by Hester Young
The thought of explaining myself to someone, giving name to my feelings—it’s exhausting. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will,” she says, softening. “You’re the strongest person I know. Maybe too strong. It’s okay to be a blubbering mess for a while.”
“For a while?” I give a shaky laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Rae crosses the room and envelops me in the kind of rib-crushing hug my grandmother and I could never exchange. “This is your low. This is your rock bottom. I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but you’ll get through this. And you’ll kick life in the balls just as hard as it’s kicked you. Remember when you found out Eric was cheating?”
The question, I assume, is rhetorical. It was not the sort of moment you’d forget. Eric took me to a restaurant for a so-called date night and, shortly after our appetizers arrived, began his dramatic confession. Charlie, he said, gazing into the distance like a character on a soap opera, I did something terrible.
Two years after the fact, it still makes my blood boil. “He wanted me to make a scene,” I tell Rae. “That freaking drama queen.”
“Oh, I’d have punched him,” Rae says. “But you didn’t. You held it together. Because you’re a tough-ass bitch.”
I shrug. My anger that day was with myself just as much as Eric. Because I should have known, should have seen the affair coming. Our marriage had been on the rocks since Keegan’s birth, and I never mistook Eric for a model of moral virtue. I just didn’t think he’d get the opportunity.
We’ve had problems for a long time, Eric said, delivering a speech that was clearly rehearsed. But we can get past this. For Keegan. Our son needs us.
He expected tears, a choice between two women, but I remained calm, determined not to follow the script. No, I corrected him through a mouthful of crab, our son needs me. I want primary custody. And if you do anything to fight me on this—anything at all—I will have you paying child support out your ass for the next sixteen years. This can be hard, or this can be easy.
In the end, he made it easy. For me, but mostly for himself.
I want to tell Rae that I’m not tough, just dumb to have married an asshole like Eric in the first place, but I can’t regret Eric. Because I could never regret my son.
“Listen,” Rae says, “I better go. You hang in there, Charlie-girl. One day at a time.”
She doesn’t tell me that she’s going to pick up Zoey, but it’s Thursday. Zoey has dance on Thursdays. I haven’t forgotten. As I watch her drive away, I wonder if our friendship can survive this. Can I forgive Rae? She has somewhere to go. She has a child waiting.
• • •
THAT EVENING I get a call from Bianca, my art director at Sophisticate. I mute the TV, some program I wasn’t really watching about ancient Egyptians, and answer my cell, grateful for the distraction of work.
“Hon, how are you?” I’m used to Bianca enthusing over beautiful layouts and agonizing over the font and color of text. Discussing my personal life is another story.
“I’m fine,” I say cautiously. “You?”
“Good, good.” Bianca doesn’t linger on niceties. “So listen . . . I wanted you to be the first to know.” She takes a deep breath. “Dunhaven’s looking to sell the mag.”
The TV casts eerie blue shadows across the wall of my living room. I stare at the images of mummies and ancient tombs, trying to absorb her words. Bianca and I have never exactly been a fan of our publisher, but a sale could mean a massive, catastrophic shake-up at work. This is a big deal, a very big deal, and yet I can’t quite summon the energy to get riled up.
“Huh,” I say.
My response is not what Bianca anticipated. “Look,” she says, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but Longview Media’s already made an offer. It could be accepted as early as next week.”
“You think they’ll restructure?” I ask.
“I can guarantee it,” she says. “I know you’ve been working a lot from home these last few months, but that’s not gonna fly with Longview. I’m telling you this as a friend, Charlie. Starting next week, you make it to the office every day, okay? Because heads are going to roll. And you know how bad Tina wants your job.”
“Okay,” I tell her, and in some distant way I do appreciate that she’s looking out for me. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
After our call, I sit staring at the phone, wondering why I’m not more concerned about the job I spent most of my adult life chasing. Twelve years, I realize in disbelief. I began working for the magazine at twenty-six. Once I determined my stint at Cold Crimes magazine was going nowhere, I started freelancing for Sophisticate until they offered me a staff writer position. Sophisticate was a complete 180 from writing about old murders and advances in forensics, but it was a steady job and paycheck. Now, many years and several promotions later, I am managing editor and I have an amazing career. Right?
An amazing career and almost no social life. Hardly any family. And no son.
I wander into the bathroom, in search of my Ambien. Kick aside a heap of mildewed towels, ignoring the smell. Pry the lid off my pill bottle.
Would losing my job really be a bad thing? For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a magazine that promises today’s affluent professional woman a life of happiness and ease. But where is my happiness? My ease?
I slip myself an extra sleeping pill. I don’t want to think anymore, don’t want to remember what I’ve lost. Don’t want to ask myself where I would be without my job now, too.
• • •
DING, DING, DING.
I’m jolted from my medicated fog by the doorbell. I sit up on the couch, head pounding, stomach lurching. An Ambien hangover. That’s what happens when you double the recommended dose.
The doorbell rings again, three times in quick succession. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in a while. Zoey. Her “secret” ring for Keegan.
In the last few months, Rae has kept her daughter’s visits to a minimum, and I don’t blame her. I’m still fragile, unprepared to deal with Zoey’s relentless questions. How do you explain to a kindergartener that her playmate is dead when you yourself can’t fully grasp the implications of that word? I consider ignoring the doorbell altogether, but I’ve known Zoey most of her life. I love her to pieces. She is the only child I have left in my life.
I open the front door and blink away the morning sunshine. Zoey’s face tilts up toward me; she’s a tiny, even more gorgeous version of Rae. Smooth coffee skin, strictly managed curls. A fashionista in training. Rae stands behind her, hesitant. I have no doubt that she’s coached her daughter thoroughly, but Zoey’s only five, still a bit of a wild card.
“Hi-hi!” Zoey studies me. “Are you sick?”
“Zoey.” Rae’s tone is a warning.
“I came to show you my new outfit.” She holds out the skirt of a lime-green ensemble and spins around for me.
I kneel down to her level. “It’s beautiful.”
“She wanted to say hello,” Rae murmurs. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I’m glad you came by.” I glance at the living room clock. “Looks like I overslept.”
“We’ll let you get started on your day.” Rae puts a hand on Zoey’s shoulder, attempting to steer her child away. “We need to go too, baby. Time for school.”
Zoey glances back at me. “Hey, wanna come to my dance show? It’s gonna be really good.”
Her mother obviously didn’t anticipate the invite. “Charlie’s really busy. Maybe another time.”
Is she protecting me, I wonder, or shielding Zoey? “Are you having a recital, Zo?” I ask. Even before I lost Keegan, I envied Rae for her daughter, the princess dresses, purple tutus, and glitter paint. I haven’t been to either of Zoey’s recitals since she started lessons.
Zoey beams at my interest. “
Yeah, we’re having a show. And I get a costume. It’s really pretty.”
“Wow,” I say. “I’d love to go.”
Zoey hugs my knees.
“Are you sure?” Rae looks dubious, like she doesn’t think I can hold myself together.
“Of course.”
“The recital is Sunday afternoon. I could pick you up at three.”
I can tell that she’s still not convinced.
“If Sunday gets here and you don’t feel like it, no biggie.”
I attack Zoey with tickle fingers, ignoring her mother. Zoey squeals in delight.
“I’ll see you on Sunday, sweetie. I can’t wait.”
“Yaaay!” She does a celebratory dance, and her joy is so innocent and pure, I think my heart will break.
• • •
IN THE FORTY-EIGHT HOURS BEFORE Zoey’s recital, I become strangely agoraphobic. The idea of leaving the house fills me with panic. Can I really smile and applaud as I watch other people’s children on display? Fueled by my anxiety, I stop lazing around the house and start cleaning. It’s time. Objects are not the same as memories, I remind myself. My son is more to me than a Ninja Turtle backpack and a hallway littered with Matchbox cars.
I put away all of Keegan’s toys, stacking puzzles and games on shelves, packing blocks and Legos away in boxes. I make his bed, wash and fold his clothes, alphabetize his books. These items mean nothing now to anyone but me. I am the only one who remembers the seven thousand times we read Moo, Baa, La La La! and the games of Candy Land he shamelessly cheated at. There are no new memories to be made.
When I am through, the room is neat and impersonal. Blue walls, green trim, a Sesame Street bedspread. It looks like an IKEA display, a room waiting to be filled by some anonymous little boy, not my little boy, but someone else’s.
Afterward, I turn on the shower, step in with all my clothes on, and sit down. I cry. Cleaning has never felt this bad.
In these two days, I stop taking sleeping pills. I don’t want to check out, don’t want to numb myself. I need to feel. Sleep, without pharmaceutical aid, has always been elusive; now it’s an impossibility. At night, I leave the TV on, letting the enthusiastic voices of infomercials keep me company. I clean out the refrigerator, attack the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. I cringe with self-loathing as I go through past issues of Sophisticate, the articles on diets and plastic surgery. I think, At least I never had a daughter to screw up. A cold comfort indeed.
• • •
ON SUNDAY, I sit on the couch and wait. This is it. My day to look normal, to fake it as best I can. Sunlight filters weakly through the curtains. I hear birds. Days and nights without sleep finally take their toll, and before I know it, I’m gone.
Birds, first. Crows squabbling, the light receding, then red. Red flowing, rippling, shimmering. I dip my hand in it and watch fabric spill from my fingers. Someone giggles. I peel back layers of red and Zoey emerges, sequins falling from her hair. I’m not ready, she sings to me, I’m not ready for the end. Suddenly she’s dancing. Spinning, twirling, leaving me nauseous with all her circles. I’m not ready, she sings, I’m not ready for the end. I reach for her, trying to steady her, but a curtain descends. Not my green curtains, but black curtains, crushing in their weight. Now Zoey is gone, swallowed in their black folds, screaming.
Zoey! I exclaim. Zoey!
My ankle, she whimpers from beneath the black. My ankle.
I awake to Rae shaking me. “Charlie? It’s time to go. You still wanna come?”
Head throbbing, I try to remember where I am. “Where’s Zoey? Is she okay?”
“Mason drove her over early.”
The sun has shifted, leaving the room to the afternoon’s advancing shadows. “What about her ankle? Is it broken?”
“Zoey? She’s fine, hon. There’s nothing wrong with her ankle.” Rae leans against the arm of the couch, trying not to stare at her watch. “Are you okay? You look like you could use some more sleep.”
“Was I sleeping?”
“I think you were dreaming.”
“Oh.” I sit up and rub my face, though I’m more uneasy than tired. “Let’s go, then.”
• • •
THE RECITAL IS BEING HELD at the local elementary school, in a musty auditorium with a drooping flag. When I look at the program, I realize Zoey’s class is just one of eight performing. As the youngest group, they go first, and then appear again in the finale.
Mason sees my look of consternation and tries to reassure me. “It goes fast,” he promises.
I like Rae’s husband, but I know bullshit when I hear it.
The first number goes as expected. The curtain opens, and Zoey and her compatriots scuttle out in red sequined leotards. Dazed by the floodlights, the children form two haphazard lines and perform a dance so jerky and out of sync they look like marionettes.
Once Zoey leaves the stage, my mind wanders. I watch restless audience members move in and out of their seats, count the number of glowing cell phones set to record. I pick at the chipped varnish on my wooden seat, trying to tune out the rustling jackets and programs. The performances drag on until finally we reach the last number, some wretched pop song about a girl resisting her boyfriend’s attempts to dump her. Boy, you got to believe that / I ain’t ready for you to leave yet, she croons.
The routine begins with older girls while the little ones line up in the wings. Rae touches my shoulder and points to Zoey, who peeks out from behind the curtain, oblivious to the fact that everyone can see her.
“Uh-oh,” Rae whispers. “She’s going to miss her cue!”
And it does look that way. Lips moving like she’s singing, Zoey twirls and grabs a handful of curtain. She leaps up, trying to sail through the air like she’s Tarzan on a vine, and—
Collapse.
A mess of black fabric crashes down, engulfing her.
Over the tinny speakers, the music reaches a dreadful crescendo. I’m not ready, the singer moans, I’m not ready for the end.
I see Rae leap to her feet. I see a woman hurry out from backstage. I see Mason push his way past unyielding laps and knees and footwear, trying to get to the stage.
The music continues, its chorus familiar and horrible, as confused dancers wonder whether or not to carry on with the show: I’m not ready, I’m not ready for the end. Someone has pulled Zoey from the curtain, a competent-looking man. She’s crying. He talks to her patiently, touches her leg, locating the source of her pain. She points, and I feel a dark thrill of recognition at this final, inexorable detail.
Because, of course, it’s her ankle.
3.
That night, I try to drown out the noise in my head with more noise. I turn up the radio, run the garbage disposal, vacuum. None of this does anything to shake my sense of foreboding, but I prefer a pounding anxiety to quiet dread. At some point after eleven, Rae appears in my living room. I switch off the vacuum, startled to see her at this hour.
“I knocked,” she says. “I don’t think you could hear me.” She looks around the newly tidy house, eyebrows raised. “Wow. This place looks good.”
“How’s Zoey?”
Rae rolls her eyes. “We just got back from our whole emergency room odyssey. She’ll be fine.” She slumps down onto the couch, her thigh landing on Keegan’s Popsicle stain from last June. “I saw your light was on, so I figured I’d stop by. Glad you made it home.”
“I took a taxi. It wasn’t a big deal. So . . . did Zoey get crutches?”
She nods. “She loves them. We practically had to wrestle her into bed.” She leans back against the couch, peering at me sideways. “It was broken, by the way. Her ankle.”
“I guess that’s lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.” I don’t say how much worse, and Rae isn’t thinking of the son I lost, not now.
“It’s weird, isn’t it? Ho
w you dreamed it?” She watches me closely.
I’ve been a queasy bundle of nerves the last few hours, turning it over in my mind, but I don’t want her to know that. Rae is completely superstitious. She believes in everything. Ghosts and past lives and tarot cards—all that crap. I don’t want her to believe in this.
“It was just a dream, Rae. I don’t think it means anything.”
“You woke up from your nap asking if Zoey’s ankle was broken,” Rae persists. “That totally means something!”
“You’re right,” I say with an eye roll. “I’m basically one step short of Nostradamus. I’ll give you a call when I start dreaming about lottery numbers, okay?”
“You get to work on that, I’m not even playing!” She stretches her legs, as if amused by my skepticism. “I better get to bed. Thanks for coming to Zoey’s recital, even if it did turn out crazy.”
I follow her outside, watching from my driveway to see that she arrives safely at her house. It’s a cold night, the kind of cold that feels clean when you inhale it. I cross my arms, shivering. Rae waves from the brick walkway of her yard as Mason opens the front door for her. She’s made it. She’s safe.
I step inside and lock the door behind me. I don’t usually keep things from Rae, don’t want to add to the distance between us now, but I can’t tell her everything. Because it wasn’t just the ankle. It was the red sequins, the black curtain. That awful song. I don’t know what this means, not yet, and so I stuff it somewhere deep with all the other things I’m trying not to think about and I vacuum. I dust. Wash the kitchen floor and make beds.
Some time after four a.m., I survey my house and discover that for the first time in the five years I’ve owned it, my home is clean. Nothing-left-to-do clean. Bianca was right. It’s time to return to work.
• • •
I WORK WITH A LOT OF WOMEN. There’s a handful of gay men, and presumably a straight guy buried somewhere in the ranks, but for the most part, Sophisticate runs on a very specific type of estrogen: bitchy, hypereducated New Yorker.
