Plan C (40 page)

“Libby, it’s Bebe. It’s bad…”

The next few hours were a complete blur… Kitty and I moving about in a daze, shooting to the airport, flying “stand-by” to Gstaad, then navigating the rental car without a GPS to the Swiss hospital where Bebe lay in intensive care. But even before that, it had been an ordeal. Clive and Ben had run around the block trying to hail us a taxi, but it was hopeless. They were forever competing with the crowds of New Years’ revelers along the Seine.

It was actually Kitty’s father, Screamin’ J Pepper, who managed to land us a last minute limo – his. He drove. Fortunately Jacques knew the shortcut to the airport. Clive decided to stay behind in France, making the obligatory phone calls to America, while Ben escorted Kitty and me on the flight. As we buckled our seatbelts for takeoff, I grabbed hold of their hands on either side of my center seat and said, “What a hell of a way to start the new year.”

*

The emergency room was relatively calm except for the inevitable handful of party goers with alcohol poisoning. After what seemed like hours, the nurse at the main desk located Bebe’s room: she’d been moved several times and was now lying in critical condition. Ben spoke to the nurse to get the specifics while Kitty dashed to Bebe’s side.

But it was me who stayed back in the hallway when I saw Tamara sitting alone on a waiting room bench, her skinny, little, legs swinging underneath it. She was eating a piece of Gruyere cheese that the Swiss nurse had given her, and she leapt up at the sight of me, running down the hallway at full speed to my extended arms. “Auntie Heylib,” she said, choking on her words. “I so happy - see you. Tamara - scared.”

“I know honey. I’m here now,” I said, rubbing her head and then kissing it. “I’m scared, too. But everything is going to be fine.”

She looked up at me with those killer blue eyes and asked, “I go back Kazakhstan?” I hadn’t even considered she’d be thinking that.

“You’re never going back to the orphanage, honey.” Though I wasn’t sure where she’d go from here. That’s when my mind raced back to the day I was packing for the trip to Paris with Bebe sitting on the edge of my bed flicking through her Bergdorf catalogue. She paused on the page with the latest Ralph Lauren resort wear, looked up at me and asked, “Libby, who should I name in my will to care for Tamara if anything were to ever happen to me?”

“Well,” I said, as I tossed my Nike sneakers and electronic adapters into my duffle bag. “It’s got to be somebody who has no agenda or motive other than the child’s well-being. Somebody who is free of anger and selfishness. Somebody who isn’t going to use the child for money.”

Bebe had closed her catalog and placed her hand over mine, patting the top of my skin. “Keep going…”

“Well it would help if that somebody were maybe already a parent so that they’d have an understanding of maternal love. And it should be somebody who could take care of Tamara either full time, or at least temporarily.”

Bebe pulled me down to the edge of my bed. “You mean somebody who can work well under pressure if there were a tragedy?”

“Exactly,” I said, “And somebody who would listen openly to Tamara’s desires about where she’d want to live until she’s old enough to be on her own.

“I know just the right person,” Bebe said.

“Oh good. Well, if there’s anything…”

“That person is you, Libby.”

“Me?” I said.

*

Ben is at my side now, his body giving off strength and warmth, as he runs a hand over Tamara’s head and she smiles up at him. “It’s going to be okay, girls,” says Ben, then looking at me: “They said that Bebe’s got a concussion, a punctured spleen and several broken ribs. Some guy on a snowboard.”

“Snowboard?” I ask, my voice escalating. “When are they going to outlaw that?”

“Not gonna happen,” says Ben.

“Why can’t they put snow boarders on their own damn trail away from skiers?”

But I realize my intensity is scaring Tamara. Bad enough that she’s seen her mother lying in a pool of blood on a white blanket of snow.

“Is Mommy die?” says Tamara.

“No honey,” I say, pulling reassurance out of my ass. But what if I’m wrong?

“Sweetheart,” I say to Tamara, “can you go pick up your backpack.” I point to her Dora the Explorer bag under the bench. As she skips over, I move to Ben, and whisper, “What are we going to do if Bebe…?” My lips begin to tremble. I can’t even form the unthinkable word.

“We’ll take Tamara home with us,” Ben says, as casually as if he were deciding what restaurant to have dinner with friends.

“We’ll take her?” I repeat stunned.

“Yes, she can come live with us. If that’s what makes sense.”

I try to speak, but it’s as though the words have been knocked out of me. Imagine that… the very man whose twin boys made me a step mother, is willing to make us both the parents of this miracle girl. My days of parental longing had passed, but there was no denying I’d felt more maternal instinct for little Tamara than my own stepsons. But, Ben? He had no reason to accept Tamara so selflessly.

On the other hand, I realized that Rosemary’s babies were part of his package. But now our relationship had transitioned into something much more than that. It was Ben’s kindness and devotion that were the motives I needed to forge a life with this heroic man and make it all work.

“Okay,” I say, just like that. “I guess somebody has to take her home.” Ben pulls me in, surprised by my sudden willingness to stretch beyond the limits of what I thought I
could handle. Who knew what “Plan” tomorrow might bring? We’d have to take each day as it comes and plan accordingly. Ben and I might very well be known as the couple with all those kids….my kids, his kids and our newly adopted kid from Kazakhstan. Or not. Was I up for the challenge? Not really. Could I give it a try? Yes.

And as I realize one of my best friends lies dying, I knew that this is what makes this gift called “life” so grand. We could make choices. We had options. Life was a risk and it was also the surprises it delivers. But it was especially about the love and the living it.

Tamara skips back to my side and tugs my sleeve. But for just this moment I can’t let go of Ben. And now I reach out for her, too, and pull her in. Suddenly I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

*

Every few moments I doze off, and every few moments I’m awakened by the sound of nurses checking Bebe’s blood pressure, or by the pumping of her oxygen or the bleeping of her heart monitor. But the blue light of morning is seeping in when I waken to see a smiling nurse disconnecting what we’ve come to know as “the hissing machine.”

I’m lying at Bebe’s side, practically falling off the bed. I look over to Bebe. She groggily play-slaps me with a hand attached to an arm sprouting with tubes.

“Hey you woke me up,” I say, “”I was just getting comfy…”

Bebe grins weakly and struggles to rise, but falls back with a terrible little moan. I kiss her gently on the lips. “It’s the broken rib, you crazed Olympian, you,” I say. “I love you.”

“I love you, Libby,” she says. “You’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”

“Yeah okay, but if somebody told me a year ago that my stepsons would be playing with some Kazakh Lolita, and that her new mom would be you…” I’m distracted by a handsome young man pacing back and forth in the hallway. His hand taps the face of a tennis racket as he peers in at us anxiously.

And then like a whirlwind, Kitty zooms in the door with Tamara. “Christ’s sake,” says Kitty, “Elevator was packed, the gift store was out of flowers, and some Swiss Miss bitch sent me traipsing all the way to some florist ten blocks away….” Kitty grabs a vase of wilting roses as Tamara leaps onto her mother’s bed.

“Careful, honey,” I say, “Mommy’s got big bandages.” But Bebe doesn’t seem to mind. Kitty tosses the day-old flowers in the nearby canister and goes to the sink to refill the vase. “Here are your
fucking
flowers,” says Kitty. “I hope they’re worth it.”

“Oh I love peonies,” says Bebe.

“Well,” I say, “I brought Bebe cocoa.”

“I love cocoa,” says Bebe. “Hot cocoa and my Turkish robe.”

“Hot chocolate!” says Tamara rubbing her tummy.

“Leave it to Bebe,” I say, “If you have to crash on a mountainside, do it in Switzerland, where chocolate reigns supreme.”

“But you were supposed to be here like two hours ago,” I say to Kitty.

“Look, we overslept, okay?” says Kitty. “By the time I dressed the kid, fed her, played a game of Old Maid, went on Facebook, did my Tweets, LinkedIn and updated my blog, there was hardly time to shower.”

. “Did you say your blog?” I ask, with a certain amount of trepidation.

“Yes,” says Kitty. “What, you get to be the only blogger? I figured it’s time I got into the online world like everybody else. YouTube, Facebook, MySpace, His
Face.
What am I risking? Privacy? Who has privacy anymore?”

“Life’s all about risk anyway, isn’t it Kitty Kat,” I say, winking.

“If I’d never lost Henry,” says Bebe, “I’d never have taken the risk to adopt Tamara.”

“And if I’d never met Helmut….” says Kitty.

“Our lives would have been a lot less complicated,” I interrupt.

“And if…” says Kitty, “Wait a second...” she looks at Bebe. “You didn’t
lose
Henry.”

“I agree,” I say. “You still have the rest of your lives to work it out. Just go for it.”

Kitty’s eyes drift to the hallway where the young man is still pacing back and forth. “Who’s the eye candy out in the corridor?”

Catching her looking, he approaches. It’s as if he were asking permission to enter. He’s like a dog at an invisible fence.

“Oh, hello,” says Bebe smiling at him. “Girls, this is Mariano. We met on the slope in Gstaad. He’s the one who called the ambulance.”

“Hi Mariano,” say Kitty and I in honeyed tones.

“Ladies,” he says in a very thick accent.

“Mariano is from Buenos Aires,” says Bebe. “He’s twenty-five. Doesn’t really speak English, but he’s going to be my new tennis instructor…”

He’s tall, dark, and handsome, with a wicked white smile and that tennis racket in one hand. Probably carries a pacifier in the other.

“Shouldn’t he be preparing for the French Open?” I whisper.

“He’s probably not that good,” says Kitty.

“At tennis…” I say.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Bebe. “I’m not a coyote.”

“Cougar,” says Kitty.

“I didn’t seek him out,” says Bebe. “He pursued me.” Bebe gives him the tiniest of dainty waves to which Mr. Tennis Instructor Cougar Bait blows her a kiss. Bebe pretends to catch it.

“It’s all good,” I say. “You’re alive, and when we get home, he can train you in tennis, while you train him in…”

“Using the potty!” says Kitty. “Christ, he’s young.”

‘We’ll train each other,” says Bebe. “Try new things.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” says Kitty. “Try new things.”

“Oh god, here come the things…” I say.

“I’m going to start bungee jumping,” says Kitty. “I’m going to get a tattoo, run for public office, wear leggings…” “Wear leggings?” says Bebe.

“Yeah, I was with you until the leggings,’” I say. “I won’t even touch the ‘run for office.’”

“Well, I’m not done,” says Kitty. “I’m gonna tell an author my brilliant life story, let my hair go streaks of silver gray, learn to play the trombone, and, most of all, from now on, I’m just gonna say it like it is.”

“From now on?” I say. “From now on!?!”

Bebe grasps her side in order to support her broken ribs as she laughs and laughs…

Until you’re living back in New York City, you don’t know how great the start of a new year can feel. Well okay, maybe you do, but not like this. While other towns dread the cold, dark and short days of January, there’s a fresh new energy that surfaces in New York. People throw parties, new restaurants open, the Broadway lights beckon, and untapped artistic talent comes to life…

*

Sipping Veuve Clicqout in Kitty’s gallery, I study a solid cream canvas dotted with what looks like soot marks. And they call this art? It’s as though somebody had extinguished Marlboros all over the painting.

“Well?” says Kitty. “What do you think?”

‘Truthfully,” I say. “It’s very retro.”

“Really!” she says.

“Like early Mikey Hughes,” I say.

“Mikey Hughes?” Kitty cracks the annals of art history in her mind.

“Yeah, Mikey Hughes,” I say. Back in the 70s, Mikey was my first kiss. He leaned over to French kiss me to the sounds of Fleetwood Mac. His Marlboro Lites would burn these holes into the white velvet sofa in my Aunt Alice’s basement…”

Kitty snorts at me and shakes her head.

“My mommy says it’s not nice to smoke,” says Jean Christophe, who is standing in front of the canvas trying to stick his fingers inside each sooty hole, while his brother Jean Baptists giggles. My eyes widen with the fearsome revelation that I might be forced to own this painting if they destroy it.

“Boys!” I say, and the twins stand at attention, drop their arms to their sides, and turn toward Kitty like Little Lord Fauntleroys.

Together they sing-song: “Sorry, Mrs. Mitty.”

Progress. I beam.

“Don’t call me that,” snaps Kitty. “I’m not Mrs. Mitty. I’m Kitty Morgan.”

“Kitty, you’re defeating my purpose,” I hiss. “I’m trying to teach them manners.”

“And what’s so bad about being Mrs. Mitty,” says Clive who nuzzles into Kitty. “Worked for my mum.”

Kitty gives Clive a peck. “Yes, dear,” she says. Then, abruptly, she sweeps to the center of the room like a magician about to begin a spectacular performance.

Bebe pulls Tamara and Mariano to her side. It’s clear where her summer is headed: to the Hamptons, for some very intensive, um, tennis instruction.

“Okay,” says Kitty. “So I needed you all here today to give me your opinions.”

Ben and I suppress a roll of the eyes.

“A really great art dealer has to keep her collectors in constant awe,” says Kitty. “Larry Gagosian has a mystique that’s ‘Oz like.’ He runs his business without investors, partners, and shareholders so no one ever knows what he’s about to do. He’s all image…surprise…mystique!”