Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  “You do?” I say, surprised. “I thought I looked younger.”

  He motions me toward a machine. “Everyone thinks they look younger,” he says dismissively.

  As I head toward the bike I realize he’s right. Who doesn’t have a picture in her head of what forty looks like? But it’s a black-and-white image left over from an earlier era of women with aprons, aging skin and bouffant hairdos. When I look in the mirror now, I’m proud that somehow I’ve escaped. And I feel superior until I realize the whole generation has escaped. It would be much more satisfying if everyone else looked matronly—and Michelle Pfeiffer and I were the only ones still supple and sexy.

  Teri Ann climbs on a bike and Berni scrambles to grab the one next to her. She directs me to the bike on Teri’s other side, so we can surround her—but I’m busy adjusting my heart rate monitor and a moment too slow. Before I can grab the empty seat, somebody else does. It takes me just a moment to realize that the woman speed pedaling away is Berni’s former arch rival agent, Olivia.

  “O-LIV-EE-AH! Imagine seeing you here!” Berni calls out to her.

  “What a surprise!” Olivia intones insincerely, feigning delight at encountering her longtime nemesis. “Wonderful to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You are?” asks Berni.

  “Absolutely. We’ve all felt so bad about your awful saddlebags for so long. And if the lipo didn’t work, maybe the gym will. Worth a try, anyway.”

  Berni purses her lips and pedals harder. “I like to be in shape,” Berni says.

  “Oh come on, darling. It doesn’t matter what you look like anymore. No clients and I’m sure those little rug rats of yours don’t care. Though they might drown in those huge breasts.”

  “At least they’re all natural,” Berni says.

  Teri Ann Thomas has no reaction, even though rumors were a year ago she was having breast implants. Or as the Star headlined, “Tits for TAT?” Now she just looks straight ahead, pedaling hard and ignoring the barbs being lobbed over her head. Which isn’t unusual for her, because from what I’ve heard, most things go over her head.

  “Anyway, those babies won’t be embarrassed by you until preschool,” Olivia says, panting on her bike as her heart rate soars toward a measly hundred. “If they get accepted anywhere. You looking like you do and all.”

  “I’m thinking of homeschooling,” Berni says, even though I know she’s not. “If you ever have a baby, darling, I wouldn’t recommend you try it. Only for smart people.”

  I shake my head and try not to giggle. Love these two. Berni might not be fighting Olivia tooth and nail for clients anymore, but their competitive spirit lives on. Though Olivia can’t be having as much fun as a Hollywood agent now that Berni’s not there to one-up.

  “Oh my goodness!” Olivia says, pretending to suddenly notice the star sitting next to her. “Is that the beautiful and famous Teri Ann Thomas?”

  Now I get it. Berni’s here to procure Teri Ann’s baby clothes and Olivia’s trying to sign up a new client. And I thought the only approaches attractive women had to deflect in gyms were from sweaty men hitting them up for dates.

  But before TAT can acknowledge Olivia’s greeting, the instructor comes over, taps Teri Ann on the shoulder and leads her over to the free weights area. He hands her a bar with a hundred pounds and spots her as she starts hauling it over her head.

  “More! Faster! Harder!” he directs.

  Berni and I exchange a look and try not to laugh. “Usually you hear those orders in bed,” she whispers to me. Then quickly adds, “At least as far as I remember.”

  The drill sergeant now turns to the three of us, who are standing around watching.

  “Get moving!” he barks. “You don’t keep your heart rates up by yapping!”

  I guess he’s never heard Berni talking to Olivia.

  Succumbing to pressure, Olivia grabs the forty-pound bar next to Teri Ann’s and after lifting an inch, immediately drops it at her feet.

  “Ouch, my back!” she exclaims, rubbing her gluteus muscle. But pain is no match for professional goals, so Olivia reaches for the bar again and pushes it closer to the star she’s trying to impress. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Olivia throw Teri Ann to the floor and wrestle her into a half nelson. Anything to get what she wants.

  But what she wants isn’t what I’d expected.

  “Look, Teri Ann,” Olivia says, struggling with ten-pound weights now and too tired to be anything but direct. “I have a new charity or something. I don’t remember the details, but I’m collecting baby clothes. Then I sell them. And it’s all really good. So I need all yours.”

  “WHAT?” Berni’s startled cry echoes across the room. Olivia looks up happily and watches in satisfaction as her opponent gets off the bike and walks determinedly toward her.

  “What are you talking about?” Berni asks. “I’m the one who collects baby clothes. Me. Not you.”

  “Anything you can do, I can do better,” Olivia says slyly.

  “Since when did you become charitable?” Berni asks.

  “Yesterday,” Olivia says. “When I found out what you were up to. Why should you get all the glory? I could always beat you at getting clients. I can beat you at getting their clothes.”

  Berni stands in front of Olivia, hands on hips, fuming for a long moment.

  “So you’re doing exactly the same thing I am?” Berni asks. “Selling stars’ baby clothes to raise money for poor children?”

  “Yup,” says Olivia, making a mental note of the actual plan. “If you’re doing it, I’m doing it.”

  Berni takes her hands off her hips. I’d expect her to explode about now, but instead her anger disappears. “Well, good,” she says. And she actually seems pleased.

  “Good?” asks Olivia. “You must be furious at me. Don’t you understand I’m beating you at your own game yet again?”

  Berni just smiles. “I’m not playing a game anymore. I’m trying to help people. And the more of us helping, the better.”

  Olivia opens her mouth and then closes it again. The whole point of her project was obviously to get a rise out of Berni. If that’s not in the cards, helping people is about as high on her list as trading in her Mercedes for a minivan.

  “If you’re going to have such a fit about it, maybe I’ll just let you do it all by yourself,” Olivia says, trying to wriggle out of the whole thing now. “Gotta go. I’ll just be off to sign Jude Law up for another movie. You collect your little booties. We’ll do lunch.”

  Olivia scurries from the gym and when she’s gone, I notice the instructor giving a thumbs up to Teri Ann. She grins and pulls out her earplugs. No wonder she was so unruffled: she didn’t hear a single word.

  Finally finished focusing on her intense exercise, Teri Ann starts to reach for her bottle of Poland Spring and notices us gawking at her. Probably not an unusual occurrence. But now she looks excited.

  “Aren’t you Berni Davis, the famous philanthropist?” she asks, now pumping Berni’s hand instead of her own body. “I’ve been meaning to call you. You may not have heard, but I had a baby. I have some things to donate to you already.”

  “That’s marvelous,” Berni says, oozing agent charm. “But I can’t believe you just had a baby. I never would have dreamed, not the way you look!”

  “Thanks,” says Teri Ann, pleased, and probably preparing to double her donation.

  They exchange a few more words and when they part, Berni’s careful not to catch my eye. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. She may be done with the business, but she’s not done giving stars the business. At least now it’s for a good cause.

  When we’re finished exercising, Berni wants me to come with her to check out a storage warehouse. Her basement is overflowing with baby goods and she’s scouring Long Island City for space. But I’ve crossed enough bridges in my life, and I don’t need to go over another one. Especially to an outer borough.

  Still, the whole project has Berni so reinvigorated that
the whole world looks rosy to her again.

  “Aidan and I are going out for a romantic evening, just the two of us,” she giggles. “A real date! And you know what happens after a date!”

  I rack my brain to remember. Ah, that’s right—he kisses you. And then? The rest is becoming a dim memory.

  “Have fun,” I tell her.

  “I’m finally starting to again,” she says gleefully.

  We’re just saying our good-byes when I get a call on my cell phone from Skylar.

  “My mom’s going out tonight. Can I stay at your house?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I tell her. Am I the only one not going out tonight? But I’m glad to have Skylar who’s more and more fun to have around now that we’re getting along. And, joking, I add, “You’re definitely welcome if you let me touch that autographed picture that Tobey Maguire gave you.”

  “Okay,” she says, laughing. “If I can borrow your LA Works sunglasses to wear to school.”

  “Deal,” I say, smiling into the phone.

  Skylar spends a few more minutes on the phone filling me in on her “Almost maybe not just yet but I think he could become my boyfriend because he really likes me and I think he’s cute Justin.” I listen carefully as I walk quickly from the gym to Central Park, since I’m supposed to meet James for drinks at the Boathouse. We made the plan after he said he had something urgent to talk to me about. But when I hang up with Skylar, I start to wonder if I’m ever going to find the Boathouse. I make three loops around the park before I realize that all the trees look the same—and I’m lost. Discouraged, I flop down on a park bench. I slide off my shoe to rub the blister budding on my heel and try to figure out which path to take next. But then a minute later, James sits down next to me.

  I look at him, stunned. “I ended up in the right place?” I ask. “This is the Boathouse?”

  “Nope,” James says with a little smile. “But when you didn’t show up, I figured you were lost. And I always know where to find you.”

  “You find everyone,” I say, glad that he was able to rescue me as easily as he did Dylan. I don’t really care which GPS system he used to locate me. I’m just happy that he’s here.

  “I know you better than anyone,” James says, slipping his arm around the back of the bench. “After all, we’re married.”

  “Were married,” I say, automatically correcting him and looking out at the pond in front of us where people are sailing model remote control boats. A square-rigged replica of a nineteenth-century ship is gliding by a three-masted schooner.

  James starts to say something, and then pauses.

  “Would you hate it if we were still married?” he asks.

  “That was a long time ago,” I say.

  “What if it weren’t? What if it were right now?” he asks. “Theoretically. How would you feel?”

  “Might get in the way of my marrying Bradford,” I say flippantly.

  “Yes, it might,” James says. “Definitely might.”

  Something is tugging at the back of my mind, but I let it pass and stare beyond the boats to the huge trees framing the scene, their brilliant red and orange leaves at the peak of their bright beauty. I fasten the top button on my sweater and cross my arms against the crisp autumn breeze.

  “You need something warmer,” says James, already draping his rugged flannel jacket around my shoulders.

  “Thanks,” I say, not moving away as he slides a little closer to me. We sit side by side as two more sailboats join the fleet in front of us, all of them moving quickly, but managing to avoid a collision. It’s such a tranquil, serene setting that I’d like just to stay here all day. But then I remember.

  “You said you had something urgent to discuss,” I say to James.

  “I did. I do.” He reaches over to the jacket that I’m now wearing and takes an envelope out of the inside pocket. He puts it in his lap but doesn’t open it.

  “First thing is that I went to a lawyer to talk about setting up a college trust for Dylan. I’m funding it. I don’t want you to have to worry. Not at least about that.”

  “That’s really kind of you,” I say. Whatever else James did wrong, he always tried to keep things right on that score. In the early years when he was gone, he sent regular checks to my bank account. I never spent a dime of the money—just shuttled it into an account for Dylan. In those days I couldn’t appreciate his generosity because all I wanted was my husband back. Now I know that in some way, James was always trying to do his part.

  “Anyway,” says James. “There’s something else. While the lawyer was handling all the paperwork, he made an interesting discovery.” He pats the envelope in his lap. “You filed for divorce at some point. But neither of us ever signed the final papers. According to the lawyer, we’re still married.”

  I go to speak, but I can hardly catch my breath. In front of me, the sailboats are whirling, faster and faster, cutting unexpected paths through the water. My head is spinning just as quickly. It had all been so complicated back then. Who wanted to deal with a convoluted legal system when I could barely deal with my own emotions? Once I finally accepted that James was gone forever, I somehow assumed that the New York State courts understood that, too. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or maybe, just maybe, I was still hoping that forever wouldn’t be forever.

  James holds out the envelope with the unsigned divorce papers, and I reach for it.

  “You don’t have to take it,” he says, holding onto it tightly. “We could rip it up. And just start again.”

  I pull my hand back, but it’s trembling.

  “Sara, there’s got to be a reason this has happened,” James says. “You’ve let me be Dylan’s father again, and I’m grateful for that. But there’s one other role I’d like to play in your life. If you’d give me the chance, I could still be your husband. I can’t imagine loving anyone else the way I love you. There’s never been anyone else in my life. Not seriously.”

  I swallow hard, and when the words finally come out, it’s only the tiniest squeak. “But I have someone serious in my life,” I say.

  He nods. “I know that. But these last few months being with you again have felt so right.” And he doesn’t say any more, because he leans in and kisses me, his strong chest pressing against mine. He draws the flannel jacket tightly around both of us and for the briefest moment, all the years fade away. But then I pull back.

  “I have to go,” I say, trying to untangle myself from the jacket—and from James.

  “Go,” he says. “But take the jacket. It’s chilly.” Then he leans forward and strokes his thumb under my eye, wiping away a tear.

  “You’re crying,” he says.

  “I know,” I answer. And I leave James’s jacket on my shoulders and rush from the park.

  Two blocks later, I call Kate. I know she’s in the middle of office hours, but she doesn’t rush me as I try to explain what’s happened. Despite my sobs and hiccups, she gets the gist.

  “Unbelievable,” Kate tells me. “You really never got divorced?”

  “That’s what James says. We’re still married.” I hiccup again, making it almost impossible to say the word.

  “Look at the bright side,” says Kate, trying to cheer me up. “You didn’t have to plan a wedding.”

  “This is serious!” I scream into the phone.

  Kate sighs. “I know it is, sweetie. Come on over. I’m almost done seeing patients.”

  As usual, Kate’s waiting room is packed, but her longtime assistant Nina ushers me immediately toward a room in the back I never knew existed.

  “Kate said you’re upset,” Nina says in hushed tones, “and she prescribed thirty minutes in the Serenity Room.”

  That stops me. The Serenity Room? Are the walls padded? Is Prozac piped in through the air ducts?

  “This is your relaxation chamber,” Nina explains as she opens the door for me and we step into a softly-lit taupe room. “Now that all the spas in town are offering dermatological treatments, Kate
figured her dermatology office better start offering the comforts of a spa.”

  Nina goes around the room lighting half a dozen aromatherapy candles—which are labeled Calming, Healing and Harmony. Given their strong individual scents of ylang-ylang, yling-yling and geranium, I’d christen the combination Nauseating.

  “You’ll love this ‘Garden of Peace’ CD,” Nina assures me, as she turns on the Bose surround sound system and the room fills with the annoying melodies of soulful guitar and piercing flute. “It uses brainwave technology and subliminal suggestion to bring bliss to body and soul.”

  Subliminal suggestion? I listen carefully, and I’m pretty sure that when the harp starts playing, I do hear an undercurrent murmuring—“Shop at Barney’s.”

  I settle into a low-slung couch wishing I had a set of earplugs. And nose plugs. But Nina has one more remedy in her serenity arsenal and she hands me two capsules and a mug of tea.

  “The tea is an infusion of cinammon and eucalyptus and the Zen capsules contain magnesium, lithothamnions, and . . .” Nina pauses, having forgotten the rest of the magic ingredients. “Well, anyway, it’s all good stuff that will battle the negative forces in your life.”

  I swallow them whole. Given the state I’m in now I’d rather have the Force be with me than against me.

  “One last thing,” Nina says, putting something into the microwave. Could be this whole process is working after all because I finally stop thinking about James for a second and focus on whether Nina’s making me a bag of popcorn? But instead she pulls a floral blanket out of the microwave and hands it to me. “My very favorite. The ‘Dream Time Herbal Hug.’ All the comforts of a warm embrace.”

  I wrap it across my arms and true to microwave form, most of the blanket is toasty warm but it’s unevenly heated. Sure enough, I immediately feel a hot spot burning into my left wrist. Is this a metaphor for my embrace from James? Feels good at first, but I have to be careful.

  Nina leaves me to soak in some more serenity, but as soon as she’s gone I jump off the couch and fiddle with the sound system, switching off that damn soulful guitar and finding an FM radio station that’s blaring Led Zeppelin.