It's Not Me, It's You

You consider not going, the temptation to cancel sneaking into your thoughts not once, but twice and then again. You rationalize—it’s only one night out. So many things to talk about. Surely you can get through just one dinner with old friends. Surely it will be just fine.

And maybe, you think as you put on a swipe of lipstick, maybe they’ll ask this time. Maybe they’ll want to know what your life is like beyond the corner office, beyond the busy husband, beyond travel plans. Maybe tonight will be different than the others. 

It’s this “maybe” that finally gets you out the door.

You arrive at the restaurant all at the same time, a noisy, polished gaggle of tall boots and cashmere sweaters. Laughter flows easily. Everyone talks at once to be heard. You haven’t been together as a group for a few years now — work, distance, kids — all the usual suspects have detoured such gatherings. But here you are in a high-end restaurant, drinks in hand, clinking glasses. Finally.

You started out with these girls, the ones who knew you in college and stayed through those first roach-infested apartments and dead-end jobs. You’ve cheered each other on, swept up after breakups, celebrated promotions, danced at weddings and cried at baby showers. You’ve kept in touch and then lost touch, in and out of each other’s lives for more than twenty years. You’re still giddy to be in each other’s company.

As the night gets underway, you’re having fun, enjoying the comfort of old habits. You laugh too loudly talking about past adventures and it feels good to be that young again, if only in memory. You talk about work and the elusive balance. You talk marriage then divorce. You see one friend with a missing wedding ring, and you hold her bare hand as she tells you why it’s ending.

During the second round of drinks, the conversation turns to kids. One has a daughter applying to colleges, and it’s hard, she says, because the choice will impact where she goes to med school. You lean in, listen, empathize. You share her concern but also her maternal pride. She’s glowing.

Another speaks of her son, also gifted, who’s just quit his travel soccer team in favor of varsity baseball. He can have only one “go to” sport if he plans on working it into a college scholarship. The ensuing drama is engulfing her family, and she’s miserable. You commiserate. You know how hard it is to tell a kid that they can’t do something.

The musician in the group is happy that her daughter has finally chosen an instrument. At the age of eight, she already plays three, but violin is now her primary. She will spend the summer in a Suzuki program, and there are concerns about tuition, the pressure of an intense program and how that may impact her self-esteem. You listen to the pros and cons at length as dinner arrives.

When it comes to your turn, the table turns quiet, happy for the distraction of food. No one asks about your son. You expect this. But still. The silence feels like a steel plate on your chest. You thought this might be that one time, you thought, maybe this once.

Your son was born with cerebral palsy that affects his right hand and leg. Beyond that, he is a happy, smiley, 10-year-old boy who goes to school and loves Ninja Turtles and makes you laugh when he teases you about your big feet.

But his world is very different from the ones you’ve been discussing over $18 cocktails. It’s a foreign land. His classes are special ed, not advanced placement. He won’t be accepted into a Suzuki music program or win a sports scholarship. He may or may not go to college. Nothing is assumed.

You ignore the silence and cut into your steak. You know better than to talk about the alien planet you live on, the one full of specialty doctors and therapists. You’ve tried that before, desperate to feel the connection of understanding, even interest in your special brand of parenting. Instead, you’re met with blank stares and averted eyes, the feeling that you’ve just unfolded the wet blanket that soaks up all the fun. Like talking about cancer. Only it’s your son. Your son is the cancer.

Still.

You order another drink and consider mentioning your son’s latest progress, for a split second, you think that maybe sharing his triumph about putting on his own shoes will light up their faces as it does yours. He worked for six months on that, two socks, two shoes, only one functioning hand doing all the work. It’s kept you going for weeks yet you keep quiet. You know this story doesn’t fit here. You know the faces will be filled with pity, quickly followed by discomfort. You imagine the chill of the wet blanket and keep eating.

It’s time to go. The meal has ended, and you’ve been talking for hours. As you’re waiting for coats, one of your friends asks about him. “How is everything with your little guy?” she says quietly. On cue, another friend excuses herself to find the restroom. The other checks messages on her phone.

“He’s great,” you say with a smile. You pull out your phone to show pictures. He’s wearing a leather jacket and a woolen hat. His clothes hide the braces on his leg and hand. He is smiling his infectious grin, laughing. From this photo, you would never know he wasn’t a typical kid. This is a safe picture. Your friend coos over the shot and tells you how cute he is, and you agree, saying how delicious he is and how proud you are. She nods with a stiff smile. You put on your coat and wrap your scarf as conversation steers to taxis and trains.

You hug and kiss on the street. You promise to be in touch as they duck into a cab. You wave, as the car pulls out, wondering if they’re talking about you, about your son. And then you realize, in the cold darkness of First Avenue, you don’t care. You know before even thinking about it. This will be the last dinner with them, your friends, the last time you make the effort. Because you’ve finally realized it’s not you who doesn’t fit with their lives.

And you’re relieved, playing that thought over and over again in your mind. The steel plate is no longer pressing on your chest, and you pick up your pace, walking toward home. You reach into your pocket to feel for your phone, the one with the pictures, and its warmth seeps through your leather glove.