Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  “Tell me yourself,” James says, striding into the room.

  In an instant, the whole world stops. Adrenaline is pulsing through my body and every nerve ending is on alert. My heart is pounding and I can even feel the blood vessels throbbing in my forehead. But somehow I’m frozen in place, staring at the man in front of me.

  James’s sandy blond hair is as thick as ever, but instead of the long ponytail he sported last time I saw him, he’s cut it short and neat. The beard is gone, too, and his skin is deeply tanned and smooth. The slim shoulders have gotten more solid—maybe carrying a backpack through the mountains does that to you—and he’s added some ropy muscle but no fat to his arms. The deep blue eyes are still piercingly sharp, and right now, they’re focused intently on me.

  How many nights did I lay awake over the years, imagining this moment of coming face to face with James again? How would I feel? Would I still be in love? Now I have the answer.

  I can’t stand the sight of him.

  Maybe I should use these casts as a battering ram after all. One good hard kick to send James right back to Patagonia.

  “As usual you’ve picked a bad time and a bad place,” I say, my voice trembling. “Get the hell out.”

  He sits down on the therapy table I’ve just abandoned. “Sorry to startle you,” he says. “I’ve been trying to track you down for a week. I finally went to Kate’s office and got sent over here.”

  “Nina,” Kate mutters. “Can’t keep a secret. Too bad she doesn’t have the combination to Harry Winston’s safe.”

  “I didn’t want to waste another minute,” James says, looking down at his Merrell hiking boots and shifting his weight from side to side. “I figured there’s no time like the present.”

  “The present was a long time ago,” I say. “Eight years, to be precise. You missed it.”

  A soft chime sounds and the Brazilian comes back in. “Time up,” she says. “Unravel.” She starts to nudge the edge of the cast with a tiny knife. As if I’m not unraveling enough.

  “How should we do this?” James asks, ignoring the treatment going on and forging ahead with his plan. “Should I come to your house? Or do you want to bring Dylan somewhere like the zoo or Central Park? Maybe that’s an easier way for him to get to know his father.”

  “You’re not his father,” I say stalwartly. “And you’re not seeing him.”

  For a full minute James stands absolutely still, as if mustering his resolve. “I’m moving back to New York to be near my son,” he says. “If you need me to say I made a lot of mistakes in the past, I’ll say it. I did. But I’m ready to make up for it now.”

  “Well, you can’t. You don’t just waltz back in here after all these years and expect things to be the way you want. You left me and went off to hike. I went on to be a mother.”

  “I wasn’t just hiking,” James says defensively. “I was doing important work. I’ve been part of the international team trying to rescue the Patagonian language.”

  “Only you, James,” I say bitterly. “You go off to some dangerous mountains in a godforsaken country and you’re not even rescuing people. You’re rescuing a dead language.”

  “The Endangered Language Fund has put Kawésqar on the critical list,” he says grandly. “Only six people still speak it. We’re preserving it for the children of future generations.”

  “Then go back to focusing on those children,” I suggest angrily. “And keep away from my child. Dylan’s happy. And he doesn’t need you.”

  “I just want to see him,” he says quietly. “Take a day or two to think about it. I know we can work it out.”

  Felita continues scissoring her way from thigh to ankle on both casts. When she finally gets the plaster off, I can’t tell if my legs are thinner but they’re definitely an odd shade of green. Maybe too much basil in the mix. With my legs finally free, I should feel as if a huge weight has been lifted. But with James hovering, an even greater weight seems to be pressing down.

  James starts to walk out of the room, but then turns back. “Sara, you have every right to be angry at me. I understand. It took me a long time and a lot of years in Patagonia to grow up. I’m not trying to get our old life back. I’m just trying to make a new one.”

  I’m distracted from answering since Felita is now rubbing my legs with soft chamois cloths that must be soaked in fifty other secret ingredients, because the green is coming off and my legs are glistening.

  James watches the procedure for a moment. “One more thing,” he says, smiling slightly for the first time since he came into this Brazilian beauty chamber. “You don’t need any of these crazy treatments. You look even prettier than I remember.”

  As soon as James is gone, Kate holds out her arms so Felita can remove her casts, too.

  “It’s going to be okay, Sara, it really is,” she calls out to me gently.

  “No, it’s not,” I say, grabbing my things. “This is a nightmare. Everything is a nightmare where James is concerned. Sorry to leave you. But I have to get out of here and find a lawyer. Right away.”

  I rush out of the dim spa and into the bright sunlight. I blink a few times and dash madly down the block, as if I expect to find Johnnie Cochran standing on the corner with a sandwich board, looking for new clients. But I pull myself together enough to shakily speed dial Bradford who immediately hears the tremor in my voice. He doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. He just asks if I need him. I feel a flood of gratitude.

  “Yes, I need you,” I say, choking back tears.

  “Then you have me. I’ll drop everything,” he says, making a quick plan to meet me at the understated private club where he’s a member. “See you there in fifteen minutes.”

  I start walking toward the club, trying to keep my knees from buckling. All of a sudden my neat little world is falling apart. James can’t be back now. I have a fiancé. I’m supposed to be getting married. Everything’s in place and under control. But what’s that old expression? If you want to hear God laugh, make plans.

  My head is spinning as I try to think how James’s reappearance could change my life. What will happen next? This being New York, I may not have to wait long for an answer, because right in front of me on the steamy sidewalk is a huge purple sign proclaiming, learn your future! madame rosa knows all. for $15 she tells. I pause in front of the grungy storefront and try to peer in. A round-figured woman in a gypsy headscarf and flowing flowered robes comes with unexpected speed to the door.

  “You unhappy, I tell you good future,” she offers, grabbing my arm and trying to hustle me inside.

  “I could use a good future,” I say, sniffling, but still not making a commitment.

  “For you, ten percent discount,” the gypsy woman says, figuring that the buck and a half is the only thing between me and her tarot cards. “I promise, only good things in my crystal ball.”

  “Only good things, that’s right,” I say, suddenly remembering that this is one of those scams the mayor cleaned up. Psychics were predicting terrible futures—and then charging a fortune to lift the spell. “It’s illegal in New York City now to give bad news, isn’t it? I wish CNN had the same policy.”

  Madame Rosa looks askance. “An educated consumer is my worst customer,” she says, abandoning me on the sidewalk and walking back into her den of tea leaves. Green tea, no doubt, for the antioxidant effects.

  With even a psychic turning me away I walk several more blocks and slip into the discreetly marked club. The moment I see Bradford, I fall into his arms and burst into loud sobs.

  “Come on, we need a quiet place to talk,” Bradford says, taking my hand and leading me up to a private conference room. But I notice the reserved sign on the door and start sobbing even louder.

  “Nothing’s working out today,” I cry. “Where else can we go to talk?”

  Bradford smiles as he opens the door. “It’s reserved for us,” he says.

  We go into the carpeted room outfitted as an old-fashioned library with large wooden
tables and oversized chairs. I collapse onto a leather sofa and before Bradford says anything or even asks me what’s wrong, he tilts my head and kisses away my tears.

  “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it,” he says reassuringly, leaning against me and continuing the kisses.

  “I don’t know how to fix it,” I say, sitting up abruptly. “James showed up this afternoon and he wants to see Dylan.”

  I’ve told Bradford enough about James in the past that he doesn’t need to hear any more. He can fill in the blanks by himself.

  “I won’t let James into Dylan’s life,” I tell Bradford furiously. “I’ll fight him. I need a lawyer. An expensive one. We’ll take it to the Supreme Court.”

  “They may be busy this week,” Bradford says calmly, taking my hand. “And getting involved in a court battle is never a good plan.”

  “Ruth Bader Ginsburg would be on my side,” I say.

  Bradford smiles. “She probably would. But so would my old friend Joy Brown. You know who I mean—the psychologist who has a radio show. When Mimi ran off, Joy reminded me that no matter how angry you are at your horrible ex-spouse, you have to focus on what’s best for your good kid.”

  “I was focused just fine on my kid until James came back from Patagonia. Tierra del Fuego. Also known as the End of the Earth.”

  Bradford rubs my hand sympathetically. “Okay, but this isn’t the end of the world.”

  I stand up and start pacing around the room. “I have to do something,” I say.

  Being a man of action, Bradford picks up a portable phone from the corner table.

  “Should I call Joy for you? I have her private number.”

  “You might as well,” I say with a shrug. I’m hoping she’s bound by the same rules as Madame Rosa and can’t give me any bad news.

  Bradford dials and, after a brief pause, exchanges pleasantries with someone on the other end. He quickly explains he’s a friend of Joy’s and outlines the situation. Then he passes the receiver over to me.

  “Her assistant said Joy will be on the line in a second,” Bradford says.

  I take the phone, but I’m on hold and plugged into a radio news station. Traffic out to Kennedy airport is backed up for seven miles and there’s a thirty percent chance of thundershowers this afternoon. A commercial for Pizza Hut offers a free loaf of garlic bread with every jumbo order. And the next spot, for a weight-loss pill, guarantees to help you lose twenty pounds in a week. Though probably only if you don’t order from Pizza Hut. Someone in scheduling isn’t paying attention. Or else has a sense of humor.

  Finally there’s a staticky sound on the line, and then a click.

  “Hello, Sara, this is Joy,” says a friendly voice. “We don’t have much time so let’s get right to it. What’s your question for me?”

  Doesn’t have much time? If she’s a therapist, shouldn’t I get an hour? Or a fifty-minute hour? Apparently not. So all I have to do is describe my life in thirty words or less. I give it a shot.

  “I’m engaged to be married,” I say, carefully thinking this out. “My ex-husband has just come back after nearly a decade to see the child he’s never met.”

  Hey, that was pretty succinct. Maybe I could get a job at Reader’s Digest.

  “Where was he?” asks Joy Brown, as if in certain situations it would be acceptable to be missing for eight years. Like if you’re Tom Hanks stranded on a desert island talking to a Wilson volleyball.

  “He was in Patagonia,” I say.

  “Is he with the Endangered Language Fund? Wonderful project,” Joy burbles.

  How does she possibly know about the Endangered Language Fund? Maybe she’s one of the last six speakers of Kawésqar. Bradford said she was smart.

  But Joy is still talking. And apparently not only to me. “If any of our listeners don’t know about the Fund, I’ll give the phone number for donations later in the show,” she announces.

  Wait a minute. Our listeners? The show? If Joy’s a radio psychologist, am I on the air?

  “Am I on the air?” I ask in a panic, my voice suddenly shaking.

  “Of course, cookie. Just take a deep breath. I know it’s thrilling to get me on the phone. But pretend it’s just you and me talking.”

  That’s just what I had been pretending. Or assuming. Now what do I do? Hang up or hang in? Or just hang myself?

  “I’m on the air,” I hiss to Bradford.

  He looks stunned. “How could that happen?” he asks. “I thought this was her private number.”

  “So let’s get to it,” Joy says briskly, moving her show along. “The husband who dumped you has come back and wants to see the kid. First impulse is to string him up. Or get a lawyer. Practically the same thing. But at the end of the day, you’ve got to figure out what’s worse—your kid seeing his father. Or your kid seeing his mother and father fighting over him.”

  “I think of James as a sperm donor, not a father,” I say, irritated.

  “At least he had a strong swimmer. Something good to say about him,” Dr. Brown quips. “Look, I know how you’re feeling right now, but you’re going to have to be the grown-up. Work out something with him. I’m not saying he gets to move in, or gets custody, or even gets a tie on Father’s Day. But your son must have questions. And it’s good that even at this late date, dad wants to be part of his son’s life.”

  I start crying again because of course Dylan has had questions. And I haven’t been able to answer them. I can never forgive James and he doesn’t deserve to be Dylan’s father. But Joy has a point. Maybe I shouldn’t keep Dylan from meeting him just to get my own revenge.

  “James said we could meet him at the zoo but Dylan’s afraid of lions,” I say, looking for any excuse.

  “Hypnosis is very successful in dealing with phobias,” says Dr. Joy, our endless font of information. “But you could just take Dylan to the sea lions. Feeding time is four o’clock. It’s adorable. But don’t be late, it gets crowded.”

  Bradford was right. Joy’s rational and she knows how to lay out a plan.

  “Thank you, Dr. Joy,” I say, meaning it.

  I hang up and give Bradford a hug. I’m grateful for my new perspective—though totally humiliated that I’ve been on the air and the whole world now knows my problems.

  “Very helpful,” I admit to Bradford. “But embarrassing. Talk about airing your dirty laundry.”

  “Don’t worry, Joy’s been complaining her ratings are down. Nobody listens,” Bradford says reassuringly.

  I’m comforted by that thought for exactly five seconds—until my cell phone rings.

  “Did I just hear you on the radio?” Berni asks.

  “I hope not,” I say. What must Berni think of me, that I’m calling a radio psychologist? On the other hand, why was she listening? Maybe all that diaper folding doesn’t quite fill her day.

  “It was me, but I shouldn’t have called,” I say, embarrassed.

  “That’s right,” says Berni, not mincing words. But her complaint isn’t quite what I would have expected. “You shouldn’t have called. You’re a TV star now. And if I’m your agent, you clear all media through me.”

  Chapter SEVEN

  FOR THREE DAYS, I’m depressed about James. I manage to keep myself going, but every evening, I eat my way through a pint (or two) of Rocky Road. On one particularly bad night, I can’t sleep at all and check the TV listings at two in the morning for something to watch. The Sorrow and the Pity sounds good.

  When James tracks me down on the phone, I manage to pull myself together and call on my Dr. Joy–inspired maturity to stay calm. We launch into two days of nonstop negotiations over what I’ll tell Dylan, when we’ll all get together, and where the big meeting is going to take place. Kate calls almost hourly, falling back into her old role as best friend and marriage counselor. Or in this case, ex-marriage counselor. She’s too polite to complain about my endless whining, but by midweek, even I’m getting tired of it. Time to change the subject. So when Kate mentions that she’s
going to an auction at Sotheby’s to buy Owen a birthday present, I offer to tag along and give her some advice. As long as she’s not buying soup cans.

  I arrive early and stand on the sidewalk outside of Sotheby’s, waiting for Kate and watching a steady procession of art patrons going in. The men, carrying expensive T. Anthony briefcases and dressed in conservative pinstripe suits from Louis of Boston, glide confidently to the front door. The women, all outfitted in tasteful St. John summer knits, are well-heeled—literally—in their boring but reliable pumps. As they walk by, several glance in my direction and then quickly look down at their Ferragamos. Either they’re checking that the buckles are on straight or they recognize that in my twenty-eight-dollar H & M cotton-polyester sundress, I’m not one of the club. Though frankly I think the dress is adorable.

  “Your dress is adorable,” says Kate, coming up to me with a kiss a minute later and patting the full skirt admiringly. “You’re so lucky that you look good in cheap clothes. I’ve never been able to wear them. They just don’t fit.”

  What a compliment. I have hips made for polyester. But how could anything not fit Kate’s perfectly slim body? More likely that cheap clothes just don’t fit her image. And it’s just as well, since her sophisticated John Galliano suit fits like it was made for her, which it probably was.

  “I’ve been poring over the auction catalogue,” Kate says exuberantly, as we enter the elite art emporium and walk through the intimidating granite-and-glass lobby. “I know exactly the right print to buy. Red Grooms has this huge, wild New York picture that I swear has one of Owen’s buildings in it. And Grooms is Owen’s favorite artist. It’s perfect.”

  “Sounds great,” I say, wondering where a married man hangs a litho from his lover. The bathroom? The basement? The back of the closet? Or maybe he just gives it to another girlfriend.

  We head upstairs to sign in.

  “You should get a paddle, just in case you want to bid,” says Kate. And while that’s about as likely as George Bush giving the keynote at Planned Parenthood, I give my name and relevant information to a haughty sixtyish-year-old woman with too-pale makeup and a helmet of too-black hair. She types my vital statistics into the computer, makes two whispered phone calls and hits a few more keys on the iMac.