by Zoe Fishman
“Careful!” she teased. His cast had come off months ago, but she wasn’t taking any chances. He stuck out his tongue at her. “Race!” she shrieked, taking off in front of him toward the park entrance.
“There’s Dad!” yelled Noah, passing her. She smiled. Gene was waiting for them, his own bike resting on his kickstand beside him.
“Easy, Lance Armstrong,” he said, as Noah circled him like a shark. Noah stopped his bike and jumped off it, enveloping Gene in a bear hug. Naomi marveled at her lack of jealousy at seeing Noah so ecstatic. The past months had been amazing for her in terms of relinquishing her grip on him. Gene had really proved himself, too—making himself available whenever she needed his help, with no complaints. “Hey, Naomi,” he said.
“Hey, Gene. Thanks for coming today. I should be done in a couple hours or so.”
“No sweat. Who’s going to your picnic?”
“My yoga ladies. We’re taking it out of the studio for a change. We haven’t really caught up in a while, so it’ll be good to see them.”
“Very cool. We’ll meet you back at the house around four or so, if that’s okay. I thought I might take Noah over to the Brooklyn Museum.”
“Sweet!” Noah enthused. “I like that place.”
“Perfect,” said Naomi. “You guys have fun. I love you, Noah. Be good!”
“I love you, too, Mom.” He hopped off his bike to hug her and let it crash to the ground, despite Naomi’s constant reminding him to take better care of it. She shook off her annoyance. Boys will be boys. She hugged him back, waved, and took off, anxious to find out Bess’s news.
I dunno, what do you want to do tonight?” asked Charlie into her phone. The sun felt amazing on her bare shoulders. June in New York could make you forget about the interminable winter in just an instant. This was that instant.
“Maybe I should cook you dinner,” answered Mario. “Something delicious. We can eat outside on my deck.” Mario was a lucky man. A Brooklyn apartment with a deck was the equivalent of winning the lottery as far as Charlie was concerned.
“That sounds good. I have to teach two classes in the late afternoon, but I could be showered and at your place by seven thirty or so.” Mario lived very close to Prana and, consequently, very close to her. Geographic compatibility was only one of the many reasons they were enjoying each other. As promised, Charlie had gone to see his band play soon after the infamous Neil run-in at the deli, and the rest had been history. She even had him trying yoga.
“Bueno,” he answered. “Have a good time with the girls. Can’t wait to feed you later.”
Charlie laughed. “Okay, Mario, see you soon.” She picked up her pace, noticing the distinctive feel of sweat beginning to bead up on her brow.
Bess rearranged her blanket for what felt like the ninety-seventh time. She had brought some fruit, cheese, tuna salad, and some crackers. Surveying her spread, her stomach growled. She wanted to eat, but her nerves were off the charts. She wondered how Charlie, Naomi, and Sabine would react to her news.
“Bessss!” yelled Sabine, approaching her on the grass. “Hello, mysterious vixen!” she said, hugging Bess in greeting. “Tell me first, before anyone gets here. I won’t let on.”
“No way, lady,” Bess replied. “Besides, it’s not that big of a deal. I think I might have blown it a bit out of proportion.” Actually, it was that big of a deal, maybe the biggest deal of Bess’s life thus far, but she was embarrassed by how much she had played it up. “How are you?”
“Well, I just left Zach at home. . .and am loving this weather! Isn’t it amazzzzinggg?”
“It really is. Feeling sunbeams is a top-five sensation.”
“Shit, I almost forgot,” said Sabine. She pulled her hat out of her bag. “Protection,” she announced, plopping it on her head.
“Wow, look at you!” said Naomi, walking her bike up and laying it beside them on the green lawn. “You look like a Palm Beach diva!”
“Through and through!” answered Sabine. She stood up to hug Naomi.
“Hey, Bess!” Naomi sat down and hugged her as well. “It’s great to see you.”
“Not covered up in huge jackets,” added Bess. “In tank tops, no less.”
“And may I just say that we are all looking tres jolie,” observed Naomi. “Yoga is treating us right.”
“Holla!” replied Sabine.
“Are you guys hungry?” asked Bess. “I brought some snacks.”
“Ooh, I’ll have some fruit,” said Naomi. She picked a pineapple chunk out of the bowl. “Yum.”
“Hey, ladies!” said Charlie, jogging over to the blanket. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Could Mario not bear to have you leave him?” teased Naomi. “A hundred bucks says he wanted to make you some bacon and eggs for breakfast.”
“Very funny,” replied Charlie, in between kissing them all on their respective cheeks. “For your information, I stayed at home last night.”
“Really? How come?” asked Sabine.
“I’m organizing a retreat! I’m so excited about it. One of Julian’s friends is the manager of this gorgeous hotel down in Puerto Vallarta, and she is pumped about getting a yoga retreat package started. She’s asked Julian and me to sign on as the official instructors.”
“Get out of here!” shrieked Naomi. “That is awesome! Puerto Vallarta is supposed to be incredible.”
“When is it?” asked Bess.
“It’s right before Thanksgiving. Wednesday to Wednesday.”
“That is too perfect,” said Sabine. “You cleanse your body and your mind right before diving into a tryptophan coma. I like it.”
“You know, I could get you guys a discount if you were interested,” said Charlie, with a sly smile. “I already asked her if I could hook up a few star pupils, and she was amenable to twenty-five percent off the package price.”
“No way!” said Naomi. “Oh wow, how lovely would that be? Yoga in Mexico!? In November?”
“It would be even cheaper for me,” said Bess. She was so nervous to reveal her “big secret” but this segue was ingenious.
“How so?” asked Charlie, slicing off a piece of cheese.
“I’m moving to LA!” replied Bess.
“Wait, what!?” said Sabine. “You’re moving out there to be with Dan?! Bess, that’s so exciting!” She jumped up to hug her.
“It is exciting!” agreed Naomi. “But what about your job? What are you going to do?” Naomi paused. “Look at me, Ms. Buzzkill. Sorry, Bess.”
“Oh no, are you kidding me? Of course you should ask that question. I’m equally excited about that as I am about the Dan factor.”
“Holy shit, what are you going to be doing?” asked Sabine.
“Writing for the Style section of the LA Times,” Bess answered. “I know, it’s not exactly war-torn Bosnia, but I’ve been told that the position has legs. A year or two there, with a couple of freelance projects under my belt, and I’m in pretty good shape. It’s a great foot in the door situation.”
“I’d say that you were in excellent shape,” said Sabine. “Bess, I am so happy for you! This is huge news!”
“It really is,” agreed Charlie. “How did you decide to just go for it?”
“You know, I think it was just a gradual process,” she answered. “I started to open up my mind to the idea of moving there and then slowly but surely, it became less of a sacrifice and more of an opportunity. Plus, I’m actually excited to be closer to my parents. I never thought those words would come out of my mouth, but there they are.”
“I think that this is going to be fantastic for you,” said Naomi. “For both of you. And by the way, I am really into this Puerto Vallarta retreat idea. I think we should do it.”
“Look at you, Miss Moneybags!” teased Sabine. “How are you feeling by the way?”
“Good, good. I’m still thinking about the medication and, in the meantime, reaching out to whomever I can talk to. I’m also doing acupuncture and have modified all the fun
out of my diet. I feel good, I think.”
“And your doctor is okay with your not being on the meds?” asked Bess.
“I mean, he’s not jumping for joy about it, but he can’t make me take them, you know? I’m getting another MRI in a month, to see what’s cooking in my brain, and we’ll take it from there. After my negative spinal tap, I just couldn’t get on board with the meds so soon. It felt so rushed and panicky to me. At least, most days I think that. Other days I think that my fondness for denial is going to bite me in the ass.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, it’s so boring! Honestly, I’m sick of talking about it. But thank you, guys, for asking.”
“How’s business?” asked Charlie.
“You would not believe how much shit I have going on right now. Ever since the Prana website, it has been gangbusters.”
“Naomi, that’s terrific!” said Bess. “What are you working on?”
“Well, one of Felicity’s friends was really impressed by my work for her hair products. She’s one of these super-mom, Park Slope bloggers.” The group collectively groaned. The stereotype was all too true. Brooklyn’s sidewalks were overrun with that very cliché—clog-wearing moms pushing their gigantic strollers and nibbling their gluten-free, dairy-free, everything remotely tasty-free energy bars.
Naomi laughed. “She’s not so bad, really. I mean, she practices what she preaches at least. She designs this eco-friendly clothing line for kids. Really cool stuff, actually. I mean, Noah wouldn’t be caught dead in it, but that’s just because he’s taking fashion tips from his rock-star daddy as of late.” She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, she needs a website, so she called me. It’s going live this week with photos I took of her kids in the clothes.”
“Naomi, I am psyched for you,” said Bess. “I’m sure her site is going to draw loads of traffic.”
“And then who knows where you’ll go!” said Sabine. “You’re about to blow up.”
Naomi smiled. “Thanks, guys. I’m pretty excited about it.” She took a swig of her water. “Sabine, how’s your writing class going?”
“It’s going pretty well, I have to say. Just meeting with other writers once a week, critiquing and being critiqued. . .it feels good. And with someone else cracking the deadline whip, I actually listen.”
“No more tweezing breaks?” asked Bess.
“No! I’m a focused machine. Don’t they look thicker, by the way?” She furrowed her brow in an attempt to show her brows off.
“They do!” Charlie replied, examining them close-up. “I like ’em. Very sophisticated.”
“French woman drinking a cappuccino and smoking a cigarette in some combination of navy and black sophisticated?”
“Exactly,” answered Charlie.
“Look at us!” yelled Naomi. “Can you believe it!? Summer is here, babies!”
“Hallelujah!” said Sabine. “Damn, Bess, you’re gonna have summer all year long in LA, aren’tcha?”
“Pretty much,” she answered. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to that.”
“So when are you moving out there?” asked Charlie, digging a strawberry out from under a piece of cantaloupe. Bess lay on her back to relate her moving plan, and Sabine—seeing prime pillow real estate in the form of Bess’s stomach—lay her head back on it and adjusted her hat accordingly. Naomi, noticing the way the shadow of Sabine’s straw brim dappled her chest when the sun hit is just so, pulled her camera out of her backpack gingerly.
As the morning turned into afternoon, the four of them remained on their little blanket island—relishing the blissfully warm, fresh air and each other with equal enthusiasm. Who could say for sure what the future had in store for them, but right then, on that perfect summer day in Brooklyn, life was pretty damn good.
An Excerpt From Driving Lessons
1
Sarah, what the hell?”
From above, I peered down the three flights of stairs to Josh below. He stood over the flattened cardboard box filled with now-broken picture frames. Even as I had balanced that box on the banister for just one second—just one second!— while I knelt to retrieve what looked like an integral screw from the bed frame that Josh and Ben had just hauled down the stairs, I had known that the aforementioned second would be its last. Still, I did it—tempting fate and physics out of sheer exhaustion. Naturally, the box had toppled over almost immediately, and I had watched its graceful descent with surprising ease.
“Sorry!” I yelled down. Josh gazed up at me, his face an accordion of annoyance. “That was stupid.”
“What was in here?”
“Picture frames, I think?”
“Great.” He sighed heavily. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll come down there and clean it up.” I wiped my sweaty brow with my sweaty forearm. It was August in Brooklyn, and boy, was it hot. So hot that my bra had become a medieval torture device as far as I was concerned. I descended the stairs carefully, hugging the wall at the second flight in order to let Josh and Ben by.
“You sure you’re okay?” asked Josh, grabbing my hand. I nodded.
“Yeah. Just clumsy.”
He smiled and kissed me with lips that tasted like salt before continuing on.
After I had moved into Josh’s apartment five years earlier, we had made a pact never to move without enlisting professional help ever again. And yet here we were, lugging our boxes of pots, pans, utensils, appliances, books, clothes, and miscellaneous crap and our heavy furniture up and down three—four, including the stoop—flights of stairs in ninety-degree heat. The fact that we had gotten the couch out without filing for divorce was no small miracle.
At the bottom of the stairs I surveyed the sad, flattened box. FRAGILE, it read on its side, in wobbly black letters. I picked it up gingerly, cringing at the sound of broken glass inside. So much for the newspaper I had wrapped each frame in. I could either just load the box on the truck and deal with it in Virginia, or duck out of further work by sitting on the floor and dealing with it now. Now sounded good.
I moved over to the opposite wall and sat down, feeling only a remote pinch of guilt as Ben stumbled by under the weight of a giant box of books. Ben was Josh’s younger brother, and they were ridiculously close. Like The Waltons close, except the Jewish version. His wife, Kate, and I were friendly but far from tight. She was someone to roll eyes with at our husbands’ and their family’s expense whenever we went out to dinner or gathered around a holiday table together, but that was about the extent of our relationship. To be honest, she intimidated me. Someone four years younger with her own catering business and a baby on the way could do that to a person with neither of those things on her resume.
My best friend was Mona, who was nowhere to be found. I couldn’t blame her. When I’d told her that we were handling all of the moving ourselves she had shaken her head in disbelief.
“How come you’re willing to spend two hundred bucks on a pair of jeans, but you can’t spring for some burly Russians?” she had asked. It was a valid question that I had no answer for.
I opened the box and pulled out a photo of Josh and me from our very early days of dating, marveling at our youth. When my friend Betsy’s wedding invitation had arrived in my mailbox, I had begged shamelessly for a plus one, even though Josh had not yet earned his plus-one rights. The thought of attending another wedding alone was enough to drive me into the East River. She had mercifully agreed, and here we were at our table, me with my head thrown back and laughing, and Josh grinning beside me. It represented so much to me, this picture. Us before us.
I was thirty when we met. At thirty-two, we were married, and now here I was at thirty-six—moving to Farmwood, Virginia, of all places. Not three months prior, I had fought through the predictable end-of-workday subway mob; picked up my and Josh’s dry cleaning as well as toilet paper, beer, and Thai food; hauled it home like the urban pack mule that I was; dumped it on the kitchen table; and promptly burst into tears.
“I can’t do this anymore
,” I had said to Josh, who watched me with alarm from the couch. “I hate New York.”
“Me too,” he’d replied, and promised to look around for professorships out of state. I nodded absently, dried my eyes, drank my beer, and felt a little bit better but no less trapped. We both wanted to leave, but for some reason an escape seemed out of the question, as though beyond New York City’s borders was nothing but sky.
And then, impossibly, a job offer from a small liberal arts college in Virginia had landed in Josh’s lap. A friend of a friend knew someone who knew a sabbatical-bound mathematics professor whose planned fill-in had bailed last-minute. Voilà—a job for Josh and the escape we had been pining for. We had hemmed and hawed about whether I should come with him—after all, the job was only guaranteed for a year, and my job in New York, although mind-numbingly uninspiring, was stable and lucrative—but when I had asked my boss about the possibility of working long-distance, she had literally laughed in my face.
“You’re going to run the marketing division of a makeup empire remotely?” she had cackled. “That’s like Biden working from Spain. All due respect, Sarah, but no dice.”
The liberty she took in comparing my job to that of the vice president was beyond delusional but, in my world—as the second-in-command to a lunatic—unfortunately, not that far off. I was on call twenty-four/seven to make decisions about bronzer packaging. Somehow, despite the fact that my personal face prep involved only lip balm at best, I had become, over the course of thirteen years in the business, a big shot. My life was consumed by my job, or at least it had been. Until now. Now we were moving to a town called Farmwood, and I was unemployed. You couldn’t get farther from New York than that.
“Hey, Sar, c’mon. You can sort through that later,” yelled Josh over his shoulder. “Let’s get this over with.”
