n the day that Leila Adams was born, her father called me. I could hear his voice on my answeing-machine before just as I stepped into the grubbly old 2nd floor apartment on the house on Willow Avenue. I threw myself toward that phone, and I think I’d answered it before Gary had time to hang up. Leila had been born, and she was beautiful. Marguerite was fine, but too tired to talk.
It was during Marguerite’s pregnancy that I realized how much I didn’t want to wait to have a baby, None of Rebecca Millard’s four children had been born. A few years later, Jody Cushing called me from one of the closets where hospitals let medical students nap to tell me he would soon be a father.
Charming Billy Clinton was still our President. People seemed sontent with that. Davis Square landlords charged less than half of what they now do, and you could still ride the subway for less than $2.00 . Jamie and I were about to move into a house my mother had bought for $150000.
When Gary called me, I was just coming in the door from a graduate-school interview. As I walked down Massachusetts Avenue, a man who looked homeless asked if anyone had ever told me I looked like Janis Joplin. He’d said he didn’t think I’d know who she was, but thought he’d tell me anyway. I’d thanked him, assuring him that I did in fact know who Janis was. I did not say that Janis was the object of my husband Jamie’s enduring “movie-star crush”.
A block further up the street, my 10th grade lab partner, Nick seemed to leap from a car, announcing, “bye Dad. I’ve gotta talk to Melanie Campbell!” He may have leapt from the car, but he also pulled out a stroller and settled a baby into it. “Not my kid,” he assured me. “He’s my brother.” Nick was in town for his ten-year highschool reunion. Ten Years!; un-be-fuckin-levable. We hugged twice, “So good to see you,” and I meant it.
Maybe two hours later, I’d gotten that call from Gary. I’m packing my bag today to fly off to Leila’s Bat Mitzvah (sp?). I’ll miss my kids while I’m away; but how could I miss it?
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