This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “What exactly is your point?” I narrow my eyes at her. “If you’re going to get all ‘Kumbaya’ on me, please, don’t waste your breath.”

  “My point is that you’ve been angry for years. And, fine, maybe you’ve had your reasons. But so what? Everyone has their reasons, Charlie. People who have had it a whole lot worse than you have found ways of moving on. It’s time you did, too. If not for your sake, then for Caleb’s.”

  “That’s really easy for you to say. You have no idea what it’s like to lose your spouse.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit idly by and watch you waste the rest of your life. I’m tired, Charlie. I want my brother back. It’s really that simple.”

  She turns towards the window.

  “Ever since Mira died, you’ve acted like work is the most important thing in the world. And you know why I think you do that? I think you’re scared. You’re scared that if you were to take care of Caleb, you wouldn’t do it exactly right. That was always your problem, Charlie. You were scared of not doing things perfectly. But you know what? I’ve been watching you for the past couple weeks. You’re great with him. He loves being with you. You have nothing to be afraid of, except for losing more time with your family.”

  She lets out a long, resonant sniff, and I realize she is weeping. I shift uncomfortably, eyeing the door. Much as I hate getting into a whole thing with Zadie right now, it’s not like I have anywhere to go. Caleb is sleeping in the next room. My father is downstairs, likely waiting for a father-son chat that’s been thirty-five years in the making. I’m boxed in, unhappy Goldwyns on every side.

  “How long have you two been in touch?” I say, sighing. I sit down beside her, letting my shoulder bump against hers.

  “Since Mom got sick.”

  “Wow. So it’s been a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he reach out to you? Or did you go looking for him?”

  Zadie pauses. “It just sort of happened,” she says. “Dad started visiting Mom after she got diagnosed. At first I was pretty cold to him. It bothered me, seeing him in her house. But she enjoyed being with him, I could tell. He always knew how to make her laugh. When she got really sick, towards the very end, she was out of it a lot. She was on so many drugs, some days she wouldn’t even respond; she’d just slip in and out of sleep. And when she stared at you, her eyes were blank. I couldn’t even tell if she knew who I was, you know? It was hard. But Dad took it in stride. He’d sit there for hours holding her hand or reading to her. To be honest, I was grateful for it. It wasn’t easy, taking care of her alone.”

  “You weren’t alone,” I say, my stomach twisting with guilt.

  “I know,” Zadie says, far too generously. She pats my knee, the way our mother used to when she was trying to cheer me up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant it was hard being alone in the house with her sometimes.”

  “I know what you meant. Please don’t apologize. You bore the brunt of it.”

  Zadie nods, says nothing. For a minute we sit side by side in silence. Mom’s death, I realize, is still a fresh wound for Zadie. Though they occasionally fought like feral cats, the two of them were inseparable. As a child, I resented their closeness. I hated the way Mom laughed harder at Zadie’s jokes than she did mine. I hated that Mom praised Zadie for B pluses when I was getting As; I hated the way they rolled their eyes at one another whenever I acted nervous or uptight. Most of all, I hated coming upon them huddled over our dining room table, their heads bowed together in caucus, and how they would break apart when they heard me approach, their eyes wide and their faces flush with secrets.

  While I couldn’t get out of our little Long Island town fast enough, Zadie never really stopping calling it home. She’d move out for a time—she’d get a job or enroll in classes or shack up with a boyfriend—but after a few months she’d always return, suitcase in hand, to Mom’s front door. For a while it irritated me. She was wasting her life, I thought, living at Mom’s. The town itself was nice enough, a tidy bedroom community just east of the city, but for a young, single girl like Zadie it was a suburban purgatory. She never met anyone new. She hated the train and has always been a terrible driver, so she ended up working in town, at places that didn’t require a commute. The jobs weren’t exactly résumé boosters: waitress, bakery cashier, barista. The longer she stayed, the slimmer her prospects of ever leaving became.

  And then Mom got sick.

  She went in to see a doctor about what she thought was an ulcer but was, in fact, stomach cancer. They ran tests, then more tests. Zadie took the day off from work so that they could hear the results together. Zadie held Mom’s hand as the doctor read off a bunch of numbers and statistics. When she called to update me afterward, Zadie told me she remembered only the number four. Stage four cancer. Four percent chance of survival. Four months left to live.

  Mom opted out of chemo. “I’d rather have four pleasant months than ten miserable ones” was how she put it. Zadie was crushed but stoic. She surged into action. It wasn’t long until Mom needed a professional nurse, too, but Zadie did everything else. She changed Mom’s sheets, she took her for walks, she bought her Us Weekly and Vanity Fair the minute they appeared on the newsstand. She brought her Frappuccinos in the morning and made her favorite butternut squash soup from scratch. She bathed her, she changed her, she blow-dried her hair. If company came, Zadie applied foundation with a giant sponge, then varnished Mom’s fingernails in the same slightly dated frosted pink that Mom had been wearing since the mid-1980s. Mom was always a little vain about company.

  And where was I? I was at my desk at Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman. “Someone has to pay for the nurse,” I’d say, though it was a preemptive defense, because Mom and Zadie had long ago stopped relying on me for anything more than financial support. I called too infrequently, visited even less. Mostly to assuage my own guilt, I sent a lot of checks.

  • • •

  “Getting to know Dad softened the blow, I guess.” Zadie stares at her hands. She looks embarrassed, like she’s just told me that she’s picked up smoking or cheated on Buck. “He’s not a replacement for Mom, obviously. But it was nice having him come into my life at a time when I was losing the person I was closest to.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, when he first came around? You never said a thing.”

  “I wanted to. But Mom told me not to tell you. She didn’t want you to get upset. She knew how you felt about him.”

  “I thought we all felt the same way.”

  “We did. Or at least you and I did. Look, I wasn’t thrilled to see him when he first showed up. But she was an adult, Charlie. And she was dying. I figured she should be able to see whoever she wanted to see without us passing judgment.”

  “But she hated him,” I say stubbornly. And why wouldn’t she? The creep had knocked her up and then left her to raise twins—his twins—without a thought. He never visited. He never sent so much as a birthday card.

  She never said she hated him because she didn’t have to. There would never be a custody battle over us. Mom didn’t need to prove her case against Dad; we would never take his side or lobby in his favor. She was our mom. He was a stranger.

  Until now.

  “She didn’t hate him, Charlie,” Zadie says softly. “And I don’t, either.”

  I flinch; her words feel like a cold, hard slap across the face.

  “I know this is hard to hear,” she persists, “but he wanted to be with her. He really did. He loved her. It was Mom who didn’t want to be with him.”

  I shake my head dumbly. “No. He was married, Zadie. He was her boss. He took advantage of her.”

  “He didn’t, Charlie. Mom wasn’t exactly a wallflower. Think about it. Mom? She was as tough and opinionated as they come. You think she’d let some guy take advantage of her?”

  I clench my jaw and refuse to answer. She has a point. Mom was no doormat. In fact, she was exactly like
Zadie: strong-willed, defiant, always doing things her way. Still, this is a narrative I’ve subscribed to for years. After a short and ill-advised affair, Dad got Mom pregnant. He was married and unwilling to leave his wife for her. She was thirty-six and unwilling to terminate the pregnancy. So she raised us alone. End of story. It’s going to take a lot to convince me that this story isn’t true.

  “She wouldn’t have,” Zadie continues, answering her own question. “Mom was independent. You know that. She was independent to a flaw. She didn’t want him to leave his wife for her. He offered and she turned him down. She didn’t want to marry Dad and quit her job and move into his Park Avenue apartment and live happily ever after like some kind of rescued princess in some ridiculous Disney movie. That wasn’t her. She wanted to do things in her own way. And she did.”

  “By working and scraping and saving and never taking a day off and never spending a goddamn dime on herself?” I snap. “Yeah, she lived a really charmed life, being a single mom of twins. Our father is obviously the victim here. How silly of me to have thought otherwise.” I stand up and walk towards the door. “I’m going to check on Caleb.”

  “Please don’t go, Charlie. I understand why you’re angry. It’s a lot to take in. All I ask is that you talk to him so you can hear his side of the story. Then you can decide for yourself.”

  “Listen to me, Zadie. Nothing can make up for the fact that he wasn’t there for us when we were growing up. Nothing. I’m a father now, too, and I can tell you with no hesitation whatsoever that I would never walk out on my kid. So whatever did or did not happen between our father and our mother, at the end of the day, doesn’t mean shit to me. All I know is what happened between him and us. He wasn’t there for us. And that is what I can’t forgive him for.”

  We lock eyes. After a second, Zadie looks away, defeated. “Okay,” she says, almost in a whisper. “I understand. Maybe this was a mistake.”

  “You’re damn right it was.”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie. I really am. I just thought—” She’s trying her best not to cry, but she can’t help it. Tears stream down her face, and her shoulders shake with grief.

  I feel the tiniest pang of guilt in my gut.

  “You just thought what, Zadie?” I say, exasperated. “That we could spend a weekend together and somehow we’d magically become one big, happy family?”

  “No,” she says. “But I thought maybe we could start to try. What do we have to lose by trying?”

  Never Too Late

  Our first family dinner.

  It can’t be avoided. Caleb and Norman are both asleep, and I’m starving.

  “You can’t just stay up here all night,” Zadie whispers, coaxing me away from Caleb’s bed. “Let him rest. He’s fine. You need to eat something eventually.”

  “There’s a granola bar in Caleb’s backpack.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I sigh. “All right. I’ll come down for dinner.”

  “Good. I’m going to shower. I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

  “If our father tries to have some kind of heart-to-heart, I’m leaving.”

  Even in the dark I can see Zadie rolling her eyes. “Twenty minutes,” she says, before slipping back out to her room.

  • • •

  I return to the guest room where I’ve stashed my stuff and attempt to freshen up. Before I head downstairs, I call Fred to check in. I’m expecting it to go to voicemail, so when he picks up after half a ring, it throws me.

  “Hey, Charlie,” he says, sounding surprisingly relaxed and amiable. “I’m glad you called.”

  “I’m glad you picked up!” I reply, with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, I’m well. I have good news for you.”

  “I like good news.”

  “You sitting down?”

  I’m actually pacing back and forth like a madman, but I grind to a halt. “Sure, yeah.”

  “Today was my last day at Hardwick.”

  “You quit?” I say, stunned.

  “I guess I did, yes.”

  How is that good news? I want to shout into the phone. How are you going to help me get my job back if you don’t even work there yourself?

  “Congrats,” I mumble. “Terrific.”

  “I’m starting my own firm, Charlie. And I want you to come work for me.”

  Now I do sit down. I heard what he said, but it hasn’t quite registered yet: I’m still processing the fact that Fred Kellerman is no longer at Hardwick, Mays & Kellerman. What is that firm without him? Fred helped build that firm. Fred is that firm. Hardwick without Fred is like the Patriots without Tom Brady. It just doesn’t make sense.

  Who cares about Hardwick? a voice in my head screams. Fred is offering you a job! Take it! Take it now!

  “This is good news,” I say, and realize that it is, in fact, great news. I jump to my feet, charged with excitement. “Wait, Fred, this is great news!”

  He laughs. “Yes, I think so, too.”

  “I had no idea you were thinking of doing something like that.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to mention it to anyone until I’d worked out an arrangement with Steve and Welles. They’ve been very gracious about the whole thing. They’re allowing me to take my clients with me. It’s going to be a boutique firm, all white-collar litigation work. I’m hoping to bring on maybe two or three others at your level, a few junior associates, and one or two paralegals, to start. I won’t be able to pay you what you got paid at Hardwick, but I’ll make you a partner.”

  My heart skips a beat. A partner. Fred’s partner. More than money, more than anything, this is what I’ve always wanted. I’ve been working towards this moment for ten years, I realize. No, longer than ten years. I’ve been working towards this moment for my whole adult life.

  “How does that sound to you? Can you be flexible about the money?”

  “Yes,” I say, without a second of hesitation.

  “Terrific. We’ll have to get started right away. The hours will be tough, especially in the beginning.”

  “Of course.”

  “You were never afraid to work hard, were you, Charlie?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re my guy.”

  “Thank you, Fred. I’m so excited about this opportunity.”

  “I’m out in East Hampton right now, but as soon as I’m back in the city, we should get together and talk.”

  “I’m actually out here, too, if you’d like to meet sooner.”

  “Are you? That’s great. How about this coming Friday? That will get me a few days to get organized.”

  “Friday is perfect,” I say without thinking. “Anyone else from Hardwick joining the firm?”

  Fred pauses. “Well, no. That was part of the agreement with Steve and Welles. I can take my clients, but I wasn’t allowed to poach any of their talent.”

  I bite my lip. “But because I was fired . . .”

  “Right. Because you were let go, you’re fair game. So see, it was all for the best. Funny how life works out, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say with a jittery chuckle. “It sure can be.”

  • • •

  Twenty-five minutes later I descend the stairs, feeling triumphant. I glance around, taking in the luxe surroundings. The house, I grudgingly acknowledge, is tastefully appointed. I was hoping for something garish, crass, hateable: gold gilt and zebra-skin rugs, maybe. Instead the floors are covered in soft sisal. The walls are painted in soothing earth tones—beiges and taupes and khakis—while the furniture is mostly white and pale blue, the colors of sea and sky. Most of the rooms open to the outside via French doors that, for the evening, have been left ajar. I can hear chatter from the veranda. When I hear my father’s raspy voice, I feel my heart sink into my stomach. I momentarily consider breaking into the kitchen, pouring myself a celebratory glass of champagne, and sneaking back upstairs. Zadie would hunt me down and drag me to dinner by my
ear. Better to walk in with some dignity intact.

  That shouldn’t be too hard to do, now that I’m officially a partner at the hottest new law firm in the city, I tell myself. Take that, Dad. Take that, Todd Ellison.

  I throw my shoulders back and stride through the French doors. Zadie is nowhere to be seen. My father stands at the edge of the veranda, flanked by the two blondes.

  The older one bounds towards me like a puppy.

  “I’m Shelley,” she says, wrapping me up in an unexpected hug. “I’m just so thrilled you’re finally here.”

  She gestures at Madison. “This is my daughter, Madison.”

  “We’ve met,” Madison and I both say in unison. She crosses her arms, looking about as uncomfortable as I feel.

  “You want a drink, Charlie?” My father points me in the direction of a well-stocked bar at the far end of the veranda. “We’ve got everything. There’s a nice bottle of Dom open. I’m a Scotch man, myself, so there’s plenty of that. And Ives makes a mean martini.”

  And Christ, how I would love a drink right now. But I can’t. I shouldn’t. What if Caleb needs me? What if I have to drive him to the hospital in the middle of the night? He’s asleep for now, but it’s a feverish, restless sleep, one that could last twelve hours or twelve minutes, I can’t be sure. Best not to drink.

  Anyway, I don’t want to give my father the satisfaction. He’s trying to please me, I can tell; maybe “impress” is a better word for it.

  “I’m fine,” I say with a tight smile.

  “Maybe just some water?”

  “All right. A water would be fine, thanks.”

  “Pellegrino?” he asks hopefully. “Lemon? Lime?”

  “Tap works for me.”

  “Just water, then.” My father deflates a little. He nods to Ives, sending him scurrying back into the house.

  “Beautiful evening.” Zadie finally appears looking fresh in a yellow sundress and espadrilles. A shawl covers the giant butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder. She pushes back a strand of hair, flashing the new engagement ring. She’s tan, I notice. Her hair has streaks of gold in it, either from the sun or a fancy Hamptons salon, I can’t be sure. Apparently this life of leisure agrees with her.