How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  Just before I fall asleep I think that there are two very important things I know for sure. Number one, Shawn Sudberry-Long is a spectacular and generous lover, and if there is a shoe that is going to drop, it is not going to be in bed.

  And two, there is going to be pie for breakfast.

  Twelve

  I’m checking the cooler bag against my list. I’ve got a baguette, a chunk of a triple-crème Brie and a slab of aged Gouda, a tub of cold fried chicken legs, a green bean salad with new potatoes and roasted cherry tomatoes, a bunch of grapes, and a thermos of white gazpacho. Plates, plasticware, napkins. Marcy is bringing desserts, Lynne is bringing wine, and Teresa is just excited to be getting out of the house, now that she can drive again. Her ankle is healing slowly, but the doctor said that as long as she uses the big hard boot for walking or doing anything where she is exposed, she can use the smaller fabric boot for driving or hanging out in the house.

  We celebrated her freedom on Tuesday night with a visit to Opart Thai House, where I introduced her to the magic of brilliantly prepared Thai dishes for the first time. She really loved the appetizers, especially the Tiger Cry, a marinated grilled beef with a spicy dipping sauce, as well as the chicken and eggplant in oyster sauce, and pad kra praow, a ground-pork dish with basil and peppers, which felt almost familiar to her—it has a background that tastes a bit like crumbled Italian fennel sausage. She liked the pad Thai, which she thought her youngest would really enjoy, and was sure that Gio would at least get into the various satays and embrace the broccoli and beef. She didn’t love the curry, but that is advanced reading. I was delighted that she was so open to tasting and that she had a good time. Lynne had a business dinner, so it was the first time Teresa and I had been alone together, and it struck me how easy and comfortable it was just to be with her, with who she is now. We didn’t really speak much about the past, just about current stuff, and I have to say, she is exactly who I would have hoped she’d be as a grown-up, and I know if I met her today I would want to be friends with her.

  Simca gives a little yip as she always does when she hears the front gate unlatch. In ten seconds my doorbell is ringing.

  “Hello, ladies!” Marcy says, coming in and shaking the light snow off her head. “It is like a snow globe out there.” She hands me a bag that contains a large box. “Desserts.”

  I peer inside, but the box is sealed. “What do we have?”

  “Toffee chip cookies, pine nut shortbread, raspberry oatmeal bars.” She rattles them off. “Sophie says hi and thank you for the onion kuchen recipe, she really appreciated the share. Sent you a Nutella babka as a present.” Marcy hands over a second, smaller bag that feels like a brick. Sophie Langer’s Nutella babka is about the most perfect food I’ve ever put in my mouth. It will make for a wonderful breakfast treat the next time Shawn sleeps over, which he has done three nights out of the past six. We cannot get enough of each other, both in and out of bed, and I’ve just given myself over to enjoying his company and carnal attentions.

  “It was my pleasure, and I never say no to babka. My grandmother would be very excited that someone wanted her recipe.”

  “Are they meeting us there?” Marcy asks. I think she is very curious about Lynne and Teresa, especially since she knows about the bet. She also knows about Shawn—not that it’s feeling serious to me or that we’ve slept together, just that we have seen each other “a couple of times” and that I find his company enjoyable. Not ready to let that cat out of the bag, and have sworn her to secrecy for tonight with the girls.

  “Yep, Teresa is picking Lynne up on her way down to the studio.” Tonight the four of us are doing a glassblowing class as part of my bet obligations. We’re allowed to bring in food and drink. The class will be about twelve people altogether, so I get to check the “socialize with strangers” box, but still have my peeps as backup. I’m more nervous about the wine tasting I’ve scheduled for next week, since that one I have to do all on my own. At least there will be drinking.

  “Well, let’s get this party started!”

  • • •

  It looks like a vagina,” Marcy says to Teresa, looking at her paperweight cooling in the asbestos-lined box with the rest of the class’s efforts. There is indeed an internal design of somewhat Georgia O’Keeffe sensibility.

  “It’s a flower!” Teresa says, grabbing a piece of shortbread, laughing at her handiwork.

  “Sure it is, T, sure it is. Might be time to get back to the sexy part of your list!” Lynne says, looking at her own paperweight, with a perfect purple swirl in the middle and a netting of air bubbles over, as if she had been a glass artist her whole life.

  “At least yours looks like something. What the hell am I going to do with this?” I say, gesturing to mine, which essentially looks like a solid green lump.

  “Give it to your mom for Hanukkah,” Lynne says. “Parents have to love the handmade gifts from their offspring, right, Teresa?”

  “No. No, we don’t have to love them. We have to accept them. We have to praise them, and express gratitude and excitement, but we don’t love them, we love the intent of them. The actual reality of them is a huge pain in the ass, and frankly we count the days till our offspring move out of the house so we can box them all up and stop looking at them.”

  We all laugh at her vehemence. “Duly noted, Mama,” I say, making a mental note to give my mom permission to get rid of all the various art projects I foisted upon her over the years, many of which still grace the shelves and display spaces in her house.

  “Well, I like mine, it’s a keeper,” Marcy says with thick sarcasm. Hers isn’t as bad as mine, but it is a close second. She was going for a colored internal sphere inside a clear one, but it isn’t really round, so it looks more like a deep red, misshapen blob encased in glass.

  “And it’s benign, which is a relief,” Lynne says snarkily.

  “It’s not a toomah!” Marcy says in a perfect Arnold Schwarzenegger Kindergarten Cop imitation. The two of them have been sparring a bit all night. It has been sort of friendly, but there is an undertone of something else that I can’t put my finger on. Not quite a pissing match, but close. Lynne keeps making jokes from high school, and Marcy retaliates with stories from our culinary school days and our European adventures. It all seems good-natured enough, but I won’t know for sure until I hear privately from each how it was to meet the other. I’d say it seemed a bit like they were jealous of each other, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what that would be about.

  “Oh, God! I love that movie,” Teresa says, clapping her hands in delight. “I have got to show it to my boys on our next movie night!” Teresa and her family have been having movie nights of the classics from the 1980s and ’90s ever since Antony turned twelve and was deemed old enough to handle John Hughes.

  “Remember when we went to see it?” Lynne snorts. “Peter’s Purple Puke!”

  Teresa starts laughing. “I forgot about that.”

  I turn to Marcy, as I have been doing all night when Lynne tosses out these references. “We went to see the movie and ran into some other kids from school, one of whom was this guy Peter that Teresa liked. He had snuck in some booze in a huge bottle of grape pop, and then ate an enormous bucket of popcorn with extra butter, and as we were leaving the theater, he projectile-vomited purple across the parking lot. That was the end of Teresa’s crush.”

  Marcy nods, with a look on her face that indicates this is not exactly the hilarious amazing tale that Lynne’s tone implied. I immediately try to forget it, since I cannot handle puking of any kind. The first and only time Simca yakked up some foam and fluff from a chew toy she had destroyed when she was three months old made me gag over and over as I cleaned it up. She’s been very accommodating to my sensitive stomach by not ever throwing up again. I appreciate that about her.

  “Meanwhile, who is up for a nightcap at my place? I have some good news that I
want to celebrate, and some really yummy bubbles!” Lynne says, changing the subject.

  “I can do just one,” Teresa says.

  “We’re in?” I say, confirming with Marcy.

  “Great, let’s get out of this hot box!”

  We gather up the remains of our picnic and leave, headed for Lynne’s apartment.

  “So, what do you think of the girls?” I ask Marcy when we get into the car.

  “Teresa is a sweetheart, such a classic Italian mama, I just want her to adopt me.”

  “Don’t worry, she will. Wait till summer when her whole family starts putting up gravy from the tomatoes in her aunt’s garden. You won’t have to make pasta sauce for yourself all year!” I used to get invited to sauce day when the big harvest came in, fifteen loud, lovely Italian women covered in tomatoes, busting one another’s chops, sharing recipe secrets, interrogating the single ones and poking at the married ones about childbearing, and drinking more red wine than would seem rational. I loved those days.

  “I’ll take that!” Marcy pauses. “Lynne seems, um, very sure of herself.”

  I laugh. “Large and in charge, we always said.”

  “I feel like I don’t really know anything more about her than you shared with me before we met, you know? Like all her stuff is very surface.” Marcy pauses. “I mean, she’s totally nice, I don’t want you to think . . .”

  I hold up my hand. “I get it. She’s sort of a closed system. But it’s just how she is before she knows you. I think it’s because her job means that she is endlessly meeting new people that she has to feign interest in, and so she is really practiced at the whole small-talk thing. Once you spend some time with her, she will open up a bit.” It is interesting, Marcy picking up on some of the stuff that bothers me about Lynne, but my impulse is still to defend.

  “Yeah, that’s probably it,” Marcy says in a tone that says that she doesn’t really think that at all.

  • • •

  What are we celebrating?” Marcy asks when we are all sitting in Lynne’s living room, glasses of Krug rosé in our hands, since clearly Lynne is waiting for someone to broach the subject.

  “I have officially landed my first seven-figure client!” Lynne says proudly. “Here’s to Angelique Morris!”

  “Wow, the fashion designer?” Teresa asks. “That is huge!”

  Angelique Morris went from local Chicago fashion staple to international fashion star when Michelle Obama wore several of her dresses over the course of a weekend trip to London, including a spectacular navy evening number that she was photographed in with Princess Kate. Angelique’s career blew up. And being a Chicago girl, she’s kept her headquarters right here at home. It’s a huge get for Lynne, and I’m really excited for her.

  “Signed this morning. We are taking over every aspect of her outside PR, and I’m her account director. I’ll be transitioning off of my other clients slowly as we ramp things up for her, and then focus on her work exclusively. I even have an office at her building!” Lynne is actually nearly giddy, and we all toast and sip the delicate bubbles. “I met her at a meet and greet for the DuSable Museum—Theaster Gates is trying to get me to join their board—and we hit it off. When she mentioned she was in need of a PR firm to do a bit more than her in-house team was able to do on their own, and she didn’t want to take on the care and feeding of new people for that department, I finagled a meeting and then went Full Lynne Lewiston on her. The lady didn’t have a chance!” Lynne has just managed in one breath to praise herself and her work prowess, indicate that the “join a charitable board” piece of her list is also practically locked up, and name-drop not one but two local celebrities. She is astonishing in her efficiency.

  “Congrats, honey, that is just wonderful. Good for you!” Teresa says.

  “Yeah, wow, that is major,” Marcy says. Marcy couldn’t care less about fashion labels, cobbling together her nonwork wardrobe at vintage stores and cheap boutiques in Wicker Park, and she has already cooked for more famous people than Lynne will ever meet in a lifetime, so she just doesn’t get fazed by it. “Congratulations.”

  And then, there is an awkward silence as we sip our champagne.

  “So, I guess you’ll win the bet, huh?” Marcy asks to break the quiet.

  Lynne and Teresa both snap their heads around to look at her, somewhat shocked.

  “So, you know about that, huh?” Lynne says, narrowing her eyes at me.

  “Um, yeah, well, Eloise mentioned it, you guys helping each other get inspired to do some new stuff . . .” Marcy is stammering. Apparently the wine at glassblowing and now the champagne has loosened her tongue more than a little.

  “Yes, well,” Lynne says, faking nonchalance. “We all have always supported each other in our endeavors. This seemed a fun way to spend the last months of our thirties.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Marcy, of course you know, you’re El’s best friend! And it has been a good way to get us all out of our ruts. I’d say you should jump in and join us, but . . .”

  “But you aren’t turning forty this May,” Lynne says, shutting Teresa down.

  “Nope!” Marcy says. “I’ve got four more years for that.” Unlike me, who did a regular college degree before culinary school, Marcy went to culinary school right out of high school.

  “Well, from what I’ve seen, you won’t need any bet to get you to do the stuff you need in your life. You seem to just really go for things. I really envy that,” Teresa says. She is great about seeing the best in people, and her impulse is dead-on. I can’t think of one thing Marcy ever wanted that she didn’t just go after.

  “Aw, thanks, Teresa, that’s so sweet. I think because I lost my mom so young, and she was such a go-getter, I’ve always just had that drive to not waste any time questioning stuff, you know?” Marcy’s mom died of cancer when Marcy was twelve, but the whole time she was in treatment, she was still living life to the fullest—getting her pilot’s license, learning Spanish, raising money for medical research. Marcy said she never once wallowed or acted like a victim, she just tackled her treatment and her bucket list with equal passion, and instilled in Marcy a sense of appreciating life and being willing to take on a certain amount of risk when necessary to achieve your dreams and make sure that you are living your fullest life.

  “Anyway, thank you all for celebrating with me. There will be a little party in a few weeks for Angelique’s housewares launch. Everyone who is anyone will be there—it will be celebrities galore! I’ll put all of you on the list!” And now we are back to talking about Lynne.

  “Sounds fun,” says Marcy in a tone that indicates that it doesn’t sound like anything of the sort.

  “Awesome, thanks, Lynne, that will be great,” I say, waving off Lynne’s proffering of the bottle to top me off. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got a big day at work tomorrow.” I just want to get out of here and call Shawn.

  “Strenuous cooking to be done?” Lynne asks. “I’d imagine you’d be slammed with the season.”

  “Yep! The family is hosting their annual holiday party this weekend, and while they cater some of the big parts of the meal, I’m in charge of all appetizers and desserts and a few of the side dishes.”

  “Ugh, that fiddly stuff is so much harder than the big-ticket items,” Marcy says, immediately having my back. “I’d rather do a ham or a turkey than a ton of apps any day!”

  “Yeah, I should go too, get home before my menfolk tear the damn house to bits. Great night, and congrats again, Lynne, super proud of you, girl,” Teresa says, hoisting herself up with the help of her cane.

  “Well, thanks, everyone, for coming over.” Lynne gets up to walk us all out, and we head downstairs, where our cars are parked in the circle driveway of the building. We make sure that Teresa is all set before we get into my car and I head for Marcy’s Wicker Park apartment.

  “Thanks for including
me, El. I had fun,” she says as we pull up into an empty parking spot in front of her building on Evergreen.

  “Sorry if Lynne was a little prickly.”

  “It’s all good. I get it. She predates me and wants me to know where I stand.”

  “Yeah, it’s weird. I mean, she’s known me longer . . .”

  “But I know you better?”

  “I think that’s probably it. She knows the me that I was, but you know the me that I am now, and you have been there for all the important stuff—my becoming who I am, my dad’s illness and death, the whole Bernard debacle.”

  “Speaking of which, how goes your fledgling romance?”

  “It’s fine, thank you.”

  “Cagey. And why don’t you want them to know? I mean, Lynne is a tough nut, but she really seems to care about you, and Teresa would be planning your wedding.”

  “Exactly. I want to know what I think and how I feel before I get any input from other sources, if you know what I mean. I don’t want Lynne to have her opinions, I don’t want Teresa pushing it to be more serious than it is or should be. I need to just be in the moment with him and see where it goes and how I feel about that before I have to listen to any voices besides my own, if that makes any sense.”

  “It does. For what it is worth, I thought he was really awesome, and the two of you seemed to have very genuine and positive energy. I’ll wait to hear from you on how it’s going and if you decide it is time to go public.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for coming tonight. Hopefully it wasn’t too weird. Maybe we can all hang out again. Lynne really is a good person. I think if she gets to know you, it will be less awkward.”

  “Hey, I’m all in with you, my tall friend. That now includes these two women from your past. So no worries.” She winks and pops out of the car, heading into her building, taking the steps on the front stoop two at a time. I check my watch. It’s almost ten. I do have a long cooking day tomorrow at the Farbers’. I should probably go home, walk the dog, and have an early night. But then my phone pings.