“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, it’s cool. I’m glad to see you guys. Make all the noise you want. I can sleep through anything.”
That wasn’t why I was sorry, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Go take a nap. Dinner won’t be ready for a while. Maybe then you’ll feel better, and you can join us,” Morgan said.
“Doctor’s orders?” Roberto teased.
Morgan looked down at her outfit and said, “I need to change.”
“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for months,” I joked.
“Stick that in the oven and bake it for forty-five minutes,” she ordered. When I picked up the pan, she added, “I was talking about your head.”
Roberto looked better after his nap. The three of us had just settled around the table in the living room with the lasagna, the reheated Mirones food, and a bottle of Morgan’s wine when we heard the door open, then a flurry of footsteps in the dark hall. Kendra stopped short in the doorway, stifling a scream when she saw us.
“She says they’re harmless,” I said, gesturing toward Lucifer and Hugsie, who were winding their way around the TV, which was off.
“They’re not—you’re not—what are you doing here?” Kendra demanded.
“Eating,” Morgan said. She got to her feet, grabbed the snakes, and disappeared into their bedroom.
Kendra still hadn’t moved when Morgan came back with another plate and silverware, so Roberto said, “We have a boatload of food. But you probably already ate with your family. Did you get there in time to make the salad?”
Kendra stared at the food. I could have sworn she was salivating. “Oh, come on,” I said. “Eat. We know you didn’t go home. We all got busted today.”
“I went to the Bronx,” Roberto protested.
“You went there long enough to pick up food,” I said. “Morgan—well, never mind what Morgan was doing.”
“They both know,” Morgan said, spooning lasagna onto her plate.
“Know what?”
“They know where I moonlight.”
“Everybody knew but me?” I asked, giving Roberto a dirty look.
“That’s where I met her,” Kendra said. She took off her coat and flopped down between Roberto and me. “I used to work there, too.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. With your excellent housekeeping skills, you were the Rubber Room’s French maid.”
“Rubber Right,” everyone corrected me in unison, and Kendra added, “I was more the literary one of the bunch.”
“You were a teacher? A nun with a ruler? A schoolgirl in uniform?” I speculated.
“Little Red Riding Hood. Heidi. Bo Peep. Goldilocks. I got my best sales as Puss in Boots.”
“And then she got fired as Tinklebell,” Morgan said.
“It’s Tinkerbell,” I said.
“Not for Mr. Pee-On-Me, it wasn’t.”
“I thought you were just selling the stuff,” I said.
“We were,” Kendra said, frowning as she picked cucumbers out of her salad. “He wanted more. When I turned him down, he threw a fit, accused me of a bunch of stuff, and I got fired.” I stared at her so long that she shifted uncomfortably and said, “What?”
“I think that may be the first time I’ve heard the end of one of your stories. And it sounds like one of mine.”
“So now you know our big secrets,” Morgan said. “Let’s move on.”
“I don’t think working at a fetish shop is the biggest secret at this table,” I disagreed.
Before Morgan could respond, Kendra shrieked, “Okay! I lied! I don’t have a family to go home to. My parents got divorced when I was a little kid. My grandmother owns a horse farm in Kentucky. She paid my mother to move back to Trenton with me and stay away. My father got remarried to some Louisville debutante and they have three perfect blond daughters. My mother and her boyfriend usually start drinking early on holidays and they’re passed out by dark. Now you know. Happy?”
We all gaped at her. I finally said, “Is that where you got the money to pay me back? From your father?”
“My grandmother,” Kendra said. “All I have to do is threaten to come for a visit and she’ll wire me money. I must not be allowed to ruin the guhls’ opportunities.”
“So your pot-smoking granny—that must be your mother’s mother?” I asked.
“No. It’s the one in Kentucky,” Kendra said.
“Have you ever met your sisters?” Roberto asked.
“A few years ago. They’re actually kind of sweet,” Kendra admitted. “There’s just no place for me in that world. Unlike the rest of you, I don’t have a family to go home to.”
“Am I not sitting here with you?” I asked. “It was just like Roberto said. I couldn’t deal with my family, so I canceled my trip.”
“At least you tell the truth about yourself to your family,” Roberto said. “All I do is dodge questions from my brothers. ‘When you gonna bring a girl home?’ ‘When you gonna get married?’ Or my mother. ‘When you gonna find a nice girl and make a nieto to call me abuela?’ ‘I’m only nineteen,’ I say. ‘You too ashamed to bring a girl here?’ she asks. My family gives new meaning to the Spanish Inquisition.”
“You should take Adalla to meet your mother,” Kendra said. “She comes with a baby already.”
“She’s met Adalla, and I’m not making up shit about a girlfriend. But I can’t tell her the truth.” When nobody said anything, he went on. “It would kill her to find out I’m HIV-positive. And JC would kill me long before I ever get sick with AIDS.”
“Ohhhhh,” Kendra said in a long moan and dropped her head.
Roberto met my eyes, then looked at Morgan, who reached over, thumped his arm with her fingers, and said, “Nice try. I’m not getting back in the nurse’s uniform for you.”
He laughed, and Morgan looked almost coquettish as she smiled at him. It scared me, but fortunately she immediately turned to me with her usual deadpan expression and said, “I didn’t know Thanksgiving was a day of confession. Must be some church I never heard of. Fine. Bailey’s my twin.”
“See, now I don’t believe you,” I complained. “You’re humoring me. I’m starting to think you’re my imaginary friends. You’re each a projection of my own fucked-up life. Roberto has a secret from his family and no kids in his future. Kendra has a family that throws money at her to keep her away. Now you have an estranged twin.”
“I never said we were estranged,” Morgan said. “Bailey and I get along fine. We’re just totally different people who live separate lives.”
“You’re not that different,” I disagreed. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known you were sisters. Chuck and I have similarities, too, like anybody who grows up in the same house.”
“That’s just it. We didn’t grow up in the same house.”
“I read a good mystery about twins who were separated at birth,” Kendra said.
“We weren’t,” Morgan said. “God. You people have been nosing around my private life for months, and now I can’t get a word in edgewise.” She paused. When none of us mouthed off, she said, “When we were two, our mother had a fling with a musician. Yes, you would recognize his name. No, I’m not telling you. She ended up moving into his castle in”—she paused for a beat—“an undisclosed European country. At first, she had us with her. But I got asthma and it was decided that a drafty castle wasn’t a good environment for a toddler with respiratory problems. So they split us up. I was raised in a farmhouse in Connecticut. Bailey grew up surrounded by rock stars.”
“I thought she just slept with them,” I said.
“It’s like Parent Trap,” Kendra said.
“Without the Disney ending. When we got older, they threw us together at holidays, but we had nothing in common. We didn’t fight. We just didn’t get all gushy about it. If we met each other any other way, we’d never be pals. Why should we pretend to be just because we’re twins?” She noticed Roberto’s frown and said, “You get it, don’t
you, Nick?”
“I guess,” I said, not sure that I did.
“Don’t you have any good memories of your siblings? Either of you?” Roberto asked.
Morgan’s dark eyes got even smaller, which seemed almost like a smile. “It’s fine, Roberto,” she said. “There’s nothing missing from my life. I probably had it lots better than Bailey, because our mother’s so self-absorbed. I got along fine with my father and my stepmother. I also stopped having breathing problems after I moved back to Connecticut.”
Roberto looked at me, and I did a desperate scan of my memories to find something for him.
“Sure I do. Like when my dad taught Tony to shave. Chuck and I sat on the edge of the tub and watched them. My dad put shaving cream on us, too, and we pretend-shaved.” It was a lame effort, and Roberto didn’t look impressed. “Saturday nights were okay, too, at least before we were teenagers. We played games. Shared popcorn my mom made.”
“Microwave or regular?” Roberto asked.
“Real popcorn,” I said.
“Did you ever have a Jiffy Pop accident?” Kendra asked. When we shook our heads, she said, “I wonder if my life would have been better with a twin.” She looked confused when Roberto and I started laughing. Morgan sighed and took her empty plate to the kitchen for seconds.
Later, Kendra vanished when it was time to wash dishes. Roberto and Morgan swore I was getting in their way on purpose and kicked me out of the kitchen. I fell across the futon, realizing how many hours I’d been awake, and thought about what was going on at home. My grandparents would be gone by now. My mother was probably disappointed in me for not showing up. She’d have opened a second bottle of wine and would be staring from the kitchen window. I wasn’t sure how much snow they’d gotten, if any, but it probably still looked bleak outside. That would make her mood worse.
Tony was either planted in front of the TV watching a game or getting ready for a date. And Chuck…
My day with my roommates had turned out better than okay, so there was no reason for me to feel depressed. Maybe it was Chuck who was sad.
“Suck it up and just do it,” I muttered and reached for my cell phone to call him. As I flipped it open, it rang. I looked at the display: CHUCK/CELL. Morgan could deny it all she wanted; there was something to the twin thing. I braced myself to hear how I’d fucked up the Dunhill Thanksgiving and said, “Hello?”
“When we were seven,” Chuck said, “what was that kid’s name that stole your bike?”
I thought for a few seconds and said, “Joey?”
“Yeah. Joey. He was an asshole,” Chuck said.
“I wonder whatever happened to him,” I mused.
“I killed him,” Chuck answered in a monotone voice.
I laughed and said, “You sound just like that movie—”
“With the dog who says he’s going to kill his father,” Chuck said.
“What was the name of that movie?” I asked and settled against the pillows. It was the best position for the trip I was taking to Wisconsin, with no help from Northwest Airlines or Samir Singh.
November 27, 2003
Dear Nick,
I warn you in advance that this letter may be emotional. I’m not feeling like my usual give-’em-hell-attorney self. It’s Thanksgiving night at Happy Hollow. We put together a feast today. Emily has been well spoiled. Now everyone is tucked in, dreaming their dreams. I can’t sleep, so I came downstairs and stirred up the fire a little.
Holidays stay hard, but Thanksgiving is like none other. Anyone who knew her would say this is the holiday when Gretchen went all out. It still stuns me that I had only one Thanksgiving with her, and you had none. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. We were supposed to have years and years to be part of traditions with her.
Today, we remembered a tradition of Gretchen’s and told one thing each of us is grateful for. But really, for me, there are too many to name just one. What I’ve lost, what we’ve all lost, is beyond measure. But so is what remains. How can love and friendship and laughter and family be measured? They sustain us, lift us up, and help us go on.
When I looked around today, I felt a different absence. The absence of Nick. You were the most amazing person in those months after Gretchen’s death, especially the way you took care of Emily. We all could deal with the things we had to take care of knowing she was safe with you. There was so much to do that it might have been impossible for Blaine, Daniel, Kruger, and me to find any time to be still and grieve. You helped give us that time. Thank you.
I worry about you. Maybe because so much time has slipped by without seeing you. I hear from other people that you’re doing well. I want to think that this past year has been you giving yourself the space YOU needed to grieve and heal.
I would love to get together. I want Emily to see you. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to remind you that you’re loved and we’re very thankful that you’re part of our lives.
Much love,
Gwendy
16
Happiness Is an Option
If Quentin Starch hadn’t been a little bit crazy, I would never have made the discovery that left me reeling. Isaiah and I had a few deliveries on the Monday morning after Thanksgiving, and then I was scheduled to work in the office. Last I’d heard, I was supposed to help Nigel put together some drawings for a client. I didn’t have any more details than that.
However, when I walked through the door, Eileen looked frazzled. I paused with my apple juice halfway to my mouth. When I saw her take a knitting needle from her hair and try to write with it, I wanted to run back to Isaiah. Nothing fazed Eileen, so her disarray promised a bad day in the office.
“Help,” she said the second she spotted me. “I can’t do this search and keep up with the phones and everything else. Especially not when I started my day with two bran muffins and a glass of prune—”
“Oversharing.” I cut her off. “What search? A computer search?”
She explained. Quentin Starch, a major client, had heard a theory: Don’t buy cars built on Monday or Friday. Allegedly, employees did sloppy work on those days because they were recovering from one weekend or eager to start another one.
“Mr. Starch has extended this theory to the purchase of anything mechanical, including the Organique Kitchen food processor that Bailey”—Eileen’s voice became acid when she said Bailey’s name—“has insisted that Mr. Starch have in his newly remodeled kitchen.”
“You’re trying to find a food processor that was manufactured in the middle of the week?” I asked.
Eileen nodded and said, “If you can believe it, this information is actually available. Because every Organique Kitchen appliance is treated like something rare and wonderful. At their prices, they should be. There are eight Organique Kitchen stores in Manhattan. I’ve called all of them. Although everyone I talked to was insulted by the implication that any of their food processors aren’t flawless, they did give me the manufacturing information.”
“So what’s the problem? I can just pick up—”
“Every food processor in stock has a Monday or Friday date on it,” Eileen said. “Which Mr. Starch will know, because each one comes with a—a—birth certificate, you might call it.”
“Should I call stores in other cities to find a Wednesday baby?”
“Mr. Starch is giving a dinner party tomorrow night. He needs his food processor today.” She gave me an apologetic look and said, “There are over two hundred other stores in Manhattan that carry Organique Kitchen’s small appliances.”
“How many have you talked to?” I asked apprehensively.
She scratched her scalp with the knitting needle and said, “Eleven. All painful. No one can believe I expect them to find this information. In fact, they’re a little surly when I tell them why I’m calling.”
“See? Mr. Starch is right. Employees suck on Mondays. Other than me.” I took the list from her and studied it for a minute, trying to find stores near the office.
“You can use the guest office,” Eileen said. “And close the door. I don’t want to hear you whimpering after every call.”
I went into the guest office, which was really nothing more than a closet with a chair, table, and phone. After I took off my coat and finished my apple juice, I ran my finger down the list of stores. Vance Kitchen and Bath on Fourteenth Street caught my eye. I thought about third-period English class in ninth grade, when our teacher, Mr. Vance, thundered at Shelley Creighton, “You don’t think poetry is important? I’ll only go to a doctor who understands poetry. If a surgeon doesn’t read, I don’t want him cutting me open! People who don’t appreciate literature have no souls!”
I dialed the store’s number.
“Good afternoon, Vance Kitchen and Bath, this is Anita. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Anita, this is Nick. By any chance do you have an employee in your store who loves poetry?”
Anita didn’t miss a beat, saying, “Howard likes to recite dirty limericks. Does that count?”
“Maybe. May I speak to Howard?” After a few seconds of bad hold music, a man came on the line and identified himself as Howard. I gave him my name and said, “I hear you appreciate poetry.”
“Okay,” Howard said. He drew the word out to let me know he was mystified but not yet offended.
“I’m trying to locate something for a man who finds a certain poetry in kitchen appliances,” I said. “He wants an Organique Kitchen food processor, but it has to have been assembled on a Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I’m told that information is available with every—”
“He’s heard about hungover plant workers, huh?” Howard interrupted. “Let me check the computer.”
A few minutes later, I emerged from the guest office, waved a sheet of paper at Eileen, and said, “Got it.” Her mouth dropped open. “Of course, I can’t actually pick it up, since I don’t have a corporate credit card.”
“Go, go!” she said, reaching inside her knitting bag for a handful of twenties to thrust at me. “This should cover it. Just be sure I get a receipt.”
When You Don't See Me Page 25