The problem was, as my mom had reminded me this morning, the head of the department and I didn’t get along. He’d hired me eight years ago and at first he’d been my cheerleader. But that had changed as my fertility treatments had intensified. He wasn’t wrong to complain. During IVF cycles, I would come in late after my morning visits to the clinic. Often I would call in sick. But what irked him the most was my missing dinners and fund-raising events. One of my responsibilities as an associate curator was to schmooze with donors, dealers, and collectors, or, as it was subtly stated in my job description, “to actively cultivate potential sponsors.” And I couldn’t do that from home.
I was doing my best to make up for the hours I missed, staying late at the office, even doing work at home on weekends. But he only seemed to notice my shortcomings and had in effect put me on notice a few months ago.
I was hoping to finish the research for a piece we wanted to include in the Parmigianino show—an exquisite drawing in brown ink with brown wash. It was the only surviving study for the complete composition of the altarpiece known as The Vision of Saint Jerome, painted for the church of San Salvatore in Lauro, in Rome. The painting was now at the National Gallery, and my colleague at the European Paintings Department was working on the loan for it while I secured the drawing from the British Museum so that we could exhibit them side by side. I was so absorbed in the report that when the phone rang, I nearly jumped. I remembered it pinging a few times earlier with texts. Worried it was urgent, I dug into my purse, pulling out my wallet, a packet of tissues, my bronzer—I could never find the damn phone when it was ringing—until I finally felt it in an inside pocket. In the rush to answer before the call went to voice mail, I barely noticed it was a 646 number.
“Hello?” I said, assuming it was one of the nurses from the clinic. They called from different 646 extensions.
“Hey, it’s Katya!”
I nearly dropped the phone. While I’d worried that she might call, I hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days after we’d met.
“Are you at work?”
“I am,” I said hesitantly. “Why?”
“I was Rollerblading in the park and as I passed the museum I thought of you,” she said. “All these years in New York, I’ve never been to the Met.”
“Oh.”
“So here I am!” she squeaked with delight. “In the lobby.”
My legs felt weak. My stomach clenched.
“I sent you a few texts but when I didn’t hear back,” she continued, “I thought I’d call.”
“Sorry, it’s been busy around here and I haven’t looked at my phone.”
“I’m sure you have work to do,” she went on, clearly sensing my hesitation, “but maybe you can point me in the right direction. Show me which galleries to see.”
What could I do? I told her to wait for me by the information desk and grabbed the chain with my ID and keys. “I’ll be right back,” I told my boss’s assistant and, motioning with my head toward his closed door, added, “in case he’s looking for me.”
* * *
Katya was standing by one of the flower arrangements in the lobby, dressed in colorful purple, green, and yellow leggings, a white tank top, and sneakers. She must have checked in her Rollerblades since she was empty-handed except for a small denim cross-body bag. Seeing me approach, she smiled widely and took a step forward. “This must be the biggest, most beautiful bouquet of flowers ever,” she said, and gave me a hug. “What an amazing place. I can’t believe this is your office.”
I laughed. “Except that my work space and desk are just as crappy as any other office.”
“Oh, really? Can I see it?” Noticing my reluctance, she added, “I don’t mean now. At the end. After I’m done touring.”
“Sure,” I said, hoping she would forget about it. I took a folded map from the information desk and circled some of the highlights—the Egyptian wing, the Impressionists, the European paintings—as well as a few of my favorite places tucked away in dark corners, spared from the crowds. Like the Chinese garden, the rooms with eighteenth-century furniture in the American wing, the little fountain in the Lehman Collection downstairs.
“Hopefully, I’ll find at least one of them,” Katya said, looking at the map with an expression of doubt and confusion.
I felt guilty and told her to text me when she was done with the main galleries. I’d come meet her then and show her whatever she hadn’t been able to find. “I usually go get coffee in the afternoon anyway.”
She lit up. “Perfect. I’d actually love to join you for some coffee. I’ll come pick you up. What department do you work in?”
* * *
Katya texted me at ten to four and I went out to get her. It felt weird bringing her to my office. Even Angie hadn’t seen where I worked. This is worse than stalking, I thought as I swiped my card to the department’s entrance with Katya at my side. I hadn’t just followed my donor; I’d inserted myself into her life. It was no excuse that she had made the next move and was the one keeping the “friendship” going. She had no idea who I was.
“At least you have a window,” Katya said as we walked into my office.
“Not much of a view.” It faced the wall of another wing of the museum, so close I could nearly touch it. “But I still get to hear the traffic on Fifth.”
Katya laughed and came over to check it out. “Are these your parents?” she asked, looking at my framed photos on the windowsill above my desk.
“Long time ago,” I said as she picked up the frame. “When I was a kid.”
It was perhaps the first photo I’d ever taken, at least the first one I remembered. I was in second grade. It must have been at some point before Christmas because we’d gone to Marshall Field’s, where we’d had lunch under the tree, then strolled along State Street, looking at the windows. It had snowed the day before and the street was picture-perfect with holiday displays and shoppers decked out in coats and furry hats. Despite the frigid temperature, we were in no hurry to go back home. My parents were already fighting at that time, but that day they were both in an exceptionally good mood. They’d alternated posing for photos, squatting next to me in front of window displays and pretending they didn’t know I held my fingers as bunny ears over their heads. I don’t recall how I came to ask if I could take a photo of them sitting on a bench in front of one of the stores, but I remember the surprised look they exchanged and then my dad saying, “Why not?” He focused the camera for me, told me to hold it still before pressing the button, and rushed to join my mother on the bench. I was so proud when a few days later my mom returned home with the developed film and pronounced my photo the best one of the bunch. Never mind that the horizon was somewhat tilted. My parents looked great and, most important, happy.
A year later, when my father left us and my mother dove into the photo albums with vengeance, tearing up every image of the two of them, I’d hidden this one in a box of old toys in the back of my closet.
“Your mother is beautiful,” Katya said. “I can tell she was a gymnast. So graceful.” I was used to people commenting on my mother’s looks. When I was growing up, my girlfriends had been captivated by her beauty. But what good was it when it hadn’t been enough to keep my dad around? As I’d watched one husband after another leave her, I’d sworn that when I grew up, I wouldn’t let men break my heart.
Ha, right.
“Oh, wow, where is that?” Katya asked, picking up a photo that Tyler had taken of me on top of Kilimanjaro. There had been a picture of the two of us at the summit in that frame just a few weeks ago.
“Seriously?” Katya said after I told her where it was. “Are you a climber?”
“More of a hiker really.” I took the photo from her. “Was anyway. A gazillion years ago.”
“Not anymore?”
I shrugged. “No time.”
“Don’t you get v
acations?”
“Sure, but . . .” How could I tell her that I’d used up my vacations on IVF procedures: a few days for the retrieval surgeries, a few days to mourn a failed cycle or a miscarriage, and it all piled up. To make up for it, Tyler and I would rent a house in the Catskills for a long weekend or visit friends in the Hamptons. But in the past couple of years, we hadn’t even done that. “Let’s go,” I said, putting the frame back in its place. “I don’t have much time.”
I took her to the staff cafeteria, where we both ordered lattes (decaf for me). “You drink lattes, too?” Katya said. “I love lattes.” I nodded, trying to ignore the fact that it was my second one of the day. She insisted on paying to thank me for the tour, which made me feel guilty for not spending more time with her in the galleries. We sat in the back by the vending machines and were talking about the art she’d seen, my work, what she wanted to do after graduation—or rather, I’d just asked her about it—when out of the blue, Katya looked at me and said, “Come dancing with me on Saturday.”
I laughed. “God, no.”
“You never know. Maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“I can’t possibly think about guys right now.”
“Why not?” she said, thrusting her arms out, palms up, with flair. There was a breathless energy about her, an excitability that was contagious.
I tried to picture myself talking to a stranger in a bar, but all I could see was Tyler sitting on the stool across from me on our first proper date after we’d returned from Kilimanjaro, cradling my knees with his and peering into my eyes as he prodded me to tell him stories about my childhood, school, my job.
“Oh, c’mon.” Katya tilted her head like a little girl asking for a doll. “We’ll go to Mehanata.”
“Where?”
“The Bulgarian place on Ludlow. Tell me you’ve been there.”
I shook my head, took a sip of coffee.
“Then we absolutely have to go,” she said. “C’mon. What else are you going to do on a Saturday evening? Stay home and mope over the man who left you for another woman? I’m not saying that you should jump into another relationship. Just have some fun. Before the baby comes. It’s Mother’s Day weekend, after all.”
She was right. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to feel wretched on that particular holiday, avoiding social media and the endless images of mothers with their babies. If all went according to plan, I’d be celebrating next year, too. I was touched and flattered that Katya wanted to hang out with me, even if I didn’t understand it. We barely even knew each other. But that was Katya for you. She’d hugged me the other day on the street just because I was Bulgarian.
“You’re sweet but I can’t,” I said. I wasn’t even tempted. Ten years ago I’d have leapt at the opportunity to go dancing at some trendy Bulgarian club downtown. I used to be the girl who had to try everything. Climb every mountain.
“I’m not going to take no for an answer,” Katya said.
“I really don’t feel like—”
“Do it for me, then. See, the girls in school don’t like me much and I . . .” She leaned closer over the table and touched my arm. “Please! I don’t want to go alone.”
How could I say no? If it weren’t for Katya, I wouldn’t be pregnant right now. I owed her that much and more.
9.
KATYA
THEN
Josh looked good today, like he’d made an effort. I wondered if he had a date. He was wearing a black T-shirt under a gray jacket and black jeans. It was a much better look for him than slacks and a shirt, and I told him so. He didn’t exactly blush but he was clearly caught off guard. “Thanks,” he said, and scrambled to get his pen and pad. “So how are you feeling today?”
I shrugged. Rain fell steadily outside, drumming on the windowsill. It was only the beginning of October but the weather had already turned cold and gray. Josh’s eighth-floor office at the counseling center overlooked the campus, and from where I sat, I could see Hamilton Hall’s green copper rooftop and a snippet of the dome atop Low Library.
“I’ve started running again,” I finally said. “I was on the cross-country team back in high school.” I watched him make a note of it on his pad. Or so I assumed. For all I knew, he was doodling. “I love the punishing physicality of it, feeling light-headed and gasping for air. My mind goes blank. It’s an awesome feeling.”
Josh nodded. Not once or twice but continuously, like those bobble heads on car dashboards. “Sounds like you enjoy running.”
It used to drive me crazy when he’d point out the obvious. But I’d been seeing him for a few weeks now, long enough to figure out that it was his way of nudging me to continue. He would take what I’d said and wrap it up into a neat short sentence with a bow on top, then hand it back to me.
“It helps me sleep better,” I said. “Some nights, anyway.”
“You have trouble sleeping?”
I looked at my wet shoes; the gray suede at the toes had turned nearly black. I’d been avoiding going there but it was too late now. I’d opened the can of worms. “Being busy helps,” I said. “Loading up on classes and activities fills up the hours. But there is no escape during the night. The nightmares find me anywhere.”
He shifted on his chair and leaned closer. “Tell me about your nightmares.”
“Memory is a funny thing,” I said. “You can’t trick it by simply changing your address.”
“Do you dream about something that happened? Back home?”
I looked up at the Roman profile stain on the ceiling. After all this time, it had become familiar, like a good friend I met up with once a week. I should give him a name, I thought before turning back to Josh. He was looking at me intently, expectantly. But I wasn’t ready to talk about my nightmares. “Are you on Tinder?” I asked instead.
He cocked an eyebrow—a question mark and a reproach all at once.
I was not supposed to ask him personal questions. Any questions really. I couldn’t even ask what he thought I should do when I was at a crossroads. He was there to help me figure it out myself, not to make decisions for me. That was what he’d told me anyway back when I’d started seeing him. He wasn’t a coach, he’d said. He was a mental-health counselor. When I’d pointed out that “to counsel” means to advise, he’d said that he counseled on people’s emotions, not actions.
“What I mean is, you know how Tinder works, right?” I said. “Or should I explain?”
He smiled. Shook his head like a father displeased with his naughty but clever daughter. “No need to.”
I suppressed my I-got-you grin. Not that I’d doubted that he would be on Tinder. Weren’t all guys?
“I don’t mind Tinder,” I said. “It’s better than hooking up at the drunken campus parties. But you need to have thick skin. Guys can be such assholes online. God forbid you turn them down. This girl in my dorm, Courtney, was in tears the other night over some moron’s insults. Nobody likes rejection but that’s the whole point of the app—if you can’t take it, don’t sign up. Instead, the guy went mental after she made it clear she wasn’t interested. ‘You fat cow,’ he messaged her, ‘I wasn’t even into you but thought a fat girl like you should be an easy fuck.’ Can you believe it?”
Josh watched me with narrowed eyes, seemingly unmoved. I knew what he was thinking: What the hell does Tinder have to do with what we were talking about? I returned the stare. So what if I was stalling? He could call me on it if he wanted to.
“When I want to get laid, I go to a bar,” I said, and went on to tell Josh about the hot guy I’d met the other night. I didn’t mention the fake ID and he didn’t ask. That’s the beauty of shrinks. They can’t tell you what to do, but they can’t judge you, either. Josh was pissing me off today for some reason, so I told him about my night in detail. I took my time describing how awesome the guy was. Gray-blue eyes. Straight dark hair swept
to the side. Shirt unbuttoned. No white T-shirt showing under it. I never understood why most American guys do that. “It’s such a turn-off,” I told Josh. “I like to unbutton the guy’s shirt, working my way down as I kiss his neck, my lips moving lower with each button, tracing his chest, his abs, all the way to his zipper.”
I paused to let the image sink in before I added, “I couldn’t do that with a T-shirt, could I?”
Poor Josh. He averted his gaze but couldn’t hide his embarrassment. He was picturing me doing it to him. That had been the whole point.
I ran my tongue over my upper lip and went on with the story.
I’d known the guy was going to be hot in bed just by looking at his hands, the way he held them confidently on his thighs as he leaned forward talking to me. Strong, knowing hands. I liked older guys. The boys on campus were such kids. And the girls, having to get smashed to have sex. What was the point if you weren’t going to remember it the next day? That was why I preferred to get away from campus and the neighborhood bars. I went out on my own. I didn’t get the whole gaggle-of-girls thing. Pretending to have a grand time, barely listening to what your girlfriends are saying because you’re scanning the place, hoping some guy will come talk to you.
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