby. I was elated. But Dr. Cohen warned that my hormone level wasn’t as high as it should be; the pregnancy might not be viable. I waited two weeks and then she checked again. I’m so sorry, she said. The fragile bits of baby would eventually absorb back into my body or I would require a D and C to remove the tissue. I wept for hours. Reid cradled me in his arms, my breasts throbbing from the wasted hormone surge. It took three months for my body to completely dispel the failed cells of my baby. Then we resumed injections and fertilizations and transfers for six more. Nothing. I’d just turned forty-four. Dr. Cohen said we should consider other options. She gave me a prescription for Paxil, an anti-depressant. It helped. But whenever Reid mentioned adoption, I said I wasn’t ready.
 
 
        A month later, for our eighth anniversary, Reid surprised me with a trip to Paris. I wanted to invite my girls. I imagined strolling through the streets as if we were characters from “Gigi.” But Reid said absolutely not. Didn’t I realize he and I needed time alone? Yes, yes, of course, I said. What was I thinking?
        When we got back, I flew to Ohio to hear about Mandy and Jess’ month at camp in the Poconos. I booked a suite at a bed and breakfast on Put-in-Bay so I’d have the girls all to myself. But Ken and Sarah wouldn’t allow Jess to go. They’d caught her smoking pot and she was grounded.
        “But I’m only here a few days,” I said.
        “Sorry,” Sarah said. “Jessica knows the rules.”
        Mandy and I drove to the island without her sister. I was furious but helpless.
        “I wish Jess was here,” Mandy said.
        “Me, too. Your parents overreacted. They’re so rigid.”
        “Mom goes ballistic over everything.” Mandy pouted. “I have to be super careful what I say.”
        I stroked her arm. “You can tell me anything, Sweetie. I’ll keep it secret.”
        Mandy smiled, sly as a fortune teller. “At camp, I made out with a counselor. He was eighteen.”
        “Hmmm. An older man.”
        “And Jess let a boy touch her boobs.”
        We giggled together, co-conspirators.
 
 
        Around Christmas, my marriage began to fray. Reid and I were in line at Regency Theatres and a woman several yards ahead waved at me. Corie from my Pilates class. I pretended  I didn’t see her, but she joined us, dragging her son along. I introduced Reid and we talked about the films we planned to see. We bought tickets.
        “Nice to see you,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.
        “When will your daughters be home?” Corie said.
        I felt clammy. Reid cocked his head to one side.
        “We don’t have children,” he said. “You must have Mara confused with someone else.”
        “Of course you do! Mara showed me their pictures.”
        I grabbed Reid’s arm and tugged him toward the door. “I have to go to the restroom. Find seats.” A few minutes later, I settled in next to him. He glared at me.
        “What the hell was Corie talking about?”
        “It’s nothing. I may have referred to Mandy and Jess as my daughters accidentally.”
        “Accidentally?”
        “It won’t happen again.”
        The trailers started and I focused on the movie screen. I switched to another Pilates class and never saw Corie again.
        In February, we hired a new housekeeper, Lupe. She admired a picture of the girls. “Your daughters—bonita! How old?”
        “Fourteen,” I said. “They’re at boarding school.”
        Lupe had a fourteen year-old-daughter, too. And three sons.
        Every week when she came to clean, Lupe and I traded stories about our teenagers. I bragged about Jess’ gymnastic tournament and Mandy’s watercolor project. She reported on her oldest son’s soccer games and shared plans for her daughter’s quinceañera party; Lupe was working extra hours to save up money. I gave her a raise.
        One day I got home after a photo shoot and Reid confronted me as if I were a criminal. He’d returned early from work while Lupe was still cleaning.
        “Mara,” he said. “Lupe thinks Amanda and Jessica are our daughters.”
        I felt cornered. “She. . . she assumed and I didn’t say otherwise.”
        “You tell her the truth or I will.” His voice pierced me like a syringe. “Do you even know what’s real anymore?”
        I glared at him and escaped to my studio.
        That night, in bed, as I was drifting into sleep, Reid gently massaged my shoulder.
        “I’m sorry I yelled at you.” He kissed my neck. “Y’know, it’s not too late to adopt. Let’s meet with that agency the Wagners used.”
        I twisted toward him. “What’s the point? We’ll never find twin girls. Never find children as remarkable as Amanda and Jessica.”
        Reid stared at me as if I’d just strangled a puppy. “We need to see a therapist,” he said. “I’ll get some recommendations.” He turned away.
        The next morning, I told Reid I’d acted crazy because I’d stopped taking my Paxil. A lie. I’d be fine, I promised, once the med kicked back in. And I’d think about adoption. I switched Lupe to mornings so she’d never run into Reid again.
 
 
        When the girls were sixteen, I started planning for their future. I investigated colleges and requested brochures for the ones I considered most promising. Ken thanked me for taking an interest, but said Amanda and Jessica would attend state schools in Ohio and that was that. The girls had their hearts set on Northwestern, near Chicago, where Jess’ boyfriend was a freshman.
        When I spoke to her, she was depressed. “I wish we could go to Northwestern, but Dad said we can’t afford it. If only there was some way. . . .”
        I heard her longing. I pictured her beautiful brown eyes tearing. I told Reid I wanted to pay for tuition.
        “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “No way!”
        “Jessica is miserable. I hurt for her.”
        “She’s taking advantage of you.”
        “That’s not true.”
        But Reid wouldn’t budge. As a consolation prize, he suggested the girls join us in Puerto Vallarta for a week during Christmas break. At first, Ken and Sarah said no, but Mandy and Jess double-teamed them until they relented. The vacation was glorious. Until the incident. We snorkeled, parasailed, and zip lined across the tropical canopy. (The girls are adventurous, like me.) We lay under palapas on the beach and I rubbed their backs with sunscreen and spritzed their faces with cool water. A couple of times, Jess got pissy and said they wanted time on their own. Once Mandy shrugged my arm off her shoulder, but I didn’t take it personally.
        On our final night, we ate dinner at Daiquiri Dick’s and watched the sky turn mauve as the sun slipped behind the silhouetted Sierra Madre Mountains. We munched on chips and salsa and guacamole. Reid and I sipped mango margaritas.
        “Wouldn’t it be great if we could always be like this?” I said. “The four of us together here in Mexico?”
        “Yeah,” Jess said. “Sun all the time.”
        “We could rent a house on the beach,” I said. “You girls could study Spanish.”
        “Si, Tia Mara!” Mandy said.
        “I’ll take photos of the locals. Reid, I bet any practice here would love to hire an American dentist. Wouldn’t that be paradise?”
        “Mara. . . ,” Reid was stiff, alert, like the iguana we’d spotted earlier along the hotel’s lagoon.
        “Relax, Reid. I’m just fantasizing.” I raised my glass. “Salut!”
        “Salut!” He smiled and kissed my tanned cheek. He didn’t know I’d already implemented a better plan.
        The next morning, during our breakfast of huevos rancheros and pancakes, I broke the news.
        “I have a surprise for you,” I leaned toward the girls. “A wonderful surprise.”
        Mandy licked syrup from her fingers. “Ooh. What is it?”
        I paused to heighten my girls’ anticipation. A warm breeze tickled my neck.
        “You’re going to live in San Francisco with Uncle Reid and me.”
        “You’re so funny, Aunt Mara,” Jess said. She shooed a black bird off the table.
        “It’s true. I cancelled your tickets to Ohio. You’re flying home with us.”
        “What are you talking about?” Reid said.
        I ignored him. “I enrolled you in school. A top-rated school, not like yours.”
        The girls turned to each other with twin looks of alarm.
        “We graduate next year,” Mandy said. “We don’t want to change schools.”
        “Our friends are there,” Jess said.
        “Don’t worry. You’ll make new friends.”
        “I’m a cheerleader,” Jess said. “No way we’re moving.”
        “Mom and Dad would never let us anyway,” Mandy said.
        “They’re selfish,” I said. “They don’t love you like I do. You belong with me.”
        The girls stared at me as if I’d grown fangs but I rambled on. I said I’d signed up Mandy for classes at the Museum of Modern Art and Jess for gymnastics and bought season tickets to the ballet and passes for a Bay cruise and we’d go to the Gilroy Garlic Festival and the Monterey Jazz Festival and tour Stanford where I had a friend on the faculty. When I stopped gushing, Amanda and Jessica were silent. They’d curled toward each other as if protecting themselves from a hurricane.
        Reid clamped his hand on my arm. He spoke slowly and calmly. “Honey, let’s go to the room now. Girls, go sit by the pool. I’ll fix everything.”
        They scrambled from the table. I’m not certain what happened after that. I remember I started to shake and Reid held me tight. Did he think I’d erupt like El Popo? On the way to the airport, the four of us hardly spoke. I could tell Reid was strategizing but would wait until we got home to discuss what needed to be discussed. When I tried to hug the girls good-bye, they wriggled away as if I had malaria. The flight to San Francisco was delayed and we didn’t arrive home until after midnight. We went straight to bed.
        In the morning, Ken called.
        “The girls told us what happened in Mexico,” he said. “Sarah and I think it’s best you don’t see them for a while. Until you get a grip. Until you get some help.”
        “No!” I screamed. “You can’t do that! What about what they want?”
        “They’re afraid of you.”
        Sarah yelled into the phone. “I don’t want you anywhere near my kids!”
        I heard muffled conversation then Ken’s voice again. “Sarah is very upset, Mara. And so am I.”
        I dropped the phone. I started to cry. I wilted into Reid’s arms. “My girls,” I sobbed. “My girls.”
 
 
        Dr. Patterson says I’m making progress. I’m grieving. I’m mourning the loss of my dreams. I am unable to have children. I inappropriately transferred my longing for a child of my own to Amanda and Jessica. I suffered a kind of psychotic break. I realize I am the girls’ aunt. I am not their mother. I acknowledge their bond with both their parents. I know that Ken and Sarah are loving and supportive and have given their daughters a rich life. I understand healing is a process. I hope to continue to expand my perspective. I believe, in time, the girls will gain perspective, too, and appreciate my intentions. I acted out of love and want the best for them always.
        At night, I lie in bed wrapped in memories of the girls and the experiences only we’ve shared; private, transcendent moments that warm me like chai tea. The first time we skied together; Mandy earnest and competitive, focused on form, Jess giggling every time she fell. Shopping for clothes; Mandy modeling all the outfits and Jess evaluating, because what fit one twin would fit the other. Eating lunch at a Thai restaurant; Jess, the more daring sister, tasting the food before Mandy tried it, assuring her it wasn’t too spicy. The two of them bickering in stereo as we drove down Highway One. “I’m smarter,” Mandy said. “I’m prettier,” Jess said. I laughed, my spirits cresting like a wave at Big Sur. “You’re both smart,” I said. “You’re both pretty.” The two of them falling asleep on the sofa, cozy bundles cuddling next to me, Mandy’s head in my lap, Jess’ resting on my shoulder, their steady breathing as reassuring as the tides.