Dedication (7 page)

December 22, 2005

“Only for you,” Mom shakes her head as we inch the Honda down Main Street, television vans abutting us on every side.

“Only for him,” I retort as a pack of ski parkas with cameras aloft appears suddenly in the headlights.

She brakes sharply, her right arm automatically extending, pinning me against my seat. “This better
not
be for him.”

I smile at the reflex as she returns her hand to the wheel. “I told you, I’m here for me.” I gesture to the fogged windows.
“They
are not.”

“You mean not yet.”

I sink down, tucking my nose under her borrowed scarf.

She takes a left out of traffic onto the relative quiet of Adams Street. “What happened to Rent-a-Flick?” I ask as we pass the shingled two-story building with a Curves sign in the front window.

“The Blockbuster out by the mall,” she says with dismay. “But Trudy’s done a great job with the Curves. I’ve been going three times a week.”

“Mommm.” I give her a mittened thumbs-up. “Very impressive.”

“The secret is earplugs. I can’t stand that racket they play so I just stuff my ears and then nod and smile at everyone. It’s quite pleasant, actually. Now I know why your father always seems so relaxed.”

At his mention I turn my gaze from the hypnotic flow of taillights to her patrician profile. “How’s he doing with all this?”

“He’s fine,” she answers lightly.

“What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Well…” She brushes her hair from her eyes. “Tired, of course, with the move and the holiday and whatnot, but I’m fine.”

“Really?” I ask again, trying to discern if she’s lying just to me or herself as well.

“Yes.”

“Your husband suddenly forces you into early retirement from a job you love and you’re just fine?”

“Yes.
I’m fine and you’re just running a little errand.” I stiffen. “So.” She lifts her shoulders. “Now he wants to write a book in the sunshine and fish. And that’s what we’re going to do. It was just—really taking a toll on him, it seems. And we have to respect that.”

Feeling the muscles around my eyes twist, I dig in my purse for my drops, squeezing the liquid in and blinking as it splashes onto my cheek. “No, of course. He’s still on the Zoloft, right?”

She nods to herself, reassuring me as she traverses us through the recently plowed streets, slowing to a halt at each stop sign as she navigates the back way. “It’s not like he didn’t try at the library. Honestly, the people in this community. They hire you to effect change and then make it impossible.”

“Unless you want to put in a Curves.”

“Yes, then we welcome you with open flabby arms. You’re still having the problem with your eyes?”

“Only when I’m tired.” And stressed. I wipe the condensation off the window and peer through the wet streaks left by the wool as we emerge out of the valley into a sprawl of lights. “Wow. It’s so built up. It’s all so—”

“Oversized, gaudy, trumpeting the end of civilization as we know it.”

“I was going to say ‘much.’”

We haltingly circle the football-stadium-size parking lot a few times, a salt-crusted sea of cars stretching out before us over every inch of asphalt. I bite the inside of my lip and look around pointlessly for a spot.

“Screw it.” She pulls onto the snow-covered meridian abutting the lot and takes the key out of the ignition. I crane my head, calculating the hundreds of yards of frozen vehicular tundra to get to an entrance. But she’s already heaved her purse onto her shoulder. She gets out, slamming the door closed, and I jog against the wind to reach her and take her arm. She squeezes my mitten with her elbow and we duck our heads down for the trek.

“She said they’d be in the food court!” I shout back as we round the corner into the bustling atrium lined with queues of hungry, holiday-addled families. “There!” I point to where I spot them sharing a burger at the far-end table. As we make our way over I watch Laura laughing at something with her boys and have that momentary pang of awe and jealousy—will I be at the boys’ wedding still thinking, “Oh my God, Laura
made
them”? Or worse, still be the spinster aunt with three hundred godchildren because everyone took pity on me? I raise my hand and wave; she beams.

“Fairy K, my dog threw up! I’m eating a cheeseburger with fries!” Mick stands on his chair to announce these two updates with equal emphasis over the blaring bossa nova of the carousel. Laura laughs again, putting down her yogurt as he hurls his forty pounds into my arms. “You’re wet.” He puts his small hand to my cheek and pulls it away to examine. I return his feet to the vinyl.

“Claire wanted us to get some exercise.” I wipe the sheen of sleet off with a McDonald’s napkin as Mom tears open her coat. Then I lift Keith up in turn, ruffling his bangs with my chin.

He kicks his miniature blue moon boots out for me to examine. “Yours are brown.”

“Pretty stylin’.” Grinning at my borrowed Lands’ End ensemble, Laura stands to engulf us both.

“Mommy! You’re crushing me!”
Keith wriggles down our legs.

“Kate Hollis standing in the Croton mall—and without a fake nose.” She laughs in my ear. “Look at you, being all brave.”

“Look at you,” I murmur as I pull back, my hands going to her rounded belly, and again, the pang. “You look beautiful.”

“Please, minus the braces, I’m having a second puberty. Actually, make that a third. Do you know what it’s like to be buying Clearasil at thirty?” She leads Keith back to his seat and licks a napkin to wipe the ring of ketchup from his mouth.

“You’re radiant, Laura,” Mom insists, helping her consolidate the fast food detritus. “Pregnancy suits you.”

“Well, drink me up ’cause this is my final round.” She hands me the tray of wrinkled wrappers, which I carry across the floor and dump in the trash, stopping short as a posse of toddlers runs past. I pull back, narrowly avoiding felling a laughing mother in hot pursuit. She steadies herself, giving me a once-over.

“Katie?” I’ll be taking that fake nose now, please. She stops, blowing her bangs up and allowing the kids to race another lap. “Katie Hollis?”

I blink for a moment at the thick red hair and glowing skin. “Jeanine?”

“Oh my God, Katie!” To my utter surprise, she lunges, wrapping me in a hug, her poncho emitting a musky trace of incense. “That is
so
bizarre.” She releases me, smiling with her whole face. “How
are
you?”

“I’m good, thank you,” I laugh, her enthusiasm contagious. “How are you?”

“This is so crazy.” She scoops up one of the lapping boys to the hip of her leggings. “Anne and I were
just
talking about you in the car on the way over!”

“And is this your son?” I rub the pink cheek of the child squirming in her arms, deflecting us from my auxiliary celebrity status.

“Timmy,” she smiles tenderly as she ruffles his hair. “Yeah, I’m meeting Craig here to do the family gifts. Our last year.” She looks up at me. “We’re getting d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d. I’m shedding Shapiro.”

“Oh, God, I am really sorry to hear that,” I say, sad our class is already joining the ranks of the didn’t-make-its.

“Thank you,” she reaches out and touches my shoulder. “But it’s for the best for all of us.” She shifts Timmy to her other hip, her flexing thigh muscles visible through the spandex.

I admire her serenity. “You look fantastic.”

“There
you are,” Laura calls, swaying over with Mick balanced on her boots. “Hey you!” she greets Jeanine as she lifts Mick to the floor, sending him darting back to the table. They exchange a truncated half-hug over Timmy and Laura’s pending Number Three.

“Are you doing the poses at home?” Jeanine places her palm solidly on Laura’s belly. Not tentatively, the way I do it.

“I try! I do.” Laura mugs embarrassment. “When the boys nap.” She turns to me. “Jeanine teaches prenatal yoga.”

“I’m so impressed,” I marvel.

She bounces Timmy back up to her waist, turning intently to me. “You
have
to take a class with me. I teach a whole roster at Yoga H’om up there.” She points to the escalators. “Just past the Sunglass Hut. You have to come. You’ll thank me, seriously.”

“That would be great.” I nod.

“So your folks’ house sold?”

“Yeah, it did,” practical stranger who knew before I did. “They’re pulling up stakes and heading south.”

“Yeah, Anne and I toured it when it was on the market. We’re looking for a three bedroom. It’s a beautiful space, really good positioning. But the energy.” She waves her free hand, her face darkening. “Completely congested. And your old room, wow—the whole place needs to be smudged.”

I look down to see ketchup smeared on my thumb. Laura pulls a napkin from her pocket and puts it into my hands. “We’ve really gotta boogie.” She shrugs apologetically.

Jeanine nods knowingly. “You’re here to see him, huh?”

“Him?” I crumple the red-streaked paper, trying to signal to Mom with my pinky at my hip to bring the car around.

“Jake.”

“Yup.” I exhale.

“Babe.” She puts a palm on my trapezius, pushing Mom’s coat open to give me a brisk three-stroke swipe.
“Let it go.
God! Yoga would be so good for you! Your whole aura is
starving for it.
You have got to take that on when you get home—where do you live?”

“Charleston.”

“Wow, he
really
did a number on you.”

“No, no.” I look to Laura, my smile faltering. “I just hate living in the cold.”

“Cold is a state of mind, babe.” She stares squarely, making no motion to let us leave, signaling she is just beginning her list of what my aura is starving for.

I lean over and give her a quick kiss. “Great to see you, Jeanine.”

“I teach tomorrow. Get the schedule from Laura. Yoga saved my life.”

“Definitely!” I wave good-bye. Glancing back I see them wend their way to a blond guy waiting at a table with two overstuffed Target bags and my gaze pinballs from the burgeoning beer paunch to the sun-damaged forehead to the utility belt to the duck boots to the
Us Weekly
with Jake on the cover he’s flipping through. I tuck my head down and take Laura’s elbow, darting us out of Craig’s visual range.
“That
is why I will only meet you behind closed doors. Everyone here is talking about the pathetic girl who got ditched by the rockstar—which I’m only known as in a forty-mile radius of that Pretzel Time.” I point up at the hot-pink sign as we pass.

“Okay, everyone here is talking about their
Christmas lists,
for starters. And I hate to burst your reclusive bubble, but we are a far-flung group. Right now Jason Mosely is probably thinking about how pathetic you are as he tends to his hydroponic lettuce in Olympia. JenniferTwo is taking pity on you all the way from Philadelphia, and I’m sure when she wakes up tomorrow Maggie will spell out ‘Katie is lame’ with breadcrumbs for the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Get a grip.”

Chastened, I nod. “Hydroponic lettuce?”

“Check out his Friendster page.”

“Okay, grip gotten. And who’s Anne, her guru?”

“Uh, no.” We wait as a security golf cart passes, its orange lights flashing. “Her girlfriend, soon to be partner.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Laura grins. “And sometimes we get stoned. Now you’re completely up to speed.”

“Laura!”

“Not while I’m
pregnant.”
She cracks up. “You try having twin boys. It’s a miracle Sam and I aren’t crushing Valium into juice boxes.” The cart clears and we cross to Mom and Keith playing patty-cake. “Okay! Let’s do this thing. I want to get the boys in bed by nine.”

“Yes, I love you—and I appreciate being included,” Mom acknowledges. “But you’re right, I can only take about forty-five minutes of this—” she circles her arms at the crazed pre-Christmas masses surrounding us. “Before I expire. Why don’t I take the boys to the carousel while you two do your thing.” Keith and Mick look rapturously at the garland-strewn apparatus spinning beneath the domed night sky. “All right, gentlemen, I’ll take a hand from each of you,
per favore.”

She stands and the boys grab her hands, giving in to the magnetic pull of the plaster horses. For a second I feel the sensation of her fingers enclosing mine at that age, the assurance. “Forty-two minutes,” she mouths, deftly steering them into the crowd.

“…had a very shiny nose…”
My cranium reverberating with cheer, Laura and I let ourselves be carried along by the shoulder-to-shoulder madness. Bypassing the chain stores optimistically featuring cotton “resort wear” in their windows, we somehow manage to jostle ourselves to the women’s department of Lord & Taylor.

“Does this come with a free bikini wax?” I point at the mannequins sporting waistlines all of an inch above the crotch.

“Try finding a pair that covers your ass when you’re pregnant. It’s feast or famine. Either your tailbone’s sticking out or you’re in an army tent. How ’bout these?” She lifts washable suede toward me.

“Uh, no.” I flip the hanger around to show her where they lace up. “I’d rather not go as a VJ.”