Musical Chairs

by Amy Poeppel

  “I loved camp,” said Bridget, not sure if he was even listening. “And the twins loved it as well.” This was not exactly true, but Bridget was certain several weeks in a cabin on a lake would be good for Madison, not that she knew her or her personality, but Bridget’s instinct told her it was the right thing.

  “She’s nervous,” Sterling whispered.

  “Totally normal,” said Bridget confidently. “She’ll get over that as soon as she arrives and makes new friends.”

  “She’s homesick.”

  “She hasn’t left yet.”

  “I mean,” he said, “she’s anticipating being homesick.”

  “Just stay positive about it,” Bridget said, “and she’ll follow your lead.”

  “You think?”

  “Can we cheat on the Whole30?” The thought of eliminating rosé in the summer sounded horrendous. “Can we at least do the Dirty30?”

  “Oh, hell, now Madison’s crying, I gotta run, Bridget. I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up.

  Bridget thought Sterling hovered too much over Madison, paying way too much attention to her every feeling, complaint, and anxiety, but she would never say so. She had conscientiously tried to get the balance right with her own kids, giving them time and attention while allowing them room to feel sad sometimes, to work out their own problems.

  Her own father had been so hands-off that Bridget figured she wasn’t the best at knowing what good fatherhood looked like. After Sophia died, Edward threw himself into work, leaving it up to Marge to keep the girls from feeling adrift.

  Young Bridget did not accept being ignored by her dad, no matter how focused he was on work; she would follow him around the apartment from room to room when he was around, call him at his hotels when he wasn’t, practice the cello right next to wherever he was sitting, and show up at his concerts in the city.

  “You’re a nudge,” he said to her one night before heading out to conduct the New York Philharmonic. He was tying his bow tie at the marble sink, while Bridget was sitting cross-legged on his bathroom counter, asking him question after question about his life and childhood; she had learned to stick to his favorite subjects.

  “Thank you,” she said. “A nudge is good, right?”

  He admired his face in the mirror, the left profile and then the right. He ran his hands through his thick hair. “You’ll probably nudge your way right into Juilliard.”

  Bridget was only in middle school at the time, but she made up her mind right then and there that that was exactly what she would do. Edward had gone to Juilliard; she would nudge her way into Juilliard.

  She followed him into a career in music.

  Later she followed him to Connecticut.

  * * *

  She imagined Sterling sitting on the porch beside her. What would he think of the house? From her spot in a wicker chair, she could see that, yes, the screens were rotting out of their frames, leaving gaps that let in moths and mosquitoes. She glanced up at the fan over her head, the warped blades drooping down like dead flower petals. And she looked out at the grass and weeds in the field that were so overgrown that no normal mower could forge through now. She checked the red mark on her skin, now a faint line running up her forearm like an old scar. Much like the scar Isabelle got on her elbow when she fell off her scooter, flying down the long driveway that sloped to the main road. Her house was fine; it was just scarred in the same way, bumps and bruises that represented a full, well-lived life.

  Bridget went inside and made an appointment with the electrician her ER doctor and Marge had recommended. She couldn’t have Sterling’s computer getting zapped mid-novel. Next, she called Kevin, who promised to stop by to help with a few odds and ends, although he was irritatingly vague about when that might happen.

  Finally, she Googled “Whole30” on her phone and made a shopping list. She wanted to have a good attitude about the program—they would get healthy and in shape!—but all she kept thinking was: What a drag. Knowing Sterling as she did, she was pretty sure that he, too, would find it a drag, and one night, maybe a week after he arrived, they would quit the Whole30, break out the wine, and let the fun begin.

  Her phone rang. “Isabelle!” Bridget said. “How’s your tooth?”

  “My tooth?”

  “You had a toothache.”

  “Oh, that,” she said. “No, I’ve got much bigger issues than a toothache.”

  An inkling of something bad filled the silence. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, great actually, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

  Bridget was relieved. She got up and found her purse and car keys, deciding she would go buy the portable fan Sterling had requested and some sheets with a high thread count. “Wonderful,” she said. “Glad to hear it.”

  “I’m at Heathrow.”

  “Heathrow?” Bridget said, stopping at the kitchen counter. “In London? Why?”

  “I couldn’t take it anymore, Mom. It’s like, I’ve been racing around my whole life, blindly going along, never stopping to reflect or assess my well-being, and for what? I’m not happy, and I need a break, you know?”

  Bridget did not know. “You’re vacationing in London?”

  “I left my job! I walked in my boss’s office, I quit, and I got the next flight out.”

  “But, Isabelle!” Bridget didn’t know where to start. “You didn’t give notice? You can’t just quit—”

  “I had this sliding-door moment, an epiphany actually: I’m going to die someday! And I haven’t even really lived. I had to escape the drudgery before my life passes me by. I’m so glad I found the courage to do the right thing. I feel really proud of myself right now.”

  Millennials. “Courage” and “pride” seemed like a pretty self-congratulatory interpretation of what sounded to Bridget like downright irresponsibility. “What are you…? I mean, where are you…?”

  “I’ve decided to spend the whole summer with you. Catch my breath and figure out what I want to do with my life. And I’ll get to know Sterling! It’ll be so nice.”

  No, no, no, no, no, no, thought Bridget.

  “And don’t worry,” she went on, “I’ll stay in the guesthouse so I won’t be in your way. But we can spend time together, and you can help me figure out who I am and what I really want for my future.”

  Bridget did something she’d never done to her children before in her entire life: she hung up the phone. She looked at the screen and touched the red button, like a reflex. She needed to think for a second because… what was she supposed to say? Good for you? This wasn’t good. This simply would not do. Bridget ran through the options in her head. She couldn’t send Isabelle to the New York apartment since Sterling’s Dutch friends were living in it. Maybe Isabelle could spend the summer with Oscar and Matt? Or maybe Bridget should try to make her see how impulsive and crazy this was. She thought of a few talking points about burned bridges and lifelong consequences. Then she took a breath and called Isabelle back. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I must have lost signal.”

  Isabelle was talking as though there hadn’t been any break. “…because I have no long-term plan whatsoever—that’s the coolest part! I’ll stay here with a grad school friend for a few days, because London. Why not? You’ve always told me how much you love it here. And then I’ll fly to JFK and take the train up to the house. Can I use your car while I’m there?”

  Hell no, Bridget wanted to say. No, you absolutely cannot use my car. “I don’t think—”

  “Jumping in a cab now. I love you, Mommy. I’ll see you soon.”

  She couldn’t stop her. She would never close the door on her own daughter. “Be safe,” she said, but Isabelle had already hung up.

  This was not—in any way, shape, or form—the summer she’d been imagining. She had pictured lazy mornings in bed with Sterling. Quiet dinners for two. Long walks and deep conversations.

  She would have to make it work, that’s all there was to it. The property w
as obviously big enough for the three of them. She would soldier on. She would buy pillows for Sterling. She would buy a coffee maker for the guesthouse so Isabelle wouldn’t come over first thing in the morning. She could establish some house rules. Meanwhile, she would have to call Sterling to explain this new development to him, but she had no idea what to say or how to say it.

  She picked up her phone and called Will instead.

  5

  Will walked Hudson down the tree-lined streets of the West Village, listening to Debussy on his headphones. He bought a newspaper and a coffee at his regular café and then sat on the steps of his brownstone, in the shadow of the Sotheby’s For Sale sign. He scooted to the left railing to be in the sun and to give himself some distance from the garbage cans that sat below him on the right. He usually loved a morning like this, a summer day in the city, especially before it got uncomfortably hot, but with the worry that he might lose his home, Will was having a hard time enjoying anything.

  He patted Hudson on his big head and was opening the newspaper when his music was interrupted by a ping, and he saw that Bridget, whom he hadn’t seen in almost two weeks—possibly a record for them—had texted:

  Well, fuck. Did you see the email?

  He hadn’t, and his first thought was that Caroline was ditching them.

  He checked and saw that Bridget had forwarded an email from Sterling:

  Dear Bridget,

  Mallory and I have given it a lot of thought, and we have come to the decision that Madison isn’t ready for camp this year. She doesn’t want to go. I told Mallory that you said a little pushback was normal, but pushback turned into an outright refusal, and we decided it would not be right to force her. We feel she should want to go. Instead she gets triggered every time the word “camp” is uttered. It isn’t healthy, so we’re letting her off the hook, which means I’ll need to spend my summer in Brooklyn.

  I was up for hours last night, knowing this would come as a great disappointment to you given the plans we’ve made. And then I had a disturbing, profound realization: none of this is fair to you. You’re in such a different phase of life. Your children are adults and off living their lives. You’re on your own and free in a way that I’m not… and won’t be for many, many years to come. I had a hard but good conversation about this with Mallory, and she agrees that it would be best if you and I take a break. I will focus on parenting and writing, while you can focus on your trio, your house, and… well, whatever you like!

  I wish you well, Bridget. Please accept my sincere apology and know how much I’ve enjoyed our time together.

  Your friend,

  Sterling

  Bridget picked up on the first ring.

  “Wow,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “No! No, I’m not okay. Why did he say ‘take a break’ when his sign-off sounds so final? Should I call him? Can’t we talk about it?”

  Will reread the email; Sterling really hadn’t left any wiggle room.

  “What the hell?” she said. “Do you know how I spent my time this past week? I converted the loft into a lovely, tranquil writing space—”

  “My loft?”

  “—and I made a list of food we needed to do the Whole30. Have you heard of the Whole30? It’s like an eating cult.”

  There was a pause, and he could hear her sniffling. “I bought an air purifier and hypoallergenic pillows,” she said, clearly in tears now, “and a really good fan. He’s very persnickety about airflow.”

  “Oh, Bridget,” he said, wishing he could help, “can you return it all?”

  “And I have no wine in the house because Mallory said it’s not allowed.”

  “You got dumped, and you can’t even get drunk tonight? Good God, Bridget, come home.”

  “I can’t,” she said, crying. “I have Dutch subletters.”

  “Oh, right.” Sterling had talked her into that dumb arrangement. “Come back anyway.”

  “I’m too old to sleep on your couch.”

  “I never said you could sleep on my couch.”

  He heard her stifle a laugh.

  Someone was coming up the steps, and Will got Hudson up and pulled him closer to make room. Two men in suits, one with a clipboard, the other with a briefcase, went past him and into the building; they had the word “Realtor” written all over them. Will had to stop himself from tripping them.

  Bridget had gone quiet.

  “You still there?” he said.

  “I never saw this coming,” she said. “I feel so stupid.”

  “No, he’s stupid. This isn’t about you at all.” Will couldn’t believe Sterling was such a jackass. To act as if he were performing some kind public service by setting Bridget free was just so… Sterling. Will wanted to take the subway out to Park Slope and let him have it. “Was he mad that Isabelle decided to come?”

  “I never even got up the nerve to tell him,” she said, “so that wasn’t it. Don’t you think he could have had the decency to come up here and break up with me in person?”

  “Would that have been better?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Well, shit,” he said. “Sterling is a total idiot. He’ll regret this.” He put Bridget on speaker and reread the email on his phone. “And that Mallory woman is a piece of work. She’s horrible.”

  “You think? Their relationship seemed so healthy.”

  “No,” said Will. “It’s weird. Why’s he talking to her about his relationship with you? You dodged a bullet having his ex in your life.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she said and blew her nose. “This is so not the summer I had in mind.”

  “When’s Isabelle getting there?”

  “I don’t even know. She’s so busy living her ‘best life’ in London, she’s stopped updating me.”

  “Why don’t you go there to visit her? You love London.”

  “I’m too depressed.”

  Will did not want to leave New York for the wilds of Connecticut. He had students to teach and a gig to play. He had a blind date. He had Netflix and a bottle of chardonnay in the fridge. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. After my last lesson.”

  “I’ll put your room back like it was before,” she said sadly. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me meet your train?”

  He didn’t bother answering, saying instead, “Flanders Tavern, seven o’clock.”

  “Will?”

  “Yes?” He prepared himself for her usual What would I do without you?

  “Can you go to the Apple store and get me a new laptop? Mine never came back to life after we got electrocuted.”

  “Sure,” he said, smiling and folding his newspaper. He and Hudson stood up on the brownstone steps, looking out over their street. “How many gigawhatevers?” He had two private lessons to teach at Lucy Moses on 67th that afternoon, and the Apple store was literally at the corner of Broadway. He hoped his credit card could handle it.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Will and Hudson took the subway to Grand Central and caught the Metro North train two minutes before the conductor closed the doors. Relieved to have made it, he settled in for the two-hour trip with Hudson at his feet, a computer in a box on the seat next to him, and his backpack overhead.

  He looked out the window, watching Harlem go by, glad to be spending a weekend with Bridget, now that he’d rearranged his schedule. They would take a walk along the Housatonic, cook tomorrow night, and drink the chardonnay he’d brought along. He always brought her some kind of offering (cheese from Murray’s, coffee from Joe’s) as his way of being a considerate houseguest. He also insisted on taking a cab to and from the train station so that Bridget didn’t have to pick him up. And he would spend some time this weekend keeping Bridget’s antique upright Steinway from falling into complete disrepair, unlike everything else in the house. As the only person who played, he did his best to keep it tuned. He wasn’t especially good
at it and often told Bridget that she needed to hire Edward’s tuner to install a Dampp-Chaser and address the sticky keys, but Bridget never got around to it, leaving it to Will to adjust the flatness and sharpness caused by humid summers and dry winters.

  In some respects, he missed the old days when Oscar and Isabelle were small and wild and running all over the house, wearing ski clothes, or Star Wars costumes, or nothing at all. But if he was being honest, he much preferred not being constrained by the needs of children. Little kids were too much for him.

  Ages ago, long before she got pregnant, Bridget asked Will if he wanted to father a kid with her, “no strings attached.” But as soon as the words came out—impulsively and after several glasses of wine—she gasped, clapped her hand over her mouth, and then insisted on taking them back. They were sitting in her first studio apartment, he on the couch and she on the foot of her bed, Chinese takeout containers on the coffee table in between them. She had a lime-green rug and a view of the Hudson River out the window.

  Will had put down his chopsticks and laughed uncomfortably. “No strings attached? We see each other every single day—”

  “Never mind!” she’d said. “Forget I said it. That would be incredibly weird. It would mess up what we have.” And she gestured to the egg rolls and to the space between the two of them. “I’ll get a stranger or—what do you call it? A donor. I was just thinking that the process is so complicated and impersonal, with sperm banks and legal contracts and what? A turkey baster? I was thinking it would be so nice to know the man. But it’s fine. I can do it. Pretend I never said anything.”

  “Said what?”

  She’d smiled. “Exactly.”

  He could imagine it, of course. All he would have to do is take a step across the lime-green rug to her side of the coffee table. He even loved her. But it would have been, as she said, “incredibly weird,” discombobulating, and way too risky. Even then, she was the closest thing he had to family.

  They never discussed the possibility of his involvement again.