Eleven years later, I regret that surgery. My prosthetic boobs are my cross to bear. They remind me of that horrible time, plus they don’t even look good anymore. I breast-fed two more children with them, and they’ve become huge and saggy. The term “rocks in socks” comes to mind. My bras are like iron maidens and far more bulky and uncomfortable than my prosthetic leg. Soon I’ll work up the courage to have the implants removed—if I can just find someone to do it while I’m awake!
After the surgery, woozy and in pain, I went back to my parents’ house with Harrison. I crawled into bed and lay down. My mother came in and sat in a chair next to me.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she asked.
“I’m taking a nap,” I said.
“Not in my house! Get the fuck out of here! How dare you act like you belong here! You’re a disgusting whore!” she screamed.
She didn’t recognize me. “Who do you think I am?” I asked.
“You’re George’s whore,” she said. “Don’t act innocent with me. I know you’re fucking my husband.” Her beautiful face was contorted into an ugly mask of hate. She kept on yelling at me, calling me filthy things, until she tired herself out and left. Who was this person who had invaded my mother’s body? The woman I knew was the picture of elegance and grace. Cursing? Yelling? My real mother was gone.
I just started crying. It was all too much. Everyone I loved was spiraling downhill as quickly as I was. After a night and day of crying, boobs aching, I knew I couldn’t go on like that. Self-pity helped no one. I took my Advil and hauled my swollen boobs out of bed.
“What can I do?” I asked my dad. He’d been caring for my mother by himself. She screamed at him, too, saying hateful things.
“Just stay for a while,” he said.
I rode out the summer in Florida taking care of Harrison and my mom. Some days, she knew who I was; others, she didn’t. It was a rough couple of months. But I was glad I did it. When Mom was lucid, she was still my angel. I missed her the most when she was herself. Harry visited occasionally that summer. It was awkward and not at all affectionate.
In the fall, I went back to New York to hire a lawyer.
• • •
I called Barry Slotnick, a criminal defense attorney icon. He represented subway vigilante Bernhard Goetz in the ’80s. He’d also handled some high-profile political trials, as well as celebrity divorces. He’d won millions in settlements. Rightly so, his services didn’t come cheap. The initial retainer was twenty-five thousand dollars. I sold my engagement ring to pay for it.
The first thing he told me was that it was okay for me to leave the apartment because Harry had no income. When I told him about the credit card bills and rent amounts, he quickly changed his mind. I had to stay. I didn’t love the idea of sharing an apartment. But in New York, it was common for couples who hated each other’s guts to sleep in the same bed throughout their divorce so one or the other couldn’t get the upper hand and sue for abandonment. He also told me to hire a detective so I could catch Harry cheating and have grounds for divorce. I did hire someone, and got what I needed. It wasn’t a terrible blow. Cheating, schmeating. At that point, I’d detached emotionally.
Harry was commuting back and forth to Washington. When he was in New York, he kept up his same old routine of going out every night and often, drinking. After the summer with my mom, alcohol disgusted me more than ever. Harry slept on the couch. We barely talked and didn’t do anything together. He must have known I was planning to file for divorce.
It was time for us to face the reality that our marriage was over. I invited myself along to dinner with him. He was surprised, but acted happy that I’d finally agreed to join him. We sat down at the table at a burger restaurant on First Avenue. Before we’d even ordered drinks, I said, “We need to separate.”
He looked upset. And then genuinely devastated. My turn to be surprised. We’d barely interacted for months. I think he really wanted to have a family and to love us. But he was just not able. I was crying.
“I’ll move to my brother’s,” he said, “and I’m taking Harrison.”
“Harry, you know I’m a great mother,” I said. “And you are not the type of guy who would take a child away from his mother.”
In fact, he never tried. I was the only parent Harrison really knew. Harry was always “working” in another town, or out on the town. He didn’t have the patience or attention span to care for a baby. Harrison was only one and a half. He needed his mommy. Plus, Harry wanted to be free. Custody of his son would infringe on his socializing.
The crux of our divorce was not going to be custody. It was going to be about money. All those years of pretending money wasn’t important and didn’t matter, or that it would just magically appear, had finally caught up with me. The reality was, I needed money to care for my child. I didn’t have a job, and couldn’t find one overnight if I tried. I was thirty-one, and had worked in an office—that estate planning insurance firm—years ago. I had two advanced degrees, but I had not worked or earned income in years. How did that happen?
Harry lawyered up. Papers were filed. Hiring Barry Slotnick was one of the smartest decisions in my life. He commanded respect in a courtroom and made a great case for me. The legal ins and outs were complicated and exhausting. A law school graduate, even I found them tedious to follow.
First, we separated. Before the divorce was settled, the judge would award me interim support in the meantime. Since Harry did not have an actual income, the monthly support amount would be based on what was called “imputed income.” That was calculated by tallying up Harry’s expenses, all those dinners and trips and clothes and random charges his family had been floating to him. Barry had to subpoena the AmEx bills. I had no idea how big they were until the judge awarded me a generous interim amount partially for alimony and partially for child support.
Naturally, I was happy about it. However, with no assets, a hefty rent, and Manhattan prices for sitters, taxis, food, clothes, and diapers, the monthly amount would get used up fast. And the legal fees had only just begun.
“We’re probably years away from a final settlement,” Barry warned.
I was, as per my style, a bit of a pain in the ass, and I asked him a thousand questions about what was to come. He looked at me and said, “The worst thing that can happen is that you will just have to get a job.”
I asked, “Are you hiring?”
He wasn’t. Not me, anyway.
Harrison turned two. He’d lived in three apartments in two years—four counting my parents’ in Miami. His father was the man who passed through for a bit of time on the weekends. Harrison was my life. I took extreme care over every article of clothing, every morsel of food, every bath, every diaper. Harrison and I were together 24/7.
Yes, I could have tried to find a job. But that would have meant leaving Harrison in someone else’s care. I did not have a relative to leave him with if I worked. I simply couldn’t bring myself to let him go. The only consistent, reliable element of his life thus far had been me. I was on edge when Harry took Harrison for a weekend.
“I don’t know how I’m going to live without him,” I said to my friend Kelly.
“Jesus, Aviva, it’s two days,” she said.
During Harry’s custody weekends, stories would filter back to me. Harry was out on the town as usual, until late, bragging to the last person at the bar what a great dad he was. Meanwhile, his son was left in a hotel room with a baby-sitter. It was all I could do not to storm the place and take my son back home. Nonetheless, I knew Harry was doing the best he could, and he was always a loving father.
Barry was right. It took another two years of going back and forth with our lawyers to finally settle the divorce on the same terms of the interim award. We met at a law office and sat in the conference room at the firm Blank Rome. I was with my lawyer, and Harry was with his. We signed our divorce decrees, shook hands, and that was that. Harry and I had no ill will. We even got in
a cab together and went uptown. He promised me that if the settlement wasn’t enough, that he could always give me more. It was just so friendly.
I heard later that Harry told people he was paying double the actual amount.
On the last day of our marriage, I felt the same way about Harry as I did on our first. He was a good, easygoing, kindhearted man. Our time together hadn’t been easy, but we got Harrison out of it. I would do it all over again for my son.
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
It Only Takes a Second, Part Two
Harrison and I went to Bed Bath & Beyond on Sixty-first Street and First Avenue for new towels. In high glam mode, I wore sweatpants with no makeup, my hair in a messy ponytail. Plus, I was grouchy. Have you been to BB&B on a Saturday morning as a single mom? It would put anyone in a bad mood.
I took my pile to the register to check out. While I was paying, Harrison, two and a half at the time, wandered over to a little girl in the next line. Seeing my son make fast friends made me smile. My frame of mind brightened. I bought two lollipops by the register, grabbed my bag, and went over to the two kids. I knelt down and gave a lollie to each child.
The girl looked over at a man in line. Her father? He nodded, and she unwrapped the candy. Apropos of nothing in particular, the man said, “It’s tough being a new single dad.”
What? Single? I flung my hair back and said, “Oh, I’m single, too.”
I took a closer look at him. Turned out, he was nerdy. He wore pleated khaki shorts with a cell phone clipped to the belt and a tucked-in T-shirt. If he’d been wearing white socks with Teva sandals, it would have finished the look. I took him for a professor or an engineer. He had a handsome face. Dark hair and eyes, perfect teeth. He looked like a nice Jewish guy. His body was just my type. Tall, built, dark, and masculine.
“Can I have your number?” he asked.
Whoa, not so nerdy after all, I thought. He had plenty of confidence for a guy with his phone clipped to his belt.
It’d been several months since Harry and I separated, and over a year since we’d stopped having any kind of real marriage. I’d been focused on Harrison (with occasional trips to Florida to help with my mom), and had barely dated. I’d hoped my boob job would make an impact when I was ready to jump into the dating pool. But I hadn’t yet dipped a toe in the water. I was in no rush to start that up again.
And then, in all of five seconds, this guy not only caught my eye, he got my number. I scribbled my name and contact info on my Bed Bath & Beyond receipt, and gave it to him. But he didn’t call me. I was surprised, but not disappointed. Like I said, I wasn’t all too eager to date. A few weeks later, I came home and found a note left for me in the lobby of my building.
“Hi, Aviva,” it read. “This is Reid Drescher. We met at Bed Bath & Beyond. I lost your number. Please call me.”
The guy had tracked me down, come to my home, left a message, and asked me to call him. I could take that one of two ways: (1) he was a stalker, or (2) he was smitten and aggressive. I thought, How many Jewish stalkers are there?
Then again, if there was only one Jewish stalker in the world, I’d be the woman to attract him.
The note made me genuinely curious about this Reid Drescher. He’d gone to some lengths to find me. So I called him. We went to a Mexican restaurant called Maya on First Avenue and 63rd Street, just a few blocks from my building. He picked me up, and we walked over together.
The number-one rule for first dates: don’t talk about your ex.
We broke that rule before our drinks arrived.
“So . . . you’re a single dad?” I asked.
“And you’re a single mom,” he said.
That was it. We were off and running. For the entire evening, we hashed over our respective divorces-in-progress. From the sound of it, Reid and his wife just weren’t getting along. They seemed like a normal couple that had grown apart. His daughter, Veronica—whom I’d met—was one and a half. For her sake, he and his wife promised each other to have an amicable divorce. They were just getting started on working out a settlement.
I was six months into my settlement battle. What I’d noticed among my friends was that divorce brought out the worst, even in the finest people. Reid’s divorce seemed exceptionally tame. He spoke respectfully about his wife. Reid had discretion and great manners. He was careful in his descriptions. I wasn’t quite sure why he and his wife were splitting up. Reid went on to tell me about his own brokerage firm, which he started at age twenty-nine. He was obviously self-made, highly intelligent, and a workaholic.
I told him about my jewelry business, and the saga about Harry. Unlike my friends who all had Harry fatigue, Reid hadn’t heard the story before. I had a new person to bounce it off of, and see if it was as crazy as I thought. I put it all on the table, and half expected Reid to get up and leave me alone there. After all, Reid was very normal.
When I finally stopped talking, he said, “Wow, that is really complicated.” And then he took a big bite of his enchilada.
This was a man who didn’t scare easily. Yeah, but how would he react if I showed him my leg? I wondered. He’d had enough for one date. I’d spring the leg on him if we had another.
When the conversation lightened up and we spoke about entertainment, it came up that Reid’s first cousin was Fran Drescher. Interesting. The Nanny was hilarious, and was set right here, on the Upper East Side. I was sharing nachos with Fran Drescher’s cousin. Reid was low key about it and unimpressed. We shared a coolness regarding celebrities. I was happy he didn’t have the same nasal tone and accent. It suited sexy Fran, but for a guy . . . not so much.
He and Fran had plans to see a Raisin in the Sun revival starring Sean Combs on Broadway. He had an extra ticket and invited me to come. It was our second date. “I’ll send a car service to your place,” he said. “You go pick up Fran and then come get me.”
I’d met many celebrities in my life. But being alone in a town car with Fran Drescher for twenty blocks intimidated me. Not because she was a celeb. I hoped she’d like me for Reid’s sake. If she hated me, she could tell him, “Dump her. She’s a loser.”
The car pulled up to her building on Central Park West. Fran saw me and waved. (I told Reid to tell Fran to look out for a blonde in an orange dress. It was by Celine and I still own it.) She was wearing a tight V-neck dress in a bright color. She let herself into the car, sat down, and turned to me. “Hi, I’m Fran,” she said. She asked how I met Reid, and I told her the BB&B story. She put me at ease immediately. We kept laughing the whole ride. Her voice alone—a toned-down version of her character’s—cracked me up. We talked about the play, which I’d studied in drama class at Vassar. She was a Broadway connoisseur and we compared notes on musicals and our favorite theaters. Fran was cerebral and a bit spiritual, too—a fascinating, insightful, funny woman. She was nothing like her character on television. Her sophistication, intelligence, and plans to make the world a better place were inspirational. Fran was a cancer survivor and was going to use her fame and experiences to eradicate cancer through early screening for women. We could have kept gabbing all night, but we had to shut up when the curtain rose.
The performance was brilliant. Afterward, Fran and her friend went off to a party. Reid and I had dinner at Mediterraneo, my old favorite restaurant. It was warm so we sat outside. Meeting Fran, great theater, a delicious meal, and a tall, kind handsome man across the table—it was truly a magical night, one for the books.
Our conversation on that night delved further into our personal histories. Reid grew up in Queens. His father was also an accountant with his own firm. After his parents’ divorce, Reid moved with his mother to Great Neck, Long Island, which is why he didn’t share Fran’s distinctive Queens accent. He went to the University of Miami, following his older sister and brother there. His first job out of college was at Prudential Securities. Within a few years, Reid was poached by Paine Webber as a top producer, and shortly thereafter, started his own stockbrokerage and
investment banking firm called Spencer Clarke. He was successful, and took care of his mother. He hired his father to be the CFO of his company. Reid had been given nothing, and gave back to his parents everything he could.
We jumped in our chairs at all the things we had in common. Accountant fathers. Great Neck, which I knew well because of Ricky. My prosthetics office was near there, but I didn’t tell Reid that. He lived in Miami during college, within ten miles of my parents’ house.
He was wonderful, but too normal. I didn’t trust it. I had a skewed prejudice against a normal upbringing like Reid’s. The biggest drama he had known was his parents’ relatively friendly divorce. He had done classic suburban things, like get a fake ID, go to weekend keggers on someone’s deck, and sneak into the movies. Always ambitious, he made a lot of money in the summers selling ice cream on the beach. During college, he partied at frats and cheered for the football team. He had a steady job, and regular relatives who, for example, went to a doctor when they were sick. I had grown up in a nutty, New York City, Woody Allen–type family. At times, I felt like a damaged person myself. I’d attracted and been attracted to other damaged people and seen one relationship after the next blow up in my face.
Reid was admirable, sane, calm, self-made, and exactly the type of stable man I should be in a relationship with. This man could make me feel safe. Being with him would be the smartest thing I ever did for myself, and for Harrison.
So, naturally, I resisted it. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t think I could handle normal. But I didn’t think Reid could handle me. I decided to test his mettle.
“You should know that I have only one leg,” I said suddenly, interrupting him.
“What?” he asked.
“I had an accident when I was little, and lost my leg. I wear a prosthesis from the knee down.” I studied his face. Would he grimace, gag, or say, “Check, please!”
“Really? Can I see it?” He lit up with curiosity.
Leggy Blonde: A Memoir Page 15