Free Carpool Confidential by Jessica Benson Page A

page—like some young, female Woody Allen—”
    â€œIs that supposed to be flattering? Because, ugh.”
    â€œActually, yes, but I recognize it didn’t come out right. I just meant your quirkiness translates into originality on the page. I sometimes still send writers your City Woman clips to show them that a dull subject doesn’t have to mean no writer’s voice.”
    I rubbed my forehead. “I still don’t see how Rick’s at fault here.”
    â€œOnly in what he declined to see and neglected to do. He lived with you and loved you but didn’t really see you. As far as I could see, he was dismissive of what he should have nurtured— the part of you that was interesting and different. He was interested in the other, the conventional, compliant, soothing part.”
    I thought of my interesting, different, unconventional, un-compliant, distinctly unsoothing mother. Him and me both. “We made our decisions together,” I said.
    â€œThe thing about his kind of smugness,” she said, quickly enough that I knew it wasn’t the first time she’d thought this through, “is that it’s contagious. Or at least easy to get carried along on.”
    â€œLike Yertle,” I said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œYertle the Turtle. It’s a Dr. Seuss story about a power-mad turtle king that I’ve read…” a few hundred thousand times. “Never mind.” Like I said before, I got it about potential smugness where Rick was concerned, but I preferred to see the flip sides—constancy and certainty. “Look, we all have to rationalize the choices we make, working or staying home, or we wouldn’t be able to live with them. And I’d make the same decision again.” I closed my eyes for a second. The sun off the harbor was almost too bright. I would. Wouldn’t I?
    â€œHey, as long as it’s a choice, great. I’m just saying you embraced granola mom martyrdom to the exclusion of all else in a way people do when they’re trying to convince themselves something is right for them when they think maybe it’s really not.”
    I’d been wrong about wanting to know. I really didn’t want to think about this. “That’s the thing about marriage,” I said, feeling desolate, “after a while you stop knowing who’s who.”
    â€œDo you want to tell me what happened?”
    Why not? “He left me to find himself.”
    â€œHe was lost?”
    â€œApparently so. Lost, stifled, shackled and enslaved, actually.”
    â€œWow,” she said. “Lost is tough. Lost and stifled is miserable, even without the shackled, but lost, stifled, shackled and enslaved! Well, no wonder.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “But it turns out, it was my fault for enabling all this misery.” Then I told her about the Barry Manilow thing.
    When I was done: “You’re making this up.”
    Somehow I suspected I’d be getting this response again before all was said and done. “Charlotte,” I said. “How bad would the truth have to be for me to make this up? And do you honestly believe I’d have come up with the phrase post-ironic discourse of blank parody on my own?”
    After the moment of silence this deserved, she said, “I don’t suppose you’ve thought about the million ways you could spin this professionally?”
    â€œSo far I’ve pretty much confined myself to managing to breathe.”
    â€œTotally understandable, but seriously, this is a lot of material. It’s like a gift.”
    â€œI prefer the ones from Cartier.”
    â€œWell, who doesn’t? But you gotta work with what you have. And this is like gold. I mean, if he’d left you for his secretary, ho hum, you and half the women in the world, but come on, Cass, he freaking left you for Barry Manilow. It doesn’t get better than that.”
    â€œI can’t believe I