Nevertheless, I’ve promised myself that I will look for an opportunity this afternoon to talk to Richard alone, so I lose no time getting him in the kitchen under the guise of helping me finish the fruit salad. But once we’re there, I have no idea how—or where—to begin.
“Richard,” I say.
“Oh, Mira, I can’t believe I forgot,” Richard says, wiping his hands on a dish towel and disappearing into the mudroom at the back of the house. He emerges a few seconds later carrying a small, velvet jewelry box. “It’s Chloe’s real present. I hope I have the distinction of giving Chloe her first piece of jewelry,” Richard says formally, taking a beautiful, antique sterling silver baby bracelet from the satin-lined box and offering it to me for inspection. He has had HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Chloe’s initials, and the date engraved along its underside.
“Richard, it’s beautiful. Thank you,” I tell him, reaching up to kiss his cheek. I put my hand on his shoulder and begin again, “Richard, I—”
Once again we are interrupted, this time by Ruth who, weighed down by a large floral arrangement, is rapping urgently at the kitchen door with her elbows.
“Sorry about the elbows,” she says when I open the door. “My nails are still wet. Here, these are for you,” she says, handing me the flowers. “No one thinks to give the parents a birthday present on the kid’s birthday, but after all, it’s a milestone for you, too. The day your life changed forever. Happy Chloe’s birthday, Mira,” Ruth says, hugging me.
“Isn’t that the truth, speaks the man with no progeny!” Richard says, helping Ruth out of her coat and introducing himself. He quickly ushers her into the dining room, where I can hear him waxing enthusiastic over the unusual hue of the calla lilies in the flower arrangement as he pours her a glass of punch.
Ruth is right. Today is a milestone. A year ago Jake and I were still together. He’d held my hand, fed me ice chips, and rubbed my back as I labored to bring our baby into the world. His anguish over my pain had been real, as had his joy at Chloe’s birth. I never would have imagined back then that a year later he wouldn’t even make the guest list.
Ruth comes in, brushing crumbs from her blouse, and asks, “Was Fiona a snake charmer in another life?”
“Not that she’s mentioned. Why?”
“She’s got Carlos on her lap, and she’s feeding him grapes. He hates grapes!”
“She does have a way with kids. Chloe loves her,” I tell Ruth, realizing that it’s true.
“So, do I look okay?” Ruth asks, nervously turning a full circle in front of me.
“Better than okay, actually. Your hair looks fabulous.” Ruth has had her hair blown dry, and it looks full and pretty. She is wearing a long silk tunic and a pair of designer jeans she’s clearly taken to the dry cleaner—the creases look sharp enough to slice steak.
“Want me to finish that while you go change?” Ruth offers.
“I am changed,” I laugh. I’m wearing my Gap jeans and an oversized button-down shirt that had once belonged to Jake. “Besides, I’m the cook. I need to be comfortable.” Ruth takes the knife from my hand and orders me upstairs to change my clothes. “At least put on a sweater or something. You’re going to be looking at these pictures for the rest of your life.”
I keep the jeans, but swap the oversized shirt for a blue sweater. I let my hair down and brush it. When I come downstairs, Neil and Eli are standing in the front hall. Richard handles the introductions, while Ruth sucks at her punch. Everyone turns to look at me.
“Neil, Eli, welcome! Neil and Eli are our friends from Gymboree class,” I tell everyone. Neil bends down to help Eli out of his coat, no easy task since Eli refuses to relinquish the large, brightly wrapped package he’s holding.
“Go on,” Neil whispers in Eli’s ear. “You know what to do with that, don’t you, Eli?” We all watch as Eli approaches Chloe, who is sitting on the living room rug, pulling at the party hat Fiona has placed on her almost bald head.
“How precious,” coos Fiona, setting Carlos down and picking up the camera. “The package is almost as big as he is,” she says, snapping a picture. We all watch as Eli makes his way laboriously to the middle of the room. He’s within drooling distance when suddenly he’s intercepted by Carlos, who tackles him, causing the corner of the package to poke Eli in the eye.
“Carlos!” shrieks Ruth, rushing to intervene, just as Neil scoops up Eli, who is, for a second, too stunned to cry. Ruth picks up Carlos and whisks him off to the kitchen mumbling ominously about “time-outs,” just as Eli begins to wail.
“How about some ice?” Fiona says to Neil, who is trying to get a look at Eli’s eye.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her, hurrying into the kitchen to check on Ruth. She’s in the pantry, trying to gain control of a hysterical Carlos, who is writhing mightily in a kitchen chair.
“I give up,” Ruth says miserably.
“Forget about it. Calm him down and get back out there. Eli’s fine,” I tell her.
I fill a plastic bag with ice and wrap it in a dish towel for Eli, although by the time I return, he’s stopped crying. He’s sitting on Neil’s lap watching transfixed as my father entertains him with his one and only magic trick—the separating thumb.
Mercifully, the rest of the party proceeds uneventfully. When it’s time to open the presents, I sit Chloe on my lap while Dad mans the video camera. Fiona has gotten Chloe a pink plastic purse, complete with a play cell phone, a large key ring of brightly colored keys, and a dozen sparkly bangle bracelets. “Thanks, Fiona,” I tell her.
“I figured since she’s always digging in mine, she should have her own,” Fiona says, bending down to give Chloe a hug. Neil and Eli have given her a tub of crayons and a whole slew of water toys. Ruth and Carlos have given Chloe a tiny tricycle.
Fiona and Ruth help gather the empty wrapping paper while Richard, Neil, and my dad break down the boxes. “Oh, Mira, you forgot one,” Ruth says, holding out one last gift, buried under a pile of discarded paper.
“Oh, that’s from us,” says Neil, “although it’s really for Mira, not for Chloe. You can open it later if you—” But I’ve already begun removing the paper. It’s a book. What to Expect: The Toddler Years.
“Thanks,” I tell him. When I meet his eye, I’m surprised by the intensity of his gaze.
“Hey, I have this book,” says Ruth, leaning over my shoulder. “I loved the series. Of course I really didn’t need the What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but I thought the one about the first year was great.”
“Me too. During that whole first year my wife and I referred to it as ‘the Bible.’ ” At the mention of Neil’s wife, Ruth falls silent. Neil clears his throat.
“I’ve never read a parenting book,” I tell them.
“Really?” Neil and Ruth ask in unison.
“Not a one. I guess I should have,” I say, judging from their incredulous expressions.
“Surely you read T. Berry Brazelton? You must have,” Ruth says, shocked.
I shake my head, trying to remember why I hadn’t. Running a restaurant had been an exhausting business. By the time Jake and I crawled into bed at night after closing up, it was too late to do anything but sleep. Remembering how little time Grappa had left for anything else, I wonder how different Chloe’s life would be now had we stayed.
Richard jumps to my defense. “How could you? You didn’t even read the newspaper! The moment you stopped moving you fell asleep.” Neil and Ruth are unimpressed. I give Richard’s arm a grateful squeeze and pick up the book. It’s a hefty tome. How much invaluable parenting advice have I missed already?
“Time for cake, everyone?” Fiona asks, handing Chloe to my father and adjusting her party hat.
“Don’t forget to read the inscription. It concerns an addendum to the Manifesto,” Neil whispers over my shoulder as we move into the dining room for cake and ice cream.
“What manifesto?” Ruth asks, innocently.
I tuck the book under my arm and follow Fiona int
o the kitchen. Richard dims the lights, and Fiona readies the camera. I bring in the cake, a homemade vanilla sponge cake with real buttercream icing. I’ve decorated it like a pasture with green coconut grass and a corral made of licorice. Inside, an entire farm’s worth of animal candles are grazing. Chloe is charmed.
Food. As I’ve long suspected, it is my greatest parenting accomplishment.
To Ruth’s chagrin, Neil and Eli leave shortly after we finish the cake, pleading nap time, but Ruth suspects it’s the prospect of free playtime with Carlos that has chased them away.
“Seriously, every time Carlos sees Eli he goes into attack mode. It’s like he’s gunning for the poor kid!” Ruth says, exasperated. “You’ve got to admit, this doesn’t exactly bode well for the Brady Bunch future I’ve been envisioning,” she says, helping herself to another slice of cake. “It’s a good thing I’ve already got an in,” Ruth continues. “Did I tell you? Leah asked me what I was doing for Passover. I think there’s a chance she might invite me—I mean us,” Ruth says, looking down at Carlos. He’s sitting on a blanket at her feet, gnawing on the cow candle. “Carlos! Enough of that,” she says, picking him up and sitting him on her lap. I hand her a napkin. “Look, a hive! There must be red dye in those candles. Mira, can you get the Benadryl? It’s in the living room in the diaper bag.”
My dad’s in the process of putting together the kitchen set from Richard, and the living room is littered with hundreds of plastic pieces. It takes me a while to find the diaper bag. When I return to the kitchen with it, Ruth is no longer at the table. She is standing at the kitchen counter. She looks up when I come in, and the expression on her face is pure pain. Her mouth is set in a grimace as if she’s about to cry.
“Mira,” Ruth whispers. “How could you?”
I look down at the book open in front of her on the counter, the one Neil had given me. On the inside cover he’s inscribed the following message: The Parents’ Manifesto—If you want her, let her know. All’s fair in love, war, and mah-jongg. Will you please go out with me? Neil.
Of course I try to explain, but Ruth tells me she’s in no mood to hear it. “All this time, I thought you were helping me,” she says, her voice cold and low. I try to tell her that I hadn’t done anything to encourage Neil. I was trying to help her. But none of it makes any difference. The sound of our arguing chases my father and Richard from the living room. Fiona takes Chloe upstairs. I follow Ruth and Carlos out to the car, but Ruth still refuses to talk to me, refuses even to look at me.
Back inside, the house is quiet. I grab a picnic blanket from the mudroom, wrap it around myself, and head outside to the front porch where I curl up on the porch swing, furious with myself for letting things get so out of hand. Why hadn’t I anticipated this would happen? What had I been thinking? The problem is I’ve never been the type to think too far ahead, which might explain why I’ve never been any good at games. Unlike Ruth, I’m incapable of developing anything resembling a strategy.
It’s starting to get dark when Fiona joins me on the porch. She scoots my feet over to make room for herself on the end of the swing. “May I, Mira?” she asks, her voice gentle. She takes out her knitting, spreads her pattern over her knees, and dons her glasses.
“Richard left. Said for you to give him a call later. Oh, and Ben called,” Fiona tells me. “Water main break in Bloomfield. He worked all day. Asked me to tell you he’s sorry to have missed the party.”
I nod.
“He’s got a little gift for Chloe, though. He wanted to bring it by, but I told him he’d better wait for another time.” She looks down at me over her reading glasses. “I figured you’d had enough entertaining for one day.” I lay my head against the back of the swing, listening to the comforting click of Fiona’s knitting needles.
“You know, Mira,” Fiona says, laying aside her knitting and turning to look at me. I can feel her eyes on me for several seconds, and when I return her gaze, she smiles at me. “Ruth will come around.”
“I’m not so sure,” I tell her.
“Of course she will. She just needs to realize that you didn’t do anything wrong. Right now she’s angry at you because it’s easier to blame you than blame herself.”
“But Ruth didn’t do anything wrong! Besides, they’re much better suited to each other than Neil and me.”
Fiona laughs. “In my opinion he’s not ready for either of you. Neil’s got to get over Sarah first.” I look at her, surprised. “Ruth filled me in on a few of the details while you were upstairs changing. Sooner or later she’s going to realize that the route to the altar does not run through Leah Hollander’s back door. When she does, she’ll be back,” Fiona says, picking up her knitting. “Mira, you can’t make someone love you. Just like you can’t help who you love. Look at your father and me. Who would have thought? He’s so smart, and I have to take off my shoes just to make change.” Fiona removes her feet from her sandals, wiggles her fuchsia-stained toes, and giggles.
I can’t believe I ever thought Fiona shallow. When she leans over to pat my hand, I take hers and clasp it in both of mine. Then I lay my head on her shoulder and begin to cry.
chapter 23
Figuring that Chloe needs a twelve-month checkup, I finally break down and make an appointment for her with a doctor in the pediatric group Ruth uses. According to Dr. Brent, Chloe is healthy, happy, and developmentally on schedule. She seems pleased with her progress, applauding my choice of Gymboree class and even complimenting me on the wide variety of foods Chloe has been exposed to, telling me that I am setting the pattern for good lifelong eating habits.
“Give yourself a pat on the back,” she says.
“What can I say?” I tell Dr. Brent, hoping I don’t sound too smug. “Food’s my thing.” Then, as we are leaving the office, she gives me a list of reading materials; number one on the list is What to Expect: The Toddler Years.
I turn on my cell phone and check my messages, hoping that Ruth has called. But there’s only one message, and it’s not from Ruth.
Enid Maxwell wants to meet with me, according to the message left on my cell phone at 11:16 this morning. I hadn’t heard a word from her since I e-mailed her my review a couple of weeks ago and had assumed she wasn’t interested. I lose no time in calling her back and am surprised when a young woman, who seems to be expecting my call, answers the phone. “Yes, Ms. Rinaldi,” she says, as if she knows me. “Ms. Maxwell is available to meet with you this afternoon at two o’clock. Would that be convenient?”
No, it wouldn’t, unless Ms. Maxwell wouldn’t mind if I drag my sleep-deprived toddler to the meeting. Now, since my fight with Ruth, I’ve lost my regular babysitter. “How about Wednesday afternoon?” I suggest. My dad’s office hours are on Wednesdays. Maybe he wouldn’t mind letting Chloe take her afternoon nap in his office. That, or maybe Fiona would be willing to watch her during her lunch hour.
“Let me check her schedule.” I hear clicking sounds. “Ms. Maxwell can see you at one forty-five on Wednesday.”
“Perfect,” I tell her. Prime napping time.
I call Ruth again and leave yet another apology on her answering machine. By the time I hang up the phone, I’m exhausted. I put my feet up and flip through this month’s Bon Appétit, marveling that someone who used to live action-packed eighteen-hour days is now wiped out by a trip to the park and a pediatrician appointment.
I flip absently through the magazine, at least until I get to page sixty-eight, where a tiny two-sentence blurb catches my eye. It’s in the “Up and Coming” section and announces the opening of a small enoteca in the financial district. “Il Vinaio,” the blurb says, “is brought to us by the owners of the popular West Village trattoria, Grappa. In addition to an extensive collection of wines, overseen by sommelier Nicola Cabot and partner Jake Shaw, Il Vinaio will serve a selection of small plates.”
Sommelier? Since when is a slut who drinks too much a sommelier?
The phone is in my hands before I can stop myself. Re
nata doesn’t answer, but her machine picks up immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me?” is all I can manage.
I’m unable to call Ruth who, were she speaking to me, would undoubtedly have something calming to say or, at a minimum, would be willing to Google the restaurant and filter the reviews, picking out only the bad ones. In desperation I call Dr. D-P. When her machine picks up, I leave a message telling her that I’ve just heard from Enid and asking her to call me back. I figure when she does, I might be able to wheedle some free therapy over the phone. I hang up and within minutes I manage to work myself into a frenzy of gargantuan proportions.
“How can Jake do this?” I wail hysterically, when the phone rings a while later.
“Do what, Mira?”
“Open another restaurant! The time and energy—not to mention the money! Do you have any idea how difficult it is? How expensive?” Dr. D-P is silent while in between sobs, I fill her in.
Finally, she says, “Mira, this isn’t really about the money, is it?”
“The bastard couldn’t even pay me child support. Now he’s having another baby and opening a new restaurant!” I tell her, hiccupping loudly into the phone.
“What you really mean is how could he have moved on, don’t you?”
I recoil as if I’ve been slapped.
“What you need right now is an attitude adjustment,” Dr. D-P says, her voice clear, steady, and purposeful. “For starters, let’s turn that statement around. How about instead of asking ‘how could he,’ we ask a different question. How about we ask, ‘how could you?’ ”
“How could I what?”
“We are going to put you in an ‘I’ll show him’ frame of mind,” Dr. D-P says.
The assignment is to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and imagine that I’ve just run into Jake on the street. What do I want him to see and what do I want him to know about my life?
Aftertaste Page 24