Positively Mine (11 page)

“Do you know anything more that you aren’t telling me, Charlie? Please. This whole thing is so strange to me. I just want to go home.”

Sympathy washes over his face. “He had the locks changed yesterday. You couldn’t go in there even if you wanted to.”

My legs feel like jelly, and I slip down onto the leather sofa that decorates the lobby. “He changed the locks?”

“Miss Philips has been spending a lot of time here. And last week she showed up with more than a couple suitcases. I’m not sure if she’s moving in or just making herself more comfortable. But your father and she, they’re pretty serious.”

“Okay.” I force myself to stand up. I’m suddenly fuming mad. “I guess I’m going to Mrs. Slawson’s, then.”

Charlie pushes the elevator button, and I step into the mahogany-sheathed compartment and press eight. As the doors close, the look of concern in his eyes is unsettling. This is not getting off to a good start.

Walking down the corridor of the eighth floor feels foreign. The only time I’ve come here is to trick-or-treat or for high school fundraising. It seems like an alternate universe. The carpet and the crystal sconces that line the walls are the same as on my floor, but the smells and sounds are different.

I follow the arrow around the corner, and there is the entry to 8E at the end of the hall. I stare at it for a while before continuing. When I slip the key in, I can’t help but hold my breath. Please don’t smell like beets.

As the door slides open, my jaw drops. The place has been transformed from what was a dark, dingy apartment filled with old lady knick-knacks to what looks like a 1990s’ decorator showcase. My father must have brought in a designer or something because the place has been done from top to bottom.

The whole thing has been whitewashed, and there are two butter-yellow couches facing each other, each with leopard print throw pillows. A fluffy white carpet and a coffee table separate them while a black lacquer television stand lines the wall with a flat-screen TV on top of it.

The studio is L-shaped with the living room, kitchen and dining room in one part and a place for a bed around the corner, creating the illusion of a second room. A glass table and four chairs compose the dining area near the kitchen, which looks all shiny with new appliances. The only familiar thing here is my bed, but even that has been re-outfitted with a new comforter and shams to match the décor.

I text my father. “I’m here.” My phone vibrates.

“I said call, not text, Laurel.”

I don’t respond.

“So, are you in your new place?” His voice is edgy.

“I’m here.”

“And? It looks pretty amazing, don’t you think? I used a design consultant from that furniture store on 86
^th
and Lexington to put it all together. You’d never tell Mrs. Slawson lived there.”

“Dad, what is going on?”

“With what?”

“With you. You’re acting weird. This whole thing is weird. Charlie said you changed the locks yesterday? So I can’t even come home…”

“Dammit, Charlie! Don’t jump to conclusions, Laurel. I had the locksmith here because that lock keeps sticking, as you are aware, and I finally did something about it. I have a key for you.”

“But you couldn’t leave that one with Charlie?”

“Laurel.” He sighs. “I do have something I want to discuss with you. I’m wrapping things up. Do you want to go out for dinner?”

Not in a public place.
“No. Let’s order in. I’m tired.” This is no lie.

We sit facing each other in what once was my kitchen, plates full of various Chinese provisions in front of us. Everything looks the same here, and a little snooping around didn’t produce much evidence that another female had moved in although I didn’t get to open drawers or closets in his room or go into his bathroom. I wait for him to say something.

“You look good. School must be agreeing with you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ve gained weight. But it looks healthy on you. I always thought you were too thin.”

Perfect segue.
“Dad.” I swallow back the fear. “I, um, have something I need to tell you, and I…think you might be disappointed when you…”

I notice that he’s taking big gulps of his gin and tonic. He interrupts, “I’ve begun seeing someone, Laurel.”

“Oh?”
Sudden change of topic
.

“Yes. We started dating over the summer.” His voice is tentative.

“Do I know her?” I play dumb.

“You’ve met. It’s Sheryl Philips from the office.”

“Sheryl? She’s kind of young, isn’t she?” I don’t mean for this to slip out, but it just does.

My father straightens his shoulders. “She’s twenty-nine. So, yes, she is a bit younger than me, but that hasn’t seemed to be a problem for us.”

I try to recover so this doesn’t turn into a defensive conversation. I need to keep the line of communication open so he doesn’t shut down. “Twenty-nine, oh, I thought she was younger than that. She’s pretty.”

He seems satisfied with this. “I think so.” He takes another gulp of his gin and tonic. He’s got a bit of grey creeping into his thick, dark hair, and I notice there’s some popping up in the end-of-day stubble on his cheeks and chin now too.

“It’s getting serious between us, so I thought it was time to talk to you…about our relationship. I know the topic of me dating has been a sour one in the past.”

My nose crinkles. “Sour? When has you dating ever been an issue?”

“Well, a couple years ago when I dated Rosemary…”

“Dad, that was because it was Tara’s mom. I’ve never had a problem with you dating. I think you should be in a relationship.”

“That’s good because we’re not just dating anymore. I’ve asked her to marry me.”

I practically choke on my club soda. “Marry?”

“And she has said yes.”

My mind goes blank.

“Do you have anything to say about this?”

“I, um, I’m just shocked. It’s quick, no?”

“Maybe. But I’m forty-six. She and I…we’re a good fit.”

“When are you – um – planning to tie the knot?”

“We’ve booked a hotel at the end of December. Just a small gathering. About fifty people or so. Right in Times Square. It was her idea.”

“Times Square at the end of December? Oh, wow. That’s, like, not far from now.”

“We didn’t want to wait ’til spring.”

Blood pounds my temples, and the drum of a headache starts, but I manage to keep the conversation going. “So that’s the reason for the apartment?”

“I thought it would be awkward for the two of you trying to live under the same roof. She’s begun moving some things in. Her lease is up the end of this month. It was silly to renew it.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s still at the office. I said I’d call after I told you. Then, perhaps tomorrow night we can all have dinner together? I think you’ll like her once you get to know her. She’s going to join us for Thanksgiving, too.”

Of course she is.

We eat in silence for a while. Although I’ve lost my appetite, I keep shoveling forkfuls into my mouth because I don’t know what to say and at least chewing is keeping it occupied. He gets up and pours himself another cocktail.

“Now, what is it that you started to tell me before? You said I would be disappointed in you for something?”

I stare at my plate.
How can I bring this up now?

“What is it?”

“I, um, dropped the Legal Ethics class. It turned out to be too much with my schedule, and since I’m not interested in being a lawyer, it made the most sense. I know you wanted me to take it. So, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I appreciate you being honest with me. I suppose given everything I’ve sprung on you, I can’t be too upset.”

I get up from the table. “I’m going to go back downstairs, Dad. I’m tired.”

He walks me to the door and squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not overreacting. This is a lot to take in.”

When I enter the elevator, I catch sight of a mouse scuttling down the hall and into a hole in the wall, and I am envious.

I try to call Audrey, but I get her voicemail and don’t bother leaving a message. She’s got too much going on this week, so I push the new throw pillows and comforter onto the floor, pull off my jeans, and lie on my side looking out the picture window that runs the width of the apartment. I’ve got a view of Madison Avenue now, before I looked out on 85
^th
Street. Being on this side of the building is much louder as the cars swoosh uptown.

I rub my belly. I still don’t look pregnant with my clothes on thanks to loose-fitting sweatshirts over low-waisted jeans, but when I’m naked, I’m unmistakably bulging.

“Little baby, I am so sorry I’m bringing you into all of this.”

While my eyes close with the exhaustion of the day, a fluttering sensation under my fingers forces me back to alertness. I let my hand rest where it is, and it happens again. It feels like bubbles. Then it stops.

I try to lie as still as I can, and soon the fluttering starts again, tickling under my hand. The baby is moving, and I can finally feel it. I want to reach for the phone and call someone to share the news. But since Audrey isn’t around, who can I tell?

I am pathetic!

As I continue to simultaneously marvel in the feelings of baby moving while self-loathing at the same time, the buzzer on the intercom goes off. It’s Charlie. “I have Miss Tara here in the lobby. She would like to come up.”

Her timing is perfect, I’ve got to admit. “Sure. Why not?”

Tara’s at my door before I’ve barely had a chance to zip my jeans up. She lets herself in while I’m throwing the pillows back on the bed.

“Funky,” I hear her say, and I come around the corner to see her standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.

I always forget how striking Tara is until we haven’t seen each other for a while. At 5’9”, she’s all legs, and she knows it. This girl can rock a mini skirt like no one else. Her jet-black hair has remained in a chin-length bob since we were in ninth grade, framing a face that gets somewhat overpowered by enormous almond-shaped eyes. When we were kids, we’d have staring contests, and I’d always lose because her gaze was too intense; I’d have to look away.

When she sees me, she takes off her coat, tosses it on one of the couches, and says, “Where the fuck have you been?”

I begin laughing so hard tears roll down my face. She watches me crack up, eyes searching for some kind of answer. Once I calm myself down, I say, “I’m sorry, I needed a good laugh.”

“Well, I’m glad you think this is so funny. But seriously, Laurel, what is up with you? You haven’t returned one of my phone calls or emails all semester. Are you my friend anymore?”

She looks hurt, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of what a terrible person I’ve been. I slide onto the couch and pull a pillow on my lap. “I’m so sorry. I’ve had A LOT going on.”

She surveys the apartment again. “Isn’t this the place where beet lady used to live?”

“Mrs. Slawson.”

“Did your dad kick you out?”

“Pretty much. He’s getting married. To his twenty-nine-year-old legal assistant. She’s moving in this week. He thought it would be awkward for us all to be in the same apartment. So he rented this one and brought in some decorator from the last days of disco to furnish it.”

Tara sits on the couch across from me. “Wow!”

“He just told me.”

“Could be worse. He and my mom could have hit it off, and then he might be marrying her.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Then we’d be sisters.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “What else is going on?”

“This isn’t enough?” I lie.
Laurel-radar
. She knows me too well.

“You haven’t called me in three months. There’s something else.”

I feel her eyes piercing through me. When I meet them, I know I am defeated. I pull the pillow away and pull up my shirt, exposing my stomach.

She doesn’t get it. “You gained some weight?”

I sigh. “I’m pregnant.”

“What?” She jumps over to my couch. “Holy shit! Since when?”

“Since August.”

Her eyes widen. With the mention of summer, she doesn’t even have to ask.

“My last night on Shelter Island,” I offer.

“Have you told him?”

“I haven’t, or my dad either.”

“But it’s already the end of November!”

I awaken to the sound of Tara clanking around in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be alone, so she stayed over. Madison Avenue is hopping below with people off to work, parents walking their kids to the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, cabs cutting each other off.

When she sees I’m conscious, she asks, “Got any coffee?”

“I don’t have anything.”

“Let’s get some.”

After a Starbucks stop to satisfy her caffeine fix, we’re soon sitting at my favorite diner on 79
^th
Street. It’s crowded and harried, and the owner barks breakfast specials at people like they’re a nuisance for asking, not paying customers. I order a western omelet, home fries, toast with extra butter, a large orange juice and a decaf. Tara gets two scrambled eggs. She’s brought in a Venti latte and isn’t shy about drinking it. The waitress scowls at her.

When our eggs are in front of us, Tara’s face gets serious. “So what’s the plan?”

I shrug. “Every time I make a plan, something gets in the way of me executing it. So, I’m pretty much winging it for now.”

“You have to tell your dad.”

“I know. I wanted to last night. And now I have to have dinner with him and Sheryl tonight – not exactly perfect timing. Plus she’s joining us for Thanksgiving tomorrow at the club. So, when do I do it?”

“Do it before you have dinner. Today.”

“He’s at work. And isn’t that kind of stealing Sheryl’s thunder? Tonight is her big night to impress the daughter of the man she’s going to marry. And then the daughter blows in from school, announces she’s going to have a baby, and takes the spotlight.”

“Oh, please! Like you care about that. It doesn’t matter. He needs to know. So does someone else, by the way.” She stares me down with those eyes.