Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
✂
A Novel
Susan Isaacs
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to pay for such a wonderful life, one I had hardly dared dream
about as a little girl in Brooklyn.
Okay, that “wonderful life” and “hardly dared dream” busi-
ness does cross the line into the shameless mush of Mommy-
land, where “fulfillment” is all about children, not sex, and
where mothers are jealous of each new baby-shoe charm on
their friends’ bracelets. Feh.
Sure, sure: Sentiment proves you’re human. Feelings are
good, blah, blah, blah. But sentimentality, anything that could
go on a minivan bumper sticker, makes me cringe. Take this as
a given: Susan B Anthony Rabinowitz Gersten (i.e., me) was
never a Long Island madonna, one of those moms who carries
on about baby Jonathan as if he were Baby Jesus.
What kind of mother was I on that particular night? A happy
one. Still, it wouldn’t have taken a psychologist to read my emo-
tional pie chart and determine that the sum of my parts equaled
one shallow (though contented) human being. One third of that
happiness was attributable to the afterglow of the birthday pres-
ent my husband had given me two weeks earlier, a Cartier Santos
watch. Another third was courtesy of Lexapro (twenty milli-
grams). A little over a sixth came from the pure sensual grati-
fication of being wrapped in a tea-green Loro Piana cashmere
bathrobe. The remaining sliver was bona fide maternal bliss.
Maybe I’m still shallow, just deluding myself that after all that’s
occurred, I’ve become a better person. On the other hand, even
at my superficial worst, I wasn’t terrible. Truly, I did have a heart.
Especially when it came to my immediate family. I loved
them. So I gloried in that moment of mommy bliss. I remember
thinking, Jonah and I have some lucky star shining down on us.
Along with our three boys, my husband, Jonah Paul Gersten,
MD, FACS (picture a slightly older—and significantly shorter—
Orlando Bloom, with a teeny touch of male pattern baldness),
was the light of my life. Naturally, I had no clue about what was
happening with Jonah twenty-six miles west, in Manhattan.
brown wool riding jacket with silver braid, and didn’t linger on
pus-filled sores on the peasants’ bare feet.
So, okay, not a great mind. But I definitely had enough brains
not to let my deficiencies ruin my happiness. Unlike many wives
of successful, smart, good-looking doctors, I didn’t make myself
crazy with the usual anxieties: Ooh, is Jonah cheating on me?
Planning on cheating on me? Wishing he could cheat on me but
not having the guts or time?
To be totally truthful? Of course I had an anxiety or two.
Like knowing how fourteen years of marriage can take the edge
off passion. We still enjoyed gasping, sweaty intimacy now and
then. Like one starry Long Island evening that past August. We
did it in a chaise by the pool after three quarters of a bottle of
sauvignon blanc. Also in a bathtub in the Caesar Park Ipanema
Hotel during an International Society for Aesthetic Plastic Sur-
gery convention.
But with three four-year-olds plus two nineteen-year-old
live-in Norwegian au pairs (twins) and a five-day-a-week, eight-
hours-a-day housekeeper, our chances for hot sex were close to
zero—even when Bernadine wasn’t there and Ida and Ingvild
had a weekend off. After “Sleep tight, sweetie” times three,
Jonah and I were rarely finished being parents. We still had
to deal with Evan’s nightmares about boy-swallowing snakes,
Dashiell’s nighttime forays downstairs to play with remote con-
trols, and Mason’s frequent wakenings. So even ho-hum mar-
ital hookups weren’t as common as they had been. On those
exceptional nights when I still had enough energy to feel a tingle
of desire, Jonah was usually too wiped from his ten-hour day
of rhinoplasties, rhytidectomies, mentoplasties, genioplasties,
office hours, and worrying about what the economy was doing
to elective surgery to want to leap into bed for anything more
than sleep.
Even though I was clueless about what my husband was
doing when he was actually doing it (though now I can picture
and inhaled the mingling of roses and sweet June air, I under-
stood flowers were somehow my ticket to a world of beauty.
Those scents transformed me from a shy kid into an eight-year-
old live wire: “Hey, lady!” I hollered to the guide. “What do you
call someone who thinks all this up?”
“A landscape architect.”
Strange, but until I talked to my guidance counselor in my
senior year at Madison, I never told anybody this was what I
wanted. No big secret; I just never mentioned it. The librarians
knew, because two or three days a week, I walked straight from
school to sit at a long table and look at giant landscape books.
When I got a little older, I took the subway to the garden itself or
to the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. The librar-
ian in the Arts and Music section there, a guy with a face like a
Cabbage Patch doll’s, would always ask, “What do you want to
look at today, garden girl?”
Though I did turn out to be a quitter, landscape architecture–
wise, I wasn’t a loser. First of all, I snagged Jonah. I got my BA
in art from Southern. Also, from the get-go in New Haven, I
proved I wasn’t going to become one of those burdensome, use-
less doctors’ wives. I moved my things into Jonah’s apartment
on a Saturday while he fielded hysterical calls from his parents.
By late Monday afternoon I had landed a late-afternoon/week-
end design job at the crème de la crème of central Connecticut
florists by whipping up a showstopping arrangement of white
flowers in milk, cream, and yogurt containers.
Why am I babbling on like this? Obviously, I don’t want to
deal with the story I need to tell. But also because I never bought
that business about the shortest distance between two points is a
straight line. What’s so great about short? Too often it’s the easy
way out. Plus, a straight line is minimalist, and my work is all
about embellishment. Any jerk can stick a bunch of thistle into
an old mayonnaise jar, but what will people’s reaction be? Why
couldn’t that thistle-pulling bitch leave the environment alone?
But I take the identical thistle and jar, grab a few leaves or blades
of grass, and voilà! create an arrangement that makes those same
people sigh and say, Exquisite. Makes you really appreciate
nature. And so simple. It really wasn’t simple, but if your design
shouts, Hey, look how brilliant I am, it’s not much of a design.
Anyway, after Jonah graduated from college and then fin-
ished Yale med school, we moved on from New Haven. With
time ticking away like that, a lot of men who marry young start
thinking, Do-over! Not Jonah. Even after ten years of marriage
(along with two failed attempts at in vitro), when some other
deeply attractive senior resident in plastic surgery at Mount
Sinai might have dropped a starter wife for a more fertile number
two (maybe one from a Manhattan family even richer and more
connected than the Gerstens, one who could push his practice),
Jonah stayed in love with me. Never once, in word or deed, did
he communicate, It’s not my fault you can’t conceive.
Once we were settled back in New York, I began realizing my
chosen career shouldn’t have been chosen by me. I did not love
jewelry design: Finding brilliant new ways to display pyrope
and tsavorite garnets in Christmas earrings wasn’t a thrill. Liv-
ing in Manhattan made me want to work with something real,
and I yearned for the smell and feel of flowers.
So I wound up with a design job at Bouquet, which billed
itself as “Manhattan’s finest fleuriste.” While I was still finding
myself, Jonah was already a success, and not just in the OR. He
was surrounded by enamored patients. Housewives and adver-
tising executives, beauties and battle-axes. So many had crushes
on him. They would have given anything for a taste of his toned
pecs, his status, his obvious decency. Except those women only
got what they paid for—a first-rate surgeon and a caring doc-
tor. Not that I was complacent. Throughout our marriage, I saw
what happened to other doctors’ wives as well as to some of our
neighbors when we moved to the North Shore of Long Island. I
understood: Marriage is always a work in progress.
I’ve got a license to daydream. Being a novelist is the adult version of a kid
creating a make-believe world. But unlike a child, a writer of fiction has to come up with
a structured story, one that has as much meaning for others as it has for her.
There is no “right” way to begin a novel, but for me, plot has to wait. The
character comes first. Some new person comes strolling into my head asking I write his
or her story. If I ignore them they insist. If I mutter, I don’t think so, even the quietest
ones get pushy: Just do it! They’re convinced they picked the right writer for the job and
I guess I picked them, too—no matter who they are or how unlikely a character-
author pair we seem at first. Slowly, we form a working relationship. They begin to
confide in me. I listen, ask questions. Gradually, it becomes a conversation that continues
Having said all that, As Husbands Go didn’t happen that way. The would-be
protagonist who came striding into my consciousness made me want to plead with her
For God’s sake, find some other novelist! But I couldn’t whip up the courage because—
I’m almost embarrassed to say it—this new, ultra-cool character in my head was too
intimidating to challenge.
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Not that she seemed hostile, loathsome, or even unlikable. In fact, she was the
2010 version of the American dream, female division: devoted mother (of four-year-old
floral designer, along with great looks and an enviable body. Money was no problem. Oh,
and she had sublime taste. She stirred up every idiotic insecurity I’d experienced between
sixth grade and my fiftieth birthday. Looking at her, my mind’s eye flickered uneasily.
Talk about statuesque! I noted that her height and model-sleekness were enhanced by
Jean Paul Gaultier jeans and Louboutin stilettos. My normal protection against such
blatant elegance would have been to embrace the Me = Genuine, She = Superficial
defense, which allows me to congratulate myself for not being the sort who’d spend eight
What kept me interested in her was a puzzlement. Why was some empty suit
(albeit a Prada) bothering me? I was a novelist, after all, not a stylist. And why did I need
her? Did I want to spend the next two years growing progressively wearier of her ’tude,
sublime appearance, and overt self-confidence? How could I explore the depths of a
Still, she got me wondering (not for the first time) what it must be like to be able
to get along on your looks. Is it a perpetual high? Do women like this character merely
glide through life, never experiencing the rough patches necessary for developing moral
fiber? Were the people she charmed so preoccupied with her surface that they never
challenged her ideas or values—letting her remain an exquisitely wrapped but empty
package? Or were beautiful people no different from everybody else—aside from being
Our culture now places more emphasis on the visual than ever before. I needed to
check out whether our greater-than-ever fascination with beauty, fashion, celebrity—style
character did not arise from some lifelong “I look like Quasimodo with a wig” anguish.
I’m okay. Nevertheless, “gorgeous” would never appear on any Top 10 List of Adjectives
novel about someone who had that “g” word, along with “stunning” and “chic,” on hers.
One microsecond later. Or maybe it was two weeks. Hard to tell, as my Susan-
the-novelist mind often does its work on its own while Susan-the-person carries on with
what non-novelists refer to as real life. However long it really was, when the beaut next
condescended to. She was clear to me. Amazingly, I liked her. (Not that you need to like
or even respect your protagonist. I can’t imagine Dostoevsky thinking, Gee, that
surprise!—she was going to show everyone the stuff from which she was made: a lot
more than sugar and spice and La Prairie makeup. I couldn’t wait to write about her.
Best of all, I wasn’t observing her from the outside. I was inside her head. Not
only was I comfortable in there, I felt at home; Susie and I had undergone that magical
author-subject merge. We’d become one (though not to the point of my being able to
From the inside looking out, I comprehended what it was like to be self-assured
and pretty, just a tad away from beautiful: It felt good. Okay, that sensation was not
enough to create a fully realized protagonist. But I now understood that Susie’s
preoccupation with appearances was the key to her inner life. Her own prettiness and
presentation was always a work in progress. The world beyond herself was subject to
similar scrutiny. She’d been born with a sense of order and style. For me, seeing the
world with that artistic eye was so challenging. I’d never been the sort who instinctively
knew which car or chair or abstract expressionist painting had intrinsic worth. I rarely
experience the world through the eyes of someone who had the Eye.
After I had that insight into Susie, the rest of the novel fell into place fast. Her
background: She’d been born into a rather boring, mildly depressed family—a swan
among ugly ducks. I could see her growing up in a dreary Brooklyn apartment, yearning
for some quality in her life. Okay, some of that yearning turned into banal social
ambition, the desire to be in a position where she could own the lovely things she
believed were necessary for fulfillment and status. But Susie also needed to create beauty
for others who didn’t know how. I got a flash of her arranging roses in a bowl, inhaling
their sweetness, getting pleasure from the process as well as the results. Bingo! She
And who would be the man of her dreams? Jonah Gersten, a plastic surgeon, a
man who also had the Eye, the aesthetic sense, as well as the need to make things
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beautiful. And since life is never perfect, Susie’s backstory included a struggle with
infertility that did have a happy ending: as the novel opens, she and Jonah are the exultant
Backstory is dandy, but I needed a front story. I later realized it had been waiting
for me from the moment I took on the voice of someone who is all about surfaces. What
gorgeously constructed existence? Could Susie face the truth, no matter how awful? She
might be willing, but would she be able to stand up for this truth, fight for herself and her
Also, with all the current chatter about values, family and otherwise, few people
truly have to put up or shut up. But here was my protagonist, thirty-five years old,
someone who’d never given morality a thought beyond the vague understanding that it
has to do with the Ten Commandments (of which, maybe, she could recite five). Facing
she act? Was it even her responsibility, considering that all the authorities considered the
prosecutor’s case a slam dunk? Can someone whose lifetime thinking about morality
probably totaled two minutes develop a sense of ethics, along with the courage to actually
Rabinowitz Gersten, saw through her eyes, thought her thoughts, comprehended all she
was up against. Now I could finally do what she’d asked of me: set down her story.
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