The Other Life (26 page)

“I feel like I’ve just been sprinkled with fairy dust,” Quinn said.

“That happens a lot in here,” the nurse said.

QUINN ASCENDED FROM THE SUBWAY ON THE WEST SIDE OF Manhattan and buttoned her coat against the chill. Home, in the suburbs, she would be wearing a big coat on a day like this—something puffy and unflattering. But for the city she had donned her wine red wool jacket with gold buttons, accented by a fashionable scarf. It felt good to be back in the city, dressed like she belonged.

She headed in the direction of Baston’s Books, where she was meeting her friend and former coworker, Meredith Huff, a lanky blonde who had taken over her old position as events coordinator and was now running the whole store.

Meredith, Quinn thought, had found the best possible job for herself. The woman adored writers. Particularly male writers. Particularly male writers who were willing to get naked with her. When they first met, Meredith had confessed to Quinn that she was “kind of an author groupie.” After they got to know each other better and Quinn had endured hundreds of conversations regarding her friend’s exploits, she told Meredith that the groupie analogy wasn’t quite accurate. Groupies were teenage girls who eventually outgrew their infatuations.

“You,” Quinn had said to her friend, “are more of a fetishist.”

Meredith laughed and owned up to it. “God help me, it’s true. The very idea of a writer’s dick makes me shiver. I think it’s the crazy twisted ego behind it—the way they are always imagining their own lives in twelve-point type. Seriously. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone down on a guy who has already decided how he’s going to describe the color of your nipples. It’s
so hot
!”

Quinn was thinking about all this as she headed for the bookstore. She smiled, anticipating the stories Meredith would tell, and the guessing game they would play. She wondered what it said about her that she wound up with friends like Georgette and Meredith when her own life was so tame. Was she subconsciously trying to re-create her relationship with her mother? Quinn’s head was so filled with unraveling that she walked toward Baston’s on autopilot, tuning out the sounds of the city. Then a truck stopped short and the taxi driver behind it leaned on his horn for so long it tore her from her reverie. She looked around and realized that she was about to walk down the block where she and Eugene had lived in her other life. She paused, almost causing a pileup of pedestrians. They jostled along as she thought about which way to go to avoid walking past their co-op. She looked left and right, considering her options, then realized it was silly. In this life, the building had no meaning. Eugene didn’t even live there.

She continued straight, giving the entrance a quick glance as she passed. Jean-Claude, the elegant doorman with a Salvadore Dali-esque mustache, was helping a woman with packages. Quinn realized that if she walked up and said hello, she would be a complete stranger to him. The thought gave her a charge. It was like having a special power.

As a child, Hayden would sometimes ask Quinn what kind of magic power she would most want to have, given the choice. Her brother always chose invisibility, which seemed downright icky to Quinn. She had no desire to know what people were doing or saying behind closed doors. Likewise, she didn’t care about X-ray vision. Even superhuman strength didn’t appeal much to her. But flying. Flying was perfect. Quinn liked to close her eyes and imagine the freedom of being able to soar through the air. Up there, none of her problems would trouble her, and everything would look so condensed and flawless.

Quinn thought she heard someone calling her name. Was it her imagination? She turned toward the building. Jean-Claude was now obscured by a short, stocky man who stood in front of him, waving to her.

She stopped. “Walt?”

He jogged over to her.

It was Eugene’s friend Walt St. Pierre, the former
Saturday Night Live
writer who had been sitting on the sofa with him the other day when she hurried past to return home to Isaac. To him, of course, that never happened, and he hadn’t seen her in ten years. She marveled at the coincidence of running into him, but then realized that since he lived in this building in the other life, he probably did in this life as well.

“I thought it was you,” he said. “You look
fantastic
.”

She wondered how he would know how she looked when his focus was somewhere in the vicinity of her right shoulder. Walt had never been able to make eye contact with her or, as far as she knew, any woman. The guy was funny, smart, and very talented, but had massive insecurities when it came to the opposite sex.

“Thanks,” she said, and moved to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned his head at the wrong moment and she sort of grazed the corner of his mouth, which embarrassed both of them. “It’s good to see you, Walt.”

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Ten years, at least.”

“You look fantastic,” he repeated.

“You, too,” she lied.

“You lost weight, right? You look fantastic.”

Quinn considered telling him that if he wasn’t careful she might get the impression he thought she looked fantastic. But she wasn’t sure how well the joke would go over, so she just said, “Actually, I’m pregnant. With my second.”

“Oh! Congratulations. Are you still with that taxi driver?”

That, Quinn surmised, was the story Eugene had told all his friends. She could imagine him weaving a tale about her running off with a cabbie
. She didn’t have money to pay the fare so he invited her to his apartment and she never left.
Or something like that.

“He’s not exactly a taxi driver,” Quinn said.

“I also heard you moved out to the suburbs,” he said, as if this chance encounter proved that rumor false as well.

“I did. I’m here to meet a friend from Baston’s for lunch.”

A gust of wind disturbed his comb-over and he struggled to keep it in place. “I never thought of you as a bridge-and-tunnel girl.”

She smiled. “But I am! I have a house in the suburbs, a husband, a kid, and a Volvo.”

“A bona fide soccer mom.”

“That’s me.”

“You should run for vice president.”

She laughed. “I think I’d have to be a
hockey
mom.”

“Soccer mom, hockey mom—either way, it gives me a boner. Housewives are
hot
.”

Quinn blanched.

He covered his mouth. “That was inappropriate, right?”

“A bit.”

“The good news is that my reputation as king of the awkward moment remains untarnished.”

“Part of your charm,” she said, and changed the subject. “You live here?”

He glanced back at the building. “A few years now. I love it. Can’t beat the location.”

“Or the views,” she said, and instantly realized her gaffe.

“You’ve been inside?”

“No, I ... uh, just figured the apartments facing the park would have beautiful vistas.”

He nodded. “You know, I tried talking Eugene into taking an apartment here years ago, but he wasn’t interested.”

Of course. The memory was there, imprinted by her visits to the other life. She was the one who had talked Eugene into taking the beautiful apartment overlooking the park. He had, at first, insisted it was just “too glam.”

“You still keep in touch with him?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, and took out his cell phone. “You want to talk to him? I have him on speed dial.”

She most certainly did not. What on earth would she have to say to him? In all likelihood, Eugene still seethed with bitter resentment over the break-up. “Thanks anyway,” she said.

“You sure?”

He seemed about to press a button, and she raised her voice. “No, don’t!
Please.
”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I guess that might be kind of uncomfortable, huh?” He shook his head, as if trying to rattle some sense into it.

She smiled and tried to make eye contact, but he was focused somewhere near her left ear now. He looked embarrassed, so she changed the subject, trying to put him at ease. “I’ve been reading your books,” she said. “I’m so impressed, Walt.”

After leaving
Saturday Night Live,
Walt wrote a nonfiction book about his tenure there. It was funny, honest, and self-effacing. The critics were charmed by it, and it did pretty well. He followed it up with several novels, and was gaining a sizable readership.

“Coming from you,” he said, and didn’t finish the sentence. Telling her he got a boner had slipped right out, but thanking her for a compliment was nearly impossible. His eyes were now focused on the sidewalk. “Hey, remember that fund-raiser your parents came to? Your mom was a trip.”

In her single days, Quinn had been involved with Planned Parenthood, and had attended a number of big fund-raising parties for them. On one occasion, she brought her parents, and her mother had gotten into a row with one of the protesters out front. Someone from the
Daily News
seized the opportunity and snapped a photograph of Nan and a right-to-life woman screaming at each other, face-to-face, their angry, openmouthed expressions nearly mirror images. It was quite a picture.

Of course, what the photograph didn’t show was the dialogue that went along with it. As Quinn, Eugene, Nan, and Phil had tried to pass the protesters, the woman shouted at them, “How would you feel if
your
mother had an abortion?”

The moment captured in the photograph was when Nan turned and responded, “I wish she had. Then I wouldn’t have to suffer piss-brains like you.”

“Ah, wit,” Eugene had said. “It’s like living in a Noël Coward play.”

Immediately, Nan’s anger was defused and she laughed at herself.

The irony wasn’t lost on Quinn that she had once been an active supporter of Planned Parenthood, and now here she was, faced with the option of getting an abortion and choosing life instead. But of course, it only served to prove what Quinn had believed all along—that there was nothing inconsistent about being pro-choice and anti-abortion. In fact, now more than ever, she was thankful that the decision to carry this child could be hers, and not the government’s.

“She was,” Quinn agreed. “She was a trip.”

“How is she doing?” Walt asked.

“She passed away several years ago.” It was her standard line. No need to elaborate unless pressed.

“Not well, then, I guess.”

She grimaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad joke. How did she die?”

Quinn sighed. It was her most dreaded question. “She overdosed on prescription medication.” She tried to say it matter-of-factly, but her throat constricted and it came out high-pitched.

“Oh, God. That’s rough.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know Jackie died?” he asked.

“Jackie?” The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place who it was.

“My fox terrier.”

His dog? Was he making a comparison? “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I know it’s . . . you know, not the same thing. Hey, do you want to come to a party next week?”

“Excuse me?” Talk about odd transitions.

“It’s another fund-raiser,” he said.

“Um ...”

“A good cause. I’m donating a portion of the profits on my new book to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, and we’re having a launchparty fund-raiser next Thursday. You should come. I got some big names. There’ll be paparazzi and everything.”

“Sounds interesting, but . . .”

“No angry protesters out front at this one. Well, maybe a few cranky book critics.”

“I don’t know, Walt.”

“Eugene won’t be there, I promise.”

“It’s not that,” she said, though it was certainly part of it. “I just—”

“Tina’s going to be there,” he interrupted.

“Tina?”

“Fey.”

“Ah.”

“And possibly Adam,” he added.

“Adam?”

“Sandler.”

“I was never really that starstruck,” she said.

“Oh, and Janeane.”

Her eyes went wide. “Garofalo?” Okay, so maybe she was a little starstruck.

“You know her?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve always wanted to meet her.”

He pulled a glossy postcard from his pocket and handed it to her. “This has all the details. You can bring whomever you want. The more, the merrier.”

She put it into her purse and told him she would think about it. Quinn managed to successfully kiss him on the cheek as she said good-bye, and then went off to meet her friend Meredith.

 

 

OVER MASSIVE SALADS at a publike restaurant near the bookstore, Meredith caught Quinn up on all the latest gossip at Baston’s, and then told her about her most recent conquest, an established author of murder mysteries. Instead of revealing his identity outright, she gave hints—the names of his characters, the settings, his overall reputation—until Quinn figured out who it was. This made Meredith feel as if she had free license to kiss and tell. After all, Quinn had
guessed
his name. What was Meredith to do?

Quinn wanted to know if he was as exciting in the bedroom as he was on the page.

“He’s all verbs and no adjectives,” Meredith said.

“That sounds very clever,” Quinn said. “What does it mean?”

“It means he touches, pets, kisses, bites, thrusts. But he pays no attention to whether it’s sweet or passionate, tender or wild.”

“So this isn’t a lasting relationship?”

“Let’s just say I’m not buying the sequel.”

Quinn stirred her salad and speared a slice of zucchini. “I thought you had sworn off genre writers, anyway,” she said.

“Just sci-fi,” Meredith corrected.

Quinn laughed. “What’s wrong with science fiction writers? I figured they were very imaginative.”

“Look, I’m not saying they
all
live in their mothers’ basements, but maybe they should. Tell me what’s new and exciting in
your
world.”