Finally noticing my attention, she catches my eye, half-smiling. I’m desperate to know why: Is it because she’s satisfied with what she’s just read, or relieved it’s over? Or because we’re having a rare moment of human connection on the subway? Or some other reason—or no reason at all? There’s no way to know. As the conductor informs us of a delay at Thirty-Fourth Street and thanks us for our patience, the woman and I simultaneously look away, back to our respective silos.
It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to me that I haven’t finished Gabe’s book—that I don’t even know how it ends. But a part of me subscribes to the idea that if I haven’t read the whole thing, then it still isn’t quite real, and there’s still the possibility of a different outcome. Magical thinking, I know. I also know that scrutinizing strangers for their reactions to the ending is no substitute for reading it myself. But the thought of doing so still fills me with dread.
As the train lurches up over the Manhattan Bridge, I shift my attention out the window, to the wide swath of river and the city skyline. I spot the profile of a different woman: Lady Liberty. Her raised arm and golden torch seem to be reaching out to me, as if to shore up my confidence, as if to urge me to face my fear and finally finish the damn book.
• • •
But then, I get really busy. Melinda has given me a list of a dozen positions to fill. Kirsten insists I come over and play drill sergeant as she packs for California, forcing her to downsize so her luggage doesn’t bury her. Sam cajoles me into helping her construct a slew of baby contraptions—a crib and a bouncy chair and something that looks like a mini torture device but that Sam claims is for diaper compression. Then my mother calls to say she’s headed to the city and Leo and I must drop everything and meet her for cocktails. She has news.
As soon as I’m off the phone, Leo texts me: Mom’s getting hitched to that lumberjack, right? I assume so.
We tell her to meet us at a bar called Something Blue, our little joke. Leo and I meet up half an hour beforehand. He seems a little jittery. “It’s weird, right?” I say. “Here comes the bride, i.e. Mom.”
“Kind of weird, yeah. But mostly I’m just excited for her. Plus, ever since she met John, she’s been about twenty percent less in my business.”
“True. Not to mention she’s happy.”
“Right.”
“So, how’s it been with Lana back?” I ask.
Leo angles for the bartender’s eye, and waits until he has a whiskey in hand before responding. “Some stuff was expected. I knew it would be a rocky readjustment, that she and I would have to work at it to get back in synch.”
I nod. “So, what didn’t you expect?”
“Well, that Lana would still be in a lot of pain. Because the drugs only masked it; they didn’t make it go away. And now she can’t even take Advil.” I don’t know what to say. Leo shakes his head. “I see trauma every day. But when I send patients home, with prescriptions and instructions for healing, the assumption is they’ll get better. That’s how I picture them later: better, recovered. You just don’t think …” He trails off.
“You’re a doctor, Leo, not a god. Pain is a part of life.”
“I know.”
“And you’re Lana’s husband, not her savior.”
Leo tilts the ice in his glass from side to side. I think he might say more, but before he has a chance, our mother swoops into the bar like a force of nature, and plops herself on a barstool between the two of us. She’s twenty minutes early.
“My beautiful, beautiful children,” she says. “Just look at you. You’re both glowing!” She does this, project herself upon us—really, she’s the one who’s glowing. When she starts in about how much she loves us and always will and how nothing will ever change that, it’s clear she’s winding up to her announcement.
“So, what, you’re splitting up?” Leo asks.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“He means you’re giving the wrong speech, Mom,” I say. “That’s the divorce one, not the marriage one.”
She looks conspiratorially between the two of us. “You guys know already?”
“John asked for our blessings,” I say.
“He did not!” She slaps at the bar, beaming. “What a gentleman.” But then her expression shifts to hesitant. “And you’re okay with this? You know it doesn’t take away one bit from what I had with Dad.”
Leo looks amused. “I think we can all agree than twenty-five years is a sufficient mourning period.”
We order Prosecco and share a toast. As sugary bubbles sparkle down my throat, I consider how nice it’ll be to expand our little family trio—with Lana back home, and John soon entering the fold. I feel a pang, thinking of Gabe.
My mother squeezes my hand and looks me in the eye, the tilt of her eyebrows conveying a swell of empathy. I can tell she’s about to deliver a speech about the sensitive timing of her engagement. I want to prove I’m fine, so I say, “You should get married over Memorial Day, now that the inn’s free then.”
“Molly,” she exclaims, “how dare you suggest such a thing! John and I would never steal your wedding date.”
Out of nowhere, she starts giggling like a little girl, in a way I remember from when my father used to play pranks on her; he’d tuck a rubber snake under the laundry or crouch behind her mirrored closet door and pop out while she was carefully applying her lipstick. He was always finding new ways to surprise her.
“What the hell, Mom?” Leo says.
She looks shy as she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a ring, and slips it onto her fourth finger.
I gasp. “You got married without us?” I’m incredulous, and a little angry. Suddenly I’m remembering the aftermath of my dad’s pranks. I was always part of the planning, a co-conspirator, and when it came time for the big reveal and my mom’s inevitable shock, she’d collapse into fits of giddiness, infecting my dad and me with the giggles, too. But after that, the two of them would drift off behind a closed door, their joy turning private and exclusive. I was shut out. A moment ago, I was dismissive of my mom’s delicate reassurances about her relationship with John, embarrassed by her treating Leo and me like fragile children. But here I am remembering exactly how it feels to be a fragile child craving belonging and comfort.
My mom, on the other hand, has adopted my former flippancy: “John and I were free last Saturday, so we said, what the hell, and hopped on over to City Hall.”
“Well, good for you,” Leo says. “But we still have to celebrate. How about a party?”
The Bella So wedding gown appears like a pop-up in my mind. It’s idling in the back of my closet and, even if I did have somewhere to wear it, it would be too tight for me now since my appetite has returned. My mother, on the other hand, is perpetually bird-like. “Mom, I have just the dress for you.”
So, then we’re back in my disheveled apartment, half of its objects recently vacated and the other half boxed up or on deck to be. My family is gracious, stepping around the detritus without comment as I go retrieve the gown. When I present it to my mother, for a moment we all simply stare. It’s like a divine being, it’s so beautiful. I see Leo take in that it’s a Bella So, an artifact of his and Lana’s past, and I feel myself mourning the sensation of it sheathed around me like so much hope and possibility. I see my mom hesitate to even touch it. “Go try it on,” I urge her.
A few moments later, she shouts from the other room, “Oh, I look ridiculous!” But I hear the joy in her voice. It takes very little convincing for her to sashay in to show us. She spins around like a top, her white socks flashing from under the layers.
“Mom, it’s stunning!” I say.
“It really is,” Leo agrees.
“Oh, stop. Maybe if I were twenty-five and getting married at Cinderella’s castle. Molly, it’s hard to believe you ever bought this. It just doesn’t seem like you.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s not.”
• • •
I don’t blame Leo for
wanting to steer clear of Bella So, but I’m willing to brave the boutique. It’ll be my wedding gift to her, I tell my mother; we’ll exchange my gown for any one she wants. Unlike me, my mom seems not at all cowed by the model-y clientele and saleswomen. She quickly zeroes in on an elegant silk design with freshwater pearls lining the spine, knee-length, a modest A-line cut. When she tries it on, I can instantly picture the occasion: a backyard clambake with just family and a few close friends.
At the register, my mom’s eyes go wide. I tell her not to worry, that it’s already paid for. But she writes me a check on the spot for the full amount minus one hundred dollars. “That’s a much more appropriate gift,” she says. “Thank you, Molly.”
As much as I don’t want to accept the money, it’ll allow me to move to a new apartment—and to move on. “Thanks, Mom. This means a lot.”
On our way out, I spot Ingrid. I can tell she recognizes me because she flares her nostrils before averting her gaze. But I figure, what the hell—I walk right up to her and flash a big smile. “Hi, Ingrid. It’s so nice to see you. I’ll be sure to send Lana your regards.” I’m out the door before I can register her reaction.
Back at her car, my mother touches my shoulder. “Molly, I have a confession.” I have no idea what’s coming, but I’m more curious than wary. “I only made it through twenty pages of Gabe’s book. I just couldn’t get into it. Reading it felt kind of icky, like I was invading his privacy.”
I laugh. “Since when have you ever felt bad about invading someone’s privacy?”
“Is that terrible? Chapter One, and I was done.” She glides her palms back and forth, like she’s washing them clean of the whole book.
How simple, to decide you’re done and—tada!—be done. My mom’s confession gives me the courage to make my own: “I didn’t finish it either,” I say. “I read maybe two-thirds, in bits and pieces.” It’s a relief to finally admit it aloud.
My mom’s eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re bad. Is that why you two broke up?”
“Nah,” I say, shrugging. But I wonder, is it, kind of? I wish I could write out a point-by-point explanation of our breakup. I wish I could cite a series of facts that added up precisely and definitively to the end, like a mathematical sum. But the relationship’s dissolution, it turns out, is as murky and mysterious to me as the reasons it once worked.
“Even still,” my mom says, “I’m happy your father never wrote a novel, and I pray John never decides to write one either. It seems like it could make things complicated.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Why not finish it?” my mom says as she settles into the driver’s seat and starts the ignition. “What’s the harm now?”
Chapter 33
I KEEP PICKING up Gabe’s book and putting it down again to do other things—like, pack up my belongings. Then hunt for a new place to live. Then hire Melinda a staff and plan their on-boarding. Then draw up a proposal to work part-time for John—I figure I can manage the setup of his new inn remotely; that plus consulting for Melinda would add up to full-time. Then work up the courage to call Lana and suggest lunch, then pick just the right restaurant when she agrees to it. Then Google “how to support an addict in recovery” and dive down that Internet rabbit hole.
The morning of my lunch with Lana, I change my outfit three times and drink two cups too many of coffee. My nerves make me late, and when I arrive, I’m surprised not to see my always-punctual sister-in-law. Only when the woman idling by the door turns around to face me do I realize it’s Lana. She’s fleshier, with a bit of a belly and a layer of padding on her upper arms. The new sturdiness suits her, and it feels good to wrap my arms around her torso. “Lana, hi.”
“I got fat, I know.” She says it matter-of-factly, with no hint of shame, no subtle appeal for me to insist otherwise. She shrugs. “Leo seems to like that I finally have a butt.”
Lana holds out a little white capsule to me, and watches my eyes go wide. The addiction web sites offered no guidance for this. “It’s a Tic-Tac, silly.” She tosses back a handful. I accept one tentatively, holding it on my tongue like it’s a communion wafer, wishing I knew some prayer to keep Lana well.
Sitting at the table opposite my sister-in-law, I observe her over the rim of my menu. She’s scanning the specials, crunching at another mass of Tic-Tacs. She strikes me as an altered version of her former self, her gestures looser, her voice dropped a key. But I know my memories can’t be trusted—the last few times I saw her she was altered, too, high on painkillers. I think back to before the water-skiing accident, to Leo’s birthday party, which feels like nine years—not nine months—ago. Lana finessed every detail: the music, the drinks, the food, and of course herself, her dress a combination of fun and fancy, her makeup muted except for a pop of pink lips, her hair twisted into a chic updo. I always admired how Lana seemed to have it all together. Now her hair is gathered into a messy ponytail and her button-down strains across her torso, with little keyholes gaping between the buttons. She tears off a slab of French bread from the basket and stuffs it into her mouth.
“I was so sorry to hear about you and Gabe,” she says mid-chew. “I guess if we’re both gonna be wrecks, at least we can be wrecks together, right?” Her laugh reveals bits of crust wedged between her teeth.
Despite this, and despite her disheveled appearance, Lana doesn’t seem like a wreck. She seems relaxed, and at ease with this new version of herself. Before meeting up, I’d made a mental list of delicate questions to ask her, like a homework assignment. But chatting now, I can’t recall any of them. Lana tells me about the women she met at rehab—some who’d been in and out of recovery for years, who’d lost partners and children and whole lives to their addictions, who couldn’t manage to get or to stay well. She says it made her realize how lucky she was, how she had everything. I consider this, and my own self-pity over all I’ve lost, when really I too have so much.
As I catch Lana up on my life, the incidents with Gabe and Talia strike me as like bits out of a sitcom. I explain how surreal it was to watch Gabe on The POV. “I kept shouting at the screen, like some chain-smoking daytime-TV addict,” I tell her. “I’d call out Gabe for being a moron, and then get angry when he ignored me.” I feel lighter, laughing along with my sister-in-law.
I’m about to describe the ridiculous video montage of Gabe and Talia’s reunion, when my field of vision is hijacked. The words disappear from my head. My jaw literally drops. When I recover the ability to speak, I blurt out, “Oh my god.” I block my face with my menu, peeking out over it like the world’s most rattled spy.
“What?!” Lana hisses.
There she is, two tables away. Sitting cross-legged in a faded sundress, her hair spilling down her back like a statement accessory. She’s with a guy—not Gabe, not Jonathan, someone new. She’s perched forward to flirt, fidgeting a stack of metal bracelets that clink along with her oversized gestures. The tilt of her chin seems perfectly calculated so her lip gloss will catch the light at maximum shine. Her every movement looks like a pose, studied and deliberate, hyperaware of the gazes of both men and women all around.
“It’s Talia,” I whisper. “Right over there.”
“No!” Lana sneaks a look, then leans in to me. “What should we do?”
A dozen possibilities flit through my head, of how to mess with her or give her a piece of my mind or demand an apology for all the ways she’s wronged me. I dismiss each one as flimsy, juvenile, lame. When Talia cocks her head in response to something her companion says, I see her snort. I watch as she scratches her leg, then checks her phone, then combs her fingers through her hair. Her meal comes and it’s a veggie panini and fries, the same meal I planned to order. I observe her eat, going first for the fries, dipping them one by one into a pool of ketchup, little dabs of which end up in the creases of her mouth. It’s all so ordinary. Talia is just a person, like anyone else. It’s a revelation. As a result, all the anger and spite and vengeance I’ve felt toward her
vanishes. Poof! I can hardly believe it. What’s left is a spaciousness that I haven’t felt in months. I breathe in, filling my lungs.
“Well?” Lana looks at me expectantly.
I shrug. “Let’s just order.”
Disappointment flashes across Lana’s face, before she settles into a nod; she seems to understand. I’m trying to recall where I left off my story, but the thread is lost. Anyway, I no longer want to talk about Talia or Gabe or Gabe’s book, or any of what’s happened. I want to discuss the gown designs Lana mailed me, and tell her about Melinda’s start-up.
But I’m interrupted again, this time by vibrations in my pocket. At first, I ignore them, but they continue on a loop, starting up again a moment after stopping. “Sorry,” I say to Lana, taking out my phone.
Sam’s words burst through my earpiece: “Holy shit, this little lady is on her way. Three weeks early and raring to go—already so precocious, am I right?” It takes me a moment to understand what she’s talking about. Oh! “I hate to interrupt your regularly scheduled afternoon, but can you meet me at the hospital, uh, stat?”
I scramble with my purse and nearly trip over my chair as I apologize to Lana for cutting our lunch short. “No worries—I’ll just go eat with them,” she says, indicating Talia’s table. “Only kidding. I love you, Molly.” Her hug is hearty and heartening—it fills me with gratitude that she’s back home and on the mend. “Off you go,” she says, patting me on the back and nudging me toward the door.
Heart revving, I weave around full tables and dodge waiters bearing heaping plates of food. But when I reach the exit, something slows me, like a speed bump. I spin around and, in a glance, I take in the restaurant, the patrons, and then one in particular: Talia.
I look at her until I catch her eye. I see her see me and flinch, then rearrange her face into a scowl, defensive, on guard. My smile is spontaneous. And to my astonishment, Talia smiles back. It looks utterly un-posed. As the two of us hold each other’s gazes, I imagine us also holding an olive branch, each grasping one end, its length spanning the restaurant, leaves hovering decoratively over the tables. I nod, wishing Talia well with my eyes, and then I turn around, duck out the door, and hail a cab.
Otherwise Engaged Page 27