Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  He placed a hand atop her head, tentatively, as if she might snap like a tortoise and draw blood. Then he ruffled her hair, sliding his hand down to the juncture where her neck met her shoulders. “It’s been a hard time. The whole thing with your job kinda crushed you.”

  Marjorie nodded. It was true. During her brief stint at G & G, she had tasted what it was like to feel valued, to contribute. She’d liked the work. The detox from that satisfaction would prove painful.

  “That’s why,” Mac continued, “I talked to Brianne.”

  The words were so unexpected, so out of left field, that it took Marjorie a few beats to comprehend. The muscles in her body seized up, as she sputtered, “Sorry. You—what?”

  Mac smiled like he’d done a good deed for which he deserved gold stars, pats on the back, and letterpress thank-you notes, written in cursive with fountain pens and real ink. “She met me for a drink at DIRT. And I convinced her to take you back!”

  “You convinced her?”

  “She wants me as a client and, you know, you weren’t that bad at the job. It didn’t take much cajoling.”

  “Ca—cajoling?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Your big words are rubbing off on me.”

  “Mac.”

  “Yes?”

  Marjorie struggled to remain calm, to breathe. “Are you kidding me?”

  He was too busy basking in his own glow to notice Marjorie’s hands curled into fists. “It’s no joke, Madgesty. You’ll have to start at a junior level and climb back up, but don’t worry! You have your job back.” He brought his hand to Marjorie’s cheek. That’s when he noticed the dangerous look in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Mac. I don’t want that job back. Ever.”

  “What?” His jaw went slack.

  “Brianne told people I was in an insane asylum.”

  Mac gaped at Marjorie as if she belonged in one. “I know Brianne is psycho, but isn’t everyone in that industry?”

  “No, Mac. Everyone does not get their jollies by humiliating employees!”

  “But you said you miss your job.”

  “Yes. My job with Michael and Gus.”

  He grimaced. “Gus? Really?” Mac almost never tried. In a rare act of selflessness, he had taken initiative with Brianne and he expected appreciation. “Well, guess what? That ship sailed. Maybe swallow your pride. It’s not like you have other offers.”

  “It’s not about pride. I hated myself in that job, every excruciating second I spent babysitting washed-up celebrities and socialite brides cost me self-respect.”

  Mac stood and began pacing across the bearskin rug. Sweat had collected on his clean-shaven upper lip; a vein in his forehead bulged. “What do you want from me, Marjorie? Because I’m trying.” He threw his hands up, literally. “But this is me.”

  He had meant well, that much was obvious. Suddenly, Marjorie saw the problem: She did know who he was, and it wasn’t enough. As much as she adored him, spent years (she now realized) wondering about him. He was self-involved and cavalier; he cut corners and took the easy, if not debauched, route. Instead of helping her solve their problems, he wanting to press Reset to make her fun again like a glitching video game console. He charmed and bought his way in and out of situations. That was his gift, one that Marjorie had once admired. But now she realized that effort made life feel rewarding. Once upon a time, she and Mac might have made the perfect couple, their lives neatly tied in Tiffany blue bows. But they no longer made sense.

  This is me about to blow up the last of my old life. No job, no place to live, no plan, no money, no clear path, no friends. She felt surprisingly calm; her tears had dried.

  “Do you not want to be with me anymore?” Mac was asking, a look of realization, then hurt, crossing his face. “After all these years, is this just it? Why did you even agree to live with me?”

  She opened her mouth to offer an explanation, but all that came out was, “I’m sorry.”

  They stood looking at each other for a while. Finally, he sighed and slumped down onto the bed to sit. “I guess I should have seen this coming.”

  “It’s not your fault. I think I changed.”

  “Maybe.” He shot her a resigned smile. “But you’ll always be Madgesty to me.”

  “I think that’s part of the problem.”

  In the living room, Marjorie gathered her belongings and dragged her rolling suitcase to the door. Mac handed her the edition of Franny and Zooey. “I’d like you to have it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s not like I’ll read it.” He walked out with her. “I’ll take you down.”

  Outside, the doorman hailed Marjorie a cab. She and Mac stood reading each other, a silent discussion, layered and messy. He looked sad.

  She started, “About before—”

  “Hey, Madgesty. Let’s not, okay? I’m trying to keep it classy.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it.”

  “We gave it a good try, right?”

  “I think so. You were great.”

  “Thanks,” he nodded. “Okay. I’m gonna go now, if that’s okay … if you’re okay.”

  Marjorie nodded, okay. He kissed her on the cheek, a whisper against her skin.

  As Mac walked away, growing smaller as he strolled back into the lobby, his hands in his pockets, relaxed even now, he turned at the last moment and tipped an imaginary hat to Marjorie. In his wake, she could see a teenage Mac, loping down the street after a stolen kiss, just the same.

  41

  Marjorie let herself into her parents’ apartment.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  Not even Mina the Cat came to the door, though she meowed in greeting from the kitchen. Marjorie followed her cry and found the feline on top of the table, drinking milk from a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

  That was odd. It was unlike either of her parents to leave food out. She picked up the dirty dish and brought it to the sink, accidentally kicking an object in her path. She bent down to pick it up: the cordless phone.

  Why was it on the floor? What the hell was going on?

  A key turned audibly in the front door. She called out, “Hello? Mom? Dad?”

  “Marjorie? Is that you?”

  “Yes!” Marjorie walked to meet her mother in the entryway. “Unless somebody else calls you M—”

  She stopped in her tracks. Her mother looked like a wreck. Barbara Plum never left the house without makeup, yet here she was bare faced, wearing a stained T-shirt, yoga pants, and a strained expression.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  Barbara sighed. “I guess you didn’t get my messages.”

  “No. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been hard to reach. I’ve had kind of a crazy—actually, it doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”

  “There’s been an incident.” Barbara Plum’s voice was a creepy, measured sort of calm, a surefire sign that something was wrong. Marjorie recognized the tone from when her aunt lost her savings in a Ponzi scheme, when her cousin got into a car accident, when her grandfather died.

  “Is everything okay?” Marjorie knew the answer was no.

  Chipper had been teaching a class on the advent of reality TV (an understandably upsetting topic), when his heart launched a protest against the lobster mac ’n’ cheese he’d eaten the night before and the unfilled Lipitor prescription buried under papers on his desk.

  No sooner had the word “Snooki” escaped his lips, when a clot surrounding a plaque deposit grew one-hundredth of a millimeter, damming the flow of oxygen-rich blood to the heart, starving the organ and refusing to budge like some warty gatekeeper from one of Chipper’s beloved Lord of the Rings movies.

  Many of the students—finishing notes on Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica—mistook Chipper’s heart attack for a dramatic reenactment before realizing that he was clutching his chest in pain. Luckily, the university’s Language & Letters building was situated next to the medical school. Before medics arrived, Chipper’s coworker, Dr. Rupert
Rubenstein (who had often found himself on the opposite side of the aisle when it came to interdepartmental politics), had already begun treating him, administering IV aspirin to thin the blood and limit damage to the heart. Some faculty members speculated that perhaps now Chipper would be more generous when voting to allocate funds to the medical school. Just saying.

  Within three minutes and thirty-eight seconds, an ambulance full of EMTs showed up, only the first of many acronyms from EKGs to ICUs that would define the experience. Ultimately, Chipper suffered a very mild coronary and would be fine, though he would certainly endure more nagging about his diet from his wife.

  “I’m just here to pack a bag for him,” Barbara explained.

  Marjorie sat down, her knees weak. “Mom, that must have been terrifying. Thank God he’s okay.”

  Barbara sat down too. “It wasn’t a fun call to get, that’s for sure. But we were lucky.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up my phone. And that I haven’t been answering your e-mails.”

  “Oh, sweetie. You’re busy. It’s fine.”

  “It’s actually not fine at all. I owe you more than that.”

  “But why are you back from LA early? And why are you here? Was the trip okay? Are you okay?”

  Marjorie forced a smile. “Mom, LA was great. I’m great. Don’t worry about me. Let me support you guys for a change. I can handle it. I’m ready to take responsibility—for myself, for you guys. It’s about time.”

  “I guess I could use the help. I need to call the insurance company. He has his university health care. Thank God he didn’t leave to write that book full-time like he threatened. And I’m trying to stay on top of the nurses without irritating them. On NPR, they say you have to be your own advocate to get decent treatment.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  Barbara tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “You’re a good girl, you know that? We’re so fortunate.”

  Marjorie smiled back weakly. Guilt sat on her chest like a brick. She had avoided her parents for weeks for fear of facing the truth about her own poor choices. She hadn’t wanted to answer the tough questions. And, now, she couldn’t recall her last movie excursion or marathon TV session with her father. She’d been so arrogant to imagine she’d been in bad shape when people were mourning post-Aurora, women were dying in Darfur, and her father was in the hospital. She hadn’t known what bottom was.

  Marjorie made her mother a cup of tea and forced her to lie down for a few minutes, while she packed a bag for her father. Once alone, she allowed herself some deep breaths and then counted her lucky stars that her selfishness hadn’t done permanent damage. She could still make things up to her parents, to herself. She had arrived at their house with plans to grow up and start anew, for real this time. No more limp gestures that did nothing to propel change.

  When she reemerged, Barbara was waiting, wearing a smear of purplish lipstick—Marjorie felt an affectionate pang for her mother, ever presentable.

  “Ready?” asked Marjorie, anxious to see her father.

  “Yes.” They headed for the door. “Do you need to call Mac?” asked Barbara. “Tell him what happened?”

  “Um. No. Mac and I are—questionable.”

  “I see.” Barbara locked the door behind them, and they waited in the hallway for the elevator. “What about Fred?”

  “Questionable too. Which is entirely my fault.”

  “And the job didn’t become full-time?” Barbara feigned indifference. Just asking.

  “I was good at it, but it wasn’t … a fit. Gus and I, well, we’re—”

  “Questionable?”

  “Right. I should call Pickles at some point, though, before she hears from someone else.”

  “But not Vera? Is that friendship questionable too?”

  “No. That’s just over.”

  “Huh. I guess she couldn’t be Care Bear Club VP forever.” Barbara smashed her lips together, anxiously. “I thought maybe you liked Gus, the way you talked about him.”

  “Mom, please.” Marjorie placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I know you’re disappointed that Mac and I didn’t work out, but—”

  “Why would I be disappointed?”

  “Wasn’t becoming Mrs. Mac O’Shea the dream for me?”

  Barbara looked genuinely surprised. “Marjorie, ‘the dream’ isn’t marrying anyone! It’s about building a life for yourself. It’s about being fulfilled.”

  “Sure, but it wouldn’t hurt if that ‘life’ came equipped with a palatial Fifth Avenue apartment.”

  Marjorie’s mother winced. “I never meant to give you that impression.”

  “That status matters?”

  “That you should move to the Upper East Side. So stodgy.” Barbara smiled at Marjorie; they both giggled despite themselves.

  “There’s this random quote that keeps popping into my head,” Marjorie said. “It’s ‘The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.’”

  Barbara Plum crossed her arms over her chest. “You learned that from me, young lady. I use it in every one of my life-coaching seminars. I can’t believe you don’t know that!”

  “Oh, do you use that quote?” Marjorie teased, and slid her arm around her mother’s shoulders and squeezed.

  42

  Chipper required an angiogram, but no bypass surgery, thank goodness.

  “You missed my big moment!” he announced hoarsely, as Marjorie entered his room in the cardiac wing. “It was dramatic! And with a live studio audience.”

  She bent to kiss his cheek. “Let’s not do a rerun of it.”

  “At least this whole near death thing gets me out of scooping the cat box for a few weeks.”

  “Impossible!” Barbara sat down in a metal chair against the wall, her smile equal parts relief and strain.

  Marjorie stood at her father’s side, the window and cityscape to her back, and tried not to imagine him on a stretcher, as if in some schlocky medical drama he’d criticize but still watch. “So how are you feeling, Dad?”

  “I’ve been better … and worse.” He sighed. “Just makes you feel old.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Martin Sheen had a heart attack at thirty-six years old. And he went on to be president.”

  “Fictional president.” Chipper laughed, a hand flying nervously to his chest. “That’s the rub with this mortality shit, honey. It’s real.”

  “Maybe it can be a reminder to enjoy your life.”

  “Yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “But with less cheese.”

  “No cheese! Not less cheese,” piped Barbara. “So, Chipper, I’ve asked Marjorie to move in with us for a while.” She’d asked no such thing; she was throwing Marjorie a bone.

  “What? No! Marjorie, don’t sacrifice your fabulous lifestyle on our account.”

  “No, Dad. Mom is being generous. I want to stay with you guys for a while.” Her parents exchanged a look, happiness tinged with worry. “I need to start fresh. Besides, I haven’t had much time with you lately and apparently you’re not long for this world.”

  “Marjorie!” her mother exclaimed.

  Chipper grinned. “We’d be delighted to have you. Give us some movie catch-up time.”

  A nurse with a kind face and a name tag that read ANDREA interrupted gently to suggest they give “Mr. Chipper” time to rest after she took his vitals.

  “Naptime like kindergarten,” he grunted. “But without the snacks.”

  Over the next week, Marjorie spent hours at the hospital, drinking lukewarm English breakfast tea and making friends with the nurses, who nicknamed her “Bonita Ciruela” or “Pretty Plum.”

  By the time Chipper moved home, she was settled into her renovated bedroom, admittedly now more age-appropriate without the gummy remnants of old unicorn stickers on the walls. The only remaining clue to its past incarnation were the old flip books her mother had organized on a shelf.

  Marjorie and Mac n
ever discussed their relationship’s demise, though he did send a text saying he hoped Chipper was thriving. It was over; a postmortem seemed gratuitous.

  Marjorie helped her parents. She intervened when they argued about how to use the cable remote (they were both wrong) and enticed Chipper into eating healthier foods. She brought him nonedible treats from the outside world too, like magazines, books, and reports of the horrible humidity, so he’d know he wasn’t missing anything by being stuck indoors. When the Republican convention began at the end of August, she forbade him from watching, except via the lens of The Daily Show. Too stressful!

  Together, they wondered whether vice presidential nominee Wisconsin congressman Paul Ryan—with his workout regimen, Ayn Rand obsession, and widow’s peak hairline—would lend Mitt Romney enough “policy muscle” to take the election. They dropped Nate Silver’s statistics and took their own inaccurate straw polls. (Mina the Cat had concerns about Obama’s environmental record and remained a swing vote.)

  Pickles and her mother, Ramona, visited twice a week, bearing quinoa and kale salads, and hemp milk and cacao smoothies with chia seeds. “Superfoods packed with antioxidants!” exclaimed a delighted Pickles, as she presented the dishes.

  “Super tasteless,” Chipper grumbled, once she was out of earshot. “But sweet.”

  Meanwhile, Pickles was miffed. So many weeks ago, she’d been prompted to call Marjorie for help, only to have Vera behave spinelessly, ungratefully. Of her own volition, the young mother pledged allegiance to Madge, creating a separation with Vera too. The lines were drawn in the Montauk sand.

  Marjorie did enjoy seeing Pickles, Steve, and the kids on a couple social occasions (when they weren’t ranting about preschool applications), but she felt the old boredom with the other familiar faces, as they debated fast cars, investment strategies, and tentpole movies, bragging about friendships with cheesy celebrities.

  Mostly, she and Chipper binge-watched TV series and films together, a nod to late summers of her childhood. (Before the Plums left for their annual weeklong seafood-packed stay with Nana Judy every August, and while Marjorie’s friends were off on fancy family vacations, she and her father survived the heat by screening movies.) Now they watched back episodes of Homeland and Breaking Bad; movies like Casablanca, Blade Runner, and Wedding Crashers. They got absorbed by stories of tragedy, perseverance, and stupidity, of hope and defeat, stories of stories of stories.