Balancing Acts

by Zoe Fishman

  See, you’re pretty, she said to herself. And she was. With her big hazel eyes and wild chestnut locks, she was a classic, Mediterranean beauty. When Sabine wanted to, she could turn on the charm and snag more than a few second looks from appreciative men—it’s just that she seldom wanted to. Men seemed to require a lot of energy, and she just couldn’t muster it up these days.

  She sighed as she pulled out her concealer and rubbed it into the circles underneath her eyes, remembering her last suitor—the constant checking of her cell phone (did he call? is it working? should I call him?), the uncertainty of their future, the good but not great sex, and then his eventual disappearance. It was a lot of anxiety and heartache for very little reward. She closed her eyelashes into her curler, counted to two, and then released. Amazing what a difference this torture device makes.

  She resolved to push her negative thoughts about men out of her mind and refocus on the possibility of meeting someone who exceeded her ten years of dating in New York expectations. They couldn’t all be cads. There had to be at least one who broke the mold.

  She surveyed her face one last time and swept the mirror back into her desk drawer. She stood up and stretched, her back and neck cracking like Rice Krispies. “I need a massage,” she said aloud to her empty office. She piled her manuscripts for the weekend into her bag and zipped herself into her coat.

  “Go Terriers!” she sarcastically whispered, paying tribute to her college mascot. She flipped off her light and made her way out into the madness of midtown.

  Chapter Three

  Naomi

  Mama, where are you going?” Noah asked suspiciously. “How come you have that stuff on your lips?”

  Naomi laughed. She couldn’t get anything past her son, or the Inspector, as she liked to call him. Noah needed to know everything, all the time. “Who is that? How does this work? What is milk made of? Why is your tummy sticking out?” This last question had come quite recently, when Naomi had attempted to squeeze herself back into a pair of jeans that had last seen the light of day in 1998. She had gotten them on, by the grace of God, but zipping them had been a different story entirely. She had lain across her bed and pulled with all her might, half expecting the metal teeth of the zipper to rip off entirely, but then—victory! The zipper had miraculously completed its journey upward and she had even managed to button them.

  She had laughed, or, rather, wheezed appreciatively, wondering how she was going to get up. Awkwardly, she had made her way to a standing position—kind of like a baby calf’s first steps—and wobbled to the mirror.

  Just then, Noah had wandered in, surveying every detail of the scene before him, but naturally zeroing in on the fact that his mother seemed to be encased in some sort of denim torture device on the lower half of her body.

  After he asked her the stomach question, Naomi had promptly removed (very carefully) the denim relic of her past and placed the jeans in the Goodwill pile. Now Noah was her personal Tim Gunn as well as her inspector. Two for one.

  “I’m going out, lovey,” she replied, zeroing in for a hug. Noah tensed when she put her arms around him.

  “Where out?” he asked again. “And who is staying with me?”

  “I’m going to see some old college friends in the city.” She cringed a little at the thought of what lay ahead of her. Since Noah had been born almost eight years ago (eight years ago? What?!), she had been a virtual recluse—and happily so.

  This year she had vowed that she would make more of an effort to have conversations that didn’t revolve around dinosaurs or the virtues of orange juice with pulp. And just like that, the Evite for this ten-year college reunion night had landed in her in-box. This was especially strange because Naomi had spent only one year at said college, and certainly couldn’t legitimately be considered an alumna. It had seemed almost predestined somehow, even though Naomi didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But still, it had been eerie.

  “What college friends?” probed Noah. Naomi paused. That was a good question from the Inspector, and one that she wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. She had spent most of her one college year skipping class and trying unsuccessfully to turn Boston into a smaller version of New York. She had barely made any friends at school, truth be told. She wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t know a single soul tonight.

  “Just some people I used to know,” she answered.

  “Oh,” answered Noah. “Are they nice?”

  “Sure,” she replied, as she slid her gold hoops through her lobes. I hope so, she thought.

  “Am I going to college?” he asked.

  “Yes, you most certainly are,” she replied, scooping his warm body into her arms. He was getting so big! Despite herself, her uterus lurched in response to this little man who just yesterday was a cooing baby. “But that’s not for a long time. Oh, and Cecilia is going to come hang out with you tonight while I’m gone.”

  Cecilia lived in their building and was Naomi’s lifesaver. Whenever Naomi had to dash out for the occasional work meeting or sanity-keeping emergency (the denim disaster of last weekend came to mind—it had been a wake-up wardrobe call that she had to heed), Cecilia was more than happy to watch Noah. She was getting her psychology Ph.D. at NYU and was always up for taking a break from her dissertation for a couple of hours. Naomi also suspected that Cecilia was analyzing the hell out of her for kicks, but she supposed that was okay. Trusting someone enough to let her take care of her son was a rarity.

  “Okay, cool,” replied Noah, as he de-pretzeled himself from their embrace and returned to his dinner at the kitchen/living room/everything table.

  Naomi surveyed herself in the mirror. Not too bad, she thought. She had done a little shopping in preparation for her reentry into the adult universe and liked what she saw. Her neighborhood in Fort Greene had really reinvented itself over the past couple of years, and she had boutiques boasting a ridiculous array of enticing clothes at her disposal. She had flinched when purchasing her new pieces—visions of Noah washing dishes to pay for his college tuition ran through her head—but she knew it had to be done. Wearing jeans from the nineties was not going to win her any new friends, even if they were left over from her modeling days.

  Naomi ran her fingers through her short Afro, tousling it just so. She wondered if anyone at this alumni night would recognize her. In college and for many years afterward, her long dreads had been her trademark. She had chopped them off in a hormonal fit of epic proportions when she had been pregnant with Noah, and luckily the short do suited her just as well, if not better.

  “Knock, knock!” Cecilia yelled from outside their apartment door.

  “Who is it?” she heard Noah ask.

  “It’s a land shark!” Cecilia replied, causing Noah to erupt into a fit of giggles.

  “Sharks don’t live on land!” he shrieked, excited to have his playmate just outside the door.

  “Oh, okay, then it’s a brontosaurus.” Noah, still laughing, opened the door and Cecilia enveloped him in a hug.

  “Hey Naomi!” she said, smiling broadly—her dazzling white teeth contrasting beautifully with her silky curtain of ebony hair. Just then, Naomi wanted nothing more than to grab her camera and capture that moment of pure light. She pushed the thought out of her mind.

  “Hey Cee,” she answered.

  “You look hot!” exclaimed Cecilia, giving Naomi the once-over. “I wish I could wear skinny jeans. And with flats, no less!”

  “It’s okay?” Naomi asked nervously. “It’s not too much? It doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard?”

  “No way,” answered Cecilia. “You look annoyingly effortless.”

  “Perfect answer,” replied Naomi, smiling. “Okay, Noah is finishing up his dinner and then maybe you can watch a movie, or—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the drill, Naomi,” interrupted Cecilia. “Get moving!”

  Naomi glanced at her watch. If she didn’t leave now, she would go from fashionably late to last call. The com
mute into the city from Brooklyn was less than speedy. “Okay, okay,” she answered. “Noah! Give me a squeeze, please!”

  Noah ran to her, his blue eyes dancing. “Bye, Mama,” he whispered, as he pressed his compact frame into her willowy legs.

  “Bye, baby boy,” she whispered back.

  She grabbed her bag and let herself out. She hit the street and took a deep breath in. The cold air was refreshing. She had been in the house practically all day, except for her walks with Noah to and from school.

  She had finished up a huge Web design project a week ahead of time, and although that had meant long, grueling hours hunched over the computer, it had been worth it. Now she could enjoy her weekend with no guilt. That was the funny thing about freelancing—even though her schedule was her own, the lines between her personal and work life were criminally blurred.

  She made her way down the subway stairs and swiped her card through the turnstile. It felt so strange to be out by herself, without a bag full of snacks and juice boxes. Strange, but good. She was ready to enter the non-Mommy world again, even if it meant revisiting her past to do so.

  Chapter Four

  Bess

  So, do you think it’s coke bloat or is she prego?” asked Rob.

  They both peered intensely at the photo on Bess’s computer screen.

  “Well, if we zoom in on her eyes, you can see she’s wearing those ridiculous colored contacts again,” answered Bess. “Which would corroborate the coke bloat theory.”

  “What do you mean? Can pregnant women not wear colored contacts?” asked Rob, confused. “Are they made out of nicotine and mercury?”

  “Nooo,” answered Bess. “I just have this theory that really fucked-up starlets wear those heinous contacts to conceal the fact that their pupils are the size of platters.”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Rob. “I never even thought of that! Bess, you are a genius.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” she answered.

  “Okay, run a pill-popping caption. Stay away from any mention of coke or heroin though. Last time we specifically labeled her habits her PR bitch came in, guns blazing.”

  “Got it,” answered Bess, thinking for the 998th time that day that her job was absurd. She got paid heaps of money to point out celebrities’ flaws to a rabid, regular public. Sometimes, very rarely, she actually did some work with a hint of substance—like the time she traveled with a certain celebrity–cum–U.N. spokesperson to Africa to research a story on her efforts there—but most of the time it was the same old story over and over again: talentless teenager falls facedown into a pile of coke and makes a sex tape. Or something like that.

  She captioned the picture with her trademark snarkiness and e-mailed her pages to the managing editor. She had no articles running in this week’s issue, so it was a relatively easy Friday, considering.

  “What are you up to tonight?” asked Rob. “Is Dan flying in on the love shuttle?”

  “I wish,” grumbled Bess. Dan was her boyfriend. Technically, he was her long-distance boyfriend, but it felt strange to think of him that way. He had moved to Los Angeles three months ago, and the coastal separation had proved to be more of a strain than Bess had been anticipating. A screenwriter at heart but a Wall Street banker by trade, he had taken a huge risk and applied to USC’s film school last year. Bess had known he would get in—he really was talented—but was still shocked to find out that he would, indeed, be leaving her to do so.

  They had been traveling back and forth on weekends here and there, but not having immediate access to each other was hard. Very hard. “He’s staying in LA this weekend, working on a script,” she explained with a sigh.

  “No nookie for you then, huh?” asked Rob, as he squirted lotion from a freebie tube that retailed for $80 an ounce into his palms. As senior editors and reporters at the most popular celebrity tabloid magazine in the country, they were forever getting the best swag imaginable. This, of course, was highly unethical, but then again, everything about their job defied any sort of ethical code.

  “Zero,” replied Bess. “And the next time the word nookie comes out of your mouth, I am going to strap you into your time machine and send you back to the year 2000.”

  “Clever girl!” replied Rob, clapping his hands. “Point taken. So you’re just going to lay low this weekend?”

  “Yeah, for the most part.” She had been planning to research story ideas for three weekends in a row now. Her New Year’s resolution had been to break out of her ridiculous job to actually do some real reporting. Something that had nothing at all to do with weight fluctuation, hair highlights, or Botox, which were the usual topics of the freelance work she did for a couple of the major women’s magazines around town.

  Every time she would sit down to brainstorm, however, she was about as focused as a puppy with a bowl full of Red Bull. She found herself daydreaming about Dan, wondering what he was doing and fantasizing about seeing him again. She had become a cliché, much to her chagrin. She knew it was okay to be in love, but to shelve your own goals while doing so was a huge mistake—one she had seen too many people make.

  “What are you doing this weekend, Robbo?” she asked, ready for his usual spiel: work out, see a movie, hang with his girlfriend. Rob was nothing if not predictable.

  “Eh, nothing much, actually. Amelia had to go out of town for work, so I guess I’ll just have a dude weekend.”

  “And what does that entail?” asked Bess.

  “Pizza, clothes strewn all over the place, not putting the toilet seat down, and porn.”

  “Sounds thrilling!” replied Bess, laughing.

  Rob smiled. “I know, right? It all sounds so good in theory, but I’ll be honest, it gets old in about four hours, tops. Hey, are you busy tonight? Maybe we could grab a drink or twelve?”

  “Oooh, crap, I can’t,” said Bess. “I have to go to my ten-year college reunion.”

  “Huh?” asked Rob. “Since when are you the school spirit type?”

  “Good question,” answered Bess. “The only reason I’m going is because of this story idea I have. I think this might be the perfect way to get my rusty wheels in motion. At least, I’m hoping so.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s the idea?” asked Rob.

  “Not to be a bitch, but do you mind if I keep it to myself for a while? Just until I have a firmer grasp on it? I’d hate to jinx myself.”

  “Not at all, m’lady,” said Rob. “Keep it close to the vest as long as you like.”

  “Thanks, Rob.” She looked at her watch. “Oh shit, I have to go! I’m just going to freshen up my tired mug and then I’m out the door. I hope your dude weekend is all that you have been dreaming of.”

  “Thanks, Bess. Have fun tonight. Be sure to take note of how big the homecoming queen’s ass is now.”

  Bess made her way to the bathroom. She dropped her coat on the couch in its foyer and faced the mirror. As she reapplied her makeup, she thought about the story idea that had been marinating in her head since the reunion e-mail had landed in her in-box. She wondered if she could pull it off. She withdrew the wand from her mascara tube and brushed it through her lashes. Maybe. But you have to focus, Bess. Really focus.

  Her phone rang. She glanced at it—Dan was calling. She shoved it deeper into her bag, even though she was dying to talk to him. No distractions tonight! she reminded herself, as she zipped into her jacket and headed out the door.

  Chapter Five

  Ten Years

  Hi, welcome to ten years ago!” greeted an over-caffeinated woman.

  “Um, hi,” replied Charlie.

  The woman handed her a blank name card. Charlie hated those things, they always made her feel like a geek. When in Rome, she reminded herself. She filled out her name and stuck it to her chest. Hi, these are my breasts and my name is Charlie.

  She thanked the woman and moved past her into the bar, hesitantly searching the small crowd for a familiar face. No one was registering. She approached the bartender, sudd
enly feeling the need for a very large glass of wine.

  “Could I have a glass of pinot noir, please?” she asked as she plunged into her bag for her wallet.

  “Charlie?” she heard a raspy voice next to her say. She looked up and into the smile of a pretty woman with blond hair pulled into a severe ponytail. Wow, hello cheekbones, she thought.

  “I’m sorry, do I know. . .” Charlie paused. “Bess!? Oh my God!” She moved to embrace her.

  “Hey!” Bess replied. “You look great! How are you?”

  “I’m well, thanks. You too. You haven’t changed an ounce. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, I hope I’m dressed a little better than the last time you saw me,” said Bess as she laughed, obviously pleased by the compliment.

  “Well, I guess anything’s an improvement over flannel pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt forty-seven sizes too big,” agreed Charlie.

  “Very true,” said Bess. “Remember those Sunday breakfasts in the café? What I wouldn’t give now for a waffle station and an endless supply of Lucky Charms at arm’s length.”

  Charlie laughed. “Seriously. Did we ingest anything but sugar for four years or what?”

  “Barely,” said Bess. “I’m lucky all of my teeth haven’t fallen out.”

  Charlie and Bess had lived in the same dorm for two years and on the same floor their freshman year. Charlie remembered Bess’s luxurious blond ponytail—always piled on top of her head. Bess remembered Charlie’s long legs. No matter what the season, Charlie had always walked the considerable distance to and from class. Even in the depths of winter, Bess would gaze out from the T window and see Charlie loping down Commonwealth Avenue, bundled up beyond recognition except for those long, denim-wrapped legs.