Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “You are not stupid, Jordan. And I do love you for who you are.”

  “Yeah, right. You want Little Miss Organized. Just like Mom wanted me to be Little Miss Feminist.”

  “Jordan. That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? Didn’t you dress me up in perfect doll clothes when I was little and curl my hair? And when did Mom brag about me to her friends? When I chained myself to the cafeteria door to protest pay discrepancies between male and female employees.”

  I remembered Mother having to go to Jordan’s school to pick her up. “Jordan, Jordan, Jordan,” she had lamented. But that night over martinis, she crowed to her friends about what little Jordan had done. “One of these days she’ll be running for president of NOW. Hell, she’ll probably run for president!”

  “Admit it, Emily,” Jordan continued, her voice growing strained, “you wanting me to be organized isn’t for my own good. It makes it easier for you.”

  “If I drive you so crazy, Jordan, then why are you still here? Why did you want me to publish your book?”

  She scoffed. “Who knows? Obviously I was insane.”

  “That’s it? You’ve got to be insane to be around me?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She tried to get past me, but I caught her arm. “Why, Jordan? Why did you really come back? Why, really?”

  Blood rushed into her face, her jaw suddenly clenching.

  “No reason, Emily,” she bit out.

  She tried to pull away but I held firm. “Damn it, Jordan, why—”

  “Because I needed to make sure you still loved me, okay?”

  We stood inches apart in the dimly lit hallway, the anger seeping out of her. Then she hesitated in a way that wasn’t like my sister at all. There it was again, the uncertainty, the vulnerability.

  “Damn it, Em, I was a jerk to you on the phone when you told me you were afraid Sandy was having an affair. I know I totally don’t deserve it, but I needed to make sure I still had family.”

  I tried to understand. “Jordan, of course you always have me. Plus regardless of what has happened in the past, you have your father and his family.”

  “Yeah. His family. Not mine.” She bit her lip. “When I got back to town, I actually went out to Long Island first. I thought I could spend time with him, and you, sort of go back and forth. So I showed up there first. He and his wife stood there in that cramped foyer stuffed with all the crap she thinks makes her look classy, asking me how long I planned to stay before I even set my backpack down. When I said it might be a little while, his wife got all huffy and walked away. And you know what my dad said?”

  I hurt for her before she even said the words.

  “ ‘Jordan, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here. You’re not the best influence on my children.’ ”

  Jordan dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “His children. Like I wasn’t one of them.” She dropped her head back and groaned. “I’m twenty-two but I feel like I’m still fifteen.

  “I know you love me, Emily, just like my dad probably loves me in his own way, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get tired of me, just like my dad has, just like Serge did. But I don’t know how to be any other way than this. Crazy Jordan.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I came here and messed everything up. But if I don’t have you, if you stop loving me, then I’m completely alone.”

  All the pieces finally came together. The heart she lost to a guy, the job she lost because of that guy, then the father she lost because he moved on without her. Our mother had left us, two girls without family, though again and again we failed to connect with each other.

  “Oh, Jordan.” I took her in my arms and held her close. “I do love you.”

  She held on tight like she was afraid to let go.

  The day I read her book proposal I had realized for the first time that her life hadn’t been any easier than mine. But I hadn’t taken it to heart, not really. I had read the words, felt the emotions, but my core belief about my sister hadn’t shifted. Standing there now in the face of her vulnerability, I realized that her life had probably been even harder than mine. She had only been eighteen when our mother died, young and scared. And I hadn’t been there for her, not really. I had been too busy falling in love with Sandy in order to get away from my own pain.

  “You don’t want to be here, do you?” I said. “You don’t want to be an author.”

  “No. I don’t. But after losing my job, then the whole guy screwup, I tried to figure out what I could do. I’d been thinking about Mom and writing stuff down. Then I got here and I really didn’t want to ask for money, not again. That’s when it hit me. A book about Mom would pay. Writing could be my job. Plus it would be something cool we could do together. Maybe it would make us close. Maybe something good could come out of my screwup.”

  I cupped her face and smiled at her. “I love you for that. But you don’t have to stay here for me to love you. I love you no matter where you are. And no matter where I am, you always have a home with me.”

  Jordan buried her head in my shoulder. “Then you don’t care about the book,” she whispered, her tone hopeful.

  “Unfortunately, I do care about the book. You promised to write it. Finish it, Jordan, and I’ll help you in any way I can. I’ll even buy you a plane ticket so you can fly wherever you want to go when you’re finished.”

  Jordan straightened and stared at me for a long time.

  “I love you, Emily.”

  “I love you too.”

  einstein

  chapter thirty-four

  Give me a break.

  I had never seen such sentimental crap in all my life.

  “I love you, Emily.”

  “I love you too.”

  I wanted to projectile vomit every scavenged tart and cream puff right into their tearstained faces.

  Emily went to one bedroom, Jordan to another. Each closed the door, and almost simultaneously I heard the showers come on. Not even the smell of strawberry shampoo consoled me. I was furious. I felt cheated. But what was I going to do about it?

  My wife had slept with another man. I had figured that out before she ever snuck back into the apartment. The smell of that boy Max on her only confirmed what deep down I already knew. But more than that, there was the whole Emily living my life situation—and based on the savings account register she had gone through my stash of money like a Saudi Arabian princess. She was over me and living the high life with my money.

  My anger grew, every ounce of the old Sandy Portman resurfacing. Right then I hated Emily. As a man I had gotten frustrated with her, bored even. But I had never hated her.

  Every ounce of growth I had achieved disappeared like dog piss in a New York City street drain. I didn’t care that I was being crass. I didn’t care that I wished my wife ill. Nor did I try to have better thoughts. I all but prayed that something horrible would happen to make Emily’s life come unhinged.

  When I felt the sharp stabbing pain between my eyes, I ignored it. “Give me your best shot, old man,” I taunted, enough adrenaline coursing through my body to counter the pain.

  The water turned off in Jordan’s bedroom sooner than in Emily’s. No surprise that Jordan was well into drying off when Emily hadn’t gotten much further along than soaping up. What was a surprise was that only a few minutes after that, Jordan cracked open her door, listened for a second, then stepped out.

  Her hair was still wet, but she was dressed. She carried her duffel bag at her side, backpack strapped on.

  Jordan was leaving. For good.

  Interesting.

  When she saw me she motioned for me to be quiet. In the last few weeks I might have softened toward her, but all that was gone too. I had no intention of keeping her from leaving. Had I been able, I would have carried her bags to the curb.

  When she was certain Emily was well occupied, Jordan headed for the front door, stopping at the credenza in the gallery. She gl
anced back one last time, and I was surprised to see the wistful look on her face.

  She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket, set it on the table.

  “Bye,” she whispered to me, or to the apartment, or to Emily in her own bedroom.

  I had no idea what the note said, and since there were no chairs on which to crawl up to gain access, I had to content myself with waiting.

  Part of me thought about ignoring the note, thereby ensuring Jordan’s clean escape. But the other part of me knew the note would decimate my wife, whatever it said, since it was clear even to me that Jordan was hightailing it out of town without finishing the book. Since I had no ability to punish Emily on my own, I was more than a little pleased that I was getting my wish, even if it was by way of my sister-in-law.

  I barked until Emily emerged, pulling on a robe. When she saw me sitting in the gallery she stopped.

  “What it is, E? Do you need to go out? Are you hungry?”

  At the simple word hungry, my baser instincts leaped to the forefront. I started salivating and it was all I could do not to bolt for the kitchen. But I’d had enough of Emily and Einstein and the old man and whoever else was wreaking havoc on my life. I forced myself to stay put and barked again.

  “E?”

  When I didn’t move, Emily came down the hall toward me.

  “Are you all right?” She glanced around for the leash—then saw the note on the table.

  Her own baser instinct of fight or flight flooded her body; I could smell it. Her hand trembled as she picked up the piece of notebook paper Jordan had left and read it out loud, her voice strangled.

  Dear Emily,

  Sorry. You were right. I am irresponsible. And I can’t write the book. Not that I think it shouldn’t be written, just that I haven’t the first damn clue how to do it. The beginning was easy, so I thought the rest would be easy too. But no. I hated every second of it. Despite what I told you, everything I have written since the beginning sucks. And believe me, I’ve tried. I have written and rewritten, but none of it makes any sense.

  I’m headed back to South America. Whatever mistakes I made at Homes for Women Heroes notwithstanding, I’m good in that world, helping. For good or for bad, that’s who I am.

  I hope you can forgive me because no matter what you think of me, I love you.

  Stay cool,

  Jordan

  A deep keening moan slowly surfaced. “No, no, no,” Emily said, the note dropping from her fingers.

  She raced back down the hall to the guest room. “Jordan?”

  Of course there was no response.

  “Jordan!”

  It was like a cry from a bad movie. Not that I cared. Triumphant, I turned my back on my wife and walked out the door.

  chapter thirty-five

  I had to love the girl’s tactics, if not the girl.

  But my spurt of pleasure over this new development dissipated the next morning when the phone started ringing. Not that anyone bothered to answer. They left messages. That twit Max. Tatiana. Birdie. But Max was the most persistent, even knocking on the door several times.

  Then there was my mother, and my lawyer, returning with a vengeance, just as I suspected they would, leaving messages with increased urgency.

  My adrenaline was still there fighting off the fading, but it was weakening in the face of the growing pain between my eyes. But still I was too caught up in my own shallow pettiness to care.

  I made my way to the kitchen. Emily sat at the table, one of the Julia Child–inspired creations of butter, sugar, and cream she hadn’t eaten in so long sitting in front of her. She was falling back into her old ways. Good.

  My guess was that she would stop running, forget to go to work, get fat, and then Max wouldn’t give her the time of day. Even better.

  Beyond that, she would either cancel her slot in the marathon or just not show up. Either approach was fine with me.

  The answering machine beeped. I heard my own voice, which never failed to surprise me, the sound so human, so rich and full of life. Then my lawyer. Again.

  “Ms. Barlow, really. This is unacceptable. No one wants to throw you out on the street. But if you don’t return my call, I’m afraid we are going to have to resort to extreme measures.”

  The next call came from Tatiana.

  “Emily? Pick up. I’ve called your cell a hundred times. We need to talk.”

  Pause.

  Emily didn’t move to answer.

  “Emily,” she added with an impatient sigh. But she didn’t say anything else. She hung up.

  “What am I going to do now?” Emily said, more a whisper to the cake she hadn’t yet touched than any attempt to talk to me.

  Unfortunately for both of us, I had to go out.

  With some effort, I made this clear to Emily. My wife groaned, then got the leash. In the hallway, she glanced around before we made a run for it.

  Outside, she stood at the curb, staring at the cars that went by without seeing. When I finished my business we headed back to the building.

  My vivid imagination flared when a strange man called out to Emily just as we entered the porte cochere; I knew something was up. I sniffed the air for the smell of a gun. What I smelled was indeed something metallic and what I suspected was a firearm.

  “Emily Barlow Portman?” the man said.

  Emily looked confused. “Yes?” she said.

  The man pulled out some sort of badge. I barely made out the word MARSHAL on it. After the flash of his badge, he extended an official-looking envelope. As was most anyone’s natural instinct, Emily reached for it.

  “You have now been officially served Notice of Eviction.”

  Emily stiffened as she quickly scanned the contents. When she lifted her head, the marshal was already gone.

  “We’re being evicted,” she said to me, her voice devoid of emotion. “We have until the first week of November to move out or we’ll be forcibly removed from the premises. The complaint is filed by the Portman Family Trust.”

  She stared at the pages as if she couldn’t believe it.

  Believe it, I wanted to shout.

  I felt the old feelings of superiority stir inside of me, feelings I clutched at like finding an old familiar blanket that made me feel safe. Whatever motivation there had been to be good, more charitable, vanished, and with that the last of my adrenaline evaporated.

  Which is when the real change began.

  The new sensation was different. Not the stabbing pain, dizzy feeling, or even my memory growing dim. It was beyond a physical shift. I realized with a start of surprise that the essence of me, the Sandy me, was being erased.

  What amazes me, even now as I remember back on it, is that I was so small and petty that in that moment I still didn’t care. As the world around me began to lose its crispness, scents diminishing, sounds muffled, all I cared about was that while I might have been swirling around the drain, I had every intention of taking Emily down with me.

  emily

  For years I believed my mother wore a suit of armor. As I got older I began to see a chink in the molded steel. My mother’s dream was to be great, to make a difference. When I was growing up I assumed she had achieved both. Now, years after her death, I wonder if she believed she accomplished either. And I have to ask: Did she push me to pursue greatness primarily because of her own unfulfilled need to be remembered for her own accomplishments?

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter thirty-six

  The sound of my BlackBerry alternately ringing and buzzing woke me from a deep sleep. It was Monday morning, four days after my party. I felt as if a semi truck had run me down, a feeling no doubt caused by the sheer number of phone calls and e-mails I had been avoiding since Jordan departed. I still hadn’t come up with a way to tell Tatiana that there would be no book.

  I groped around in my satchel for the wireless device. Scrolling through the messages I saw several from the publisher.

  From: Na
te.Clarkson@caldecotepress.com

  To: Emily.Barlow@caldecotepress.com

  CC: Tatiana.Harriman@caldecotepress.com

  Subject: Emergency

  Emily:

  It has come to my attention that there is a problem with the manuscript of My Mother’s Daughter. Please see me in my office as soon as you get in.

  Nate

  Damn. Was it possible that Nate already knew Jordan had fled without finishing the book? Did Tatiana already know?

  No way.

  I calmed myself. Perhaps they were just trying to get ahold of me in order to tell me that the book had to be pushed back, or better yet, pulled altogether. I couldn’t imagine that was what Nate wanted to tell me, but that didn’t stop me from sending up a silent prayer.

  An hour later I strode through security and went straight to Nate’s office.

  “You wanted to see me,” I said, trying to act casual.

  But whatever calm I had managed to drum up disappeared when I realized Nate wasn’t alone. Tatiana stood at the window, her jaw clenched with anger. Victoria sat in one of the leather side chairs looking smug. She held up a partial manuscript with one hand. The pages flapped as she shook it.

  “You call this a book?” she said to me. “This is fifty pages of garbage.”

  “Victoria,” Tatiana snapped.

  “I’m just saying, it’s a mess.”

  Tatiana turned that glacial stare on me.

  “How did this happen?” she asked.

  I marshaled my thoughts. “I’d appreciate it if someone would explain what’s going on.”

  “The manuscript that was due last Friday is a disaster,” Nate said. “Many of the pages are barely coherent. Though that’s the least of our concerns. Bad pages can be fixed. The missing part of the book is the bigger problem.”

  “How did you get that?” I asked, my tone careful.

  Tatiana glanced over at Victoria, who went red.

  “You said it had been turned in,” Tatiana stated.