Authors: Emma McLaughlin
“Who’s that?”
“A messenger. Are you okay? You look exhausted. Are they keeping you safe?”
“I’m actually reaching you from the only prison camp with Wi-Fi.”
“Don’t even joke—” The doorbell rings. “Shit. Hold on one sec,” I beseech the screen. “Okay, coming!” I leap up and open the door. Fuck it. “You know what, I’m sorry. This was a mistake. There’s no package. Go ahead and charge me.” I return to the table. “I’m back, I’m back. Are you coming home?” There’s a long pause where he looks at me blankly, his hazel eyes tired. “Ryan?”
“What?” he squints into the monitor.
“Can you hear me?”
He shakes his head no.
“What’s happening with Steve?”
he shouts.
“I can hear you,” I say, louder.
“What’s happening with the house?”
he shouts again.
“I can hear you—you don’t have to shout! I don’t know!”
“Because I’ve been thinking.” He drops his voice back, ruffling his hair with his hands. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”
“
You
can’t?” Every cell in my body shifts course. “When you left me I believe we still had water and light!”
“What!”
Back to screaming.
“When you left me! Left me!”
He leans into the screen, swiveling his head to the side to hear better.
“Is this working? Can you call me? Are you coming home?”
He shakes his head no. No, he can’t call? No, this isn’t working? No, he’s not coming home?
“Ryan!”
I shout into the laptop.
The screen goes black.
An hour later, I rest Shari’s box of shoes, wedding photos, and other sundry items on the elevator floor and shift Citrine’s hastily wrapped shower gift to one hip to pull out my BlackBerry for the fortieth time since I left Buena Vida. But neither has Ryan texted nor has Steve returned my emboldened four-alarm message. I need my husband in the same room with me and I need livable—like, by Western, first world, at-peace standards—in three days.
Nothing.
The car trembles to a stop on a small travertine-floored landing, containing two identical shiny wood doors set into opposing cream-papered walls. I press the bell beside the one with the sound of women’s chatter behind it and a gray blonde in her fifties answers, wiping her hands on her uniform’s black apron. “Come in,” she invites warmly with a soft brogue, her eyes only slightly widening at the large cardboard box I’m towing. “I think you’re the last. The ladies are through there.” She points a weathered hand toward the living room, where I recognize former classmates of mine nibbling crudités.
“Do you mind if I just …?” I gesture to a niche by the door and, with her nod, bend to tuck the battered box out of the way.
“Drink?” She picks up a silver tray from the present-free corner of the glossy art deco sideboard behind her.
“Thank you.” I take a spritzer and add my gift to the mountainous pile, suddenly self-conscious of its multicolored-bunnies-wearing-party-hats wrapping. All the other boxes are monochromatic, gleaming and glamorous—Bonpoint, Bonpoint, Bonpoint, Jacadi—not a diaper cake among them. Or even anything from Babies “R” Us. Am I the only one who looked at her registry? Was I not supposed to? Is this not how baby showers work here? Are they
all
on Tuesdays?
I tighten my smile and head into the lemon yellow room, its high-gloss walls reflecting the noon sun.
“Naaaan!” our hostess greets me, leaning slightly down in her four-inch Manolos to touch a dewy cheek to mine. “Citrine said you were coming.”
“Pippa, wow, I haven’t seen you since—”
“Ninth grade.” She nods her head, the square diamonds in her ears glinting. “Deerfield was the best thing I ever did.” She runs a hand through her blond hair, which once was brown. “Make yourself comfortable—oop.” Another guest comes in behind me and she excuses herself to greet her. Taking a gulp of spritzer and a canapé from an untouched tray, I weave past the clusters of wrap-dressed women, noting that, as in high school, the sole cosmetic enhancement allowed seems to be a subtle patina of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream on the lips, making my little swipe of eyeliner and dab of blush suddenly feel clownish by comparison. I have never figured out why this subset so frowns on makeup. I mean, of course they have nannies if they’re expected to look rested without undereye concealer.
Sitting in the middle of a long green couch, Citrine holds court behind an antique coffee table. “Nan.” She reaches out an arm to me, the spot she insisted I fill by her side occupied. “So sorry I haven’t returned your e-mails. You know how it is. I’ve been crazed.” The women bookending her nod in agreement, their very un-RISD blow-outs bobbing.
“Of course,” I say, accepting her excuses, suddenly wanting to rewind to the moment she got out of that Lincoln with those Eli’s bags. Wishing I’d hustled her right back into her car—“Oh, I’m just here checking on the progress—no need to go inside! Let’s take this picnic to my room at the Mercer!” Or maybe it wasn’t so much the squalor as the fact that I know about her dalliance.
“I know I’m not really pregnant enough yet to be seated when I should be circulating, but let’s pretend.”
“Sure,” I say, giving her slightly swollen hand a squeeze.
“But after Memorial Day half the crowd scatters to Maine, half to the Hamptons, and then someone’s always in Europe, so we decided to do it early when
everyone
can be here to celebrate. And, of course, on a weekday when they’re free.” She rubs her burgeoning belly through her fitted cream top and gives a full smile. But her eyes don’t meet mine.
“Well, I’m thrilled to be here.” And really, screw your entire construction team, I’m great with whatever.
“Brunch is served,” the Irish woman announces, pushing back the French doors to the dining room. Cries of “Oooh” go up from the thirty or so women, thirty or so diamond-decked hands flexing, palms out, in excitement. Some are Chapin alumnae, others are private school vets I recognize but have never met. And no one looks like she is about to whip out the baby-bottle tattoos.
“Naaan!!!” Suddenly I feel a hand on my waist, spinning me into Alex’s embrace. “Nan!” she cries, enveloping me in perfume and soft hair. “Where’s Toots?”
“Hi!” I pull back, able to admire her vintage equestrian buckle-print shirt dress. “You look fabulous.”
“Is Toots coming?” Langly asks, squinting with a hungover air against the gleaming citrus walls.
“Toots—Sarah—had to work.” I avoid explaining that Citrine and Sarah aren’t friends, that I, myself, am only here because of a real estate fluke.
“Work!” Alex turns to Langly. “Remember work?”
Langly’s eyes widen.
“What’re you two up to now? So, you’re not still with—where was it—Ogilvy?” I try to remember which advertising firm she was skyrocketing through as we shuffle past the wall of nineteenth-century zebra lithographs into the stream for the buffet.
“Oh, Jesus,” Alex says, fingering the Cartier Love necklace at her clavicle. “No, as soon as Roger and I started dating he begged me to quit. He said being director made me a grumpy bitch.” She laughs. “No, Astin is a full-time job.” She reaches down for a plate and fork. “Citrine’s just finally getting it—she canceled her next show, thank God. Now she can relax and focus on the”—baby, say
baby
—“renovation. But my little monster just started kindergarten this year, thank God, giving Mommy a little free time to herself.”
“Me—and my sha-dow,”
a woman sings knowingly with a smile to Alex as she passes with her plate en route to the living room.
“You have a five-year-old?” I am agog at how fast the time has passed.
“I always wanted to be a young mommy,” she says smugly, reaching for a quartered carrot muffin and adding it to the dollop of scrambled egg on her miniature plate. “Five is such a great age—he’s just starting to be interesting to me. So what about you? Seeing anyone?”
“Married for six years. Actually, we met senior year.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your ring?”
I hold up the thick gold band that belonged to Ryan’s great-great-grandmother.
“Oh.” She cracks up, touching my arm. “I thought that was one of those I’m-married-to-me thingies. I was looking for a real one. Will you pass me a piece of melon?” I do, and not by means of flinging it in her face. “Thanks, hon. Well, personally, I’m just so glad Citrine is finally getting a move on,” she says conspiratorially. “Before Clark, I’d run into her every few years—I wasn’t sure what the plan was there, you know? I mean, you can’t tramp around with musicians forever, not while your capital is decreasing.” She waves her fork with its stabbed chunk of meaty pink fruit. “You’ve gotta lock ’em in while you’re performing at your peak.” Which conjures an image of concurrently fellating her husband, playing killer tennis, and being measured on the NASDAQ. “How about you? Any baby plans?”
As Langly noodles her way down the other side of the table, I watch her drain her champagne and trade it for another from the circling tray while I figure out how to answer Alex.
“Well, I just finished my master’s in December.” I feel the need to have that on record. “So this is the first year it would really be feasible.”
She looks at me blankly, as if she can’t connect the two pieces of information. “Well, when you’re ready, call me, I’m a wealth of information. I know where to find
great
nannies. They charge, like, next to nothing and go round the clock.”
“Ladies!” Pippa calls from the dining room doorway. “Please come gather. Citrine is about to open her gifts!” She claps in excitement while behind her I can see the waitstaff carrying armfuls of packages in from the entryway.
Citrine nestles in and I take a seat on the piano bench next to Langly, who forgos food to sip her third champagne. “Thank you, Pippa, for organizing this,” Citrine says, clasping her hands over her belly, “and to all of you for coming and being so enthusiastic, especially those of you I haven’t seen in a few years—I’ll be a better friend, I promise!” She gives a radiant smile and everyone twitters appreciatively, seemingly delighted to have her back. The first box is passed toward her like a crowd-surfing rock star. “Ooh, exciting,” she murmurs as she shimmies her fingers under the maroon lid and pops it off, unearthing from beneath a mille-feuille of amber tissue a thick cashmere baby blanket. In she dives again to the elbow, surfacing with …matching pants …sweater …and booties. At this moment I am tempted to wriggle my bunny-wrapped gift from the pile and jettison it out the window.
“You like?” a voice at once little-girlish and smoker-raspy comes from across the room.
“Tatiana, it’s gorgeous!” Citrine coos and I turn to see the flame-thrower of yore leaning in the doorway. “Can I change the color?”
“You can change anything but the kid. The kid you’re stuck with.” Everybody laughs. My eyes move up from the stiletto knee-high boots to the skinny jeans wrapping her Core Fusion–toned body, visible through the diaphanous floral-print blouse. And then my gaze moves up to the copious gold jewelry resting atop a chest so badly speckled she looks like a giraffe. Finally I land on her face. A face that, since childhood, always floored me. It floors me now. But because she looks …so …fucking …freaky. Unable to be alone with my raw shock, I surreptitiously slip my phone from my pocket and text Sarah: OMG! TAT HAD HEAD TRNSPLNT.
Tatiana catches me staring and I give a big smile and wave, as if primarily what I do is miss her. She waves back while Citrine reveals another teeny-tiny cashmere set. These people do know that babies double in size the first year? Should I tell them? Tatiana tries to smile back, but her eyebrows can’t go up and her cheeks can’t follow and the effect is that somehow her face moves outward, as if muscles in reserve that should never be called to active duty suddenly find themselves on the front lines of having to make a smile. They give it their best shot, but the result is only a Jokeresque grimace. She
paid
for that?
She points to the grass cloth–sheathed dining room and I get up and follow her in, grabbing another mini pain au chocolat from the buffet. “Nan, it’s so good to see you,” she says warmly, planting a kiss on my cheek, still coasting off the thin fumes of an affection born of having grandmothers in the same building, who encouraged us to play together. “How are you?”
“Great, thank you,” I say, swallowing. “I’ve started my own HR Consulting business, if you hear of anyone who might be in need. And my husband and I bought a brownstone in East Harlem we’re trying to rehabilitate. We’ve done construction before, Habitat for Humanity stuff, so we thought we had skills. No skills. We are skillless.”
She blinks at me, fingering the bejeweled cheetah charm on one of her necklaces. “I have sun damage.”
I nod. She does.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Calliope’s two,” she says, as if this answers that.
“Oh, wow, yes, Citrine said you have a daughter—congratulations.”
“And we’re having our second—just as I get my body back, right?” She laughs, touching my arm.
“You look insane,” I say, honestly admiring her abs as I reach for a second pastry.
“Oh God, well, you know I have to work at it. My husband’s French, so he’ll wander.” She looks wistfully at the chandelier. “I left the magazine, I work out, I had my boobs done, I wear a lot of lingerie. I mean, yeah, he’s fat, yeah, his teeth are black, but you know what? I just lie back and think, ‘It’s theater.’ Am I right?”
Speechless. Sad and speechless.
“Nan, she’s about to open yours!” Pippa calls from the living room.
“Oops,” I say, clapping my hands enthusiastically, channeling Pippa. “I’m on!” I point into the living room with an apologetic smile—“It was so great to catch up with you!”—and scurry away.
I find Citrine wearing more than a dozen ribbons around her neck and tearing away my bunny paper to expose the plain matte white cardboard box below. “Where’s it from?” she asks, lifting the lid.
“Babies ‘R’ Us . . .” I fight the instinct to say it with an accent as I reseat myself next to Langly.
“Oh!” She holds up the breast pump.
“You registered for it,” I add lamely.