Authors: Tish Cohen
W
hile Cal’s assistant rolls a fresh coat of white paint over the now-repaired-and-soundproofed wall to the sound of Vivaldi’s gloriously soothing cello music, Eleanor goes through the morning mail. Among the usual collection of bills and flyers is a note from her insurance agent. The entire renovation will be covered, through Noel’s insurance company.
A huge relief with Sylvie coming.
The last piece of mail is a square envelope with the name
Pantera
in the upper left corner. She tears it open to find a thick white invitation.
Miss Roxanne Lynne Pantera
and
Mr. Peter Matheson McGrath
request the honor of your presence
at their marriage
on November 20th
Liberty Suites Ballroom
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Roxie had mentioned being engaged, but not that the wedding was so soon. She’d barely spoken about it the other day and her fiancé hadn’t been there—he is a philosophy professor at Harvard. Eleanor had assumed the ceremony was in the spring.
But … she’s included. She’s part of the family. Finally, she’ll be in a family photo. It’ll go on the mantel. She’ll get a copy and put it on her windowsill. When Sylvie arrives, she’ll show her. “This is me at your aunt’s wedding.” Eleanor hugs herself.
Not only that, but it will be Eleanor’s inadvertent coming-out party. She has no idea how large the Liberty Suites Ballroom is, but there have to be a couple of hundred extended family members, neighbors, friends. She’ll meet others. Aunts, uncles, cousins, old friends of the family.
It’s a dream come true.
The invitation is addressed to
Eleanor Sweet plus one
. She slips the invitation into the drawer and puts her family—and where Jonathan will be November twentieth—out of her mind.
Ginny wanders up from the back, a Baby Bjorn strapped across her chest. She looks around the store. “Almost feels smaller in here now. I’d gotten sort of used to seeing through to the record store.”
“Maybe it’s Noel you miss seeing,” Eleanor says.
Ginny shrugs and turns to examine the carrier in the mirror. “I find him weirdly unappealing now.”
Eleanor hides her smile.
“Hey, do these things come with twin pouches?”
“You strap the fussiest one into the carrier. That’s what the women tell me.”
“Want to know my biggest fear? What if I can’t tell them apart?”
“They’re never that alike, are they?”
“In the OB’s office, I heard one mother say she dressed her twins differently from birth and that was the only way she knew. Then one day she went out for eggs and her husband changed them. Guy didn’t know which was which. She panicked. What if she never figured it out? Then she remembered one had a scratch on his wrist. From then on she kept a dot of nail polish on that kid’s toe.”
The bell above the door tinkles and a very familiar, very pregnant woman walks in and stares at the missing ceiling tiles. The painter dipping his roller into a tray of paint. She turns to Eleanor. “This can’t be good.”
“We had a bit of a flood,” Eleanor explains. “We weren’t hit nearly as hard as the place next door.”
The woman motions toward Noel’s wall and Eleanor realizes who she is. It’s Ali McGraw, sister to Auntie Faith from above Death by Vinyl. “Oh my God. When did this happen?”
The day your sister moved out
, Eleanor doesn’t say. “Last week sometime.”
Ali glances at the exposed pipes overhead. She knows her sister is responsible. “Oh God. Oh God.”
“Are you back for the bassinet?”
“Yes. And a few other …” She pauses to survey the destruction again. The dusty Rubbermaid cans filled with crumbled drywall and crown molding. The drop sheets laid out along the floor. The racks of baby wear crowded to the center of the store. “Has it cost you a fortune?”
“No, no. The neighbor’s insurance company has been great. Here, come with me.” Eleanor emerges from behind
the counter and guides her to the back corner—an area untouched by water damage. The massive bassinet she’d looked at before—the Badger Basket, dark cherry, round with eyelet canopy—is still waiting. Eleanor scoops out the stuffed animals that Ginny tossed in for safekeeping the night the rains came down, and adjusted the duvet. “It’s still here. All is well. Did you drive?”
She nods. “An SUV, it’ll fit. It’s just that I can’t really do any lifting … I’m so sorry about this mess. What can I do? Tell me there’s something I can do.”
“You can take this thing out of the store today. As you can see I have very little space.”
The bassinet is easy to wheel to the front of the store, but with its width, with the way the door doesn’t fully open, it’s nearly impossible to wiggle through the doorway alone. It arrived unassembled, Eleanor realizes now. Jonathan helped her build it in the shop. Ali McGraw is of no use, not with the size of her belly; she can’t get her hands far enough around the crib to pull while Eleanor pushes.
“I think you’re stuck.”
“I think you’re right.”
Ali bends down and squints at the cherry dowels. “It’s possible one of these just cracked.”
“It’s not cracked. It’s just a bit bent.”
“I don’t know. It looks like a crack.”
Eleanor sighs louder than intended. “Can you pull it from your end?”
The woman gives a feeble tug. “If it wasn’t on such an angle.”
Worried her customer might go into labor or, worse, get fed up and walk away from the sale, Eleanor climbs over the
bassinet and tries to pull from the outside. She only succeeds in jamming the bassinet in at a worse angle than before. Finally, she pokes her head into Death by Vinyl and waves to Noel.
He grins. “Good news. I’ve fixed the speakers. Listen.” He hits a button on the remote control and the warbled sound grows louder, but sounds no better.” His face falls. “Damn.”
“Could we borrow you for just a sec?”
“We don’t want to disturb you,” Ali McGraw shouts from behind Eleanor. “If it’s too much bother, I can come another day. The baby’ll probably be late anyway.”
Noel stands on the sidewalk, scratching his stubbled chin. Next door he’s left his music on, or what’s left of it. A loud hissing thump comes through the wall. Eleanor doesn’t feel it in her best interest to point out the obvious: that he needs new speakers.
“How’d you get it jammed so tight like that?”
“If you could just help us give it enough of a jiggle,” Eleanor says.
The three customers inside Pretty Baby are waiting to exit. “Can we just squeeze past?”
“Might be a while,” Noel says.
“Go out the back door,” Eleanor says to her customers. “The alley leads to a walkway to the street.” When they look doubtful, she adds, “It’s perfectly safe!”
From Death by Vinyl, the music turns into a flat buzz. Ali closes her eyes in horror.
“Thing’s on an angle,” Noel says. “That’s what went wrong, Eleanor. If you’d kept it straight.”
“I realize that!” Eleanor snaps. A young couple now stand outside, waiting to get in. “Can we just wiggle it straight again?”
He takes hold of the rails and they both go at the right side. The bassinet budges, but not much. “We just wedged
it the opposite way,” Noel says, squatting lower. “Try it one more time, but less muscle.”
A loud buzz drowns out what remained of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
“Those speakers sound fixable,” Eleanor says.
Ali McGraw smiles so wide it must hurt. “Oh, he can fix them.” She laughs almost maniacally. “I can tell you right now he’ll fix them.”
They jerk the rails up and to the left now and finally the bassinet starts to move. Noel cries out in pain as his arm lodges between crib side and door frame. “Push it back. Push back!” They bump it back and then forward again until the bassinet is on the sidewalk. Noel rolls up his sleeve to reveal a long jagged gash. “You didn’t tell me the posts were cracked.”
“I said it. Eleanor, did I not say it?” Ali McGraw takes Noel’s forearm. “Look at him. The poor man is bleeding.”
“I’m fine.” A drop of blood hits the sidewalk.
Ginny walks up with a steaming cup of what smells like mint tea. She motions for the waiting customers to head out the door now and examines the cut. “You’re going to need stitches.”
“We should take him to Emerg,” says Ali. “I’ll drive.”
“I’m married to an ER doctor,” Eleanor says. Noel looks at her quickly and she adds, “Or I was. Noel doesn’t need Emerg. Ginny please bring us the first aid kit.”
Ginny returns with a near-flattened tube of Polysporin and a frilly pink receiving blanket covered in baby polar bears. “I took it home the other night and my kids emptied it. This is all I could come up with.”
“That blanket’s from Italy!”
“It’s clean. I’m fine.”
“Here, let me.” Ali takes the Polysporin and squeezes it
onto his wound. “So you sell old records? I hear they’re making a huge comeback. All the hipsters are buying them.”
“I won’t sell to hipsters.” He winces as Eleanor tugs his sleeve up higher. “Ow!”
“Stop squirming,” she says. “It’s not that bad.”
“What’s your most expensive record?” asks Ali.
Noel stops glaring at Eleanor long enough to say, “Definitely the Beatles’ butcher-cover album. They pressed a couple of thousand covers before someone decided that showing the band covered with the blood and bodies of dismembered baby dolls maybe wasn’t so great for their image. Dead babies don’t tend to sell.” He notices her belly and adds, “Sorry. Inappropriate imagery.”
Ali fans away his worries. “How much for it?”
“Got it listed at eleven thousand dollars.”
The woman pulls a credit card out of her wallet, writes something on the back of an envelope, and places it in his good hand. “Here’s my Visa number and delivery address. Will you courier it to my house?”
“Are you serious?”
Ali glances at the pile of sodden vintage
Rolling Stone
magazines and rust-stained T-shirts, clearly unsellable, beside his door. “I
have
to have it for my collection. Get it to me a.s.a.p., promise?” She waddles toward a Cadillac Escalade up the block.
Eleanor calls out, “Wait—what about the bassinet?”
“I can’t put my baby in that thing. It’s cracked.”
I
don’t understand why you’re so upset.” Ginny tries to sidle past Angus, bumping him with her ballooning midsection as she follows Eleanor into the living room. She maneuvers herself onto the floor and pulls disposable chopsticks, then container after container of Chinese food, from a paper bag. Eleanor counts eight containers on the table.
“Seriously, Gin? This is enough food for six people.”
Ginny sighs. “I’m counting four and that’s without the dog.” She opens a carton of spring rolls and offers one to Angus, who practically swallows it whole. “The only time I don’t feel sick is when I’m eating.”
Eleanor watches Angus gobble another spring roll and shakes her head. “I even switched hand lotions, in case I was tainting his meals with the scent of orange blossom or something. It makes no sense.”
“Makes perfect sense. It’s Canine Psychology 101. The dog’s depressed because his pack split up. Did he listen to Jonathan over you?”
Eleanor thinks about this a moment. “Actually, yes.
Obeyed Jonathan the first time he asked. I have to beg, plead. Eventually I give up.”
Ginny pops a whole chicken ball into her mouth and says, “You should be reading my dog book. Angus is like a kid. He needs an alpha. A pack leader. Doesn’t know what’s what with nothing but a wishy-washy littermate in charge.”
“So why won’t he eat for me?”
“I told you, he wants a pack. With me here, he feels more complete. Plus I’m not wimpy.”
“Neither am I!”
Ginny stares at her. “Whatever gets you through the night. So spill. Why are we upset about a DVD of Sylvie?”
Eleanor flops down onto the couch and pulls her bare feet up onto the cushion. “You know how they sent me a ‘Mama’ DVD the other week? The ‘Dada’ version just arrived.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. I’m dying to see it—it’s Sylvie, of course—but I can’t watch it alone.”
“Ah. Okay, hang on.” Ginny opens up a few more containers and scrapes a mountain of food onto her plate. “You got anything good to drink?”
Eleanor gets up and heads to the kitchen, returning with a glass of mango juice for Ginny and red wine for herself. Ginny waves over the wine.
“Forget it. You don’t get to have any.”
Ginny takes the glass and holds it under her nose. Inhales deeply. “I’m allowed a daily whiff. No rules against that.” She settles a pillow behind her back and nods toward the TV. “I’m ready. Bring on the agony.”
Eleanor taps the remote at the TV and Sylvie’s face appears. This video was likely made before the first she
received. Sylvie’s hair is loose this time. Wild and natural and gorgeous, but shorter. And Sylvie’s front teeth haven’t come in. Again, Cathy holds her. Sylvie keeps reaching up with splayed fingers to touch her foster mother’s daisy earrings. Eleanor looks closer. Sylvie is wearing the red jumper from the store. She had mailed it as soon as she and Jonathan were approved.
Seeing Sylvie in something from home makes this all less surreal.
Cathy, holding Sylvie under the arms as she stands on her lap, says, “Say
Dada. Dada
.” It’s not as noisy in this video. Easier to hear what’s being said.
Sylvie says nothing, just stares wide-eyed at the camera.
Now Cathy bounces her up and down and shows her how to wave, which Sylvie doesn’t imitate. A tiny finger goes in her mouth and a string of drool hits her collar.
“Say
Dada
, Sylvie.
Dada
…”
Sylvie grunts, points a wet finger at the camera.
“Dada,”
Cathy repeats.
More determined now, Sylvie stands up taller and holds out both arms.
“Dada.”
Cathy looks worried.
“Just freaking say it already, kid! You’re killing me!” Ginny blurts out.
Eleanor shoots her a look. “We don’t want her to say
Dada
! She didn’t say
Mama
!”
“But we know she’s going to say it and you’re going to cry!”
On cue, Sylvie tilts her chin up and whispers,
“Da-da.”
“Yes, wonderful!” her foster mother squeals, bouncing her in delight. She says something to the cameraman and the video clip abruptly ends.
Ginny turns to look at Eleanor, who pinches her hand to force herself not to cry. Once she has control over her emotions, she reaches for a carton of steamed veggies and swallows a mouthful. “There. Done. I lived.”
“It doesn’t mean anything that she didn’t say
Mama
. You do know that.”
“Of course I know that. It’s developmental, etcetera, etcetera.”
“But still, it’s killing you.”
“Of course it’s killing me. I am human.”
“Oh no. Don’t even think about doing what you’re thinking about doing.”
Eleanor puts down the carton and ejects the DVD. Snaps it back into its case and sets it high up on a bookshelf. “I am absolutely not taking this to him.”
“Good girl. Jonathan walked away. To get him back via emotional manipulation would not serve you well.”
“Exactly. Now pass me the chicken fried rice.”