Department of Lost and Found
Page 5
After I got home from my first appointment with Dr. Chin, I’d tossed it in my “junk” drawer. Surely, I’d thought, it will never come to that. Resorting to a wig was like relying on a wheelchair: It was a crutch, and I didn’t need anyone—or anything—to hold me up. My mother’s voice echoed through my mind. “There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie,” she used to say with an overemphasis on the last syllable. “Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’” She’d made up that little rhyme back when I was eight.
It was my first day at my new private school, and when she dropped me off at my homeroom, running late and jotting down to-dos on her notepad, I knew she had to leave. I knew that she wanted to leave, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t try to stop her. So I clung to her side until her suit jacket became so twisted that the buttons faced the wrong way, and I sobbed hard enough that snot ran clear down to my neck. My mortified mother, my mother who labored with me for a mere thirty-five minutes and (she’d like you to note) drug-free, apologized to the teacher and walked me out of the room. I thought I’d been granted a reprieve, freedom from my new, marbled-hall school, but instead, she firmly grabbed me by the elbow and said with a just-kind-enough smile, “There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie. Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’”
I blinked at her, uncomprehending. So she sighed and said, “Natalie, I can’t be here for you all of the time. You’re a big girl now, and big girls do things on their own. I expect you to be a big girl. You need to rely on yourself now.” I started to protest, but she cut me off, spun me around, and after planting a kiss on my head, left me to wipe the mucus off my own face and in the care of my new homeroom teacher.
“There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie.” And from the age of eight on, indeed, there hadn’t been.
I glanced at the wigmaker’s card, and unconsciously, I ran my fingers through my thinning hair. “Just put it on my keyboard,” I said to Ned, and turned my attention back to AMC before my voice could break and belie the loneliness behind it. I heard him start to say something more, but he thought better of whatever it was and kept sorting through his files.
“Oh my God,” he said, which I could make out over the announcer on the Swiffer commercial. “I totally forgot about this.” I didn’t turn to look, so he stood up and came over to the couch. He held out his hand, but I tucked mine farther into my armpits. In exasperation, he grabbed my arm. “I bought this for you,” he said. “The day after we got back from the Vineyard.”
I didn’t bother looking at the baby blue Tiffany box he’d placed in my palm. “Why don’t you give it to Agnes?” I spit out her name as if it were chewing tobacco. I’d tried it once in college and found the two things—Agnes and Skoal—equally revolting.
“Because it isn’t for Agnes. It was for you.” He shook his head. “I was so inspired when we got home from the trip. And I saw it in the window…” He paused, and I almost thought he was going to cry. “And so I bought it. Because it reminded me of us.” He sighed. “It reminded me of what I hoped we would become as a couple.” He shrugged. “But then I didn’t see you for a week straight, and so I stuck it in the bottom drawer where you wouldn’t find it. And obviously, I never gave it to you.”
“Obviously,” I said dryly, fingering the white satin bow, and then setting the box aside.
Ned shrugged and walked back to the desk to gather his files. “You should open it. Whether or not you hate me.”
“I do,” I interrupted. “For the record.”
“Fine. Forget that I gave it to you. Whatever. I think you still might like it.”
After Ned left, I placed the box on my glass coffee table next to his relinquished set of keys, leaned my elbows on my thighs and put my face into my hands, and stared at it. The box. I stared at it for so long that eventually my eyes crossed, and I saw double. Two boxes. Two reminders of what had left me behind. Two taunts, tempting me to open them. Finally, I blinked forcefully and snapped out of the trance, and then I reached over, and in one graceful tug, pulled off the white ribbon.
I placed the box in my lap and lifted the lid. There, tucked inside a tiny, soft fabric pouch, lay a gold necklace. I drew the chain out of the bag, careful to avoid knots or snarls, and when I’d nearly lifted it clear out of the pouch, I saw that a charm weighted down the end like an anchor.
On our second-to-last day in the Vineyard, Ned convinced me to explore a deserted lot far down the beach. We must have walked two miles before we stumbled upon it. He lifted me over the fraying picket fence, and we found ourselves atop a grassy knoll that reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the hills of England. We hiked for about fifteen minutes before I begged Ned to give my blistered feet a break, so he plopped down, offered me a sip of lemonade from the cooler that we’d packed, and began plucking up grass. Not for any reason in particular, I think. But just as something to do to occupy his hands. He was about to toss another handful of blades into the wind when he noticed it.
“Nat, oh my God, check this out,” he said, leaning closer to show me. “A four-leaf clover. That must be a sign.”
I smiled and agreed with him that perhaps that was an omen, even though at that very moment, I’d been thinking of Jake.
As the charm now rested in my palm, I kind of understood what Ned meant. Why he’d rushed in and plunked down his Amex. Why he’d been certain I would like it. Because when you’re on a sinking ship, you’ll cling to just about anything to keep you afloat.
I held the gold chain up above me and saw the beams of light from the window bounce off the four-leaf-clover charm. And then I walked into the bedroom and tucked it in my dresser drawer, underneath my cashmere sweaters. True, it was from Ned, so maybe it was tainted. But still, I thought, if anyone ever needed a harbinger of good luck, surely, right now, it is me.
IT SEEMED AS if every morning, I awoke to more and worse news on the front page of the Post. In fact, the senator’s tax returns had even made the front page of the Times, which meant that we truly were in deep shit. So I paced my living room, my slippers flopping on my floor and practically ingraining tread marks around my couch, and I tried to Jedi mind trick my e-mail. “Go off,” I chanted and pressed my eyes closed, envisioning a new e-mail from Kyle in my in-box. “Go off,” I repeated as I looped the couch once again. I actually jumped when I heard the ping in my in-box not thirty seconds later. Maybe I do have ESP powers after all? I mused as I darted over to my computer.
From: Richardson, Kyle
To: Miller, Natalie
Re: The increasing problem of the returns
Hey Natalie,
Hope you’re feeling okay. Your constant e-mailing really isn’t helping: do keep in mind that I’m juggling your work load too, so despite my highly adept skills, I’m a little overloaded and replying to you 24/7 isn’t doable. Are we clear?
Anyway, I know that you’re concerned about the headlines, and so am I. In fact, word is that it’s only going to get worse—Blair got a call this morning from the Post asking for a response to some very damaging shit. And word is that Taylor’s people are the ones doing this. Wanted to gauge your response. (Which must make you spectacularly happy.) While I hate to admit it when I need your help, I know that you’ve played this game many times before. So how should we move forward? Should we leak something back? Let’s ruin him.
KR
I felt my blood rush through me like a tidal wave. Though Kyle and I didn’t always agree on everything, when it came to feasting on our prey, we had no problem working in harmony. I grabbed a stress ball from my desk and picked up the speed of my pacing. Circling, circling, circling, until I knew exactly how to proceed. I sank into my lumbar-supporting chair—the one that Ned had insisted on paying far too much for, but that I did admit provided quite the cozy feel—and typed frantically, occasionally madly hitting the delete button to correct the typos that came with such frenzied keyboard pounding.
From: Miller, Natalie
To: Richardson, Kyle
Re: Let’s Play Ball
Feeling okay. Thanks for asking. Been better, but what am I going to do?
First off, have you actually gotten your hands on her tax returns yourself? Before we say anything to the press, it’d probably be smart to do so. (Obviously, right?) I think you might have mentioned it awhile ago, but yeah, I suspect that some gifts from dignitaries might not have been appropriate/ legal/totally up-and-up. But we always accept them—no one cares. Call Gene Weinstock, Dupris’s accountant, and ask him directly.
Yes, let’s screw with this bastard. He’s a sinking ship, so he’s doing anything he can to torpedo Dup. F-it. Call Larry Davis, 212-872-0419. He’s the guy I hired to get back-up dirt. I know, don’t get pissy—you were kept out of the loop so you could deny any accountability in case Taylor found out. Turns out that Taylor likes hookers. Think his wife will care?
—Nat
“Take that, you little shit Taylor,” I actually shouted out loud, as I spun my chair in a circle and let out a whoop of victory. Jake used to tell me that he’d never seen someone sent so high from a win at work; that he thought that at least half the time, the only reason I drove myself at 160 miles an hour was to beat everyone else at the race.
“Will you be satisfied once you’re elected president?” he asked one night when I was paged back into the office at 11 o’clock at night to oversee a Middle East policy crisis.
“Only if I’ve stomped on the little people on my way up,” I replied, leaning down to kiss his forehead while he sat propped up reading in bed. I walked toward the door and turned back to see him shaking his head. “Kidding, Jake. I’m kidding.” But I could tell that he wasn’t so sure.
The microwave timer dinged, and I bolted up to take my medicine. As I pried open my orange prescription container, the rush slowly wore off, the way that a tide might when it begins to ebb. I needed another hit, so after gagging on my pill and eventually swallowing it, I moved back to my computer screen and leaned over on my elbows and stared. Stared for a good twenty minutes until my sight grew fuzzy and the muscles between my shoulder blades ached. I straightened up and ran my fingers through my hair. Clumps. For the first time, it wasn’t strands, five here, twenty there. It was a massive, heart-sinking, spine-chilling clump. Whether or not I had evidence that Taylor was screwing hookers had no effect on my cancer or my impending baldness. Nothing it seemed, not even the fleeting rush of victory, would slow that down.
FIVE
I’d gotten into the habit of not setting my alarm—a far cry from my prior 5:45 A.M. daily wake-ups to NPR, but now I didn’t see much of a point. It wasn’t as if I had anywhere to be. So when I heard the phone ringing early the next morning, I at first assumed that it was part of a dream. In fact, it was part of a dream. It was only when my semicognizant self realized that there were no phones on the desert island on which I was presently stranded in my dream that I shook myself awake and grabbed my cordless from my nightstand.
“Natalie dear? I’m sorry, did I wake you? I only have a minute—I’m about to take off to head to Nashville for the day for a meeting, but I understand that you’ve spoken with Kyle.”
I rubbed my eyes and swiped the sleep off my face. “No, Senator, I’m awake. And yes, I did speak with Kyle. I’m handling things.”
“Very good. But I want to make something clear, which is why I’m calling. Whatever you do—should you choose to do something—I want to be kept out of the loop. Do not ‘CC’ Blair, do not address me about the situation. Understood?” I pictured her waving her hand in front of her face as she locked her seat belt on the office’s private plane. Deniability: It’s more critical than ethics in our line of work.
She cleared her throat. “However, do what is necessary.” She paused. “And by that, I mean anything necessary. We’re in it to win it.”
“I understand, Senator.” I stood up and reached for my robe. “As I said, I’ll handle it.”
“Do you feel up to it?”
“I’d feel up for anything these days, I’m so bored.” I paused. “Forgive me for asking, but can the IRS really nail you for accepting those gifts?”
“I’m not worried.” She went silent. “We really do seem to have this election locked up, anyway.”
I realized that she didn’t answer my question but figured that she more than earned those gifts: the intricately carved desk, the gold elephant planters, the porcelain eggs.
“Fair enough, Senator. Consider it taken care of. Oh, I’d also like to talk to you about your support on the birth control initiative.”
“Natalie, I’m losing you, and we’re taking off. Thanks for the help.” She clicked off.
Typical, I thought, and then frowned because I wasn’t at all sure where that thought came from. I hung up the phone and checked the time. 9:15. Kyle would have been in the office for two hours by now, and I had an hour-and-forty-five-minute window before The Price Is Right. I logged on to my e-mail. Bingo.
From: Richardson, Kyle
To: Miller, Natalie
Re: Taylor is getting dirty, response2
Nat,
Holy shit. Smoking gun. Hookers? I’ll give Larry a call. I didn’t know that we had the resources for a private investigator. You sly little bitch! I always knew you were, actually.
But doesn’t Taylor’s wife have ovarian cancer? Shouldn’t we give him a chance to recant before we ruin the marriage and/or kill her?
KR
Recant, my ass, and then I thought of Jake and his stupid theory of my love of the win. Screw you, too, I muttered, as if Jake were in the room, as if we hadn’t broken up two and a half years earlier, and as if he were still judging me. But Kyle did have a point, albeit one that I was readily willing to overlook. It was true: Susanna Taylor had very publicly and very bravely been battling ovarian cancer, and it wasn’t the kindest move to out her husband’s sexual proclivities while in the midst of such a battle. I tapped my fingers together, weighing my next move. On one hand, my logic argued, I should be sympathetic, given my own situation and all. On the other hand, I’d been told to do what it took. I bit my upper lip and ran my fingers over the keyboard, mulling over my reply.
From: Miller, Natalie
To: Richardson, Kyle
Re: Taylor is getting dirty—response
K—
Yes, I know that you think I’m a bitch. Turns out, you might not always be wrong. Go figure. Since when have you grown a conscience? We’re in it to win it. Call Larry.
—Nat
THE NEWS BROKE the next day. Dr. Chin had called just as I was reaching for the morning papers to tell me that he was very pleased with my initial progress. At each checkup, he monitored my cell count, and the very preliminary reports pointed to signs that the chemo—despite its horrid side effects, despite the jackhammer headaches that came in the late evenings and the occasional loss of feeling in my hands—was indeed frying these fuckers. I thanked him for the call, clicked good-bye, and frantically ran my eyes over the headlines.
The New York Post ran dueling captions: “Taylor Hooked!” read the top half of the page, while the bottom read, “Dupris Duplicitous!” “At least we’re at the bottom,” I muttered to my empty apartment.
I plodded over to the couch, dropped the Post beside me, and tore through the Times. Okay, not bad: Our escalating scandal was older news so it landed on page sixteen. No one, except for political junkies like myself, has the time to read to page sixteen, anyway. Regular people scan the headlines, ensure themselves that their world isn’t coming to an immediate end, then flip to the sports section or the gossip tidbits. Taylor made the front page of the Metro section, which wasn’t quite as prestigious as the front section, but was certainly more visible. I nodded my head—one point to us.
I put my bare feet up on the coffee table and began to read. The good news was that Taylor came off like a philandering scumbag. “What sort of husband does this when his wife is sick?” a woman on the street was quoted as saying. The bad news was that the senator st
ill wasn’t coming off much better. “The rich keep getting richer,” read the Post’s lead to the story.
Picking up the phone, I called Kyle but was shot straight to voice mail, so I made my way to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, then tried him again. And then again, and then again. The embarrassing truth was that nearly two hours later, by not even 11 o’clock, I had desperately and frantically and shamelessly called him over twenty times. Not even The Price Is Right proved to be much of a distraction. I could feel my shoulders tightening up and my core temperature rising; I pictured Kyle and his smarmy, weasely smile basking in the glory of my work, my due, and I simply couldn’t stand it one second longer.
I suddenly felt compelled to drop my robe on my taupe Pottery Barn rug, grab the stand-by tweed suit off the lid to my hamper, and hail a taxi, despite an increasingly dizzy feeling. For my second trip into the office in less than a week, I wasn’t quite as presentable. I’d pulled my hair back into a pseudobun, but my nonwashed, ratty ends poked out of it like chopsticks. And let’s not even talk about my face: I’d tried to apply some under-eye concealer and mascara in the cab, but my driver appeared to be auditioning for the Indy 500; thus, with every lurch or sudden break, the wand painted black stripes all over my eyelid. I spit on my finger and tried to rub it off, but really, that just sort of grayed it and left bruiselike splotches just below my eyebrow.
The cab screeched to the curb at Fifty-fifth Street. I staggered through the revolving glass door, and the security guard asked me if I was okay when I flashed him my ID, but I waved him off with an “I’m fine.”
“Holy crap, Natalie, should you be here?” Blair asked me when I got off the elevator. “You look paler than a ghost.” Evidently, my decision to forgo any blush was a mistake.
“Fine. I’m fine. Where’s Kyle? Where’s Dupris? Is she back from Nashville yet?” I cocked my head looking around for them. He better not be stealing my damn glory.