Authors: Emily Listfield
T
he next morning is worse than I had imagined.
Smog clogs my mouth, wraps around my tongue, there is a rhythmic pounding at the base of my skull, an oceanic sloshing in my stomach. I have, in the recent semi-abstemious years of good behavior and scrupulous observance of adult duties, forgotten what a real hangover feels like. The last time an evening's repercussions were this devastating I had the luxury of staying in bed all morning, it was that long ago. I make a solemn vow never to drink again, wash down more Motrin with a cup of coffee and go to wake the girls.
The novelty of the new school year has completely worn away in less than a week. Judging by the deep and stubborn sleep both girls are lost in I guess that they went to bed far later than anyone will admit to, an act made worse by the fact that their internal clocks have not yet reset to school time. It will take at least two visits to each of their rooms before feet hit the floor.
I leave Phoebe sitting up with a baffled look on her face, as if she cannot quite understand how the morning happened and what it all might mean, and check on Claire. She is propped up on one elbow, attempting to flatten her newly shorn bangs with the palm of her hand, a look of severe displeasure contorting her features. This is not a good sign. If Claire is having a bad hair day, the whole family will suffer.
“You know,” she grumbles, barely glancing up at me, “everyone else gets to wake up at least a half hour later.”
“Who is everyone else?”
“Everyone. In my class.”
It is true that a good ninety-five percent of the girls live within walking distance of Weston on the Upper East Side, their routes lined with friendly doormen who have been watching their progress since they were toddlers, a built-in security system at once intrusive and comforting. They not only get to sleep later but easily drift to one another's apartments after school, their social alliances formed by proximity as much as predilection. My guess is that this irks Claire more than the discrepancy in rising time. I do sometimes worry about the geography of her world and its ramifications, torn between wanting her to fit in and distaste at the other girls' blithe entitlement. But this morning is not one of those times.
“I realize your life is totally miserable,” I reply. “You can tell your therapist all about it. But right now you have to get dressed.”
“I don't have a therapist.”
“Of course, how could I forget? In that case, put all complaints in writing and I will consider them at a later date. In the meantime, get ready for school.”
Claire scowls at me. Parental sarcasm is rarely appreciated.
I go back to the kitchen, get out one box of cereal that contains a treasure trove of sugar for Phoebe and another filled with unappealing brown twigs that Claire will pretend to eat. I quickly scan the
Times
for stories that each might be drawn in byâa review of yesterday's fashion shows for Claire, a story on the latest human attempts at flight replete with aerodynamic graphics for Phoebeâand put them at their places. Though I began the habit a few months ago to trick the girls into reading the paper, neither has shown the slightest inclination to glance at the front page. For all their connectednessâcomputers, Internet, textingâfor all their pricey schooling, they know absolutely nothing about current events; the full extent of their global awareness seems to be occasional references to “that dude in Iran.” My motives aren't entirely
selfless, though: I have never particularly liked talking in the morning and this gives me a reasonably valid excuse to avoid conversation and pass it off as education.
After two more warning calls the girls finally stumble into the kitchen and wordlessly take their places, pour milk into their bowls and begin to spoon cereal desultorily into their tired little mouths.
I sit down beside them and pour some cereal but cannot bring myself to eat it. After playing with it for a couple of minutes, I carry it to the sink, dump the whole glop out and then have to dig around the drain to excise the soggy circles. My hand is filled with cereal mush when the phone rings. Startled, I drop it all on the floor, where two oaty blobs land between my toes.
“I'll get it,” Claire volunteers eagerly. “It's probably Lily.”
Yesterday, the two of them engaged in a pre-school fashion conference that engendered a frantic reassessment of outfits. I tap my watch to remind Claire of the time but she ignores me and grabs the phone. Her anticipation rapidly turns to grumpiness.
“It's for you.”
“Who is it?”
“How should I know? Some guy.”
I wipe my hands on the not entirely clean dish towel and take the phone from her. “Hello?”
“I didn't wake you, did I?” Jack asks.
“I wish.”
“I figured with the girls and all. Listen, I was wondering, can you meet me for breakfast before I catch the shuttle? I'd love a chance to talk to you alone.”
“I don't know, Jack. I have to take the girls to school and⦔
“You do not have to take us to school,” Claire interjects loudly enough to be heard in New Jersey.
I shoot her a look.
“Please,” Jack continues. “It's important. My hotel is just a couple of blocks from your office.”
“How do you know where my office is?”
“I just assumed it's midtown.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
After agreeing to meet in his hotel dining room, I hang up and turn to my daughters, who are regarding me with supreme satisfaction. “All right, all right. You can go on your own today.”
“We'll be fine, Mom,” Phoebe assures me.
“I know. But it's my job to worry about you, okay?”
“You'll get used to it,” Claire says.
“You never get used to anxiety. It's the baby chick of emotions. It reinvents itself every day. I think we've had more than enough role reversal for one day. Go brush your teeth.”
The girls are just finishing up when Sam walks into the kitchen. He snatches them both back for a kiss and watches them march off. He turns to me only when they are completely out of sight.
“Who was that on the phone?” he asks, pouring himself a mug of coffee. He comes close enough to make me think he is going to kiss me good morning but stops a couple of inches away, unsure of himself, of me.
“Jack.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if I would meet him for breakfast.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. To catch up.”
“I thought we had pretty much accomplished that last night.”
The Motrin still hasn't kicked in and the spilled cereal has dried into a sticky paste on my foot. “We're friends, okay? He's hardly ever in town. What's the big deal?”
“Do us both a favor and dial back the attitude.”
“Sorry.”
Sam looks at me and decides not to engage further. Like chalking a wife's emotions up to PMS, there's no mileage in it. He's not a stupid man. I leave him thumbing through the newspapers and go to shower, already regretting my tone.
It's not that I have forgiven Sam for lying about the Wells story, that will take a bit more time. But I cannot help feeling relief. It could have been so much worse, his crime, his confession, it could
have been something we could not find our way back from. And I do want a way backâto us, to who we used to beâI want that more than anything. I hold my neck up to the spray of hot water, letting it spread over my shoulders.
Feeling somewhat better, I dry off, pull on a dress, the easiest thing I can find, and return to the kitchen. The girls have their jackets on and are cramming the last of their homework, pens and God knows what else into their backpacks. A half-eaten Snickers bar spills from Phoebe's outer pocket.
“I'll need that to get through assembly this morning,” she says matter-of-factly, as if it has been medically prescribed.
“Are you allowed to eat in the auditorium?” I ask skeptically.
This, of course, does not warrant an answer. I watch mutely as she stuffs it back into her bag, too tired to protest. “You have your MetroCards?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Phone?”
“I don't have one,” Phoebe reminds me petulantly.
“Yes, I'm quite aware of that, sweetie. Claire?”
Claire rolls her eyes.
“Evidence, please.” Claire has lied about her cell phone more than once. Just last week she told me I couldn't reach her because she had forgotten to turn it on. Unfortunately, Lily called an hour later to say that Claire had left it at her house. Two days ago.
We all watch as she digs around in her backpack and comes up empty-handed.
“This is not inspiring faith,” I remark.
“I'll find it later.”
“You're not leaving the house without it.”
“Okay, fan out, girls,” Sam instructs. “I'll call it from the kitchen phone.”
Phoebe, Claire and I stand in different corners of the apartment, listening. The phone is finally discovered vibrating forlornly under Claire's bed along with last year's math textbook, a pair of dirty socks and a necklace she had accused her sister of stealing.
“I told you I didn't take it,” Phoebe snipes.
Claire slips it around her neck, ignoring her.
“Stay together,” I remind them when they are finally ready to leave.
“You make it sound like we're going to Antarctica.”
“Don't be silly. The Upper East Side is far chillier.” I kiss them both good-bye. “Call me when you get to school.”
“They'll be fine,” Sam says, standing behind me as the front door closes.
“I know.”
He rests his hands lightly on my shoulders. “Listen, about last night. I really am sorry.”
“Sam, you know how I said I need to be able to trust you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want you to know that you can trust me, too. I do have faith in you.”
“I know.”
We embrace, careful of each other's soft spots, the bruises still tender. For now we will fit ourselves around them, touching, connecting where we can until they fade.
“You never told me last night, how did it go in Chicago?” I ask as we separate.
“You never asked.”
“Let's just say it wasn't the first question on my mind. Did you find out anything on Wells?”
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don't worry, Lisa. I'm not going to run this into the ground. I might make one or two more calls but I'm not going to immolate my career on this particular sword.”
I try not to look too relieved. “So, what are you up to today?” I realize this comes out all wrong. There is a subtext now, a sheet of ice beneath our feet that hadn't been there before, altering the simplest words, twisting the intent.
“I'll be in the office all day. I have to work on a story on the sub
prime mortgage disaster.” He smiles. “I'm sure Kathy will verify, if you'd like.”
“I wasn't checking up on you yesterday. I just wanted to tell you where we were meeting for dinner.”
“I know. I'm teasing.”
“We haven't gotten to the laughing-about-it stage yet,” I inform him.
“Right. Tell me when we get there.”
“You'll be the first to know.”
“What are the chances of that happening anytime soon?”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
“Damn right, babe.”
I smile, we both do, anxious to defang the querulous tangle of misunderstandings, to hasten it into anecdote.
Fifteen minutesâand an exorbitant cab fareâlater I walk into the hotel's hushed dining room. A few people are finishing up business breakfasts but most of the diners are well-heeled tourists of a certain age in the sensible shoes and brightly colored suits indigenous to nonâNew Yorkers. Later, at tea, they will be surrounded by glossy shopping bags filled with the day's spoils. I glance down the row of pale yellowâclothed tables dotted with heavy china pots of jams and marmalades, silver pitchers of coffee and tea. It has occurred to me that I might find Deirdre with Jack, wearing her dress from last night and an insouciant, satisfied half smile. I don't relish the prospect.
I spot Jack alone at a banquette, glancing down at
The Wall Street Journal
and sipping his coffee. He appears still dewy from a shower, and none the worse for wear. In fact, he looks downright cheerful. Obviously, we have had different reactions to last night. We kiss hello and I sit down.
“Thanks for coming,” he says. “I realize it was short notice.”
“Of course.”
“Last night was wonderful, wasn't it?” There is an expression I can't quite place in the set of his eyes, his mouth. And then I realize what it is: optimism.
I look at him, wondering exactly how wonderful last night was. “Where did you and Deirdre end up going for a drink?”
“I don't know. Some hole in the wall.”
When the waiter comes to take our order I briefly consider being virtuous and getting oatmeal but opt for French toast. With maple syrup. I don't care, I need to carbo-load this morning.
Jack and I busy ourselves with napkins, spoons, coffee. It is harder here, with just the two of us illuminated by so much bright, unforgiving daylight. I take my cell phone out and put it on the table. The girls should be off the bus in five minutes, tops. “So is Alice planning a big celebration for you this weekend?”
“I suppose.”
“You don't sound very excited.”
He shrugs.
“I personally plan on ignoring the entire thing when it's my turn. No parties, no presents. Valium and a face-lift is all I ask for.”
“It's not the birthday,” Jack says.
“Oh?”
He studies me closely before speaking. “Things are not going all that well with Alice at the moment.”
“I'm sorry. How bad is it?”
“We're not about to win any awards for marital harmony.”