Page 27 of Look on the Bright Side

Gerald believed in her talent and was in awe of her work. He loved her passion for art, admired her, listened to her. They eloped five months after they’d met. Grace was their only witness and only guest, because they didn’t care about a wedding. They cared about marriage. Harlow was born a year and a half later, and parenthood only made Ellie and Gerald love each other more. She stayed home while he worked his long days—twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer. Ellie made sure he knew how much she appreciated that. When he came home, the house was tidy, a meal was in the works, and there were fresh flowers in a jar to welcome him back. Her heart tripled as he got out of the car and ran—yes, ran—up the steps to her and Harlow. “My girls,” he’d say. “I’m so happy to be back with my girls.”

And Ellie was in heaven with her little look-alike daughter, all blond curly hair and big eyes. Harlow was a lovely, curious baby and toddler, so happy and full of life, noticing everything and tucking it away, very smart, Ellie was sure. As a mother, she was awash in love, dazed by luck and joy. She’d never known she could be as happy as she was…and made the mistake of telling her own mother this.

“You do think she’s smart?” Mom asked, frowning. “Seems average to me.”

The twins came next, their most beautiful children, like ethereal fairies from another realm. It wasn’t easy, nursing two babies while trying to play Candy Land with your toddler, and it was so much more expensive…two of everything at once. Larkby seemed to only smile or sleep, but Addison was fussy almost around the clock. Harlow was so cute and invested as a big sister. She’d called the twins the Littles, and the name stuck for all the younger kids.

She and Gerald bought their fixer-upper, wincing at the cost of even the lowest end of the real estate market on the Cape. It had potential, though. It would be a lovely home because it was their home.

Then came Winnie, a bit of a surprise baby, since three daughters had seemed like plenty of children. It was Gerald the nurse who’d been confident that the rhythm method was just as effective as condoms, and it was Ellie the ovulator who believed him.

Not a problem. What was one more girl? She was a gift, their Windsor, so independent and solemn and focused (rather like Elizabeth Windsor, for whom Ellie had named her, having always admired the queen). Four daughters! How lucky! The house projects remained, but the family was healthy and happy, busy and noisy. Gerald’s parents, Robert and Louisa, were thrilled and helpful, just around the corner, which made up for Ellie’s parents. They weren’t the babysitting type. Too tired, too worried, too nitpicking. “She’s still not toilet trained? But she’s two!” Or “Do they always bicker like that?” It was just as well. Her parents were the pee in the swimming pool of life. The opposite of her and Gerald.

Then Gerald decided he wanted a boy.

“One more time, babe,” he said. “Wouldn’t you love to have a son? A grimy little boy digging in the sand, giving the girls a run for their money? Plus, it’d be nice to know someone could carry on the family name.”

“Is that really still a thing?” she asked. Winnie was three and a half, and the past six months had been a little easier, no diapers, the high chair relegated to the basement.

“It is. Maybe,” he said, grinning at her. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her neck, making those reproductive organs of hers squeeze and sigh.

Nine months later, Robert Harrington Smith was born, he of the sparkling brown eyes and black curly hair. He was worth it, a smiling, gurgling baby adored by his four sisters. Their family was complete, and Gerald had been right. She hadn’t known how much she wanted a son until she had one.

When Robbie was five months old, though, he uncharacteristically started screaming in the middle of the night. Gerald was at work (always seemed to be the way when one of the kids was sick). Ellie rushed into his room. Robbie was in agony…then, just like that, stopped crying. The screaming started again fifteen minutes later. When she went to change his diaper, Ellie saw that his poop looked like cranberry sauce.

“Call Grammy,” she told Harlow, then eleven. “Stay with the Littles until she gets here.”

She put Robbie in his car seat, not wanting to wait for the ambulance, and flew to Hyannis Hospital. It was intussusception, a condition where Robbie’s intestine folded back onto itself, “like a telescope,” the surgeon explained. He was transferred to Boston Children’s Hospital for emergency surgery, followed by a three-day stay, where Robbie’s status as young prince was reaffirmed by the adoration of everyone who crossed his path. He was fine. He’d be fine.

Ellie was the one who was wrecked. He could have died. Her baby could have died.

Their meager savings account was depleted. The copay from the hospital was staggering, even though Gerald was a union nurse.

“I’ll take more shifts,” Gerald said. “Don’t worry, honey.”

She worried anyway. It was impossible, even if Gerald did six shifts a week—seventy-two hours—to make ends meet, let alone pay off their seemingly insurmountable debt.

She went into the attic and looked at some of her old paintings. She hadn’t had much time since she’d had Harlow, so most were from her pre-motherhood days, with—she winced—only seven completed paintings in the past eleven years. But they were good, she thought. At least, they weren’t bad.

She used her third credit card to rent space at the Eastham Outdoor Arts Show down by the Visitor Center, and asked Louisa to watch Robbie. Then she put the five paintings in the back of the minivan and loaded the girls into the car, the twins in their booster seats, Winnie in a car seat and Harlow in front with her. In Eastham, she parked the Littles outside the tent and told them to listen to Harlow. By the end of three hours, the girls had sunburn—she’d forgotten sunscreen—but she had made $2,300 in a single afternoon.

People had bought her paintings. Every single one.

“Why aren’t you showing in a gallery?” asked one woman, her face alight as she paid Ellie for two oil paintings. “These are breathtaking.”

The girls were so proud of her. “You were the best one there, Mommy!” Harlow said in the car.

Gerald had been dazzled (oh, the sex that night had been amazing). “We can make this work,” he said. “This is what you were meant to do. I’m not surprised, but, my God, honey! Great job!”

But with the glow of accomplishment came a disquieting whisper of truth. If they were ever going to pay down their mortgage, get out of credit card debt, improve the house or essentially ever have anything extra, it was going to have to come from her.

Gerald encouraged her, stopped taking overtime shifts so she could paint more (a terrifying risk) and believed in her. He thought she was the best artist on the Cape. “Go big or go home,” he said, so after a year of those little art shows and selling at the flea market, Robert and Louisa cosigned a loan for them to buy the building for Long Pond Arts. It was water damaged and needed a new roof, new bathroom and windows, but they did the work themselves, and Ellie vowed she’d never miss a payment and make her in-laws regret their generosity.

And through the chaos and exhaustion and laughter and noise and worry, she and Gerald remained in love. They did. They had promised to make an island of peace for each other in the crashing oceans of parenthood, and it wasn’t even hard. The Littles would go to bed, Harlow would go up a half hour later, and in the quiet of their ramshackle house, they’d hold hands, make a drink or a cup of coffee, talk and listen. All the marriage advice said never take each other for granted. Be affectionate. Show your gratitude. Have each other’s backs. Be your children’s role models for a good relationship.

They did. They definitely did.

Obviously, they argued from time to time. Did Gerald have to tell her how toxic her mother was? Ellie already knew she was difficult. Did he have to bring it up every time the woman called or visited? Could he do a little more for the kids instead of acting like one of them? On her side, Ellie knew she got wrapped up in the issues of the gallery, which could be utterly consuming—washing windows, fixing the roof, hanging art, choosing vendors, advertising, social media…not to mention creating. She did not slap out paintings. She wished she could, but she was unable to do anything but her best, and that took mental energy and focus and time.

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