The Cast

by Amy Blumenfeld

“Remember saying goodbye to Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “That was rough,” Becca groaned. “I mean, how do you say thank you to someone like that? How do you walk away in your skinny jeans with your beautiful infant and leave the woman who delivered your child to recover alone on a maternity ward filled with new moms?”

  “I know. I mean, we fulfilled our end of the contract, but still . . .”

  “Remember the plant we bought at the hospital gift shop?” Becca asked.

  “I do. I remember how you came up with the concept of wanting to give her the gift of a living thing. We did our best; it was a tough situation.”

  I recalled how Elizabeth lay in a hospital bed, attached to an IV, recuperating from the caesarean section. “Well, thanks so much for everything!” flew out of Becca’s mouth as she handed her a foil-bottomed pot of leaves. The phrase seemed inappropriate, vapid. Nodding, Elizabeth said, “No problem. Just doing my job.”

  “But what was I supposed to say?” Becca asked, just as she did that day when we left the hospital. “It’s not like there’s a Hallmark card section for Woman Who Gives Birth to Your Biological Baby.”

  “Like everything else, we made it work.” I kissed the top of her head. For a fleeting moment, I thought this might be the right time to tell her about everything going on with my job. Keeping it from her was killing me, but, given the stress we were already under, I decided to shut my mouth and cling to this happy scene.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “The country air is nice,” I said.

  Silence. The laborious blind-date conversation had returned.

  “I’m kind of thirsty. I’m gonna get something inside,” she eventually said, swinging her feet over the side of the hammock. It was as if she had gotten bored speaking with me at a party and was making an excuse to walk away. This set off a slight panic in me.

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. I hadn’t driven three hours to sit in a hammock alone.

  As we headed down the path to the house, the front door swung open and Seth stood in the frame, his hands on his hips.

  “Hey,” I called out, with a friendly wave. He nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t smile, and his eyes remained fixed on Becca. With the biceps poking out of his T-shirt and his no-nonsense demeanor, he resembled a stocky nightclub bouncer.

  “You okay, Bec?” he asked, like a big brother checking up on his little sis. I wondered if he’d been watching us.

  “Yep, just need a drink,” she said, scooting past him into the house.

  Seth was about to follow her inside, but I stopped him. “Hey, can I speak to you for a sec?” I motioned to the Adirondack chairs on the front porch.

  He looked bothered, as if I were putting him out, but he closed the front door and took a seat.

  “Any progress on that doctor appointment?” I asked.

  He snickered, shook his head, and rubbed his chin.

  “What?” I asked. “What’s so funny?”

  “Talk about a man on a mission. Wow, nothing stops you once you set your mind to something, does it?” he asked. He was controlled, but I sensed a palpable underlying fury in him. “Listen,” he went on, “I agreed to help out with a second opinion before I knew what was going on between you and Bec. I gave you the doctors’ names and the numbers. If you want an appointment, you’ll need to make it yourself. If you and Becca want an appointment, I’ll be happy to call in a favor and expedite it. Otherwise, please keep me out of this.”

  Ah, so you’re actually her friend, not mine. “Understood” was all I said. I’d have to convince Becca on my own that a second plastic surgeon’s opinion was necessary.

  Seth stood up, leaned his back against the front door, and peered at me as if he were about to say something, but then shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Look,” he said, crossing his arms. “I’m not going to pretend to understand women, or marriage, or even how to have a real relationship. As you know, I’m hardly an expert in that depart-ment—the longest run I’ve ever had was a few months. But what I can tell you is what it’s like to live with regret. I know what it’s like to have the brass ring and then lose it because you acted like a schmuck. Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what my life would have been like had I not been such a monumental fuckup at Princeton. Yeah, you could say I eventually got my act together, but let me tell you, I still wake up every morning pissed at myself and thinking about what could have been.”

  Seth never spoke about what had happened at Princeton. I had heard stories from Becca’s parents about how his poker habit “royally flushed his life down the toilet,” but I had never gotten the details directly from Seth. I wondered if this self-loathing had anything to do with his string of failed relationships.

  “All I’m saying is,” he continued, “screw the bravado, man. Don’t gamble with Becca. If I had a shot with a woman half as special as any of the ones in this house, you bet your ass I’d do whatever it took to keep her. Pick your battles. Is this really the one you want to go down swinging on? Because if you’re not careful, you could lose it all. You’re not an idiot. Don’t act like one.”

  “With all due respect, man, you’re not a part of my marriage,” I said calmly.

  “With all due respect, man,” he fired back, mimicking my tone but at high volume, “you pulled me into this when you asked me to hook you up with a surgeon. You never told me what it was for. Had I known how Becca felt, I would never have gotten involved, but now that I am, I gotta be honest: I’ve seen a lot of tits in my time. And you know what? I’d trade them all for a family like yours.”

  His condescension was perturbing. “I’m not planning to gamble away or lose my wife the way you screwed up your future because of Princeton. In fact, I’m trying to do just the opposite. I’m trying to hold on and preserve her as she is. I don’t want her to change.”

  He flung his hands in the air to show he was ridding himself of any entanglements and then reached for the doorknob. “We done here?” he asked bitingly, his thick eyebrows arching like humpback caterpillars.

  We done here? Those three little words stung. Does he mean our friendship or the conversation? I felt immobile.

  And then, as if his acerbity weren’t clear enough, he added a postscript to punctuate it: “On my roster, she comes first, man. Not you.” With that, he opened the front door and entered the house. Had he been standing on a stage, that would have been the moment he dropped the microphone.

  I waited outside, seemingly in his dust, feeling as if I had just lost a schoolyard battle with my buddy. By walking ahead of me and leaving the door ajar, he seemed to be passively telling me to choose my path: stand alone on the outskirts or join the inner circle with the rest of them.

  Minutes later, when I arrived inside, Jordana appeared to be in the eye of a multitasking storm. I slid onto a barstool beside my wife.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jordana said into the cordless landline receiver she was balancing between her ear and shoulder while transferring food from the refrigerator to the counter. “I’m just confirming that there will be nine tickets for tonight’s performance on hold at the Tanglewood box office.”

  Nine? I thought, and then recalled Seth’s having mentioned something about his new girlfriend meeting up with us.

  “Wonderful,” Jordana said cheerfully into the phone, as she closed the refrigerator door with her knee. “Yes, I’ll spell it. L-e-f-k-o-w-i-t-z, hyphen, S-i-n-g-h. Yes, that’s the name on the credit card.” She sniffed a container of potato salad, made a face, and threw it in the garbage.

  “Thank you very much. See you then,” she said, as she reached across the sink for the paper towel roll, tore off some sheets, and cleaned up some spilled coleslaw, before returning the phone to its docking station.

  “Well, that was impressive,” I remarked. I recalled how, back in law school, Jordana had managed to balance being on law review, working an internship, and making photocopies of her copious class notes for our entire
study group.

  “I’m gonna go get showered and dressed for the concert,” Jordana said, walking out of the kitchen, leaving us alone at our barstools.

  I placed my palm on Becca’s back and felt her instinctively recoil. I offered a half-smile to show her I was trying my best. She placed her hand on my knee, but her fingers were tense.

  We smiled politely for a moment.

  “So,” I said. “Come here often?”

  I sensed my flirtation had lost its charm and was beginning to irritate her.

  I peered at her face for a minute, waiting, hoping she’d tell me she had come around. Maybe she would admit her reaction at the doctor’s office had been irrational.

  “What?” she asked.

  I continued to stare, growing increasingly mystified. Just say the words! Admit you overreacted, and we can try to enjoy the rest of the weekend!

  “What?” she asked again. The corners of her mouth collapsed into a frown.

  I could feel the tensing of muscles between my shoulders. “Nothing,” I finally said. If we couldn’t resolve our problems quickly, I just wanted to Band-Aid them until we got home. I gave her hand a soft, reassuring squeeze.

  “I’m gonna go get ready for Tanglewood,” she announced, hopping off the barstool. Her forced smile was equal parts resignation and disappointment.

  I watched as she walked down the hall and into the bedroom. Then, as soon as she was out of sight, I whipped out my phone to check for an update from the firm. Nothing. Not a single email, text, or call. I marveled at how they managed to ping me at all hours of the day and night when a client was in need, but when my own ass was on the line? Radio silence. I leaned forward onto the kitchen island and buried my head in my hands.

  “How did I end up here?” I whispered into my palms.

  Just then, I felt a hand on my back. I lifted my head, and there was Jordana beside me.

  “Hey, you all right?” she asked. “Oh, fine.” I smiled. “Just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

  “No shit.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “You got some aspirin?”

  She walked over to a kitchen cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Advil.

  “I’m sorry, Nol,” she said, handing me two pills and a glass of water. “This all just sucks.”

  My phone dinged, alerting me to a new message. In a Pavlovian response, my arm instinctively reached for it, but I knocked over the glass of water and saturated the phone.

  “Dammit!” I screamed, and pounded my fist onto the counter.

  Jordana immediately scooped up the phone, removed the case, and started patting it dry with a dish towel.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry, I’ve done this before,” she reassured me as she filled a plastic Ziploc bag with rice. “My boys dumped mine in the bathtub one time. Sal did exactly what I’m doing now, and the phone survived.”

  I began pacing beside the kitchen island, my arms over my head, pulling at my hair. “I need that phone to work, Jord.”

  “Hey, chill out, Mr. Fancy-Pants Corporate Lawyer. Gordon, Michaelson, and Stewart will not fall apart if you’re off the radar for a little while.”

  “Actually, they may be better off,” I muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  I told her everything.

  Chapter 13: Jordana

  The early-evening summer sun shone brightly as I turned my SUV onto the sprawling grassy field at Tanglewood. I followed the waving hands of men in hunter-green shirts directing me to a spot. Minutes later, our group had joined the herd of sandal-footed, wine and cheese—schlepping fans, many of whom flocked to the Berkshires simply for James Taylor’s annual July Fourth performance. The place was a mecca for aging hippies, urbanites weekending from Boston and New York, college hipsters, and young families carrying infants in papoose slings. One after another, we traveled across the open field, down the tree-lined road, and through the main gates. The picnic tables, rolling mountains, and uniformed staff made it feel as if we had entered a high-end overnight camp.

  I picked up our tickets at the box office but left two at the window for Holly and Adam, who would be arriving after the Sabbath ended at sundown—perfect timing, I assured them, for when JT would actually take the stage.

  I led our group to my favorite spot on the grass. It wasn’t too far a hike to the bathrooms or concession stands, but not too close, either. Seats within the amphitheater were prime, but to me the beauty of Tanglewood was being sardined on the lawn among strangers, listening to music, and picnicking with loved ones while inhaling the scents of whatever substances wafted by.

  “Here we are!” I announced, while Sal and I lowered an oversize blanket onto the grass in a single, fluid movement.

  The guys anchored folding chairs onto the blanket’s corners while the girls took out the yellow gingham plastic picnicware I had purchased for the occasion and arranged a makeshift buffet atop the beverage cooler.

  “I’d like to make a toast,” I announced, pouring wine into six clear plastic cups. “I’m sure you will find this incredibly sappy, but I just wanted to express my appreciation, you know, given that we’re here at a James Taylor concert and all. So, in the spirit of—”

  “C’mon! Just do it, Jord!” Sal interrupted, egging me on. “Enough with the introduction. Just jump in!”

  “Okay! All right! Here I go,” I smiled broadly, cleared my throat, and held a glass of pinot grigio in the air. Finally, I thought, something is going according to plan.

  “I just wanted to say hello, old friends! Thank you for coming to visit on these country roads. How sweet it is to see your smiling face, on the Fourth of July. I know we are creating golden moments together. I will follow you all through fire and rain, from Belfast to Boston and even to Mexico. That’s why I’m here: you’ve got a friend. I want to shower the people who are forever my love. Thank you all for coming. That’s it. Good night!”

  I smiled and winced, bracing myself for a barrage of moaning and eye rolling at my mélange of James Taylor songs, which I had composed earlier that week during some downtime at work. Writing it felt like assembling one of those posters the girls and I used to make when we were kids—clipping random words from fashion magazines and pasting them into a colorful collage with varying fonts. This was far from one of my finer poetic creations, but levity was the goal and I believed I had accomplished my mission.

  Everyone applauded, and then Seth raised his glass in the air. “That was great, Jord, but here’s to not quitting your day job.” He winked my way.

  “Oh, stop! I loved it! Don’t listen to Seth,” Lex said, elbowing him in the ribs, before tilting back her head to finish off her wine. She grabbed an open bottle from atop the cooler and refilled her cup nearly to the rim.

  “I’d like to make a toast, too,” Becca chimed in. “To Jordana, for hosting, organizing, being our chef and an all-around-incredible friend. We all really do feel the love and effort you put into this weekend. Thank you.”

  I swelled with joy. It wasn’t the kudos I craved; it was the fulfillment of knowing my hard work was not for naught. To see Becca enjoy and appreciate the weekend was all I’d ever wanted.

  “Hear, hear!” Nolan raised his glass high in the air. It seemed to me that ever since he arrived, he’d been trying too hard to meld into the group, as if he wanted to erase his playing hooky on Friday from our memories.

  Well into her second cup of wine, Lex turned to Nolan and planted her index finger in his chest.

  “Yes. You. Are,” she said, poking him three times, like an exclamation point after each tipsily drawled word.

  Nolan looked at her quizzically. “Huh?”

  “You were late to the party, my friend, but yes, you are finally here, here!” Lex was clearly an alcoholic featherweight.

  “Lex!” Becca said, widening her eyes.

  “What?” Lex asked. “I’m just saying what’s on everyone’s mind, that’s all.”

  I grabbed the side of my I
ndian-print maxi-dress and crinkled the material by my thigh into a tight ball. I instantly regretted the preconcert cocktails I’d served my guests back at the house. I hadn’t realized how poorly Lex handled liquor.

  “Brie, anyone?” was all I could think to say, and I lifted a plate of cheese and crackers from the top of the cooler.

  “I don’t get it. What did I say?” Nolan quietly asked Becca, but since everyone was standing in a tight oval, it was impossible not to hear him.

  “That’s right, you don’t get it.” Lex inserted herself again, this time at a slightly higher decibel level than normal. “Bec, you don’t have to put up with his shit. You’re better than that.”

  Nolan simply remained still, staring at his wife, who was now ashen. For someone like Becca, who detested being the center of attention, this was an absolute nightmare.

  “That’s enough, Lex,” I said firmly.

  “There you go again, Jordy. What is it with you always defending the underdog?” Lex slurred.

  Seth cleared his throat and whispered something in her ear.

  “Fine,” Lex said reluctantly, like an unruly teen being reined in by a parent. She handed her nearly empty wineglass to Seth and turned her back to Nolan.

  “Pardon me,” Nolan said, bowing slightly to the group like a geisha. “I’m just going to go get some air.” He looked wounded as he walked away.

  “Nolan, wait,” I called out, but he was already at least five picnic baskets away from us. The drum and guitar introduction to James Taylor’s “Your Smiling Face” began to play, and the crowd burst into applause.

  “Oh, he’s a big boy. He’ll be fiiine,” Lex said loudly, with an exaggerated swat of her hand in the air. “But if you want, Sethhhhh and I are happy to stay here while you chase after him . . . Ha, did you hear me say Sethhhhh? It’s like I have a lisp! Like Nolan’s. Sethhhhh and I will hold down the fart. I mean fort! Ha! I said fart, Sethhhhh!”

  She’s completely shitfaced, I thought, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler and handing it to Lex.

  “Why are you backing him?” Becca asked. She was sitting a few feet away on a patch of grass, her back against the trunk of a willow tree.