Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “You’re giving up the apartment?”

  As always, somehow she understood me.

  “Let’s face it, E, it’s over. But just because Sandy didn’t live up to his promise doesn’t mean he didn’t … care for me. I refuse to believe anything else.”

  She tipped over on the floor and pulled in a deep shuddering breath, but I realized she wasn’t falling apart. I struggled to get closer until we lay face to face on the floor, only inches apart. She smiled at me. “Who needs a fabulous, classic six apartment overlooking Central Park anyway?”

  I strained forward and licked her cheek, kissing her in the only way I could.

  We lay that way for seconds, or maybe it was hours. All I knew was that since I had woken up all those months ago in Einstein’s body, a veil had slowly been stripped away until I could see the reality of Sandy Portman. After a lifetime wasted living without truth, it had taken becoming a dog to understand I had lived without honor.

  I also knew that it was time I saved my wife, give her what she had always wanted. A home. Security. I had to give her what I had promised.

  The truth was I had known all along how to accomplish this feat. Since the day I found myself in Einstein’s body, I’d had the power to force my mother to give Emily the apartment. I’d had the ability to save Emily since the beginning.

  All I had to do was share my mother’s secret.

  chapter forty-one

  A shot of strength got me up from the floor. I managed to bark at Emily, getting her to follow me up to the suite at the top of the stairs, she helping me along as I led her to the last of my hiding places. She had gotten used to me guiding her to nooks and crannies, and she followed without question.

  “What is it, E?”

  Suddenly I was unsure. I hesitated in front of the floorboard under which I had hidden my last and oldest journal.

  I thought of my early years. My mother and her laughter, the paint and canvases. To this day the smell of linseed oil makes me yearn for something long vanished.

  Back when I was young, my mother had been proud of being in my father’s world but not being of it. After their wedding she continued her art, shunned the society women and traditional duties my father’s world expected her to take on. And somehow his world found her quaint and original. She became known as the artist, and the most important people in town vied to be included in her dinner parties. But no one had ever seen her art.

  Isn’t that the way? What you can make others envision in their heads can prove far greater than the reality of what you can possibly produce.

  My mother didn’t know this, got caught up in the wave of her newfound popularity. And when she determined that she could solidify her reputation by gaining a showing of her work in one of downtown’s most prestigious galleries, she moved mountains to get it done, ignoring the whispers that she had gotten the show because of her husband’s name, not because of talent.

  She painted for weeks, setting me up on the hardwood floors at the Dakota with picnic lunches and paints of my own. She played Mozart and Mahler, followed by pulsing rock and the blues. The walls vibrated with sound. My father would show up unexpectedly, and they would disappear into a back bedroom. When they emerged, my mother’s hair even messier, he would kiss me on the forehead and leave us to our world.

  My father went to great lengths to make sure the art showing would be a great success. He was proud of his wife. He loved that she was more than the narrow people with whom he had grown up.

  A week before the event my mother’s mood changed. An art professor from NYU asked to see a preview of her work. Lying on the floor in the Dakota, my colored markers forgotten, I heard words like amateur, paint by numbers, no better than a business major needing an arts credit to graduate. After that, there was a long pause, no one talking, before my mother laughed and said, “Oh, silly, these aren’t the paintings I plan to show! I just wanted to see how smart you really are!”

  I couldn’t imagine what other paintings she could be talking about, but I didn’t mention it and the professor didn’t ask.

  For the days leading up to the show Mother and I didn’t take a car across the park to the Dakota. She dressed up in fancy clothes then vanished for hours, leaving me at home. At the end of each of those dwindling days before the big event she returned, tired and smelling of paint and turpentine, but without the telltale traces that she had been doing any painting herself.

  She was nervous the night of the show, my father presenting her with stunning emerald earrings that dripped like pieces of a crystal chandelier and matched her eyes. “Diamonds are too ordinary for my wife.”

  She had fidgeted, not laughing, not kissing him as I expected her to do.

  The show was declared an unmitigated success. The crowds were wowed, even the critics praised her work as far above what they expected from a rich man’s wife. Standing in front of the canvases in my tiny suit and bow tie, my eyes narrowed in surprise. The paintings on the wall weren’t my mother’s.

  I don’t know where she got the work, probably from some struggling artist who had reached the end of his rope and was willing to sell his soul for the money my mother was willing to pay. The day after the show, my father confronted her about an unexplained expenditure of fifty thousand dollars. She had gone on about starting a new life, needing new clothes. Father and I looked at her in confusion, but only I knew the truth. My mother didn’t have a single new dress in her massive closet.

  Within days, my mother “retired,” explaining that it was time to devote herself to helping those in need make their way in the world of art. The lightness left my mother, hardness rushing in to fill the void. Althea Portman became the most important benefactor of the New York art scene, a woman who served on boards, loaned out her “expertise” like a fairy godmother to the rich who wanted to build their collections. I’ve often thought that she had lived her fraudulent talent for so long that she actually came to believe it.

  In the scheme of things, all these years later, I didn’t think society would do much more than sneer at her if they found out the truth. But I knew a sneer was more than my mother was willing to risk. She wouldn’t jeopardize the reputation on which she had built her life, certainly not over an apartment that mattered little to her. I had always gambled on that, held the information close in case my mother had been tempted to use her self-serving ways against me.

  But another realization came on the heels of the first. The hope and excitement I felt froze. If I showed Emily the journal where I detailed the information about my mother, yet again I would be acting without honor.

  The thought had never entered my mind when I gathered the information as a man. As I had already come to understand, honor had never mattered to me before.

  The walls around me seemed to shudder in a sigh of disappointment. And why not, I thought. I hadn’t been able to come up with a way to save my wife, at least not honorably. I had failed. If I used the information, acted yet again without honor, I would lose all chance of moving on to something great.

  My thoughts raced. But I couldn’t come up with any other means to help my wife. My breathing grew more labored, and I understood that I was fast running out of time. If I wanted to give my wife the apartment, the journal was the only way.

  I waited for anger to hit me, waited to cry and curse at the unfairness of my life. But the anger didn’t come.

  Standing in front of the worn wooden floorboard, I was amazed to realize that what happened to me no longer mattered. The telling of my mother’s secret would ruin me by proving that I had never had and still didn’t have the ability to achieve a goal with honor. But I would do it to give Emily what she deserved.

  I guided her to the floorboard in the far left-hand corner of the main room. She didn’t look at me oddly. She figured it out easily, prying the board free.

  emily

  My sister Emily relied on hard work and faith. I relied on having fun and using my quick thinking to get out of trouble. How w
as it possible our mother could raise two such different daughters?

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter forty-two

  I read everything in Sandy’s journal. When I came to the end, I knew that I had finally found the way to keep the apartment.

  By Monday afternoon, I had worked hard to wrap up all that I needed to do. I had promised Tatiana I would come into the office that day. But first I had to see Sandy’s mother.

  It was after four when I rang the bell. At first the uniformed maid said the lady of the house was unavailable.

  “Tell her that I have something she needs to see. Something of her son’s.”

  Minutes later, the maid guided me to Althea’s study on the third floor where my motherin-law looked out into the private gardens below. Even without seeing her face, I sensed that something about her was different. For the first time since I had known Althea Portman, she seemed old.

  “On Sunday,” she said without preamble, without turning around to face me, “a friend called and told me to turn on the television. I saw the interview. I saw the plaque. Beloved husband, son, and friend.” She hesitated. “That was generous of you to include me and Sandy’s father.”

  “I know you loved your son.”

  “I wonder if he knew that.” I heard the sadness in her voice, almost defeat, before she turned to me abruptly. “What is it you want? I take it you received the final eviction notice.”

  “I did.”

  “Will you be out before the deputies are forced to remove you?”

  I didn’t respond and Althea’s eyes narrowed in confusion when I extended the formal blue-leather volume.

  “What is that?”

  “Sandy kept a journal.”

  She didn’t move. Somewhere in the distance a grandfather clock tolled the half hour. Four-thirty. I needed to get to Caldecote soon.

  “There are several journals, actually. But I think you should see this one.”

  Althea seemed to debate, but in the end she walked over to me and took it. With perfectly manicured hands, she opened to the first page. I watched as a series of emotions fluttered across her face while she read page after page. Uncomfortable, I turned away.

  “I always wondered if he knew the truth,” she finally said.

  When I turned back she was sitting in the chair at her desk. She looked even older than she had when I arrived.

  “I take it you’ve brought this here today in order to force me to give you the apartment. I’m surprised, Emily. You’ve never struck me as the type who would resort to blackmail. But fine. I’ll make this easy. It’s yours.”

  “You misunderstand. I don’t want it. I brought the journal so you’d have it in your possession when I move out.”

  “What?”

  “I have no intention of doing anything with the information. Just give me time to find someplace else to live. I’ll need more than the three days the final notice gave me. But I’ll be out by the end of the month.”

  She sat there stiff and unmoving, suspicious. “After all this you don’t want the apartment?”

  I smiled at her, feeling a profound peace. “I don’t want it this way, not by blackmailing you into handing it over. Besides”—I shrugged, finally willing to accept what we both knew was true—“we both know I can’t afford it.” And I understood as well that I no longer needed it. I had dreamed of living in the Dakota, and I had done that. Just as with my mother and my husband, I couldn’t expect an apartment to complete the fairy-tale world of which I had dreamed.

  Althea didn’t argue the point, not that I expected or even wanted her to. For the first time in months, if not years, I felt free.

  I smiled and started to leave, but at the door Althea stopped me.

  “Emily.”

  She started to speak, then stopped.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “No, no.” She flipped her hand, as if waving something away. “Send me the bill for your move. And perhaps we can come up with some sort of monetary settlement … for all you put into the apartment.”

  Her tone was brusque, as if she hated that she was offering but somehow felt she owed me something for the journal. I knew my motherin-law would never want to be beholden to me.

  “Thank you, but I’ll manage.”

  I started out again.

  “The dog,” she blurted. “Einstein. You once mentioned that he loved Mozart.”

  “Yes,” I said carefully.

  “And tell me, how did you find this journal?”

  My eyes narrowed, trying to put the two together. “Einstein led me to it.”

  “Just as he showed me the child’s scrawl behind the wallpaper.”

  “Right. I forgot about that.”

  “Oddly, I haven’t been able to.”

  “What are you thinking, Althea?”

  She flipped mindlessly through the journal. Then she shook herself and closed the volume with a snap.

  “Nothing. He’s a smart dog. Smarter than most.”

  I smiled. “Smart, yes, and charming when he wants to be.”

  Her next words surprised me. “Do you feel that Sandy’s dead?”

  “What?”

  She pursed her lips, but the strange look in her eyes didn’t abate as she ran her finger along the gold inlays on the cover. “It’s nothing. I guess I’m just missing my son. Thank you for bringing the journal to me, Emily. Take as long as you need to move out.”

  *

  I felt excited and nervous at the same time when I turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue and pulled out my BlackBerry, punching in a number I thought I would never use.

  “Hedda Vendome, please.”

  “She’s in a meeting. Can I tell her who’s calling?”

  “Tell her it’s Emily Barlow.”

  I was put on hold and half expected to be forced to leave a message.

  “Emily, darling. I saw the interview on television.”

  “Thank you for setting it up.”

  “I am nothing if not a master at getting attention. And let me just say, everyone has seen the interview. My assistant even found clips of it on that ridiculous but surprisingly addictive YouTube. You are something of a star!”

  Cars rushed by, buses making it difficult to hear as I leaned back against the limestone façade of an elegant prewar building. The subtle heat of the late fall sun that had beat against the stone all afternoon seeped into my spine.

  “An absolute star, I tell you! And why not, you were fabulous. Kind, determined, and that whole meltdown on the curb. Inspired! Too bad you didn’t time it closer to your mother’s book release.” She laughed, not lowering her voice. “A little bird told me your sister went AWOL. I’m guessing that you single-handedly saved that book.”

  “Who told you that?” I didn’t want anyone to know that Jordan hadn’t written My Mother’s Daughter. I had gone to great lengths to write it from her perspective, wanted her to be the star of the story.

  “Not to worry. I won’t tell anyone. But really, when are you coming to work for me?”

  “Actually, I wondered if we could meet for lunch. Tomorrow, if you can.”

  “Ha! I knew you’d come around. We’ll meet at Michael’s. Part negotiation, part celebration.”

  “Not Michael’s. Let’s meet at the Westside Diner on Broadway and Sixty-ninth.”

  “Good God! You’re taking me to a diner?”

  I smiled into the phone. “I’m expecting you to pay, Hedda.”

  She laughed loudly. “Tomorrow at twelve-thirty. I’ll be there.”

  I disconnected, then hailed a cab. Next stop, Caldecote Press.

  chapter forty-three

  “You can wait in Ms. Harriman’s office. She’ll be right in.”

  Entering Tatiana’s corner suite, I walked over to the wall of windows, looking out at the towers of glass and steel that filled midtown Manhattan. Two blocks north, I could see slices of Central Park through the other buildings.

  “T
his is a surprise.” Tatiana stood in the doorway and crossed her arms.

  “I told you I’d come in today.”

  “I expected you first thing this morning, at your desk, fast at work scouring the world for the perfect manuscript that would set the world on fire.” She stepped forward, studying me. Before I could reply, she said, “Instead, you’ve come to quit.”

  I had to smile. “I have.”

  She didn’t look happy. “I knew this would happen. I knew once you found your footing again you’d want to move on. But to work for Hedda?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Do you really think I could possibly let Hedda be the only one in town who knows everything that’s going on?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I suspect not. But just so you know, that isn’t my plan.”

  This surprised her, but after a few seconds a smile cracked on her mouth. “I’m guessing Hedda doesn’t know that.”

  “Not yet, but she will. Tomorrow. She was a friend of my mother’s. I want to tell her my plans in person. The truth is, I want to start over and see where that takes me. Though don’t worry; Jordan will still promote My Mother’s Daughter. I’ll see to it. But it needs to be Jordan’s book, not mine. As the editor, I will talk to anyone you want me to. But I have to move on.”

  She didn’t say anything, just stood there.

  “Thank you, Tatiana. Thank you for putting up with me, for pushing me.”

  Still nothing, so I nodded and started to leave. But then I stopped. “There’s something I need to know.”

  She got that suspicious look on her face, one brow lifting.

  “Why did you push me?” I asked.

  She dismissed it with a wave. “It was nothing, I didn’t have anything better to do.”

  “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “See, you’re more straightforward than I believed.”

  “Which leads me to my second question,” I said.

  “Can’t we just hug, or something?”

  “And braid hair?”