Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “So where do you want the love seat?” he asked. “In front of the windows or facing them?”

  “I don’t really care,” Christina said. “Put it wherever you think best.”

  “Christina!” He sounded exasperated. “You have to care.”

  “Why should I?” she said. “This place isn’t a home.”

  “Not until you make it one. Girl, what is wrong with you?” But when he saw the tears, he moved away from the love seat and crouched down next to her. “I know,” he said. “Honey, I do know.”

  Christina sniffed and looked around the room. “What do you need?” he asked.

  “A handkerchief?”

  Stephen smiled. “Just this once,” he said, digging in his pocket for a packet of tissues, “you’re going to have to use this.”

  She accepted the tissue and blew her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s the hormones.”

  “You’ll feel better if you start unpacking some of this stuff. Trust me.” He straightened and walked back to the love seat. “Now, come on, work with me here.”

  Sweet Stephen. He was trying so hard. She had him try the love seat in both spots, and in the end, she settled on having it face the windows. The living room had a partial view of Prospect Park; she might as well take advantage of it, even if the vista offered her little pleasure. Next, Stephen put the coffee table in front of the love seat. Obvious, but practical. After the coffee table, Stephen unwrapped and moved another chair, the dining table, and a pair of lamps. Then his phone sounded. When he got off, he said, “I’ve got to get over to the studio. The shoot’s been moved up a little. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I appreciate your coming over at all.”

  “I want you to get your groove back so you can come over and give us advice about our new place,” he said as she walked him to the door.

  “I’d love that,” she said, and meant it. It was only this place that left her so very cold. She had never cared this little for her surroundings and her apathy was unsettling; without her innate sense of knowing—and caring—what belonged where, she almost didn’t know who she was.

  When Jordan arrived home later that afternoon, she dropped her bag on the floor, walked straight over to the love seat, and plopped down. “Finally! You did something. It looks so much better in here.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Christina.

  Jordan studied her. “I do,” she said finally. “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” Christina said. “I can’t really bring myself to care.”

  “Mom!” Jordan jumped up from the love seat. “Stop—you’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Christina. “I’m just moody, that’s all. It’ll pass.”

  Jordan looked around at the boxes still stacked against the walls. “Let’s unpack some of those,” she said.

  “I’ve done enough for one day.”

  “I’ll do it, then,” Jordan said. “You can just sit here and tell me where stuff goes.”

  “You’re very sweet but—”

  “No buts, Mom!” She led Christina to the love seat. “Now, where should I start?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she opened the closest carton. “Okay, here’s your rolling pin, your juicer, and a whole bunch of cookie cutters. Kitchen, right?” Christina nodded and Jordan went to put everything away. When she returned, she dug out a Pyrex baking pan, an enamel pot, and a clutch of wooden spoons.

  “Here. I can put those away.”

  “No, I said I would do it. You rest.” For the next hour, Jordan continued to unpack while Christina directed; a wastebasket went in Jordan’s room and another in Christina’s. Books taken out of their boxes were stacked neatly in piles; throw pillows were plumped and placed.

  “That’s enough for now,” Christina said, though she had to admit she felt more cheered by this process than she would have imagined. Maybe that was because Jordan was a part of it.

  “No way,” Jordan said. “I’m just getting into it.” She walked over to two boxes that had been under some of those that were now unpacked. “What’s in these?”

  Christina got up to inspect. “I don’t know,” she said. “They were in the basement and I didn’t have the chance to look through them before we moved.”

  “They look ancient.” Jordan peeled off the strip of dusty tape and began burrowing. “What’s this?” she asked, holding up a man’s plaid bathrobe. “Was it my dad’s?”

  “Let me see,” Christina said. “No, it belonged to your grandfather.” The Pendleton robe, a red and black tartan, was something she had bought for her father’s sixtieth birthday. He liked it so much that he wouldn’t take it off, and spent the day remarking on how soft and warm it was; that was one of the few times she remembered pleasing him. What else would be in there? A black silk bow tie and cummerbund he’d worn when he’d married her mother, his monogrammed bowling ball bag and a crushed pair of bowling shoes. Also his old Ellery Queen magazines and a jacket with a pair of bowling pins appliquéd on the back.

  “I’ve never seen any of this before,” Jordan said.

  “That’s because I haven’t opened it in decades.” Christina turned to the other box; she already had an idea about what was inside and she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to look. But if not now, when? She stripped the tape and found Will’s collection of antique maps—many of them gifts from her—the binoculars he’d used on his bird-watching walks, two cameras, and the snow globe he’d been given one Christmas when he was a little boy. Jordan shook it gently and Christina watched the glittering flecks settle down over the tiny house, barn, and pair of horses.

  “Can I have this?” Jordan asked. “I don’t have anything of his.”

  “You have so much that was his,” Christina said, eyes filling. “But yes, of course, take it.” When Jordan had taken the snow globe to her room, Christina surveyed the jumble before her: artifacts from the two most significant men in her life. What to do with this accumulation? She had a powerful urge to get rid of it all.

  “Mom?” Jordan was back in the room, her arms full. “This is some other stuff I found. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I think it may belong to . . . Andy.”

  Christina reached out to take the small bundle. Here was one of Andy’s familiar pima cotton shirts, this one pale blue and now somewhat creased. She could see him buttoning it as he headed to his office or the hospital. And she could see him unbuttoning it, more quickly, when they were alone together. Along with the shirt was a baseball cap—was it the one he had worn the day her car broke down and he surprised her with his sweetness and his tact? The last thing in Jordan’s haul was a brown silk tie with a tiny allover green design. It was only when she looked more closely that she saw the design was actually made up of tiny artichokes—Andy had an endearing weakness for whimsically patterned ties.

  “Are you okay?” Jordan was still standing there; Christina has almost forgotten. She looked again at the shirt. It had touched his body and she wished she could press it to her face and inhale whatever of his scent it might still hold. But she would not do such a thing in front of Jordan.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll take care of getting all this back to him.” Andy Stern was a significant man in her life too. He had her father’s temper and impatience but also his work ethic and his energy. And he had Will’s sweetness and ability to love. He had loved her, hadn’t he? Did he still? Jordan was still there, watching her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said. “What made you go with him to buy that ring? I thought you despised him.”

  “I changed my mind,” Jordan said. “I mean, he did save me.”

  “He did,” said Christina. She remembered that day at the hospital and felt the nausea rising up, like the morning sickness had returned.

  “I actually kind of miss him,” J
ordan was saying.

  “You what?” Christina was so surprised, her nausea subsided. “You miss him?”

  Jordan nodded. “I do. I mean, I never thought of him as my dad, but when we were all together with Oliver and everything, we were kind of like a family.”

  “I never thought I would hear you say that,” said Christina.

  “I know. Weird, huh?” Jordan waited before speaking again. “When the baby is born, you’ll let him come visit? I mean, it is his and all.”

  “He’ll get to see the baby,” Christina said. And when he does, it’s going to tear me apart.

  • • •

  The next morning, Christina went to see a potential space for her business. When she returned to the apartment—she still could not call it home—she felt energized enough to begin one of her customary prowls, taking inventory, the way she always had. That view of those treetops—so lush and full at the moment—really was nice; she would want to play that up more. But the flat white walls were dull and could use some help. In the kitchen, she decided the black-and-white backsplash tile and checked linoleum floor were not bad; some bright accents would help, though, and she began to visualize a fire-engine red teakettle sitting on the stove. Yes, red would be good—energizing and bold. But when she reached the room in which she had been sleeping, her spirits began to plummet. The walls were bare and the mattress lay on the floor; the Sargent oil sketch, still covered in Bubble Wrap, was next to it. Most of her clothes were in suitcases or boxes and hardly any of them fit her anyway; the few maternity things she’d bought dangled forlornly on wire hangers in the nearly empty closet. The room right next door—billed as a study by the rental agent—would be for the baby. Right now, it was empty.

  Jordan’s room was a bit more lived in; her daughter had unpacked all her clothes and either hung them in the closet or stored them in the bureau that she had unwrapped and dragged in here by herself. Will’s snow globe sat on top of it. Jordan had even knocked some nails in the wall. (Where had she gotten the hammer? As far as Christina knew, it was still buried.) Several pairs of point shoes hung suspended by their pink satin ribbons. The sight made Christina’s heart twist; for all her complaining, Jordan was doing a better job of getting adjusted than she was.

  A noise caught her attention and she turned: the rabbits. Today they seemed almost ominous, with their black, staring eyes and perpetually twitching ears. She would have been glad to pass them on to a family with a yard, but Jordan said no. In the Carroll Street house, Misha had built a big play area in the basement; there was no room for anything like that here. Jordan didn’t seem to think it was so important, but Christina could not stand to see the two creatures cooped up.

  She turned her attention elsewhere. Anyone else would consider this a nice apartment, a fine place to live, at least temporarily. So why did it feel like a cage, a prison? She thought of the house she had loved and lost. But it wasn’t just the house; it was the people in it who had mattered. Her mother dead too young, and her angry, alcoholic father with whom she’d never properly made peace. Barb. Stephen and Misha, the surrogate family upstairs.

  So what did that leave her with now? Jordan and the baby. Andy’s baby. She walked back into the bedroom and looked at the mattress. She missed him, in bed and out. Missed him because she loved and needed him. Just as he loved and needed her. Boisterous, strident, generous, and impulsive, he would break down the bars of any cage she ever tried to erect for herself. She had sent him away, though, told him she did not want him. How could she go back to him now? He was probably so angry he wouldn’t even see her. Still, she should try, shouldn’t she? She had to try. She hurried out of the room in search of her phone. When she found it, she hoped she could reach him; she might not have the courage to try again.

  “Christina.” His voice was soft with surprise. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said. “I just wanted to know how you were.”

  “Me? All right, I guess. I’ve been better.”

  “So have I,” she said. “Been better, that is.”

  “Everything’s all right with the pregnancy? What does the doctor say?”

  She told him about her last visit to Amy Wenders and then there was a lull. Even in the shared silence, she felt he was close to her, close enough to reach if only she dared.

  “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “It was about that ring.” She paused, trying to assemble the right sequence of words. “The one you wanted to give me. I never tried it on.”

  “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

  “Do you suppose I still could—that is, if you still have it—”

  “Yes,” he said. She could hear the happiness in his voice now, surging like a current, invisible but strong, connecting them. “Yes, I do. Yes, you could. Yes.”

  FORTY-TWO

  After the heavy rain the night before, the July morning dawned clear and bright; it promised to be a glorious day. Christina saw that the place beside her in the bed—no longer on the bedroom floor of her apartment, but properly set up—was empty. Andy was in the shower; she could hear him singing the chorus from “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” loud enough to be heard above the rushing water. Even though he could not hear her, Christina chimed in. She loved the score from Oklahoma! too and if there had been more time, she would have slipped into the shower for a duet. But Jordan would be up any minute now and they all had to be out of here early; the wedding at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden was scheduled for nine o’clock.

  Two hours later, Christina circulated among the small group assembled right inside the entrance. Andy had first suggested Great Neck—It’s where we met, he said—but Christina said no. She had not liked him on that initial meeting. And Great Neck was where she had turned him down. No, better to marry in a place that held none of those associations. She was a Brooklyn girl through and through and she could think of no better symbol of the borough than this beloved garden.

  Jordan came up to her. “Are you nervous?” she asked. She wore the same dress she’d worn to Angelica’s wedding last year and a pair of pearl studs Andy had bought for her. Christina had a new dress—raw silk ivory with a scalloped hem and a forgiving waistline to accommodate the small but noticeable swell in her stomach. Her bouquet was a cluster of gardenias and there were gardenias woven into her upswept hair.

  “A little,” she admitted. “Getting married is still . . .”

  “What?” Jordan prompted, looking genuinely curious.

  “A momentous occasion.” She leaned over and kissed her daughter on the brow.

  Oliver, looking very grown-up in a suit and with newly shorn hair, came over to join them. “My dad finally saw the light,” he said.

  “I think he saw it before I did,” Christina said. She straightened his tie—the first time she’d ever seen him wearing one—because she felt she was permitted to do that now. He patiently submitted to the adjustment and then asked, “Does it look okay?” There was still something of the boy about him, haircut and suit notwithstanding.

  “Yes,” she said. “Very handsome.” Then she turned to look for Andy. The rest of the wedding party—Ida, Stephen and Misha, Mimi, a few friends and colleagues of Andy, the florist, Gus, who had provided all the flowers, and his wife—were here; Andy was the only one missing.

  “Should we get into position now?” Misha asked. Along with Stephen and two of the college friends, he would be responsible for the small chuppah.

  “That would be a good idea,” Christina said. The garden allowed weddings from nine to ten o’clock on weekends; it was already nine fifteen and though the ceremony was not long, she did think they should get started. The rabbi—chosen by Andy—and the pastor from the Old First Church were chatting. There was Ida in a shantung suit topped by an elaborate straw hat, beaming. Everyone else was present and rea
dy. But no Andy. Christina scanned the semicircular area with its Italianate landscaping, vine-covered pergolas, burbling fountain, and limestone benches. Beyond was the emerald lawn, fresh and shimmering from all the rain the night before. It was the perfect place to get married. Only where was the groom? They were all waiting.

  She heard him before she saw him. “Tell her not to worry; it’s going to be fine,” he was saying into his cell phone. “I’ll call her later. I’m busy right now.”

  “Yes,” Christina said, walking up to him when he came into view. She plucked the phone from his grasp. “You are.” Andy looked splendid in his fine Italian linen suit, only a few shades darker than her dress. One of her gardenias was pinned to his lapel. She gave the phone to Oliver, who silenced it before slipping it into his pocket. Then, stepping under the fragile canopy of the chuppah, Christina and Andy joined hands.

  Photo by Keith Price

  Yona Zeldis McDonough is the author of four previous novels and the editor of two essay collections. Her fiction, essays, and articles have appeared in Bride’s, Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Harper’s Bazaar, Lilith, Metropolitan Home, More, the New York Times, O, the Oprah Magazine, the Paris Review, and Redbook. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and two children.

  CONVERSATION GUIDE

  TWO

  OF A

  KIND

  Yona Zeldis McDonough

  This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

  CONVERSATION GUIDE

  A CONVERSATION WITH

  YONA ZELDIS MCDONOUGH

  Q. More than once you have dealt with the theme of interfaith romance or love in your work; has this been a conscious decision on your part?