By Tuesday afternoon, the apartment was totally empty, and Ellen turned over the keys to her mother when she got back to Central Park West. She felt tired and sad and drained. It was painful to see something once so beautiful damaged beyond recognition, and a whole section of the city a shambles, with people crying on the sidewalk over their losses. It depressed her every time she went downtown. The whole city was affected despite the lack of damage uptown, although people were rallying, and many like Grace swore they would rebuild and return. Ellen still didn’t want her to do it, but the human spirit was hard to control or predict or argue with. Most people wouldn’t have been as persistent about trying to get pregnant as she had. Everyone had their own blind spots and obsessions, and living in the apartment she owned in Tribeca was her mother’s. She loved the building, the apartment, and the location on the river, beyond reason.
Ellen called George that night and missed him again. He sent her a text that he was in a meeting, then at a dinner party and would call her when he got home, but he didn’t.
And the next morning, when Grace went to work, Ellen met with the real estate agent she’d been referred to, and began the round of furnished apartments, which was an education in itself. There was a long list to see, and an even longer list of refugees from downtown, especially from the higher-priced areas like her mother’s, who were willing to pay any price and were snapping up apartments as soon as they saw them. The realtor had already warned her that they’d have to make a quick decision if they saw something they liked, and Ellen had told her mother that she’d have to run over from her office if a great place, or even a decent one, turned up. It didn’t have to be perfect, it was just temporary, until her Tribeca apartment was restored.
The realtor seemed mildly eccentric to Ellen, but if the woman had good listings, Ellen didn’t care, and she worked for a well-known, respectable firm. After that, it would be the luck of the draw as to what was available, and it was Grace’s decision in the end, since she would have to live there for several months. And of course, they had to be willing to take the dog, which most owners of furnished apartments weren’t. They had already ruled out the ones that weren’t pet-friendly, since Grace wouldn’t have considered them. The realtor had recognized Grace’s name and was impressed, which never hurt, and she assured Ellen that they would be able to get her mother approved by any co-op board in the city, also not a given with every tenant. So in theory, if they could find the right apartment, it should be easy. And Ellen had described her mother’s needs, and Grace’s own list of specifications. She wanted a doorman and fully staffed building, a pleasant view, lots of sunlight, a minimum of two bedrooms, preferably a third so she could use it as an office, ideally downtown in the undamaged parts of SoHo, the West Village, lower Fifth Avenue, or Tribeca, which was a tall order, or the Upper East Side, north of Sixtieth Street and south of Seventy-ninth, or on Central Park West if it was fabulous, but nowhere else on the West Side. Ellen’s marching orders were clear, and the realtor knew them all.
They started downtown, since it was the area Grace preferred. Very few buildings had been unaffected by the hurricane, but Ellen saw an apartment in a modern building on a high floor, which her mother had said she didn’t want either. She didn’t like high floors, in case of a fire in the building. The ceilings were so low that Ellen felt as though they were coming down on her head. The apartment looked flimsy and cheap, and there were sparkles in the paint on the walls and ceilings, which made her cringe and she knew Grace would hate, and the furniture was awful, and was mostly wicker bought in Mexico. The apartment had been lived in by students, and it showed.
The next one was a brownstone townhouse on Washington Square, which was beautiful and exquisitely decorated but had no doorman. The realtor had sneaked it in “just for a look” in case Ellen fell in love with it, and she reminded the agent that she had to stick to their requirements or she’d be wasting their time. She apologized, and they moved on to a loft in SoHo, with a kitchen in the middle of the living room, which Grace wouldn’t want. There were three in Tribeca without doormen, so not worth seeing, although the agent swore they were fabulous, and an allegedly incredible one that supposedly had everything they wanted, for forty thousand dollars a month, which was beyond Grace’s budget, so they skipped that one too. And a sweet apartment in the West Village that was tiny but very pretty, it had one bedroom and a living room and was claustrophobic. And after that they went uptown. Ellen was starting to get discouraged, as the realtor talked on her cell phone constantly, trading listings with other brokers and negotiating prices. She sounded like a bookie or a drug dealer, and was giving Ellen a headache as they got in a cab and headed north. They had agreed to start at the top of Grace’s geographical limit, on Seventy-ninth Street, and work their way down.
The two listings she had on Seventy-ninth Street were well decorated but dreary and dark, with no sunlight at all. And there was a townhouse across from the Frick Collection that had no doorman. Ellen had almost lost hope by then, and wondered if she would find anything. They were at Sixty-eighth and Fifth by then, not far from Grace’s office at Fifty-seventh and Park, walking distance on a nice day. And the building on Sixty-eighth was across from Central Park, supposedly with a roof garden, and they didn’t mind the dog. Ellen was waiting to see what was wrong with it, as the doorman let them in, as the listing agent was late and had allowed him to do so. And for a moment, Ellen felt as though she had walked into someone’s home and didn’t belong there. There was a very chic living room, all done in beige, with furniture by a well-known Italian designer Ellen recognized immediately. There was a book-lined den set up as an office, a huge master suite done in pale blue, and a respectable second bedroom in navy and white French fabrics. There was a small dining room and a separate kitchen, with a maid’s room behind it. The entrance hall was black and white marble, the view of the park was spectacular, the apartment looked clean and well cared for, and the small roof garden was pleasant and had the same high-quality Brown Jordan furniture that Ellen bought for her clients. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to give it up. The surface of the apartment wasn’t enormous, so it was manageable with one cleaning person, and it was big enough for Grace, even if slightly smaller than the apartment she owned in Tribeca, and it was all on one level, so she didn’t need to worry about stairs. And the apartment came with kitchen equipment and linens, if a tenant wanted.
“Why are they renting it?” Ellen asked, mystified by why anyone would want to have strangers in an apartment like it.
“The woman who owns it is trying to decide if she wants to move to Palm Beach, and she didn’t want to make a hasty decision before she sees if she likes it. She bought a big house there last year, but she’s afraid she’ll miss New York if she gives up her apartment here. She can always stay at a hotel, but she’s not sure. She’s renting this apartment for six months, with an option for another six months, if she doesn’t want to come back.” It was plenty of time for her mother to get the Tribeca apartment in order, if she remained stubborn on that score. Ellen loved the apartment, and would have been happy living there herself. “If she decides to give it up, the apartment will be put up for sale in six months or a year, and the tenant would have to agree to let us show it.”
“How much is the rent?” Ellen asked cautiously, afraid that it was one of the ones over budget. She couldn’t remember and was surprised at the price—it was well below anything they’d seen in Tribeca, but the Upper East Side was now noticeably less expensive than the trendier areas downtown that had become so popular and were in such high demand, even after the hurricane. “When is it available?” Ellen asked her—it was the last detail she needed to know.
“Now. She just put it on the market after Labor Day. It’s been on the market for just over two weeks, but with the hurricane, no one has seen it for the last ten days. We have two showings tomorrow and another one on Friday.” Ellen reached for her cell phone as she said it and called her mother.
She walked into the orderly white kitchen so she could speak freely.
“Hi, Mom. Are you busy?”
“I’m in a meeting. Can I call you back? I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”
“Perfect. Get in a cab as soon as you finish. I think I just hit the jackpot. I found a great place on Sixty-eighth and Fifth. There was nothing decent downtown, and this is a little traditional for you, but I don’t think you’ll find anything better than this for ‘temporary furnished,’ unless you like the one I saw with eight-foot ceilings and sparkles in the walls. It’ll go quick, so you need to come and see it.”
“You’re fantastic,” her mother said with open admiration. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, less if I can do it. Will they take the dog?”
“The broker said the owner has two French poodles, and doesn’t care if you do. Mom, it’s perfect. I would live here myself.” Grace knew that Ellen’s taste was more conservative and less extreme than her own, with a bent for modern design and architectural flourishes, but she had total faith in Ellen’s ability to pick something for her. She always knew just what her clients liked. And Grace knew that if there was something right for her out there, her daughter would find it.
“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” Grace promised.
She was there fifteen minutes later, as the realtor waited with Ellen and returned a slew of calls. And Grace was as impressed as Ellen had been when she saw it, and was delighted with the price.
“I think I’d rather use my own linens,” Grace said thoughtfully. Hers had been drowned and stained with sewage and they had thrown them out, so she had to get new ones anyway, and towels. She kissed Ellen then and smiled broadly. “I’ll take it,” she said to the realtor and her daughter, and they sat down at the kitchen table to fill out the forms, for the real estate agent, the owner, and the co-op board. It was like signing the Constitution or the Treaty of Versailles, but both mother and daughter were impressed by how easily the process had gone. They had found what she needed in a single day.
“It will take about a week to get board approval,” the agent explained to them. They were both familiar with the process, and that it took time, and Grace would need three business references, four personal ones, and two financial, which wasn’t a problem either. Her secretary could round them up.
An hour later they left the apartment, after Grace made a few notes and took some pictures. And she said she liked the roof garden too.
“I’ll ask them to cancel the other showings,” the agent assured them, and they left her outside the building, while Grace thanked her daughter again for doing such a good job. It was a major victory after the miseries of the past week. Grace admitted that she wouldn’t want to live there forever, it wasn’t her style. She knew she would miss Tribeca and couldn’t wait to go back. But certainly for six months, it would be perfect, and even convenient for work. Ellen was relieved to know that she could leave for London, assured that her mother had a place to stay, and she could handle the move-in herself. She could leave her own things in storage and just bring her clothes. The apartment even had walk-in closets. And having accomplished the task at hand, Ellen had two days to shop for clients, and she could go back to London on Saturday, two weeks after she had left. She felt as though she had moved mountains since she’d been gone, but things in New York were on the upswing now, only ten days after the hurricane had decimated her mother’s apartment and lower New York.
Grace took a cab back to her office, and Ellen went back to Jim Aldrich’s on Central Park West. It was four in the afternoon by then, nine o’clock at night in London, and she wanted to tell George she was coming home. She called him as soon as she got to her bedroom in Jim’s apartment, and she was smiling. She was so pleased with the apartment she had found for her mother. It was really perfect for her in every way, certainly for six months.
And this time, when she called George, he answered almost at once. He sounded tired and distracted when he did. But Ellen was so happy over their victory that she paid no attention to it, and thought he’d probably just had a long day at the office.
“I’m coming home,” she said happily, excited to see him after the time apart that had seemed endless, and after all she and her mother had been through.
“When?” He didn’t sound nearly as enthused as she did.
“I think Saturday makes the most sense. I need to work for a couple of days. I’ve dealt with nothing but the hurricane till now. I just found a terrific furnished apartment for my mother. She can move in next week, once she gets board approval, so I’m done, and she has a place to live for six months, until she gets her apartment restored.”
“She’s insane to move back there,” he said, sounding annoyed.
“I agree. Even her neighbor is moving uptown, and he’s selling. I’m going to work on her, but she’s not ready to give up yet. I’m hoping she’ll come around.” There was a long silence after she said it, and she wondered what he was doing. He sounded like he was thinking of something else, or maybe reading at his desk. There was a pause, and then he finally spoke again.
“We need to talk when you get back,” he said seriously.
“About what?” She couldn’t imagine and didn’t want to guess.
“A lot of things,” he sighed. “Four years of futile baby-making have really done me in. I can’t do that anymore.” She was quiet for a moment, and decided to be honest with him. He had said that before, but he seemed as though he meant it this time.
“I saw a doctor here last week. He wasn’t encouraging. He agreed with what they told us in London last time. My eggs are too old. He said we would need a donor egg,” which she knew neither of them wanted to do.
“I can’t do it anymore,” he said bluntly, and for a moment it seemed unfair to her. She was the one taking the hormone shots, going through treatments, having her eggs painfully harvested, and going through IVF, not George. But he had lived through each test, disappointment, and miscarriage with her, which had been hard on him too.
“I’m sorry it hasn’t worked.” She wanted to ask him if he still felt as strongly negative about adoption and surrogacy, but she didn’t dare—he seemed upset, and he had obviously been thinking about it while she was gone. He sounded very definite, which made her sad. The whole process had been sad for both of them for too long.
“So am I,” he said, clearly unhappy. “It’s taken a terrible toll on us.” She didn’t agree with him, and thought they had survived it surprisingly well. She’d heard worse stories from others. “Ellen, I’m sorry to say this to you now, but I’m done. I wanted to wait till you came back to tell you, but I don’t want to mislead you. I’ve been thinking about it for months.”
“I understand,” she said quietly, with tears in her eyes. But he had a right to make that decision, not to pursue infertility treatments anymore. They both had to want to do it, for it to be tolerable and a good plan.
“I don’t think you do understand,” he said soberly. “I mean really done. With the marriage. It killed it for me. The last year or two were just too much. We should have stopped long before. There’s no romance left between us, no excitement, no hope. We’ve been making love on a military command schedule for nearly half our marriage. I can’t bear it anymore. And I’m sure you feel that way too.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, panic rising in her throat, as her heart started to beat faster at what he said. “I still love making love to you, even if it hasn’t been spontaneous.” Her voice drifted off, thinking back to what it had been like. Maybe worse than she wanted to admit. She had been so goal-oriented that she hadn’t thought what it was doing to him.
“I hated giving you shots and hurting you, and going through it every time, your being depressed, crying at every sign, the miscarriages, all the business about your eggs. I feel like I went to medical school. And I never wanted children as much as you do. I would have been fine not having any, but having them like this is just unbearable. It’s a wonder it didn’t make
me impotent. I’ve been making love to a test tube with a copy of Playboy in my hand for four years. I’ve hated every minute of it.” And it sounded like he had come to hate her too. It was the first time he had been that honest with her, and she was suddenly sorry she had pushed him to breaking point. It had obviously been a huge mistake. She had destroyed their marriage without meaning to. And she wasn’t sure what to do to win him back.
“We can stop now,” she said in a thin voice, sad to give up hope of the baby she wanted so desperately, but she didn’t want to lose him either, that was even more important to her.
“I have stopped,” he confirmed to her. “I meant what I said. I’m done. There’s nothing left in this for me. I want a divorce. It’s not fair to you to hang on to something that died for me years ago. We both need to get on with our lives. And I realize now it was never the right match. I know how hard you tried to be everything I wanted and adjust to British life for me, but it’s not real. It’s all foreign to you, and it always will be. I know that now.” The way he said it told her something else, and she felt like her heart stopped beating at his words.
“Is there someone else?” She blurted out the words without meaning to, and there was an interminable pause before he answered. He hadn’t wanted to do it on the phone, but he couldn’t stand the lies anymore and the pretense that they still had a marriage. He still cared about her, and was concerned about her, like a sister, but he knew now that he wasn’t in love with her anymore. The life-and-death pursuit of a baby had killed it for him.
“Yes,” he finally answered her. “There is.”
“Oh my God, since when?” She nearly choked on the words.
“A while. A year,” he said, finally honest with her, which was a relief for him. “I thought it would blow over, and it was just a bit of fun. But it’s not, it’s serious.” He hesitated again for a long moment, and told her the rest. “I love her, and I want to marry her.” Ellen thought she was going to faint when he said the words. She felt like a bomb had just gone off in her heart and blown it to smithereens.
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