Balancing Acts

by Zoe Fishman

  “Mom, listen, I think I’m going to come to LA this weekend.”

  “No! Really? Oh Bessie, we would love to see you! Do you need us to pick you up at the airport?”

  “Actually, you know that guy I’m seeing? Dan?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” answered her mother—the hope in her voice palpable.

  “I think I told you that he moved to LA for school, right? He’s getting his master’s in screenwriting at USC?”

  “I think you may have, Bess,” answered her dad. “How is he liking the West Coast? Is the pace too slow for a city boy like him?” Bess’s father could never quite understand the draw of New York. All this walking, he would say whenever they visited.

  “He likes it all right. Too much driving for him, though.”

  Her father laughed. “Oh, he just has to get comfortable behind the wheel.”

  “I can’t blame him,” her mother chimed in. “I just told your father the other day that the traffic here has gotten out of control. I’m thinking about getting a bike. With a basket, of course.”

  “So, maybe we’ll come over Friday for dinner?” asked Bess, before her mother and father got into an endless conversation about the merits and drawbacks of the bicycle.

  “Well, that would be wonderful,” said her mother. “Will you spend the night?”

  “No, we’ll just go back to his place for the night.”

  Her father cleared his throat and Bess could sense his hurt feelings. “We wish you’d stay longer, Bess, but we understand. Maybe you’ll reconsider.” Bess winced into the phone. The old guilt trip.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t we play it by ear.”

  “Okay, Bessie. We can’t wait to see you and meet this young man. I’ll let you and your mom talk now. See you soon.”

  “Bye, Dad, love you.” He hung up the phone.

  “Bess,” her mother whispered. “You know that you can both sleep in the guest room.”

  Bess laughed. “Jesus, Mom, I would hope so. We’re both a hundred years old!”

  “Bess, I don’t like it when you say ‘Jesus’ like that. It sounds crude. And I know that you’re both grown-ups, but your father is old-fashioned. I’ll work on him, though. And if you stay, I’ll make you homemade cinnamon rolls in the morning.”

  “Mom, you’re bribing me!”

  “Maybe. It’s just that we miss you, Bessie. Please think about staying over. Your father would love it.”

  “How’s he feeling, by the way?”

  “Okay. . .a little tired. He’s taking his afternoon naps now without a fuss, so that’s good.”

  “What is he, a toddler?” asked Bess. “Afternoon naps?”

  “Bess, he’s operating on a much smaller engine. If he doesn’t get his rest during the day, it’s too much strain on his heart.” This was the most open her mother had ever been about her dad’s health. For her to say that he needed a nap meant that he needed one and then some.

  “Mom, of course, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. That was dumb. We’ll stay over. Who can turn down your cinnamon rolls?”

  “Oh, good! Your father will be so happy. I’ll be so happy to see you, Bess. So, Friday night we’ll see you! And meet Don!”

  “It’s Dan, Mom.”

  “Yes! Dan! Oh, does he eat meat?”

  “Yep, he’s a carnivore.”

  “Great, love you, Bessie. See you soon!”

  Bess hung up and marveled at the fact that, in less than a week, Dan would be sitting on her parents’ couch drinking a beer. Or a wine spritzer, if her mother stepped in as bartender. The last time her parents had met someone she was dating, she hadn’t even been old enough to drink legally.

  What was that guy’s name? Alex? Aaron? No, Alex. He had come over to take her to the movies. Sleepless in Seattle. About halfway through, young Alex had attempted to put his hand down her pants. Mortified, she had slapped his face, right there in the middle of the theater.

  Bess laughed, remembering, and returned to her computer. She had a ticket to buy.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Charlie

  Charlie cupped her head with her hands. Her forehead pressed against her mat, its rubbery surface threatening to gauge indentations into her skin. She breathed slowly.

  In for five counts, and then, on her five-count exhale, she walked her feet in toward her elbows. Her hips were at a ninety-degree angle, directly over her shoulders. With another deep breath in and out, she drew her knees into her chest as she lifted both feet off the floor.

  She struggled for a moment as she straightened them and then—sweet release. Long and straight, her legs reached for the ceiling as she relished the pleasant tension of blood rushing to her head. The heat circulated through her skull. She remained upright for about three minutes and then, with her right leg leading, she dismantled her headstand.

  Back on the mat, she sat in lotus position as the blood resettled throughout her body. Her head felt clearer than it had in months and the grogginess she had wrestled with all the way to the studio was now a distant memory. She closed her eyes to take in the rare moment of peaceful, contented clarity.

  She heard the distinct thud of feet on the wood floor and opened her eyes, slightly alarmed. It was early morning. Had she remembered to lock the door behind her when she came in?

  She noticed a familiar backside across the room, as he crouched on all fours and savored his own post-headstand clarity. Charlie smiled and waited a beat before greeting him. Wrenching someone out of a moment like that with a chipper “hello” was just cruel.

  He moved into a sitting position on his mat, facing Charlie with his eyes closed.

  “Hello, Julian,” Charlie said. He opened one eye in response, a sly grin spreading across his face.

  “Good morning,” he replied. “I decided to copy you.”

  “How so?” asked Charlie, as she assumed the pigeon pose to stretch her quadriceps.

  “I saw you headstanding and it just looked so good! I needed to do one of my own immediately.”

  “How did it feel?” asked Charlie, savoring her stretch.

  “Heavenly.”

  Charlie segued into Balasana. “I know, right?” she enthused. “I was just thinking about how the headstand is like nature’s version of coffee.”

  “If headstands needed a PR person, you would have the job, no contest.”

  Charlie laughed as she resumed lotus position. “Howya doing, Julian? What’s new and exciting?”

  “Oh, not much.” He smiled coyly. “Just that I’m engaged!”

  “What?!” shrieked Charlie, as she instantly sprung off the floor in excitement. “What are you talking about? Whaaaaaat?” She jogged over to his mat and hugged him, practically knocking him over backward with her enthusiasm.

  “Charlie, please! You’re suffocating me!” Julian teased, clearly pleased by her response.

  Charlie released him from her grasp and surveyed his beaming face. “Get out of here! I can’t believe it! What amazing news! Where’s your six-carat, pink J.Lo rock?” She took his left hand to search for it.

  Julian laughed. “No bling. We did get matching tattoos, though.” He flipped his left wrist over to show her the small, black initials: SC. “Scott has mine on his wrist,” he explained. “We’re like Mariah and Nick, without the insanity.”

  Charlie clapped her hands in glee. “Julian, I am so happy for you! Tell me everything: where were you, how did he do it, yada yada yada.”

  “We were having dinner. Just a typical Saturday night, you know. We’ve been trying to cook more, and it was Scott’s turn. He made the most amazing tuna steaks. Seriously, you have no idea. They were so fresh—”

  “Enough about the tuna steaks! Get to the good stuff.”

  Julian laughed. “Okay, okay. So, after dinner, Scott pulls out a bottle of champagne and some chocolate-covered strawber—”

  “He put the ring in a strawberry!”

  “Bish, please! Hello, cheese factor! Absolutely not. A
nd besides, there is no ring. Pull it together, woman!”

  “Oh sorry, sorry,” apologized Charlie. “Forgive me, my estrogen is getting the better of me. Go on.”

  “So, he pours the champagne and sits down next to me,” Julian continued. “I just thought he was being sweet, you know? I honestly had no idea that he was about to propose. I mean, we had talked about spending the rest of our lives together, but never about making it legal or anything like that.”

  “And then what happened?!”

  “He took my hand and launched into this whole spiel about how he loves me and can’t imagine life without me, blah blah blah. At this point, I was starting to get a bit freaked out,” Julian explained. “Obviously, this was not just about the strawberries.”

  “And then?”

  “He asked me to marry him!” Julian shrieked.

  “Wow! Were you stunned into silence or what?”

  “Hell no! I screamed like a little girl! I said yes before he could even finish his question.”

  Charlie couldn’t help it—joy overwhelmed her. She grabbed Julian again and pulled him into an embrace.

  “So then, after all the lovey dovey crap, he tells me that there’s a car outside,” continued Julian, as he hugged Charlie back. “We go downstairs, hop in, and it takes us to the East Village. Scott’s friend Margot owns a tattoo studio, and she had stayed open late to ink us!”

  “That is too cool. Wow.”

  “I know, isn’t it? My fiancé is a thorough guy. Fiancé,” Julian repeated. “What a pretentious word. Fiancé. I think I like Beyoncé better. And this is my Beyoncé, Scott.”

  Charlie laughed heartily. “This is such wonderful news! I am over the moon for you guys! We have to have a party!”

  “Sounds good to me. Just let me drop a couple of pounds first. Pictures last forever!”

  “Oh, please! You look amazing. I could carve a ham with your jawline,” she added, stealing one of Julian’s catch phrases.

  Julian beamed. “Okay, okay. Twist my arm and give me good lighting. A party it is!”

  “Do you know when you’re getting married?”

  “Probably next spring. We’re going to take a trip to Vermont and do it in style. Maybe just when all the flowers are beginning to bloom. . .leaves on the trees. The whole nine.”

  “I love it. You are going to be a beautiful bride.”

  “Bridezilla! I wonder if we can get on that show. I don’t think they’ve ever had a gay couple before. I would put any of those women to shame. ‘I said I wanted lilies!!! Lilies!!! Not gladiolas!’” Julian mimicked.

  Charlie laughed. “That would be something to see. Hey, how do George and Michael feel about all of this?”

  “They’re thrilled. But they’re refusing to wear bridesmaid dresses. George doesn’t want to spend two hundred fifty dollars on a schmatta he’ll never wear again. He already read me the riot act.”

  Charlie guffawed, envisioning the chubby little pugs in matching strapless gowns. “The nerve of him! Doesn’t he know it’s all about you?”

  “Exactly. Don’t worry, he’ll know it soon enough.”

  He paused, getting serious for a moment. “Thanks for all of your sweetness, Charlie. I really am happier than I’ve ever been in my life. I love him so much.” He looked down, seemingly overwhelmed by his emotions. “I just feel so blessed, you know?”

  “Oh baby, you deserve all of the happiness in the world!” Charlie answered, hugging him again. “I am so happy for both of you. You give the world hope! True love can exist!”

  Julian embraced her back. “Thanks, Charlie. Speaking of, what’s up with you lately?”

  “Zero. Nada. This town is drier than the Sahara for me these days.”

  “Charlie, that’s because you’re not looking for any water. You couldn’t be less interested in finding a man if you tried.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Charlie, slightly annoyed by Julian’s statement. “My eyes are open!”

  “Yeah, maybe, but the store is closed for business. It’s pretty damn obvious that you’re not looking for love. Or even sex, for that matter.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes.

  “Take Mario, for example,” Julian said. “That man wants to sop you up with a biscuit. He lights up at the mere mention of your name.”

  She blushed, despite herself.

  “See, you’re blushing! I know you have a thing for him, too! But”—and here, Julian lowered his voice and took on a more serious tone—“he would certainly never know that. You don’t give him the time of day.”

  “I do so!” Charlie countered. “The other day, when he brought me tea and a muffin for breakfast, I was completely grateful!”

  “Homeboy brought you breakfast!? See what I’m talking about? He is on fire for you. I bet you just said thanks and put your face in the muffin.”

  “What else was I supposed to do? Drop to my knees and give him a blow job?”

  “Potty mouth!” shrieked Julian, feigning disgust. “No need to whore yourself out for baked goods. But you could have batted your eyes a little, maybe put your hand on his forearm. You know, work it.”

  “Listen, maybe my game is pathetic, that I will give you, but getting something started with Mario would be a mistake. I have to see him every day. And besides, he’s not exactly—”

  “Who you see yourself with?” said Julian, finishing her sentence. “I get that, but don’t be such a close-minded snot about it. He’s a really cool guy and a hell of a businessman.”

  “He is?” Charlie had no idea that Mario was such an entrepreneur. Despite herself, she was slightly aroused.

  “Yes, he is, Miss Wall Street. You can take the girl off Wall Street, but you can’t take—”

  “The Wall Street out of the girl,” finished Charlie. “Listen, Julian, don’t make me feel like an asshole because I got excited about his gigs. Let us not forget that the last man I dated had no j-o-b. It was awful. A proactive man gets me all hot and bothered.”

  “Hellooo, I feel you! I know that. Listen, we’ve gotten away from ourselves here. The whole point of our conversation was to dissect the reason why you’re so unapproachable around men.”

  “I guess I’m just scared. After Neil, I. . .well, it’s just hard for me to put myself out there again. Vulnerability is not my strong suit.”

  “I know, honey,” said Julian, as he put his arm around her. “But sometimes you just gotta take the plunge already. Neil broke your heart into a million pieces, yes. That’s a fact. But you are a strong-ass woman, and now—almost four years later—it is time to move on. If that means flirting with a hot deli owner who knows how to drywall, then so be it.”

  “He knows how to drywall?”

  “Yup. I pretended to need to know how to do it, just so he could give me a tutorial with that sexy accent.”

  “You slut! What about Scott?”

  “Honey, please. Just because I am on a diet, doesn’t mean I can’t look at the menu once in a while. It’s healthy,” he explained.

  “What’s healthy?” asked Felicity, peeking her head around the corner, her jacket hood framing her pretty face.

  “Felicity!” yelled Charlie. “Julian has something to tell you!” She looked at Julian, her eyes blazing with excitement for him.

  “Holy shit, what is it?” asked Felicity. “You’re pregnant?!”

  “Even better!” replied Julian. “I’m engaged!”

  “Get out!!!” yelled Felicity, rushing toward him for a huge hug. “Congratulations!”

  Charlie beamed broadly as she listened to Julian proudly rehash the story. She was so lucky to have these two as her business partners. It was a blessing, to say the least.

  And as for what Julian had told her about her standoffishness—this was not exactly news to her. For so long, Charlie had let the hurt from the Neil breakup haunt her every move. Now, when she had finally exorcised that demon, she had no idea how to reenter the world of dating, sex, lust, love—whatever.
>
  Watching Julian’s face light up as he spoke lovingly about his soul mate, however, Charlie decided that she was ready to learn.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Naomi

  Naomi lay in bed, terrified. What is going on with me? She slid her hands up and down her torso. She was numb. Not totally numb—she could feel her hands on a very base level, but her skin itself felt like mannequin skin: no warmth or texture. She moved to her breasts, grabbing them as if they were made of Play-Doh. Usually sensitive there, she could barely feel the pressure of her grasp. Circling her nipple with her finger barely registered. She moved her right hand over her left forearm. Oh, good. Normal. She moved up its length, kneading her flesh like dough and relishing the sensation. Up to her collarbone and over her face, her hand traveled. All normal. She retraced her path down to her groin. Also numb. Shit. She traced the lines of her labia and felt nothing. Shit. What is wrong with me? Could the universe be punishing me for not using my lady parts? Use ’em or lose ’em? Despite her panic, Naomi smirked at the cruel lesson. She continued, traveling down her left leg. A bit of feeling, but decidedly off somehow. Like it’s asleep. Left foot? Okay. Right foot, check. Right leg—mannequin again. She exhaled deeply, fighting the tears that welled up.

  “Mooooooooom!” yelled Noah from the other room. He came galloping in, his broken arm balanced in its sling like a bird wing.

  “Careful, Noah! Don’t forget about your arm, baby. You can’t move around like you used to, you know.” Okay: one, two, three. Sit up. Naomi pulled herself up to a sitting position. Okay, good. That was easy.

  “I know, Mom, don’t worry. It hurts a little.”

  “Does it, baby?” She pulled him close, careful not to squoosh his wing. He nestled into her.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Will you make me pancakes, please?” Noah was taking the day off from school. Although his arm drama had happened two days before, Naomi thought he deserved a sick day, just because. She was also feeling neurotic about sending her broken little bird out into the world alone. They had planned to use today as a training day of sorts—showing Noah how to get around now that he was operating with only one arm instead of two.