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“Ta, you can’t change the bitch factor.”
“The bitch factor” was a phrase coined by Tiana and Shey years ago when we were in our early twenties, just starting our careers, and encountering firsthand how catty even “professional” women could be. Even though none of us were sheltered, we were all surprised by the aggression—both direct and indirect—we experienced in the workplace. Women weren’t half as supportive of other women as we expected. There weren’t the mentors we’d hoped to find. There wasn’t a support system. I honestly think Shey, Tiana, and I have succeeded because we have one another. We’re one another’s biggest fans.
Tiana shrugs. “The bitch factor might not be PC, but it’s real. The brighter you are, the harder you’ve got to work to make others comfortable. The prettier you are, the more you have to put others at ease. The more successful you are, the less attention you can afford to draw to yourself.”
“And this is what I’m to teach Eva?”
“That’s your call, but what you can do is help her navigate the system. Make it easier for her. And you can, because you understand what’s going on. You get the game, even if she doesn’t.”
God, I’m pissed off. Pissed off that men don’t have to play these damn games, that it’s perfectly okay for them to be assertive, that they’re expected to succeed, and fight hard, and reach for that top, brass ring.
Men can and do scramble up the totem pole of success faster—and it’s not because they have more upper-body strength. It’s because they don’t have to expend this ridiculous mental and emotional energy trying to make sure all the other men are okay with their agenda.
A man doesn’t have to comfort the other guys who haven’t climbed as high or as fast.
He doesn’t have to pretend that he got to where he wanted to go by luck or accident.
He doesn’t have to push the attention away from himself, insisting his good fortune is really everyone else’s.
“You’re getting all worked up.” Tiana smiles at me.
I smile weakly because she’s right. But I can’t help it. One hundred years ago, Virginia Woolf wrote that women need a room of their own. But Virginia’s wrong. Women don’t need a room of their own. What they need to do is get out of the goddamn building.
Tiana leaves later that night, and after Eva and I drop her at the airport, I know we working women have paid a price for our success.
Shey’s and Tiana’s work might appear glamorous to the outside world, but they both work long, long hours, and they’re constantly giving up sleep, passing on evenings out, pushing back vacations. Lots of women could be as successful as Shey and Tiana, but I don’t think most would be willing to make the sacrifices they’ve made.
On the way home from the airport, I stop at the grocery store, and while Eva pushes the cart, I grab the groceries—milk, eggs, bread, yogurt, Fuji apples, bananas, grapes, chicken breasts, broccoli. You’d think at nine o’clock on a Saturday night we’d be the only ones shopping, but there are at least a few dozen people pushing carts up and down the aisles.
Thank God I’m not the only one without a torrid social life.
We’re just heading to the checkout stand when I spot Taylor pushing her cart in the opposite direction. She doesn’t see us, and her head is bent as she studies her list. Her hair’s swept back in a teased ponytail, and she’s wearing a black Juicy Couture sweat ensemble and black slip-on Pumas with white topstitching.
She’s frowning at her list, her perfectly plucked eyebrows pulled in concentration, and for the first time I notice how really tired she looks. But not just tired, she looks emaciated, even old.
I know she’s not old—in fact, Eva told me she’s several years younger than me—but between the fluorescent lighting and the black tracksuit, she looks sallow, leathery, and worn.
Maybe she’s had a bad day.
Or maybe she and her lovely husband (I hear way too much about him for my taste) had a fight.
Maybe she just got sad news from a friend.
Whatever it is, I feel almost sorry for her. She’s too thin and tries too hard, and I wonder if all that trying really makes a difference.
We get our groceries checked out and bagged and out to the truck without Eva spotting Taylor. But on the way home, I keep thinking about her and how much work it is to be Taylor Young.
Taylor, like other Bellevue moms, is busy all week and then absolutely frantic on weekends with sports, games, and endless activities. I know during school holidays they all travel to magazine-perfect destinations, but their vacations are expensive and time-consuming, and they usually come home more exhausted than when they left.
Nothing in me wants that life or the pressure these women must feel.
Must be thin.
Must be tan.
Must have smooth forehead and unlined skin.
Must have great house.
Must have great kids.
Must have successful husband.
Must, must, must.
Oh yes, and must take that daily antidepressant pill.
Sunday morning, we go to the Points Country Club to meet my parents for brunch, something we’ve been trying to do once a month while we can.
I’m not a country club kind of girl, but along with the usual golf club offerings, the country club itself has festive brunches during the holidays, twice-a-year bingo nights for families, and the swimming pool in the summer.
Eva and I get to the country club early. The dining room is practically deserted, and we’re seated at one of the prime tables in the bay window alcoves that overlook the golf course. The hostess gives Eva a cup of crayons and pages from a coloring book to keep her busy until my parents arrive.
After the waitress takes our drinks order, I glance around the dining room and realize with a little jolt that the family seated just two tables away is Bill and Melinda Gates and their three children. Bill’s reading at the table and Melinda’s chatting with the kids.
One table to the right of the Gateses is the Young family, another family of five. Last night at the grocery store Taylor looked tired and too thin but this morning her makeup is flawless, her hair is glossy and straight, the honey highlights catching the light, and she’s smiling at something Nathan has said to one of the girls. Nathan’s wearing a salmon-colored Polo that would be wimpy on someone else, but his bronze tan, sun-streaked hair, muscular frame, and square jaw somehow make it okay.
I covertly study the family, both intrigued and repelled. Taylor and Nathan together are striking, and their three little girls are all quite pretty. Almost too pretty. And I think they know it. The whole family has the glossy polish of a Town & Country magazine ad, something that only happens with a lot of hard work.
“There’s Jemma,” Eva whispers, darting a nervous glance at the Youngs.
“I know, but just keep coloring,” I tell her. “Pretend you don’t see them.”
My parents arrive just then, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize I’ve forgotten something very important. I failed to warn Mom and Dad about Eva’s hair.
“What in God’s name has happened?” my father booms. His voice has such an impressive range, perfect for getting the attention of young grunts and humiliating sensitive granddaughters.
Eva stops coloring, startled.
“Dad,” I say.
He doesn’t hear. “You look like a refugee,” he barks.
My mom is peering at Eva with some bewilderment. “Who is this?”
If we were taping a TV sitcom, this is when they’d play the laugh track. “Mom, it’s Eva.”
“But this is a boy.”
Mom is beginning to remind me of Edith from All in the Family, my father’s favorite show when I was growing up.
“Eva, your granddaughter,” I repeat.
“Who?”
I feel Eva stiffen next to me, as it sinks in that my parents are going to make a scene. Of course they’re going to make a scene. Isn’t this how they raised me? “Mom, Eva, my daughter, your granddaughter.”
“But Eva has long hair, and this boy doesn’t.”
And that’s about all Eva can take. Letting out a devastated huff, she whirls around and runs off, out of the dining room and probably toward the country club’s front doors.
My mother makes a peculiar little sound and lifts her hand to her throat (very Edith-like, if I do say so myself). “What’s wrong? Why did he run away?”
“It’s not a he, Mom. That was Eva.”
“Eva’s a boy?”
“No, Mom, but you said Eva looked like a boy.”
“Eva doesn’t look like a boy. That boy looks like a boy.”
“That boy and Eva are one and the same.”
My mother lets out a horrified cry. “So Eva is a boy!”
It just keeps getting better.
I’m of two minds right now. I could just go outside, get Eva, and go home. It’d be easy and fast, and we’d be free of any more unfortunate scenes and uncomfortable conversations, especially with Taylor and family sitting only a couple tables away.
But Mom’s not going to get better. Mom’s only going to get worse. And that’s why we’re here, having family time. Eva and I moved to Seattle so we could be part of this journey, or whatever you want to call what’s happening to Mom.
I try again. “Eva was upset this week, and she cut her hair off,” I say, hoping a simple explanation will eliminate any more confusion. “I took her to a hairdresser to get it shaped up, but it’s going to take some time to grow. Eva’s sorry she cut it, but there’s nothing we can do now but be supportive and patient and let it grow.”
