by Lisa Beazley
We arrived home and shared the good news about Quinn’s hand with Mom and Joey, who had their own good news: A trip to the toy store had garnered little Batman and Robin figures with accompanying Batmobiles and Batcycles. The boys immediately busied themselves, and Mom showed me a flyer she’d picked up for some famous storyteller coming to the bookstore. Great. We would definitely go, I promised, walking into my room.
“I just need to take care of something on the computer real quick,” I hollered over my shoulder, leaving the door slightly ajar. Typing “Slow News Sisters” into Google, I held my breath. After four entries dedicated to the Pointer Sisters’ song “Slow Hand,” my heart rate began to slow. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But then I saw the fifth link: The Slow News Sisters. I clicked on it, and there it was, my blog. It looked exactly how I had left it. Can this be right? I thought. Then I noticed a little gray “263” at the bottom of the most recent letter, clicked on it, and watched in horror as pages and pages of comments unfurled. The comments were all dated in the past two weeks, but almost all of the letters had been commented on, going all the way back to January. Yet another wave of panic washed over me, and I scrambled to find the privacy settings. The shock mixed with adrenaline had me struggling to remember basic computer skills, and I fumbled around until I found it. Uncheck public, check private. Change password. Confirm password. There. I moved on to Twitter and searched for “SlowNewsSisters,” where I discovered “#TeamCassie” and “#TeamSid.” People were pitting us against each other. I was further befuddled when the tiny URLs took me right back to my blog, as if the doors were still wide-open. Was this because the computer knew it was me? I had so many other questions, most of them beyond the scope of any Geek Squad. I’m sure it was private and even regularly double-checked the settings, so how did this happen? Did one of the kids inadvertently make it public? Did Mom use my laptop and somehow press something? Did she see it? How could I have been so stupid as to think this could never happen? Who in the hell are GaryX and Kitty69 and HamsterSandwich, and why are they talking about Sid and me like they know us? One of the (many) things that surprised me was that despite the name of the blog, a lot of people didn’t seem to be clear on the relationship between Sid and me, perhaps because of her name. There was a raging debate among a few of the commenters over whether we were sisters or a couple. All this time, Mom had still been talking to me—asking questions about what the doctor said, telling me about a rude woman at the bookstore who had admonished Joey for not using his indoor voice—to and I made weak efforts to respond, but my scalp was buzzing and my ears were ringing, making communication difficult. I wanted to slam the door and curl into the fetal position, but Mom wouldn’t stop with the small talk, so I closed my laptop, went to the bathroom to wash my hands and face, and rejoined her and the boys. As if on cue, she said, “Oh, this is weird. I just had a voice mail from Joanne Stryker asking me if you and Sid were some famous sisters on the Internet. The Bad News Sisters? Isn’t that the strangest thing?” I produced a sort of guttural expression of confusion, hoping to summarily dismiss the topic. My apartment suddenly seemed even smaller than usual, and I longed to scurry down a hall to, say, find a ringing phone or investigate a crying child. But I had just come out of the bathroom, so there was nowhere to go. Looking around for something to put between us, the best I could do was open the fridge and stick my head inside. I eventually grabbed us each a can of Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda. If Mom hadn’t been there, I’d have mixed it with the Stoli from the freezer, but it wasn’t even three o’clock on a Wednesday and I’d hate to give her something else to worry about. I started shooting enthusiastic questions to the boys about what they were doing, with the aim of shifting Mom’s attention to them. But my normally loquacious and needy little ones were of no help. They were in a new-toy trance, and all I could get out of them were dismissive grunts. If Mom found any sort of ironic satisfaction in that, she didn’t let on. Unable to imagine getting through an afternoon of chatting with Mom, given my scrambling brain, I played my ace. “Ugh. I’m not feeling well all of a sudden,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Oh, hon,” Mom said, coming over to feel my forehead. “I thought you looked a little peaked. Go lie down. Get some rest. I’ll take the boys to the park and then we’ll get dinner at the Hudson. I’ll bring you some chicken soup. How’s that sound?” Mom could be a real gem sometimes. I think she might have a touch of that disorder where you want your children to be sick, because that’s when she’s at her best. Growing up, we stayed home from school whenever we had sore throats or looked flushed. I missed half of first grade before we figured out that I was allergic to cats and got rid of the stray we had taken in that summer. Sid and I joke that her version of heaven is for us to be mildly ill—sick enough to have to stay home, but well enough to play a game of Oh Hell or watch a Turner Classic Movie with her—lying on the sofa under crocheted afghans, asking meekly for chicken soup and ginger ale. I blame her for my inability to function when I have a cold. Leo’s mom—while she doted on her boys regularly—did the opposite when they complained of a cold or a toothache. Toughness was expected, weakness not rewarded. So, while Leo expects a round of applause for unloading the dishwasher, he soldiers through a nasty case of the flu or a hangover with hardly a word. I sat on my bed and stared at my closed laptop, unable to bring myself to take another peek. I felt like I might cry, but crying seemed too simple a reaction. The situation was so complex that I was not yet fully grasping it. I also worried that if I started to cry, it would be the loud blubbering sort that would attract the attention of Mom and the boys. If I could just write to Sid, I might be able to think clearly. Writing to her had become my destressing ritual, its effects at least as great as a cigarette, a brisk jog, or breathing exercises. I retrieved a pen and a zebra notecard from the box under my bed, but for the first time since that inaugural letter to her back in January, I felt paralyzed, unable to let my pen mar the surface of that creamy mottled paper. Several minutes passed and I still had nothing. Suddenly, I remembered that I hadn’t checked the mail since yesterday. By then Mom and the boys had left, so no one was there to see me sprinting though the apartment and down to the mailboxes like a maniac. Shaking, I turned the key in that metal box marked “2K” and lurched at the letter inside like it might scamper away. Taking the stairs back up two at a time, I was with it enough to know that Sid’s letter wouldn’t contain the panacea, but for a few minutes it could make me forget. Singapore
August 2 Dear Cassie,
When it rains it pours, doesn’t it? I’m feeling a bit foolish today. Susan, one of the helpers in my bank group, lied to me about her son needing an operation. I loaned her $400, and she disappeared. Then I noticed that all of the money in my bank was missing—I had one of those accordion files with a folder for each helper, and the whole thing is gone. I had $1,100 in there. The other helpers tell me she has a boyfriend in Malaysia whom she may have gone to live with. The money’s not the problem—I can replace $1,500 without Adrian even noticing. But still, for this to happen while I’m dealing with an adulterous husband is just a bit much. Of course, everyone is talking about it—the money, not the adultery (as far as I know!). The helpers at the playground are all abuzz, and the family who employed her is none too pleased with me, to say the least. Rumors are swirling about me funneling young women to Malaysia, I’m sure. In related news, I have my first “frenemy” (one of River’s girlfriends taught me that one). This mom in my condo—Bridget from Minneapolis—who resents me trying to help these women just stopped over to “make sure I was all right.” But actually, it was to gloat. She was all, “I’m just relieved that you see now what they’re capable of.” Watching her stand there in her $900 sundress, her fake boobs, and her keratin-treated hair, having her “I told you so” moment, I felt—well, I felt nothing really. She’s nothing to me, and having this confirmation of her mean spirit actually alleviates me of some of the guilt I have over being
unable to be a friend to her. The thing is, she’s always popping up and acting overly familiar with me. Plopping down next to me at the pool, bringing over muffins (made by her helper) for no reason, stopping by with her little boy for a playdate. Sounds nice, right? But she constantly gossips and complains. We’re the only Americans in our condo, and I think she assumed we were going to be good friends. When we went for coffee that first time, I knew immediately that was not to be. I was in the process of interviewing helpers and she was trying to give me advice, and it was the most bigoted stuff I’ve heard. I don’t think she’s all bad, just wrong about so many things and really sort of mean as a result. How do I get rid of her? I’m no good at this. Love, Sid I let myself escape into her letter, and my heart ached for her. Stupid Adrian. Stupid Bridget. Stupid me. When it rains, it pours: oh, if you only knew, big sister. Knowing something about her that she didn’t made me feel dirty and sad. It crossed my mind to just call her and tell her exactly what had happened—that I chose the dumbest method imaginable to preserve our letters. That I wanted them to be saved only for us, all together, all in order, a complete and organized record of this beautiful experiment. But that something went wrong. I don’t know how, but my private blog had become public. Very public, I’m afraid. I knew she’d have trouble understanding, though. She didn’t share my yen for order and control. New York August 11 Dear Sid, I am so sorry to hear that. You are a trusting soul, and I love that about you. There are people out there who can’t help but take advantage of that in a person (the helper), and there are people who are just fuckups (Adrian). Regarding this Bridget, oy! She sounds like a doozy. Since I can’t do confrontations, I usually just freeze people out. But what do I know—I have a frenemy too! And she’s my first, too! How did we come all this way to have a high school relationship in our thirties? Her name is Jenna and she lives across the hall from me and thinks she’s better than me because her kid eats broccoli. For some reason I can’t not care—she drives me nuts! I find myself trying to compete with her and I hate it. And then sometimes I feel bad because I think she might just need a friend. But mostly I wish I could just erase her from my life. I wonder if our frenemies would be friends. I would give anything to trade places with Bridget for a week or so—I’ll plop down next to you at the pool and bring you muffins. And ol’ Bridge can hang out here and receive a lifetime of free advice on child rearing, health and wellness, and general goodness from my building’s foremost mommy blogger. So what are you going to do about the stolen money? Did you call the police? Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. I don’t know what that might be, but I’m here for you. And you know my couch and floor are all yours if you and the kids just want to get out of Dodge for a while. You can trade places with Jenna! I’ve also been meaning to tell you that you’re right about my life. It’s not so bad. I’ve got myself a gratitude journal. I’ve signed up for this boot camp workout at seven a.m. before Leo leaves for work, and I have every intention of actually going to it. These sound like silly housewife-on-a-mission-to-change clichés. But what can I say? I’m too tired not to be a cliché. Not being a cliché is for the very few truly original people (you, for example) and the young who have the energy to fight being ordinary. Love you. —Cassie Ah, that was just the fix I needed. That superfine black felt-tip was perfect on those notecards. Why hadn’t I figured out that combination sooner? Basking in the warm glow of a back-and-forth with Sid, I curled up under the covers, closed my eyes, pictured old-fashioned TV static running through my brain, and fell fast asleep. It was glorious, as naps go. I didn’t stir until the boys were climbing on me, smelling of French fries and chocolate, at nearly six p.m. I had been in such a deep sleep that it took me a few seconds to figure out where I was. As I slid out of bed, doing my best to deflect their sticky hands from the clean sheets, a heaviness set in. Something bad happened, didn’t it? Or did I just have a bad dream? And then I remembered, but I tried to push the reality back into the bad-dream part of my brain—it haunts you, yes, but no lasting harm’s done. In a haze, I made my way through bath, book, and bedtime with the boys, and then pizza and movie at home with Mom and Leo. It was Mom’s last night in town, and we had talked about going to dinner just the two of us while Leo stayed in with the boys, but with my afternoon illness, she wouldn’t hear of it. Later that night, thanks to the nap, I couldn’t sleep. My body tossed and turned but felt incapable of doing anything purposeful. Close to one a.m., I grabbed my iPhone from its spot under my pillow, just to double-check that the privacy reset had really worked. (Yes, I’ve read about the radiation shooting out of it and directly into my brain, but probable brain cancer is just another sacrifice of living in our fabulous apartment in our fabulous neighborhood with no room for suburban luxuries such as bedside tables. Our bed was nestled perfectly between two extra-tall dressers and beneath a to-the-ceiling Elfa shelving system, all cleverly concealed by curtains on the sides and a custom-made pull-down shade on the top. Standing back, the impression was that our bed was tucked back into a cozy nook surrounded by silver-gray silk curtains. But sleeping in our bed was exactly like sleeping in a closet.) In fact, the longer I lay there, feeling the weight of my stupid clothes all around me, the higher my anxiety level climbed. I needed air. With Mom asleep on the couch, climbing out onto the fire escape was not an option. So I pulled on jeans and grabbed a bra from the hook on the back of my door, hastily securing it under the gray tank top I was sleeping in, and then reached under my pillow again to find a hair tie. I thought to take my laptop in case I needed full word-processing capabilities, stuffed it in my bag with the magazine, and as quietly as I could, snuck out the front door. I figured I could get online at the Ostrich Lounge because it was next to a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi, so I headed there, knowing my disheveled appearance wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. The Ostrich was the closest thing Hudson Street had to a dive bar, with a regular-people kind of clientele, a jukebox, and horrible bathrooms. A long and narrow space with booths on one side and the bar on the other, it had a gorgeous tin ceiling and ugly fake-wood-paneled walls. The place was about half full, and I snagged the last barstool at the back and ordered a Stoli on the rocks with two lemon wedges. I checked the blog again, and it was indeed still private. I was the only one in the world who could see it now; still, the sight of it made me queasy and unsettled. I closed the laptop and got out my pen and paper. I thought I’d brainstorm a plan—a crisis-communications plan. Who do I tell, and when, and how? I jotted some nonsensical notes, and then started to wonder if I really needed to tell anyone. Hadn’t I fixed the problem this afternoon? Maybe it would just go away. The Sundays song that I associate with the beginning of this whole experiment started playing from the jukebox, and my eyes watered as I looked around the bar, half expecting Sid to be standing in the corner, smiling knowingly before she let me in on this elaborate joke she’d masterminded. The bartender took it upon himself to serve me another drink, even though I hadn’t asked. Grateful, I nodded at him and downed about half of it in one stinging go. Then, to give my hands and brain something to do, I started jotting down the words to the song. I had a quick flashback to being thirteen or fourteen and writing down all of the lyrics to “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine),” starting and stopping and rewinding my tape player over and over again and driving Sid crazy until she finally joined me. (It does not go, “Donkey Kong foreign power!” Yes, it does!) My eyes welled at the memory, but I forced the tears back and kept writing as fast as I could, clinging to a Sid-like notion that there was an explanation or a solution or—I don’t know—a silver lining of some sort that would reveal itself to me if I only looked. Tears were threatening to drop on my paper, so I looked up at the shiny tin ceiling in an effort to stave them off, losing myself for a moment in the tiles’ intricate pattern. A familiar voice brought me back to earth. “Drinking alone with your notebook again, Cassie?” It was Jake. He smile
d—extra warmly, I thought—and leaned in for a peck on the cheek. I allowed it but didn’t peck back. The bartender handed him a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, his favorite, and shook his hand. While they exchanged pleasantries, I rapidly sipped my drink and told myself to pull it together. He turned back to me and said, “So what is it with you and your notebook? You working again?” “Ooh. Ooh. Not really. Sort of,” I said, though I have no idea why, and quickly shoved it back into my bag. “You all right, Cass?” he asked, looking at me closer. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m good,” I said, glancing away for a second and hoping that my eyes were dry. Jake motioned to the bartender, and then I had my own bottle of Sierra Nevada. The buddy Jake had come with looked to be deep in conversation with a young woman near the front of the bar, which left Jake and me alone to chat. The topic I chose—how we’d gone years barely seeing each other and now every time I turn around, there he is . . . in a magazine, in my yoga class, on TV, at the corner bar—came off as more flirtatious than I’d meant it to. I was distracted and embarrassed, remembering how I’d ditched him at the restaurant and snippets of the drunken kiss. I wondered if he’d kissed me because he wanted to or because I was so obviously throwing myself at him, and if he’d (please, no!) seen the letters. I noticed that there was a new song on the jukebox—“Under My Thumb” by the Rolling Stones—and I felt annoyed that he had made me miss what might have been a breakthrough moment during the Sundays song. I had a different sort of breakthrough then, despite the two vodkas and one beer in me, and thought about how this looked. I had just snuck out of my apartment, where my husband, children, and mother (for Christ’s sake!) slept, while I drank at the corner bar with my ex, whom I had spent the last three months fantasizing about and whom I had recently made out with. I would finish my beer and split. The conversation had meandered toward more banal topics, and he started telling me a story about his seafood supplier who keeps bringing him his home-pickled herring, but pickled herring is the one food in the whole world that Jake truly hates, and now he’s in this situation where his white lie about how delicious the herring was has turned into this awkward and ongoing deception, and—missing a third possible breakthrough moment—all I could think was, I should not be here. This is not who I am. I am Margie and Joe’s granddaughter. I am Leo’s wife. I am a mother. I should not be here. I cut Jake off midsentence. I feared if I didn’t seize this flash of prudence, there would be no turning back, because to be honest, I didn’t want to leave. “I’m sorry, Jake. I’ve got to get home.” I touched him lightly on the arm, and a charge went through me. He reciprocated by cupping my elbow and drawing us an inch closer. “Are you sure?” he said in a soft voice in my ear, leaving no question as to his intention. A sexual advance from a new-old lover was exciting and seductive, and part of me—a big part of me, I’m afraid—didn’t want to turn away from the feeling of that moment, of feeling desired and forgetting about all of my other problems. But I reclaimed my mind of ten seconds ago, shook myself loose from Jake’s grasp, slid the two twenties out of my back pocket onto the bar, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door without another word. A group of people came in just as I reached the exit, and I found myself holding the door open for them, smiling and nodding and cursing my Midwestern manners while I resisted the impulse to glance over my shoulder. Once outside, I felt the urge to run. Now, here’s an urge I can give in to without hurting anyone, I thought, and so I started running. A middle-aged couple walking toward me hand in hand watched with concern. The woman seemed to be searching my face for signs of distress while the man strained to look past me—perhaps in case I was being chased. Am I being chased? Did Jake come out after me? I looked back, but the coast was clear. “Everything’s okay!” I yelled to the couple. It felt good, so I ran faster—as fast as I could down Hudson Street without losing my flip-flops. To the bouncer standing in front of Employees Only, also regarding me with curiosity, I yelled it again. “Everything is okay!” To the women sitting outside the Henrietta Hudson, “It’s okay! Everything’s okay!” I rounded onto Morton Street, unlocked my door, and ran up the stairs two at a time. When I got to my door, I took a few minutes to catch my breath, still muttering, It’s okay. Everything is okay. With tears running down my face, I took a few shaky deep breaths to prevent a full-scale sob-fest, unlocked my door as quietly as I could with trembling hands, and stepping over the two creaky floorboards, tiptoed past my sleeping mother and back into bed with Leo. Lying there, I let my thoughts drift toward the more superficial elements at play here, such as being thankful for Mayor Bloomberg’s smoking ban, without which I would never have been able to pull the whole thing off. Mom’s flight the next day was at noon out of LaGuardia. She was always nervous about getting to the airport on time, and I had assured her that if she left by ten she’d be fine. Yet she was packed and dressed for the day when the rest of us woke up at seven. As we went about our morning routine, she kept suggesting we go to the playground early, or put the boys in the stroller and go for a walk so we could talk. But I wasn’t on my A game, and by the time we ate breakfast, saw Leo off to work, printed out her boarding pass, and had the boys ready to go, we had to put her in a cab. The boys and I walked her out, and when we got downstairs, she grabbed my arm and locked eyes with me. “Talk to your husband, Cassandra,” she said. “Mo-om. What? Everything’s okay,” I said, sounding like a whiny teenager. And then, with a sigh and a look that was either disappointment or plain weariness, she said, “I love you, honey,” and came in for a big hug. She couldn’t have known about the blog; she would have said something. She must have heard me come in last night and assumed the worst. I loaded her suitcase in the trunk of the cab while she said her goodbyes to the boys, and off she went, leaving me alone with my big, giant problem. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN