A Window Opens: A Novel (35 page)

Kara looked back and forth between us, confused, but I knew exactly what she meant.

G
eorgie came downstairs at 6:42 a.m. wearing a pink satin butterfly nightgown and the blue flowered bike helmet she got for Christmas. She asked the same question every day: “Could we ride bikes?
Pleeease?
”

The answer was always no. There were still two inches of snow on the ground; on top of that there was slush; on top of that, frozen slush.

Now I peeked out the kitchen window and noticed a long, clear strip of blacktop in the school parking lot across the street. There were still snowbanks along the periphery of the building and in the shady areas of the playground, but there was enough of a thaw to allow for a quick spin before school.

“Fine,” I said to Georgie. “Put on your boots and I’ll grab your wheels.”

“Can Cornelius come?” As usual, he was right by her side, his mouth hanging open in a canine proxy for a smile, wearing the half-tragic, half-adorable expression that is his trademark.

“Fine. Grab the leash. It’s on the hook by the—actually, can you ask Daddy where the leash is? I haven’t walked Cornelius in a while.”

When I unearthed Georgie’s hand-me-down dirt bike from underneath a stack of saucer sleds in the garage, I remembered that Nicholas had removed the training wheels at the end of the previous fall. Georgie’s maiden voyage without them had been wildly unsuccessful, ending with a Ziploc bag of ice resting atop an angry scrape on her leg.

We reached the parking lot at 7:01.

Georgie threw a leg over the seat of the bike, hiked up her nightgown, and gestured for me to stand back.

“Are you
sure
you want to do this right now? You haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I’m sure. I’ll eat after.”

And she was off, pedaling first herky-jerky and then smoothly, sailing away from me with a barbaric yawp—“Mommy, I’m doing it!”

Cornelius barked raucously, the dog version of cheering.

I stood there with a big grin pasted on my face, marveling at the topsy-turvy carnival ride of my life.
Can you see me now?

All of a sudden, I heard Margot, Oliver, and Nicholas cheering from my bedroom. The social worker was right: a window had opened.

I
had an idea, and I settled down on our green, greasily fingerprinted couch to get to work on it after dinner. Nicholas sat down next to me with his laptop to watch YouTube basketball clips. He was drinking a glass of water, no bubbles.

“Nicholas, I’m trying to get some work done.”

“Sorry, I was just looking for quality time with my wife. Hey, so when I was at your mom’s today—”

“You were at my mom’s today?”

“Yeah, straightening out some tax stuff. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t. Nicholas, shouldn’t my mom figure out some of this stuff on her own? Or call someone from my dad’s firm?”

“Um, why should she pay someone when she has an expert attorney in the family?”

He was in a jokey mood; I wasn’t. “Nicholas, I love how much you’re helping my mom, but you also have your own business to worry about.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t want you to risk—”

“Alice. Your mom needs help. I’m going to help her. It’s the right thing to do. Period.”

I made lists, jotted notes, and scrutinized the Ava & Mabel website for information on their fee structure and training program. I watched video testimonials from several of their sales reps, each along the theme of “Hosting at-home jewelry parties allows me the flexibility I want as a mom.” I felt a little bit like a character from a movie, hunkered down in my Garnet Hill pajamas, working feverishly into the night. Add empty containers of Chinese takeout and chopsticks shoved sexily into my hair, and I could have been the star of a romantic comedy. Unfortunately, my co-star went to bed without saying good night.

•  •  •

I was shouldering my way through a crowd in front of Radio City when my phone lit up with my brother’s high school graduation photo. I’d snapped a picture of it at my mom’s house: Will’s mullet alone was worth a laugh, not to mention his white coral necklace and Jimmy Buffet T-shirt.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hi. I know.”

“What are you up to?”

“Walking to work. You?”

“At work. Slow morning.”

“Oh.” I pictured Will in his wood-paneled office, inside a weather-beaten red fisherman’s cottage on the edge of Casco Bay. From his window, he had a view of the pine trees and church steeples of Orr’s Island and the Cribstone Bridge to Bailey Island, spanning a cove known as Will’s Gut (no relation). He was only seven hours north, a straight shot up the coast, but he might as well have been in Siberia.

“Alice, you know what amazes me the most? The way you’re supposed to go back to normal, but
everything
has changed. You feel so fucking
empty-handed
.”

And suddenly he was right there, falling in step beside me on the sparkly gray sidewalk. His presence was, indeed, present enough.

“Totally.” I sighed. “Do you think he can see us now?”

“I have no idea. I wish I knew.” Will paused to crack his knuckles—a sound that was as irksome over the phone as it was in person. “You know what else? I get like half as many e-mails and texts now. He used to send me about fifty—”

“I know. Me, too.”

“Did you read them all?”

I shook my head, no. The word made me so ashamed, I couldn’t even say it out loud.

•  •  •

I ran into Genevieve as we were getting off the elevator. She had a pinched look on her face, like she didn’t know me and wasn’t quite sure why I was smiling at her.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“Okay, are you free right now? I actually had something I wanted to discuss with you.” I tried to keep an upbeat look on my face, but my insides felt like they were filling with lead. How was it possible to be thirty-eight years old and still as afraid of someone as I was of my fourth-grade teacher?

“Yes. I need a high-level overview on where we stand with gaming. The Environmental Team wants to revamp the Sim, stat, and they feel they don’t have the buy-in from you that they need.”

We walked down the hall and into Genevieve’s office. Since we didn’t have a meeting on the calendar, I knew better than to sit down on her couch, so I stood awkwardly in the doorway and slipped off my gloves and hat. This was not a conversation to be had with a pompom on my head.

I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work. I will not cry at work.

“Genevieve, before I tell you what I have in mind, I have to ask: have you actually
looked
at any of Joystick’s video games?” I knew Genevieve had some technical difficulties of her own, and I wasn’t certain she knew how to navigate through the ANT drive to the SharePoint to MMO to KidVid to GO.

“I don’t need to play them. If Greg wants to sell them, we’ll sell them.”

“But the vibe is so antithetical to what we originally set out to do—  I mean, it’s a complete about-face. Are video games really the best—”

“
Best
is a subjective term.”

I held my head very still so the tears wouldn’t slip down my cheeks.

“Genevieve, I’m not sure you’ve had a chance to delve in beyond the spreadsheets, but trust me—
Conflagration
is not about playing with matches. The player is an arsonist, tasked with setting fires in unsuspecting homes while families are sleeping. The object is to burn down as many—”

Genevieve held up a surprisingly small hand.

“That’s the thing, I don’t need to delve in beyond the spreadsheets. Greg needs to know that we’re on board and he’s starting to wonder. We need to give him what he wants.”

“I know, I get that, but these are games for
kids
—”

“At the end of the day, we’re here to make money. Whether or not you approve is beside the point.”

“But what if I have another way to make money? One that’s better suited to my background and the original mission of Scroll?”

“Alice. We’re not going back to the original mission of Scroll. We’re selling books
and
video games. You need to wrap your mind around that.”

I took a deep breath. “Fine, but can I still tell you about this other idea I have?”

Genevieve closed her eyes and said “Fine” without opening them. “Shoot.”

“Okay. Here goes.” I flashed back to the jewelry rep’s big, empty black suitcase. “Imagine a Tupperware party—but instead of buying containers, or jewelry or candles or whatever else people sell at parties—you buy books. A Scroll rep comes to your house to present the season’s best books to your best friends. She gets a discount and the host earns points for free books depending on how many titles her guests buy. We
know women love to drink wine and talk about books, but lots of us have no idea what to read. With ScrollBests, we bring the books to you.”

Genevieve opened her eyes. “Huh. Interesting. Have you run the financials?”

I unfurled my very first self-generated spreadsheet and went through it, column by column, number by number. Genevieve wasn’t enthusiastic, exactly, but she listened politely. When I was finished she said again, “Interesting. Do you think you can take a stab at convincing Greg?”

“I know I can.”

This was as close as I had ever come to being forceful with Genevieve and I sensed a degree of admiration.

“Then I suggest you book a trip to Cleveland. In the meantime, Alice, you need to demonstrate your commitment to MMO. Otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise we need to begin a conversation about your role at this company.”

This was a classic Scroll dodge. When you didn’t want to talk about what was actually being talked about, you talked about beginning the conversation about it at a later date.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

GREG WILL BE ON CHEESE & WINE TASTING TOUR IN THE LOIRE VALLEY DURING THE DAYS YOU MENTIONED. HE CAN SEE YOU ON FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 26, AT 10AM. PLEASE ADVISE AS TO WHETHER OR NOT YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO HOLD THIS DATE.

Greg’s assistant, Ann, communicated exclusively in capital letters. You would have thought she was yelling at you, except for the happy-face icon that showed up at the end of each message. When I met her, I’d been shocked to discover that Ann was meek and soft-spoken.

Susanna:
I think there was some kind of incident with the girls. Not sure what happened but Audrey says Margot is ignoring her. Do we want to discuss?

Me:
Let’s each take care of our own, k? I don’t think we need to hash it out.

Susanna:
Gotcha.

It was taco night on Flower Street and everyone was bickering over a pad of Post-its. Ollie had turned twelve of the little slips of paper into flashcards so he could learn his seven times tables.

Margot claimed these Post-its were hers, to be used exclusively for a language arts project where she was supposed to jot down unfamiliar words while reading
Dandelion Wine
.

Even Georgie leapt into the fray. “Yeah,
Ollie
,” she said derisively. “And that’s
my
paper clip you used to hold together your tine tables.”

“Ollie, we’re sick of you stealing our stuff. Mom, Ollie always steals our stuff.” Margot folded her arms across her chest and glared in my direction over the little bowls of condiments Jessie had set out on the table: chopped tomato, guacamole, shredded cheddar, sour cream.

“Why are you bringing me into this, girls? Give Ollie a break. It’s not easy being in a sister sandwich. And you’re talking about Post-its. We have hundreds of them, and we can get more if we need them.”

“Ugh, it makes me sick how you’re always on his side just because he’s a
boy.
It’s totally misogynistic.” Margot rolled her eyes and blew out a quick burst of air that would have lifted her bangs off her face if she’d had bangs. I thought of Margot holding each of Ollie’s chubby hands and perambulating him around the living room of our old apartment before he learned to walk.

“Enough.” Nicholas ended the conversation, thankfully. We crunched away at our Ortega shells in silence until finally the kids chased each other upstairs, in the thick of a new fight over who would get the first bath.

“So, Genevieve wants me to go to Cleveland to present my Book Lady idea to Greg.”

“Really? Does that mean she liked it?” Nicholas took a swig of his drink. He was sticking with one per night, but I still kept a careful inventory of the liquor cabinet.

“Who knows.”

“When are you going to Cleveland? And will you please visit my parents? They’re worried about you.”

We heard a loud crash from the bathroom upstairs, then Margot’s voice: “Everything is okay, guys! Georgie knocked the conditioner out of the tub. I’m cleaning it up!”

“Thanks!” we said in unison.

“So, Cleveland . . .” I started.

“Yes! Do it. I’ll hold down the fort. We’ll barely notice you’re gone.”

“Thanks, but now that’s the thing. Ann says—”