Beauty

by Christina Chiu

Jeff hints at the fact that the board will meet to discuss returns being Not Substantial Enough. He suggests that there’s going to be a new talent, someone he’s asking us to train in this business and “raise” up. “Do it the way I have for you,” he says now. “I’m counting on you, okay?”

  By the end of the meeting, Jeff has slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket, and I realize there must be a tremor. He’s tired; it has been a long day, especially since he wakes at 6 AM to start all his physical and cognitive therapies. Several employees want to stick around and have a word with Jeff, but I cap it after Jayne and Marco. I hook my arm through his, and we take the elevator down to the lobby. In the car, Jeff tells the driver to drop me off at my apartment before going home.

  “No, I’ll come back with you,” I say, interlacing my fingers with his. I can feel the tremor, now. I thought it was in his hand, but it seems to come from somewhere deeper.

  Jeff sighs. “Congratulations.”

  Warmth rises from my chest to the backs of my eyes. “Thank you,” I say.

  “I meant every word.”

  All the years flutter through my heart. Yearning, desire, addiction. Frustration. Depression. Wanting to be with him. Wanting to be free of him. Friends. Lovers. Disconnecting. Reconnecting.

  Yet, here we are now. Love lost. Now found.

  “Jeff,” I whisper, because a dark hole opens inside my chest, and then everything’s about to get sucked inside. “You can’t leave me,” I say.

  “Either way, baby, I’m going. You know that.”

  His hand trembles over my cheek. I press mine over his.

  “This is me,” he says, kissing me, now.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

  Black Lace and Blue Secrets

  “You like?” I say, as my one and only grandchild, Kathryn, joins me in the living room to inspect my latest creation: a lace-up, 3-inch ankle boot. The quarters are made of a gunmetal-sequined fabric, the front vamp a black suede, the laces a thick satin.

  “Ohhh,” Kathryn says, holding the right boot. She settles on the red opium bed, which I doubled up with sofa-thick padding, and examines my workmanship. “They turned out beautifully.”

  “Très couture, don’t you think?”

  “Def. I’d ask for a pair, but I’ve already got something else in mind.”

  “Pray, tell, mademoiselle.” I return the boot back to the top shelf with its partner. My apartment is unusual in that my bookshelves are filled with shoes and boots instead of books, and except for the first real pair of boots I ever purchased—a black-lace knee high stiletto—all were crafted since I retired ten years ago. They include Kathryn’s first pair of shoes, hot pink Mary Janes, ballet flats, and lace-up riding boots. After a long and frightful Doc Marten stage during her high school years, elegance and beauty finally came back into vogue. Kathryn took to placing shoe orders with me, expressing ideas to add her own unique twist to things. “Your wish is my command,” I say.

  “I’ve got something I need to tell you first,” she says, beating me to the punch. The purpose of calling her here is to discuss the company. Alex is in his 50s now; he isn’t young anymore. It’s time she learned the business.

  Kathryn giggles. Whatever she has to say, it must be serious. I haven’t heard her giggle since she was a teenager prone to crushes. She pats the seat beside her. “Come, Grandma. Sit with me.”

  I get this unsettling feeling that I’m being lowered into a lion’s den. Kathryn is following in her Pop-Pop’s footsteps. She’s a star at FIT and already noticed in the industry. Her work at school was picked up by CoutureCulture; the Spring line received rave reviews. The buzz got her into some trendy New York boutiques, and then one of her A-line dresses appeared in Vogue. Is she planning a new line? I wonder. Does she need capital?

  “I’m not so keen on surprises,” I say.

  “Just sit, Grandma.” She smiles, teeth clenched with excitement. The red bed is up against the window with a view of the Hudson.

  I sit turned toward her. She takes my hands in hers, and that’s when I notice. A ring. 2 carat. Emerald cut. Platinum. Pavé frame.

  “But—” All the disappointments in my life flash in front of me like a massive karmic flipbook, and in one single stroke, my hopes and expectations for Kathryn are suddenly dashed. How can this be? She is 21, the same age Jeff was when he first got noticed. Suddenly, the glare from outside hurts my eyes.

  “I’m engaged!” she chirps, wiggling her fingers out in front of her. The diamond catches the light and sparks rainbows across the walls and ceiling. I feel as if I got sucker-punched. There’s an ache in my heart, and yet I’m strangely numb to it. Kathryn, however, chatters on: “Vanessa invited friends over for her birthday, and when I asked who brought the Tiffany, she said she didn’t know, she’d have to open it. So she did, and I was like wow, what the hell, and before I knew it, she was on her knee proposing, and at first, I had no idea what was even going on—” Kathryn laughs. “And then she says it’s her birthday and there’s nothing she’d love more than for me to be her wife!”

  My darling Kathryn. All that potential. Lost. She could follow in her grandfather’s footsteps or mine, and now I see she is choosing mine.

  Kathryn continues on about the wedding—something about a tent affair—and the dress she’s going to make, gesticulating with her arms as she describes the bodice. “It’s going to be strapless with a silk corset on top, sort of like a mini with layers of feathery lingerie chiffon up to the mid thigh. So lots of leg. And then this awesome feathery train, you know?”

  I nod as if I’m listening. On clear sunny days, the Hudson appears liquid silver. Sunlight glints off the river. With the help of a new, experimental treatment, Jeff defied the odds and remained stage 3 of the condition for the next ten years, finally passing as a result of pneumonia brought on by an upper respiratory infection. He left a quarter of his assets to each of his three children, and the last fourth to me. With it, I bought this apartment.

  “You’ll design a pair of boots for the wedding?” she asks.

  “Hm?”

  “Boots.” She extends her long legs. “Short, maybe ankle? And lace. Definitely lace.”

  “Floral or mesh?”

  “Floral. No mesh. I don’t know.”

  “Three inch?”

  “Four?”

  “Platform?”

  “Yes,” she nods. “Oh, and black. The dress is black.”

  “As long as it’s not black and blue.” I mean it jokingly, yet as soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the ache expanding in my chest. My life; hers. Repeating patterns. Karma. Is there a lesson to be learned from this? A way to change this in consciousness?

  “What’s wrong, Grandma?” she asks, taking my hand.

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure? Because you don’t look very happy. I thought you would be happy for me.”

  “Of course I am, sweetheart.” But even as I say it, a voice inside says, There’s no fucking way; who do you think you are? “It’s just—” I sandwich her hand in mine. “Isn’t marriage a little outdated these days? I mean the notion itself?”

  “Oh, Grandma.”

  “Half of them fail.” I don’t need to mention her parents. Her mother remains bitter and alone while Alex has remarried and started a new life with a woman half his age. Kathryn frowns at me. I shrug. “I’m just saying.”

  “Looks like you’ve got some interesting beliefs about marriage,” she says, crossing her arms and trying to sound as if she were me.

  “I should know,” I say. “I’ve done it twice.”

  “So, no more,” she says. “That right?”

  “Exactly.”

  She glances outside, then back at me, and point blank, says, “So is that what happened with Cameron?”

  Cameron is the man I’ve just broken things off with
; we’d been seeing each other for the past three years. We initially met through the Masters Class but got to know one another better at a Buddhist meditation retreat. Marriage—the idea of it—must be in the air. “I’m 78 years old. I’m too old for that business,” I say.

  “And I’m too young, right?”

  “Uh, actually, yes, you are.”

  She shakes her head. “I never thought I’d hear you say you were too old for anything.”

  “Well, there’s always a first time.”

  She sighs. “For what it’s worth. I really liked Cameron.”

  I cross my arms. “He’s a good man.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Are you looking for a hidden agenda here? Because this would be where you back off. As much as I love you.”

  “No, Grandma. I’m simply asking what it means. You’re the one who tells me all the time to question my beliefs and ask if they serve me. It would be a shame if one stood in the way of you experiencing the true love of your life.”

  “So you have determined he’s the true love of my life, now, have you?” I feel my blood pressure spike.

  “Isn’t he?”

  “If you really need to know, Cameron doesn’t believe in Viagra,” I say.

  Katheryn’s eyes bulge. “TMI,” she says, making a T with her hands.

  “You asked.”

  She fidgets with the ring.

  “Do you actually think people stop fucking when they get older? Or is it that you think orgasm is reserved only for the young?”

  “I don’t know. Sort of. I guess.” Kathryn blushes. She catches my gaze and all of a sudden we’re laughing until tears are flowing from our eyes. It takes a few minutes to gather myself. “No, seriously, Kathryn. You’re doing so well. What’s all the rush?”

  She smiles. There’s an earnestness about it that feels deadly. “We want to start a family.”

  My heart—everything—stops. What is wrong with this younger generation? They have freedom to choose who and what they want to be. What they want to do. Where they want to go. Everything my generation of women fought against, they embrace like shit got turned to diamonds.

  “What about your career?” I ask.

  “What about it?”

  “Your father and I think it’s time you joined JJ.”

  “Why would I do that?” she says. “I want to have my own line.”

  “The two are not mutually exclusive,” I say. “The company could use your creative talent.”

  “I don’t know, Grandma.”

  “Think about it, Kathryn. Your father’s not getting any younger. In five or ten years, he’ll be handing the reins over to you.”

  “What if I don’t want it?”

  “Not want it?” I yell. “This is Grandfather’s legacy.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  “Think long and hard. The decisions you make now can impact your entire career. Your life.”

  “Oh, Grandma. Career and family aren’t mutually exclusive either.”

  “Do you really think it’s so easy to juggle kids with a career? Just like that?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you given any thought—any thought at all—to who will take care of the kids while you are working?”

  “Vanessa will help,” she says. Vanessa is an academic with two published books—one about the politics of beauty and the other about feminism and fashion—who teaches in the women’s studies department at Columbia. I thought her feminism, intelligence, and prudence would eventually butt up against Kathryn’s unwavering impracticality and unbridled creative passion. If Kathryn gets an idea to do something—it could be designing a dress made from safety pins—everything else gets dropped until she successfully completes, or totally fails at, the task. From my viewpoint, what makes them such an incredible couple is how driven they both are to succeed in their careers, and I assumed, wrongly, I now realize, that the success of both their careers took priority over all else. Wouldn’t it be possible for Kathryn to succeed as a fashion icon in her own right before squelching her energy and attention by focusing on marriage and children? At her age, I had assumed I could have it all, too, and look where it got me. A few golden years before retirement, and even that only because of Jeff. I was lucky.

  “You don’t really like her, do you?” Kathryn says.

  “That’s not true and you know it. She’s one of the most comfortable people to be around. And, I love her brains.”

  “Well, I love her heart,” she says, and maybe it’s the way she says it, but I can actually feel the depth of her connection to Vanessa. Kathryn has my eyes, and with the lash extensions, her beauty can be overwhelming. But she’s a third generation Master, and having been given the tools as a child, moves fearlessly through life without the resistance older people tend to have. At the workshop, we are reminded that we are source beings. Kathryn doesn’t need reminding. She already is. Even now, I can feel her using one of the techniques to calm me down. Despite her own emotions, there is no judgement or anger or even frustration. Only light and compassion. And her attention, her appreciation for the struggle I am creating, shifts me out of the upset and fills me with warmth and love.

  “God damn it,” I say. “It’s infuriating that you’re using the techniques against me.”

  She smiles. “You’re happy for me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, I am.” I brush the hair from Kathryn’s face, and even though my heart is breaking, I can appreciate her both fully and deeply. Here is the most beautiful creation in my life.

  Then I see her. I see myself.

  A week later, Toby stops by my apartment to say hello. He has just returned from a healing workshop in Las Vegas. In his first lifetime, Toby was a grant writer and fundraiser for organizations like NAASCA, The National Association of Adult Survivors of Child Abuse, and NCADV, The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. Now, he’s laid that gauntlet down and practices as a vortex energy healer and speaker. Toby has a sixth sense, a survival skill he developed as a result of his experience with his father and me, and has a way of appearing when I’m at my worst.

  Looking for inspiration for Kathryn’s booties, I spent the past two days combing through fabric stores. Many specialize in Chantilly lace, yet none of them stand out to me. The quality of some varieties seems shoddy. Others seem too delicate. Shoemaking requires some stretching of the leather or fabric, and anything substandard or too delicate might tear. Upon returning home empty handed, I’ve sketched, scoured magazines and the Web, searching for ideas, and yet nothing comes to me. I’m as empty as the years during my first marriage. With each successive attempt, I feel a deeper sense of foreboding about the wedding, which fills me with dread and guilt.

  Toby kisses me on the cheek. He’s wearing a black henley, blue jeans, and black leather loafers that I made for him last year.

  “They look great,” I say. We enter the living area of my apartment. He glances quizzically at the magazine photos I’ve taped up on the walls and the numerous drawings, all pencil, strewn across the living room table, sofa, and floor. “A lot’s happened in the last week.”

  “Ah,” he says, his head tipping back slightly.

  “She told you?” I shouldn’t be surprised. As a child, Kathryn gravitated toward her godfather. She was in high school during her parents’ contentious divorce, and it was Toby she confided in, often refusing to stay with Alex on his allotted days, and instead, coming to stay with me so Uncle Toby could take her to the movies or dinner or for a walk through Central Park. With me, she poured her heart into every creative outlet she could find, and later at FIT, she transformed all the pain into her creations, blossoming as an artist and developing a distinct fashion style.

  “She was afraid she’d disappoint you,” Toby says.

  “Well,”
I say, stacking the papers and tossing them all aside and sitting down. “How was your workshop?”

  “Successful.” He nods. “Lots of meditation. Lots of gambling. What more could you want?”

  “How those even go together in the same sentence is beyond me.”

  “It’s all energy, you know that. I need to be certain I’m moving it correctly. As a healer, I mean. The craps table let me see how I was moving it. The dice gave me just the validation I needed.” He grins. “I made a good three bucks.”

  “Wow.”

  “Not bad for a wedding present.”

  I bite my lip. Try to keep the hurt from leaking out.

  “Come. Let’s go for a float,” he says, getting to his feet. He’s told me about them before. Sensory deprivation tanks can induce a relaxed, meditative state. Sometimes euphoria. He stands with his back to the window. The sun hangs low in the sky behind him.

  “You have an appointment?” I ask, squinting.

  “In less than an hour.” He stands up from the sofa. He offers to give me his appointment if the other float tank is not available when we arrive. I consider it because it’s Monday, meditation night. I’d like to avoid Cameron. This will give me something to do instead.

  “I don’t know. What if I go crazy in there?” I wave a hand at all the drawings and pin ups. “I’ve got plenty to do.”

  “How can you create when you’re sitting in upset and discouragement?”

  I glance at the mess. “Literally.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom.” He extends an arm to me. “I’ll be there with you.”

  I take my son’s hand.

  The float is a lime-tiled room within a room. Almost like an enclosed bath. The owner and I stand in the outer room while Toby hovers in the doorway. The owner, a gangly man in his 70s, tells me it has been in existence since the 60s. He explains that the water is kept at skin temperature, 94.5 degrees, and is saturated with epsom salts so that the body “floats” rather than sinks to the bottom. He points at the u-shaped pillow in the corner, indicating that it may be best to use it to keep from straining my neck. Finally, he insists that everyone must shower before entering.