by Abbi Waxman
Three
In which Nina is surprised,
not necessarily in a good way.
Mornings were a bit of a challenge at Nina’s house.
In Nina’s imaginary life, which was the one she wished she were leading, rather than the one she’d been handed at birth, she would get up, wash her face with a variety of responsibly sourced products, shower in one of those showers with multiple heads (though she often wondered what happened when you bent down for the shampoo—Did you get a blast of water full in the face? That seemed rude), and then dress herself in comfortable but stylish clothes made of natural fibers picked by well-paid workers. Are you following all this? Then she would breakfast on fresh fruit and whole grains and yogurt made from milk freely donated by goats who had more than they needed for themselves. She would be grateful and mindful and not in any way blemished.
It was actually more like this: Nina would get up and her head would hurt because she drank wine that was at least 30 percent sulfites or whatever it is that causes headaches. Her mouth would feel like the inside of one of those single socks you see on the street sometimes, and her hair would be depressed. She would stand slightly crouched by the coffee maker and shiver until the coffee was done. Sometimes her glassy eyes would rest on her visualization corner and she would resent the steady way the planet whirled around the sun without consulting her at all. Day after day, night after night, rinse and repeat. Basically, until the first slug of caffeine hit her system, she was essentially in suspended animation, and she’d been known to drool.
Once she was caffeinated and showered, she was a whole new person. That person would take a second cup of coffee to the big armchair and pull out her planner and pencil box. She would decide what to eat and how she was going to exercise. She would make a shopping list. She would feel like her life was controlled and organized and heading in the right direction. It was the most satisfying part of her day.
Today she had a book club meeting, after which her plan was to come home and read until bedtime. She laid out some extra-fluffy pajama pants and socks in preparation. She made a note to get popcorn. She made a note to get mini marshmallows to go in her cocoa. And then she made a note to get cocoa. And milk. And then she looked on eBay for an interesting vintage cocoa mug, but then she noticed the time and closed everything and rushed off to work.
On the way to work, Nina felt pretty chirpy, and put in her earbuds and pretended she was in a movie, smiling at all the people who passed her and saying hello to the dogs. She had this fantasy a lot, that her life was like The Truman Show, that audiences all over the world were enjoying her playlist and hairstyle as much as she was. She would angle her face to the sun to help the lighting guy, or look over her shoulder to give the camera back there something to do. In public Nina was a quiet, reserved person; in private she was an all-singing, all-dancing cavalcade of light and motion. Unless she was a quivering ball of anxiety, because that was also a frequently selected option. She was very good at hiding it, but anxiety was like her anti-superpower, the one that came out unbidden in a crisis. The Hulk gets angry; Nina got anxious. Nina had a lot of sympathy for Bruce Banner, particularly the version played by Mark Ruffalo, and at least she had Xanax. He only had Thor.
Nina reached Larchmont Boulevard, with its artisanal hat and cheese shops (two different shops; that would be a weird combination, especially in warm weather), and turned into her favorite café to grab a gluten-free low-fat bran muffin. Just kidding, it was a chocolate croissant.
“Hi, Nina,” said Vanessa, a friend of hers who worked there. “What’s new?”
“Surprisingly little,” Nina said. “I’ll have a chocolate croissant.”
“The breakfast of champions.”
“French champions.”
“Champignons?”
Nina said, “I think that means mushrooms.” She sounded more confident than she was.
Vanessa shrugged. “Look, I’ve only had two cups of coffee. I’m barely alive.”
Nina took her croissant without a bag and ate it as she crossed the street. Multitasking and eco-sensitive all at once. Not even 9 A.M. and already ahead for the day.
Liz looked up as she walked in. “Ooh, did you get one of those for me?”
Nina turned and went back across the street.
A minute later she had returned. “Yes, I did, funnily enough.”
“That’s so nice of you. How was the trivia thing?”
“We lost.”
Liz stared at her. “What? You never lose.”
Nina kicked a bookcase. “Well, we did last night. It came down to a tiebreaker and the topic was horse racing and we lost. Did you know all racehorses have their birthday on January first? No? Neither did I.”
Liz frowned at her. “Don’t kick the bookcase. I’m sorry your fund of general knowledge stops short of the sport of kings, but damage the fittings and it’s coming out of your wages.” She turned to walk away, clicking her tongue, but then suddenly turned back. “And don’t forget to make a pile of books in case of Mephistopheles.” She walked on, then stopped again. “Oh, and I forgot in the shock of your losing, you missed a call.”
Nina swept the buttery crumbs from her sweater, glad none of them had lingered long enough to leave a stain (which always made her think of The Simpsons: “Remember . . . if the paper turns clear, it’s your window to weight gain”), and frowned at her. “A call? A customer?”
Liz shrugged and bit into her croissant, adding crumbs to her own shirt. “I don’t know. A man. He asked for Nina Hill, which is you, and when I asked if he wanted to leave a message, he said he would call back.” The phone rang. “Maybe that’s him.”
But it wasn’t; it was someone else entirely, and Nina had already forgotten about the call when the man who’d placed it walked into the bookstore a couple of hours later.
He stood out immediately, because he was wearing a suit of a cut and kind not often seen on Larchmont Boulevard. A serious suit. A white shirt with starch. A pocket square. Most of the people in Larchmont worked in one creative field or another, and tended to wear hooded sweatshirts and high-tops. The more successful they were, the shabbier they looked. This guy looked like an alien. “Nina Hill?”
Liz pointed at her, although Nina had already looked up when she’d heard her name, like a cat hearing a distant can opener. She’d been happily shelving new nonfiction, and at that very moment was holding a book about earthworms and thinking fondly of Phil and his generous nature. She looked over at the guy and decided he was probably bad news.
He approached her, gliding as if he were on casters, and said, “Miss Hill? Nina Lee Hill?” It was too late to run for it, and as far as she knew, there were no outstanding warrants for her arrest, so she nodded.
He smiled. “Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
Definitely bad news.
The office at Knight’s was very small and mostly filled with cartons of books, oversize poster board advertisements for books, and piles of books that threatened to tip and spill at any moment. There was one chair, which was supposed to be adjustable but wasn’t, and the man gestured in a “go ahead” kind of way, so Nina sat. That turned out to be super weird, because her face was basically on the same level as his crotch—see: broken chair—so she stood back up. He didn’t sit down, either, as there really wasn’t room to get past her, and so they stood there, about four inches too close to each other to be comfortable. Nina wanted to take a big step back, and possibly assume a defensive stance, but the moment had passed, and if she did it now it would seem rude. Oh my God, she thought, it’s hard to be human sometimes, with the pressure to be civilized lying only very thinly over the brain of a nervous little mammal. Maybe other people’s layer of civilization was thicker than hers; hers was like a peel-off face mask after it had been peeled. Through the edge of the door she could see Liz hovering, in case she needed help. Feeling better, she decided to take the plunge and smile.
“How can I help you
, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sarkassian. I’m a lawyer for the estate of William Reynolds.”
“OK.” Nina waited. She’d never heard of the guy. Was she supposed to know the name?
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The lawyer paused.
Nina kept waiting. If it were really bad news, the police would have shown up, right?
“I’m sorry to tell you that your father has died.”
After a brief pause during which Nina checked for double meanings or maybe a language difficulty, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. I don’t have a father.” That sounded wrong. “I mean, of course I have a father, but I’ve never known him. We’re not connected in any way, I mean. I don’t know who he is.”
“He is, or rather was, William Reynolds.”
“I don’t think so.”
The lawyer nodded. “He was. The estate has a letter from your mother, Candice Hill, confirming his paternity and absolving him of all parental liability and responsibility under the proviso he never attempt to contact you.”
Nina sat down on the chair after all. “I don’t . . .”
Mr. Sarkassian was balding on top but with hair around the sides and back, like someone wearing a brown woolly hat with everything but the brim removed. He spoke quickly and firmly, and Nina wondered if he’d been practicing on the way over. He couldn’t possibly have to break this kind of news all the time, surely? “Mr. Reynolds clearly abided by your mother’s wishes during his lifetime, but you were nonetheless included in his list of beneficiaries.”
He paused, but Nina looked at him without replying, largely because she had absolutely no response to that.
“I’m here to invite you to attend the reading of the will, which is actually in a few weeks.” He looked apologetic. “It’s taken me rather longer than I hoped to find you, as you could have been anywhere.” He shot back a French cuff and looked at his watch. “Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be half a mile away in Los Angeles.”
“Why?”
He smiled, relieved to finally have some good news to share. “Because this is where the rest of your family lives, of course.”
Nina shook her head like Phil did when she put drops in his ears. “My family?”
The lawyer patted her on the arm, and she was too weirded out to even bridle. “I’m sorry, I had no idea your paternity would be news to you.” A momentary expression of judgment crossed his face, and Nina spoke.
“My mother clearly didn’t think Mr. Reynolds would have been a good father.”
Another expression crossed Sarkassian’s face, though this one was harder to read.
“Well, she may have been right. It was a long time ago. Here’s my card—my office address is on it—and we’ll be in touch with details of the will reading.” He paused. “In the meantime, I’m afraid you may be hearing from your brother and sisters. I had to let them know about you, because they wanted to know why the will reading had to wait.”
Nina stared at him. “My what now?”
“Your brother and sisters.”
“I have a brother and sisters?”
He coughed. “I’m afraid your father was married three times.”
“Just not to my mother.”
“Right.” He nodded. “But to other women. You actually have three sisters and a brother, two nephews and two nieces, and two great-nieces and a great-nephew. Plus two stepmothers still living, though you don’t need those, I imagine.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve asked one of your nephews, Peter Reynolds, to get in touch and explain the whole family to you, because it’s complicated and he’s the only one everyone is always talking to.”
Nina stared at him. “I’m sorry, but can I pretend you never told me? I don’t really want any more people in my life. I’ve done fine without them for nearly thirty years.” She felt her breathing start to get shallow and willed herself to slow it down so she wouldn’t hyperventilate and topple to the ground.
The lawyer had clearly not considered this option and looked puzzled. “Mr. Reynolds was an extremely wealthy man, and the fact that you’re a beneficiary means he presumably left you something of value.”
Nina tried to focus. “Well, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but unless it’s a butt load of money, I really don’t care. I’m not sure I care even if it is a butt load of money.”
“Of course you do,” said the lawyer. “Everyone cares about money.” Again with the watch. “I have to go. Peter will contact you shortly. None of them were very thrilled to hear about you, I’m afraid. Except Peter.”
“He’s supportive of illegitimate children?”
Sarkassian turned to leave. “He’s an anthropologist.”
Four
In which Nina observes other people
and talks to her mother.
Well, obviously after that kind of news, Nina walked out of the store and wandered the streets sightless with shock, rending the air with lamentation. Actually, she went back to work, because they had Preschooler Reading Hour that afternoon and she was nominally in charge. Life will throw you major curveballs, but it’s rare you can do much more than duck.
Liz was not a lover of children, describing them as sticky little book-chuckers, so the store’s schedule of kid activities was Nina’s to run. She took it seriously, and had developed quite a program:
Baby and Parent Reading Time: In this activity, which happened three mornings a week, newborns and lap babies lay like slugs while the parents listened to an impoverished young actor read to them. To be fair, most of these parents were basically asleep with their eyes open, and the babies often rolled off their laps onto the Reading Is Cool rug. The actor was usually hoping at least one of the parents was an agent or something, and ever since one reader had been plucked from obscurity to star in a pilot that actually went somewhere, there had been a waiting list to read. Nina did her best to keep things fair, but she had been known to succumb to bribery (See’s Candies were her weakness, in case you’re wondering).
Preschooler Reading Hour: Three-to-five-year-olds and nannies, throwing books around (the kids, not the nannies), with the nannies doing the reading, and extremely popular. Firstly because the nannies could relax and chat a bit, and secondly because parents could say, oh, the nanny takes Aubergine and Salamander to reading hour every day, and feel better about preferring to be at work with people who knew how to use a fork. Daily, at three thirty.
Elementary Book Club: This was Nina’s pet project. Larchmont was a neighborhood filled with kids, and the girls in particular were very Big on Books. The boys were, too; they just preferred not to talk about them, whereas the girls were all about the chatter. These little girls were strong and confident, mostly, because of when and where they were growing up, and because puberty hadn’t smacked them across the head yet. They unapologetically and voraciously read books about fairies and witches and female heroines who didn’t need rescuing, and would open a book to check it out and then still be standing there reading an hour later when their parents reappeared. It was wonderful to watch a kid get tugged ineluctably into a different world.
Nina had developed a special fondness for these kids, because she knew the world would soon begin telling them other things were more important than the contents of their heads. So she started the elementary book club, and once a month after the store had closed at seven, she would sit there with a group of eight-to-twelve-year-old girls and talk about books for an hour. It was the club she wished she’d had when she was their age, and if she occasionally sat there making friendship bracelets and talking about A Mango-Shaped Space with even more enthusiasm than the ten-year-olds, what’s your point?
Young Adult Book Club: This one was all Liz. She loved a darkling teen.
There had been some discussion of starting a regular, adult book club, but Nina didn’t have time, because she already belonged to a weekly adult book club—of which more later—and that commitment, along with the elementary book club, h
er exercise regime (if you can call sporadic exercise classes and fervent promises to do better a regime), and of course the trivia team, meant she had no free time. Liz refused to do it, and the part-time girl who worked there, Polly, hated reading. Why does she work in a bookstore, you ask? It’s a long story.
Anyway.
Despite not having a child herself, Nina enjoyed watching other people handle the unsuspected responsibilities of parenthood. The baby wasn’t the biggest problem at all, it turned out; it was the other parents. There was a definite learning curve over the first few years, and Nina had a ringside seat, because so many of Larchmont’s parents were parishioners at the Church of the Dust-Jacketed Hardback and brought their kids in all the time. She’d watched dozens of little kids graduate from Goodnight Moon to Bedtime for Frances to Junie B. Jones to whatever YA series was trending, and with them went their parents, learning to navigate the intricate social networks of neighborhood and school.
Take when two moms met in the store at reading time. Standard school-mom rules of engagement applied: If your children were friends and you met while both of you were standing, you hugged, of course. If one of you was sitting on the floor already and your kids were good friends, with an actual, out-of-school playdate under their tiny rainbow belts, then the one sitting would start to stand but the other would wave her back down and bend from the waist to half hug. If your kids were really good friends, with multiple playdates and maybe a sleepover in their shared past, then the one sitting would scooch over to make room for the other, and they would hug once both were down. Nina studied these things, because they didn’t come naturally to her. And working in a store where people tended to aimlessly wander around looking at books gave her ample opportunity for observation.
Nina’s special favorite was watching people handle introductions. It played out like this: A woman would be browsing in the store, trying to decide whether she had the balls to get something vaguely pornographic or if she’d have to stick with something worthy (note: this is where that online bookseller really triumphs, undercover purchasing), and notices someone she knows has come in. In a split second she has to decide whether or not to acknowledge their existence, the decision depending on how well she knows them, how well they know her, and whether or not she can get away with ignoring them (i.e., they definitely haven’t seen her yet, or she’s disguised as a pirate).
