In the kitchen, she unloads the dishwasher and steeps some green tea. When it’s ready, she sits with her tea in the bay window of her living room and looks out at the park. She hears the front door open and turns to see Clio. Smith called her on the way uptown, in the middle of her spiral about the e-mail. Clio listened; Clio always listens. She said she’d come by.
“I brought scones from Alice’s Tea Cup,” she says, walking in. “Pumpkin.”
“Thank you,” Smith says.
Clio smiles and sits beside her. “So, what happened?”
“The strange thing is that I don’t think anything happened. I was with him at his apartment. Things were really comfortable and nice and we were joking around and then I was checking my e-mail on his computer because my phone died and I saw a message from his ex saying she wants him back and I panicked. I don’t even know why. I’ve known him for a week. Yes, I like spending time with him, but I don’t even know how I feel about him. The e-mail felt like a red flag. A warning not to get involved with another unavailable man.”
Clio pinches the edge from a scone and drops it in her mouth. Her brow furrows as it does when she’s thinking hard. “Can I ask you something, though? Are you even available?”
Smith looks at her friend and smiles. Leave it to Clio, smart Clio, to turn this around. This is one of the many reasons she loves her, because she really thinks about things, because she’s able to see nuances that Smith often misses.
“I guess I don’t know,” Smith says. “I think I am?”
“Think about it from his perspective for a minute. He meets you and you are this stunning girl with your own business and a gorgeous apartment and you are admittedly still getting over a relationship that you believed was going to be it. He’s had his heart stomped on. So have you. He’s reeling. You’re reeling. You’re both gun-shy about getting involved again. You’re both thoughtful people. That’s only a good thing.”
Smith nods as Clio continues. “You haven’t cared about anyone since Asad and I know it’s scary. I get it. We were sitting here just last weekend and you were encouraging me to trust that things with Henry would be okay and I’m beginning to believe you were right, and now it’s my turn. From what I can tell, you like Tate and he likes you. He’s a good guy. He’s doing everything in his power to spend time with you. Thanksgiving dinner with your family? Your sister’s wedding? If he were just playing around and didn’t like you, he wouldn’t in a million years be doing these things.”
“Right,” Smith says, nodding. She always feels so much better after talking to Clio. She has this way of breaking everything down to its elements, offering translations. She looks at her friend, her friend who has been through so much, who has come so far. “How was the trip home?” She remembers the little home blocks from campus, escorting Eloise back there several times when she showed up in their dorm.
“It was really good, I think,” Clio says, and Smith can see a gloss of tears in her eyes. “I brought him to Eloise’s grave. I didn’t plan to, but then we were there and I wanted to. Poor man handled it well. It was heavy but good. I had this huge conversation with my father. It was kind of ugly at first, but then we were able to really talk. And he gave me this box of items my mother saved. My hospital bracelets, my school reports, a letter.”
“A letter?” Smith says, expectation in her voice.
“Not the letter, but a letter all the same. It was brilliant and totally nuts and I’m not sure it answered any of my questions, but I’m so thankful to have it. And guess what?”
“What?” Smith says. “There’s more?”
“There is,” Clio says. “I’m doing it, Smith. I’m moving in with him.”
Smith smiles. Nods. Takes her friend’s hand. “I’m happy for you.”
“You know how you asked me what I wanted?” Clio says. “You know how I had no idea how to answer you? I’ve been thinking about that question all week, here and when I went home, and I think I’ve figured it out. What I want is peace, Smith. Happiness would be nice. I’m not going to turn down happiness, but the one thing I’ve never ever had is peace. Not when she was alive. Not in the past year. I want to breathe and sleep and read the newspaper and go for walks and do my work and hang out with you and Henry and not spend so much energy worrying what catastrophe might crop up next. I want peace.”
Smith nods. “And that’s just what you deserve.”
“You ready for tonight? Want to practice your speech?”
“I didn’t write it,” Smith says.
“What do you mean?” Clio says, panic in her eyes.
“It’s not like me at all. God knows, I sat down to write it a million times, but it just didn’t come, and that stressed me out enormously, but it just occurred to me that I need to just get up there and keep this real.”
“You’ll be fine,” Clio says, remembering college. How Smith did everything last-minute, cramming for finals, whipping up ten-page papers the night before, still managing to get straight A’s. It bothered Clio some, that it all seemed to come so easily to her friend, that Clio had to work so hard to get good grades, but in time, envy gave way to admiration.
“I hope so. It’s entirely possible that I’ll get up there and clam up and not be able to utter a word. It could be a true disaster.”
“It won’t be,” Clio says, looking at Smith. “It won’t be. It will be perfect.”
“Clio?”
Her friend looks up. Waits.
“Thank you,” Smith says.
“For what?” Clio says, nibbling her pumpkin scone.
“For calling Jack’s mom at the clinic, for walking me there that day and waiting with me and walking me back to the dorm. For being there. For keeping my secret all these years. I’m realizing now that it’s been weighing on me and I just feel lucky that I had you then. That I have you now.”
“You’re welcome,” Clio says. “And thank you.”
Smith laughs, slips off the window seat, disappears into the bedroom and returns with a plastic-wrapped gown. The black dress Clio will borrow for the wedding. “Thank you for what?”
Clio smiles, tears filling her eyes. “For taking a chance on a quiet, broken girl from New Haven.”
Smith feels her own tears now. They rise in her eyes and burn as she blinks. Through the salty blur, she fixes her gaze on her friend. “Shit, we’re all a tiny bit broken, aren’t we?” Clio nods and grabs Smith’s hand. A meaningful silence cloaks them. Smith watches as Clio scans the room, a wondrous look on her face. “I’m going to miss this place,” Clio says, “but it’s time for me to move on. That really sounds so clichéd—moving on—but it’s true.”
“I know,” Smith says, nodding. “I know. I think it’s time for me to move on, too.”
“Wait. What?” Clio’s eyes widen.
“After the wedding, I think I’m going to look for a new place. Maybe downtown or even Brooklyn. Being on top of my family twenty-four/seven isn’t healthy for me. I think I’ve known this for a while, but it’s time I do something about it. I need to live my life. My life.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Clio says, eyes twinkling.
They sit together as they’ve done countless times before, two friends nibbling on crumbling scones, the green trees across the way witnesses in the wind. The sky is clear, a deep, promising blue.
10:35AM
“Aap khubsurat hain.”
Smith will walk. The Waldorf is not close by any means, but she has plenty of time and it’s nice out and she does her best thinking while walking anyway. Her hope? That her speech will take shape in her mind as she strolls. She heads down Central Park West all the way to the Time Warner Center to cut over to Central Park South. She waits for a light and checks her phone, keeps walking. She bumps into something. Someone.
Startled, she looks up. First, all she sees are the scrubs, the caramel skin. She keeps looking up and nearly stops breathing.
Asad.
No, not Asad.
I
t’s not him. This isn’t the way life works. It’s a guy who only vaguely resembles Asad, a guy who now stares at her in the middle of this crosswalk. Cars honk. She snaps out of it, dashes to the sidewalk by the big gold statue of Columbus. She peers up at the two glass towers, up to the windows of the third floor, where she last saw Asad, almost exactly a year ago, for the final time.
They sat at Bouchon Bakery, at one of the tall tables. He bought her a croissant and a cappuccino. She touched neither. She reached into her bag and pulled out the ring, placed it in the center of the round table. He stared at it, the small black box, a keen despair evident in his dark eyes.
I told you I don’t want it back. I got it for you.
You got it for me because we were getting married. Now we’re not. I don’t want it, Asad.
I want you to keep it, he said, looking up at her.
I don’t understand what happened.
A long silence. Then words. Words that didn’t sound like him at all.
I love you too much to continue this.
I don’t understand.
My family knows, he said.
You told them? The plan wasn’t to tell them until after.
They know.
Because you broke down and told them? Why couldn’t you wait?
Silence. He began to cry. She’d never seen him cry before; cruelly, seeing him crumble made her love him more. He looked up at her and she was convinced that he was about to say something, but then he must have changed his mind. Regular life continued around them. People held hands. Chased kids. Talked on phones. Shopped for Christmas.
I just don’t understand, she said again. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just sat there with his bloodshot eyes, periodically looking at her, and it was clear, blazingly clear, that he still loved her, that whatever this was, it wasn’t about love. She had a piercing intuition that her father had something to do with this, but she pushed it away.
She stood. She had no choice but to walk away. She did it slowly, wordlessly offering him the breakfast she couldn’t stomach, collecting her bag from the floor, leaving the ring on the table.
Good-bye, Asad, Smith said, taking his hand one last time. He lifted it to his mouth and kissed it.
She felt as if she might faint, but she didn’t. She made it to the escalator, but before she stepped on, he grabbed her.
“Aap khubsurat hain,” he said, his voice shaking.
You are beautiful in Urdu.
As she walks toward the hotel, she thinks back to that afternoon. It feels like ages ago, but also like yesterday. She feels for that girl, that girl whose world was turned upside down, that girl who had no choice but to fall to pieces and then do the work to pick them up. And that’s what she’s done. There’s still progress to be made, that’s obvious, but she’s doing it, pulling herself together, more or less, and here she is, walking past those big buildings, the mere sight of which made her cry for months. But there are no tears today, just slices of memory, dregs of a devastation that’s thinning with time, the keen sense that things will be okay.
11:25AM
“What in the heavens is transpiring in here?”
Smith rides the elevator to the forty-second floor of the Waldorf Astoria. She walks down the hall and knocks on the door of the Royal Suite. Sally answers. Her fresh-scrubbed face is flawless and glowing and she’s wrapped in a white robe with the word bride scrawled on the front in gray cursive letters. Her hair is up in curlers. Smith hugs her, hugs her hard, and doesn’t let go for at least a minute.
“What was that about?” Sally says, smiling, her eyes twinkling.
“Nothing,” Smith says. “It’s just that I love you and it’s your wedding day and I’m so fucking excited for you. That’s all.”
Sally beams. She takes Smith’s hand and pulls her toward a grand sitting room, which glows with sunlight. “This place is insane. Two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and check out these views.”
Smith walks to the window and looks out. The sweeping views of Manhattan are divine, and though not her taste, the space is objectively exquisite, decorated with antiques and lush period furniture. She walks to the dining room. It overlooks Park Avenue and St. Bart’s.
“Help yourself,” Sally says, pointing to an impressive spread of breakfast on the table. “The food is delicious and Bitsy went overboard.”
“Bitsy going overboard? You don’t say,” Smith says, laughing.
Sally grins. “She’s in the other room getting started with makeup.”
“Must prioritize caffeine,” Smith says. “I need it after last night. I made the genius move of practically staying up all night talking to Tate. Wondering how wise that was now.”
“Tate,” Sally says. “Gee, Smith, I like him. I really like him. I can’t explain it, but when you walked in with him on Thanksgiving, there was this incredibly positive energy around you guys. It was like you’d known each other for a long time and were so comfortable with each other. I don’t know, but I just got this really good feeling.”
“Thanks,” Smith says. “I like him too, Sal. Probably more than I should after seven days, but I need to take a breath and not lose my wits over a guy who is still married.”
“Briggs thinks it’s just a matter of time.”
“Briggs?”
“I guess they bonded in the Hamptons when they were sequestered in the guesthouse. He said Tate wouldn’t shut up about you. I think he might have used the word whipped. And apparently Dad went on some horrific diatribe about how Tate should protect every hard-earned penny and Tate told Briggs it made him want to just sign the damn papers. So maybe you’ll have Thatch to thank if this thing works out.”
Smith smiles. Naturally, these snatches of gossip serve to lift her spirits, but she implores herself to remain cautious, to focus on her sister.
“Today is about you, Sal. How are you feeling? Can you believe it?”
Sally grins, sips her coffee. “I’m so excited. Can you believe this mild weather? Snowing last week and now it’s positively springlike.”
Smith studies her sister. There’s a palpable calm to her face, a true serenity and joy that Smith has missed because she’s been so wrapped up in her own narcissistic nonsense, because she’s been getting in her own way. All the plotting and planning and grasping for control and maybe what she’s needed most was to just breathe and let go. Wordlessly, they sit together on the floral sofa.
“I’m sorry, Sal,” Smith says, looking her sister straight in the eye.
“For what, silly?” Sally says, arching her eyebrows.
Smith’s throat tightens. “I know I haven’t been the best. I know it’s so ridiculous, but I’ve been feeling really stalled and left behind. It’s not easy for me to admit these things, but it’s true.”
Sally smiles and nods. “It’s okay. I understand,” she says. “I felt the exact same way when you got engaged to Asad.”
“You did?”
Sally nods. “I was with Briggs, so the blow was cushioned, but even so, I felt left behind, too. I get it.”
Smith remembers the night last winter when Sally called. The phone rang and for a split second she hoped that it was Asad, but it wasn’t, it was Sally, and she just knew; she knew what was happening. Smith picked up and heard her sister’s saccharine voice, but its tone was detectably different, even lighter. She said two words. Just two words. He asked. And all Smith could think was, Shit, and the moment hardened in her mind, emblazoning itself. She remembers all of it: that she wore her pink nightgown, that she was half-asleep, that as she sat there in her dark, exquisitely appointed and lonely bedroom listening to her younger sister gush, a new kind of sadness swaddled her. She didn’t sleep that night. Not a wink. She lay there in her bed and her mind filled with a million memories from their childhood. Halloweens and trips to The Nutcracker and their birthday parties and their Brearley graduations and the first time they sneaked a beer when they were thirteen and fourteen. It was like thi
s strange movie playing in her head.
“I don’t know,” Smith continues, fixing her gaze on a lone flower on the wallpaper. “I’ve been so lost and I’ve missed so much of this time. Look at you. I’ve never seen you so happy. You are glowing, Sal, and you love him so much and he adores you, and you are going to have this gorgeous life together and the most ridiculously stunning children, I just know it, and I’ve felt envious and resentful and mostly just really scared that you’re leaving, but you’re not really leaving, are you?”
“I’m not, Smith,” Sally says, her eyes glossed with tears. “I’m not going anywhere. We are so desperate to stay put that we might offer an astronomical sum of money to buy the apartment on the other side of us. I’ve already warned Briggs that you’re an important part of the package.”
“Good,” Smith says, tears snaking down her cheeks.
“What in the heavens is transpiring in here? An after-school special?” Bitsy says, floating into the room, her face made up like a doll’s.
Smith and Sally laugh. Leave it to Bitsy to inject a dose of timely humor.
“How are you, Bits? Did the dinner last night pass muster?” Smith says, kissing Bitsy on the cheek hello.
“Honestly, dear? I’m losing my marbles. Briggs’s mother. Did you see the blouse she was wearing? The plunging neckline? She’s seventy! With a colt’s tooth! There should be rules written about what one can and cannot wear. And the cash bar after the dinner? Beyond tacky. But what did I do? I bit my tongue. I’m not going to come to points with this woman over something as inane as a bar tab. But this tongue? I tell you it’s going to bleed. I’m fine with the father. Just a harmless, coxy-loxy fellow. A few drinks in him and he’s in prime twig. He’ll fit right in. The apple doesn’t fall far. But she is a veritable fruitcake. I can’t fathom how you will put up with her, Sally. We must tolerate them for another week, but Sally’s got decades ahead.”
“That’s the idea, yes,” Sally says, laughing.
“Anyhoo, you’re up for makeup, Smith,” Bitsy says. “Chop-chop. We’ve got pictures in less than two hours.”
The Ramblers Page 29
