And then Renée Fleming’s voice had come through my iPod.
I think Renée is the most beautiful opera singer in the whole world. She has thick blond hair and wise blue eyes and a face that manages to combine strength and kindness in equal parts, but it’s not her physical beauty that makes her so special. She’s a lyric soprano, which means her voice is sweet, rather than, say, that of Maria Callas, whose tones were steely. You’ll find plenty of people who argue that Callas was better, or maybe Beverly Sills, but once you hear Renée sing—well, it’s impossible not to fall under her spell. The best part is that she seems totally normal, like she could be one of your girlfriends, kvetching about those five pounds she gained on vacation or debating whether John Cusack is hotter than John Mayer.
But the way she works at singing—well, her training regime would put an Olympian to shame. She contorts her body into yoga-like positions, making sure she can hit her high notes when she’s bending over and touching her toes, or lying on the floor with all of her muscles completely limp. She memorizes pages and pages of the libretto in all sorts of languages she can’t even speak, and when she’s up onstage, she’s controlling her breathing and remembering how to pronounce foreign words and synthesizing it all with gestures and movements true to her character—and still sending her glorious voice all the way to the last row of a giant opera house. It takes my breath away, just thinking of it.
But years ago, Renée nearly threw away her years of training and walked off stage forever. Her marriage fell apart while she was raising two young girls, and then, out of the blue, attacks of stage fright seized her. Renée was terrified she couldn’t get through songs she’d sung dozens of times before. She was scared she’d fail. She would physically shake before performances, fighting her fear as hard as she could, knowing terror was the worst thing for her voice. Then one night, she performed at La Scala, and everything went wrong. The conductor fainted, right there in the middle of the performance. And some members of the audience—not many, but enough for her to hear—began to boo her. Can you imagine? You’re going through a divorce, you’re worried your voice might give out from fear, you’ve begun to have panic attacks, and you’re thinking about just giving up and crawling away somewhere and hiding. And you’re standing under a spotlight, a spotlight for God’s sakes, scared and alone but trying to tough it out, and people are booing you. Wouldn’t you quit? Wouldn’t you just walk off the stage and never go back?
But Renée kept putting on her beautiful costumes and practicing her deep breathing, and she rested her voice on the days of her big performances. She never ran away. She’s still singing to this day, in the languages of Puccini and Strauss and Bizet.
Six months after she was booed at La Scala, Renée went back and sang her heart out. They gave her a standing ovation.
As I’d listened to her and watched the sun rise, I’d thought, If she can endure all that—endure and triumph—then maybe I could get through this.
I wasn’t going to passively sit back while my husband dictated which direction our lives would take. It was time to start formulating a plan of my own. Right now, I could see only two options: I could try to convince Michael to change his mind, or I could call the lawyer whose card was tucked into my wallet and ask him to contest the prenup. I knew our prenup was rock-solid—I’d made sure of that—but a good lawyer might be able to find a loophole, or get it thrown out in court. I wouldn’t be entitled to all of Michael’s money, but maybe I could get a chunk.
If only I hadn’t been so adamant about keeping our finances separate, I’d thought, burying my face in my hands. I didn’t want my name on the title for either of our houses because Michael had taken out big mortgages for the tax benefits, and some part of me still couldn’t believe he was so successful. In a way, I guess I was waiting for the floor to drop out, and I didn’t want to be hurt in the fall. I was ashamed to admit it, but I wanted to enjoy all the luxuries of our lifestyle without actually being responsible for any of them. Now that precaution was boomeranging back at me.
I’d leaned my head against the couch and imagined telling Michael I wanted a divorce. What would he say? What would his face look like in that moment? I didn’t know what it would feel like to walk away from him, but maybe that was just because we’d been together for so long. Maybe I could learn to live quite happily without my husband.
When Renée finished singing, I’d stood up and switched off the music and gone back to bed. I knew I’d need my strength for what was to come.
“I promise I’m fine,” I said to Isabelle on the phone now, keeping my tone light. I’d worried her enough lately. “You know me. I was just trying to get some attention.”
“Oh, honey, you scared the crap out of me,” Isabelle said, sounding like she was half-laughing, half-crying. “I called last night, but Michael said you were still sleeping.”
“I think it just hit me all at once,” I said. “I’m never going to be able to walk into a boutique like that again and buy anything I want. Hell, if Michael has his way, I won’t be able to splurge at the Dollar Store.”
“He really did it?” Isabelle asked.
“Yep,” I said. “That’s why he’s here instead of at work.”
I heard a gentle tap on the door, and I covered the phone receiver. “Come in, Naddy.”
But it wasn’t Naddy. It was Michael, carrying a tray.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he said, putting it down next to me on the bed. He’d made me French toast and scrambled eggs and coffee. The eggs looked a little rubbery and overdone, but he’d picked some irises from our garden and put them in a little glass vase in one corner of the tray.
There it was: evidence that Michael didn’t know me at all. I hadn’t eaten French toast in years; it was Satan’s breakfast buffet for the calorie-conscious.
Oh, hell, what did it matter anymore? I thought, spearing a bite with the fork. It was buttery and brown, and it almost melted in my mouth.
So Michael remembered it used to be my favorite. So what? It was going to take more than a few wilted irises for me to forgive him, I thought. Then the flowers made me remember Isabelle’s night.
“Let’s talk about you for a change,” I said. “How was your date?”
I could practically feel her smile over the phone line.
“Nice,” she finally said.
“Details,” I demanded.
“It was wonderful,” she blurted. “I mean, aside from the times when I couldn’t stop worrying about you. But we went to dinner, and it felt like we sat down one minute, and the next I looked up and saw we were the only ones left in the restaurant.”
“Wow,” I said. “I haven’t heard you talk about a date that way in … well, ever.”
“We just have so much in common,” she said. “We even both had starter marriages.”
Isabelle had gotten married right after college, and divorced six months later. “Why do they let anyone get married that young?” she once asked me. “Marriage should be like a driver’s license—you should only get a provisional trial marriage until you’re thirty, and then, if you’ve proved you can handle all the bumps and fender benders, you get the real license.”
“I told him about you,” Isabelle was saying now. “I mean, not the specific details or anything. But he could tell I was upset when he came to pick me up, and I didn’t want to cancel on him again. Dr. Rushman said you’d probably sleep through the night, so I knew there wasn’t anything I could do …”
“You did plenty,” I told her, meaning it. “Tell me more about Norm.”
“Are you sure?” She didn’t wait for me to answer; I didn’t think she could. The words cascaded giddily out of her, like foam from the mouth of a champagne bottle. “There was this little boy outside the restaurant when we were walking in, and he was so damn cute in his stroller with one of those fake cell phones he was babbling into, and then he dropped the phone and Norm picked it up and handed it to the kid, and said, ’Sir? I think this ca
ll is for you.’ And the little boy gave him the biggest smile. It was one of those moments, you know?”
“He sounds great,” I said. Wow. Was this really Isabelle gushing? Sharp, funny, nongushing Isabelle?
“But the thing is, he’s not perfect,” she said eagerly. “I’d be suspicious of perfect. His nose is kind of big, and he’s a little klutzy. He almost tripped walking into the restaurant. But it makes him seem … I don’t know, more real. Then in the car, on the way home, he sang along to the radio, and his voice was awful, but he didn’t care. So I sang with him, and you know I never sing in public. I mean, my voice is a misdemeanor in all fifty states.”
I just sat there, my French toast growing cold, as I listened. Isabelle had dated dozens of guys since I’d known her—men always flocked around her, attracted by her beauty and money and sometimes, for the most confident guys, her brains, too—but she brushed them off after a few dates. I’d begun to assume she’d always stay single. As my marriage grew more distant, I’d secretly harbored the thought that we’d be single together, in a sense, our friendship deepening with each passing decade. We’d drive each other to the doctor if we became sick, sit side by side on rocking chairs complaining about our arthritis, and crack each other up by yelling, “Can you bend over and get me a drink, sonny?” to the muscular young pool boys Isabelle would hire.
I was happy for Isabelle—wasn’t I?—but a shameful sense of betrayal gnawed at me. We were so close. We talked on the phone once or twice a day. We were as comfortable in each other’s homes as we were in our own—which meant I was just as worried about scratching her antique furniture or knocking over a priceless vase as I was about my own. Secretly, I’d begun entertaining the idea that, if I left Michael, I could stay with Isabelle until I sorted out what to do next.
“So are you going to see him again soon?” I asked. I pushed away Michael’s tray. I’d lost my appetite.
“The day after tomorrow,” she said. “He’s surprising me. He just told me to dress casually, and he’s picking me up at lunch-time. Is it horrible that I Googled him? I had to make sure he hasn’t filed for bankruptcy or something awful like—” Isabelle’s voice skidded to a stop.
I broke the silence quickly: “I know what you mean.”
“Not that it’s terrible not to have money,” she said apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t the only thing he was looking for in me.”
There it was: a tinge of embarrassment staining her voice. The first sign of a little fissure between us.
You could argue that a true friendship would endure no matter what, that superficial things shouldn’t matter, but I knew firsthand how emotions like envy and pity and guilt were cancers to a friendship. If I tried hard enough, would I be able to stave off my jealousy when I saw Isabelle living the life I once had? Would Isabelle be as happy about meeting me at a corner deli for dinner instead of a five-star restaurant? Maybe at first, but I’d been on the other side of this equation a few years ago, when Michael had made the quick leap from debt-ridden to insanely wealthy, and I still missed the friendship I’d lost.
I couldn’t let it happen again, I vowed. Isabelle was too important.
“I’m babbling,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”
“Oh, tell me more about last night,” I said, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “What did you end up wearing?”
As I steered the conversation back into safety, Michael tiptoed into the room and took away my tray. There was a note behind the vase of flowers that I hadn’t seen until now, and it slipped off, onto the bed, when he lifted the tray.
“I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you,” it read. “Please give me one more chance.”
I crumpled the little card in my hand, not caring that Michael saw. I wanted to hurt him. He was ruining everything.
* * *
Eleven
* * *
FROM TIME TO TIME, you hear on the news about people—usually men, but occasionally a woman—who suddenly abandoned their lives, as cleanly and abruptly as if they took a pair of scissors and snipped away their pasts. The media always focus on the person who walked away, digging into the crushing pile of bills or the double life with another family, but what I’ve always wondered is what happened to the folks left behind, the bewildered people just outside the glare of the hot TV lights and the camera flashes.
Imagine: There you are in the kitchen, tossing salad in a wooden bowl while your baby bangs a spoon against the tray of his high chair and the dog hovers nearby, fervently hoping you drop a scrap of chicken on the floor. And while you putter around, absently listening for the sound of a key turning in the lock, the person you love the most, the person you thought you knew inside out, is in the process of walking away from the life you’ve built together, from the life you’ve only partly finished constructing.
Some people abandon a life in the snap of a finger, and now Michael essentially wanted to do the same thing by giving up his company, which was his life. It staggers me, given what it took him to create DrinkUp, starting from scratch.
When Michael and I first moved to D.C., we were about as broke as it was possible for two people to be. We had six hundred dollars in cash, a car worth about a third of that on a good day, and a couple of Hefty bags with our clothes and shoes and drugstore toiletries jammed inside.
But within a week, Michael landed a job as a waiter at a pizza place—we both agreed he needed to be fed at work or we’d go bankrupt, fast—and soon after that I capitalized on my babysitting experience and got hired as a nanny for a wealthy family with two-year-old twins. Later I’d learn the twins were biters, but at the time, I felt incredibly fortunate to be earning three hundred dollars a week—which, as it turned out, ended up being about fifty dollars per bite.
We lived in a youth hostel at first, until we’d saved enough money for a security deposit, then we moved into a fourth-floor walk-up studio apartment in Tenleytown, where my one luxury was keeping on a kitchen light all night so the cockroaches wouldn’t venture out of the cracks around the stove. We bought a secondhand futon that was our couch during the day and our bed at night, and we trash-picked a little kitchen table and two mismatched chairs that we painted sky blue to add a splash of color to our dreary apartment. Then we took out student loans for college and got even broker. But Michael had a telescopic view into the future; he could see that he needed to get deeper into debt in order to climb more quickly out of it. Somehow, between our jobs and financial aid and loans, we cobbled together enough to attend school—Michael at Georgetown University and I at the University of Maryland in College Park. We worked by day, took classes at night, and spent every weekend alternately napping and studying—at least I napped, while Michael used a yellow highlighter to mark up his textbooks on the futon next to me.
Michael’s grades and test scores were so phenomenal he could’ve gotten a job anywhere. I always thought he’d do something with computers, or maybe rise through the ranks of a Fortune 500 company. But Michael was determined to never work for anyone but himself. He bided his time, whipping through college in three years and applying to business schools while he pored over the blueprints and mission statements of start-up companies.
“There’s always room for a new product,” he’d say, pacing our apartment like a 1950s father outside the hospital delivery room. “The trick is finding the niche. Mrs. Fields cookies. Post-it notes. Baby Einstein videos. None of those took a lot of capital; they all started small and exploded. What’s missing? What does the market not know it needs yet?”
Our apartment was so tiny he could take only three or four steps before stubbing his toe on our futon frame or dark-wood dresser from Goodwill and cursing before he spun around again, and I hid a smile while I watched him. He felt to me like a greyhound, all coiled energy, every speck of his concentration waiting for the gate in front of him to slide open and reveal the racetrack.
The only thing he needed was an idea. None of us
knew it at the time, but one was already simmering in his mind. During Michael’s very first semester at Georgetown, his favorite professor, Raj, had used Coke versus Pepsi in a case study about effective advertising strategies.
Much later, Michael would tell me he’d jotted down a question mark in the margin of his notebook as he idly wondered, “Why is it Coke versus Pepsi? Why isn’t there something else?” The thought didn’t take hold then, though. It lingered deep inside Michael’s brain, waiting to be triggered by the perfect collision of circumstances, which wouldn’t occur until a sweltering hot afternoon several years later.
By then I’d already started my own little party-planning company, All Occasions, and Michael was in his final semester of business school at Georgetown. My income made our lives a bit more comfortable. We’d moved to a nicer apartment building, one with an elevator and no roaches, and we saw a movie or went out for a beer together every week. We’d bought a living room set that was on sale, and secondhand computers and a television. But most of my money went toward my student loans; I was frantic to get rid of them as quickly as possible, and I doubled down on my monthly payments.
Whenever I thought about our future, I imagined it as a series of stepping-stones: We’d made the leap from West Virginia to D.C., and now to a better apartment. We had a few nice belongings. Next we’d buy a car that had fewer than six numbers on its odometer, and after that, we’d move to a pretty little house. Slowly but steadily, our life would take on a reassuring, solid shape. But Michael was focusing on a very different future. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe he’d be successful, but we were two poor kids from West Virginia. We were the first ones in our families to go to college. He was the dreamer, I was the pragmatist. How high could we realistically aim?
Every afternoon, when he had a break between classes and his shift at the pizza place, Michael laced up his sneakers and ran, looping through the city’s eclectic neighborhoods—Chinatown and Dupont Circle and Cleveland Park—as he tried to burn off some of the energy pulsing through him.
Skipping a Beat Page 8
