“Let’s get some coffee into those veins then and perk you right up,” Bitsy says, walking toward the Keurig machine. She pops it open and fiddles with it. “How do you even work this thing? Why does everything have to be so complex these days? What are these little cup jobs?”
“They’re called pods, Mom. Let me do that.”
Bitsy swats her hand away. “Not a chance. If I am going to keep up with you girls and all of your ‘technology,’” she says, making air quotes, “I must force myself to learn.”
Bitsy presses a button. The machine growls. “Success!” she declares, clapping her hands, ducking and squinting to watch the coffee drip.
“Just so you know, you missed quite the war over the seating chart at dinner last night,” her mother says. “Your sister and I have very different ideas of how to do it. I was counting on you to be there to play peacekeeper.”
“Um, I might need you to add a plus-one for me,” Smith says sheepishly.
“My, my. Is it the guy from last night?” her mother says, grinning. “I knew you’d pull something off in the eleventh hour.”
“Yes, Bits, the guy from last night,” Smith says. She thinks back to college, marvels at the fact that she and Tate were on that campus together for four years but barely exchanged a word. They ran in different circles. He seemed quiet, brooding, artistic. All these years later, he has a conspicuous edge to him, an endearing pinch of cockiness. Is it the money? Smith doesn’t give two shits about the money. She knows tons of people, of men, with money and not one of them has made her feel what she felt with Tate last night. Last night was about far more than money.
And now she wants him to come to this wedding, but what’s to say this will actually happen? Will he even remember last night? She hopes so. They had fun. It can’t all be in her head. If they weren’t having such a good time, they wouldn’t have spent all those hours together. There were plenty of opportunities for him to take off. What does he think of her? Will he even call?
Her head is cracked and all she wants to do is get into bed and sleep it off. She looks around the apartment and thinks of Clio, how nice it was to wake up and have her here yesterday morning like old times. But Clio’s moving on. She says she’s not sure, but Smith has more confidence that it will happen. She’ll be near but far, in a new place, with a man, beginning a life. Just like her sister.
Smith thinks of the day ahead. Remembers that she has an appointment. A new client named Adelaide Loring. Smith recalls their brief phone call, how this soft-spoken woman mentioned right away her reason for calling: that her husband had died recently, and she was finally feeling ready to go through and purge her house of some of his things. Smith retrieves her phone from the bathroom and carries it back with her to the kitchen, where she plugs it in, and stands drinking coffee with her mother. She looks at her calendar for the day.
8:00 A.M. Meditate!
10:00 A.M. Client meeting
1 P.M. Sally’s final fitting
4 P.M. Pick up takeout containers for jelly beans
5 P.M. Write speech!
7 P.M. Life coach
She checks her e-mail. It’s all a bunch of junk—holiday promotions and other spam, which she dutifully deletes—but then she sees Asad’s name in her inbox and her heart drops inside her. She’s physically shaken; hot coffee splashes all over her, soaking through her robe, leaving angry red blotches on her chest.
Her mother grabs a dish towel and runs it under cold water, hands it to Smith, concern and judgment fighting in her eyes. “Really, Smith.”
“You should go, Mom,” Smith says. “I have to pull myself together for a client meeting.”
“You will do it. You always pull it off. You’re the eel’s ankle.”
Smith laughs. “Good one. I like it even better even than the oyster’s earrings. I’m not sure I believe anything you’re saying, but I’m too hungover to argue. Just need a few tea bags on the eyes and a shower and I’ll be as good as new. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? Ha. That’s what mothers do. Day and night. Night and day. We worry and then we worry some more and then we worry about our worrying. You’ll see one day.”
Will she?
“Please don’t forget the fitting, though. It will break your sister’s heart if you miss it.”
Smith nods as her mother leaves. She knows all too well about broken hearts.
8:30AM
“I told him something I never told you.”
Smith sits in the bay window of her living room and waits for the front door to close behind her mother. Her hands tremble. She hasn’t seen Asad or spoken to him since that traumatic morning at the Time Warner Center when they agreed to meet so she could return the ring.
She opens his e-mail and reads.
To: Anderson, Smith
From: Rahman, Asad
Time: 7:12 a.m.
Subject: RE: 7 THINNGS
Smith,
I must say that I was startled to find your note upon waking up this morning.
Shit. She stops. Scrolls down. Sees that she sent him an e-mail at 1:19 a.m. She cringes as she reads her own words.
To: Rahman, Asad
From: Anderson, Smith
Time: 1:19 a.m.
Subject: 7 THINNGS
Asad,
You said you love me too much to continue this. I went along with it bc what am I supposed to do, pitch a fit & say noooo but the truth is I still don’t understand what happned with us. One moment we were fine, no amazing, eating turkey and pie with my family, and you are distant and I ask why and then everything falls apart.
I also don’t get how you can already be MARRIED to someone your parents fuckin picked for u. how does this work again? Anyway, I know you are moving on, fuck hate that—moving on—but now I think I am too. Maybe im finally ready?
At Yale game yestrday, I talked to this guy. We couldn’t stop talking, like when you and I met. Remember that? And we went OUT and for the first time since we broke, I had FUN. I dodnt feel so melancholy. I think I like really like him.
Assy, I told him something I never told you. I was too scared to tell you. Is that strange? I don’t even know why I’m telling you this now.
Sally is getting married on Saturday. I’m happy for them, but also pissed because they don’t have fractioin of what we had. Angry because that should have been us. We wanted that, didn’t we?
It still kills me tht I was your secret—for so long. Im better then beings someones secrt.
The good news though is that I’m OKAY. I just wanted you to know that. I know that morning at time warner was a disaster, but I’m okay now.
I made a lst because I know you like lists.. that u dont have the attention spn to read something w/o njmbers in it
Love, Smith
She might be sick again. She honestly might be sick again. She heads for the bathroom, hand over mouth, reading his response en route.
To: Anderson, Smith
From: Rahman, Asad
Time: 7:12 a.m.
Subject: RE: 7 THINNGS
Smith,
I must say that I was startled to find your note this morning.
I must also say that I was pleased. You and I both know that you don’t just stop thinking about someone who has been such a big part of your life. I’ve been thinking about you too, about the good time we had together. I do still think it’s best for us not to talk. You and I both know this is the way things need to be. I also must respect Kandira and her wishes. We have some good news: she’s pregnant. We’re expecting a boy.
It makes me happy to hear you are moving on, too. Enjoy the wedding this weekend. I hope it’s a joyful time for you and your family. Please give the bride my best.
Asad
A baby. He’s having a baby. A punch in the gut.
Kandira and her wishes? Smith knows it’s not this poor girl’s fault, that his newly minted wife had nothing to do with their demise, that she was just a pawn in Asad’s mother’s game,
a nice Punjabi girl, far better suited for her perfect boy than Smith. Looking back, Smith feels foolish for thinking their plan would work, but oh how she believed that it would.
They met through Sally; Asad was a neurosurgery resident at Columbia while Sally was in medical school there and he came to one of Sally’s parties. He stood quietly in the corner and Smith walked over and introduced herself. His eyes were dark and intense but with a discernible playfulness underneath. They talked for hours and Smith behaved herself, conversing politely, keeping her hands to herself even though she’d never in her life felt an attraction this intense. By the end of the evening, she’d had a few too many drinks and it took every ounce of restraint she had not to yank him next door to her apartment and run her hands all over his smooth, whiskey skin.
She learned that night that he grew up in Pakistan but came to the States for college at Harvard before doing medical school at Columbia, and he’d never gone back. They began dating. He worked endless hours at the hospital but would come over late at night in his scrubs with a good bottle of wine that they’d share in bed. Time meant nothing to them; they’d stay up all night having sex again and again. He was adventurous between the sheets, introducing her to new positions and porn and toys. He seemed embarrassed by his own creativity, but Smith encouraged him and was amply rewarded for her encouragement. They slept little and it amazed her that they could function at all during the day, but function they did, and beautifully, riding the adrenaline of new love.
Things became serious fast. Smith introduced him to her parents, knowing that they would startle at her suitor. He was far from the preppy country-clubbing banker they’d hoped for, but Bitsy and Thatch put on a good show and were outwardly gracious toward him, all gentility and manners and the pretense of open-mindedness, and he had gone to Harvard, after all, but behind the scenes, they expressed their grave reservations about Smith’s and Asad’s markedly “different backgrounds.” Smith delighted some in seeing them squirm; she’d always derived some pleasure in playing the rebel to Sally’s good girl.
It’s true that her parents’ objections only made Smith’s desire for Asad more insatiable, but shit, she loved the guy in a way she didn’t know was possible. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. She’d been around smart people all her life, but his intelligence was in a different category. His mind, like his body, was downright exquisite. They met more than two years ago and spoke about marriage from the very beginning. After a year of dating, he proposed. She told her parents, but the news didn’t seem to register. Bitsy, an old-fashioned romantic, barely made a fuss. Thatcher couldn’t be bothered. It was as if they thought this was all a childish game of rebellion, that it would never happen, but Smith pushed on, determined to marry him. Sally was Sally, butterflies and rainbows of excitement; she talked of planning a bachelorette party.
Smith and Asad came up with a plan with regard to his parents: They would marry quietly at city hall before Christmas and honeymoon after. Only when they returned would he communicate the news to his conservative family, who he was certain would disapprove at first and then come around. They’d wait for emotions to settle and then have a big party in New York City in the springtime and travel to Pakistan over the summer for celebrations there. A year later, she would be pregnant.
Smith believed it would all work out. She looked into converting to Islam, even though Asad insisted this wasn’t necessary. It was something she felt compelled to do, for him, to convey how much she cared and wanted this. She felt no real allegiance to Christianity and was determined to do what she could to ensure acceptance by his family.
When their engagement ended inexplicably right after Thanksgiving, Smith cried for days on end. She stayed in her big Pratesi-clad bed, where they’d spent all those passionate nights. She completely lost her appetite and canceled dozens of appointments with clients. Everyone was terribly worried about her. She lost weight. Everyone said she looked great. Weeks blurred by and just as she was starting to function again, Sally phoned to announce that she was engaged. She and Briggs were in the Caribbean and he had proposed underwater on a scuba-diving expedition. The phone connection was bad and there was a bunch of static, but the unapologetic glee in her sister’s voice was grating and all Smith could think was: What the fuck? Are you kidding me? A more extreme version of what Smith felt yesterday when Clio told her about Henry and the apartment.
Sally and Clio are wonderful people, her two favorite people in the world, and, yes, they deserve love and happiness, but it’s just that Smith was sure she would be the first to lock it in and settle down. Is this jealousy or envy? What’s the difference again? Either way, it’s awful.
Smith drops her phone on her unmade bed. She walks to the window, presses her hands and forehead to the glass and stares out. The trees dance in the wind. Down below, dogs are walked and cars blur by, but it’s the strollers that pop most vividly from the gray. She wills herself not to cry.
She pulls the covers down on her bed and climbs in, reaches for her phone and rereads the e-mail she sent, cringing at each typo and each hint of desperation.
I told him something I never told you.
She pauses and remembers just what she told Tate.
She’s embarrassed, but it’s more than this. She’s confused. It’s unclear why she would tell someone she barely knows something so private, something she was convinced she had moved beyond long ago. Why is this coming up now? It’s also unclear, not to mention highly unsettling, why she sent a drunken missive to Asad. The timing of all of this is beyond troubling; the last thing she needs is such blatant self-sabotage the week of her sister’s wedding.
It’s one thing to go out and have a little fun, but this today is not fun. She will delete the messages, pretend none of this happened, get on with things. She’s always been good at doing this, dusting off, moving on, pretending, always pretending that everything is fine. Because, in the grand scheme, everything is fine. People send e-mails while drunk, people’s exes have babies, people’s sisters get married, people’s roommates move out.
It’s just that it’s happening all at once. Thank God she’s speaking with her life coach tonight. Hiring Laura was one of her more inspired ideas. She doesn’t care if people roll their eyes or scoff, it’s been one of the best things she’s done for herself. She didn’t need therapy, someone to sit and squint and ask her about her past and dissect her dreams and pinpoint some lurking pathology; she needed someone to give her a kick in the butt and help her piece her life back together in a proactive way. That’s exactly what Laura’s done.
Right now, she does the only thing she can think to do . . . She texts Clio.
Smith: Fuck. Drank a MILLION cocktails. Invited Tate to wedding. Told him what happened freshman year. I think I like him. Maybe. THEN e-mailed Asad
Clio: Oh my.
Smith: Oh my is right. His wife is pregnant. I’m sick.
Clio: Shit. Are you okay?
Smith: Not remotely. Will call after meeting. How did things go with Henry?
Clio: Asked him to come home with me for tgiving, but not sure he can get away from the hotel. Anxious, but fingers crossed.
Smith: It will be fine! I bet he finds a way to come. He DIGS u.
Clio: Hope you’re right.
Her instinct is to type one final text. Something sunny to end on, something upbeat and glass-half-full. I’ll be fine. It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. But she doesn’t. Because it’s not even close to true. She has no idea if she’ll be fine. She has no idea if any of this shit is okay. Maybe Clio should worry about her. Smith can’t remember the last time she felt this low.
She looks around the room. It’s all fucking wrong. The cream-colored couch she had custom-made floats in the center of the space, flanked by two antique end tables she found in Paris. Two powder-blue chairs she found at a Sotheby’s auction. The surfaces are all clear, devoid of life. No knickknacks. Just two photographs. One of her family on a beach in Cannes. She and Sally ha
ve tanned skin and toothless smiles. Her parents perch behind them. The other photo is the one of Smith and Clio on graduation day at Yale, smiles so wide it hurts to look at them. Her mother’s words ring in her ears: She looks so young. Not a day over twenty-five.
Fuck.
She checks the time. She has more than an hour, which leaves plenty of time to turn this around. She will meditate. She’s become a decent meditator, though it’s proven hard to clear the cobwebs of her busy life. She’s learned to try to bring it back to the present moment. Meditating seems to help a little. Yes, that’s what she will do. She sits up, flings her legs over the side of the bed, straightens her spine, closes her eyes, focuses on her breath.
In and out.
In and out.
It doesn’t work this time. Instead of emptying out, her mind tangles with thoughts she can’t control.
I will be alone.
Did he see me naked?
How much lo mein did I eat?
I’m fucking fat.
My father is a psychopath.
I hope his baby’s ugly.
I’m an awful person.
Not a day over twenty-five.
How will I make it through my meeting?
Did I order enough jelly beans for the hotel bags?
He will never call. Why would he?
She opens her eyes. Stands up. This bullshit is making it worse. She marches to the kitchen, wipes down every surface, makes a pot of chamomile tea. She opens the fridge. It bursts with fresh vegetables she bought from the organic section of Fairway yesterday. Her plan had been to chop them all and store them in their glass Tupperware as she does every Sunday, but instead of chopping, she was out.
She grabs a big bunch of kale. Rinses it, dries each leaf thoroughly. She readies the rest of the ingredients for her vegan breakfast shake—cashew-nut butter and almond milk and frozen organic blackberries and a shot of sea buckthorn to strengthen her hair and nails. She tosses it all in the blender and turns it on. The sound is mechanical and soothing. Only now does she let herself cry.
The Ramblers Page 9