by Nancy Thayer
“I asked him! He said when everyone in the office drew ‘Secret Santas,’ Jennifer D’Annucio got his name. He said she has a cousin who works at Hermès, and she got a discount.”
“That’s all possible, Laura.”
“Mom, I looked through his credit card receipts. In December he charged a gold bracelet at Cartier. I didn’t get a gold bracelet!” Laura pounded her fists on her knees. “I hate him!” She jumped up and paced the room. “I’ll show him! I’ll sleep with Joe Foster.”
“Joe Foster?”
“Another lawyer in his office. They hate each other. They’re terrible rivals. Joe always flirts with me at parties. He’s a slimy sleazy little weasel.”
“Then why would you want to sleep with him?”
“Because it’s the worst thing I can imagine doing to Lars.”
“Sounds like the worst thing you could do to yourself.” Faye took a deep breath. “All right, now. Let’s be sensible. You don’t want to have sex with a slimy sleazy little weasel, Laura. You don’t want to do anything until you’re sure that Lars is fooling around.”
“And when I get proof”—Laura’s eyes filled with tears—“I’ll file for divorce.”
“Hold on a minute. Let’s take one step at a time. You’ve got to think of Megan.”
Laura looked over at her baby, propped in the corner of the sofa. Megan leaned forward, mouth open and drooling, brought the remote control toward her mouth with both hands and great concentration, and whacked herself on the nose. Turning crimson, she wailed.
“Poor baby,” Faye cooed, gathering her grandchild in her arms.
“She does this every night.” Laura sighed, and tossed back the rest of her sherry.
“Hits herself in the face with a remote control?”
“No, goes into a two-hour tantrum.”
“This is the beginning of a two-hour tantrum?” Laura nodded miserably. “I’ve called the pediatrician. He said it might be colic, although at four months she’s a little old for colic. She had a checkup just last week, and she’s in perfect health. But every evening she does this for two hours. Then she falls asleep, and I can’t wake her. She sleeps until two or three in the morning, then wakes up and is bright and chipper and won’t go back to sleep until six, when Lars is waking up. I feel like a zombie.”
“Oh, my poor darling,” Faye said. Rising, she brought the screaming baby to her shoulder and walked her, patting her back, an instinctive act that had undoubtedly been passed down through the genes since primitive woman. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before now, Laura?”
“Because you’ve already helped so much! I’m an adult! I should be able to solve my problems myself!” She stamped her foot, looking terribly young and vulnerable.
Faye moved Megan to the other shoulder. “Does Lars help with Megan?”
“She screams even louder with Lars. I think she’s hurt his feelings.”
“At least his eardrums,” Faye muttered wryly.
“What?”
“You slept through the night when you were a month old,” Faye admitted, feeling irrationally guilty for having had it so easy.
“I know! So what am I doing wrong?”
“It’s not a question of—”
“I shouldn’t blame Lars if he is having an affair.” Laura’s tears started up again. “My breasts hang, I haven’t had the time to shave my legs since Megan was born, and all I can talk about is the color of her poop. I’ve gotten all saggy and boring! Probably not even Joe Foster would want me now.”
“Nonsense,” Faye said briskly. “You’re the same beautiful, wonderful girl you’ve always been. All young mothers feel this way, overwhelmed and exhausted. It will get better. You’ll see.”
“How can it get better if Lars is having an affair?” Laura wept.
“Darling,” Faye said, raising her voice to make herself heard over Megan’s wailing, “you don’t know he’s having an affair.” Her heart broke in half as she looked at her daughter. Laura did look saggy—she sagged as she sat there, weeping. Never had Laura looked so terrible, and pity moved through Faye’s heart like a rumbling, rolling boulder, weighing her down so heavily that she slumped into an armchair, unable to stand.
Megan wailed even louder.
If only Jack were still alive. He would know exactly what to do. Faye knew she had to do something. But what?
2
SHIRLEY
The bedroom was quiet except for piano music trick-ling like water over pebbles. The air smelled of apples and roses. On the massage table, the older woman lay, facedown, completely relaxed and, for a while, free from the arthritic pain that plagued her.
Shirley moved around the massage table like a white dove. She was barefoot, dressed in loose white pants, and a loose white cotton jacket, tied at the waist. Her long, vibrant, red hair was caught up in a clip. Silver moons dangled from her ears, a silver bracelet circled one ankle, and every finger and thumb wore a ring. The stones—moonstone, garnet, opal, cat’s-eye—winked at her as she worked, drawing her hands in long, deep strokes down Nora Salter’s back.
She concluded the massage with brief gentle touches on her client’s coccyx, shoulders, and head, just as the alarm clock buzzed.
“Oh, my.” Nora Salter sighed. “That was wonderful.”
“I’m glad.” Shirley went into the bathroom to get Nora a glass of water, and to allow her a moment to rise and pull on a robe.
“Here you are,” she said, handing Nora the glass. “Drink it all, now.”
The older woman obeyed with an almost childlike meekness. Nora Salter was in her seventies, and her wealth attracted many admirers, and she was suspicious of them all. Her children lived in other parts of the world, her husband was dead, and like many older people, she went through her days without even the most brief human touch. Shirley knew her massages nourished the other woman’s soul as much as they relaxed and comforted her body.
Shirley gathered her CD player, scented candle, balms, and oils, and slid them into a purple batik tote bag. She folded up the massage table, tucked it into its thick canvas carrying case, and hoisted the strap onto her shoulder.
“I’ll see you next week,” she told Nora, hugging the older woman.
“All right, dear,” Nora said. “Thank you.”
As Shirley had lugged her bag of paraphernalia and the heavy massage table down the hall, she felt her own body slump. She was exhausted. Good thing, she thought as she pulled on her coat, hat, and mittens, Nora Salter’s house was grand enough to possess a staff elevator.
Shirley was sixty years old. Too old, really, to be doing this kind of strenuous work. But she couldn’t afford to quit. Three disastrous marriages, all ending in divorce— not to mention an excess of other stupid life choices— had left her scrambling. Over the years, she’d built up a good, reliable clientele, earning enough to keep up the mortgage payments on her sweet little house. Besides, she loved her work.
She trudged out of the house and down the drive, opened the hatch of her ancient VW Rabbit, and wrestled the table inside. She wished she could, at least, cancel all the clients who wouldn’t come to her home for their massages, but she couldn’t afford even that. Most wanted her to come to them. Because it took time to drive to their homes, sometimes as much as an hour, she charged twenty dollars more for a house call. But that didn’t make up for the massages she’d have been able to give if she’d stayed in her house.
But enough negativity, she decided. Between massages she did what she could to restore her natural high spirits. Sometimes she used the drive to listen to inspirational tapes. Today, she parked by Fresh Pond, locked her car, and hit the trail for a twenty-minute jog, her Discman firmly attached to her belt. The music she played for her clients had to be mellow: Enya, Celtic musical, classical. To infuse her with the energy to give the massages, she listened to rock as she ran. Mostly Aerosmith, whom she adored. Good old Boston boys who’d sunk as low as she once had, then recovered, blasting into the str
atosphere, now and forever more, the best rock band in the world.
It was her addiction to Aerosmith, and her collection of CDs by Bob Segar, U2, Tom Petty, and ZZ Top that made her current lover, Jimmy, believe she was younger than she was. She’d never lied to him, but she’d never told him her age, either, and most days she felt that somehow she actually was younger than sixty. Her lush red hair, curling past her shoulders, her large blue eyes accentuated by violet shadow, her vegetarian diet, her twenty-year abstinence from cigarettes and booze, her naturally slender, lithe body—the package fooled everyone else, and the mirror fooled her, too.
But days like today, when the March wind blew bitterly, and the sky was shrouded with gray, when her knees creaked in protest as she ran, and her entire body yearned for a nap, just a little catnap—days like today made her feel ancient.
She walked back to her car. As she fastened her seat belt, the gremlins who still hid deep in the recesses of her brain tempted her with visions of NoDoz, or anything she could buy over the counter that would provide her with the energy to work one more hour.
Shrugging back the demons, Shirley unscrewed the lid from her Thermos and poured herself a cup of Lemon Lift tea, which she drank as she drove.
Her next client was shy, nervous, clever Julie Martin. Julie spent her entire life in her house with the curtains drawn so that no light would streak the radiant machines that had become her family and her friends. Julie played the stock market. Julie lived to play the stock market. At all times she had two computers buzzing, and two televisions, one tuned to CNN, one to CNBC. A millionaire several times over, she lived an austere life.
Shirley let herself into the house with a key, stepped into the living room, and found Julie tapping away on her computer.
“Hi, Julie,” she called out.
Julie didn’t turn her head. “Just a minute, Shirl.” Shirley removed her coat and went into the downstairs bathroom to tug off the T-shirt she wore for jogging and slip into her white jacket. With everyone else, her appearance had to be exactly right, but Julie never noticed that sort of thing. Shirley thought Julie probably wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what color Shirley’s hair was, and few could miss Shirley’s hair, long, curly, and blazing red like Bonnie Raitt’s.
Julie’s own hair was stringy and lank. Clad in sweatpants and a wrinkled flannel shirt, Julie was still tapping away when Shirley went back to the living room. Shirley turned off the televisions and one computer, opened the drapes, and let the evening’s blue light fill the room.
“All right,” Shirley said. “Time to unplug yourself.” Standing behind the other woman, she put her hands on her thin shoulders. “Tense today.”
“I just need to finish—”
“That can wait,” Shirley insisted. “Turn it off. Now, Julie.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Turn off your computer, hon, or I’ll have to.”
Julie typed a few instructions, and the screen went dark. “It’s been an awful day. The stock market—”
“Sssh,” Shirley said. “Bend your head. I’m going to do Reiki on you.”
Dutifully, Julie obeyed. Shirley put both hands on the woman’s skull and concentrated. She was channeling the energy of the universe into this skittish, lonely woman, so she thought of healthy animals and their spirits. Swans gliding. Cows standing trancelike in the sun. Horses running like silk. Dolphins leaping in the sea.
Beneath her hands, Julie’s shoulders relaxed. Her wood-like neck warmed and softened. Shirley sighed with pleasure; she had no children of her own, and Shirley felt very motherly toward this eccentric young woman.
“Now,” Shirley said, softly, “let’s do some stretches.” A year ago a combination of mild illnesses had sent Julie to a doctor. She ached all over, all the time, she was often dizzy, often depressed. Often frightened. She cried a lot. She believed she was dying of a life-threatening disease. After a thorough physical and scores of lab tests, the doctor asked Julie to tell him about her daily life, then recommended that she begin regular exercise, perhaps yoga, and find a personal trainer and a masseuse.
Julie was twenty-nine, overweight, out of shape, and lonely. Because she could make money sitting at home playing the market from her computer, she’d stopped going out. Now she was almost agoraphobic. She lived on boxes of Cheez-Its and chocolate doughnuts. She didn’t own a cat or dog. The concept of coordinating sheets, comforter, and curtains had never occurred to her, nor had the thought of artwork for her walls. She was too timid to join a health club, too shy to dream of working with a personal trainer, but when she’d read in Shirley’s online ad that Shirley made house calls, she summoned her courage and phoned. Shirley gave Julie a few weeks of massage, then decided that the younger woman needed gentle but firm guidance toward a healthier lifestyle.
One day, instead of giving Julie a massage, Shirley sat Julie down and talked with her. By the end of the hour, Julie had agreed to let Shirley order a week’s groceries to be delivered, and she promised to eat them. After a few more weeks, Shirley learned that Julie wouldn’t actually get around to preparing a salad, so lettuces wilted, unnoticed. So Shirley ordered finger foods on which Julie could munch while typing: little carrots, radishes, apples, bananas. Julie would microwave food; in fact, Julie liked to microwave food; it fit into her understanding of how the world worked. Shirley ordered pots of ramen noodles, and vegetable soups, and tofu-rich casseroles. And after a while, Julie reported she felt better.
Shirley’s goal was to help Julie realize that her body was more than a brain with two eyes and ten typing fingers. She designed a series of daily stretching exercises for Julie, who said she did them, but most probably she was lying, if the tension in her back was any indication.
Now Shirley switched on her CD player, and gentle music filled the air. They both sat, cross-legged, on the living room floor as Shirley led the other woman through some simple exercises, saddened at how disconnected Julie was from her body. Shirley climbed onto the sofa behind Julie, who was supposed to be stretching both arms high above her head, and who was trying, but lethargically. Shirley pulled Julie’s arms up high, then opened her fists and pulled her fingers up and out.
“Extend,” she told Julie. “Be a cat. Be a tigress flexing her paws.”
After twenty minutes of stretching, they sat facing each other while Shirley talked Julie through deep breathing and simple meditation. When the weather was warm, Shirley opened the windows to let fresh air in, and she was certain she could feel all the sharp electronic molecules crackle out the window, leaving the air fresh.
She ended the hour with a brief massage of Julie’s neck, shoulders, and arms, accompanied by one of her little pep talks. Over the past year she’d learned that Julie’s parents were dead, her brother lived in Japan, and whatever friends she’d had once had dropped her because of her habit of forgetting social engagements. Sometimes during a massage, Julie would begin crying, in high little squeaks, her throat tight with embarrassment as she nearly hyperventilated. This was good, Shirley assured her miserable client. She was releasing toxic emotions and opening her chakras.
Sometimes, like today, Julie actually communicated. “I can’t imagine my life without you.” Julie’s voice was almost a whisper. “You make me feel like a human being.”
“I’m so glad, honey. I’ll see you next week.”
As she steered her coughing old car through the congested streets to her home in the crowded Boston suburb of Somerville, Shirley indulged in her favorite daydream: One day she’d establish a retreat for people like Julie, a beautiful space where people could come to rest and rejuvenate their spirits. Her clients would listen to music, do yoga and tai chi, hear lectures on spirituality and health, learn how to cook healthy, delicious meals; they’d learn to laugh again, to move gently with the harmonies of the universe. Shirley knew exactly what the rooms would look like, how the air would smell, which plants she’d nurture, the way she’d organize her staff—
He
r staff! Who was she kidding? She didn’t have the money to pay for a new muffler, never mind a staff. Her idea was good, she knew that, but the practical considerations were daunting, and she had no ninety-seven-year-old maiden aunt who was about to die and leave her a fortune.
Her retreat was only a dream.
And some nights, like tonight, when the wind was picking up, battering the loose shutter on her kitchen window, when her refrigerator held only a cold slab of tofu and a lonely orange, when her boyfriend had left a note on the table, telling her he was going down to the bar to have a drink with friends, sometimes the siren song of alcohol sang to her of exquisite comforts. Sometimes she longed to join Jimmy at the pub, where a whiskey would warm her, soothe her aches, and hush the clock ticking away her years.
Sometimes, like tonight, it was nearly impossible to stay home and stay sober.
3
MARILYN
As Marilyn steered her Subaru toward Logan Air-port, her mind was fractured in three directions. First, she had to concentrate on driving; second, she yearned to be back in the lab; third, she was overwhelmed with emotion because her beloved older sister was leaving after a week’s visit, and she didn’t know whether she was more sad than glad.
She loved Sharon—she adored her. She always had. But Sharon was so bossy and judgmental! And Sharon had something on her mind—Marilyn could tell. As a paleobiologist, Marilyn could usually hide from the modern world, but she could never escape her sister’s opinions.
Sure enough, from the passenger seat, Sharon announced, “Marilyn, I have something to say to you.”
“So,” Marilyn said, “say it.” Inwardly, she sighed.
Probably, Sharon was going to criticize the way Marilyn looked. Sharon looked fabulous, with her hair tinted blond and sliced in a chic blunt bob. Her black pantsuit was flattering and smart, her nails professionally shaped and French-tipped. Marilyn’s dowdy academic appearance made Sharon crazy, Marilyn knew, but the ancient, long-dead creatures she loved to study didn’t care that her gray hair was yanked back into a practical bun, nor that her sweater and slacks were twenty—or was it thirty?—years old. From Marilyn’s scholarly perspective, thirty years was brand-new.
