“Mind if I read part of your paper?” he had said in what I later realized was just a lame attempt to start a conversation. He took the seat next to mine.
“Take the whole thing,” I had answered, without even glancing his way. There was too much human drama going on around me to bother with a paper, I remembered thinking. At that particular moment, I was transfixed by a young couple arguing in the corner. The woman wore a fleece-lined jean jacket and red leather pants, the man wore a fuzzy aviator hat that he kept on even while he ate. At first they had tried to be quiet, but now things were too heated for them to care. I could just barely hear what they were saying. He was upset—he never saw her, she was spending too much time with her friends, too many hours at work—he felt neglected. She was sorry—but couldn’t give up her independence—he kept trying to change her. Why did he want her to be someone else, she wanted to know. Why did he want to stifle her?
“She is so pathetic.” I heard a voice from behind me.
“I’m sorry?” I had said, a little confused as I turned to see Jake for the first time. (I was still polite in those days.)
“Look at her. She’s so self-righteous.”
“How can you say that?” I said, agitated.
He smiled now. He had my attention.
“It’s all about body language. She’s clearly lying to him.”
I had looked at Jake, closer this time. He was very attractive—this I noticed right away, but there was something else, too. Something about him made me want to talk to him, to know him.
“But she’s practically crying,” I said, still perplexed.
“Mmm, no. I’m sorry.” He had examined them with the clinical eye of a scientist. “This is going to break wide open any second.”
I paused. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure of some things, yeah.” And then he gave me my first ever “Jake look”—a cocky half smile, accompanied by an intense gaze. Very intense. At that moment, I sensed a commotion behind us, aviator man was accusing red leather woman that she was cheating on him. She was angry but she wasn’t denying it. Her face looked different now, harder. She was telling him that maybe she wouldn’t have to cheat if he could satisfy her once in a while. I was beginning to lose my sympathy for her.
I had turned to Jake in awe. He sipped from his latte, unmoved.
“You’re amazing,” I said.
“I know,” he agreed.
It wasn’t until several months later that I discovered Jake himself had been helping red leather woman two-time her man.
And I didn’t realize that Jake had been hitting on me for a few months longer than that. But by that time I knew his game or at least I thought I did. In his revolving alliances, I had managed to secure a steady lead role. From the very beginning, we talked at least twice a day about anything and everything—my strange encounter at the dry cleaner, his annoyance with incompetent Starbucks employees, our mutual dislike of cold days that are sunny, why blue and yellow make green.
But I couldn’t talk to him now. I picked up my phone, flirting with the temptation of calling him. Just the idea that I could press one button on my speed dial and hear his voice made me feel better. But what would I say?
I needed to see him. I felt the energy welling up inside me. I would just tell him—you were right and I was wrong. He had tried to warn me about Colin and I wouldn’t listen. I need you, I would say. I’m sorry, I would say. It was so clear to me now, so simple. I hopped off the bar stool, plunked down a twenty-dollar bill for Svetlana, grabbed my coat and was off. I felt like a kid running down the stairs to the Christmas tree, the anticipation was so intoxicating. I ran/walked down the streets to the Lower East Side. I passed a candy store and doubled back, securing a hefty bag of Swedish fish—his favorite (a little candy bribe couldn’t hurt!) As I made my way, my fears began to disintegrate even further. I would apologize—I should apologize. I’d been so careless, I now realized. I’d just forgotten all about Jake in my stupid Colin haze. Jake and I had a rule—friends first, sex second. I had broken the rule! A simple clarity was emerging.
I waved to Randolph, the homeless man who took up temporary residence on the heating grate outside Jake’s building and ran inside. I stomped up the six flights of stairs until I reached his door. Catching my breath, I tried to remember the words that I had planned to say.
I miss you, Jake. I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted lately. I… couldn’t remember the rest. It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have to get that far I was sure of it. I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked again, nothing. No, he had to be there— I couldn’t take the anticipation much longer. I could hear music from inside. He must be there—maybe he just couldn’t hear over the stereo. I knocked again. My knuckles were beginning to ache and I was forced to consider the possibility that he might not be home.
“Dammit,” I said, more sad than mad.
And then the door swung open as if those were the magic words.
“Vanessa?” My voice (and my stomach) fell flat.
“Nora?” She mocked my surprise. I didn’t correct her. It suddenly seemed plausible that perhaps I had wandered into the wrong building. I was quite stressed-out, after all.
“May I help you?” she said, in the most unhelpful tone possible. She leaned comfortably against the door frame, one hand extended out, resting on the doorknob like a barricade. She wasn’t wearing shoes. My God, what had happened since I last talked to Jake? I felt like Rip van Winkle.
“What are you doing here?” There really wasn’t much reason to feign friendliness.
“Visiting Jake.” She smiled, fully cognizant of the indirectness of her first direct answer.
“Is he here?”
She paused for a moment as if she had to think. Please—the apartment wasn’t that big.
“No,” she finally decided.
“Is he coming back anytime soon?”
“Later,” she answered, conveying nothing except for the very clear message that she was done with our chat.
“Ooh, are those Swedish fish?” She looked down at my pathetic bag of candy.
“How cute.” She cocked her head in a way that indicated the very opposite, that the sight of a twenty-seven-year-old woman carrying a bag of rainbow-colored candy was, well, pathetic.
“I’ll be sure to tell Jake you stopped by,” she said, and closed the door firmly.
And that’s when the tears began yet again. I sprinted down the stairs, streaming a school of Swedish fish along the way.
chapter 12
I wasn’t exactly startled when I noticed Super Si standing in my bedroom. I think my senses were too numb at that point to register the event as anything more than mildly unusual.
“Si.” I smiled but made no motion to get up. I was pleased, or something close to it. A friendly face at last.
“Hello, Lena, glad to see you’re okay,” he said kindly.
I couldn’t commit to an answer so I just smiled a noncommittal smile. And then I heard the unmistakable, frenetic tap of Parker’s shoes (her brown suede Gucci stilettos with leather piping if I wasn’t mistaken) making their way across my linoleum kitchen floor.
“Lena?” Her voice was frantic. She entered the room, swathed in pashmina, her hair neatly contained in a tight, low ponytail, her vintage Kelly bag held close to her side. She was in work mode.
“Thank God, you’re all right.” Her voice took the angry, irritated tone of a mother who, upon realizing that her child is in fact alive and well, finds her grief has turned to gall.
“Parker?”
“Thank God I got here when I did.”
What would have happened if she hadn’t, I pondered?
“And I had to track down Si…thank you so much for this, Si.”
“No problem. I’ll leave you two alone.” Si winked at me. He understood.
“Okay, Lena, get up. You need to get out of that bed. Pronto.”
“Parker, I’m fine.”
>
She looked at me with exaggerated disbelief.
“What? I’m fine,” I said, tears rolling down my face.
“Oh really?”
Then I had a thought.
“How do you even know what happened?
“Uh, you called me.”
“But I didn’t leave a message.”
“I know—which you know is a pet peeve of mine.” She raised her voice. “But we’ll save that for another time.”
“So, how did you—?”
“Hello? Caller ID?” She looked exasperated. “And then I had to get the full report from Tess—who sounded totally bizarre herself. What is going on with all of my friends, for God’s sake?”
I turned over on my bed, my back facing Parker. She sighed loudly.
“Get up.”
“I’m not getting up.” Didn’t she have an assistant to torture?
“Lena, I’m not leaving here until you are out of that bed.”
My heart stood still. I could feel the bed shift as she sat down next to me.
“You’re distressing me, Lena. It’s not like you to be this…sedentary.”
I thought for a moment. “Sure it is.”
My mind clicked into gear. Strategy #1: Lie.
“Parker, I’ve totally been up today. I’m just taking a nap, that’s all. I’ve got like a whole list of things to do today.”
“Really. Like what?”
I cringed. “What day is it again?”
“Oh, my God! Lena!”
“What?” I complained, pulling the covers over my head.
She ripped them back away from me. “Lena!” She sounded horrified. She was looking at my bare legs.
“What?” I was horrified by her horror. I sat up.
“When were you planning on shaving your legs?”
“The next time I plan to have sex,” I said dryly. “Likely never.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
“With that attitude you won’t.” She sat down next to me. “I think I know what you need.”
“You do?” I raised one brow, curious.
“Yes.” Her eyes lit up. Parker was in pitch mode. She fumbled around with her bag, finally brandishing a crisp white business card as if it were a fine jewel.
“I’m positive that Sheila can help you.” Parker handed me the card, which was engraved with the following words: “Sheila Sunshine, Life Coach.”
“A life coach?” The words came out of my mouth with a reflexive laugh.
“She’s amazing.” Parker’s voice was solemn. “She can help you.”
“A therapist, Parker? Come on. I’ve been to therapy. I’m impervious to therapy. It’s a fact.”
“She’s not a therapist. It’s not about those silly ‘I wasn’t breastfed, therefore I’m not complete’ crap. It’s about your future, not your past.”
“Parker…” I hesitated. “Did you go to see Sheila?” I treaded softly here.
Parker straightened her shoulders, hesitating. “Maybe one or two sessions.” And then she added, “It’s not just me. Penelope Cruz and Stella McCartney swear by her.”
“Look, Parker, I’m sure she’s very…talented. It’s just not for me, that’s all.” I handed back the card.
Strategy #2: Deceive.
I was already upright, my legs dangling on the floor. I may as well get up and pretend to be “active.” That way, Parker could get back to work and I could get back to wallowing.
“You know what? I’m actually feeling a lot better.” I stretched my arms and got up.
“You are?” Parker eyed me suspiciously.
“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “I think I’ll go to the gym, in fact.” I went to the bathroom, pretending to make noise. I shoved on my running shoes and wrapped my coat over my pajamas.
“Ready?” I came out of the bathroom. I’d walk her to the corner, take a detour at the deli (I really needed some more Hostess cupcakes, anyway) and then double back.
Parker didn’t budge.
“Lena, open your coat.”
“Why?” I tried to look mystified.
“Because.”
“No, I’m cold.”
Parker lunged for me, grabbing my coat. I made a quick turn to pull away, but it was too late.
“Lena!”
“What?” I flung myself onto the bed. “How many times are you going to say my name like that? I already feel badly enough.”
Parker didn’t answer. I felt her sit down on the edge of the bed and then lie down beside me, our backs facing each other.
“Lena. I’m not leaving here.”
And I knew she meant it.
Strategy #3: Accept Defeat.
“I’m glad our paths have found a way to cross today.”
Sheila Sunshine looked at me meaningfully from the other side of her tidy desk. She wore dark tortoiseshell frames that had the shape of cat’s eyes. Her hair was a curly mop that seemed to sit on her head as opposed to being attached to it. She was smiling and had been since I’d walked into her tiny incense-filled office not ten minutes ago. I wished she would stop.
“Okay, today is our first session of what will, I know, be a transforming and revelatory experience for both of us,” she said, smiling even more brightly. “That’s right,” she said, as if my impassive face had somehow conveyed an expression to her.
“You see, Lena—I consider this to be a mutually beneficial relationship. We learn from each other.” More smiling. “Today’s our first day together and I want to introduce you to some of the broader themes of my system.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a stack of brightly hued flash cards.
“Now, I’m just going to scroll through these cards and let their message sink into your brain.” Her voice had dropped down to a husky whisper now. “Don’t say a word—just let the ideas flow into your consciousness.” She lit a candle, dimmed the lights and we were off. Slowly she scrolled through the cards, each one offering a different instructive verb.
“Relax.”
“Reevaluate.”
“Reinvigorate.”
“Renew.”
“Replenish.”
“Reignite.”
I did feel relaxed—and had been since I’d entered the room, which may have explained why I hadn’t bolted the second she switched on the Yanni CD. Maybe I was just too tired to move.
I looked back at Sheila. Still smiling. What must it be like to have convinced yourself so firmly that you had found the “way,” so much so that you felt compelled to offer your services to others, convinced that their problems would quickly evaporate once you’d given your prescription for happiness.
Sheila’s eyes had closed now. I noticed the patch of bleached hair over her top lip, her small, childlike hands with paint-chipped nails, rotating the flash cards. Suddenly I imagined Sheila in an entirely different life altogether—as a medical secretary or an airline ticket agent. She didn’t seem to be fully comfortable with the life she led as Sheila Sunshine—sort of like a PTA Mom at a Hare Krishna retreat. I wondered what had made her choose this life, this job…that tunic. When had it become clear to her that she should paint her office walls purple and recite affirmations to total strangers? I could imagine her as an anonymous middle manager, trolling to the office each day in the same Liz Claiborne navy-blue suit and sensible Easy Spirit pumps, selling ad time for the local TV station or working in the employees-benefit department of a company that sold administrative software. I could see her vividly warming up a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner of Fettucine with Herbed Chicken for lunch while stealing sugar and mustard packets in the staff kitchen. I saw her with friends named Lois and Linda, power-walking in matching sweatshirts on the weekend and then stopping for Dunkin’ Donut munchkins on the way home. I did not see her living on an ashram in India, performing a downward facing dog, or eating a dragon bowl at Angelika’s Kitchen.
Suddenly the lights were on and the music was off.
“I see you were really in a spell the
re. That’s wonderful.” Sheila was smiling (of course), but she did seem truly elated.
“Now I’ve got some homework for you to do.” She handed me a thick file folder.
“All the instructions are inside,” she assured me. “And I want you to hang these adhesives at different points in your living space,” she added, handing me a stack of inscribed stickers. The one on top read: “The future is a swimming pool. Dive in!”
We stared at each other for a second. I decided it was my chance to speak.
“Sheila?”
“Yes?” She looked surprised (but still pleased!) to hear me speak.
“I was just wondering how you got into this line of work.”
Her smile quickly disintegrated. Whoops.
“Lena. We focus on the future here. Not the past. It’s not important what we were—it’s important what we’ll become.”
There would be no follow-up questions. We sat like that for a moment—I presumed until she felt the gravity of her words had sunk in adequately. Then, her hands together, she handed me my “homework packet” and stood up from her desk. The smile was firmly back in place.
I made my way to the door, feeling somewhat dazed when she said: “Lena, you will find what you’re looking for.” Despite myself (and much to my embarrassment), the words gave me goose bumps.
In the hallway, as I waited for the elevator, I noticed a stack of mail. “To Sheila Rosenberg or current resident.” Sheila Rosenberg?
Bing. The elevator doors opened.
The main concern preoccupying me as I sat waiting for Tess and Parker at the café at Bergdorf’s was how to hide my legs from the liquid ladies (as in their cash flow and their lunches) dining (or pretending to) around me. You see I had been prodded by an old woman’s umbrella as she forced the doors open on the number 6 train. Her aged aggression had left a ragged laceration down the side of my fishnets which, in this crowd, was tantamount to donning a scarlet A on one’s cashmere Michael Kors twin set. Actually, I take that back—a badge of adultery probably wouldn’t raise too many overplucked eyebrows in this place, as long as it was embroidered impeccably of, course.
Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe Page 16