Two of a Kind (22 page)

Jordan felt a sharp twist of guilt. How hard her mother tried—not just at Christmas, but
all
the time. She had so much on her mind too—she'd been confiding in Jordan more lately, and not just about money. There was something about a guy she knew named Darren or Derrick; he had gone and disappeared with some really valuable painting that belonged to her clients and she was worried sick. Jordan felt a rush of feeling bubbling up—love, gratitude, remorse—and she was just about to find the words for them when the bell rang and the guests started arriving and there was no time to tell her mother she was sorry for being such a brat; there was no time to tell her anything at all.

For the next hour, the house filled up. Jordan hung coats on the rack her mother set up every year, and made sure the buffet table had fresh napkins and enough plates, but Christina owned so many dishes and linens that they had never, in all the years she had been hosting this party, run out. When she was satisfied that everything was in order, she finally allowed herself to eat.

The plate she selected was white with a gold border and a pattern of pink rosebuds around the rim; at the center was a cluster of those same pink roses. Since Christina didn't confine her collecting to sets, there was only a single plate like this in the stack. It had always been Jordan's favorite. She filled it with a large serving of carrots, and a slightly smaller one of green beans. Mimi Farnsworth had brought a platter of crudités and Jordan took cauliflower, cherry tomatoes, and broccoli. She did not really understand the point of raw vegetables; without the creamy, calorie-laden dip, they had no taste at all. But they would keep her mouth occupied for a while.

“You need some protein in that meal.”

Jordan looked up. There was Andy Stern in a navy suit, white shirt, and red tie. Looking closer, Jordan saw that the tie had tiny elves all over it. How could her mother go out with a man who had elves on his tie? “Vegetables are not enough. Every meal you eat needs to have some protein,” he was saying. Jordan studied her plate—green, red, and pale yellow. So what if there was no protein? It was healthy stuff, every last, crunch-filled, tasteless bit of it. And since when did Andy Stern have the right to comment on what she ate? She was just about to say this when her mother materialized.

“Mimi's boys asked if they could see the rabbit,” she said to Jordan. And then to Andy, “Are you having a good time? Can I get you anything?”

“I'll take them upstairs,” Jordan said, relieved to have an escape. She popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. Unlike the cauliflower, it actually had flavor. “Where are they?”

“With Mimi—see her over there? Sequined sweater and black hair band?”

The boys were tugging on each of Mimi's hands. Jordan made her way across the room. “How is Quin?” asked Max, the older of the two boys.

“Does he miss us?” asked Charlie. He was five, two years younger than Max.

“He's doing great, and yes, he does miss you,” Jordan said. The boys bumped and jostled her on the stairway; some of Jordan's carrot salad ended up on the floor. Quin hadn't been interested in the carrot she'd given him this morning; maybe he'd like the cauliflower.

“He does? How do you know? What did he say?” asked Charlie.

Jordan smiled. “Well, he didn't actually
say
anything,” she said. “But something about the way he twitches his whiskers and wiggles his ears makes me think he misses you—”

“I want to see, I want to see!” squealed Charlie, and he ran up the last of the stairs and into Jordan's room. Max was right behind and Jordan followed last. But before she could enter the room, she collided with Charlie, who had turned around and was running out as quickly as he'd gone in. “He's dying!” he cried.

“What are you talking about?” said Jordan. Tears dotted Charlie's smooth pink cheeks.

“The bunny! He's shaking and everything. He's sick. He's going to die!”

“No, he's not,” Jordan said, straightening up and taking Charlie by the hand. Remembering Quin's odd behavior earlier today, she felt a cold wash of fear. Maybe he really
was
sick. “Let's go take a look together, okay?”

Quin was shaking slightly and his eyes looked wild. Also, he seemed to be breathing with difficulty. Jordan set down her plate, opened the cage, and put her hand inside. Immediately, he began to thump his hind legs so furiously that she took her hand out again.

“Is he okay?” asked Max. “Is he really going to die?”

“No, he isn't,” she said, though she wasn't sure of anything. None of the Web sites she'd consulted had described behavior like this—poor Quin looked miserable. She watched him as Charlie clung to her hand, crying noisily. “Come on,” she said to the boys. “Let's go get help.”

“Help,” repeated Max.

“My bunny,” whimpered Charlie.

She ushered both boys downstairs again and went looking for her mother. There she was—talking to Andy. “Mom,” she said. “I need you
right
now.”

“Is everything okay?” She seemed reluctant to pull away from her conversation.

“No,” she said. “It isn't.” The boys were looking up at Christina anxiously. “Something's wrong with Quin. He's shaking. I've never seen him like this and I don't know what to do.”

“Do you think we should take him to the vet? There's an emergency clinic down on Fourth Avenue.”

“Can I take him there?” Jordan said. “Now?”

Before Christina could answer, Andy Stern said, “Maybe I can help.” Jordan wanted to say,
Are you crazy? You're not a vet!
but Christina was already saying, “Yes, yes, that's a good idea;
would
you take a look at him? You have a way with animals—Jordan, you should have seen him with that cat!” Charlie, whose tears had tapered off since they'd come downstairs, was crying again and this time he was joined by his brother. Mimi came over and the boys repeated the story. Jordan had to choke back her anger as they all trooped upstairs and watched while Andy opened the cage. So what if he had climbed a tree and calmed some random cat? To hear her mother tell it, you'd think it was a tiger.

Andy slipped a hand into the cage. “He's not going to like that,” warned Jordan. The thumping started again, but that didn't seem to concern Andy; he gently palpated Quin's sides. The rabbit shuddered. “What are you doing?” Jordan said. “I
told
you he wouldn't like it. You're hurting him; can't you see? Stop it!”

“Jordan, you're being rude,” Christina said. “Andy's only trying to help—”

“But he's not!”

“What did you say this rabbit's name was?” said Andy.

“Quin. It's short for Harlequin.”

“Well, you might want to consider changing the name.”

“What does his name have to do with it?” Jordan said. “Is he all right? What did you do to him?”

“Not him,” Andy said. “Her. Quin is a female and I just helped her give birth.”

Astonished, Jordan looked in the cage. There, inside, were several raw-looking lumps; their ears were the naked pink of the uncooked ham.

“Baby bunnies!” crooned Charlie.

“He's a mommy,” added Max.

“Not he—she,” said Mimi. She turned to Jordan. “I didn't know when I gave her to you; I thought she was a male.”

“But how did
that
happen?” Christina asked.

“Ella Kim,” said Jordan. She began counting the babies.

“Ella Kim?” asked her mother.

“I've been hanging out with her in school and I found out she had a rabbit too—a male. I told her she could bring him here over Thanksgiving—her family was going away—and I'd take care of him for her.”

“Oh, I remember now,” Christina said.

“The gestation period in rabbits is around thirty days,” said Andy. “So that sounds about right.”

“Did you learn
that
in med school?” Mimi asked.

Andy grinned. “No. Years ago Oliver had a rabbit. I did a quick immersion course and it seems to have stayed with me.” He looked at the babies. “You'll need to remove the mother from the cage and place her back in once or twice a day, to nurse them. And you'll have to check on the kits and make sure they're all getting fed; you can weigh them to be sure. Have you counted them?”

“There are ten,” said Jordan.

“Bunnies! Baby bunnies!” chanted Max. He took his brother's hands and began to dance. “Ten bunnies, twenty bunnies, a hundred bunnies!” Mimi used her phone to snap pictures.

“Hey, what are you guys doing up here?”

Jordan looked over at the doorway and there was Oliver.

“Your father was assisting in a birth,” Christina said. “Ten brand-new baby rabbits, born on Christmas Day.”

“Way to go, Dad,” said Oliver as he approached the cage.

But instead of answering Oliver, Andy looked right at Jordan, as if to say,
Am I okay in your book now?
And although she didn't want it to happen, Jordan found the brittle shell of her dislike starting to crack, just the slightest but still perceptible bit. She answered the mute question with a slow, deliberate nod.

“Andy, you said the mother needs to be separated from the babies; should I find a box?” asked Christina.

“That's a good idea,” said Andy. “At least temporarily.”

Oliver edged closer to the cage. “I guess having a doctor in the family is kind of handy,” he said in a low voice.

Jordan turned around to stare at him. Who said anything about their being a
family
? Still, it was comforting to have everyone up here, trying to help. What would have happened if Andy hadn't been around? Oliver was making little sounds at the rabbits; he didn't seem to expect a reply. But Jordan had to admit—if only to herself—that maybe, just
maybe
, he had a point.

A
ndy opened the cupboard in the kitchen, hoping to find a box of pods for the espresso maker. A morning without espresso was a dismal prospect, but he supposed he could get an infusion somewhere if it turned out Lucy had forgotten to buy them.

“What time did you get in?”

He turned and there was his mother.

“Oh, it must have been about four o'clock,” he said. Still no pods. Damn.

“And you're up so early?”

“This is late for me,” he said. It was almost eight; he was always up before six, even on the weekends, but he'd been on call last night and there had been an emergency delivery. The mother had been diagnosed with preeclampsia and had only just hit twenty-six weeks; Andy hated to deliver a baby that early. He'd had her on complete bed rest, hoping to delay the birth for at least a week, but last night she'd called complaining of a headache and impaired vision. When he examined her, he also found the rapid heart rate and abdominal pain: bad signs, all of them. There was no choice; he had to deliver her. The baby, a boy, was born after several difficult hours of labor. He was tiny—not even three pounds—but alive, and when Andy had left the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, mother and child were both doing reasonably well. He'd check in on them later today, but right now he needed caffeine. Urgently. “I seem to be all out of coffee and I was going to run out for a cup. Do you want me to bring you something back?”

“I'll wait. We can have breakfast together.”

Despite the early hour, her gray hair was neatly styled and she wore very pink lipstick. Andy noted that it matched her bathrobe; did she do that intentionally? Did he need to ask? “Maybe Oliver will be up and he can join us,” he said. As if he knew he was being discussed, Oliver appeared in the kitchen. He was all dressed—or least what passed for dressed with him—in shredded jeans, a peacoat that looked two sizes too big, and a lumpy-looking wool hat. “Hey, Grandma,” Oliver said. He crossed the room to deposit a kiss on Ida's cheek. “How did you sleep? Isn't the room great? I helped Christina with it, you know.”

“It's very nice,” Ida said. “Though that quilt looks fragile. I thought I could see some tears in the fabric.”

“That's 'cause it's, like, a hundred years
old
,” Oliver said. “Maybe even more. Mom would have loved it.”

“Yes, she would have.” Ida looked at Andy; Andy looked away. “Anyway, why are you wearing your jacket? Are you going somewhere?”

“I'm meeting Christina; I'm going to do some stuff at Old First and when the service is over, she said she'd take me to breakfast.”

“What's Old First?” Ida asked.

“Christina's church. They do a lot of really cool stuff. I've been helping out.”

“And going to the service? Is that considered part of helping out?”

Andy saw Oliver's eyes—blue, and so like his mother's—widen. “No,” Oliver said. “But I like going. The pastor is way into social justice and politics and everything.” His gaze shifted from his grandmother back to Andy. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Ask your father,” said Ida tightly.

Jesus,
Andy thought.
Now I'm in for it.
And I haven't even had my damn coffee.

It was only after Oliver had given them both a cheery good-bye that Ida spoke again. “She's taking him to church?” she said. “And you're
letting
her?”

“It's not such a big deal, Ma,” he said. But actually, it was. He had no idea Oliver was going to church with Christina. He knew about the volunteering—not from Oliver as much as from Christina—and he thought it was a good thing. Get the kid out of the apartment, away from the computer. Christina had praised Oliver: his good spirits, his willingness to extend himself, his generosity. Oliver decided the church needed better cookware and ordered an impressive, enamel-covered cast-iron set from Williams-Sonoma. He showed up with other kitchen utensils—apple corer, colander, whisk, measuring cups—and had kept the community pantry well stocked. Andy was fine with all that; he was pleased that Oliver was helping a worthy cause. But helping and worshipping were two different things. He'd have to talk to Christina about it. Only first he needed coffee. “I think you're wrong,” Ida said. “It is a big deal. A very big deal. And you'd be a fool not to see it.”

“Oh, so now I'm a fool?” he said.

“If you let this continue without taking a stand—yes. You are.”

“I'll talk to Oliver about it.”

“It's not Oliver you have to talk to. It's
her
.”

“She has a name, Ma,” he said quietly.

“Jewish, not Jewish—you asked me what difference it made,” she said as if he had not spoken. “Well,
this
is the difference, you see? She wants to take him from you.”

“That's not true,” he said reflexively. But he had to ask himself whether in fact it was.

“And I know where that leads,” she said. She extended her arm, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe. There were the familiar blue numbers, faded and blurred by now.

Andy was shocked—not by the numbers themselves; he was used to them. But by her gesture—he'd never known her to make such a pointed reference before.

“You know, you can have that removed,” he said. “There are ways to do it now.”

“I don't want to,” she said. “I've had this since I was a girl. It's part of me now. It reminds me. And I wish it would remind you too.”

There was a tense, charged silence. Andy was the one to finally break it. “I need to call the hospital and check on a patient I delivered last night. After I do that, let's go out and get something to eat. Then we'll go to the Met. That's what you wanted, right?”

“No, you're too tired,” she said.

“That's all right; I could still—”

“You don't have to pretend,” she said. “We'll do it another time.”

Andy was relieved; he truly didn't want to go to the Met today. They went to brunch, and afterward, she would not accept a lift home, but insisted on going by car service. When she had gone, Andy felt an unfamiliar lull in the usual treadmill of his life. He had earmarked the day for his mother and now she was gone. In her absence, he had nowhere he had to be right now, nothing to do, no one to see.

He opened the door to Oliver's room. It was surprisingly, even shockingly, neat. No papers or dirtied plates scattered around, clothes were in the hamper or the closet and dresser drawers. On the floor was a recently acquired Navajo rug, the blues, red, purples, and black all woven in a bold, arrowlike design. The rug had come through Christina and was not cheap—it had cost several thousand dollars—but she assured him it was a good investment and Oliver loved it. He seemed to love anything connected with Christina. Too bad Jordan didn't display a similar enthusiasm for him. Oh, it had gotten a bit better since Christmas and the birth of the rabbits, especially since he'd shown up the next day with a new cage for the dam and enough rabbit supplies to stock a small store. And he'd even found homes for half of them—his receptionist, Joanne, had taken rabbits for each of her five nephews and nieces. So there had been a thaw, but by no means a full-on melt; he could still feel the chill.

Andy sat down on the bed. Maybe he could rest here for a few minutes. There was something comforting about being in Oliver's room, even without Oliver in it. He let his head sink down onto the pillow and closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was dark. Disoriented, he checked the glowing dial on his watch. Almost five. Lucy had left some dinner for him to microwave, but he did not want to sit there and eat alone. On impulse, he took his jacket and scarf and headed out into the January evening. It was just a few days after New Year's Eve, when he and Christina had gone to the theater and then supper at the Firebird, a Russian restaurant on Forty-sixth Street that she had loved. Everything had seemed so promising then; where was that promise now?

He began walking east, toward the hospital. Maybe Oliver would be getting home by now. He texted him and waited for the reply. There was none. The wind had picked up and Andy adjusted the scarf around his neck. He thought about how devastated he was when Oliver was kicked out of school. He'd considered trying to persuade Cunningham to take Oliver back; in his forceful mode he was pretty damn effective. Some instinct, however, told him this was not the way. Oliver needed to prove that he deserved another chance. Which Oliver seemed disinclined to do. He was not particularly upset about getting kicked out; he said he wasn't even sure he wanted to return to school at all.
And what kind of life do you think you're going to
have without a goddamn high school diploma?
Andy wanted to shout.
Do you think
you're going to live off my money for the rest of your life without any effort on your
part?
He'd managed to refrain from saying this—largely through Christina's intervention—but he still certainly felt it. What the hell
was
the kid going to do with himself? They had managed to come to a quasi-compromise: Oliver agreed to meet with a tutor twice a week, just to keep up with the schoolwork he should have been doing had he been enrolled at Morningside. In exchange, he could spend the rest of the time hanging out in Brooklyn, doling out chili and corn bread to the homeless, a noble calling to be sure, but, without a degree in hand, one that wasn't going to get the boy very far.

Andy arrived at the hospital and stepped into the perpetually overheated lobby. Bright lights shone down from the fixtures above; the security guard nodded in his direction. Andy knew about going far; he was the living, breathing example. No dad around, mom working two and sometimes three jobs to keep them afloat. He busted his ass studying in college only to find out that his undergraduate days were
nothing
, a picnic, a day at the
beach
, compared with med school. The cramming he'd done, the all-nighters, the ball-breaking, mind-numbing grind of it, all in the service of leaving that life he'd led above the butcher shop far behind.

Oliver had none of his urgency, none of his desperation. Everything had been easy for him—everything except watching his mother die of cancer. The elevator came and the doors slid open. Yeah, Oliver would have plenty of money and the ease that went with it. But the jagged place hacked out by Rachel's premature and agonizing death would always be there.

Andy stopped at the desk on the maternity floor to say hello to the nurses; he knew them all up here and they of course knew him. “Back so soon?” said one. “I thought you'd be home sleeping.”

“Can't stay away,” Andy said. “How's Mrs. Petrinovic?”

“She's fine,” said the nurse.

“Good,” said Andy. “How's the baby?”

The nurse looked over at one of her coworkers. “The baby's not doing so well, Dr. Stern. He had a fever; it was pretty high. They've got him in the neonatal ICU for testing.”

“He's a preemie,” Andy said. “That could explain it.” He knew there was something wrong last night, damn it. He just
knew
.

“It could be,” said the nurse. “But neonatal doesn't think so.”

Andy debated whether he should go over to neonatal now, or see his patient first. He decided on the latter, smoothing back his windblown hair before knocking. “Hello, Olga,” he said after being told to come in. She'd been staring out the window but turned when he greeted her. Her hospital gown was limp and there were dark smudges under her eyes.

“Did he tell you?” she asked. “About the baby?”

“Only that he had a fever.”

“They think he might have some . . . syndrome.”

“But they don't know for sure.”

“No,” said Olga. “But today I had a visit from Dr. Perry.” Dr. Perry was the head of the neonatal unit.

“Olga,” he said, crossing the room in two swift strides. “Olga, I'm so sorry.” He took her hands in his. “There was no evidence during the pregnancy, nothing that could have predicted this—”

“I know, Dr. Stern. It's not your fault.”

But he felt like it was anyway. She told him they had decided to call the baby Artyom. “Valentin says he always liked that name.” Valentin Petrinovic was a newly minted Russian billionaire; he'd just bought a Fifth Avenue triplex that was rumored to have cost twenty million dollars. So at least there would be doctors and specialists; every option for treatment would be explored.

The walk home was cold and dispiriting. He'd left his scarf somewhere in the hospital and did not have the energy to go back to get it. A buzz from his phone let him know there was a text message from Oliver. Finally.

Staying over @ Christina's 2-nite. Home tomorrow.

Staying over at Christina's? What the
hell
was that all about? He wanted to call Christina, who had in fact texted him as well, but he didn't trust himself not to blow up at her. So instead, he let himself into the dark, silent apartment—maybe he needed one of those damn rabbits himself, just to have some warm-blooded creature to come home to—and poured himself a brandy from the little bar Christina had created in the living room. He'd sip the drink slowly, unwind, and then call her. There—that showed some self-restraint, didn't it?

She
had
been pretty rattled lately—some restorer she'd recommended to her clients had gone AWOL and she was getting more and more freaked-out about it. Not that she had any legal liability as far as he could see. The couple had agreed to give the painting to this Blascoe guy, signed whatever papers he gave them to sign, and let him cart the thing away. It wasn't Christina's fault that he had now disappeared. Try telling her that, though. He'd actually suggested that she hire a private detective and offered to pay for it too, but she flat-out refused.