“Usual color?” one asks, reaching for the sheer shade I tend to favor for its “subtlety,” meaning that my manicure can last for two to three weeks if no one looks too closely.
The array of colors entices me as much as if I were Zoë in a candy store. Everything looks appealing. “No…” I say hesitantly, second-guessing myself. “Tonight’s a special night. A big change. So I want something different.” I opt for a bright spring-y pink. A real bubblegum hue.
By the time the manicurist is finished with my nails, I have less than ten minutes to spare before I need to return to the yoga studio. “You want Quick Dry?” she asks me. I agree that I’d better go for it, because I don’t have the time to sit under the air dryer. “Dollar fifty,” she says. Who knew they charged more for that? Since the stuff is called “Quick Dry” and not “Immediate Dry,” I point to my purse, asking her to fish out the wallet and remove the money.
Seven minutes. As I rush up the stairs, plastic dry-cleaning bag flapping in the breeze, I am assaulted by my own biology. Oh, no. No, it can’t be. It’s not due until Tuesday, I think. Four days early. It’s nerves. That’s what did it. I know I have nothing in my purse. And a quick fix in the ladies’ room won’t do the trick since my body has decided to entertain me with its impression of the Nile. Actually, the Nile flows up. Never mind.
I rush down the two narrow flights of stairs and dash back to the corner drugstore. As I dig for my wallet in order to pay for my purchase—fuck! There goes the fresh manicure. The nails on my right hand are a smudgy mess. Plus, there’s a bright pink smear along the inside of my pocketbook. Shit. Well, nothing I can do about it now. Or probably ever without ruining the bag.
Back up to the yoga studio and straight for the ladies’ room before I really mess up my clothes and embarrass the hell out of myself. I hang the dress inside the stall and take care of business.
I hear the door open, followed by the sound of voices. “When she was a stay-at-home, her daughter never acted that way. You know, she and Ashley are very close.” It’s Jennifer Silver-Katz. “Zoë was a much more cooperative child. Much better mannered. Even until a few months ago. But now that she’s working, I think Claire’s really lost touch with what’s going on with her daughter on a day-to-day basis.”
Oh, my God. She’s talking about me.
“I’m not entirely sure I agree with you, Jenny,” the other mom says. Her voice sounds familiar, which tells me Zoë must know her kid. “I’m a working mother. I’ve always worked and I don’t think Ben is any the worse for it. Being out in the world enables you to bring some of that world into the home. He’s certainly not going to get that from his father. From his father, he has a built-in rabbi to give him bar-mitzvah instruction when the time comes.”
I realize it’s Sarah Ephraim, whose son Ben was assaulted by Xander during musical chairs at Zoë’s birthday party. Ben’s the geeky kid whose bash was held at the planetarium last year.
“Leonard lives in such an insular world. It’s like a fishbowl. If I didn’t work outside the home, who else would there be to bring the secular world—outside of his classroom, I mean—into Ben’s life?”
“Of course I could never do it. It’s just not me. I wouldn’t feel right about it. My children need me; if you’re going to make the decision to be a mother, it’s self-centered to try to have a career. I used to work, of course, but that was before I married Aaron and had the girls. Nina Osborne and I were talking about that just the other day. In our household, my husband provides us with the lifestyle, I furnish the nurture, and Ashley’s teacher, Mrs. Hennepin, supplies the structure. She’s so good with structure. Ashley adores her. And Tennyson’s teacher, Mr. Clay, is a dream. But, Sarah, you have a better argument for the working mom than Claire Marsh does. You’re in advertising. You’re using your brain. Your job is rewarding, and you’ve got something to share. Claire’s a shopgirl. At a nonprofit, yet. So, you tell me how a working mother like that is able to give a developing child the attention she needs. What do you think of this lipstick? It’s the new Nars color.”
“I think it makes you look too old. If I were you, I’d ask for your twenty-five dollars back.”
A cell phone rings. Jennifer answers it. “Hi, Tenny, what’s up, sweetheart? What? I thought you said this morning you didn’t want to go! Yes, but don’t you have a test on Monday?……….….Sweetie? Don’t you have—…….….. I know, but I thought you have a test Monday. In health…….….….….. Do you have a health test Monday? Because if you’re not going this afternoon, you should be…Oh, I see. Yes. No. Oh, in science?? You have a science test?…….…I thought you had a health test…….…You have two tests Monday? Back to back? Then I think you had better get cracking, young lady. Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s what I said, Tennyson. Stay home and skip kick-boxing and study for the—…….….. You can spar with your sister later if you want to practice. Just don’t kick her in the head. You remember what happened last time….. Yes, I know, but you also have a little chest cold…….. No, I don’t think it’s so bad that you’ll be sick on Monday. I know where you’re going with that, Tenny. You can’t fool me. Sweetie, do you need help studying? No…No. No…No, I can’t sweetie. Mommy has a facial. She can’t help you today. No. No. I can’t change it. Tomorrow? Mrs. Osborne and I are playing tennis, sweetie. You know, Mommy needs some ‘me time,’ too. No. No….. No, what did I just say to you? I can’t help you when I get home. After I drop off your sister, I’ll need to run. What? Ask Maribelle. Maribelle. That’s one of the things we pay her for. I know you don’t know anything about photosynthesis, Tenny, but Mommy doesn’t either. Maribelle should be able to figure it out, and if she can’t, then go online to the teacher help site. It’s bookmarked. I’ll see you in half an hour. Love you! Bye.” I hear the phone snap shut and Jennifer sighs.
“And of course, you miss so much when you have a job,” she continues, without skipping a beat. “Claire wasn’t a working mom at the time, but she was in school when Zoë had most of her ‘firsts.’ She was much more hands-on between college and her divorce. But since Claire went to work, Zoë acts out much more when she’s on play dates. She doesn’t play nice sometimes. I hate to discipline someone else’s child, but honestly, half the time I feel like the kid’s surrogate mother. Claire is always asking me to do a favor here, a favor there.”
I’m in shock. I feel like I’ve just been slapped in the face. The heat and color rise in my cheeks as though the sting is actual. I unfurl some paper and dry my eyes.
I flush the toilet and unlock the door. Then I head straight for the sinks with my head held high. The room is as quiet as a mausoleum. No way for them to weasel out of anything I overheard. Still, I can’t look these women directly in the eye; I’m not that brave. I collect my dress from the stall and summon my courage. “You needn’t feel so put out in the future,” I tell Jennifer Silver-Katz. “Don’t worry; I won’t ask you for any more ‘favors.’”
Chapter 17
Bleh. The temperature in the room is over a hundred degrees. While the kids are storing their mats, Zoë’s yoga instructor Sarita, a slender honey blonde whose real name is Cameron, approaches me. She cocks her head as though she’s studying my features in order to paint a portrait. Then she takes both my hands, straightens up and looks deeply into my eyes. “Zoë seemed a little hostile today. Is everything all right at home?”
She continues to discuss Zoë’s behavior in her soft, good-karma voice, offering her suggestions for better-balanced chakras. I start to explain that what Zoë might be reacting to is that tonight I’m going out on my first real date since her dad and I divorced. However, I hasten to add, I thought she seemed to be taking it very well. Has been excited about it, in fact. Then I listen to myself for a moment. “Ummm, wait a minute,” I say to Sarita, feeling my heart quicken, my ire increase. “You see Zoë, what, once a week for forty-five minutes in a classroom context with twenty other children? And you presume to tell me how to parent?” She starts to reply, her mo
uth a big round O of surprise. “You know, I’ve think I’ve had enough of that already this morning, thank you very much.”
I collect Zoë, who has been talking to Ben. His mother gives me an uncomfortable look as we scoot past them.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” she asks, as we descend the stairs.
“No, sweetie. No, I’m not.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I know better than to ask her if I’m a good mommy. There’s only one answer I want to hear right now and I don’t want it either prefaced or followed by qualifications and caveats. “I’m just a little scared about tonight.”
“Is that what you’re going to wear?” she asks me, eyeing the dry-cleaned dress.
“Yes….” She doesn’t look too sold. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. It’s just boring. That’s all.”
In the past fifteen minutes or so, the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees. What began as a bright and sunny late winter Saturday is now damp, gloomy, and windy. “I’m cold,” Zoë says, after walking a couple of blocks. I can see her shivering. After sweating up a storm in that yoga class, and refusing to change clothes in the locker room, her exercise things must now feel cool and wet against her little body. I yank my sweatshirt over my head and put it on over her windbreaker. She looks a bit ridiculous because it fits her like a nightgown, but it’s the best way of keeping her warm right now.
“Aren’t you cold, now?” my little girl asks solicitously.
“I’m okay. We don’t have far to go anymore.”
“Your nails are smushy.”
“I know. Let’s hope Dennis doesn’t notice.”
“It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t think he cares about nail polish.”
“So, little miss fashion coordinator, you have a problem with my dress?”
Zoë wrinkles her nose. “It’s plain.”
I defend my wardrobe selection to a seven-year-old. “It’s simple, not plain. And black is considered very chic.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “But you look like a grown-up in it.”
“That’s the point. I am a grown-up, Zoë. What do you think I am?”
“I don’t like the black dress. You’ll look like Xander’s mommy. Old. You should wear a party dress. Something sparkly.”
I’m past explaining to a little girl with her head full of fairy princesses that something sparkly would be a bit over the top for a quiet dinner at a modestly priced local bistro, followed by a movie, if we can agree on one. Dennis doesn’t want to see a chick flick, despite my defending them as “date movies,” and I refuse to see anything where more footage is devoted to destroying property than to character development.
As soon as we walk in the door, I insist she get out of her damp, smelly yoga clothes and into a hot bath right away.
After lunch, she follows me into my bedroom brandishing her star-tipped wand. “I’m the Fairy Godmother and you’re Cinderella,” she announces, then insists on vetting every single thing I’m going to wear this evening. So, I agree to something more colorful than my original choice, and I also acquiesce to my daughter’s directive to wear a dress—“not pants!” But I found a rip in it, so I had to stitch it up. Then I had to hunt for more-or-less matching accessories, while Zoë, who seems to have tired of playing Carson Kressley, goes into her room to play.
It’s now after six. Dennis is supposed to be here in forty-five minutes. Our reservation is for 7 P.M.
I’m in the process of microwaving something for Zoë’s dinner so that Annabel doesn’t have to feed her, when she wanders into the kitchen. Her face is pale. She’s dripping with sweat.
“Mommy, I don’t feel so good.”
I kneel and hold her, touching my cheek to her forehead. She’s burning up. I hope she didn’t catch a chill on the way home from yoga this morning. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To take your temperature. Get into bed. I’ll be right in.” No need to panic—yet, I tell myself.
She’s running a 102-degree fever.
Now panic.
It’s six fifteen. I give her a spoonful of ElixSure, tuck her in, and call Annabel. She lives only a couple of blocks away, so she wouldn’t have left her house yet. “Zoë’s just come down with something,” I tell her. “So, obviously, since I’m not going anywhere tonight, I’ll have to cancel.” Annabel is very sweet about it. She sounds neither relieved nor put out by this news, which makes me feel confident that I can call on her again to request her baby-sitting services.
Oh, God, Dennis will be here any minute. I try to reach him, realizing that by now he’s left his apartment. I leave a regretful message on his answering machine, explaining the situation. I don’t know why I did. He’s in transit anyway. I call his cell phone, and get the voice mail feature. He’s probably down in the subway.
I cancel the dinner reservation, then unzip my dress and toss on a pair of jeans and a shirt. No point in staying all gussied up, particularly since Zoë can’t “decide” whether or not she “needs” to throw up.
Six thirty.
“Do you want me to fix you some soup, or do you want to go back to sleep?” I ask Zoë. “You should be able to keep down the broth.” She hasn’t eaten anything since lunch.
“Orange sherbet.”
“I don’t think we have any, sweetie. Do you have a second choice?”
“Orange sherbet,” she repeats, her voice at once stubborn, tired, and forlorn.
At 6:44, the doorman buzzes my apartment to see if he should send up Mr. McIntyre. Zoë and I spend the next thirty seconds arguing on whether she should go back to bed (my idea), or (hers) cling to my waist and greet Fireman Dennis at the front door. She gives her best imitation of some suction-cupped sea creature and I am unable to extricate her limbs from my person before the doorbell rings.
I swear to God, my heart really is fluttering. I’m excited that there are only a couple of inches of painted steel between us, yet I can’t remember if I’ve ever felt so nervous. I unlock the door. Dennis is dressed very nicely in slacks, polo shirt, and sportcoat, accessorized with a pretty bouquet. He assesses my outfit and his face falls a bit.
“I’m sorry…” I begin. I look down at my daughter. “Zoë developed a high fever.”
“Hi, Fireman Dennis!”
“Zoë, go back to bed now. You said hello. Mommy will be in, in a few minutes.”
Reluctantly, she shuffles off toward her room.
“Feel better, Zoë,” Dennis calls after her.
It’s so awkward. He’s standing there, sort of one foot over the threshold. “Please, come inside,” I offer. “I…um…I was dressed better than this a few minutes ago. You’ll just have to believe me.” Nervously, I rake my hand through my hair and Dennis presents me with the bouquet. I thank him, admire them, then inhale. Where did he find blossoms in New York City that are so fragrant? “Listen…I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to this. But when she’s running a fever…obviously, I can’t leave Zoë with a new sitter—with any sitter—just to go out and have fun. I don’t feel right about that kind of thing. I’m sure there are mothers who do it, but I’m afraid I’m not one of them.”
“Hey, there’s nothing to apologize for,” Dennis says. “I don’t know if…I don’t know how you feel about this, and it’s fine if you send me right home, and we’ll just do this another time…but, would you mind terribly if I stayed for a little while? Before I get back on the subway? I could go out and get a pizza or pick up some Chinese food, or we could order in…?” He leaves the proposal hanging.
“Just a minute,” I say, I holding up my index finger. I go into Zoë’s bedroom and ask her how she feels about my reconfigured date. She thinks it’s a fine idea—on two conditions. I return to the foyer where Dennis stands expectantly waiting.
I greet him with a smile. “For the price of one bedtime story of modest length with no skipping pages, and a pint of orange sherbet—not to be conf
used with sorbet, ice cream, gelato, or frozen yogurt—you’ve got yourself a date.”
“I’ll be back within a half hour,” he says. “And as long as I’m taking a field trip, what’s your preference—Chinese or pizza?” I present him with the take-out menus from the best local places. It takes us longer to agree on what to eat for dinner than it probably will take for the restaurant to cook it. I’m not too crazy about pepperoni; he doesn’t eat mushrooms. He loves Hunan and Szechuan—the hotter the better; I prefer the milder Cantonese and Mandarin dishes. And we know that our taste in movies diverges radically. It’s our first date without a crowd around and already we’re a Cole Porter song. If Dennis weren’t so handsome, kind, and charming, I’d be singing “Let’s call the whole thing off.”
“Half pepperoni and sausage, half mushroom,” he says, thrusting the hot, flat pizza box into my hands. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep the sherbet from melting while I carried this?”
“You poor baby,” I tsk-tsk.
“Not to mention how difficult it is to find sherbet in this neighborhood!” He hands me a bag containing the sherbet and some Coke.
“I didn’t send you off to capture the Golden Fleece, you know!”
“Okay, okay, you can stop giving me grief,” he says good-naturedly. He points to the pizza. “You might want to keep that in the oven—but take it out of the box—”
“Duh!”
“—while we take care of the sherbet and bedtime story issue,” he adds, cheerfully ignoring my editorial comment.
I follow his suggestion and spoon out some sherbet while he watches me, leaning against the kitchen counter like he’s as familiar with my apartment as any of my old friends—who I haven’t exactly had time to see in months, so maybe that’s a bad analogy. “Did I tell you about the time Zoë spent nearly a month refusing to eat any food that wasn’t orange?” I say, freezing the sherbet container.
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