The Ramblers (11 page)

In the room grow piles. Keep. Donate. Trash. Adelaide stretches her arms above her head, something like accomplishment plain on her face. Smith has done little but sit there and talk, and that's fine. Sometimes this is how it happens. Her role is different every day; today is about being here, a warm body in a room, a reassuring voice.

Adelaide reaches into the closet and hands Smith more shirts. “I think we can give these away. He never liked them much anyway. I was always trying to spiff him up and he humored me on occasion, but
he was a T-shirt guy,” Adelaide says as they pack the dress shirts in cardboard boxes bound for Goodwill.

“How many people are you expecting for Thanksgiving?” Smith asks.

“My parents and his. My two sisters and their families. His brother and his family. I'll do a buffet. It's going to be a packed house. What about you? Any plans?”

“My family is gathering at our place in Southampton with the groom's family. A rehearsal dinner for the rehearsal dinner. Should be interesting.” Smith looks down at her watch and sees that their time's up. “I've got to get going. Off to my sister's final dress fitting.”

“I'll walk you out. Any chance you can come back next week? This was really helpful,” Adelaide says.

Smith pulls out her phone, ashamed of her broken screen. “How's next Thursday at ten a.m.?”

“Perfect,” Adelaide says.

Smith slips out into the hallway and exhales. She made it through the meeting without getting sick or ruining her reputation entirely. Small victories. She checks her phone, feels those pathetic flutters in her stomach.

Nothing at all from Tate.

“Watch where you're going.”

T
he problem with living where you grew up: everything is a memory.

The problem with being profoundly hungover: everything is depressing.

Smith makes her way toward midtown, noting all the ways in which the world is a dismal and sinister place. She knows she's dehydrated and exhausted and rattled by the Asad news, but her self-awareness is no elixir; it still sucks. She'd forgotten just how dreadful it is not to be firing on all cylinders, clear on things. She contemplates making a quick stop at the Apple Store to have her cracked screen looked at, but she's not up for the swarms of people. Facing a hip young guy at the Genius Bar would be too much.

“Watch where you're going, lady,” a haggard-looking woman says. And this angers Smith even
though maybe it shouldn't. She is, after all, stumbling like a zombie through a thicket of people, her eyes fixed on her phone, her mind miles away.

Oh, and fucking midtown. Predictably, a mess. The crowds are suffocating, swallow her in. She winds her way through floods of blank-faced tourists and holiday shoppers who wield big, colorful bags of stuff they don't need.

She arrives early at Bergdorf Goodman. As always, the place bursts with elegant objects. She takes a quick spin through bags and jewelry. The names of the featured designers are familiar, for better or worse, part of her vernacular—Balenciaga and Bottega Veneta and Céline and Goyard. She and her sister and mother have these bags, as do many of her clients. Thousands of dollars for an unremarkable tote just because of the name on it, because of the message it sends. Women swaddled in dark clothes bend over glass cases and all but salivate, drape handbags over their shoulders and pout fishlike into mirrors.

She does just what she knows she shouldn't do. She walks through the fine jewelry area of the main floor, back to the Kentshire section, and as she does, her heart picks up speed. She hasn't been back since that afternoon she came here with Asad. She tried on several rings, but she knew right away which one was her favorite, an antique cushion-cut diamond flanked by two emeralds, set on a thin rose-gold band. Asad beamed, took the clerk's card.

“Can I help you with something?” the woman behind the counter says.

“No, thank you,” Smith says, shrinking away. “Just looking.”

She snakes through the clusters of people and heads for the escalator. Since she was a little girl, she's always loved a good escalator ride, that moment when you must precisely time your first step so as not to stumble, the subtle thrill of being lifted, of seeing exactly where you are going, the more gradual ascent. Sally preferred the efficiency of the elevator, of being boxed in, of pressing a simple button and being shot up toward the sky.

Smith steps off on the seventh floor and wanders the home section. She winds through the maze of pristine items, pausing to finger the fine linens and towels, to study the delicate china patterns on display.

The small books section has always been her favorite. Bitsy raised the girls to revere books. From a young age, Smith and Sally knew how important it was to read everything, to stay flush with exquisite words, to have poetic sentences in the ear at all times. Grammar? Oh, a must. The English education at Brearley was top-notch naturally, but Bitsy did a little extra grammar work with them on the side after school. Bad grammar was a pet peeve and she made sure that her girls felt the same way.

Many evenings of their childhood, even through those demanding years of high school, the three of them would climb into Bitsy's big bed after dinner. More often than not, Thatcher was still at the office or entertaining a client, but this worked well because it was Anderson girl time. They read together for at least thirty minutes. For their birthdays each year, Bitsy always bought three copies of the books she deemed good enough and interesting enough for the girls. The tradition dates back to when they were toddlers. Bitsy was keenly loyal to the Corner Bookstore on Madison, where she knew the owner. They would lie there, side by side, reading the same book, and when they were all finished, they would discuss it. Sally seemed to
love
every book. Smith was always more critical, noting inconsistencies in the prose, flaws in pace and tone.

For Smith's birthday this year, it was
Let's Bring Back: The Lost Language Edition: A Collection of Forgotten-Yet-Delightful Words, Phrases, Praises, Insults, Idioms, and Literary Flourishes from Eras Past
. Many of the sayings in the book are ones Bitsy already uses, words and expressions Smith and Sally love to mock her for using.
Mom, you can't say things like bezonian—
“rascal”—
or bitchfoxly—
“woman of the night”
—and expect us to understand.

In the past few months it's become something of an elaborate inside joke, a secret language, a competition. Which Anderson girl can pepper
her sentences with the greatest number of antiquated gems? Smith has had grand plans to load up her wedding speech with perfectly plucked phrases. That is, if she gets around to actually writing it.

“Smith!”

The sound of her name snaps her back to consciousness. A dark-haired woman waves wildly from the entrance of the children's shop. Who is this? The woman, who's pushing a stroller, is only vaguely familiar. It takes her a moment to place her, but it's Francesca Slade, a classmate from Brearley. She hasn't seen her since Talia, another Brearley girl, got married five years ago.

“It's been
years
!” Francesca says, leaning over and capturing Smith in a hug. The hug is awkward, in no small part due to the fact that Fran (as they used to call her back in the day) is hugely pregnant. “Thank God for Facebook! I'm not sure I would've recognized you. You look so
good
as opposed to my fatty self. Twins, actually! We find out the sex in a few weeks and I'm gunning for girls after this tiny monster,” she says, pointing to a towheaded toddler boy in her stroller.

Smith knows his name. Cooper. She shouldn't know his name, but she knows many random things about many people she doesn't actually know because of social media.

“What's Sally up to these days? Wait, don't tell me. Facebook trivia. A doctor, no? I've got to say that surprised me. You always struck me as the straight arrow and she always struck me as the rather bohemian one.”

Is this a slight? Is she saying that Smith's work is bohemian? What does this even mean?

“Funny how things happen, huh?” Smith says. “She's getting married this weekend. I'm here for her final fitting. Pretty crazy.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I got my dress here too, but that feels like eons ago. I swear having kids totally
fucks
the flow of time. I know, I know, this little guy's going to say
fuck
at his preschool interviews. I've got to watch it. I literally cannot remember my life before it was overtaken. I'm not complaining because obviously all of this madness is the best
thing that's ever happened to me even if my body's a disaster and my husband doesn't want to come near me . . . oh wait, I
am
complaining. Anyway, I'm here trying to get a little early Christmas shopping done because you know how nutty this season can be. They actually have
toys
here, which I never knew, and they aren't quite as hideous as some of the others. I swear we spent this small fortune decorating this chic home and now it's in tatters and cluttered with rainbow plastic crap and all of our antique furniture has these hideous foam edges. I'm sure you know all about that with your organization work? I'm sure you see a whole lot of ‘me's. I was just telling Michael last night that I've become a
type,
or an archetype maybe? Smith, I swear to God I was going to be the one holding out, working all night at Goldman, doing Sheryl Sandberg proud, leaning way waaaaay in, but it just hit me when I saw this little face. The instinct was all it took. And now look at me.” She finally stops speaking, breathless.

“You look fantastic,” Smith says. A generous and harmless lie. Yes, Fran looks puffy and tired, and yes, her monologue just now bordered on manic narcissism, but still, she looks
happy,
or is this just a grass-is-greener thing where here is Smith, in the best shape of her life by far, wanting something other than to fit into her skinny jeans?

“Where's the wedding?”

“At the Waldorf,” Smith says. “The Starlight Roof.”

“Oh, I love that space! So Gatsby!”

Smith went with Sally to look at several venues around the city, and though Sally fell in love with a raw loft space in SoHo, Bitsy argued fervently for the Waldorf, and it didn't take much for Sally to acquiesce. Sally has always been a pleaser, and good about picking her Bitsy battles, and it wasn't worth it to alienate her mother when she would be the one doing so much of the planning. They sent out save-the-dates almost a full year in advance, a thick ivory card with a black and white photograph of the Waldorf from 1971, the year their parents were married there.

“It was
so
good to see you,” Fran says, taking Smith's hands. “I'm going to track you down.”

“Do,” Smith says. “But I must run. Can't be late for the bride. Good luck with everything.”

Smith walks the length of the hall, pausing by the sleek restaurant, which hums with fashionable New Yorkers. They came here that day after they looked at rings downstairs. Asad wanted to celebrate.

Smith keeps walking and ducks into the bridal salon. The small space is hushed and smells faintly of lavender. A despondent-looking blonde perches behind a silver-leafed desk, her face lit by a computer screen. Wedding dresses hang near the entrance and Smith sifts through them. Plastic crinkles between her fingers. It's a mournful, mocking sound. She never got to the point of buying her own dress, but she'd found it in a tiny boutique. It was vintage, made of the most exquisite Chantilly lace, and had a high neck. Somehow, it was both demure and sexy. She'd wear this to the American party in the spring, and for the celebrations in Pakistan, she imagined honoring his family by doing a proper henna ceremony and donning traditional garb, one of the heavily embroidered red, pink or purple
shalwar kameez
she saw on Pinterest accompanied by heavy gold jewelry.

When Smith looks up, she sees Bitsy and Sally walking toward her. Their arms are linked and they laugh about something. Their laughter carries melodically and Smith feels a pang of envy at their lightness. They don't see her at first, but when they do, their faces change. Is it pity that fills their eyes? Is Smith seeing things?

“You don't look half as hungover as Mom described,” Sally says, giggling her Sally giggle, kissing Smith on the cheek.

The three of them are ushered to the back of the boutique and into a small fitting room. The lights are dimmed slightly and a single votive candle flickers on a glass table. Three small bottles of water wait. In the hall, deferential staffers flutter around, speaking in ominous code, ducking their heads in.

Inside the room, the dress waits, a stationary cloud of white
shrouded in thick plastic. A seamstress carefully removes the dress from its wrapping.

“Beautiful,” she mutters reverently, studying it, running her hand down its length.

Sally is quiet and careful in her undressing and something like somberness fills the room. Sally has always been more modest than Smith and now she stands here in her underwear and strapless bodice, arms crossed over her chest. Smith catches a glimpse of Sally's body. Thin, but curvy.

“I can't believe
this is it,
” Sally says sweetly, staring at herself in the mirror, straightening the waistband of her white underwear. “I'm getting
married
?”

Her voice is high and cartoonish, grating.

The seamstress helps Sally into the dress. It's enormous, princesslike, precisely what Smith predicted her sister would pick. The seamstress zips it from behind.

It fits. It fits perfectly. There is no gushing, no giddy prancing around.

Just reverential silence.

“You look gorgeous,” Smith hears herself say.

She would say this anyway, but it also happens to be true. Her sister looks like a dream—tiny waist, antique lace trimming a bodice that reveals the slightest peek of cleavage, a full ball skirt fit for fairy-tale twirling. It's now that Smith feels traces of what she's been waiting to feel, hoping to feel: happiness for her sister. But this happiness swiftly gives way to an almost eerie strangeness. There's something deeply disorienting about this moment and Smith feels light-headed, confused. They've always looked so much alike, have often been mistaken for twins. And so here she is, her mirrored self, in a wedding gown. It's like a preview of her own bridal self, a cruel image of what might have been.

“Pretty as a picture,” Bitsy croons, clasping her hands in front of her.

“So, that's it?” Sally says to the seamstress. “It's finished. No more changes?”

The seamstress nods. Smith can detect disappointment in her sister's questions, a touch of defeat. After a year of hunting for the dress, for the location, for the perfect details to capture them as a couple, the day is almost here. Which also means it's almost over.

“You know my friend Callie from Princeton?” Sally says, stepping gingerly out of the dress. “She said that she felt this slight depression the day after her wedding. I can see that. This has all been kind of
fun
.”

This makes no sense at all to Smith, but she bites her tongue. What Smith was looking forward to was what came after the wedding. The real-life part. Nights on the couch in sweatpants watching good television and bad television too, passionate debates about current events over fine restaurant meals, the milestones of pregnancy and childhood witnessed wondrously side by side.

At the front of the salon again, the three of them float saccharine good-byes to the girl behind the computer. Another bride waits with her mother now, stars in her young blue eyes.