by Joy Fielding
Faith glanced over her shoulder toward the house, then back again at Cindy. Cindy saw that the front of the young woman’s white blouse was stained with the milk leaking from her swollen breasts, creating quarter-sized circles in the thin fabric.
“What’s the matter, Faith? Where’s the baby?”
Faith stared at Cindy with sad, dull eyes.
Cindy looked past the young woman, straining to detect sounds of life from the interior of the house, but the only thing she heard was Elvis barking next door. A thousand thoughts rushed through Cindy’s mind: that Faith and her husband had had a terrible fight; that he’d walked out on her and the baby; that something horrible had happened to Kyle, the couple’s two-month-old son; that Faith had come outside to get a breath of fresh air and inadvertently locked herself out. Except none of that explained the blankness in Faith’s eyes, and why she was staring at Cindy as if she’d never seen her before in her life. “Faith, what’s the matter? Talk to me.”
Faith said nothing.
“Faith, where’s Kyle? Has something happened to Kyle?”
Faith stared at the house, fresh tears falling the length of her cheeks.
In the next instant, Cindy vaulted past the young woman and into her house. She took the stairs two at a time, racing toward the nursery and pushing open the door, her breath stabbing at her chest like a hunting knife. Tears stung her eyes as she threw herself toward the crib, terrified of what she might see.
The baby was lying on his back in the middle of crisp, blue-and-white gingham sheets. He was wearing a yellow sleeper and a matching yellow cap, his beautiful face as smooth and round as his mother’s, his perfect lips settled into a perfect pout, red little fists curled into tight little balls, tiny knuckles white. Was he breathing?
Cindy edged closer to the crib, and leaned her body over the side bar, pressing her cheek to the baby’s mouth and breathing in his wondrous infant scent. Gently she touched her cool lips to his warm chest, holding her breath until she felt his body shudder with the effort of a single deep breath. And then another. And another. “Thank God,” Cindy whispered, feeling the infant’s forehead with her lips to make sure he wasn’t feverish, then straightening up and backing slowly out of the room, her legs wobbling as she closed the door behind her, having to remind herself to breathe. “Thank God, you’re okay.”
Faith was still sitting on the top of the outside landing, swaying rhythmically from side to side, as if mimicking the branches of the maple tree in the middle of her front lawn, when Cindy stepped back outside, sat down beside her. “Faith?”
Faith said nothing, continued rocking from side to side.
“Faith, what’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Faith said, so quietly Cindy wasn’t sure she’d heard her at all.
“Why are you sorry? Did something happen?”
Faith looked quizzical. “No.”
“Then what’s the matter? What are you doing out here?”
“Is the baby crying?”
“No. He’s sound asleep.”
Faith ran unsteady hands across her breasts. “He’s probably hungry.”
“He’s asleep,” Cindy repeated.
“I’m a terrible mother.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a wonderful mother,” Cindy assured her truthfully, recalling Faith’s excitement when she’d knocked on Cindy’s door to announce her pregnancy, how sweetly she’d asked for any advice Cindy could give her, how wonderfully gentle and patient she was with the baby. “I think we should go inside.”
Faith offered no resistance as Cindy helped her to her feet, the top of her head in line with Cindy’s chin. Cindy guided her through the large front foyer into the rectangular-shaped living room at the back of the house. A powder blue sweater lay on the hardwood floor next to the baby grand piano and Faith reached down to scoop it up, pushing her hands roughly through the sleeves, and quickly securing its three white buttons. Then she sank down into the green velvet sofa, and leaned her head against the pillows.
“What’s Ryan’s number at work?”
“Ryan’s at work,” Faith said.
“Yes, I know. I need his phone number.”
Faith stared blankly at the pale green wall ahead.
“It’s okay. I’ll find it. You stay here. Lie down.”
Faith smiled and obediently lifted her feet off the floor, bringing her knees to her chest.
Cindy quickly located Ryan’s work number from the bulletin board by the kitchen phone and punched in the correct numbers. It was answered on the first ring.
“Ryan Sellick,” the man said instead of hello.
“Ryan,” Cindy enunciated clearly, “this is Cindy Carver. I think you need to come home.”
THREE
YOU’RE late.”
“I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could.”
“I said four o’clock,” Leigh reminded her sister, square red nails tapping on the gold band of her watch for emphasis, then pushing newly streaked hair away from a face that was pinched with incipient hysteria. The impatience in her hazel eyes was underlined in heavy black pencil, and mascara sat like tiny lumps of coal on her lashes. Anxiety draped across her shoulders like a well-worn shawl. “It’s almost four-thirty,” she said. “Marcel has to leave at five.”
“I’m really sorry.” Cindy looked from her sister to the short, curly-haired man in tight brown leather pants who was conferring with his assistant in a far corner of the long, cluttered room. “There was a problem with my next-door neighbor. She’s acting very strangely. I’m afraid things just kind of got away from me.”
“They always do,” Leigh said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Look, you’re here now. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”
Cindy took a deep breath, silently counting to ten. If you hadn’t picked a dressmaker whose shop is halfway out of the city, I might have been able to get here on time, she wanted to say. If you hadn’t scheduled the damn fittings for the height of rush hour traffic, I might not have been so late. Besides, you’re the one making the big deal out of it, not me. Instead she said, “So, how’s it going so far?”
“As expected.” Leigh lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mother is driving me nuts.”
“What are you whispering about?” a woman’s gravelly voice called from one of the dressing rooms at the back of the shop.
Cindy spun around, absorbing the details of the small dressmaking salon in a single glance: the wide front window, the bare white walls lined with racks of silk and satin gowns in varying stages of completion, bolts of bright fabric carpeting the floor and occupying the only two chairs in the room, a full-length mirror in one corner, three appropriately angled mirrors in another, another room at the back crowded with assorted tables, sewing machines, and ironing boards. Cindy sidled up to a rack of more casual suits and dresses that was pushed off to one side, wondering whether she might find something on it that was sufficiently stylish and sexy for her date with Neil Macfarlane.
“Cindy’s here,” Leigh called to her mother.
“Hi, dear,” her mother’s disembodied voice sang out.
“Hi, Mom. How’s the dress?”
“You tell me.” Cindy watched her normally vivacious, seventy-two-year-old mother push open the heavy white curtain that served as her dressing room door and frown uncertainly, her fingers pulling at the sides of the magenta satin gown.
“Tell her she looks beautiful,” Leigh whispered behind cupped fingers, pretending to be scratching her nose.
“What did your sister say?”
“She said you look beautiful,” Cindy told her.
“What do you think?”
“Naturally,” Leigh said under her breath. “What I think doesn’t count.”
“What’s your sister muttering about now?”
“I’m right here, Mother. You don’t have to ask Cindy.”
“I think you look beautiful,” Cindy said, genuinely agreeing w
ith her sister’s assessment and reaching out to pat her mother’s fashionable blond bob.
Norma Appleton made a dismissive gesture with her mouth. “Well, of course, you girls would stick together.”
“What’s the problem you’re having with the dress, Mom?” Cindy asked, spotting a short red cocktail dress on the rack of more casual offerings, wondering if it was her size.
“I don’t like the neckline.” Her mother tugged at the offending area. “It’s too plain.”
The neckline might be too low-cut, Cindy thought, noting the daring bodice of the short red dress. She didn’t want to give Neil Macfarlane the wrong idea. Did she?
He’s really cute, Trish whispered in her ear.
“I’ve already explained to Mother a million times. . .”
“I’m right here, you know,” Norma Appleton said. “You can talk to me.”
“I’ve already told you a zillion times that Marcel will be adding beading along the top.”
Cindy mentally discarded the short red dress, her eyes moving down the rack to a long, shapeless, beige linen sack. Definitely not, she decided, picturing herself lost inside its voluminous folds. She didn’t want Neil Macfarlane to think he was dating a nun. Did she?
You haven’t had sex in three years.
“I hate beading,” her mother was saying.
“Since when do you hate beading?”
“I’ve always hated beading.”
“What about a jacket?” Cindy suggested, trying to still the voices in her head. “Maybe Marcel could make up something in lace. . .” She glanced imploringly at Marcel, who promptly left his assistant’s side to join them in the center of the room.
“A lace jacket is a lovely idea,” her mother agreed.
“I thought you didn’t like lace,” Leigh said.
“I’ve always liked lace.”
The last time she’d had sex, Cindy recalled, she’d been wearing a lace peignoir. The man’s name was Alan and they’d met when he came into Meg’s shop to buy a pair of crystal-and-turquoise earrings for his sister’s birthday. Cindy found out that he didn’t have a sister when his wife came by the following week to exchange the earrings for something subtler. By then, of course, it was too late. The peignoir had been purchased; the deed had been done.
“What do you think, Marcel?” Cindy asked now, her voice unnaturally loud. The poor man took a step back, glancing anxiously at Cindy’s mother, trying not to fixate on the deep creases her fingers were inflicting on the delicate satin of his design.
Without hesitation, Marcel reached for the tape measure that circled his neck like a scarf. “Whatever you desire.”
Whatever you desire, Cindy repeated silently, savoring the sound. How long had it been since anyone had offered her whatever she desired? Would Neil Macfarlane?
He’s to die for. I swear. You’ll love him.
“Did I hear you say something about problems with a neighbor?” her mother asked, lifting her arms to allow Marcel to measure their length.
“Yes,” Cindy said, grateful for the chance to get her mind on something else. “You remember the Sellicks from next door? They had a baby a few months ago?” she asked, as if she weren’t sure. “I think she might have postpartum depression.”
“I had that,” Leigh said.
“You had haemorrhoids,” her mother said.
Marcel winced, wrapped the tape measure across Norma Appleton’s expansive bosom.
“I had postpartum depression with both Jeffrey and Bianca.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Of course not. Now if I were Cindy. . .”
“Cindy never had postpartum depression.”
“And speaking of Bianca,” Cindy interjected, “just where is the beautiful bride-to-be?” She looked around the salon, realizing for the first time that neither her niece nor her daughters were anywhere in sight.
“They got tired of waiting and went to Starbucks.”
“Heather looks so beautiful in her dress,” Norma Appleton said.
“And the bride, Mother?” Leigh asked pointedly. “How does Bianca look in her gown? Or doesn’t she rate a mention?”
“What are you talking about? I said she looked beautiful.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.”
“What about Julia?” Cindy interrupted.
“Julia?” Leigh scoffed. “Julia has yet to honor us with her presence.”
“She isn’t here yet?”
“I’m sure ‘things just got away from her,’ ” Leigh said, forcing a smile.
“I said I was sorry.” Cindy reached into her purse for her cell phone. “She had an audition. Maybe she had to wait. . .”
“What kind of audition?” Her mother turned around so that Marcel could measure her back.
“For Michael Kinsolving, the director. He’s in town for the film festival.” Cindy pressed in her daughter’s number, listened to the telephone ring.
“You and that stupid festival,” Leigh said dismissively.
“Isn’t Michael Kinsolving dating Cameron Diaz?” their mother asked. “Or maybe it’s Drew Barrymore. Ever since Charlie’s Angels, I can’t keep the two of them straight. Anyway, I hear he has quite a reputation with the ladies.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother,” Leigh exclaimed impatiently. “How would you know anything about this Michael whoever-the hell-he-is?”
Her mother pulled her shoulders back with just enough righteous indignation to cause Marcel to lose his balance and drop his tape measure. “I read about him in People magazine.”
“Michael Kinsolving is a very important director,” Cindy said, as Julia’s breathy voice caressed her ear.
“I’m so sorry I can’t answer your call at the moment,” the recording whispered seductively. Cindy immediately hung up, dialled Julia’s cell phone, listened to the same breathy message.
“He hasn’t had a hit in a long time,” their mother said knowingly. “Apparently he’s some sort of sex addict.”
“I believe that’s Michael Douglas,” Marcel piped up enthusiastically, regaining his footing and retrieving the tape measure from the floor.
“Really?”
“Before he married Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“Are we actually having this conversation?” Leigh threw her hands into the air in frustration.
“What’s your problem, dear?” her mother asked.
“My problem,” Leigh began, as little beads of perspiration began breaking out across her forehead, causing her newly streaked bangs to curl in several awkward directions, “is that my daughter’s wedding is less than two months away, and nobody seems to give a good goddamn that time is running out and there’s still tons of stuff to do.”
“It’ll all work out, dear.” Her mother tugged at the long taffeta skirt. “Doesn’t there seem to be an awful lot of material here? It makes me look very hippy.”
“She’s not answering.” Cindy returned the phone to her purse and stared at the front door, as if willing Julia to walk through.
“She’s forty minutes late.”
“Maybe she got lost.”
“Lost?” Leigh asked incredulously. “She gets on the subway at St. Clair; she gets off at Finch. How could she possibly get lost?”
“Maybe she missed her stop. You know Julia. Sometimes she gets distracted.”
“Julia’s never had a distracted moment in her life. She knows exactly what she’s doing at all times.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Leigh, why don’t you show us your dress?” their mother suggested.
“Yes,” Cindy agreed wearily. “Mom says it’s wonderful.”
“Mom hasn’t seen it.”
“Good try,” her mother whispered to Cindy as Leigh retreated to the dressing rooms at the back of the shop, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “You’ve got to say something to your sister, darling. She’s driving me nuts.”
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Cindy caught her reflection in one panel of the three-sectioned full-length mirror, and advanced steadily toward it, horrified by what she saw but unable to turn away, as if she’d stumbled across the scene of an accident. When did I get so ugly? she wondered, hypnotized by the creases clustered around her large eyes and small mouth, staring at them until her still-delicate features blurred, then disappeared altogether, leaving only the telltale lines of middle age. She squinted, trying to find the young woman she’d once been, remembering that at one time, she’d been considered beautiful.
Like Julia.
When was the last time a man had told her she was beautiful? Cindy wondered now, backing away from the mirror, and pushing a bolt of fabric off one of the chairs. She sat down, her head heavy with conflicting emotions: impatience with her sister, anger at her older daughter, curiosity about Neil Macfarlane. Was he really as smart, funny, and good-looking as Trish claimed? And if so, why would he be interested in a forty-two-year-old woman with less-than-perky breasts and a collapsing rear end? Undoubtedly such a prize catch could have his pick of any number of perfect young females eager to make his acquaintance. Certainly Tom had considered the choice a no-brainer.
Cindy checked her watch. Almost four forty-five already. By the time she finished up here and got home, assuming she wasn’t a raving lunatic and was still capable of handling an automobile, she’d be lucky if there’d be enough time to shower and change, let alone make sure there was something in the house for the kids to eat. She sighed, thinking that Heather and Duncan could order in a pizza, and remembering that Julia had mentioned she might be having dinner with her father. Was that where she was?
“Ta dum!” Leigh announced, pulling back the dressing room curtain and appearing before her mother and startled sister in yards of pink taffeta.
This is not happening, Cindy thought. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.
“Of course, I’m planning to lose ten pounds before the wedding, so it’ll be tighter here.” Leigh pulled at the tucks at her waistline. “And here.” She flattened the taffeta across her hips. It made a swishing sound. “So, what do you think?” She lifted her hands into the air above her head, did a slow turn around.