I shook the melted cubes at the bottom of my iced coffee and wished I had another, and a Tylenol. Last night’s couples’ night out had been fun but I should have said no thanks when they ordered that second bottle of Sancerre. Table for ten, no, make it twelve nearly every Friday and Saturday night, ceviche and steak and mojitos, sure, we’ll take another round. This group liked to go out and party, more than Aaron and I ever did when we lived in the city, even before we had kids. Sunday night early dinner, are you guys free? The invites kept coming, and I kept replying yes, we can make it, what can I bring? My calendar felt happy to be overflowing with plans, but these groggy mornings were telling me I might want to think about slowing it down.
My phone itched in my palm. I had promised myself for once I wouldn’t check it, that for forty-five minutes I could focus and watch my daughter dance. When Alyson asked if I minded taking the carpool again this week, I told her I’d be more than happy to—I’d be more than happy to drive them every Saturday morning to spend extra time with Phoebe. I knew I needed to set aside special mommy-time for Madison too, but Saturday mornings were reserved for Phoebe. Then why was it so hard to not glance at my phone for a quick peek, click, and scroll to see who might be looking for me? Because toddler ballet class is fucking boring, Tami had said out loud last week what I’d felt guilty thinking. And so far today Phoebe had only danced her way to minute fifteen. Still, I wanted to prove to myself I had the discipline to do it.
I put my phone in my bag and saw Carolann walking toward me. She hadn’t been at Alyson’s Fourth of July party but was one of the regulars around the table at the moms’ after-drop-off coffee, part of my new Fridays ‘working’-from-home routine. With nanny Noreen taking care of Madison, most Friday mornings I dropped Phoebe off at school and then met up with Alyson, Tami, Ivy, and a few other rotating moms at the diner. Over a latte and sometimes a bite for breakfast I caught up on the week’s gossip and goings-on and then headed back to my home office for a few hours of work and, when I could fit it in, a run or a visit to the gym before afternoon pickup. From there we usually chose someone’s house for a mom-and-kid playdate where we more often than not enjoyed an early happy hour while keeping an eye on the children. I loved Fridays working from home.
Carolann had a daughter at Laurel Meadow a year older than Phoebe, and a boy in kindergarten. “Irish twins,” Carolann explained, only eleven months apart. Within seconds of being introduced, Carolann told me she was the preschool’s volunteer coordinator and annual auction chairperson and would I consider volunteering on three different committees? The gift-wrap fundraiser desperately needed a coordinator. I told her I’d have to check my schedule and let her know. With work and the kids and everything else, I couldn’t see how I’d find the time to fit in volunteering for the school. I hoped she wasn’t coming over to ask me about that.
“Isn’t this the cutest thing you have ever seen, Jessica?” she said, and took off her glasses to wipe them with the bottom of her shirt. I couldn’t figure out who she reminded me of, her hair cut in a layered bob with terrible highlights, like a toddler had taken an orange paintbrush to a cat. When she put her glasses back on I noticed a little gold embellishment on each side. The glasses and her nose that came to a point. And then it hit me—she looked like my seventh-grade English teacher, Mrs. Littman.
“Adorable,” I said. Minute eighteen down, twenty-seven to go.
“So, Jessica, I wanted to make sure you had a flyer for my jeans party next week.” Carolann was one of those people who always said my name. Maybe it was her way of remembering someone new? And there was something about her tone, formal and slightly disapproving, with the hint of a tsk. Yep, just like Mrs. Littman. Remember, Jessica, that’s a simile, not a metaphor.
She handed me a postcard with a silhouette of three sexy women posed like on the mud flap of an eighteen-wheeler. Jeans, Jeans, Jeans Party! Thursday, October 18—7:00 sharp! “Jessica, you really should try to make it.”
“What’s a jeans party?” I asked.
“Do not tell me you have never been!” She dropped down on the bench next to me and asked, “Do you mind if I sit for a minute? A jeans party is like a trunk show of all the best designer jeans, but way cheaper than retail. And we never buy retail now, do we, Jessica? Plus, it will be a terrific mom’s night out—there will be wine and refreshments and a ton of people for you to meet.”
Of all the Suffern moms I’d encountered so far, I wouldn’t have pegged Carolann to be the one to host a designer jeans party. Or a designer anything party. She usually wore sweats with a baggy zip-up hoodie that covered most of her body. Maybe she was a few pounds overweight but her clothes made her look even bigger than she probably was.
She put her hand on my arm. “So it is settled then. See you next Thursday night at seven o’clock, Jessica—you will want to be right on time for the best selection. My address is on the back.”
“I’ll definitely try,” I said.
I had been invited to a trunk show once in the city, for a friend of a friend selling jewelry and donating part of the proceeds to some charity she was supporting. It was fun to steal away from work for an hour on a Wednesday afternoon, to sit on a white sofa drinking wine in a beautifully furnished apartment with a view of Central Park. But in between the smoked salmon hors d’oeuvres and my glass of chardonnay, there was a palpable silent pressure to make a purchase that I hadn’t expected when I agreed to attend. With only fifteen people in the room, I felt obligated to buy a sea pearl choker that I only marginally liked. And being new to the trunk show circuit, I hadn’t even thought to bring my checkbook or enough cash in my wallet to cover the $400 purchase, but they conveniently had a portable swipe machine accepting all major credit cards. I had vowed not to be snookered into another trunk show again, but knew I would be seeing Carolann at school and on my weeks of carpooling in the dance class waiting room, all year long. That was the genius to the home-show marketing scheme—the guilt factor to support your friends.
That week I received sixteen e-mail reminders: SEE YOU THIS THURSDAY AT 7:00 p.m. sharp. xo, Carolann, cc: Alyson, Tami, Ivy, and twenty other e-mail addresses I didn’t recognize. I thought about the pile of pre-baby jeans in my closet I hoped one day to get myself back into. Maybe I could use a new pair.
* * *
After work on Thursday I drove to Carolann’s house from the train station, almost missing the left off Route 202 onto West Gate Road. My headlights illuminated a mix of modest homes, split-levels and Colonials that looked like they were built in the 1970s. As I drove up to the mailbox marked 38, I saw that the driveway was full. Cars were actually lined up the street along the curb. How many people had been invited? It was already almost 7:45 and I had missed the 7:00 sharp window—it figured that the one weekday night I had plans, the train was delayed out of Secaucus.
I finally found a parking spot about five houses up and checked my face in the rearview mirror before heading in. I looked tired. I was tired. And I was going to have to summon up some serious energy to meet a bunch of new moms while participating in one of my least favorite activities, trying on jeans. What get-together would be next, a bathing suit party? Plus, it had been a less-than-stellar eating day. It had been a less-than-stellar eating month. I could still feel that vanilla mocha and everything bagel with cream cheese from breakfast and the pasta special I couldn’t resist ordering at the Osteria al Doge client lunch. The not one, but two late-afternoon macadamia nut cookies I’d poached from the tray of meeting leftovers in the office kitchen. And the few remnant M&M’s I had found at the bottom of my pocketbook on the train ride home. Maybe there’d be a table with jewelry or aromatherapy lotion or something that would enable me to participate without having to try anything on.
I was surprised at how self-conscious I’d been feeling lately. In the city I had never thought twice about what I threw on when I ran out of the apartment, but in Suffern, I felt a weird pressure to make sure I looked somewhat put together, especially i
n situations when I knew I might be meeting people. Like middle school all over again. Is my bra strap showing? Is my shirt tucked in right? At drop-off, at pickup, even at the supermarket on Sunday mornings, I often felt eyes all around me, little looks checking me out: the new mom. In a second I felt them scan my face, my hair, my clothes right down to my shoes. I didn’t want to care what people thought, but a proud little part of me actually did, which was starting to bug me.
I riffled through my bag for cover-up and dabbed some under each eye. After a swipe of blush and a little lip gloss, I tested a smile in the mirror and felt somewhat better.
No one answered when I rang the bell. I heard voices inside and found the door unlocked. Two women were huddled in the cherrywood kitchen, chatting next to the fridge.
“Hi,” I said with my new-mom smile. “Am I in the right place for Carolann’s party?”
“Downstairs,” said the taller one, gesturing to a door on the right, and then she turned her back to me and resumed her conversation.
Bitch, I thought, as I went down the steep carpeted stairwell to the basement, careful not to hit my head on the low beam. Over the loud din of female chatter I heard a man’s deep voice call out in a Long Island accent, “Got a size twenty-seven True Religions for whoeva’ gets ’em first.” A frenzy of hands shot up like tentacles and grabbed for the prize.
Giant plastic bins overflowing with jeans were stacked and strewn all over the room with handwritten labels taped to their sides: Joe’s, 7 For All Mankind, Lucky Brand, Rock & Republic, Vince, Citizens of Humanity, skinny, stretch, boot cut, white, black, boyfriend. Twenty, maybe even thirty women were kneeling, sifting, taking off their pants and trying on others, eyeing each others’ backsides and nodding or nixing, looking in a line of temporary mirrors leaned up against the basement’s walls while two men with slicked-back hair doled out the goods. I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere less than I wanted to be there.
I scanned the room for a familiar face and didn’t see anyone I knew. In the bright fluorescent basement light I couldn’t help but notice that every woman taking off her clothes had on fabulous underwear. Blue-striped bikinis, hot-pink boy shorts, sexy green hipsters with purple lace around the edges. Of course, the pair I’d thrown on that morning was my usual workaday beige cotton Hanes. With sixteen e-mail reminders, how could I have not remembered to put on a nicer pair?
A woman with a clipboard directed me to put my coat and bag in an adjacent room, and on my way back I spied a table off to the side with a platter of little cheese squares, piles of untouched cheddar and havarti with dill. Next to the platter were bottles of soda and seltzer and two open bottles of wine, and as I took a plastic cup and poured myself a pinot grigio, a woman next to me started piling up cheese and crackers on a paper plate. Thank god someone else is eating, I thought; I was starving but didn’t want to be the only one digging in.
I picked up an orange cube and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Jessica.”
“Oh, hi, I’m Michelle,” she replied, and shook my hand firmly. “Michelle Upton.”
It was Michelle Upton, the “near-miss” from Alyson’s contact list, at least according to Tami. I reflexively put my cheese back down on the table.
“Are you the new Jessica, Alyson’s neighbor?”
“That’s me.” The new Jessica.
“I love your house,” she said. Michelle had full lips and round cheeks but her face was far from the ugly mug Tami had described. And her hair, a shoulder-length mass of long curls, didn’t look blown-out at all. “It reminds me of a big birthday cake, up on that hill.”
“Thanks,” I smiled. It always made me feel good when people complimented our house, although no one had ever said it looked like a cake before. “I remember Alyson mentioning you were opening your own business?”
“In about two weeks, finally, thanks for asking. It’s Unami Wellness—nutrition counseling and yoga, but with a big emphasis on outdoor adventure. We’re almost at the finish line now that the ropes course is in, and I’m close to inking a partnership with Eastern Mountain Sports to tie in to their hiking and biking classes. But that piece probably won’t go live until the spring. Lots of time and a ton of stress, but after almost five years of planning, it’s finally coming together,” she said, and popped a cheese cube in her mouth.
The head of a wellness center who ate cheese cubes—that was my kind of wellness.
“Wow, five years?”
“From the time I came up with the concept to securing the financing, finding the right spot, and a thousand and one steps in between. It’s been a hell of a journey so far and it’s only the beginning.” She took her phone out of her pocket and I smiled when I saw it had a crack in the corner of the screen just like mine. “If you give me your e-mail, I’d be happy to put you on the guest list for the open house.”
Michelle seemed pretty calm for someone opening a new business in a couple of weeks. Yoga wasn’t my thing, twisting into all those pretzel positions, but a ropes course sounded more intriguing than any of the classes on the schedule at Planet Fitness. If I could tap into some of her serenity, maybe her place was worth checking out.
I spelled out my e-mail for her and was about to ask her where Unami was located when Alyson appeared holding an armful of jeans. “Hey, Michelle. Hey, Jessica. Have you seen the box of jeggings?”
“I think they’re over there,” Michelle said, pointing to the far corner of the room near where I saw Tami staring impatiently in our direction.
“I’ve been looking for those, I’ll go with you,” I said quickly, and gave Michelle a little wave and followed Alyson, even though I had no interest in a pair of jeans that fit like tights. But I immediately felt mad at myself for running away so abruptly. So what if Tami had said she didn’t like Michelle? She had seemed nice enough; I could have at least finished our conversation to decide for myself if we were simpatico. I reminded myself to try not to write off people so quickly from now on.
Carolann came over holding a clipboard with a list of names and what looked like a chart of people’s purchases. “Can you believe this wonderful turnout? Jessica, I am so glad you made it! Are you finding everything okay?”
“Just about to start trying on,” I said, hoping my name wasn’t on Carolann’s report card. Jessica: zero.
“Better hurry, the good stuff is going fast,” she said, and ran over to help a group of women on the other side of the room.
“It’s great to see her happy for once,” Alyson said. “Peter didn’t want her to host this party—he’s been totally anti. Don’t say anything,” she whispered.
“Oh, no worries,” I responded, and sipped my wine as Alyson turned around to admire herself in the mirror in her jeggings. She was so thin, without even a hint of fat on her thighs. Too thin, I thought. Even if all I ate for a whole entire year was iceberg lettuce and an occasional carrot stick, I could never achieve that level of thin. She could use some extra fat to help her get pregnant.
Alyson hadn’t mentioned another word about her fertility issues after that day in her kitchen, and even though I was tempted to ask how things were going, I respected her wish to keep it private. It had been a lot harder than I thought it would be, especially not telling Aaron. But I’d promised. To let Alyson know I was thinking about her, every so often I sent her e-mails with decoy subject lines like, Fabric samples—what do you think? with links to Sharon’s doctor, an acupuncture therapy website Sharon had sworn by, and a discount offer a friend of a friend had forwarded for a new book called On Fertile Ground with mind-body fertility techniques. Alyson never replied but I totally understood her need for distance; I just hoped she found my e-mails helpful and crossed my fingers she was on her way to getting pregnant again.
My stomach grumbled and I wished I hadn’t left my piece of cheddar on the table. “What does Carolann’s husband do again?”
“Peter was in operations at IBM over in Hawthorne but got laid off last year,” Alyson said, then added in
a hushed voice, “They’ve been really strapped for cash. Carolann told me they even talked about selling the house and moving back up near Syracuse, where his parents are.”
“Ugh, Syracuse,” I said, starting to feel guilty for not having shopped yet.
“But Carolann said there’s no way she’s moving up to that freezing hell hole. So she’s thinking about going back to work. Did she tell you she started taking classes to get her real estate agent’s license? Needless to say, when the jeans party came up, she jumped at the chance to host.”
I started to feel uncomfortable knowing a bit too much. “Where are all of these jeans from?” I asked to change the subject. “Are they off the back of a truck or something?”
“Who cares where they’re from, they’re practically free. Come on, try some on. What are you, a twenty-nine . . . ish?” She sifted through a bin and threw me a few pairs.
“Jeans sometimes run a little small,” I said, putting down my drink and feeling like I was fourteen again in the giant communal dressing room at Loehmann’s, the mecca for discount designer bargains my mother used to drag me to. At Loehmann’s they didn’t have private dressing rooms, and I dreaded changing in front of the mirrored walls amongst the overweight ladies in big beige bras and girdles, with rolls of old stomach rippling out. They tried to squeeze into marked-down skirts, arguing about where to go for lunch and did you hear whose husband just dropped dead of a heart attack in Bronxville, poor thing? The lack of partitions somehow gave them permission to critique anyone changing around them; no one was safe from their watchful eyes and ongoing commentary: “Oh, that looks fabulous.” “That material’s pulling, Sheila, you can do better.” “Gorgeous—did you see another in a size fourteen?” I would tuck into a corner and strip with lightning speed into my Jordache, Sasson, and Gloria Vanderbilts, zippered and button-fly. But no matter how quickly I changed, they always got their comments in. “Oh, she’s got a lovely figure,” they would say to my mother, and I’d feel my face get hot and wish I could melt into the floor.
City Mouse Page 8