Hanging by a Thread (27 page)

“But it takes more than that—

“Dammit, Ellie—look at me! I've got nothing!
Nothing.
All I know how to do is cook and give parties and blow jobs.” She smirks. “And apparently, I don't even do that very well, according to Stuart. Now I have no husband, no marriage, no money and no skills.”

Seconds pass before I say, “You have your book.”

“Oh, right.
My book.
Talk about a piece of crap. Okay, so maybe it's got some therapeutic value, but please. The chances of anyone actually wanting to buy it are slim to none. Whereas you have a great kid and so much talent it's unbelievable, not to mention a man who's crazy about you, and you're sitting here with your thumb up your ass, not doing a damn thing about any of it. So who's the pathetic one here, huh?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” I'll deal with the “pathetic” remark later.
“A man who's crazy about me?”

“Hello? Luke?”

“That's crazy.”

“No,
you're
crazy. You're in love with the guy, you've always been in love with the guy, and why the hell you let Tina move in on him, I do not know. Dammit, Ellie, I put the moves on him right in front of you, and you did
nothing.
”

“I did
nothing
because…wait—you were
testing
me?”

“I was bored. I thought it would be amusing. Except then I just got mad. That you can't see what's right smack in your face.”

I get up from the bed, my stomach roiling. “I don't want to talk about this—”

“Which is the whole problem with this family, isn't it?”

Almost to the door, I turn back around. “What?”

“I said, that's the whole problem with this cockamamie family. Nobody ever wants to talk about anything. Or admit anything. Or make waves. I mean, Jesus, whatever was going on between our grandfather and this Sonja, it was pretty obvious nobody was happy about it. But it was easier to pretend that everything was fine, rather than actually doing something about the situation.”

Well, at least we're finally back on topic. Not that it's helping. God, I'm so confused. Life was much easier when my sister didn't have a train of thought to keep up
with.

“And what were they supposed to do? Divorce their spouses and marry each other?”

“How the hell should I know? But it would've been a damn sight better than living a lie!”

I angle my head at her. “You better be careful. If you get any deeper, you're gonna drown.”

On a breathy half laugh, Jen threads one hand through her hair and sinks back onto the edge of the mattress. Then she lifts her eyes to mine. “See, it wasn't until I could admit that Stuart's leaving was at least partly my fault that other things began to make sense, too. Sure, maybe he only wanted a trophy wife and after ten years he got bored. And maybe I had a hard time accepting that he'd been an asshole for some time, because there were a lot of perks to being a trophy wife, even to an asshole. But maybe if I'd put more effort into my marriage, maybe if I hadn't
acted
like a trophy wife, if I'd forced myself out of my comfort zone, maybe I'd still be married today. Or maybe I wouldn't have married Stuart to begin with, or would have found the balls to leave
him,
and would actually have a life by now. But it's scary on the other side, isn't it? Who knows what sorts of monsters and icky things lurk past those boundaries?”

“That's your problem, not mine—”

“Bullshit, Ellie. Our excuses may be different, but in the end,
it all comes down to the same thing—we're petrified of facing who we really are, because we're both petrified of failing. Just like our mother was. And damned if she didn't infect both of us with her fears.”

Outside, somebody walks by with a boom box so loud my teeth rattle. How it doesn't wake Starr is beyond me, but she's always been able to sleep through anything, even as a tiny baby. Eventually, the reverberations from hip-hop music die down, leaving in their place Jen's words, pounding viciously inside my skull, their meaning every bit as distorted and indecipherable as the words to the rap song had been.

“But the way I figure it,” Jen's saying, apparently oblivious to the fact that I'm falling apart over here, “I can't get much lower than I am now. I mean, come on—coming back to live in this house again? If that's not failure, I don't know what is. But even though I feel like last week's garbage, you know what? My heart's still beating. I'm still in the game, even if I have no idea what the rules are. And I'm going to finish this book and start sending it out, because what have I got to lose? My pride?
God!
” She bounces up from the bed. “I feel as if I've been anesthetized for the past ten years, like I was living in a world that was only half-real, you know?”

She doesn't elaborate. Thank God, since I'm way too wrung out to deal with any more of Jen's liberated consciousness tonight. Especially since she seems hell-bent on dragging mine to the meetings right along with hers.

Now her hands are on my shoulders, her gaze locked with mine. “I realize this is about a decade too late—”

I shut my eyes.
Please, God, make her go
away…

“—but I'm really sorry about my wedding. Not letting you be part of it, I mean.”

What is this, double-coupon day at the Salvation Store?

“Oh,” I say.

“That's it?”

“What do you want me to say? You treated me like crap the whole time we were growing up. In fact, you treated me like crap up until a month ago—”

“Please don't hate me, El,” she says in a small voice. Her eyes well up. “You're all I've got left.”

Do you believe this?

“I don't want to hate you,” I say. “I never did. But I'm not all that wild about being thought of as a last resort.”

“I didn't mean it like that!”

“Then learn to choose your words more carefully. Or reconcile yourself to the fact that this is going to take some time.”

“God. You're really going to make me grovel, aren't you?”

“That was the plan, yep.”

“I see.” A sigh. “I suppose that's better than telling me to fuck off.”

Only marginally, but I don't tell her that.

In any case, our little exchange has left my sister après-mud-pack radiant (sloughing off dead skin cells, sloughing off a couple decades worth of bad blood—all the same thing). While I, on the other hand, feel as though I tripped in the middle of the street while crossing Times Square at rush hour. And nobody noticed.

I leave her to her radiance and her book and return to my room. I should go back to work, but it ain't gonna happen tonight. Instead, I rip off my clothes and toss on an old sleep T (sleeping nude is no longer an option when a small child pays regular visits to your bed at night), yank back the covers and collapse on my stomach across the bed, staring at Frito, who's perched on the two-foot-high pile of discarded clothes on the only chair in my room, giving me the evil eye for having turned on the lamp and disturbed his sleep.

“So sue me. You're supposed to be with Starr. Besides, you sleep twenty hours a day.”

He narrows his eyes.
So whatcher point?

I flop onto my back to stare at the overhead light fixture, delicately frosted in cobwebs. The overhead light fixture I was supposed to change out for a ceiling fan two years ago. Where the hell is that thing, anyway? I distinctly remember buying one. And bringing it into the house. After that, it's a blank. I suppose I should clean off the cobwebs, except the only way I can reach the fixture is to move the bed, and if I'm going to move the bed, I might as well put up the ceiling fan. Wherever it is. Except the fan blades would collect even more cobwebs than the fixture does, which means I'd have to just keep moving the bed, and that's a pain in the butt, so maybe I should just forget about it.

I think I just solved a problem. I'm just not entirely sure what.

I let out a yelp when a large, furry, rumbling thing lands on my stomach. I lift my head—the rest of my body being pinned beneath the large, furry, rumbling thing—to see Frito massaging my belly with a goony look on his face. Apparently cotton jersey turns him on. Terrific. Now he's in my face, letting out these strange
errnking
sounds and bumping my chin. Would someone please explain to me how a cat that only gets dry cat food can have fish breath?

Gingerly, I reach up to scratch his head. He actually lifts up to bump my hand, his eyes becoming slits of ecstasy as I scratch.

“What is this, reconciliation week?” Frito opens one eye, smiling that smug you-should-only-know cat grin just as my cell phone rings on my nightstand. I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to reach it without disturbing the twenty-pound furbag settling in for the duration on my stomach.

“Hey, El. It's me. Tina.”

I should have guessed.

“I
can't believe Jason's gay,” Tina says the next night, seated across from me at one of a half dozen bistro tables crammed into three square feet of sidewalk space in front of Pinky's, out of deference to their smoking customers. We've been here for about a half hour; the heat rising from the pavement is slowing searing my butt through the tiny metal chair. I'm wearing the minimum amount of clothing I can without risking arrest, but mugginess clings to my skin like a film of exhaust-flavored Pam.

“I know. The last thing I expected him to come out with. As it were,” I add, and we both laugh.

On the surface, we're just a couple of friends catching up, falling back into old patterns of conversation as though nothing's changed. But it has. For me, anyway. And judging from Tina's shredded cocktail napkin, the way her eyes never quite meet mine, my guess it has for her, too. We sound the same, we look the same, but we'll never feel the same.

I've filled her in, about Leo and the childcare incident and how I'm home now, at least for the time being. I tell her about Jennifer's moving back, but not about our most recent conversation, since I haven't processed that one myself. I tell her about Sonja.

In her turn, Tina tells me she's got a good job, a better job, doing payroll for some machine parts manufacturer in Jersey. And a really nice apartment. With a pool. And a washer-dryer right in the kitchen. She's thinking about getting a dog. Something little, like one of those itty-bitty poodles or something.

Nobody's mentioned Luke. Yet. But he's here as surely as if he were sitting at the table with us.

A couple goes into the bar, releasing a puff of booze-scented air-conditioning. I inch my chair closer to the door, wincing as the metal seat rips the top layer of skin off the backs of my bare thighs.

“So how's Starr?” Tina asks.

“She's good. My sister's staying with her tonight.”

Tina nods, then lifts one hand to toy with a strand of newly copper-highlighted hair. “And…Luke? Do you see him much?”

Ah. Bouncing my straw up and down in my Coke, I say, “Not that much, no. We've both been busy.”

“So…you haven't…?”

“Haven't what?”

“You know. Gotten together?”

I see the hopefulness in those clear blue eyes and get sick to my stomach. Which is stupid because I have no claim on the man and never have. No matter how I feel about him, the fact is he's never given me any indication that my feelings are reciprocated. And why should he? Whatever his motives for marrying Tina, the fact remains that he did. No matter how you slice it, our getting together now would be weird.

I look hard at my drink. “Of course not, don't talk crazy. Even if…” I stir the Coke frantically, releasing all the little
bubbles. Then I look up at her. “I don't do rebound relationships, Tina.”

No, just ten minute trysts in the shower that might have resulted in my daughter.

I cannot tell you how relieved she looks, even as she says, “It's not like I could've said anything, you know, if you two had started up something. I mean, it was me who practically shoved you into his arms, right? But then I got the final divorce papers to sign, and I don't know…” Her voice trails off. She takes a swallow of her gin-and-tonic and meets my gaze.

My stomach pitches. “So all that you said before…?”

“I was hysterical, you know? All the hormone swings after…” She reaches over, grabs my hand. “You never told him, did you? About the abortion?”

Since I don't dare open my mouth right now, I settle for shaking my head. Tina lets out a huge sigh, pressing her palm to her rampant cleavage. A pair of guys I've never seen turn the corner. I see the one poke the other, then point at us. Subtle. Sure enough, they make a beeline for us.

You know, it was bad enough when we used to have to fend off the freaks
inside
the bars. Now with this no-smoking thing, we gotta deal with the ones outside, too.

Thank you, Mayor Bloomberg.

“Hey, ladies,” the shorter one says, not even pretending to look at my face. Funny how on some guys a soul patch is just not attractive. “What are you two beautiful women up to tonight?”

Okay, zero points for creativity, but I'll give him two for directness. Except then his buddy gets a negative ten with, “Yeah, wanna go back to my place and, you know, get it on?”

Am I wearing a Hard Up sign around my neck or what?

Except then Tina reaches over and takes my hand. “Sorry, guys,” she says, winking at me, “but we've got our own private party planned for later.”

“Hot damn!” Soul Patch says. “Chick on chick action!”

“Yeah,” his buddy puts in. “Can we watch?”

“I dunno…” Tina's eyes slide to mine. “Should we?”

“Oh, I think we definitely should,” I say. And as the turkeys high-five each other, Tina and I simultaneously grab their waistbands and pour our ice water down their crotches.

As the string of obscenities fade into the night—as does the laughter and applause from the other tables—Tina turns back to me, grinning. And I know that no matter how much things might have changed between us, or how much we might grow apart, that nothing will ever be able to completely sever the threads of lunacy and love that have always held our wacky friendship together.

Not even our being in love with the same man.

And I can see in her eyes that she knows this, too. Not just the nothing-will-ever-rip-us-apart part, but the we're-both-in-love-with-Luke part.

“I want another chance,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine. “With Luke.”

Funny how knowing something's going to hurt doesn't do diddly to alleviate the pain when it strikes. “What happened? Did you get cold?”

Her brows pucker. “Cold?”

“Yeah. Now you want your coat back.”

The blossoms of bright red clash with the burgundy contouring under her cheekbones. “I'm sorry,” she says to her drink. “I just had no idea how much I'd miss him.”

A bead of sweat trickles down my back, making me twitch. “And what if Luke and I
had
started something?”

After a moment, she again lifts her gaze to mine. “Then I would've backed off.”

“Really?”

Her brows nearly meet. “Yeah, really. But since you didn't, why are we even talking about this?”

“I don't know. Especially since whether the two of you get back together isn't up to you or me alone, is it?”

“But you could help. Like you always have.”

I drain the last of the Coke from the glass, then fold my arms across my stomach, rattling the half-melted ice cubes at the bottom of the sweaty glass as I nurse the white-hot kernel of anger sizzling in my gut.

“Okay, cookie, it's like this,” I say, watching her eyes go wide. “Maybe the coast is clear—although to be honest, I have no idea what Luke's thinking—but no way am I going to help you with this. All I can promise is that I'll stay out of your way. But if you want him,
you
figure out how to make that happen.”

After a moment, she pushes out a heavy breath. “Okay, okay…you're right, this is something I've gotta do on my own.”

“Only…” I can't believe I've got the nerve to say this. Because God knows, I don't have the right. “Don't you think you should tell him about the abortion?”

All the color drains from her face. “You know I can't do that!”

“Tina, honey…how can you even consider trying to pick up where you left off without fixing the problems that broke you up to begin with? Luke deserves to know exactly how strongly you feel about not having kids.” I reach over and take her hand. “Just like you deserve someone who'll love you whether you want children or not.”

Her mouth thins; she yanks her hand from mine, then gets up and tosses a few bills on the table. Déjà vu. Only this time, I follow suit, so that we hit the sidewalk at the same time. “And you know damn well,” she says as a sudden, lung-suckingly hot breeze whips our hair, “there's no chance in hell we'll get back together if I tell him. And just where do you get off, anyway, judging me because I don't want kids?”

“I'm not judging you! Whether you have kids or not is to
tally your choice! But what's the point of trying to resurrect something with someone who
does?
”

When she tries to walk away, I grab her hand and pull her back around, locking our gazes. “Secrets are like cancers, Tina. Believe me, I know.”

“You don't know shit—”

“Tina—” Oh, God. After everything I said, about waiting until I knew, about not being ready…Luke's going to hate me for this. But then, since he already does, what have I got to lose? “There's a chance Starr is Luke's.”

For a long moment, her face registers nothing. Then her mouth quirks into a humorless smile.

“Tell me something I don't know,” she says, then wrenches herself from my grasp, spins on her rope-soled wedgie and storms down the sidewalk, her tiny pleated skirt flouncing angrily with each step.

 

In spite of the loudest orchestra this side of Secaucus blaring from the stage, it's everything I can do not to lay my head down on the banquet table and take a little snooze. I doubt anyone would notice, since the dress I spent so long (two minutes) picking out to wear to Heather's wedding happens to be a perfect match for the seafoam green tablecloths.

My daughter is in here somewhere, having the time of her life. Even if she, too, is wearing a dress. When she found me curled up on the sofa in the basement at six this morning (I'd finished up the last bridesmaid hem at five) she'd patted my hand, told me I looked like holy hell and to go fix myself up before I scared somebody.

Nice kid I'm raising here.

Anyway, so here I am, somewhere in Great Neck, surrounded by five million wedding guests and dressed like a banquet table, sans the centerpiece. Whenever I'm tempted to
doze off, somebody else comes up and tells me how gorgeous the dresses are and then asks me for my card. Which, if I had a grain of sense (or foresight) I would have had made up. I've taken all their numbers and said I'd get back to them.

I just didn't say when.

The minute this shebang is over, I'm down for three days straight. And when I wake up, I am on the A train, boy, headed straight for Manhattan. Pure torture, that's what it's been, knowing the city was less than an hour away and not being able to get to it. And you know what's really great about going into Manhattan? Getting to leave Dolly and Tina and Jen and Luke and all the rest of them
here.
Well,
there,
since I'm not
here
at the moment.

Okay, I'm gonna just prop my chin in my hands here, like this, and shut my eyes for a second…

“There you are! Smile!”

I jerk awake just in time to be blinded by the flash from one of the disposable cameras Heather's so thoughtfully left on the tables. By the time the dots stop dancing in front of my eyes, the picture-taker has disappeared. A good thing, I'm thinking, since I'm feeling a touch murderous right now.

Suddenly a golden image materializes in front of me. Frances, looking foxy as all get-out in this clingy gold jersey number that ninety percent of women
my
age can't wear. It's so unfair.

“Hey, baby,” she says, leaning over to give me a hug, then sitting beside me. “You don't look like you're having much fun.”

“Sure I am,” I say covering a yawn with my hand, then blinking. “Can'tcha tell?”

She chuckles, then says, “You did fantastic. It's all anybody can talk about, how good you made everyone look.”

I frown. “I thought that was the point.”

“No, I'm serious. Look at Elissa over there. I've never seen her look so pretty. Or happy.”

The size 24. It is true. She does look good. In fact, she looks fabulous.

Thanks to me.

I grin. It's a little wobbly, and I feel another yawn coming on, but I definitely grin. “I did that, huh?”

“Yes, you did. You know, baby, anybody can make a skinny girl look good.” She lowers her voice, talking out the side of her mouth. “But it takes talent to make most of
these
women look good.”

“Remember to tell me that again when I'm awake, 'kay?”

“You got it. Oh, look…Luke's dancing with Starr. Isn't that the cutest thing you ever saw?”

I look over. And because being next door to comatose leaves me with no emotional defenses whatsoever, longing swamps me, so swiftly and suddenly I can hardly breathe. Whatever's going on—or not—between Luke and me, he's refused to let Starr suffer for our sins. Or my sins, whatever. And the sight of him in a classic Christian Dior tux, holding Starr—in her frilly powder blue dress and black patent Mary Janes—up in his arms so she won't get stepped on, nearly takes me under. I imagine I can hear her laughter all the way over here. I can definitely see it, though.

Oh, yeah, I can definitely see it.

I've been too busy to think about anything but getting these damn dresses finished—Jennifer pretty much took over the house and the kid, much to my shock and profound relief—so I have no idea if Tina's spoken to Luke or not. If she has, Luke hasn't said word one to me.

I feel Frances's arm go around my shoulder; she presses her temple to mine and whispers, “All I want is to see all of you happy.” She lifts her glass of champagne to her lips, then chuckles. “Even that one,” she says, gesturing with the glass to Jason and…what's his name. Connor, that's it. He looks like a nice kid. If very Irish.

“Now if he were just Italian,” Frances says, pulling away, “I'd be much happier about the whole thing.”

As I said.

I look over at her. “Are you really okay? About Jason being gay?”