by Ariella Papa
“No. I’m fine.”
She hesitated. “Okay, Voula, look I have to take this call. I’ll call you later. Watch the tape.”
“Okay,” I said as she hung up. “I bid on an apartment,” I told the dead air of the phone line.
After a strong cup of coffee, I got started on my article about finding an apartment. The fictional me was a lot more sure of what she was looking for and inquisitive about all aspects of real estate. I wished I could climb into one of my pieces and live the life I presented to the diverse readers of the magazines I wrote for.
Some days I felt like a mysterious force was moving my hands over the keys of my laptop. It all went so smoothly. Nothing distracted me, not surfing the Net, not unopened Netflix envelopes, not even the growl of my stomach. Sometimes I thought it was Cristina helping me write. This was one of those days. When I looked up to answer the phone it was almost three p.m.
“Voula, it’s Maureen Soltero.”
My heart started racing. I felt like my life was about to take a drastic turn.
“Hello,” I said.
“I’m sorry, dear. The sellers went with the original bidder.”
“Why?” It was a dumb question.
“Well, I think they bid significantly higher. It’s a bit of a seller’s market, you know.”
I guess she had been telling me that all along. And I had low-balled. I was crestfallen.
“We’re just going to have to get out there and find you another apartment. I’m optimistic, aren’t you?”
She asked me with such seriousness, I thought I might be agreeing to go steady.
“Yes.”
“Fabulous, I have a wonderful loft studio a block from Union Square. I think you would love it. We can head over tonight if you want.”
“You know, I think I need a couple of days to recuperate from the whole market.”
“Oh, I know it hurts, doesn’t it.” This was probably the same voice she used with her triplets. “But, you know, like with everything else, you snooze, you lose.”
“Yeah, but I have some work to do tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t scrap the whole thing. I had to get a place, I realized; otherwise the out-of-touch editor at Financial Woman wouldn’t be too happy with me. I had sort of insinuated I was closer and more committed to buying a place than I actually was.
“Okay, have a good night.” She sounded a little frustrated with me.
I lost significant steam after that call. I checked through my Netflix. I tried to keep Daniel Auteuil movies in constant rotation. I saw the same movies quite a few times, but it didn’t matter. I loved every nuance and twitch of his large French nose. The one I had this time was The Widow of Saint-Pierre.
I planned to watch the whole thing, but first I went straight to my favorite part where he is about to get shot. He looks at Juliet Binoche and says, “They can’t touch us. I love you.” But in French, of course.
It brought tears to my eyes it was so real, so perfect. Warren Tucker had said some beautiful things too. Now, he was doing body shots off E-list celebrity bottom feeders. He was a bottom feeder. Jesus. Only Daniel could take my mind off everything. I started at the beginning and watched the whole sad, sordid tale.
The phone rang and I assumed it was Jamie. I answered without looking at caller ID.
“Hey,” I said. “I can’t believe they shot Daniel.”
“Um, excuse me.” A voice that wasn’t Jamie’s but still sounded familiar said, “I was looking for Voula Pavlopoulos.”
She said the last name like a true Cypriot. This time my heart didn’t start pounding, I just knew my life was going to change. “This is Voula.”
I heard a sob and I knew who it was even before she said, “Voula, it’s Helen.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Are you still there?” she asked when she had stopped crying.
“Yes.”
“Georgia gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me calling.”
“No.” I hesitated. “No, I don’t.”
“It’s just that I think about you all the time. I miss you. I’ve been determined to call you for the past year. I kept losing my nerve.”
I waited for her to continue. I wasn’t mad at her, but this whole thing was just too surreal. My sister was no longer a part of my life. That was a given. I had shut that part of me out. Now, there was a woman, a stranger, having an emotional breakdown on the other end of the phone. I didn’t know if I was equipped to handle this.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to get my bearings. “This comes as kind of a surprise.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry to just spring myself on you after all this time.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“I just wanted you to know that I love you, honey.”
It was too much, now. I had loved my sister, but telling someone I didn’t know anymore how I felt was just too much for me. It was too daytime TV.
“Thanks,” I said. She started to cry and I had to say something. “So, Georgia said you have kids.”
“Yes,” she sniffled.
It was a mind-fuck to hear her voice again, to think that I was actually on the phone with my sister.
“I have a boy named Spiro and a girl. Her name is Cristina.”
“Oh,” I said. That made me really sad. That made it real. We shared this. I shared memories of Cristina with this woman who was now a stranger. “How old?”
“Spiro is almost fifteen, I can’t believe it. And Cristina is four.”
“And your husband was okay with you giving them Greek names?”
She laughed for the first time. “Yeah, I even speak to them in Greek sometimes, just like—” She exhaled. “Just like us.”
“Cool,” I said.
“Andre and I would love for you to come over for dinner sometime and meet them. Or if you would rather just meet me sometime… Of course maybe you don’t want to see me, but I would really like to see you.”
“Sure,” I said. But I wasn’t going to commit to anything. “Can you give me your number?”
“You’ll call, right?”
“Yes,” I said. As I took down the number I knew I’d call, I just wasn’t sure when.
“How is your mother?”
In Greek this would have been the right way to ask, but in English I wasn’t sure if she was trying to dis our mother. I didn’t blame her, but I felt like someone had to stick up for Mom. “She’s okay, you know. She’s herself.”
I knew she wasn’t going to ask about our dad. “Are you going to go to Georgia’s wedding?” It was about a year away, but I needed to start preparing for it.
“That’s something I hope we can talk about when we see each other,” she said. “Of course, I would never want anything to upset Georgia on her day. If you want, she can even come to our meeting, I mean, if that makes you feel better.”
“I’ll let you know,” I said. Did we need an arbiter? “So, I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”
“Okay, I really hope you do. I love you, Voula.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
After I hung up the phone it occurred to me that no one had ever told me they loved me. That’s why it had sounded so strange. A complete stranger loved me. I wanted to get back into bed, lie down and never get up. It was after seven and I had this sneaking feeling that Jamie wasn’t going to call. I could have just called her, but she had said she was going to phone. It was a stupid game, but I didn’t want to be needy and I didn’t just want to be a listening post.
I wasn’t sure when Kelly would be home but I didn’t want her to see me like this, so I took the phone into my room and lay on my bed.
I could feel the blue black buggies coming on. I had always had these moods—well, ever since Cristina died—where I needed to sit, just sit. Maybe it was wallowing. Maybe it was detrimental to my psyche, which is what Georgia had once said, but if I just took this time, I woul
d eventually be able to get up and feel fine.
I turned on the stereo in my room and sat down on the carpet. I let myself think about Cristina and Helen and everything. I let myself sob. That was the best part of the blue black buggies. It sucked to be in them, but if you saved up, if you only let it happen every once in a while, you could let yourself have a really good cry.
Before I knew what the blue black buggies were, before I was in control, they were awful. I remember missing a week of high school because I wasn’t able to get out of bed. My mother didn’t ask me any questions. She could tolerate this so long as I didn’t talk about why. In college, I missed a week of exams. My professors were cool. I told them about my sister even though I felt bad about using her as an excuse. They let me re-take the exams if I promised to see a grief counselor. I said that I would go, but never did.
Now the whole thing wasn’t bad. It was cathartic. And naming this mood, with a term I stole from Maura after I heard her refer to an upset stomach as the bad buggies, made me feel a little more in control. It would have been pretty miserable to anyone who saw me, but it made me feel a lot better. I had it down to a system. The crying was followed by a day in bed and then a day in front of the TV watching the daytime talk shows that my sister’s call had reminded me of. The wonderful thing about Springer and Judge Judy was how much better they made you feel. I knew I was going to be okay as I cried, because I could see my way out of it. I could see ahead to a couple of days from now, when I would be watching Judge Judy calling someone stupid for getting breast implants.
When I finished the sobbing part (it lasted an hour and a half), I was exhausted. I hadn’t really eaten anything, but I had no appetite. It was only ten, but I wanted bed. The phone rang. I didn’t know if it would be a bad idea to talk to Jamie at this point, but I answered the phone just to make sure she was okay.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello, can I speak to Voula,” a man’s voice said.
“This is Voula,” I replied, then I sniffled.
“Hey, you didn’t sound like yourself. Are you sick?”
“Who is this?” I said, getting annoyed.
“Sorry, it’s Paul.”
“The fireman?” I heard him laugh. “Hi. How did you get this number?”
“Well, I know your address. I work for the city. It’s on the report. It’s a lot easier than you might think.”
“I guess so.” I felt so stuffed up from crying that I could hardly breathe.
“So you have a little summer cold?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Boys didn’t call me. Men—this was a man—didn’t call me either. I put out a vibe, Jamie had told me. I said it was a Greek vibe and she said it was a mean vibe anytime I didn’t want her to set me up.
“Well, listen, Ms. Voula, do you think maybe you might like to go out sometime—you know, grab a beer?”
“A beer?” Was I being asked out? Hadn’t he caught my vibe?
“Yeah, or a coffee, or you know, whatever.”
Whatever? What was whatever? Did Daniel Auteuil ask women out for whatevers? Did it sound better in French?
“Sure,” I said before I meant to. I still had two days of bad buggies to contend with and I was accepting dates for whatevers. Who was I?
“Or maybe dinner. Would you like to go to dinner?”
“I certainly prefer that to whatever.”
He laughed again. “You know, you’re a very funny girl.”
“Thanks. I’m a regular Joe Pesci.”
He laughed again.
He got it, which I liked. He did about a sentence of Good-fellas and then stopped just in time. I had seen enough of Jamie’s ex-boyfriends recite whole movies to no one in particular to know how annoying it was. I appreciated that he showed some restraint.
“Well, I’m working tonight, but how about tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was my all-day bed day. I had no intention of messing with that.
“You know, I do feel kind of sick—I probably shouldn’t.”
“How about Thursday?”
Thursday was daytime TV day, but it seemed like I was forgetting something. Thursday resonated in my head for some reason. I got up to look at my calendar. That’s it: I had two hundred words due on Monday for NY BY NIGHT on a new restaurant. It was just a short piece, but I had to go to the place. Usually I went on my own or took Jamie and Raj. Would it be strange to be expensing our first date? Well, maybe it would ensure that he didn’t expect anything.
Who was I kidding? I wanted him to expect something.
“Actually, I have to go do a sort of review on a restaurant. Maybe you want to come? It’s a pretty straight-up American place, I think. If you don’t like that kind of food, we could go somewhere else.”
“That’s so cool. You’re a restaurant reviewer. I love to eat.”
“No, I’m a freelance writer. I just got a gig to cover this place for NY BY NIGHT.”
“We answer calls at the Prescott Nelson Building all the time. What a cool job. You must be a real smarty-pants.”
I could hear myself telling Jamie that Paul was too blue collar for me and see her rolling her eyes. He seemed like a nice enough guy. It was too soon to judge.
“I just, you know, like to write. So, you want to go?”
“Sure, it sounds terrific. I’ll pick you up.”
“Why don’t we just meet there?” I didn’t really want him to see my apartment, even though he already had. I gave him the address.
“A modern woman,” he said. “I like it. I’ll meet you there.”
After we said goodbye, I lay back in bed. This day had been just too bizarre. I had had an orderly life, and all of a sudden there were blasts from the past and hot new (perhaps too-blue-collar) strangers. I wasn’t sure I could keep up with this new pace.
My day of rest didn’t go as well as I had hoped it would. For one thing, it’s hard to rest when you can’t stop thinking about the thighs of a really hot man you are going on a date with the following day. The other reason was that I had Maureen Soltero up my butt.
“You need to get back in the game, my dear. I know it’s heartbreaking, but this town is all about movement and if you don’t want to lose out, you got to be in. I have to show the place near Union Square and I have an absolutely charming steal on Mulberry Street. I know you’re not into that neighborhood, but it’s totally in your price range. It just needs a little TLC.”
I didn’t even know why I’d answered the phone. The caller ID was on the living room phone and I was too lazy to check it. Maybe I had been hoping that Jamie would call so I could tell her my Paul news and have her convince me not to cancel, which I kind of thought I should. Maybe I’d answered the phone because I kept expecting Paul to cancel. But all five of the calls I got were from Maureen, imploring me to meet her the following day to scout some places. On the last call I was losing patience.
“I don’t want to live that far downtown.”
“Do you have a boyfriend, Voula?”
“What?” I asked, defensively. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just wanted to make an analogy about being picky with men and picky with apartments. It works on a lot of my clients in your situation.”
“Are you using a line on me, Maureen? My ‘situation’?” I asked. I didn’t even want to know what she was getting at. “This isn’t a pickup bar. I don’t need analogies or whatever. I’ll go see the stupid apartment.”
“Terrific, I’ll e-mail you the info tomorrow and see you at three.” She hung up before I could change my mind.
That night, Kelly stood at my doorway with a brand-new haircut. She modeled it for me and I whistled.
“If you can’t change your life, change your hair,” she said.
“I should think about that.”
She looked at my sweats and T-shirt. “Are you feeling okay? Have you left the apartment today?”
“Not exactly. It’s a little ritual I like to do someti
mes.” As the ritual was being cut short by my date and my apartment search, I didn’t bother to explain.
“It’s too hot in here,” Kelly whined. “Do you want to go check out a Latin band with me? They’re playing at the Knitting Factory. I bet it will be cooler than this oven.”
Two hours later, I was downtown in a sweaty standing-room-only club watching five guys in multicolored suits play music like I’d never heard music played before. In spite of the heat, Kelly danced like mad. I stood at the bar watching her shoulder blades move to the rhythm as guys tried to whisper lines in her ear. She was oblivious to them and just kept bouncing. I had never been much of a dancer. Jamie would be the one with the beer over her head, howling with energy whenever we went out. I was with a different friend, but still in the same lame position.
Kelly came over to the bar to get some water. I saw men turn and follow her with their eyes. Sure, she had a great body and was working her new haircut, but there was something else about her that made her desirable: she just didn’t seem to care.
“What do you think?” she asked as she rubbed an ice cube over her neck.
“They’re awesome.”
“Do you want to dance?”
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“It’s not a contest,” she said. “C’mon.” She took my hand and pulled me onto the floor with her.
I danced for a while. I tried not to think about what I looked like. I just listened to the music and moved along to it. Every once in a while I clapped and gave Kelly a reassuring smile. I felt like I was the little sister she was stuck with, but Kelly acted genuinely happy to have me out with her.
After two encores, the lights came up in the club. My ears were ringing, my feet hurt and I was dripping with sweat. It was the best time I’d had in forever. I didn’t even feel drunk, even though Kelly had kept handing me beers throughout the performance.
“Another drink?” she asked. Her haircut accentuated her wicked smile.
“Okay, one more,” I agreed.
We sat at the bar and chilled out for a while. She told me that the smoking ban was helping her quit, but that Mr. Audio was making her crave cigarettes all the time.
“But I’m all done with him. I know he doesn’t like women with short hair, so this will keep him away.”