nineteen
Margot cries when we tell her that we’re making an offer on the house, and my mother-in-law ups the ante even further by declaring that the news is the answer to her prayers. Now granted, Margot is an easy cry even when she’s
not
pregnant, tearing up at long-distance commercials or a few bars of “Pomp and Circumstance,” and Stella prays over a whole lot less than her beloved son returning home after so many years “up North.” But still. There really is no turning back after those reactions—you just don’t screw around with familial heartstrings.
So as spring comes to New York, my split-second, gut decision made over toaster waffles, no sleep, and a large dose of guilt takes on a crazy forward motion of its own.
Fortunately, once Andy gives jubilant notice at his law firm, he, too, seems to have at least ambivalent feelings about our impending move, although his focus is more on the big picture and has an almost merry abandon to it—sort of the same way that high school seniors barrel toward prom and graduation. He furiously makes plans with our closest friends, schedules final dinners at our favorite restaurants, and snaps up tickets to Broadway shows we’ve been meaning to see for ages. One Saturday morning, he even insists that we take a ferry out to the Statue of Liberty—a landmark I vowed to only ever admire from an airplane window, almost as a point of pride. Then, as we endure packs of tourists, misty rain, and a brutally monotone guide, Andy encourages me to snap photos of the view, so that we can display the prints in our new home. I humor him, but can’t help thinking that a framed shot of New York Harbor, no matter how spectacular (if I do say so myself), isn’t going to provide much solace when I’m missing the intangible energy of New York.
To this point, it’s the little things that get to me the most as we wind down our affairs in the city and hurtle toward our June closing date. It’s the rich fabric of my daily life—things that barely registered before but that now feel sentimental. It’s my walk to work and the silent camaraderie of other commuters swelling in the crosswalks around me. It’s Sabina and Julian’s spirited banter in our workroom, and the pungent aroma of Oscar’s printing press. It’s our dry cleaner’s deep frown lines as he determinedly knots the plastic around Andy’s shirts and then tells us to have a nice day in his Turkish accent, and my Korean manicurist’s chipper command to “pick polish,” even though she must know by now that I always bring my own. It’s the sway of the subway careening efficiently along the tracks, and the satisfaction of flagging down a cab on a bustling weekend night in the Village. It’s the burgers at P.J. Clarke’s, the dim sum at Chinatown Brasserie, and the bagels at my corner bodega. It’s knowing that when I walk out of our brown-stone, I will see something new every single day. It’s the diversity of choices and people, the raw urban beauty, the endless hum of possibility everywhere.
Underscoring all of this is Leo—his constant presence in my mind, along with the troubling realization that I deeply associate him with the city and vice versa. So much so, in fact, that leaving New York feels an awful lot like leaving him.
Not once do I contact him, though. Not even when I think of at least a half-dozen near-perfect, work-related excuses and just as many clever rationalizations about why a little more closure might be a good thing for
everyone
. Not even when the temptation is so strong that it actually frightens me—in the way that I imagine I would feel about cocaine if I ever tried it.
Rather, I steadfastly cling to the lofty notion of right versus wrong, black versus white, and one hundred percent loyalty to Andy. As the ultimate insurance policy, I make a point to keep him nearby whenever possible, which means pretty much all the time once he is freed from his firm. I encourage him to accompany me to work or my shoots, tag along with him to the gym, and plan all our meals together. I constantly initiate physical contact with him—both in our bedroom at night and in small ways out in public. I tell him often that I love him, but never in an automatic, rote way. Rather, I really think about the words, what they mean. Love as a verb. Love as a commitment.
All the while, I tell myself that I’m almost to the finish line. My emotions will soon run their course, and things will return to normal—or at least the way they were before that moment in the intersection. And, if that doesn’t happen before we leave the city, it will most certainly happen in Atlanta, in a brand-new context, far from Leo.
But as the days pass, and our departure approaches, I find myself wondering what exactly normal ever was. Were things normal when Andy and I started to date? Were they normal by the time we got engaged or walked down the aisle? Was I ever truly over Leo? At one time I was sure that the answer was yes. But if seeing him again—and merely touching his hand—could peel back so many layers of my heart, then did I ever stop loving him the way you’re
supposed
to stop loving everyone but the one you’re with? If the answer is no, then will the lapse of time or a change of geography really fix the problem? And regardless of the answer, what does the mere
question
say about my relationship with Andy?
Making matters more upsetting is the strange, vague sense that this emotional terrain isn’t completely foreign—that I experienced some of these same feelings a long time ago when my mother died. The parallels are by no means perfect as there is no tragic element in leaving New York or not talking to Leo. But, in some unsettling way that is difficult to precisely pinpoint, there is a distinct overlap.
So one late night when Andy is out with the guys, I cave and call my sister, hoping that I will find the right opening—and the right words—to convey what I’m feeling without elevating Leo’s importance or disrespecting our mother’s memory.
Suzanne answers in a good mood—and tells me Vince is out with the guys, too, which in his case is par for the course. We make small talk for a few minutes, and then I indulge her complaints of the week, mostly Vince related, with a few colorful flight attendant tales in the mix. My favorite features a crazy old woman in first class who spilled Bloody Mary mix not once, not twice, but
three
times on the passenger beside her, and then became belligerent when Suzanne refused to serve her a fourth drink.
“Belligerent how?” I say, always enjoying—and marveling over—the in-flight drama.
“She called me a bitch. Good times, huh?”
I laugh and ask her what she did next, knowing full well that there will be some sort of retaliation involved.
“I had a few marshals meet her drunk ass at the gate.”
We both burst out laughing.
“She was right. You
are
a bitch,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “It’s my calling.”
We laugh again, and a beat later, Suzanne comes right out and asks me if I’ve heard from Leo.
I consider telling her about our flight, but decide that it is something I will forever keep private, sacred. Instead, I just say no, sighing so loudly that it invites a follow-up.
“Uh-oh,” she says. “What’s up?”
I cast about for a few seconds—and then confess that ever since L.A. I continue to miss Leo in a way that hasn’t really subsided at all. That something about my mood reminds me of “that one winter”—which is the veiled way we often refer to Mom’s death when we’re not in the mood to fully revisit our grief.
“Whoa, Ell,” she says. “Are you comparing
not
talking to Leo to Mom dying?”
I quickly and vehemently say no and then add, “Maybe I’m just melancholy about leaving the city … all the changes.”
“So … what? You’re comparing leaving New York to death?”
“No. Not that exactly either,” I say, realizing that I shouldn’t have bothered to try to convey such a subtle feeling, even to my sister.
But in Suzanne fashion, she presses me to explain. I think for a second and then tell her that it’s more the sense of impending finality, and that as much as I prepare myself for what is coming next, I really don’t know what to expect. “And there is this fear packed in the waiting period,” I say tentatively. “Like with Mom … We knew for weeks that the end was really near. Nothing about her death was a surprise. And yet … it still
felt
like a surprise, didn’t it?”
Suzanne whispers yes, and for a moment I know we are both silently remembering that day when the school guidance counselor appeared in our respective classrooms and then waited with us, outside by the flagpole and an exhaust-covered drift of snow, until our father arrived to pick us up, and take us home to her for the last time.
“And then after that,” I say, commanding myself not to cry or conjure any other visual specifics of that horrible day or the ones that followed. “I just felt desperate to finish the school year, get in a new routine … a new place where I wasn’t always reminded of Mom …”
“Yeah,” Suzanne says. “Going away to camp that summer did sort of help.”
“Right,” I say, thinking that was part of my motivation to look at colleges far from Pittsburgh, in places Mom never visited or talked about, with people who didn’t know that I was motherless. I clear my throat and continue, “But at the same time, as much as I wanted to get away from the house and all of Mom’s things and Dad’s tears—and even
you
—I also felt scared that once I got away, or turned the calendar, or did anything at all differently than the way we did things with her, that we would be losing her all the faster. That we would almost be … erasing her.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Suzanne says. “
Exactly
… But … Ellie …”
“What?” I ask softly, knowing that a difficult question is likely coming my way.
Sure enough, Suzanne says, “Why don’t you
want
to erase Leo?”
I think for a long minute, silence filling the airwaves. But as hard as I try, I can’t come up with a good answer—or for that matter, any answer at all.
twenty
It is the first Saturday in June, and our final one in New York. A trio of thick-necked movers from Hoboken arrived this morning, and nine mad hours of packing later, our apartment is completely barren save for a few suitcases by the front door, some bits of duct tape stuck to the kitchen counters, and a hundred dust bunnies swirling along the hardwood floors. Andy and I are sweaty and exhausted, standing in what was once our family room while we listen to the hum of the window air-conditioning unit straining in the heat.
“I guess it’s time to hit it,” Andy says, his voice echoing off the white walls that we never had time to paint a more interesting shade. He wipes his cheek on the sleeve of his old, stained T-shirt, one of about thirty he has designated for “moving and painting,” even though I’ve teasingly pointed out that he can’t possibly be in a situation where he’s painting or moving for a solid month.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” I say, my mind already shifting to the next step in our journey—our cab ride to our hotel where we will shower and change for our going-away party this evening. Andy’s two closest friends from law school are hosting the event, although friends from all segments of our New York life will be in attendance. Even Margot and Webb are flying up for the festivities, only to return to Atlanta with us in the morning where they will become our official greeters. I clasp my hands together and force a peppy, “Let’s get the show on the road.”
Andy pauses and then says, “Should we do something … ceremonious first?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“I don’t know … Maybe take a picture?”
I shake my head, thinking that Andy should know me better by now; I might be a photographer, but I’m not really one to document symbolic moments like these—endings, beginnings, even holidays and special occasions. I much prefer to capture the random stuff in the middle—a fact that my friends and family seem to find puzzling—and sometimes frustrating.
“Nah,” I say. I shift my gaze out the window and follow a pigeon’s trek on the cement terrace across the street from us.
After a long moment, Andy takes my hand and says, “How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” I say, which I’m relieved to realize is the truth. “Just a little sad.”
He nods, as if to acknowledge that endings are almost always a little sad, even when there is something to look forward to on the other side. Then, without further fanfare, we turn and walk out of our first married home together.
A few minutes later our cab pulls up in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and I realize with a wave of remorse and panic that Andy and I have suddenly,
instantly
morphed into visitors—
tourists
—in a city where we once resided.
But as we enter the gorgeous, eclectic lobby filled with Moroccan tiles, handwoven rugs, Venetian-glass chandeliers, and sprawling works by Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Keith Haring, I reassure myself that there is a distinct upside to experiencing the city this way.
“Wow,” I say, admiring the huge stone-and-marble fireplace and a sawfish-snout lamp in front of it. “This place is
very
cool.”
Andy smiles and says, “Yup. Haute bohemian cool. Like my girl.”
I smile back at him as we stroll over to the front desk where a sultry brunette, whose name tag reads
Beata
, welcomes us in a thick eastern European accent.
Andy says hello, and the well-groomed, proper boy in him feels the need to explain our grubby appearance, so he mumbles apologetically, “We just moved out of our apartment today.”
Beata nods her understanding and politely inquires, “To where are you going next?”
I answer for us, saying
Atlanta, Georgia
, as grandly as possible, even adding a hand-in-the-air flourish, as if I’m revealing a well-kept North American secret, a jewel of a town she should be sure to visit if she hasn’t already. I’m not sure exactly why I feel the need to hype Atlanta to a complete stranger—whether it’s to make myself feel better, or to counteract the defensiveness I feel whenever I tell someone in the city where we’re moving and inevitably get a pitying stare or a downright critical, “Why
Atlanta
?”
Andy takes it a bit more personally—as I do when I hear anyone bad-mouth Pittsburgh—but I actually don’t think this reaction is an affront to Atlanta as much as it is a function of the New York superiority complex, a smug sense that the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the country, is sterile and homogenous and somehow lacking in comparison. And, while I resent that attitude now, the uncomfortable truth is, I don’t altogether disagree with the assessment, and know I’ve felt similarly when friends have left the city—whether for a job, or a relationship, or to have babies in the suburbs.
Better you than me
, I’ve thought, even though I might have been bitterly complaining about the city the moment before. After all, I think it’s that intense edge that is the most compelling part about living in New York, and the very thing that I will miss most.
In any event, my preemptive, proud tone with Beata seems to do the trick, because she smiles, nods, and says, “Oh, very beautiful,” as if I’ve just said
Paris, France
. She then checks us in and tells us a bit about the hotel, before handing Andy our room key and wishing us a wonderful stay.
We thank her, and as inconspicuously as possible, wander back through the lobby over to the adjoining Rose Bar, which is just as richly decorated as the lobby, complete with a red-velvet pool table and another looming Warhol. I feel my mind start to drift to Leo, and the last time I was in a trendy hotel bar, but push these thoughts away as Andy says with feigned formality, “Care for an aperitif?”
I skim the cocktail menu and tell him the pineapple-and-cinnamon mojito looks interesting. He agrees and orders us two, to go, and a few minutes later, we are alone in our plush, jewel-toned room overlooking Gramercy Park, one of my favorite spots in the city, even though I’ve never been inside the locked gates—perhaps
because
I’ve never been inside.
“Gorgeous,” I say, sipping my mojito and taking in the view of the romantic, impeccably kept private park.
“I knew you always wanted to see inside,” he says, draping his arm around me. “I thought it would be a nice way to say good-bye.”
“You always think of
everything
,” I say, feeling a wave of deep appreciation for my husband.
Andy gives me an “aw, shucks” grin and takes a hearty gulp of his drink, before undressing down to his boxers and bursting into a stirring rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Get in the shower,” I say, vowing to be happy tonight. Even though I’m exhausted. Even though I hate being the center of attention. Even though I don’t like good-byes. And even though a certain someone on Newton Avenue won’t be in attendance and doesn’t even have an inkling that I’m leaving.
One hour later our party at Blind Tiger, a microbrewery on Bleecker, is in full groove. The lights are dim, the music is just loud enough, and I’m well into my fourth beer of the night. My current selection, the Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball, is my favorite so far, although that might be purely a function of my ever-growing buzz. One thing is for sure—I’ve put all my worries aside and am having an even better time than I vowed, in large part because everyone else seems to be having so much fun, which is never a given when diverse groups come together at one event. My photographer friends really have little in common with Andy’s lawyer crowd or the Upper East Side fashion torchbearers whom Margot and I used to hang with when she lived in the city. To this point, Margot actually deserves much of the credit for bringing everyone together and making things feel cohesive, as she is the single greatest asset you can have at any party. She is outgoing, gracious, and inclusive, finding a way to bring even the most awkward, peripheral guest into the fold. I watch her now, working the room, virgin daiquiri in hand, looking stunning in a pink, empire-waist sundress and strappy, silver stilettos. At nearly six months pregnant, she has a small, round bump right in front, but hasn’t gained an ounce anywhere else, and her hair, nails, and skin are even more amazing than usual. She says it’s due to the prenatal vitamins, although I don’t think the battery of expensive spa treatments she had today have hurt her cause. In short, she’s the cutest pregnant woman I’ve ever seen, a sentiment I’ve heard at least five people echo tonight, including one woman from Andy’s firm who is exactly as far along as Margot but looks like she’s been blown up with helium everywhere—nose, ankles, even her earlobes.
“Get away from me,” the girl jokingly said to Margot. “You make me look bad.”
“She makes everyone look bad—pregnant or not,” I said.
Margot modestly waved us off and told us not to be ridiculous, but deep down she must know it’s true. Fortunately, though, she’s also more charming than the rest of us, so nobody ever really holds her looks against her, including her ghastliest of pregnant peers.
We make eye contact now as she joins me, Julian, and Julian’s wife, Hillary, at a cracked-wood table in the back of the bar, just in time to hear Hillary gush about how much she admires Andy’s decision to drop the big-firm culture. It is a common theme of the night among the disgruntled-lawyer crowd, and for Andy’s sake, it makes me feel better about our move.
“I’ve been meaning to quit for over seven years now,” Hillary says, laughing as she tugs on her long, blond ponytail. “Never quite happens, though.”
Julian shakes his head and says, “If I had a dollar for every time she said she was going to do it, we could
both
retire … But what does she do instead?”
“What?” Margot and I ask in unison.
Julian flicks his wife’s shoulder and proudly says, “She goes and makes partner.”
“No way! Why didn’t you tell me that?” I say to Julian, hitting his arm.
“She just found out yesterday,” he says, as I think about all the many tidbits of his life I’m going to miss now that we’re no longer sharing a workspace. We have vowed to keep in touch—and I think we will e-mail and phone occasionally—but it won’t be the same, and eventually, I fear that he, Sabina, and Oscar will all become holiday-card friends only. But I mentally put that on the list of things not to worry about tonight, and instead turn to Hillary and congratulate her. “Andy says it’s virtually impossible to make partner at a big firm.”
“Especially for a woman,” Margot says, nodding.
Hillary laughs and says, “Well. I’m sure it’ll be short-lived. At least I hope it will be … I’ll hang in there only until he knocks me up … Then I’m going to take my maternity leave and run for the hills.”
I laugh and say, “Sounds like a plan.”
“You think you’ll have one soon?” Julian asks me.
It is a question Andy and I have gotten a lot since announcing our move, so I have my answer both prepared and well rehearsed. “Not right away,” I say, smiling vaguely. “Sometime soon, though …”
Hillary and Julian grin back at me, as everyone seems to like the “soon” part of my response the best. Topping that list is Margot, who now nestles closer to me and links her arm through mine. I inhale her perfume as she explains that we want our kids to be close in age.
Hillary says, “Oh,
definitely
. That’s going to be so nice for you guys … I wish I had someone to go through the baby thing with, but I’m so far behind my other friends. They’re already applying to preschools, in a whole different stage of life … You’re
so
lucky to have each other and live so close to one another.”
Margot and I both murmur that we know, we
are
lucky, and for one satisfying moment, I feel the full weight and truth of it. Sure, the timing might not be ideal. I might not be quite ready to leave the city, and my children might be a few years behind Margot’s, but those are minor details. The big picture is pretty darn
wonderful
. My relationship with Margot, my marriage to Andy, our house in Atlanta—all of it
is
wonderful.
And that is my final thought before my agent, Cynthia, bursts into the bar, scans the room, and makes a breathless beeline toward me. As a former plus-sized model and stage actress, Cynthia has a lush, larger-than-life quality and a slightly outlandish sense of style that causes people to stare and wonder if she’s famous. In fact, she told me once that she frequently is mistaken for Geena Davis, and even occasionally signs fake autographs and fields questions about the filming of
Thelma and Louise
or
Beetlejuice
. I watch her pause to manhandle Andy with a double-cheek kiss and a tousle of his hair, before continuing her purposeful march toward me, my husband in tow.
“Just wait! Just wait until you see what I have,” I can hear her tell him from halfway across the room. One beat later, they are both beside me, and as I thank her for coming, I realize in an off-kilter, slow-motion panic, what she is about to unveil at our going-away party.
Sure enough, her full, magenta lips pucker dramatically as she pulls the oversized magazine from her fringed, white Balenciaga bag and then trills to her ever-growing audience, “
Platform
magazine! Hot off the presses!”
“I thought it wasn’t coming out until later this month,” I say, feeling numb and exposed as I envision not my photos of Drake that I toiled over and perfected for so many hours, but the byline of the piece.
“Well, you’re right, it doesn’t hit the newsstands for another couple weeks,” Cynthia says. “But I worked my magic and got an early copy for you … Thought it would be the perfect going-away present for you, pookie.” She bends down and taps my nose twice with her index finger.
“Oh, man. Awesome,” Andy says. He rubs his hands together eagerly and calls a few more of his friends, including Webb, over to the table.
“You’ve already seen the shots,” I tell Andy in a small, worried voice, as if there is anything I can do to stop Cynthia’s attention-grabbing tide.
“Yes, but not on a big, glossy cover,” Andy says, standing behind me and massaging my shoulders.