A Window Opens: A Novel (34 page)

“Oh, I don’t think so. Nicholas is sorting out the estate. I think she’ll be fine.”

Matthew swiveled his chair back to face his computer monitor. “Well. If she’s looking for something to do, Starbucks is always hiring. Lots of retirees go that route.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

•  •  •

On the train home that night, I fell into such a deep sleep, I missed my stop. When I stumbled off in Upper Filament, bleary-eyed and disoriented, Susanna pulled up alongside me. “Hop in, I’ll take you home,” she said, lifting bags of takeout Chinese off the passenger seat. She cupped her hand around the back of my neck and we drove back to my house, listening to Norah Jones sing “Come Away with Me” on Lite FM. I made no attempt at conversation and that was okay.

Dear Alice,

You’ve been on my mind constantly since last week. On the way back into the city, the
You
girls and I were saying your dad must have been an
amazing man, considering how well you turned out. Will doesn’t seem so bad either; he’s definitely got that sage outdoorsman thing going on. And your mom! She had a million people to talk to, yet somehow found a chance to tell me the story of your parents’ engagement. I love that
she
was the one who popped the question.

I have no idea what you’re going through right now, but I’m certain the Pearses and the Bauers will carry you safely to the other side. I’m here, too; don’t forget.

Love to Nicholas and the menagerie,

Annika

I slowly closed the embossed card from my former boss at
You
, taking a moment to appreciate her artistic handwriting. It amazed me how some people knew exactly what to say.

I felt like I’d been in a holding pattern for so long, I needed to snap back into action with a vengeance. Unfortunately, the effort of doing so left me dizzy and disoriented. Also, the world looked monochromatic, as if a primary color were missing from the spectrum.

Now that the formal machinations of mourning were behind us, we had to navigate on our own.

T
he middle school principal was depending on me for Career Day, so I went. Even I was bored by my presentation, which focused heavily on Scroll’s pastries and cold-pressed juices. I still didn’t have the green light to let anyone know we would be selling video games; at least among tweens, I’m sure this news would have been warmly received. I talked about how I’d always loved to read, how I used to try to sell books to my own family, so the job at Scroll really was a dream come true. Yawns all around. One kid whipped a pick out of his back pocket and added some volume to his hair.

Finally, Margot’s section of the sixth grade filed in and filled the scuffed-looking desks and squeaky chairs. She gave me a halfhearted wave, which I returned just as halfheartedly, in an effort not to be too embarrassing. I was pleased to see Audrey in the mix—I had no idea that they were in the same social studies group. But Audrey didn’t say hi; she sank low into a seat at the back of the room between two girls who were clearly her acolytes. Oh, I thought. Audrey is the alpha girl! You’re never
too old to spot one. Her shirt slipped off her shoulders,
Flashdance
style, revealing a turquoise bra strap. That was new.

About halfway through my presentation, just as I was about to pass around a few incarnations of an updated Scroll logo so the kids could vote on the one they liked best, Audrey leaned toward her friend and lifted a hand to cup around her mouth. She whispered behind the hand, but her eyes told the full story: they were on Margot’s reddening neck, cruelly squinting. The girls in the back row snickered. Margot’s miserable eyes met mine.

That was all I needed to know about why I wasn’t welcome at the middle school. Of course I was mortifying and old and my job wasn’t all that exciting—those things are just a given when you’re the mom of an eleven-year-old girl. But who wants her mom to see her getting picked on by the girl who knows her best?

My heart broke for Margot.

N
icholas decided we should invest in new kitchen cabinets since our current ones were in danger of falling off the walls. He said, “We deserve a little pick-me-up after the past few months, don’t you think?”

I agreed reluctantly. I still wasn’t entirely comfortable with our financial situation, but we had received a modest inheritance from my dad. “He’d definitely want us to put the money into our house,” I offered, even though I knew this wasn’t true. My dad had strenuously objected to the purchase of a microwave; he certainly would have wanted us to keep our money in the bank.

Suddenly, we were looking at six-burner stoves, walnut floors, imported mosaic tile, and high-end light fixtures consisting of incandescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling on a piece of cloth-covered string.

“Huh,” said my mom, distractedly, when I showed her the printouts from Schoolhouse Electric. “Not much has changed since 1880.”

Our whole family crowded around the kitchen table to admire blueprints drawn up by a kitchen designer named Marjorie. We would have
skylights and high hats, wainscoting and crown molding. We would have one water spigot inside our refrigerator and another over our stove so we wouldn’t have to tax ourselves carrying heavy pots back from the sink. The pièce de résistance would be an island in the middle of the room, topped with a nine-foot, live-edged slab of reclaimed wood. (Reclaimed from where? And what was the alternative to a live edge?)

I added the price tag for all this opulence to my list of things to worry about in the middle of the night.

•  •  •

I was at Market Table in Greenwich Village with an agent named Lisa. We were getting to know each other over thimbles of watermelon gazpacho—a “gift” from the chef, delivered by an unctuous waiter who prefaced his recitation of specials by asking, “Any allergies, intolerances, or aversions?”

“Oh, God,” said Lisa. “Too many to list.”

I knew we’d get along.

“So how do you like working for Genevieve?”

“She has a really hard job, dealing with Cleveland. We used to be closer but . . . I’ll leave it at that.”

“When does Scroll open, anyway? We’re counting the days back at my office.”

“Actually, we haven’t nailed down a particular date yet, but soon. I hope.”

“Good, because I’m on the prowl for an old copy of
Middlemarch
for my husband. I’m hoping it will be the first of many purchases at Scroll.”

I smiled weakly, picturing the team of antiquarian book experts who had been hired to cart away all the first editions from the Sim. The bookshelves had been disassembled, too; we needed the space for flat-screen monitors and egg-shaped rubber chairs. The fate of our own dream books was unclear; I still had Virginia Woolf squirreled away above my desk.

Lisa went on, “So what’s it been like for
you
? I can’t imagine a more fun job.”

“It’s been exciting, I guess. I mean, there are some . . . changes afoot that I can’t talk about yet.”

“Well, I can’t wait to curl up on one of those recliners!”

Georgie:
“Are we going to see Pop soon? ”

Me:
“No, sweetie. Remember, he died?”

Georgie:
“Yeah, but I drew him a picture of his garden.”

Me:
“You can give it to me. I’ll hang it on the fridge.”

Georgie:
“So, wait, now you have
no
dad?”

Me:
“Nope.”

Georgie:
“At
all
?”

Me:
“Right.”

Georgie:
“Sophie has two dads.”

Me:
“She’s lucky.”

Georgie:
“But it really stinks to have no dad.”

Me:
“You know what? It really does.”

T
he condolence cards rolled in, fast and furious. “A memory is a keepsake of time that lives forever in the heart.” “Sharing in your sorrow.” (How, exactly?) My favorite one came from a soft-spoken woman I knew from the parent holding pen at gymnastics: “We don’t know each other well, but my dad died six months ago. Shall we go out one night and get drunk?”

Back in September, I’d signed up to help organize a fund-raising comedy night at Margot’s school. The time had come to make good on my promise, so I agreed to coordinate invitations for the event. I assumed my job would consist of notifying parents by Evite, until I received an e-mail inviting me to Kara’s house for an evening of invitation assembly.

Invitation
assembly
?

I rolled my eyes and tilted my computer monitor so Matthew could see the clip art bottle of chardonnay at the bottom of the message.

I headed to Kara’s straight from the train station, having eaten a piece of pizza en route. When I arrived, the foyer smelled like lemon, and a fire crackled merrily between andirons shaped like black labs. Kara enveloped
me in a hug made all the warmer by her sumptuous moss-colored cashmere sweater. “Welcome, sweetie. So glad you could make it.”

“Please—it’s the least I can do.”

“Alice, the service was beautiful. What a tribute. And those flowers!” She held an index finger under one eye and then dragged it down her cheek, feigning the path of a tear.

“Thanks, Kara.” I followed her into the dining room, where a row of women were seated around the table, folding and assembling invitations of the sort I’d only ever seen associated with weddings: tri-fold, RSVP card, envelope for the RSVP card, vellum overlay, little vellum pocket to hold the whole shebang, and then a mailing envelope you opened and closed by wrapping a red string around a metal grommet. It was quite an operation.

On a sideboard, a sales rep from Ava & Mabel Accessories arranged her wares on black velvet trays: a turquoise necklace draped alongside a pair of coral hoops; a row of rings fashioned from little gold snakes with emerald eyes. The sales rep’s son is on Oliver’s soccer team, and she’s a regular fixture at evening events for moms—the modern incarnation of a Tupperware lady. She has a soft touch, draping a complicated lariat around your neck when you least expect it, then relying on a chorus of women to assure you that you deserve to buy this special treat. In fact, you owe it to yourself.

My seat was in front of a masking-taped mark on the table. My job was to line up the invitation over the masking tape and then fold it right at that spot over a wooden ruler so the crease was straight and sharp. I introduced myself to the woman on my left, whose job it was to insert the RSVP cards into the RSVP envelopes, faceup. A few had been inserted facedown and Kara kindly requested that the woman take another stab at it. I already knew from our interactions through the Girl Scouts that Kara is big on kindly requesting things.

“I’m Margot Bauer’s mom,” I said, by way of introduction.

“I’m Katie Rourke’s mom,” said my neighbor who, like many moms
I know, turned out to be named Melissa. “I think Margot is in Katie’s photography class.”

(Margot is taking photography?) “She
loves
photography. And of course, I’ve heard all about Katie.”

“Forgive me if this is an odd question, but did Margot recently lose a grandparent?”

“She did. My dad died last month.”

“I’ve been there,” Melissa said, simply. “It gets easier.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Suddenly a silver cuff bracelet encircled my wrist. The Ava & Mabel rep stepped back as quickly as she had approached, allowing me to behold the splendor in peace. The cuff was smooth to the touch and surprisingly light given its chunky appearance. I liked the way it made my wrist look delicate and powerful all at once.

“That’s a
must
,” said Kara. “Seriously, ladies, how fabulous does this bracelet look on Alice? Not many people have the bone structure to pull that one off.”

The jewelry rep stood by and beamed.

Another mom leaned across the table, grabbed a two-bite brownie, and nibbled daintily around its edges. “Alice, that was made for you. Hand over your credit card.”

It was a painless transaction. I hate shopping, and I rarely wear bracelets, but the combo of the wine and these warm women made me want to commemorate the moment.

The mom who was responsible for sliding each completed invitation into a clear cellophane bag and tying it with a pre-curled magenta ribbon said, “Didn’t Kara do such a great job with these?” She gestured at the tidy package in her hand.

“Oh, she really did,” said Melissa. “All you need is one glance at the organization of her mudroom to know you’re in the presence of a genius.” I’d never seen Kara’s mudroom but I knew the type: a profusion of adorable hooks, a red metal locker for each child, rows of gingham-lined
rattan baskets with their contents labeled on mini chalkboards. The real pros have custom shelving for cleats, ice skates, and Wellies, but I didn’t think Kara would take things to that level; she had a thrifty side to her that I liked.

Our conversation settled into the usual mom subjects: best Poconos ski slopes; how old your daughter should be when she starts shaving her legs; the new Peruvian place on Bloomfield Avenue versus the new fusion place on Valley Road; who may or may not be getting divorced; who may or may not be pregnant; whose kids have lice and whether or not the family is taking appropriate precautions to contain the problem; who has lost a significant amount of weight and how they have done it; whether or not you should buy your minivan at the end of the lease or trade it in for a new one; which teachers give too much homework; which teachers are phoning it in.

Every so often, the conversation turned to jewelry. The sales rep flitted in and out of the crowd, pairing her “pieces” with just the right woman. By the end of the night, her trays were bare. She loaded them back into a big black suitcase, passed around her cards, and invited everyone to host a trunk show of their own. I knew Kara had landed herself a boatload of free jewelry: that was part of the deal.

By the time I left at midnight, my fingers were numb from the folding, but I felt strangely content. When I said goodbye to Melissa—a quick kiss on the cheek, the standard exit between moms—she grabbed my upper arms and said, “Remember: there is no statute of limitations.”