Nancy could no longer stare at the computer screen, slipping further and further from her grip. She walked across the room to her office window, fixed her attention on a small line forming across the street, outside the Polish embassy, and then on a row of brick apartments on Thirty-Seventh Street. Apparently one served as a doctor’s office, and she could not imagine how the elderly managed the stairs. There was also rumor of a cat—Frida had mentioned this cat while showing Nancy her new office—how it sometimes peered through the window of the apartment above the doctor’s office. She couldn’t help but think of Madame Arnaud and her black stray, so many years ago in Paris: those green eyes piercing hers, and then how she’d slipped back to bed, hugging Murray tighter below the sheets.
“Nancy.” Martin stood in the doorway; his fist had knocked gently at an edge. “How’s it going?”
“Oh,” she said. “IT is just setting me up with access. I’m admiring the view.”
“I’m sure we’ll have you set up in no time.” Martin smiled. His eyes were a shade lighter than Murray’s, his hair this silvery bristle.
“I’m sure.” She smiled back.
“Well, I was just checking on you,” Martin said. “If there’s anything else you need, call Frida. But let’s catch up later, after the meeting.” He looked at his watch. “Oh shoot, I’m leaving early today. Tomorrow then?”
Nancy nodded. And then he patted her desk and walked out.
She only had twenty minutes until the meeting, so she jotted down several questions and dates to reference, and she thought about how she’d make better eye contact with Martin next time. She took a quick bathroom break and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. But the coffee was too hot and stung her teeth—she nearly spit it out, but she stopped herself, sacrificing a few small splashes on the green silk camisole under her blazer. She’d worn the camisole on her first date with Murray in Paris, actually, and last night when she’d tried it on, she’d been impressed it still fit, that it was in mint condition after all these years. Murray had never appreciated fine clothes, she thought, dabbing a wetted napkin over the cloth.
Then, for some odd reason—she pictured him appreciating it: his sun-weathered hands over her, brushing down a strap, caressing beneath the collapsed silk. She looked up. A miracle no one was coming, and so she walked back to her desk with her head down, in case anyone did. She couldn’t help but wonder what he might be doing at this moment: preparing for his next practice, planning out the schedule for a meet—and the thought didn’t upset her as she thought it might have; it comforted her that she could picture him, that she still knew his habits, his rhythms.
Such thoughts persisted through the long meeting, especially when she asked a question, which she’d decided on after much silent deliberation, about any plans for starting a program for digital rights. But the question must have sounded mediocre, or perhaps should never have been framed as a question in the first place, but rather asserted with conviction—she was in a director’s role after all—because no one seemed to jump on it, and the topic had moved quickly to the next item on the list: the urgency of soliciting donors, and an idea for a gala next fall emerged, with Martin calling on Frida to look into venues.
At least Nancy had succeeded in looking right at Martin when she’d asked her question this time, but that had also been the moment when she’d thought only of Murray—and then again, hours later, after she’d been forced to socialize with other curators and administrators and archivists—after she’d locked her office and caught the bus downtown on Second Avenue, when she should have been able to hit the reset button. But at her stop, she stepped off and nearly collided with a man. He was younger than she was, with long black hair under a Sherpa hat. He smiled and asked if she lived in the neighborhood, because he thought he’d noticed her at the laundromat on Eighth Street.
This made her nervous, as did the beaten look of his hat, and the giant mole on his nose, and so she said she was late for an appointment, a doctor’s appointment, and hurried ahead, her heels pinching the large tendon between her ankle and foot. Back inside her apartment, she took off her camisole and unclipped her bra. She lay back on her bed, which she’d only partially made; the sheets were tucked, but the comforter was ruffled—she lay back and imagined what it would feel like for Murray to really touch her, all the places he knew how to soften, to bring to life. Distance had done little to allay the vividness of his touch, even if it had been impossible for so long to let herself envision that, Jean palpable in her mind. She thought maybe it was the pulse of a different place that let her consider loving again.
Caroline wanted to set Nancy up with a family friend, a doctor who was in his early fifties and somewhat newly single, at least that was how Caroline had put it. Nancy had been too afraid to ask what she meant, for fear of seeming too interested, too desperate, but Nancy also supposed that just fearing this about herself implied that she was, in fact, “desperate.”
Nancy could not predict, as Katherine used to remind her weekly, the reactions or judgments of others, no matter how much she tried to anticipate the future or was surprised by a person’s rudeness or callousness, and rehashed the words over and over, as if she could somehow revise the past. No, how Nancy might feel in a given moment, as it was with all humans, remained an infinite mystery; the only thing she had control over was how she responded and recovered, how she conserved her energy so more of her heart could survive, could stay open to giving and receiving kindness.
Caroline continually tried to improve Nancy’s life—she supposed the job at the Morgan was just the start of her friend’s project—she tried to be patient, to hear Caroline out, but now, just last weekend, she’d proposed the absurd idea that Nancy join her running club through New York Road Runners, where Caroline served on the board.
They’d been having brunch one morning in mid-March to celebrate Nancy’s forty-ninth birthday in SoHo, and Caroline had uttered the words. Nancy had had her fork poised over quarters of roasted potato, some of it submerged in the drippings of a single poached egg.
Nancy had no desire to relive her past, especially any portion that involved running, but somehow she’d found a way to answer calmly, “I don’t think so.”
“I really think—” Caroline tipped her coffee cup toward her lips, then set it down. “I think it would be good for you to get over these blocks.”
“What blocks?” Nancy pushed her plate toward the center of the table.
“I don’t know,” Caroline said. “Not blocks, just barriers, I guess . . . to enjoying your life.” Caroline looked down while taking a long sip of coffee.
“Blocks and barriers are the same thing,” Nancy said. “And I didn’t come here for a therapy session.”
Caroline’s lips twitched, but still she continued. “I just want you to enjoy the city,” she said. “To feel like you can make new friends here.”
“And running is the only way? A running team? Come on,” Nancy said.
“There are so many people I could introduce you to,” Caroline persisted. She speared a blackberry with her fork.
“Because you’re so worried I can’t make friends on my own?”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve known you for a long time, and you’ve always just kind of had one person in your life. And I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you, especially now.”
“What?” Nancy said. Feeling Marjorie’s judgment again, a different kind, but it was still there, this repetition of others needing to reduce her, to fail to accept her or see her as she was—a woman who’d once been married to a famous running coach. The mother of a child who could have run as well, maybe even accomplished as much.
“I’m sorry, that came out wrong,” Caroline said, wiping away tears. “I really just want the best for you.” Caroline’s eyes were frantic. She reached for Nancy’s hand across the table, but it was too late.
“The best for me is what?” Nancy stood up. “Living a copy of your life?”
> “No, no. That isn’t what I meant.” Tears glazed Caroline’s eyes.
“Maybe I’m happy alone,” Nancy said, words still fuming despite nascent regret: “Maybe I’m free, and maybe I don’t like exercise.” She put down sixty dollars, an embarrassing amalgam of twenties and fives, to cover them both.
“Nancy, please,” Caroline said, wiping a rush of tears. “Please sit back down.”
Nancy wasn’t going to, she couldn’t, but she heard Katherine urging her to be patient, to give herself a few seconds to focus again, realize where she was, that she was more than a disembodied feeling, that she had power, control. “Okay,” she said, lowering slowly. She kept her hands on the edge of her chair.
Caroline dabbed the corner of her eye, as though she was trying to find words but was too afraid of upsetting Nancy further, and Nancy sat with that, her own insecurity, more of it rising up.
“Jim says I do this thing,” Caroline said. She looked up at Nancy weakly. “That I get fixated on other people’s lives. Because it’s easier than focusing on my own.” She wiped more tears. “I don’t know what there’s left to fix. I’ve subscribed to everything already. Fitness, life coaching, marriage counseling, parent counseling.” She laughed nervously like Nancy. “You must think I’m insane.”
“No,” Nancy said. “I don’t know.” She reached for her glass of water. “It’s just Murray,” she said. “You know it’s a sore point. You know I was married to him.”
“Well, yes,” Caroline said. “But I guess I thought it’s been years, and you never mention him.”
Now Nancy was the one withholding tears. This surprised her; she supposed she hadn’t realized how angry she still was, how much she still resented the sport, as if it had been the root of their problems. She supposed that running had always been there, Sarah especially—the easiest thing to feed her doubts, like blaming torn wallpaper for pulling down a collapsing house.
Caroline was looking down at her hands on the table, fidgeting with her rings. “I should have put two and two together,” she said finally. “It was insensitive of me.”
“No,” Nancy said. “I don’t know. It’s just hard.” She felt her tears release. “To be around new people, wondering why I’m not married. Without children. Why.” She could not suppress heavier tears.
And as Caroline held her, Nancy felt as she had in college when she got overwhelmed by the pressure, so much pressure not to fail—she couldn’t worry about another Marjorie, another pointing finger. Caroline was trying to be the best friend she could, given the circumstances, and it was up to Nancy to let her continue to be this. She would never know unless she tried, so she agreed to do that. Try.
The 5K took place just one week later, in Central Park. The temperature was low for March, in the twenties, but Nancy told herself that this cold might objectify her experience—make it unbearable enough to justify why she never wanted to run again.
Nancy showed up in sweatpants, and a thinned-out beanie, and gloves from the dollar store. She’d refused to step inside a specialty running shop—the thought of Murray’s shadow as she searched for her size, hangers zinging along the sales rack—was enough to make her nauseous for days. Yet as she looked around at all the people jogging in place up the 102nd Street transverse, clapping warmth into their hands, there was no escaping him.
“Nancy!” Caroline called from a large elm tree across from a row of porta potties: what she’d said would be the easiest place marker, with hundreds of runners crowding the start. “Didn’t you see us?”
“No,” Nancy said. It was true she hadn’t, but then she hadn’t really been looking. She’d been hoping for dissolution among the crowds.
Caroline gave her one look, her hand over her mouth. “Come,” she said, holding out a steaming thermos. “The perks of VIP,” she laughed.
Nancy couldn’t help feeling embarrassed compared with Caroline’s more polished friends keeping warm in Lycra or fleece.
“This is Michael,” Caroline said. “Nancy’s here to give running a try.”
“Very nice,” Michael said. Nancy wondered if he was the doctor, the same Michael that Caroline had wanted to set her up with? But wouldn’t Caroline have given advance notice? She felt a sudden desire to defend herself, to claim she’d been married to a professional runner for years, but what would she say? I may look like an amateur, but my ex-husband is a college cross-country coach, and he swears by sweats. Self-sabotage came in many forms.
Caroline knocked her on the shoulder. “Have you warmed up yet?”
Nancy shook her head. She’d thought of jogging from the subway, but she’d decided to save what little energy she had. She was so out of shape she doubted her ability to even walk the full loop.
“Oh,” Caroline said. “This is Maureen and Katie. And Max.” Everyone waved. “Max is on the board too,” Caroline said.
Maureen was an investment banker, Max worked in advertising, Katie sold pharmaceuticals, and Rita—the last to join their group, then boldly stripping down to briefs and a singlet—clearly she was running this for time—was the director of a private school in New Jersey.
Around her she watched as other runners, beautiful in their namelessness, seeped into corrals; she looked for at least one face as aged and inexperienced as her own. But no one started running this late in life, did they?
Behind her, porta potties shuddered their familiar rhythm, reminding her of when Murray ran the 2000 Chicago Marathon—another fact she’d scorned. He’d entered this event not even a year after Jean, and she had gone with him anyway, as “sideline support.” It was something she’d always given and hadn’t wanted to feel like she’d never be able to give him again. Or maybe they’d both seen it as some kind of final test, of whether they would be able to play the roles they expected of one another, whether it would be possible to forgive. Except Nancy hadn’t made it to the four-mile checkpoint where she’d promised to wait for him; even before the official start, she had gotten in her car and driven back to the hotel. And Murray hadn’t said anything—hadn’t even looked at her when he entered four hours later to find her curled in bed, among a box of Slims and People magazine.
He had been hunched in his finisher’s blanket, one of thin silver foil. He had turned on the hot water, and she had listened to its rain with her eyes open. That night they had slept in separate beds, and they had also woken up separately; him first, always to his hunger, and she, much later, to the sound of street construction, but she had not found him downstairs at breakfast.
“Should we move up?” Caroline asked Nancy.
“You should,” Nancy said.
“We’re doing this together, remember?” Caroline said. How many times did she have to remind her? But Nancy tried to counter this thought, to remember why she was here. Try to forgive herself for all the ways her life hadn’t panned out as she’d hoped.
She looked up at the silver-lit sky, the sun this muted shard within it. A jagged line of trees rimmed the horizon, ethereal with mist. It comforted her against the laughter inside the corral she’d followed Caroline into—this nervous, anticipatory laughter, like the waiting room in Dr. Weiss’s office: mothers comparing notes about tests and procedures, weighing written expectations against physical feelings.
But the timer above, large and black and red, reminded her of the emergency room, when she and Murray had waited for official word. They had seen Jean again, just before she went into the ER, tubes running everywhere, catheters and IVs, tiny tubes in her mouth, clips on her fingers. For a moment, they’d had hope. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Yale New Haven had the best surgeons in the country; she had tried to repeat that thought, in the blur of the muted television in the waiting room. They’d held hands as nurses and orderlies rushed in and out of rooms, updating records, rolling carts of supplies, machines beeping. The sound of a man screaming about his bleeding father, others in the waiting room moaning about more benign wounds, wanting priority, wanting someone to hear them.
; Somehow Nancy had wanted more time to pass, the hope of a prolonged surgery, of resuscitation, but then the spinning had stopped, all of the activity, the cries, around them. They had watched the doctor approach, his slow steps to tell them, the look in movies, but it had been their life she’d been watching—and the words as he spoke, her collapsing again on the floor, as she had before the ambulance, the reenactment of that repetition. Jean’s death was something that had happened, and what she would give to go back to that moment, before the grieving curtain was closed, and they’d wept and held her, Jean in her blanket, eyes closed as soundlessly as when she’d been born, that little rush of air Nancy had felt for the first time in her arms.
With all her strength, Nancy wanted to turn now and run back to the subway, but a loudspeaker said the corrals were closing.
Caroline tugged at her hand, and Nancy winced. She had another nightmare last night, that Caroline was conspiring with Murray—she’d seen Caroline’s face transplanted with Sarah’s, and they were having an affair, and Murray had taken Caroline away on a plane to a race on the other side of the world—but then the camera lens had shifted and Nancy had found herself below the plane, submerged in the ocean, steadying a matryoshka doll in her palms, the wooden children slipping out, though somehow she had been able to save the tiniest one. The one no larger than a marble, its image still like lace over her eyes after she woke. She was surprised to picture it again.
The loudspeaker began thanking A-list sponsors—Caroline looked at Nancy while she smiled and clapped. And then a young girl—Nancy pictured her in a little wool cap with red gloves—came on to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Her voice was thin but powerful. The crowd roared after the last note; there were screams, finger whistles, hoots. The timer above collapsed with the last ten seconds, slow and tortuous, and Nancy closed her eyes just before it cleared to zero. She was struck by the fact of a bullhorn instead of a gun—blood surging through her, legs airy and numb, moving despite thought, any reasoning from her brain. How much watching a race, watching college girls with their lean, strong legs, differed from actually running one—this first attempt of her own. She was surprised when they hit the first quarter-mile mark, her legs miraculously working in measure with Caroline’s long, steady stride. Nancy heard clapping as they rounded the bend. Family members cheered for their loved ones, children held out hands to be slapped. She reached to touch a small boy’s palm, then an older man’s.
Late Air Page 22
