The Ramblers (8 page)

“Have you ever had one?” she asks.

He shakes his head. This does not surprise her. He's not wired that way.

“They're so awful, Henry. You feel like the walls are closing in, like your lungs and your heart are just going to stop, like you're going to die even though you know that it's all irrational. I had them in waves since college, sometimes two or three a week, but I haven't had one in a while. Since before I met you.” Henry smiles at this.

“Last night was a lot, Henry. The party was wonderful and I had
a really fine time, but I think I was more anxious than I realized and then the apartment and your saying all of these incredibly meaningful things about the future. I just—”

“Look, Clio,” he interrupts, a hint of anger in his voice. “It wasn't right of me to put all of this on you, to catch you off guard like that. You were exhausted, and I had far too much to drink, and believe me when I tell you I'm feeling my share of shame today. I'm typically a bit more cautious in my dealings with you. You know that.”

“I do,” Clio says meekly. “I don't want you to have to be cautious with me, but it just felt so out of the blue, that suddenly the world was moving so fast. I feel like you barely know me.”

He pauses. Considers this.

“I'm not sure that's fair. I think I know a good deal about you,” he says. “I know that you do this soft, hiccuplike thing when you sleep. I know that you walk to the window when you have an idea for work or are feeling overwhelmed by something. I know that you would prefer having your nose in a book to doing most anything else. I know that your favorite color is red and that you drink your coffee extra sweet and that you love raw cookie dough and have never in your life tried calamari. I know that you love subtitled films and that your movie snacks are Milk Duds and extra-buttery popcorn. I appreciate that there is far more to you, Clio, and I want to learn it all, but you can't say that I don't know you.”

He's been paying attention. Each detail lifts her. She reaches for his hand. He laces his fingers in hers.

“Look, Clio. Before you, there were affairs. Nothing more. And I was surprised at how different I felt when I met you. Truth is, I was going to wait. I know you're going home this week to pack up the house, and it's all loaded emotionally, and I vowed to myself to wait until you were back and the hotel was moving and grooving, but then I saw you across the bar for the first time in three weeks and you looked so beautiful. And I was just overcome with something I've never in my
life felt, something I can't explain, and I just couldn't wait. I love you and I want this, Clio. I'm afraid I was rather under the impression that we were on the same page, that this was mutual.”

“It is,” Clio says. “But there are some things I need to tell you, Henry. Things about my past. About my family.”

“Then
tell me,
” he says, his blue eyes wide and pleading. “Tell me everything.”

“I will,” she says. “But you've got to give me some time.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding, looking down. “If that's what you need. Has it even occurred to you that I might be scared too?”

And this, this question, for some reason, it stuns her and changes everything. Because, no, it hasn't occurred to her that he might be scared. What in the world does he have to be scared of?

“You are?” she says. “You're scared?”

“I am,” he says. “I'm old, Clio. I'm getting on in age and it suddenly occurs to me that I might want more than a bunch of hotels and I guess I'm scared that maybe I've missed the boat and it's too late, or maybe that I'm terrible at all of this. I know how to open a hotel with my eyes closed, but I'm not sure I know how to do
this
.”

Clio looks into his eyes. There's so much hope there, mixed in with the blue.

“Your brother showed up on my walk today,” she says.

“I know. He confessed when I saw him earlier.”

“He loves you a lot.”

Henry smiles a weak smile. “It was good to see him. Made me realize how much I miss him and his kids and the rest of my family. You really are so lucky to have your dad so close. A mere stone's throw, really.”

Lucky. She's never thought of it this way. That she's lucky to have her father so close. She's spent so many years now trying to put distance between herself and her parents, herself and her past, but maybe she is in fact lucky on some level. She thinks of her father all alone
in that decrepit house, swimming in a sea of cardboard boxes, eating dinner after dinner alone, all of the times she felt she should hop a train and be with him but couldn't bring herself to. It was all too hard.

Henry orders another round of room service.

The food arrives quickly and they quietly tuck into a sumptuous feast. Clio tastes everything, savoring the range of flavors—the nutty smoothness of the pumpkin gnocchi, the tang of the blue cheese burger, the earthy tones of the papery vegetable terrine. Henry does what Henry does, presiding over it all, passing her a beer.

“So, how was the first day?” she says.

“Oh, I think as first days of hotels go, it was pretty grand.” He laughs.

When her phone rings, it startles her. A number she doesn't recognize appears on the screen, stirs anxiety. She doesn't answer. It rings again. The same number. Henry asks if she needs to answer it, but she shakes her head no. Who keeps calling her? There's no voice mail when she checks.

“You know what?” he says, cutting the quiet.

“What?” Clio says.

“I think everything will be just fine.” It's as if he can read her mind, as if he knows how desperately she needs this assurance. And maybe, in a way, he
can
read her mind. Maybe this is how it works when it works: someone begins to know you, not perfectly, never perfectly, but well enough to look you in the eye and guess what you need.

Everything will be just fine.

It's something a mother might say. A mother other than the kind Clio had.

Clio's been waiting far too long for someone to say this.

She's waited far too long to believe it.

“I know it's my turn to choose the show, but let's do a little
Downton
. You, my Bird Girl, have had quite the twenty-four hours.”

She leans over and kisses him and burrows her face into his chest,
listens to the defiant thrum of his beating heart. When she pulls away, she knows what she wants to do, what she must do. She thinks of the Andean hummingbirds she saw up in the mountains, their tiny bodies evolving so that they can survive at higher and higher altitudes. She can't hesitate. If she does, she might lose her nerve.

“Come home with me, Henry?” she says. “I want you to meet my father.”

Monday, November 25, 2013

Start where you are.

—Pema Chödrön,
Comfortable with Uncertainty

SMITH ANDERSON

theorderofthings.net

A
s founder of the Order of Things, LLC, I believe that organization and tranquility in the home lead to organization and tranquility in the head and heart. I tackle each project with comprehensive, tailor-made innovation, streamlining the homes, schedules and daily lives of my loyal and discerning clients. Without fail, my no-nonsense approach yields exceptional results and enduring change. With a BA in psychology and physics from Yale University and an MBA in management from Columbia University, I began my career as a management consultant with McKinsey, a profession in which I thrived due to my innate passion for detail and efficiency. Today I apply those skills and passion to train my clients to clear their homes of burdensome clutter, simplify overbooked days and improve quality of life. I've gained a reputation for imagining solutions that are unique, practical and aesthetically superior. I transform the entire essence of each space. From powerful executives to time-strapped parents, my clients celebrate my incomparable mix of Ivy League intelligence, resolute confidentiality and abiding de
votion to design. I have appeared on the
Today
show and
Good Morning America
and am regularly featured in the
New York Times
and
New York Post, Psychology Today,
and
O, The Oprah Magazine,
among other publications. I am at work on my first book on clutter theory, cognitive dissonance and the butterfly effect.

Smith Anderson

“Shit. Shit. Fuck.”

S
mith opens her eyes. The world is sideways.

This can't be happening. But it is. Oh, fuck, it is.

She's on the floor of her bathroom. Curled into a fetal ball, her left cheek pressed to the statuary marble, that perfect slab she painstakingly picked from a stone yard in Queens. She blinks, rubs her leaden eyes and wonders if it's possible she's dreaming. She sure as hell hopes so.

But no.

This is very much real.

All is blurry for a moment, but then two alarming details snap into focus: One, her brand-new iPhone sits on the edge of a pond of brown, lumpy liquid that can only be vomit. Two, she is for some reason wearing her bridesmaid dress.

Shit.

She sits up slowly. Looks down at the diaphanous dress, a bold sapphire with a portrait neckline fit for one of Henry VIII's fucking wives, picked to match the blue art deco ceiling of the Starlight Roof at the Waldorf. The Valentino fall 2013 ready-to-wear season, Sally explained with considerable animation—fashion is a near-pathological hobby of hers—was inspired by the private sensuality depicted in serene portraits of women.
Think Vermeer,
she said.

Fuck Vermeer.

Smith surveys the damage. There's plenty. An enormous crusty stain snakes down the front. In the center of the stain, a noodle dangles. She removes it and is suddenly hit with the odor of two things she utterly deplores: Chinese food and bourbon. For better or worse, she's always had a keen sense of smell.

Too nauseated to stand or to do anything at all, Smith sits for a moment and indulges in a stream of punishing thoughts.
What the fuck?

Time passes. It can't be said how much, but eventually she uses the edge of the tub to pull herself to stand, and as she does, she wipes the side of her face with a shaky hand and peeks down into the toilet. The evidence is pungent, a muddy and mocking yellow brown. More noodles—chewed and intact—float on the surface of the water. Lo mein, she presumes. It's all too much to behold; she gags, comes close to losing it again. She flushes the toilet, bends down and fishes her phone from the floor, dabs it dry with a hand towel. She walks it to the vanity and plugs it in. The screen lights up, but she sees now that it is woefully cracked.

Shit.

To add punishment to punishment, Smith studies herself in the Venetian mirror that hangs over the bathroom sink. Her eyes are as puffy as they feel, bloodshot and shame glossed, the blue of her irises hardly visible through small slits. Dregs of makeup are caked on her wan face. Her long dark hair is a tangled bird's nest. She opens the medicine cabinet and grabs two small bottles. Shakes a vitamin D capsule and
an omega-3 supplement into her palm. Washes them both down with a gulp of filtered water from the faucet. Just when she thinks things cannot get any worse, they do. One earlobe is bare; she's missing one of her two-carat diamond studs. A business school graduation gift from her parents.

Fuck.

Pieces of last night come back in fierce, unsettling flashes. Dots connect. A picture takes shape. Tate. He's to blame for this. Or, perhaps, to thank? Interestingly, even this morning, even immersed in this nightmare Kafkaesque scene, the thought of him stirs a smile. Is it possible that she likes him? She's almost forgotten what these flutters feel like; she hasn't liked someone new in so long.

What happened last night? She remembers leaving the Boathouse around sunset. Tate was exuberant and animated. His arm linked in hers, he had a suggestion.

Let's walk around. Play Tipsy Tourist. I'm new to New York again.
Come on. Let's go explore the city.

Malachy's.

Nothing like a tried-and-true Irish pub.

The 1 train downtown.

The exquisite grit of the underground. Those rats get a bad rap.

Margaritas at Caliente.

We need pizza.

Grimaldi's in SoHo.

Holding his hand—wait, they were holding hands?

One more drink . . .

The Dead Poet. Bourbon.

So, wanna come to a wedding with me Saturday?

Indeed. I dig a good boozefest. Who's getting married?

My younger sister.

Ohhhhh.
Awkward silence.

Shit. Shit. Fuck.

She steps on something sharp and screams out, her shrill voice mar
ring the quiet, and lowers herself to sit on the edge of the tub. She lifts her foot and sees that her diamond earring has pierced her heel. She pulls it out and blood begins to stream. All over her white skin and her white floor. And the train of the dress.

She hears a muffled noise in the distance. A slamming door. Then silence.

Footsteps.

The bathroom doorknob turns.

She's not alone.

“What's gotten into you?”

W
hat in the heavens?” Bitsy stands in the bathroom doorway, towering over her. She wears a pink robe, shearling slippers, a halo of curlers. She appears to be somewhat winded. “Why on earth did you choose to lose your dinner on the Valentino?”

“There was no choice involved, Mom,” Smith says, looking down. She feels the pills in her throat, as if they are caught. She takes another sip of water. Tries to swallow.

“There's always choice involved,” Bitsy says, a flash of judgment in her eyes.

“The good news is that I found my earring,” Smith says, rinsing it under the faucet.

“Oh, is it silver-lining time?” Bitsy says, grinning, eyes twinkling, and steps behind Smith to
unzip the dress. How did she zip herself into it last night? She has no recollection of trying it on.

“Whatever happened to knocking?” Smith says. Historically, this sweeping in unannounced, common in these parts, hasn't bothered Smith so much, but today she feels her blood beginning to boil. Is maintaining a modicum of privacy too much to ask?

“I've been knocking for twelve hours. I came to see if you were okay. You didn't show up for Sunday dinner, you didn't call, you didn't answer your phone, you upset your sister, you worried me. Your father is up in arms. None of this is like you, so I decided to pay you a little visit. Never did I expect such comedy. What in the world happened to you?”

“Suddenly you're worried that I'm okay? I've had the shittiest year of my life and you've been off in the pastures with Sally picking linens and china and now you're concerned? Better check in on the
other daughter
and make sure she's not going to
totally
lose her shit the week of golden girl's wedding. That would be highly unfortunate and reflect poorly on you and Thatch. We wouldn't want that.”

“What's gotten into you?” Bitsy says. “If you must know, your father is very concerned about you. He's the one who insisted I come check in on you, but I was a bit delayed getting here because I had to chase poor Esmeralda down to the lobby. Your father fired her
again
. The week of the wedding! Thank the Lord, I convinced her to stay, but what an ugly spectacle. The doorman and that nice family from 12B were
staring
.”

Smith hears something. It takes a moment to realize she's laughing. “Dad's an asshole, Mom. That's hardly a news flash.”

Her mother laughs. “I suppose he is a bit
difficult,
but he loves you, Smith. And he's worried about you. I am, too.”

“Because I didn't show up for one dinner? I was out, Mom. I lost track of time. My phone died. It's not a big deal.”

“You know it's more than
one dinner,
love. You haven't been your
self recently and I know you're
busy
and you have your own life, but I'm your mother and I'm allowed to be concerned.”

Bitsy fumbles around under the bathroom vanity for paper towels and cleaning supplies.

“Stop, Mom. I'll do it.”

Bitsy ignores her daughter and gets down on the floor to clean. She holds her nose with one hand as she works with the other, capturing hardened vomit with several layers of organic paper towels, stuffing it all into a thick garbage bag Smith holds open. Smith then sprays a chemical-free room freshener again and again, but it does little to mask the stench. She takes the bag from her mother and carries it to the service entrance, placing it down outside the door. She wonders if the maintenance guy will be onto her.

Bitsy flashes a mischievous grin. “So, tell me, who was he?”

“He?”

How does her mother know there was a he?

“I know these things, dear, and trust me, I don't give a fig if you tied one on with some mystery ziff. Truth is, we were all talking about it just last night, that you need to loosen up and have a little fun after everything with . . . well, despite the mess, I'm pleased you've given it a go.”

After everything with . . .
Her mother can't even bring herself to say Asad's name. It eats at Smith, the way it always does when the subject comes up with her family, that while she's been devastated about the breakup all of this time, her parents have been
relieved
. Her mother's saccharine words, which she uttered again and again during that impossible time, repeat in Smith's head now, a sickening script:
It's for the best, Muffin. It's for the best. Marriage is difficult enough as it is without such an obvious hurdle.

“I really wish I weren't fodder for family gossip,” Smith says. “Don't you all have better things to talk about than my dating life or lack thereof?”

“That's what happens when you skip family dinner, love. Practically written into boilerplate of the Anderson Contract. We all talk about each other, always lovingly—well, mostly lovingly—and particularly behind backs. Speaking of which, your sister is acting like a space cadet and your father chooses
now
to dabble in insomnia and gobble up all manner of sleeping pills and I might just smack him upside the head because he hasn't lifted a twitchetty finger for this quaint little wedding that's
days away
.”

“Oh, is it? I hadn't noticed. No one has really mentioned the wedding.”

Her mother doesn't laugh. “Look, dear, can the sarcasm. It's not becoming. I know this wedding business must be incredibly hard for you. She's not just your sister but your
younger
sister, and she's getting
married,
and look at you this morning. A royal mess. And that's all right, my sweet. It's only natural that you'd be in a bit of an existential tizzy over this, but you can't take it out on your sister. She loves you and she thinks you're giving her the cold shoulder.”

The cold shoulder? Smith feels her body stiffening and her face growing hot. Is her mother actually saying these things? One admittedly untoward morning and now Smith is a disaster? And this cold-shoulder business? Total bullshit.

“Need I remind you that I've spent the last year of my life acting as her proxy at wedding-planner meetings she was too busy to make, giving serious thought to floral arrangements and table linens and whether we should have one or two photo booths and what kind of artisanal cocktails we should serve? I've been at Sally's beck and call and I've been happy to do this, but I'm allowed to have my own life and last time I checked, one evening does not a cold shoulder make. And, for the record, Sally has been in another world with Briggs and hasn't exactly been making an effort to hang out with me, which makes sense. I get it. It's their time.”

Smith remembers the prologue to her would-be wedding well. Those two months were, hands down, the best of her life, a breathless
blur of sex and daydreams about their future. They agreed they'd try to get pregnant on their honeymoon; he was five years older and neither of them wanted to waste any time starting a family. She began to scour baby-name blogs. The fact that his family, tucked away in Pakistan, didn't know about her yet, and the fact that her family—the opposite of tucked away—had outright reservations, all of this obviously concerned her, but also added a hot, illicit edge to it all.

“For the record, dear, not that anyone's asking, but this hasn't been a cakewalk for me, either. Have you even thought about that? This wedding has been a lot of
work
and I'm not sure any of you appreciate how
taxing
this has all been on me. Not to mention, the thought of giving one of you away has me a speck rattled.”

Smith chuckles. “Giving one of us away? You sound like I do with my clients when we're pruning a shoe collection.”

Bitsy smiles. “Well, wouldn't that mean that you're the keeper? The one I can't bear to part with?”

“Yes, if this was all your doing. But it's not. Sally's the one who's moving on. And yours truly? Busy standing still and ruining gowns.”

“Isn't that the truth? I will take that beleaguered thing to Marta at the cleaners, but even she isn't a miracle worker. Let's cross our fingers, shall we? Promise me you will meet us for the fitting later at Bergdorf's?”

Bergdorf's. The mere mention makes her wistful even though this is ridiculous. It's still just a store.

“Did I tell you? A four-bedroom is opening up on the fourth floor. Sally and I are going to look at it tomorrow morning. It looks like the owners on the other side of them won't budge, so a combination seems out of the question and two bedrooms aren't sufficient for more than one kid. Although you girls always did share a room. That was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions we ever made, keeping you two together. You two were always so close, Smith.”

The past tense. All in the past tense.

“And we still are, Mom,” Smith says, wondering if this is entirely
true. The last year has brought distance, but that's only natural. They're at entirely different points in their lives. “Clio's probably moving out soon too. Henry renovated a full apartment for them on the top floor of the hotel.”

At this news, Bitsy's eyes twinkle. “Isn't that something? An old-fashioned gentleman, that Henry. And, my Lord, I can't get over how beautiful Clio's looking these days. Just goes to show what love can do. She was an awkward thing in college, but my, how she's blossomed. And she looks so
young
. Not a day over twenty-five, I'd say.”

“Okay, got the memo. Clio looks good. Gets better with age, unlike the rest of us mere mortals,” Smith says.

Bitsy laughs. “I always thought you'd end up with someone older like Henry, some man about town, you know.”

“Is that how you imagined things? Interesting,” Smith says, aware of the edge in her voice.

How is this helpful? How is this remotely helpful? How about:
I'm sorry that your two best friends in the world are moving on. That must be difficult.

“So,” Bitsy says, “how's the toast coming?”

“It will come together,” Smith says. “I'm trying to identify a few salient themes.”

“I have no doubt that you'll say something wonderful and
appropriate,
” Bitsy says.

“Are you worried that I'm going to fly off the handle and say something inappropriate? That maybe I'll use my soapbox to make Thatch squirm? Maybe I'll tell about that one time in the Hamptons when he got so ripped that he confessed to Sally and me that he'd rather have had sons. That would work because I could make some quip about how then he wouldn't have had to pay for this outlandish wedding.”

“Don't even joke about that,” Bitsy says, the slightest smile riding her lips.

“Calm down, Bits. You and I both know I will bite my tongue and
say something perfectly controlled and disingenuous that makes you burst with pride,” Smith says. “Relax.”

“Ha. Isn't that a joke? Relax when this wedding is mere minutes away and my to-do list is a mile long? I will be elated when this whole thing is done and dusted. Anyway, a thought. In your speech, you could mention your minimalism and your sister's—what's the word . . . You've always been
neat as a pin
. Even as a baby, you'd sit there in your high chair, sorting your foods by category and color. Barely needed a bib. Your sister, on the other hand, was a revolutionary slob, always sporting a fetching sweet potato beard. And have you seen her apartment recently? I know that she's been spending the bulk of her time at Briggs's packing up his things, but her place is an untoward sty. I keep dropping hints that our housekeeper can come to her more than once per week, but she refuses.”

“The illustrious doctor perhaps has more important things to worry about than keeping house,” Smith says. “Such things are the dominion of us lesser folk.”

Smith feels herself getting riled. The daily transcendental meditation has helped considerably but is clearly no silver bullet. Her mother must leave before she loses it.

Bitsy fixes her with a stare. “We're proud of you both. Period.”

Bullshit, but she's too exhausted to go there. “I need some coffee,” Smith mumbles to herself. She makes her way to the kitchen. Bitsy follows.

Smith flips on the light in the kitchen and startles. It's a mess. Chinese food cartons and chopsticks are scattered on the counter. Four empty bottles of Red Stripe beer are lined up by the sink, the other two in the cardboard carrier. She lifts a bottle to her nose and inhales. The sour smell brings her back to college, the last time she drank beer. A paper bag sits on the marble floor and Smith grabs for it and studies the delivery receipt.
The Cottage. 12:49 a.m.
She works to remember. Shards come back to her. The doorman calling up, the man at her door,
Tate standing in her kitchen cracking open the beers. His words:
Look at you, still on the parentals' golden leash.

“Let's get some coffee into those veins then and perk you right up,” Bitsy says, walking toward the Keurig machine. She pops it open and fiddles with it. “How do you even work this thing? Why does everything have to be so complex these days? What are these little cup jobs?”

“They're called pods, Mom. Let me do that.”

Bitsy swats her hand away. “Not a chance. If I am going to keep up with you girls and all of your ‘technology,'” she says, making air quotes, “I must force myself to learn.”

Bitsy presses a button. The machine growls. “Success!” she declares, clapping her hands, ducking and squinting to watch the coffee drip.

“Just so you know, you missed quite the war over the seating chart at dinner last night,” her mother says. “Your sister and I have
very
different ideas of how to do it. I was counting on you to be there to play peacekeeper.”

“Um, I might need you to add a plus-one for me,” Smith says sheepishly.

“My, my. Is it the guy from last night?” her mother says, grinning. “I knew you'd pull something off in the eleventh hour.”