Free Love and Other Impossible Pursuits by Ayelet Waldman Page A

or anything,” I say.
    â€œI know, Em.”
    â€œIt's just . . . not yet.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI'm sorry I said shut up.”
    Jack changes the subject. “What did you do today, before William got home?”
    I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing really. Read the paper. Talked to my dad.”
    â€œHow is Old Man Greenleaf?” Jack says. That is what they call each other, Jack and my father. Old Man Greenleaf and Old Man Woolf. It began, I suppose, because my father was so angry at first about my relationship with Jack, so horrified by the age difference. The irony of this coming from a man who married a woman fourteen years younger than himself, and then cheated on her with a girl who was probably not much more than twenty-one, at first seemed lost on my father. When I pointed out the former (but not the latter, keeping my promise and my tongue) he grudgingly admitted that I had a point, although he then reminded me that his and my mother's marriage had ended in divorce, so perhaps I should derive a lesson from that. I reminded him that the marriage had lasted for thirty years, and once again managed to refrain from bringing up the stripper. Then he met Jack, and immediately took to him. He teased Jack, calling him “old man.” The affection was mutual, and Jack returned the joke. Thus, Old Man Greenleaf and Old Man Woolf. They kid each other, they poke fun, they laugh at each other's jokes and puns. I am grateful for this relationship, although I spend much of the time we are in my father's company thinking about what my husband would say if he knew that Old Man Greenleaf tucked most of his ready cash into the tasseled underwear of a gyrating stripper.
    â€œOld Man Greenleaf's fine,” I say. “He and Lucy had an argument.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œI don't know; I wasn't really listening. I'm sure Lucy did something bitchy.” I know I am ungenerous with my sisters, Lucy in particular, but I've never forgiven them for their treatment of my mother. They were so horrible for so many years that I don't know if I could muster forgiveness even were they to apologize, although as it would never occur to either of them that they have behaved in a manner at all deserving of contrition, I will never have to confront this possibility. Still, it would be nice if they would one day regret their behavior and say they are sorry, not to me but to my mother.
    It occurs to me, suddenly, that I have not sent Lucy a thank-you note for the set of engraved Tiffany baby silverware and Curious George dishes that she sent. What is the etiquette on such occasions? Does one send a note? And if so, what does it say? Thank you for the gift; so sorry the baby will never use it? Does one return the gift? What if the giver has taken great care to make clear that the gift is an expensive one by shopping at a store that adds a premium for the pleasure of its pale blue box and white ribbon? Perhaps I should write to Miss Manners. Surely I am not the first to confront this issue. Tomorrow I will surf the Web sites where the mothers of dead babies congregate. Perhaps someone has posted an answer to this very question.
    Usually I try to avoid these Web sites as well as the various support groups around the city. The company of other bereaved mothers does not comfort me. It just makes me more depressed. As does the company of nonbereaved mothers. Other than Jack, I can only tolerate people who have never been or will never be parents, like my friend Simon, gay and avowedly single. Jack tried, once, to convince me to attend a meeting of a support group for parents who had survived “pregnancy and infant loss.” I referred him to an article in the
Times
that quoted studies showing how most people who suffer the loss of a loved one neither need nor benefit from participation in a bereavement group or from grief counseling.
    â€œHave you talked to your mom?” Jack says now.
    I nod. That goes