by Mary Hogan
A few nights earlier, Paul was sitting at the kitchen table, watching me make dinner. Rigatoni with garlic and oil. One of his favorites. I’d decided to cook our way back to normal.
“That’s Anita for you,” I said. “Luck and guts. I’d never have the nerve to promote my work to a stranger.”
“A stranger?”
“Yeah, I know. It was dicey going into the elevator with a man she just met, but cameras are everywhere and Anita made sure Louie saw her.”
“Louie?”
“The maintenance guy at ArtLoft. Remember the guy we hired to change the valves on our radiators? You know, Louie.”
“Ah.”
The aroma of freshly grated garlic twirled into my nostrils. I set a small pile of it in a big bowl, poured olive oil over the top, added a bit of salt and a tablespoon of butter, and covered the whole thing with the steaming pasta. In two minutes, it would be ready to toss and cheese and eat.
“Plus, her floor is full of artists,” I went on. “She wasn’t bringing a stranger up to an empty space.”
“What stranger?”
“The art patron she met on the subway.”
“What subway?”
I gaped at him. “Haven’t you been listening?”
Brushing me off, Paul said, “I’m wiped out.” He stood unsteadily and clomped down the stairs. The ocean waves of our nighttime sound machine filled the apartment with their ebb and flow. Stupefied, I heard Paul groan as he settled himself into bed. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that. While I was making dinner! I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears. Who was this stranger living in my house?
So, I painted. All day, every day, I painted and painted and painted. I told Paul, “I’m swamped,” to explain why I didn’t answer my phone, why I stopped making dinner every night.
“Thai?”
“Whatever you want,” he said.
“Thai it is.”
Dinners landed on the table in white paper bags with menus stapled to them. The PBS NewsHour captured our focus while we ate. My nightly glass of wine—a heavy pour—made me sleepy enough to retreat to our downstairs bedroom the moment Judy Woodruff signed off. Paul filled the dishwasher and set the timer on our morning coffee.
From the sink in our downstairs bathroom, I listened to my husband’s shuffle across the living room rug overhead. The aerosol spray of the Pledge he used to shine our dining table floated a lemon scent my way. He ran the garbage disposal and popped a dishwashing pod into the dispenser. All the tasks that once made me glow obnoxiously.
“Paul and I have the perfect division of labor,” I’d brag to friends.
My comeuppance was now the scuffing of his shoes across the rug. Could he never pick up his feet? Did he have to sound so lunkish? Lately, I heard the coffeemaker grind in the middle of the night.
There, in my bathroom mirror, I ignored the irritation that was etched on my face. I brushed my teeth and washed my face and wore unsexy pajamas and climbed into bed before the clock ticked to nine. I marveled at the way our once overflowing marriage could run on empty.
“Feel like Mexican tonight?”
“You pick.”
“Mexican it is.”
We chewed and swallowed and drank wine while we watched TV. On weekends, we read the morning paper from beginning to end. I did laundry; Paul swept leaves in the back garden. I walked Lola during the day; Paul took her to the park after the sun went down. Each night, in the lonely island of my bed, I told myself, “Tomorrow will be back to normal.”
Chapter Fifteen
WHO COULD IMAGINE SUCH LUCK? AN OPEN HOUSE BEYOND your glossy front door. Unfettered access to your marble hallway, polished railings, interior stained glass, elevator. I was exhilarated. From one to four, that very day, everyone was invited in. My favorite word when it came to you. “In.” Not left out. Not left, period.
I settled on the same outfit I’d worn before: Spanx jeans, a (slightly wrinkled) Brooks Brothers blouse, periwinkle mesh sneakers from J.Crew. The diamond stud earrings Paul had given me years ago. Hopefully, Juan Carlos wouldn’t remember my look. More than anything, fall’s chill worried me. My outfit definitely had a summer vibe. Perhaps I could let it slip that I’d just flown in from Aruba?
With the wind gusting east from the Hudson River, I thanked the universe for the rosy glow it gave my cheeks. Not to mention the rakish chaos it whirled into my hair. Exactly the windswept look that suited an apartment with an unobstructed river view. Leaving Lola at home, I made my way to the wonderland of Hudson Crescent.
“J.C.!” I trilled inside your vestibule. “Lovely to see you again.”
Juan Carlos was momentarily thrown, but he covered it well. As any doorman worth his tuxedo-striped pants would. Helping him out, I said, “I’m here for the open house.”
“Ah.” Reaching inside his podium, he retrieved a form. “Basic information,” he said.
“About what?”
“Name, current address, contact information, the usual. You know, for the real estate agent.”
“Of course.” In the excitement, I’d forgotten that someone would try to sell me the apartment I was there to snoop in. “Excuse my brain fog. I just jetted in from Aruba.”
Smiling noncommittally, Juan Carlos handed me the form. “The open house begins at one.”
“Yes. I know.”
“It’s twelve forty-five.”
“Oh.” A giggle burped through my lips. “Still on Aruba time!”
Afraid that Juan Carlos would make me wait outside on your cold granite steps—where I’d seen dogs pee (not Lola, not ever)—I swallowed my nerves and barged in. “I’ll wait on that bench over there.” To my delight, he stepped aside with a princely sweep of his hand.
Oh happy day. Once again, I was “in.”
I chose to tell the truth. Sort of. I wrote my real name and address on the form. Though I jotted down a fake cell number. As I usually did. Did anyone actually ask Apple to tether us to everyone else every minute of the day? Flicking an angelic smile in J.C.’s direction, I set the completed form aside and sat back on your antique bench to let your beauty and calm wash over me. Silently, I prayed that others would show up. I wanted the real estate agent to be occupied. After all, the open house ended at four. A mere three hours to meander through your airy rooms, gaze out your sun-flooded windows, trail the backs of my fingers along the cool quartz of your kitchen countertops. (Not granite. Too yesterday.) If—please God—the real estate agent was busy elsewhere, I’d steal a moment to recline on the bed in the master suite. Provided, of course, the apartment was staged. The StreetEasy ad had only shown photographs of your stunning lobby.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice startled my eyes open. “You’re here for the open house?”
“Yes.” Too eagerly, I leaped up. Chill, Fay, you idiot.
“Sit. Please. It’s not quite one o’clock.”
I sat. With deliberate calm, I filled my lungs and slowly blew air out through my nose. As if I were in yoga class. “Let” on the inhale, “go” on the exhale. Jana, my yoga teacher, lovingly rested her hand on my back whenever my letting go produced tears. “It’s okay,” she whispered. Though nobody else cried in class.
“I’m Eve.” The real estate agent reached out her manicured hand. A wave of horror shot through me. My nails were a mess. Ragged bits of skin jutted out from the sides of each nail. How could it not have occurred to me that someone might want to shake my hand? Fool. Could I pretend I had arthritis? Adopt a downtown swagger and move in for a fist bump?
“Fay,” I said, locking eyes with Eve like a serial killer. I reached my right hand up, grasped hers, and pumped it once. Then I crossed both arms in front of my chest, tucking my fists into my armpits. The worst possible pose for the lighthearted look I was going for, but a poorly groomed girl’s got to do what she’s got to do.
“Welcome,” Eve said. Her cheekbones were two hard-boiled eggs. Her complexion was whipped cream. Unable to stop myself, I stared, spellbo
und. Her blond hair literally cascaded over her shoulders. Clearly, it had been expertly coiled around a curling iron. She wore a Tiffany kiss on a delicate chain around her neck. The shiny silver X nestled into the hollow between her clavicles. Her lipstick was an indescribable color between pink and orange and red. The color I was always looking for, but could never find. Not in the drugstore, anyway. Almost certainly it had a name like Desire or Rapture in the Afternoon. Or something cool and cryptic like Torn. Eve had applied it with a brush, blotted, then brushed it on a second time. I could tell. It had that professional look.
“May I?”
Without waiting for an answer, Eve sat next to me on your polished bench. She picked up my form and read it. I inhaled the dry-cleaned scent of her linen suit. “You’re looking for a one-bedroom?” she asked.
“I’m open.”
“I see that you live in the neighborhood. May I ask why you’re moving?”
Good lord, an interview? I felt a tad perturbed. What business was it of hers? Did she need to know how long I’d desired you? How I wanted to take our romance to the next level? With, hopefully, ice white appliances instead of stainless steel, which were so overused they were passé?
I considered blurting out the truth: My beautiful two-bedroom, two-bath duplex with sky-high ceilings, a wood-burning fireplace and private garden, in a hundred-year-old brownstone mere steps from Riverside Park, in which Paul and I had lived, loved, demolished, designed, painted, repainted, restored, and devoured countless pizzas on the floor with our backs against the wall, marveling at our ability to stay married during the stress of it all, was now a daily reminder of everything we’d lost. In every room, every exposed-brick nook, every bloom in the garden, I saw our past togetherness. I felt our union. How could I live with so many ghosts?
“Downsizing,” I said.
“Ah.”
At that moment, a young couple entered your lobby with both sets of their parents. Their faces were so hopeful I nearly burst into tears.
“Oh my God,” the bride gasped. “This is, like, the most beautiful lobby I’ve ever seen.”
I nodded in a proprietary sort of way.
Eve stood and clicked her impossibly high heels over to the newcomers with her posture perfectly erect. “I’m Eve,” she said, shaking everyone’s hand. “Welcome. It’s one o’clock. Shall we go up?”
My heart sent fresh blood to my face. I flushed in anticipation. Echoing my sentiment exactly, the young bride squealed. Her father, or maybe father-in-law, rested his hand on her back and said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He was already negotiating.
Following Eve’s toned calves, we ascended your steps aglow in the spill of light from a full row of interior stained glass. My expression was beatific. Such thoughtful design! So churchy. One couldn’t help but feel blessed to be bathed in so flattering a light.
“Built in 1909 by the architectural firm Schwartz and Gross, the Renaissance style is reminiscent of their buildings in Morningside Heights.”
Eve chattered all the way to your—manned!—elevator.
“Hello, Hector,” she said. “Sixth floor, please.”
I bit my lip. A doorman and an elevator man? I hadn’t dared dream.
Up we went. All eight of us. Plus Hector. Your oak-paneled elevator gave us a smooth ride. No worrisome shimmy. I ran my fingers across my bangs as the doors swept open. “Sixth floor,” said Hector.
Ridiculously, I winked at him. My body and mind had lost their connection. I followed Eve off the elevator and into the hallway. It smelled of fresh paint. Nothing unpleasantly pungent like Brussels sprouts or curried fish. Which didn’t surprise me. A building like you would be populated with salad eaters. Vegans, most likely. If not, sippers of bone broth. Eve strutted down the carpeted hallway. I didn’t bother craning my neck in hopes of spotting the pediatrician. I knew he would live on a higher floor. Not the penthouse, of course. Too ostentatious. Probably one floor below. Maybe two apartments combined? Bought in the eighties when prewars were a steal? Our tight group followed Eve to the far end of the long hall. There, she stopped and said, “Here we are.”
With a twist of her wrist, she unlocked the door to apartment 6F. As if in a group hug, we shuffled in en masse.
It was staged. My heart hammered my rib cage.
“The parquet is original, an open layout . . .”
Clacking around in her spiky heels, Eve flipped on all the lights and chattered nonstop. Lemmings that they were, the newlyweds and their parents followed her lead. Not me. I peeled off and floated into the bedroom to take in the river view without distracting commentary. I’d gotten what I wanted. The real estate agent was busy with live ones.
Surprisingly, the gauzy white curtain over the lone bedroom window was drawn. And the bed, a double, nearly filled the entire space. On my way past the narrow closet, I had to loop my leg around the footboard. A cushioned dining chair was nestled into a corner where an easy chair should be. It sat next to a leggy side table barely large enough for two paperbacks and an espresso. The stager had done her best. The puffy white duvet did look inviting. Still, there was no getting around the fact that the flat-screen television, mounted to the wall, was wider than the dresser below it. Had the StreetEasy ad mentioned a maid’s room?
“Oh.”
After sweeping back the curtain, I saw why it had been closed. The F line, apparently, was in the back of the building. With a view of pigeons pooping on a sooty ledge, breathing distance away. They cooed and flapped their wings around one another, trampling their own excrement.
I let the curtain fall shut.
“The cozy kitchen has a breakfast bar.”
Following the sound of Eve’s voice—and that dreadful real estate euphemism, cozy—I meandered out of the bedroom, down the dim hall to the microscopic kitchen. “Stainless steel appliances!” Eve chirped. “And a quartz countertop on the side cabinet!”
Side cabinet? When I leaned in for a closer look, I saw a disturbing sight. Clearly, the owners had bought a quartz remnant for the triangular end cabinet that was too shallow to be useful in any way whatsoever. Where would a person store her Cuisinart? Her Le Creuset Dutch oven? The soup tureen Mom gave me before she died? The one I’d never use and never part with? Compounding that blunder, the owners had committed a mortal sin: the main countertops were Corian, practically laminate. Nice try with the glass bowl of limes, Eve. Only a chump wouldn’t see through that. Plus, the kitchen was so, well, cozy, it was impossible to imagine an actual meal being made in it. Sandwiches, maybe. Thanksgiving dinner? Forget it. Was the refrigerator even regulation size?
“Did you see the bathroom?” Eve asked me.
I hadn’t. So, I swiveled around and made my way to the HGTV-styled bathroom. White subway tiles, shiny black trim, white cotton shower curtain, pops of teal accessories. I’d seen that episode in reruns. The style was clean and crisp. As formal as a tuxedo. Beautiful in a hotel sort of way. My heart broke as I imagined myself reclining in the soaking tub, surrounded by flickering candles. (White, of course, to match.) My hair would be coiled in a claw clip, soapy foam would cling to my manicured toes. I would be a movie scene, the one in which the single woman abruptly stops lathering her arm to call out, “Hello? Is someone there?”
Standing in that designed bathroom, I felt a riptide of sadness pull me home. I missed the cameo pink plaster walls of our master bath. The slightly raised spots where I’d spackled holes and not sanded them sufficiently, the cracked caulking around the tub that I’d been meaning to replace. I missed our floral shower curtain and the liner that got moldy around the edges when I didn’t wash it often enough. The exposed heat pipe made our bathroom so toasty in winter; the towel rack my brother had built in front of it was inspired. Warm, dry towels all winter. I didn’t want to buy shampoo in bottles that matched pops of teal. Not when I’d grown accustomed to a mismatched sort of life.
“Isn’t it perfect?” With her hands clasped to her chest, the young bride
stood behind me at the bathroom door, enraptured.
“Best address in the city,” I replied, honestly, feeling a ripping sensation in my chest. Suddenly, I felt as though I’d never be happy without a toilet that needed a jiggle to stop its running and an old tub with a grip bar that looked like a ballet barre for Paul to hold tightly while I helped his skinny body into the bath, asking, “Warm enough, my love?”
Chapter Sixteen
IT STARTED WITH A PAIN IN THE NECK. I REMEMBER THAT distinctly because when Mom said her neck was sore, Dad quipped, “Julia, you’ve always been a pain in the neck.” My brothers and I laughed. Joey, the younger of the two, who was still five years older than me, said, “Faith is a pain in my ass.”
“Language, Joey.” Mom swallowed a smile.
“That’s no way to talk to your sister.” Dad was the sterner one. “Apologize, Joseph.”
“Sorry.”
I rolled my eyes. It was so obvious that Joey was so not sorry. He was never sorry for anything. Not the time he sold my bike to a neighborhood kid, not the time he spied on me through the lock hole in the bathroom door, not the time he told my parents I was asleep in the far backseat when they drove off to Disneyland without me. Weren’t older brothers supposed to protect you?
Nathan, my other older sibling, scraped his chair back and stood up.
“I don’t remember excusing you, son.”
“May I please be excused?”
“Dishes,” said Dad.
Nate’s teenage shoulders slumped. “It’s Faith’s turn to clear.”
“Nah-uh. I cleared yesterday.” My sneakers kicked the leg of the table. I jabbed my tongue at him.
“It’s Cubs against Dodgers, Dad.”
Joey leaped to his feet. “May I please be excused?”
“Go.”
Joey dashed to the den; Nate stared at Dad with his thick eyebrows high. When Dad didn’t relent, my brother noisily stacked the dirty dishes, silverware jutting everywhere, and grumbled his way into the kitchen. All the while, Mom sat slowly rubbing the side of her neck.
