by Avery Aster
She motions for me to follow her into the kitchen. The sink is full of bubbles, pink towels laid out for the bath along the counter.
“How was Palm Beach?” I ask, concealing my suspicions.
“The photographer, from Germany, was a major A-hole. Kept pouring water over my nipples, trying to get the photos to be more erotic.” She rolls her tired, puffy eyes. “You’d think with as many women as that man has shot during his career, he’d be used to it be now.”
“Men are pigs,” I declare, thinking about my husband and her possibly fucking behind my back. “Did you bump into Bo while you were there?”
“No. Hollis mentioned to me this morning that Boden was there, but I didn’t see him. Really, I was in and out so fast, I barely had time to do anything other than the photo shoot. They put us up at the Ritz. What hotel does he stay at?”
“The Breakers.”
“Love that place. Haven’t been in years. Was there ages ago for a wedding. The couple is divorced now. Typical, right?”
Studying Jana, I look for obvious signs that she’s lying. Her eye contact is steady and focused. Her tone isn’t defensive. She’s comfortable and at ease bathing her child and doesn’t seem the slightest bit annoyed that I’m here.
I take a seat at the counter, scanning the room for that fancy paper my suicide note was written on. I see a stack of Post-its on the counter, along with a spiral-bound notepad. The flowers, the beautiful Asiatic lilies and white roses, are still in their vase on the dining table.
“Such a stunning arrangement.” I walk over and take a sniff.
“Thanks,” she says, running the water over the baby’s back as she giggles.
“Who are they from?”
“My agent, Barbara Barry.” She laughs. “Everyone calls her Babe. She sent me those flowers because now that I’ve carried this little lovebug and given birth, my body isn’t what it once was. I’m what you’d call a tier two in the modeling word, not the client’s first pick. Well, when the other models didn’t show, I stepped in last-minute. Sorta saved the day. Babe knows it too.”
Raising my palm to my forehead, I feel like an idiot. A pain swells in the back of my throat as I sit back down on the stool and say, “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?” She takes the baby out of the sink, drying her off.
My chest tightens. “I thought for a second that Bo had sent you those flowers and that you two were having an affair in Palm Beach.”
Laughing, first slightly with a chuckle, then a snort, she buttons up a purple-striped, long-sleeved onesie on the baby. “You can’t be serious.”
Unable to look her in the eye, I glance down at my shoes and wipe a tear from my eye. “I’m sorry.” The stress of all of this is clearly getting to me.
“Are things okay between you two?”
“Guess not.” I replay the past few days in my mind, a bitter taste stinging my tongue.
“Lord knows Hollis and I aren’t perfect. But we manage.” She tips her face in my direction and says in a lower voice, “If you ever want to talk, I’m here for you, Piper.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. I don’t have many friends in the city. I work all the time. And the women I work with, well, how do you say in English? We aren’t really besties.” She wrinkles her nose.
I grin. “I could certainly use a bestie.”
“Me too.” She stands the baby up on her legs and waves her left arm at me. Clapping, the baby’s gummy mouth goes wide with excitement.
So cute.
I give her a hug, kiss the baby on the forehead, and excuse myself.
Coming off the stairs, I see Reid in the hallway, getting his mail.
I walk over to him. “How was Orlane for you last night?”
“No dog farts, if that’s what you mean.” Reid’s handsome face looks a little better today than it did last night. The pain and sadness in his eyes isn’t as evident. “Orlane’s the best. I’m seriously thinking about getting a dog from the kill shelter over on Third Avenue. Maybe after the subway construction here finishes. I walked him this morning and then put him back in your apartment so he could eat.”
“What do you mean? He wasn’t there a few minutes ago.” I freeze. My heart sinks as I think back to the doors and the gate being open.
“Sure he is.”
I shake my head violently, grab Reid’s hand, and run for my apartment. Pushing the front door open, I call out, “Orlane. Hey, boy. Where are you?”
“Orlane!” Reid purses his lips together, whistling.
I whip around, searching for him, running from room to room. He isn’t here. “When I came home a little while ago, the sliding door was open and so was the gate to the backyard.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. Looks like he got out.”
My phone rings. The screen lights up with ‘Lobby.’
“Yes, Carmine?”
“NYPD is here to see you. Shall I send them in?”
Ughhh. “Yes.”
“Women can be blind. Their minds run wild with the craziest of ideas. Where I come from, we have a saying: ‘You will never see the fowl’s behind until the wind blows.’ For Piper, the perfect storm of her paranoia is just getting started.”—Janna De Vries, supermodel, new mom, and Sint Maarten native
Two days go by. No word from the NYPD on the intruder. Carmine gave the detective the tape. He said he didn’t have time to watch it then but would check it out later. I wonder if he ever really watched it.
Orlane is still missing. I’ve passed out flyers, posted ads on all of my social media channels. I miss him. There’s a hole in my heart that won’t be filled until he’s back in my arms.
Keely hasn’t called with any news either.
About to give up, I lie in bed naked with Bo, who doesn’t have to go into the office until later in the day. We’re both in a somber mood over our dog.
“He’s going to turn up. I bet some family over on the west side of town is loving on him right now, not realizing he’s been microchipped and belongs to us.” I’m trying to cheer him up. It’s not working.
Bo tangles his left leg with mine. Leaning his hips into me, he says in an optimistic tone, “Why don’t we go down to Lutheran Child Services today, check on the status of our paperwork. Maybe we can start fostering this weekend.”
“I’d like that. Let me shower first.” I get to my feet, head to the bathroom, and step in the tub, thinking about how important it is for Bo to have children. He really wants a large family with lots of kids. That’s how he was raised. I’m lucky that he’s willing to take the foster-to-adoption route with me. I think most men, once they found out I couldn’t conceive, would’ve probably left.
Dressed casually yet put together, resembling the perfect couple, we walk over to child services on West 87th Street and Lexington Avenue.
“We’re here to see Ms. Carothers. Is she in?”
The receptionist, who wasn’t paying any attention to us, looks me up and down and replies, “Do you have an appointment?”
“No. Is she free?”
“Let me check. One sec….”
I take a seat in the small lobby next to Bo. He’s reading a magazine. I check my phone for any texts or messages from the police. Nothing. The day I’d given the detective my statement, he didn’t seem to really believe me. But that’s not his job, to believe people. I’m sure he hears the craziest bullshit all day long.
“Don’t forget that you’ll need to go down to the station and give them a report.”
Bo nods as if dismissing my request and keeps reading the magazine.
He still doesn’t really believe me either. He talked to Carmine about the videotape for over an hour, although the police had taken it by the time Bo came home, so he has yet to see it. Maybe once he watches the tape, that’ll help change his mind.
“Adlers!” Ms. Carothers greets in black slacks with a white blouse. Her hair is longer than I remember and she’s graying at the crown. “Nice of you to
stop by. What can I do for you?”
“I left you a voice mail yesterday,” Bo says. “We’d like to get an update on our foster parent status. When will you be placing a child with us?”
Her face goes white.
The receptionist, who didn’t seem to have time for us earlier, is suddenly all ears and leaning physically into the conversation.
“Why don’t we step into my office.” Ms. Carothers motions for us to follow her down the long hallway.
Similar to the lobby with cement floors and plaster walls, her office is small, clean, and the walls are decorated with drawing and paintings from children. Taking a seat by her desk, Bo’s hand in mine, a wave of uneasiness suddenly comes over me. Something isn’t right.
“How have you two been?”
“Great,” I say, detecting a thread of caution in her voice.
“Mr. Adler, is there anything you’d like to tell me.”
“We don’t know what you mean.” My husband squeezes my hand tighter than before.
Folding her arms over her chest, she cocks her head. “Last week, I received an anonymous call about you, Mrs. Adler.”
Eyes wide, I lean forward in my chair and mutter, “Me?”
“Yes, the person on the phone was very insistent that we remove you from our roster of potential foster parents. They felt given the recent events you’re unfit.”
“Recent events?” Bo asks, pushing his shoulders back and swallowing loudly.
“Mrs. Adler’s suicide attempt.”
“Whaaa—” I’m stunned. Speechless, really.
“Naturally, we had to follow up on the matter. The caller told us you were taken to Bellevue. We spoke with the doctor who treated you, and he confirmed that you were a patient of his but couldn’t tell us the specifics. When I asked if you were fit to parent and would he give us a letter of recommendation, he declined.”
“Dr. Tiesto?” I ask, a sense of betrayal smacking me across the face as I feel my cheeks tinge with heat.
She nods. “We at Lutheran Child Services are always grateful to anyone who wants to open their homes for a needy child. Regardless, we cannot consider a home where one of the parents has tried to take their own life. It’s not safe for the child or for you.”
“But I didn’t try to—”
“Sorry, but until we complete a thorough investigation, we’re putting your file on hold.” She closes the manila folder sitting on her desk. I assume it’s our case file.
“What does that mean?” Bo’s nostrils flare. He tilts his chin up and that’s when I notice a bead of sweat across his hairline. He’s livid.
“To be more specific, you two won’t be able to foster or adopt, not in the public system. Maybe a private adoption, but for now, this has been recorded on your file.” She reaches across the desk for our hands. “I’m really sorry. I wish this situation were different, believe me. This month alone, Manhattan has forty children who don’t have beds or a place to live, ranging from newborn up to the age of… well, teenagers really.”
My eyes fill with tears. She hands me a tissue. “You don’t understand. Someone is trying to hurt us. To ruin my life. To kill me—”
“Piper!” Embarrassed by my admission, Bo scolds me. “You sound nuts.”
“No, I’m not.” Frustrated, I raise my voice and stomp my right foot against the cement floor. “Go down to the police station. Take Ms. Carothers with you. Watch the tape. Someone is out to kill me.”
The case manager’s mouth hangs open wide enough for me to see the silver fillings in her back teeth.
“Who called you? Male or female?” My lips flatten.
“Sorry. I can’t share that with you.”
Pissed as hell, it takes everything in my power not to tell her off. I realize she’s just doing her job, protecting these kids from child molesters, drug addicts, human trafficking, malnutrition, physical and emotional abuse. But I am not a perpetrator. I am a product of the foster care system. I’ve worked so hard to get my life to where it’s just near perfect. All I need now is a child. Someone to love.
“Ms. Carothers, would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?” Bo turns his chair slightly to face me.
She stands and excuses herself.
“Piper, I don’t know how much more I can take of this. You tried to take your own life. Our dog has gone missing. The other day Jana told me you accused her and me of having an affair. And now the only thing I’ve been looking forward to since marrying you—having a child—has been taken away from me.” His hands ball into fists.
I’m sobbing. I don’t have anything to say in my defense. The mere fact that he won’t believe me numbs my mind with pain, but I manage, “Please. I’m begging you. Go down to the station. Talk to the officer.”
“Piper, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I spoke to the policeman who came to the apartment.”
“And?” I lean forward with a sense of hope.
“He thinks you’re unstable and that none of what you claim to have happened actually did.”
“What about the tape?”
“There’s nothing on there. No one put tape on the lens. It shows our neighbors coming in for dinner and later leaving. Then it cuts off.”
White spots, bright ones, dance around my eyes. I’m getting a migraine. Fuck.
“I’m moving out. At least for a while. I’m going to go to Palm Beach for the rest of the season, get some work done with my clients. We need space and time apart.”
“You can’t leave me.”
“I don’t have anything to give you right now. I thought I could see us through this. I thought we could make some improvements. But after what Ms. Carothers shared today, I don’t see the point in us being together.” He lets go of my hand.
Floored, I sit there, feeling as if my life has been chopped up into tiny pieces, doused in gasoline, and then someone, a stranger who’s out to destroy me, has set a match, watching it burn.
I try to hold on to Bo, to prevent him from leaving the office, from leaving me. He hugs me and kisses me on the forehead before muttering, “Goodbye, Piper.”
It’s been about two weeks since Bo moved out. He texts me occasionally to make sure I’m okay. I’m anything but. Orlane is still missing. It’s hard not to give up hope that he’ll be returned, but it doesn’t look good.
Shit, nothing in my life does.
The last round of texts from Bo, which was yesterday, was about him wanting us to sell the place and get on with our lives. Why is it easy for men to move on so quickly? It’s like his heart left his body, replacing him with a robot lacking emotions. I don’t think he ever got over that day of me in the hospital. The suicide note destroyed the trust we had. When your faith in someone is shattered, even if for false reasons, it’s nearly impossible to restore that again.
Over the years, I’ve counseled many couples. While they say they can forgive their spouse’s wrongdoings, they never forget. And that is the reason they never move on. In order to forgive, you have to forget. Although, I didn’t do anything wrong, so me asking for forgiveness is really a moot point.
I’ve put my talk therapy practice on hold, at least for now. I don’t see the sense in giving others advice on how to live their best life when mine is falling apart.
Maxine is on my terrace drinking a glass of rosé. She’s brought her briefcase and says there are some important things that we need to discuss about my future at the Barclay.
I grab the cheese plate I’ve put together and some napkins and head outside. Stacked with aged cheddar, camembert, and stilton, it’s obvious I’ve been eating a lot of dairy lately. Anything to numb the pain, I guess.
“Thank you for seeing me today. How are you?” she asks, a sincere expression in her overly made-up eyes. Dressed in one of her power suits, she’s in the middle of her workday. I, on the other hand, barely know what day of the week it is, let alone care.
“The same.”
“Right.” She nods. “Okay, on to business. As yo
u know, the Barclay will be starting the explosive demolition on the lower-level basement in a few days.”
“Yup.” I take a sip of the pink wine and glance down at the cracks on my patio. They’ve nearly doubled in size. I smother a piece of toasted bread with Gouda cheese and shove it in my mouth.
“All tenants in the building are required to move out for forty-eight hours. You know, just in case there are any structural issues after the explosion. Then we’ll be given the clear to move back in. Here, this is from the co-op board.” She hands me a slip of paper with the dates and times the dynamite crew will be on the premises.
I manage a thank you and reach for another piece of cheese.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
I nod. “My friend Keely said I can stay at her place. It’s nearby. I was going to stay at a hotel, but I’m tired of being alone here in this apartment. We’re going to have a movie marathon night.”
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“Once the demo is finished, how long will the construction last?” I look up at the Barclay. From my terrace you can see the entire north side of the building. I wonder if it’ll fall into the earth. Perhaps the Devil himself will swallow this place hole.
“It’s hard to say. They started phase one, twenty blocks north of here, two years ago and are just now making their way down to our block. At least sixteen months for phase two. Why?” She hands me a pen to sign the notice to temporarily vacate.
“So for the next year or two, what exactly will it feel like around here?”
Maxine is getting annoyed with me; I can tell because her right leg is bouncing. She’s a busy woman with a lot on her plate, but I don’t care. I’m trying to decide whether or not I can really stay at the Barclay any longer.
“The tenants I’ve spoken with who’ve gone through this say that union workers only drill underground, Monday through Friday, from around 7:00 a.m. to about 6:00 p.m.. And because they’re union they won’t be working weekends or overnight. The subway system has already cost this city about two billion dollars.” She pauses for a minute. “I imagine there’ll be a lot of dust in the air. Rodents naturally will probably come up to your backyard. Lots of noise. Some vibration.”
