The Best Laid Plans (13 page)

T
HREE HOURS LATER
, sitting in a Japanese restaurant, Naomi reaches for a white ceramic cup to take a sip of sake. “I’m considering having my pelvis tightened. What do you think?”

I squirm in my seat and pull a second napkin off the table to cover the first one already in my lap. I may be Jewish but I believe in the Immaculate Conception—I refuse to imagine my mother is actually having sex. But Sienna’s intrigued. She props her chin onto her hands and leans in to get the scoop.

“Laser or radio frequency?” asks Sienna, who’s clearly on top of the latest breakthroughs in pelvis maintenance.

“Electrostimulation to improve the muscle tone,” Naomi says, as I try—unsuccessfully—not to imagine a volt of current running through my mother’s vagina.

“You do know about the exercises?” Sienna asks.

“Of course, I’m thinking about hiring a personal trainer.” Naomi giggles.

“Ladies,” I say, tapping a chopstick against a water glass and trying to get their attention. “I already have my hair straightened, my eyebrows threaded, and I’d let Dr. B inject me with unborn virgin male whale sperm if I thought it would make me look fifteen days younger. But you have to draw the line somewhere. Couldn’t you just settle for a nice, old-fashioned bikini wax?”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. She spears a piece of sashimi and points it in my direction. “Youthful-looking genitals make a woman feel more confident.”

“Mom, if you were any more confident you’d drive Ann Coulter into therapy. Is this because you’re sleeping with Dr. Barasch?”

Naomi pushes a piece of yellowtail around her plate and wrinkles her nose. “Well that, and we’re having a Miss Subways reunion. I haven’t seen any of the girls in twenty years, and if you must know, it’s rather intimidating.”

For one brief, shining moment nearly half a century ago, Naomi had her picture—with her big brown eyes and her short dark hair pinned and permed into brush-curls—tacked up in every subway car in New York. The picture that held out the promise of a spectacular life and instead led to spectacular disappointment. When I was a kid, I used to wonder what it would have been like to have an average-looking mother, one who hadn’t expected her looks to propel her into fame and fortune.
One who didn’t see me as a poor reflection. But whoever that woman is, she isn’t my mom. In Naomi’s ledger book the Miss Subways contest was the biggest thing that ever happened to her, and I can imagine why the reunion would make her anxious. Though not why she’d need her pelvis toned to prepare for it.

“Mom, I know you girls were always competitive, but I can’t imagine there’s going to be a crotch runoff.”

“That’s true,” Naomi concedes, pushing the plate away and pouring herself another cup of sake. “I just can’t think of what else there is to fix.”

The woman puts on a good face and I would almost believe her. If not for the crack in her voice.

“You’re beautiful,” Sienna says, patting Naomi’s hand.

“I know,” she says. “It’s just that I haven’t done all of the things that I meant to. Some of the girls went on to big modeling careers. One of them became a famous lawyer. Another, she even makes jewelry for Johnny Cash.”

“Did, Mom, she
did
make jewelry for Johnny Cash,” I say, as if somehow that softens the blow.

“Does, did, the point is, what do I have to show for the years? Winning the contest meant something. I rode the subway every day just to see the expressions on people’s faces. One fellow was so excited when he realized I was the girl on the poster that he fell forward and bumped his head.” Naomi sighs, as if the herky-jerky movement of the train had nothing to do with the accident. And as if the ability to cause injury is the measure of exceptional beauty. “Sienna’s lucky, she has a career. Or at least she did have a career. Tell me, dear, do you think you’ll ever work again?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sienna says.

I shake my head to caution Sienna not to say another word. Even if she sticks to the cover story about the temp agency, my
mother will be all over me with unwanted advice. And besides, now it’s just not true. I can’t wait to hear Sienna’s sigh of relief when I tell her we’re ditching the project. Though right now, the sighs are coming from Naomi—and they’re directed toward the dishy waiter.

“Thank you, thank you very, very much. You’re very kind,” Naomi says to the waiter as if he were giving her a blood transfusion and not merely clearing the table. That’s my mother, feeling down one minute, pulling herself up the next.

“You’re very welcome. And may I say, ma’am, how flattering that red suit is?”

And may I say how smart the waiter is? He’s just earned himself a 30 percent tip.

Naomi stands up and smiles flirtatiously. “I’m heading off to my Bikram yoga class, it’s 105 degrees in there and ooh, it leaves you soooo flexible.” The waiter winks and as Naomi heads toward the door, he pours us two cups of tea.

“Your friend’s a pistol,” he says, mistaking my mother, as people so often do, for my contemporary.

“That she is, a pistol. Just make sure you’re not on the other side of her trigger finger.”

Sienna laughs. “My mother won’t even discuss dental floss.”

“
Pleeze
. Can we just get through the rest of the conversation without talking any more about my mother’s privates?”

“Privates? Is that what you call them?”

“Yes. And I still say ‘number one’ and ‘number two,’ in case you’re interested.”

“Very,” says Sienna. “You’re going to make a very provocative madam. More like the proprietor of a Chinese restaurant. ‘Get a thirty-seven for the guy in the black suit.’ ‘Fifty-two for the man with the tan.’ ‘Bald fellow wants a forty-nine.’ ”

“Sixty-nine.” I laugh. “I think it’s the sixty-nine that’s so
popular.” I blow on the edge of my cup of tea and take a sip. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.…”

“I know, me too. Look at this,” Sienna says, reaching into her bag to show me what she’s reading on her Kindle.

“
Fanny Hill
?” I’m surprised to see that Sienna, whose passion is current events, is reading a bawdy piece of historical fiction that was written almost 250 years ago.

“
Fanny Hill,
” Sienna says, taking back the Kindle and running her finger down the screen. “The story of a poor country girl who takes a succession of lovers to survive … and ‘has a rollicking good time!’ I’m doing my homework, just like you. Last night I stayed up watching
Pretty Woman
. And I put
Mighty Aphrodite, Irma la Douce, Klute, Belle de Jour
and
Never on Sunday
into my Netflix queue. Who knew there were so many movies about working girls?”

“Well, not
Working Girl
, I mean,
Working Girl
’s not about a working girl, it’s about Melanie Griffith pretending to be her boss so she can climb up the corporate ladder. But Melanie Griffith did play a working girl in
Milk Money
. Which was weird. But not as weird as
A Stranger Among Us
, when she played a cop who goes undercover as a Hasidic Jew.”

“Melanie Griffith as a Hasidic Jew?” Sienna hoots, stopped in her tracks by my encyclopedic knowledge of movie trivia. “Next you’re going to tell me that she had her boobs done halfway through the filming of
The Bonfire of the Vanities …
”

“… and if you compare the first to the last half of the film it looks like someone attacked ol’ Melanie’s chest with an inflatable tire pump!”

Sienna laughs. “We go back a long way. I’m glad you convinced me to do this, we’re going to have so much fun! Why don’t you come over tonight and we’ll have a minimarathon? Popcorn’s on me.”

I take a gulp of water and play with a napkin, mindlessly
folding it into the same pyramid as the linen at the Global Warming banquet. Some night, that banquet—hard to remember that there was a time, not that long ago, when my biggest worry was the shape of a piece of fabric. Still, I didn’t expect Sienna to be so gung-ho about the new venture. And now I feel guilty about backing out.

“Good news,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “We’re not going to have to start the business after all. Peter’s got a job.”

Sienna’s whole body visibly stiffens as she takes a moment to digest my news. Then she rubs her hands together, pressing her palms in front of her face like a nun who’s about to pray—or a prosecutor on
Law & Order
, ready to move in for the kill. “I see,” she says somberly. “Peter’s got a job so you don’t need to work anymore. Or you think you don’t need to work anymore. Well, bully for you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean,” I mumble, flustered. “It was a crazy idea. You’re such a sweetheart to have gone along with it just for me. But now, well, I can go back to looking after the girls and I know you’re going to find a job of your own. Really soon.”

“That’s very supportive. In fact half the newsrooms in New York have been decimated, so no, I don’t think I’ll be getting a job anytime in the near future. Maybe not ever.”

“What about your severance?” I say guiltily, thinking how I blithely let Sienna pay for our Botox.

“If you mean that golden parachute I was supposed to get when the station fired me, it never opened. Didn’t get a cent. I only told you that because I knew you wouldn’t go see Dr. B. any other way and I thought you needed a pick-me-up. That’s what friends do, support each other.”

“I do support you,” I say sheepishly. “I just don’t see now how we can go ahead with the business.”

“Because Peter’s working?”

“Yes, he’s part of a new start-up. He won’t make much at first but he says there’s real potential. And I think he needs to feel like the head of the family again. He’s been an absolute beast since he lost his job.”

Sienna taps her finger on the table impatiently. “Didn’t you hear what Naomi was saying about missed opportunities? Don’t you ever feel like you need something of your own? When you talked about starting the business you were as excited as I’ve heard you in years.”

“Oh, I was just being crazy,” I say, downplaying the rush of adrenaline I’d felt, now willing to take a backseat to my husband’s plans. “Besides, Peter’s starting something new, too. It would be like we were in competition.”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

“But I promised, Peter and I promised we weren’t going to keep any more secrets,” I say, thinking about how I accepted a Pop-Tart instead of a proper apology, but that I gave my word. “Besides, I couldn’t start this company now even if I wanted to. My first responsibility is to take care of my family. The girls need me,” I try to explain. “Do you remember when Woody Allen was suing for custody of his son and the judge asked him to name the boy’s teachers?”

“He couldn’t come up with even one name.”

“And neither could Peter.” “There must be one with an ‘A,’ right?” he’d said with a laugh when I tested him.

“So you’ll leave him a list,” Sienna says. “You’ll leave lots of lists. Girl Scout’s honor, we’ll work out your schedule so you’re home every day when the twins come back from school.”

On the days they come back after school, I think. Between Paige’s soccer practice and endless after-school dates and Molly’s commitment to the school paper and saving the world, sometimes I barely catch sight of them before they go to bed.
“They’re getting so big now, they have lives all their own.” I sigh. “The whole point is to raise happy, independent children, but then one day you turn around and you have happy, independent children—children who want to go to the new Kate Hudson movie with their friends instead of you.”

“Say the word and we can start watching movies tonight. Even Kate Hudson movies—though not the Matthew McConaughey ones, okay? I like a bare chest as much as the next woman, but does that man not own even one shirt?”

I shift in my seat and line up the chopsticks so they’re perfectly parallel. “Okay,” I say slowly, trying to convince myself that I’m making the right choice. “I’ll do it.”

“You will?” Sienna flings her arms around me so enthusiastically that she nearly knocks over my teacup. “What changed your mind?”

“The girls are aging me out of a job. In a few years they’ll be going away to college,” I say, stabbing a chopstick at the tablecloth to emphasize my point. Sienna puts her hand over mine to get me to stop before I poke a hole though the linen. “And?” she asks, knowing me well enough to realize that there’s something else on my mind.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just silly,” I say. “When you said that about the Girl Scouts I thought about their motto, ‘Be prepared.’ For just the tiniest moment I thought about what would happen if Peter up and left me, too. I mean he never would …”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Sienna says staunchly.

“But what if he did?” I bite my lip, sorry to have said such a terrible thing out loud. “Anyway, as much as I’ve loved being an M&M it doesn’t seem like a viable job option in today’s economy.”

Sienna looks at me encouragingly. “And …”

“Let’s go for it!” I say, lightly slapping my hand on the table. “Any thoughts about what to name the company?” Before I have a chance to change my mind, Sienna fishes out her BlackBerry, logs on to her electronic Memo Pad, and starts typing in ideas. I doodle with a pen on the back of our lunch check.