chapter 23
Figuring that Chloe needs a twelve-month checkup, I finally break down and make an appointment for her with a doctor in the pediatric group Ruth uses. According to Dr. Brent, Chloe is healthy, happy, and developmentally on schedule. She seems pleased with her progress, applauding my choice of Gymboree class and even complimenting me on the wide variety of foods Chloe has been exposed to, telling me that I am setting the pattern for good lifelong eating habits.
“Give yourself a pat on the back,” she says.
“What can I say?” I tell Dr. Brent, hoping I don't sound too smug. “Food's my thing.” Then, as we are leaving the office, she gives me a list of reading materials; number one on the list is
What to Expect: The Toddler Years.
I turn on my cell phone and check my messages, hoping that Ruth has called. But there's only one message, and it's not from Ruth.
Enid Maxwell wants to meet with me, according to the message left on my cell phone at 11:16 this morning. I hadn't heard a word from her since I e-mailed her my review a couple of weeks ago and had assumed she wasn't interested. I lose no time in calling her back and am surprised when a young woman, who seems to be expecting my call, answers the phone. “Yes, Ms. Rinaldi,” she says, as if she knows me. “Ms. Maxwell is available to meet with you this afternoon at two o'clock. Would that be convenient?”
No, it wouldn't, unless Ms. Maxwell wouldn't mind if I drag my sleep-deprived toddler to the meeting. Now, since my fight with Ruth, I've lost my regular babysitter. “How about Wednesday afternoon?” I suggest. My dad's office hours are on Wednesdays. Maybe he wouldn't mind letting Chloe take her afternoon nap in his office. That, or maybe Fiona would be willing to watch her during her lunch hour.
“Let me check her schedule.” I hear clicking sounds. “Ms. Maxwell can see you at one forty-five on Wednesday.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. Prime napping time.
I call Ruth again and leave yet another apology on her answering machine. By the time I hang up the phone, I'm exhausted. I put my feet up and flip through this month's
Bon Appétit,
marveling that someone who used to live action-packed eighteen-hour days is now wiped out by a trip to the park and a pediatrician appointment.
I flip absently through the magazine, at least until I get to page sixty-eight, where a tiny two-sentence blurb catches my eye. It's in the “Up and Coming” section and announces the opening of a small enoteca in the financial district. “Il Vinaio,” the blurb says, “is brought to us by the owners of the popular West Village trattoria, Grappa. In addition to an extensive collection of wines, overseen by sommelier Nicola Cabot and partner Jake Shaw, Il Vinaio will serve a selection of small plates.”
Sommelier? Since when is a slut who drinks too much a sommelier?
The phone is in my hands before I can stop myself. Renata doesn't answer, but her machine picks up immediately. “Why didn't you tell me?” is all I can manage.
I'm unable to call Ruth who, were she speaking to me, would undoubtedly have something calming to say or, at a minimum, would be willing to Google the restaurant and filter the reviews, picking out only the bad ones. In desperation I call Dr. D-P. When her machine picks up, I leave a message telling her that I've just heard from Enid and asking her to call me back. I figure when she does, I might be able to wheedle some free therapy over the phone. I hang up and within minutes I manage to work myself into a frenzy of gargantuan proportions.
“How can Jake do this?” I wail hysterically, when the phone rings a while later.
“Do what, Mira?”
“Open another restaurant! The time and energyânot to mention the money! Do you have any idea how difficult it is? How expensive?” Dr. D-P is silent while in between sobs, I fill her in.
Finally, she says, “Mira, this isn't really about the money, is it?”
“The bastard couldn't even pay me child support. Now he's having another baby
and
opening a new restaurant!” I tell her, hiccupping loudly into the phone.
“What you really mean is how could he have moved on, don't you?”
I recoil as if I've been slapped.
“What you need right now is an attitude adjustment,” Dr. D-P says, her voice clear, steady, and purposeful. “For starters, let's turn that statement around. How about instead of asking âhow could he,' we ask a different question. How about we ask, âhow could
you?
' ”
“How could I what?”
“We are going to put you in an âI'll show him' frame of mind,” Dr. D-P says.
The assignment is to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and imagine that I've just run into Jake on the street. What do I want him to see and what do I want him to know about my life?
So, I stand there, staring into the bathroom mirror with my cell phone jammed to my ear, my blotchy, tear-stained face staring back at me. What do I want Jake to know? I have no idea. Nothing. Not a single thing comes to mind.
The thought of one's ex moving on and prospering might be enough to cause some people to get out there and really give it a go. Make a stab at showing their exes just what a good deal they threw away. “How did I ever let her go?” they ask themselves in our fantasies. Was I missing that particular gene or something? That “I'll show him” gene?
I groan. “I don't know what to say.”
“Have that conversation, Mira.”
“I feel like an idiot,” I wail.
“It's an important exercise. Brush your hair and put on some makeup. Remember what you say and how you say it, and we'll talk about it tomorrow. Besides, it will also be good preparation for your meeting with Enid. You're really going to need to sell yourself. Remember, feelings follow behavior, Mira. If you pretend to be relaxed and confident, eventually you will become relaxed and confident.”
“I know, I know,” I tell her. And after I hang up, I take another stab at it, although it takes several attempts before I can start the conversation without crying or looking like I'm about to. But once I get started, I find I have plenty to say, none, or almost none of it, true. I tell Jake that I've opened another restaurant; perhaps he had caught the review in last month's
Food and Wine
? That, and I'm here in New York City to pick up my James Beard Award for my latest book, the newest collection of my food writings. I've even come up with a title for it:
With Fork in Hand, and Tongue in Cheek: A Chef's Guide to Eating Around the World.
I also tell him Chloe is a terrific kid and that he really missed out.
By the time Renata calls back, I'm in bed, going over my review in preparation for Wednesday's meeting with Enid Maxwell. “I swear, I thought about telling you, but Michael talked me out of it,” Renata says.
“Fine. It's fine. I'm better now.”
“You sounded awful.”
“I was just surprised. That's all.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. It was just a bad moment.”
“So, how are you? How's Chloe? Did she get our birthday present?” Renata and Michael had sent Chloe a bottle of port, to be opened on her twenty-first birthday.
“Thanks. She loved it.”
There's so much that I want to ask her, but I don't know if I should. Aside from not wanting to appear obsessed, I'm really not sure I want to know when Jake's baby is due. “So, has Jake's baby been born yet?” I blurt out.
Renata hesitates. “She miscarried. Or at least that is what they're telling people, or the few people who knew, anyway. It never really was public knowledge, if you know what I mean.”
“What do you mean, at least that's what they're telling people?”
Renata doesn't reply right away, and I can tell she's deciding what to say. Whether or not I can handle it.
“Well, it just didn't make sense. The sommelier thing? She went away to do it. A four-week course in Las Vegas, with closed registration and a long waiting list. I checked. You don't go registering for a sommelier course when you know you're pregnant. Not unless you're an idiotâthat's a hell of a lot of wine to be spitting outâor unless you never intended to have the baby.”
“You think she had an abortion?” I ask.
“I don't know, Mira. All I know is that she came home from Las Vegas and suddenly they're obsessed with this idea of the enoteca. It's not exactly the time to be opening a new restaurant, you know. They bought this little tapas place that was going under. On Fulton Street. They moved right in and turned it around in record time.”
“Where did they get the money? Jake made it seem like they were really strapped after the Grappa buyout.”
Renata exhales softly into the phone. “First of all, why you would believe anything that man had to say is beyond me. But now that you mention it, I did hear a rumor a few weeks ago that Jake has hooked up with some serious investors, some sort of restaurant collaborative, based in Vegas.”
“Vegas? Why would they be interested in Jake?”
“I don't know, but Tony told me that Jake is moving over to Il Vinaio, and Nicola installed a new executive chef at Grappa, who's also from Vegas.”
“What! She can't do that! What the hell is Jake thinking?” I yell into the phone. “That place doesn't need Jake. Since when is tapas haute cuisine? I told you she would run Grappa into the ground, didn't I?”
Renata is quiet.
“Well, didn't I?” I demand.
Renata softly clears her throat. Finally, she says, “Look,
cara
, forget I said anything. Come on, Mira, I want to hear about you. How are you doing?”
Before I know it, it's as if I'm back in front of the bathroom mirror, spouting the made-for-Jake lies. In fact, I barely recognize the chic, hip life I'm describing to Renata, including my foray into the world of food writingâI think I even referred to Enid Maxwell as “my editor.”
Renata is impressed. “And what about love, Mira?” she asks me. “Are you ready for that again? It's time.”
I tell her I've been too busy to think about love. We hang up, but only after I have made several vague promises to come to visit sometime soon, the moment there is a lull in my schedule.
I toss my cell phone onto the bed and head to the bathroom where I splash some cool water on my face. Could it be true? Not just the part about Jake's ceding control of Grappa to someone I didn't even know, but the part about the baby? If Jake had reconsidered fatherhood yet again, his timing was only slightly better (or slightly worse, depending on how you looked at it) this time. With a pang I remembered Jake's hand on Nicola's belly as I passed them on the way out of the lawyer's office months ago. He had seemed so proud. How could anyoneâeven Jakeâbe so ambivalent? But what surprised me almost as much was that Nicola had agreed. Even if Jake had told me that he had second thoughts when there had been time to do anything about it, I'd never have chosen to get an abortion.
Or would I? If I'd known then that I'd be making a choice between Jake and Grappa on the one hand, and a nameless, faceless baby on the other, would I have been brave enough to choose the baby? For that matter, if I were Sarah could I have made the courageous decision she did?
It's like a spasm, sudden and involuntary. I'm standing at the foot of Chloe's crib, watching her breathe, panic rising, as if those previously unacknowledged thoughts had assumed a shape and a form and were lingering in the darkness ready to take Chloe from me the instant I close my eyes. I lean down next to her head, feeling her sweet, milky breath on my cheek, and softly stroke her forehead. I will never doubt that I made the right choice.
Perhaps it's no coincidence that they chose to open Il Vinaio so shortly after losing their baby. Could it be that Jake believed he had to choose between fatherhood and his career as a chef? Couldn't he have found room in his heart for both?
Maybe to be really good at either one, you do have to choose. After all, I'd made a choice, too. Just like Jake had. We'd chosen differently, and it had driven us apart.
The phone rings. I run across the room and make a dive for the bed before the second ring can wake Chloe. It's a wireless number I don't recognize.
“Hello?” I answer warily. It is almost eleven. No one I know, here anyway, would call so late.
“Mira, jeez, did I wake you? I hope I didn't wake Chloe.”
“Who is this?” I whisper so as not to disturb Chloe, who I can hear stirring in her crib.
“It's Ben. Ben Stemple. Look, I'm sorry to be calling so late, but something actually came up and I neededâ”
“How did you even get my number?” I ask him.
“Aunt Fi gave it to me. Sorry about the party, by the way. I hope she gave you the message?”