The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  Ethan steps back, looking more surprised than victorious. He clears his throat uncertainly. “No further questions.”

  On redirect, Lillian tries to clean up, emphasizing that Liesel and Stewart had not made any money from Pickles, no matter how expensive she had been.

  I expect a scene as I pack up our files, but Lillian flutters around saying her good-byes as she normally does. We file out of the courtroom and into the elevator. As the doors close behind us, Liesel smiles confidentially. “That went well.”

  “We’re not discussing it here,” Lillian says.

  Liesel purses her lips in annoyance but, amazingly, says nothing as we emerge from the elevator and walk in awkward silence through the rotunda and down the steps of the building. On the sidewalk outside, right next to the security station, Lillian stops abruptly and turns around, crossing her arms across her chest and giving Liesel a deliberate once-over.

  “It went well? It went well for me. I put on the best damn case anyone could for you. But you? You were hands down the worst witness I have ever seen in my life. Interrupting your own lawyer? Holding up your hands at me? I know you’ve made yourself a lot of money, sweetheart, but you must be the dumbest bitch I’ve ever represented, and I’ve represented some real dummies.”

  Liesel’s face drains of color until it’s a violent, vampiric white. “It had to be said. He was making it sound like I was crazy to be upset.”

  “Bullshit. That’s his job. And your job was to talk about what I told you to talk about. All you had to do was listen to my instructions and pretend to be pleasant for a fucking hour. Too much of a challenge for you, apparently.”

  “I was telling the truth.”

  “I’m glad you feel good about it, but just so you understand how this went—this should’ve been a slam dunk, but after your la-la land performance in there, Pickles von Pepe or whatever the fuck you named her might well be spending her days with that doughnut you married.” Lillian barks out a caustic laugh. “I really get why Molly can’t stand you.”

  I fix my eyes on the building across the street and feel my cheeks redden.

  Lillian continues. “Probably the only person who likes you right now is Ethan Crosby, because you gave his case a fighting chance in hell. We will remain your attorneys on record until the decision comes in, but after that, we’re done. Come on, Molly.”

  I touch Liesel’s arm and whisper, “Sorry,” but she doesn’t respond. As Lillian walks away, Liesel stands frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, her jaw hanging open.

  Scurrying after Lillian, I feel terrible and I’m not sure why. My days of handling Liesel are over, and that is cause to rejoice. As many times as I’ve imagined ripping into her in the way Lillian has just done, though, there was nothing satisfying about it. I feel a little ashamed, actually. Watching her crash and burn on the stand made me cringe, but it also made me realize that beneath her negligible interpersonal skills, Liesel is crying out for an audience. Granted, it might have been a bit smarter to unload on a therapist rather than her husband’s divorce lawyer, but she’s staying on message: she needs the world to know that she’s in pain and it’s Stewart’s fault.

  There’s no amount of money that would make me represent Liesel again, but still, some part of me wishes I had had this epiphany before today.

  19

  ____

  the shade of no boundaries

  The phone connection to my mom is crackly and fading in that way that immediately identifies she’s not only on a cell phone but also in transit and indeed, she tells me, “I’m here!”

  I look out the window of my office, half-expecting her to appear outside my window, levitating by the thirty-seventh floor. “How was the flight?”

  “Heaven.”

  “Which part—the middle seat or the three-hour delay on a hot tarmac?”

  “I sat. I read. I sipped the drink someone thoughtfully brought to me.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Aymade is driving me.” A friendly male voice corrects her pronunciation and she repeats after him. “Ah-med, oh sorry, like red, I get it. Ahmed is taking me down the FDR Drive now. What time is dinner?”

  “Six.”

  “Isn’t that too early for you to leave work?” My mom sounds worried, like my priorities are all wrong, joyriding instead of studying for the big test tomorrow. “Molly? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  “It’s August. It’s slow. It’s fine.” We have the same conversation each visit, but I especially appreciate the irony now; as if, with all the fireballs I’m juggling, leaving the office at six on a Friday would be the thing to fell me. “How’s Dad?”

  “Sad he had to stay, but hopefully distracted by working on payroll.”

  For as long as I can remember, the demands of Cheddar and Better have dictated an alternating “man-on-man” visitation schedule: Mom hangs with me; Dad babysits the store. Partner swap. Repeat. One unforeseen benefit of this is that I can assure my clients with a straight face that little Emma will be no worse off after spending Saturday alone with Dad and Sunday alone with Mom. If anything, I tell them, it will strengthen and deepen their children’s individual relationships with their parents, encourage real and honest conversations. Perhaps I should start telling my clients that their coparenting schedule will imbue their children with an independent spirit, as I have no plans to engage in a deep and honest conversation with my mom this weekend. My goal is to get through the weekend without disclosing the following: my role in the Walker case, my fear of Lillian, my flirtation with Caleb, about whom my parents know nothing.

  The rest of the afternoon ticks by, and I’m in the middle of a conference call with Sully, a private investigator—Kira Wades has been adamant that her husband has offshore accounts, which we’ve been trying to track down—when I hear effusive laughter from a few doors down. It’s a little too loud, a little too forced—Ha! Ha! Ha!

  Lillian must be on a walkabout.

  When Lillian is truly bored, she breaks free of her office and goes roaming around the halls. It’s like a geriatric rock legend going on tour; it doesn’t happen all that frequently, but when it does, we—her adoring public—are supposed to show up and swarm the stage (i.e., locate the office where she’s landed and crowd in like skipping, smiling teenagers in a music video), no matter how feeble the show actually is.

  On the other end of the phone, Sully hems and haws about how this search didn’t find anything, but maybe if the client throws, I dunno, another couple thousand at the search, he’ll be able to get me some information.

  There’s a shriek from down the hall—“You’re too much! Ha! Ha! Ha!”—and I shift in my seat. It’s like missing someone’s birthday party, even if you never really clicked with the birthday girl; even if they’re having it at the roller rink and you hate skating; even if they’re serving one of those giant submarine sandwiches composed primarily of bread that tastes like cardboard. It’s screwed up, but you still don’t want to show up at school on Monday when they’re all reminiscing about the group skate to Journey, so I hang up with Sully and rush down the hall to Rachel’s office.

  “Lillian’s evening plans were canceled,” says Liz, and I can tell by her tone that this is a warning as much as a celebration. “And she’s taking us for manicures!”

  “Wow.”

  “Five thirty.” Lillian grants a beneficent smile. “Kim’s calling Svetlana now. We knew you’d want in, so I’m having her make four reservations.”

  “Great,” I say, my voice ringing with phony joy as my brain skips ahead to my evening plans. If I tell my mom that my boss required my presence, she’ll understand and we can just push dinner back a half hour. It will be fine.

  “Molly,” says Rachel, her brow creasing, “what about your mom?”

  “Your mom?” Lillian looks intrigued. “What’s happening with your mom?”

  “She just flew in for the weekend, but it’s okay. She doesn’t expect to see me until dinner, so I c
an still come.”

  “Invite her!” Lillian gets a compassionate gleam in her eye as though she’s piping in fresh water to a remote Kenyan village instead of offering a double coat of pink polish. “I’d love to meet her.”

  “Oh, that’s so generous.” I emphasize the o in “so” a little too much, bordering right on the verge of phony. “But you really don’t have to.”

  “Molly, enough.” Lillian’s voice is a little snappier. “Tell your mom to meet us there. I won’t have you missing time with her for no reason. Family is too important.”

  I nod, not too trapped to appreciate the humor of Lillian—she of the estranged daughter and serial marriages—opining wise on the power of family. My mom will hate manicure night. But there is no contest: her comfort, like everything else that should be more important, is secondary to Lillian’s demands.

  __________

  I beg off traveling en masse with The Girls to the Salon at Fifty-fifth and Fifth, and even Lillian agrees that I should wait and escort my mother there. A few minutes after Lillian, Rachel and Liz file out, I head down to the lobby.

  Of course, my mom is already there, outside, leaning against the glass door, her face raised up to the sun, soaking it in. As I exit the revolving door, she turns around and breaks into a huge smile. “Ha! I get such a kick out of seeing you emerge from this fancy building in a suit.”

  I know this and it’s exactly why I wore one today, even though nothing in my workday required it. She wraps her strong arms around me and pulls me to her, her touch refreshingly cool and firm even on this muggy wet blanket of a day. Taking a step backward, she places her hands on my shoulders.

  “A little pale for August,” she says in a voice that’s half concern, half pride. “Same ol’, same ol’?”

  I nod and shrug. My hours and lack of sleep have been a constant of family discussion since the summer before tenth grade, when ninety percent of my dinners seemed to be scarfed in the Cheddar and Better stockroom (my SAT prep class was sandwiched between preseason soccer practice, volunteering at the library and my shifts at the store). My parents have always seemed a little in awe of my hard work but have a far less glamorous view of their own long hours. The subtext, of course, is that my hours are in the name of forward motion, a strong and sure freestyle stroke toward the horizon, while theirs is treading water, stagnating in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.

  “You look good,” I say. My mom is tan and freckled under her faded blue cotton sundress and heavy cork-soled sandals, her hair streaked blond. Even amid the stretches of Midtown concrete and glass, she looks natural and clean, as though she spends her days surrounded by sparkling rivers, purple mountains and stately blue green trees rather than an eight-hundred-square-foot storefront in a strip mall.

  When I was in third grade—before the middle school years of being embarrassed by simply having parents—my mom signed up to chaperone our spring class trip to the lake. It was everyone’s favorite day, the spring warmth hinting at summer vacation, our only responsibilities a very manageable combination of nature walk, three-legged race and cookout.

  My mom led the nature walk that year, and a handful of us third-graders trailed behind her, tripping over roots and scrambling over rocks. She paused occasionally, to identify a tree and ask us which animals we thought lived there, or to point out the illuminated flash of a fish retreating into the sun-capped water. She knew everything, it seemed, and I could not remember ever seeing her that patient or smiling. I was concerned, in the irrationally innocent way of someone who didn’t yet get the captivity of obligations, that she’d choose to stay at the lake campground, slipping away to hide behind a rock when the rest of us boarded the school buses back to the school parking lot. Afterward, when we were safely home, I had asked her why she didn’t work at the state park. She had caught my chin with her hands, forcing eye contact. “Do you want to choose where you work, Molly?” I knew the answer was yes, so I nodded. “Good,” she had said, releasing my chin and gently pushing my back, propelling me out of the kitchen. “Go to college. College will let you have a choice.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I’ve been making a point to walk in the mornings with Mindy Sturvidge. So, what’s this we’re doing? I don’t understand.”

  “Manicures with my boss.”

  “Manicures? As in—” My mom holds up her hands with an incredulous look.

  “Yep.”

  “This is something you guys…do?”

  “It’s only happened once before. That time it was pedicures.” I assume, but don’t say, that our group beauty regime is based on Lillian’s needs. The pedicure jaunt came immediately after Lillian’s purchase of some designer sandals.

  My mom nods. “Lead the way,” she says, gesturing down Park Avenue, and we start walking. “So,” she says in a tone that’s forced casual. “Do you socialize a lot with your boss?”

  “Not a lot. Every now and again she just likes to do nice things for us, you know, take us out to dinner or drinks, go get our nails done.”

  “Huh. Rewards for good behavior? A motivation technique.”

  “I guess so.” I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve always imagined that Lillian hangs out with us when she’s lonely. Loyal friends on salary.

  “Too bad she doesn’t just give you cash as a reward,” my mom says, raising one eyebrow.

  “This stuff is actually kind of fun. It’s bonding.” I grab my mom’s left hand and examine it. It looks much older than the rest of her: wrinkled fingers, age spots, short, no-nonsense nails. “Have you ever gotten a manicure, Mom? You know it means sitting still while someone rubs lotion into your hands.”

  “A mani—what’s it called?” My mom widens her eyes, a joking babe-in-the-woods impression, and then one side of her mouth turns up. “Yes, I am familiar. I had one forever ago. Aunt Kara made all her bridesmaids get them when she got married to her first husband. You remember Uncle Mitch? Everything about that wedding was ridiculous.” She rolls her eyes at the memory.

  “You don’t have to get one.”

  “Why not?” My mom looks defiant, as though she’s agreeing to bungee jump. “This is a vacation. Aren’t manicures a very vacation-y thing?” She wiggles her fingers. “I can have bonding fun with the best of them, especially Lillian. She’s been so good to you.”

  “That’s right,” I say. And each of us having convinced the other of our excitement, we march our pasted-on enthusiasm to the salon.

  __________

  Lillian, who’s sitting between Rachel and Liz, gets up when we come in, dripping water from the little finger bowl where her right hand has been soaking.

  She prances over to the entrance and wraps her arm around me, pressing her hand on my elbow so that I can feel the wet eucalyptus warmth of her fingerprints. Keeping her arm around me, she reaches around to my mom.

  “I’m so glad you could join us,” she says, beaming.

  “Gwen Grant,” my mom says, leaning in awkwardly to Lillian, then pulling back and extending her hand for a shake. She waves to Rachel and Liz, both of whom chime greetings from the manicure table, their hands splayed out before them as they half rise out of their chairs like they’re stuck in stocks.

  Lillian lets go of me but keeps her arm around my mom, introducing everyone as I stand by silently. She takes my mom’s hand. “Your daughter,” she says, letting go of me to press her hand to her, “is wonderful.”

  “Well, thank you. That’s nice to hear.”

  “So much fun and reliable. A real member of the team.”

  “I hear it’s a great team.”

  “And you—” Lillian looks back and forth between us. “Spitting image! Two Breck Girls.”

  “You really do look alike,” says Rachel.

  We’re used to these comments, my mom and I. We have identical hairstyles—shoulder-length blond hair, parted in the middle—and are the same build and height. People call twins on us a lot. We respond as we always do: both straightening up
and saying—almost in unison—“Thank you, what a compliment,” punctuating it by a self-conscious half laugh. I don’t know if Mom agrees with the appraisal of us as spitting images, but I don’t. The way my mom’s blue eyes are clear and wide, emitting cool competence; her unapologetic laugh lines; her cool, steady hand; her strength—these are hers, not mine. My mom glances down at her hand, still joined with Lillian’s, with a hint of confusion. Presumably, she’s wondering when it’s customary for New York handshakes to end.

  Instead of letting go, though, Lillian uses her grip to pull my mom over to one of the chairs. “Let’s segregate. Young’uns, you sit over there at this table, and we ladies of a certain age will stick together.”

  Lillian has about twenty years on my mom; as a matter of technicality, she could be my grandmother. My mom looks as though she’s about to say something but stops when she catches my eye, making me wonder what message I unwittingly transmitted to her. She shrugs—just go with it—and follows Lillian over to the table where Svetlana and her colleague flurry around, setting up bowls of water and lotion, grabbing tools from the sterilizer.

  I take the seat between Rachel and Liz that Lillian has vacated. Rachel, her head leaned toward me, whispers so low I can barely hear it. “She’s a little fascinated by your mom.”

  “Lil’ bit.” I exhale the words as quietly as I can.

  “I go for the neutral colors,” Lillian is instructing my mom, lifting up bottles of polish and holding them to the light. “Better to leave the garish stuff to the younger set, right, Gwen?”

  My mom does not appear insulted. “Neutral tones are definitely more my speed, Ms. Starling.”

  A shocked expression crosses Lillian’s face. “Please. You have to call me Lillian. I see your daughter nearly every single day.”

  “Okay,” says my mom in an even tone that makes me wonder if she is thinking the same thing that I am—that I see the coffee cart man outside my building every single bloody day and that hasn’t translated into chumminess. Quite the contrary: he seems surprised every time he hears my order. She gestures to Lillian’s ensemble, an off-white suit with nude pumps. “I love your style, so just polish me whatever color you’ve picked out.”