Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

“I know that anything we do in this room is going to be difficult,” she began. “So why don’t you tell me what you had in mind?”

  “I thought I could turn it into a guest room,” he said. “Not that we have all that many guests. Still, my mother stays over sometimes and it would be nice for her.” He took a sip of his wine. “I want it to reflect Rachel somehow. But I don’t want a shrine.”

  “Of course not.” Christina also took a sip; the wine was excellent. “I was thinking we could involve Oliver in some way too.”

  “That would be good,” Andy said eagerly. “Great, in fact. How?”

  “Well, if you want to order some new furniture for the room, I could show him the options, get his input. Same with any window or floor treatments. Maybe even let him choose some of the colors.” The wine was crisp and refreshing; it went down so easily.

  “Do you think, I mean, I know it’s unorthodox, but do you think he could come to a showroom or two with you?” asked Andy. “He’s been moping around here all summer, not seeing any of his friends.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” Christina said. She twirled her goblet between her fingers as she spoke; this was one of the glasses she and Andy had bought at the estate sale. Just thinking about their trek in the rain, and how she’d been for a brief moment so exposed, was unsettling. It took her a few seconds to realize that the memory was actually exciting to her; she was aroused. She looked over at Andy, so earnest in his desire to help his son, so clueless as to how. She had an urge to lay her hand on his cheek. Bad idea. What was wrong with her anyway? It was the wine. The wine and a long, dry spell in her romantic life.

  She set down the glass. “I’ll look at my book and see what kind of time I have next week. And do you want to go take a look at the room together?”

  “Good idea.” He stood and finished his wine. If he noticed that her glass was still partially full, he didn’t mention it. Christina followed him through the kitchen and waited while he stood in front of the door. “I keep it closed,” he said. “Lucy goes in to dust and vacuum, but that’s all.”

  The room was white, with a simple white shade at the window. Over the desk was a bulletin board filled with photographs, torn magazine pages, business cards, ticket stubs, and a menu. Against one wall was a sewing machine. Some of the books contained quilt patterns, or photographs of antique patchwork quilts. “She liked to sew?” Christina asked. Andy nodded. “She used to make all of Ollie’s Halloween costumes. Then she got into the blanket thing.”

  “You mean quilts?” Christina asked.

  “Right. Quilts.”

  “Did she ever finish one?” Christina took a book from the shelf and began leafing through it. Two small squares of fabric fluttered out and to the floor.

  “She got sick. . . .” He trailed off.

  Christina knelt to retrieve the squares. “Do these look familiar?” Andy just shook his head. Someone—presumably Rachel—had circled one of the patterns in the book using red marker. Wedding Anniversary Quilt. There was a diagram on the facing page and beneath the title, a description. This charming design utilizes some of the traditional motifs of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century quilts. The two interlocking circles represent the two wedding bands, locked together in an eternal embrace. . . .

  “It looks like she was planning to make this.” Christina looked more closely at the squares of fabric. One was a tight plaid of dark red, cream, and taupe; the other used similar colors but was a tiny and bustling floral print. “Maybe these were two that she liked.” What if she found them, these two patterns, or ones very much like them? The fabric could be used for shades or curtains and, because there would need to be a bed in here, for a bed skirt, or a fabric headboard. On the walls, she saw wallpaper, no, not wallpaper, but fabric—maybe a raw linen or a muslin of some kind—something that would give the room some warmth and texture, as well as refer to Rachel’s interest in textiles. And of course there ought to be an actual antique quilt—or two; one for the bed itself, and another she could hang from the wall, suspended on a dowel. When she looked again at the bulletin board, another idea came to her. She would get a blank scrapbook and arrange everything from the bulletin board in it. It would be a nice way to gather the last bits of ephemera from Rachel’s life and give those fragile pieces a meaning, an order. And she could enlist Oliver’s help in that too.

  “You’re not saying anything,” Andy pointed out.

  She looked over at him. “Sorry. The wheels were turning. Let me tell you what I was thinking.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Would you like another glass of wine? Or even better, what if I ordered us some takeout? Lucy’s got the night off and I was going to do that for myself anyway.”

  “All right,” Christina said. Was it a good idea to have dinner here? She decided that as long as they remained focused on the job, it would be fine. Jordan was going to be at Alexis’s tonight, so there was no one at home anyway. Andy ordered up Japanese food, which they ate in the kitchen as Christina outlined her plans for the new guest room. Oliver came shuffling in, and though at first his responses were merely monosyllabic, he did show some interest in the quilts, and especially in the scrapbook.

  “I remember some of this stuff,” he said. “The movie ticket. That menu. The pictures.” He nodded, and Christina was sure she could smell pot emanating from him; did Andy smell it too?

  “And what about the quilts?” Christina asked. “Could I show you some of the ones I’m considering?”

  “She once took me to some quilt exhibition,” Oliver said. “At first I thought it was going to be stupid and, like, too girly, but it was actually pretty cool. Those things took years to make. Decades even.”

  “What exhibit?” Andy asked. “I don’t remember it.”

  “You weren’t there. It was that summer I went to camp in Vermont. She came up for visiting day, but you didn’t.”

  “Right . . . I was at a medical convention that year. Geneva, I think.”

  “They were having this show at some, like, art center in town and Mom wanted to go.” Oliver continued as if his father had not spoken.

  “So you saw the kinds of quilts she liked,” Christina prompted.

  “Yeah. All these different patterns. And colors. She loved the colors.”

  Christina looked over at Andy, who was nodding. “I know you’re going to be a big help in this, Oliver.”

  “You think?” He looked at her, eyes bright beneath the fringe of blond curls.

  “I know.” To Christina, he didn’t seem high; his pupils were not dilated and he seemed alert. Maybe he’d only been with some kids who had been smoking?

  After he’d gone to his room, Christina wanted to help clean up, but Andy told her not to bother. “There’s nothing to clean,” he said. “Just some recycling and some trash.” Without asking, he refreshed her glass of wine—Christina had sipped a bit during the meal—and they took their drinks into the living room.

  “Thank you for being so gentle with Ollie,” he said.

  “I have a teenager too,” she said.

  “Nothing I say seems to penetrate,” Andy went on. “Or else it does—in the wrong way. I make him angry. Upset.”

  “That’s because you’re his father. He knows you love him, so it’s safe to act out with you.”

  “You’re a good mother,” Andy said, sitting up very straight. “I can tell.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure how to interpret this sudden declaration.

  “Being a good mother is a very important quality in a person. A woman. I mean, in a woman.”

  Christina smiled down at her glass. They had switched to red now and the wine looked almost black. “Yes, I guess it is.” It sounded to her like alpha, always-in-control Andy was a wee bit tipsy. Yes, Dr. Stern, Dr. Stern, was drunk. Why she found this amusing, she was not sure, but she did.

  “That�
�s the trouble with Jen,” Andy was saying. “I like her, but when I see her with her daughter . . .”

  “Jen?” asked Christina. She knew who Jen was. But why was he talking about her now? And to her of all people?

  “Jen Baum,” Andy said. “You met her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Christina said, and nothing more.

  “I told Gus I’d give it another try. So we went out last Friday. Her daughter wasn’t even there; she was staying with her dad. And everything was great, but then—” He stopped.

  “And then?” asked Christina. Who was Gus? And what did he have to do with anything? Oh, Andy was drunk all right. Drunk and rambling.

  “I got to thinking that if I were going to get serious with this woman, I’d have to spend time with both of them. Because her daughter would be a big part of our lives. So I suggested we spend a day together—the zoo, a playground, gelato. . . .” He trailed off. “But Jen doesn’t have any empathy!” he said. “And I can forgive or explain away a lot of things. But not that.”

  “What do you mean?” She knew, though; that woman looked brittle, like she’d been shellacked.

  “The entire day, she acted like she wanted her daughter to go away so we could be alone together. Like her daughter—her five-year-old daughter—was some major annoyance. A bother. And of course the kid feels this and tries even harder to get her attention. Which her mother just will not give her.”

  “She does sound a bit obtuse,” Christina ventured.

  “The kid looked miserable, so I suggested we stop into FAO Schwarz—we were right nearby—and I would get her a little toy. But she says, ‘No, Mommy. I want Daddy to buy me a present.’ And Jen says, ‘Well, Daddy’s not here, but Andy wants to buy you a present.’ Kid digs her heels in; she wants Daddy’s present and only Daddy’s present. I’m ready to let it go; it doesn’t matter.”

  “But her mother was not as understanding?”

  “Not a bit. Told her she was a spoiled brat. So of course the kid has a meltdown.”

  “What did you do?” Christina asked.

  “I told Jen to wait there. I raced into the store, grabbed the first thing I saw, which happened to be this big stuffed kangaroo, and I bought it. When I got back out, Drew—that’s her name—Drew was crying and Jen was standing there not even looking at her. I gave Drew the kangaroo, hustled them both into a taxi, and went home.” Andy drained the last of his wine. “What a day.”

  “Exhausting,” said Christina.

  “You see what I mean? No empathy. But you—you would have handled it differently, wouldn’t you? I know you would have. Because you, Christina Connelly, are an empathetic woman.” And before Christina could respond, Andy had leaned over and planted a kiss on her most astonished but quickly parting lips.

  ELEVEN

  The ocean, just down the path from Andy’s East Hampton rental on Further Lane, glittered in the morning sun. As he walked, the water lapped at his bare feet and ankles. He maintained a steady pace, occasionally breaking into a light run; then he lapsed back into his power walk once again. It felt good to be out here in the sun, using his legs, his arms, his breath, to propel himself forward. The scene from the other night kept looping through his mind: the wine, the talk, and the kiss. The kiss. He’d kissed Christina Connelly. And she kissed him back—or he thought she had; he was lit and not entirely sure—before stepping away and excusing herself to use the bathroom. When she emerged, she thanked him for the wine and took off; clearly she had not wanted things to go any further. They had not spoken since.

  After about a mile, Andy turned and started heading back to the house. The sun was higher in the sky, and the beach, formerly deserted, was now dotted with a few early risers. He wondered whether his mother would be up by the time he got back. He’d sent a car to bring her down to Manhattan on Friday afternoon, and then along with Oliver, they’d driven out here together. As Andy made his way up to the house, he saw that not only was Ida up; she was dressed and had made herself a cup of coffee, which she had taken out onto the deck. She wore enormous black sunglasses and, above them, a black straw hat. Her small frame was covered by a long dress in a bold black-and-white pattern.

  “Morning!” she called. “Did you have a good walk?”

  “Great walk,” he answered. “Tomorrow we’ll do it together.” He joined her on the deck.

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Maybe Oliver will come too.”

  “Is he up yet?” Andy asked.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Ida said.

  “He’s been sleeping late all summer,” Andy said. The coffee smelled good; he could go for a cup right about now.

  “He’s still growing; growing tires a boy out.”

  “I guess it does.” He turned to go into the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast?” Ida shook her head. “Me neither. Let’s go out.”

  While she was getting her purse, Andy knocked on Oliver’s door, once, twice, and then a third time. When there was still no answer, he cracked it open. The room was cool and dark. Oliver’s blond curls peeked out from one end of the blanket; a bare foot poked out from the other. “Ollie,” he said, and then louder, “Ollie.”

  “Yeah?” Oliver emerged from the cocoon of the blanket.

  “Grandma and I are going out to breakfast. Would you like to come?”

  “Sleep,” Oliver said, sliding back down under the quilt. “Need to sleep.”

  “Right,” Andy said. Why did his son’s voice sound so plaintive, and so small?

  They drove into town in Andy’s Lexus, and found a parking spot easily enough. But when they got to Babette’s on Newtown Lane, there was already a sizable line. “Do you want to wait?” he asked her.

  “Of course,” she said.

  Andy watched how she looked around, checking out the clothes and jewelry of the women milling around as well as every woman who walked by. She might be past eighty, but she was still in the game, he thought. He loved her for it. Then someone sang out his name.

  He turned in the direction of the voice just as the woman with bangs and a pageboy came striding toward him. She was pushing a stroller that held three babies. He remembered them as much smaller, but that was not unusual; he’d last seen them as newborns, when he’d delivered them.

  “Melanie, it’s good to see you,” Andy said. “Let me introduce my mother, Ida Stern.”

  “Your son is a miracle worker,” Melanie said. “We just about worship him, don’t we, honey?” She turned to her husband. His name was Henry or Harry; Andy wasn’t sure.

  “We sure do,” said Henry-or-Harry as he pumped Andy’s hand.

  “He was always a good boy,” Ida said serenely.

  “Let me look at them,” Andy said, bending down closer to the stroller.

  “This one is Tyler,” said Melanie, indicating a chubby baby who was waving his fists in the air. “And that’s Aidan.” Aidan was asleep; a tiny bubble of spit rose and fell on his parted lips. “And here’s Mommy’s little princess, Emma.” Emma’s wispy brown hair was kept out of her face by a purple headband topped by a large purple bow. It had been a harrowing birth and Andy thought he might lose her. But she had pulled through, and now look at her: rocking that headband here in East Hampton. “Hey there, Emma,” Andy said softly. Emma looked at him, and began to bawl. What had he done?

  Melanie scooped up the screaming baby. “Don’t you like Dr. Stern? He only saved your life, love muffin.” Emma kicked her legs and pressed her face into her mother.

  “I’m so sorry!” said Emma’s dad, whose name still would not coalesce in Andy’s mind. “She’s been really fussy today.”

  Andy stepped back. People were looking at them; he fervently hoped that they did not blame him for the baby’s sudden eruption.

  “Don’t cry, baby girl,” soothed Melanie, jostling Emma in her arms. “Dr. Stern is a nice man. The nicest man.”

/>   Excited little whispers started to eddy through the crowd. That’s Andrew Stern, the best ob-gyn in the city. Everyone says that he’s brilliant. If you’ve ever lost a baby, go see Stern. He’s your man. Andy smiled, flattered and a little embarrassed too. Ida, however, was eating it up: My son the famous doctor, said her expression. He’s a prince, a god, and a wizard rolled into one. Her only regret, he knew, was that her Riverdale coffee klatch was not on hand to witness his triumph.

  “Dr. Stern?” A Babette’s employee stepped up to him. “The people at the head of the line want to give you their table and take your place instead.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Andy said.

  “Please, Dr. Stern. They were quite insistent.”

  So Andy gave his arm to Ida and escorted her into the restaurant; she was fairly levitating with pride. When they had ordered, Ida took off her glasses and placed them on the table.

  “So how are you?” Andy sipped his coffee. “Everything okay up in Riverdale?”

  “A-OK,” she said. “What about you?”

  “Getting along. Did I tell you about my latest celeb patient?”

  “Scarlett Johansson?” she asked, leaning forward in anticipation. “Or Anne Hathaway?”

  He grinned. “Not this time. But what would you say to Xiomara?” Andy named a recent Grammy-winning singer with a worldwide following.

  “Xiomara?” Ida looked excited. “Can I tell the girls?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. “At least not until the baby is born. There’s going to be enough of a media circus when she delivers anyway.”

  Their omelets arrived and they began to eat. “How about your personal life?” she asked. “Is there a special lady friend you want to tell me about?”

  “No, Ma, there isn’t.” He took a bite of his seven-grain toast.

  “I thought you mentioned someone. . . . Jen or Jenny something.”

  “Jennifer Baum, but I’m not seeing her anymore.”

  Ida put down her utensils. “Why not?”