by Nina Solomon
She looked at Griffin standing in front of her with a look of hopefulness and expectancy. “You can call if you need anything,” she said. She knew as she handed him a slip of paper with their phone number that what she was offering was inadequate, that anything less than making Laz materialize at this very instant would invariably fall short.
“Thanks,” he said. Grace gave him back the jacket. She watched him zip it up, restraining that part of her that wanted to turn up his collar. He kissed her on the cheek, a gesture that took her completely by surprise, and turned to leave.
“Take care,” she called after him as she watched him walk down the street, swinging his arms like Laz did. She felt a strong tug toward him as he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then she went back into the bookstore to teach her class.
18
BRINGING UP BABY
On Friday morning, the day of her gynecologist appointment, Grace noticed some light spotting. She chided herself for having even entertained the idea that she was pregnant, an idea that now evaporated from her consciousness. It figured—just like how her hair always looked its best on the day on which she was scheduled to have it cut, or how something missing turned up immediately after she’d either replaced it or forgotten about it altogether.
DR. SARAH GAYLIN’S office was just off Fifth Avenue, on the ground floor of a town house. This was only the third appointment that she’d had with Dr. Gaylin. Her last gynecologist had had a lecherous manner, along with hair plugs that made him look like one of those pomanders stuck with cloves that Grace’s mother made during the holiday season and that Grace dutifully hung in her closet until the orange shriveled and it was safe to dispose of.
Grace took the crosstown bus through the park. She spent a few minutes writing her to-do list in her Filofax—pick up dry cleaning; order Fruit of the Month for Laz’s editor; order champagne for his agent; send thank-you notes for anniversary presents— feeling satisfied by how orderly she’d made her life.
The decor in the doctor’s waiting room was Old World, with leather club chairs and heavy drapes, reminding Grace of the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel, where Laz’s mother had a standing Thursday night reservation. Grace half-expected to be offered a drink by a waiter in a dusty black jacket, except here the customers were an assortment of women in various stages of pregnancy, reading parenting magazines and eating dried fruit.
After twenty minutes, Grace was ushered into a small dressing room by a nurse in a pink uniform. She knew there was a reason she liked this place. Even the gowns were a soft rose color.
Soon after, Dr. Gaylin knocked on the door and walked in, greeting Grace with a warm smile. She was tall—probably close to six feet—and under her white coat, she was dressed in a tailored skirt, sheer stockings, leather pumps, and a long strand of pearls. Her head had a perpetual tilt to the side that gave her an approachable, friendly appearance, and her hair was an indeterminate hue that changed from gold to strawberry blond, depending on the light. She possessed a certain regal, angelic quality that Grace was drawn to.
“How have you been, Grace?” she asked, looking at the chart and then sitting down on a stool to begin the exam.
“Everything’s fine. I’ve been a little tired, but who isn’t? Oh, and my period was a little late this month.”
“How late?” she inquired.
“About two weeks. Almost three, I think.” Grace gazed at the pale, striped wallpaper.
“Was your period normal?”
“Well, today is the first day, and it’s still very light. Probably just stress from the holidays,” she said.
“Any pain? Cramping?”
“I did notice a sharp pain a few times,” Grace said.
“On which side?”
“The right, I think,” she answered. “Why? Is there something wrong?”
“Grace, I’m going to do some tests. It’s really just a routine precaution that I like to take with my patients who have IUDs. When a period is late, I like to make sure that everything is normal by checking blood levels and doing a sonogram.”
Grace swallowed hard.
“What are you checking for?”
“To rule out the possibility that you’re pregnant.”
“I couldn’t be pregnant,” she insisted. “I did a test.”
“In very rare instances, those tests can yield false negatives. I’d just like to make sure.”
“What kind of instances?” Grace asked. She was about to explain that her husband had not so much as touched her in the last five weeks, but stopped herself as she did some mental calculations and thought back to the night Laz left.
“Nothing to worry about. As I said, it’s just a precaution,” Dr. Gaylin reassured her, buzzing for the nurse.
“Let’s check the beta hCG levels,” the doctor told the nurse when she walked in. After drawing blood, the nurse prepared for the sonogram. Dr. Gaylin explained each step as she went along, but as the procedure progressed, all Grace was aware of was the halolike glow of Dr. Gaylin’s golden hair and the faint humming of the machine.
GRACE LISTENED AS Dr. Gaylin explained about hCG levels and how in ectopic pregnancies that they don’t double every forty-eight hours as they do in normal pregnancies. Although it was rare, the hormones had apparently been too low to register with a standard urine test. The information took time to sink in. Laz had never wanted children and Grace thought she’d accepted that. But as images of spinning musical mobiles, swaddling blankets, and her and Laz pushing a stroller along Riverside Drive flashed through her mind, she realized she had yearnings of her own. From one minute to the next, she bounced back and forth between feeling desolate and ebullient. And although she’d just been confronted with Laz’s offspring, Griffin was not hers. Now she would have a child of her own.
“When will I be due?” she asked Dr. Gaylin.
“I don’t think you understand. The embryo has embedded in the fallopian tubes. It’s not a normal pregnancy.”
“What chance is there that it will just get unstuck?” Grace asked. “And wind up in the right place?”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Dr. Gaylin answered. “I’m going to have to administer a shot of methotrexate, which will in essence make the embryo disintegrate in the fallopian tube over the next several days.” Grace found this information impossible to comprehend. How was it possible to lose something that five minutes ago she hadn’t even known she’d had? The high beam from the halogen light turned Dr. Gaylin’s hair a garishly unnatural cotton-candy pink.
Suddenly, Grace found the color repellent. “Will it be painful?” she asked.
“It shouldn’t be. You can go about your daily activities, and then we’ll check the hCG levels again in four days. We can call your husband to take you home, if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
As Dr. Gaylin spoke, Grace felt a swelling in her chest. She was unable to breathe in deeply enough, as if it were a feeling she couldn’t reach. Uncertain what she was about to do—cry or scream, or both—she waited until the urge subsided before she answered.
“He’s out of town,” she said softly.
THE WINDOWS OF the bus were covered with frost. Thoughts of Griffin surfaced again. She had an urge to crochet a scarf for him—a long, warm, tightly woven scarf, not as a consolation prize, or an affectionate gesture, or even to keep out the winter chill. Now she was deprived of both a husband and a child. She needed Laz home now. But not for her usual reasons—in order for Griffin to strangle his AWOL father with the scarf she would make him, Laz would have to be physically present.
She thought of the strange man she’d met at the Pink Tea Cup. Mr. Dubrovsky, she recalled, with the fluffy hair. She remembered the bold print on the card he had slipped in his copy of Oblomov: Private Investigator. He could help her track Laz down.
WHEN SHE GOT HOME, Grace turned on the dining room light and dimmed it (along with the Christmas tree and all the other fixtures in the living room). Everything seem
ed too bright. She noticed the amaryllis was still blooming.
As she searched for Mr. Dubrovsky’s copy of Oblomov, she decided she’d treated him poorly at the restaurant and now regretted it. Hiring him to help her to find Laz might rectify the situation, but finding his Oblomov was an entirely different matter.
Marisol’s niece had turned out to be a demon of a housekeeper, cleaning so well that Grace couldn’t find anything. That morning, when she was looking for a washcloth in the linen closet, she discovered a stack of neatly folded shopping bags stuck between a stack of bath towels, and she found her moisturizer next to some Spanish olive oil in the pantry. The apartment was unquestionably spotless—the brass doorknobs buffed to a blinding sheen, the books dusted and replaced. However, now they were arranged by size, rather than alphabetical order. It was lucky that Laz wasn’t there to witness the reorganization. It would have been too much for him. Plus, Dolores’s caramel custard was tasteless and flat.
So it came as no large surprise to Grace to find both Mr. Dubrovsky’s copy of Oblomov and her own in the kitchen, next to a cookbook of the exact size and color. She pulled the two books off the shelf, noticing the lemony smell of Murphy’s Oil Soap emanating from their damp spines. As she held the books in her hands, Mr. Dubrovsky’s business card fell onto the counter along with the two sheets of crinkled yellow paper from her copy. The yellow pages appeared to be a letter, and the writing was clearly a woman’s handwriting. Grace wondered how long it would take for the ink to get bleached by the sun until not a trace would remain if she left the pages in direct sunlight.
She unfolded the letter and began to read:
Brookman, It’s been over nineteen years since we last saw each other. You can’t keep denying that Griffin is your son. He’s exactly like you, at least who you were then. He needs you now, and you must take responsibility. He’s adamant about contacting you, even though you refuse to answer my calls. I can’t stop him from going. Please have the decency to meet him. What happened between us is not the issue. Yours, Merrin.
Grace felt her head begin to pound and her eyes sting. Laz had never mentioned the name, not even in passing. Kane would probably know of her, although, maybe not the whole story. But even if they were speaking to each other, she still wouldn’t have been able to ask. She folded the pages and placed them back in the book.
She left Mr. Dubrovsky’s book on the front hall table, glancing at it one last time, as if she were checking to make sure an iron were unplugged so the counter wouldn’t get scorched. Then she picked up Mr. Dubrovsky’s card, and with a strong sense of purpose, walked down the hall to the bedroom.
The door was closed. She’d flung Laz’s yellow Hermès tie over the doorknob and rumpled the bedcovers that morning. As she held the brass handle, letting the silk tie slip through her hand to the floor, she became aware of a slight humming sensation in the tips of her fingers, some incoherent impulses bumping around in her consciousness. She had almost been able to fool herself before. But now, as she stood in front of the bedroom door, she wished Laz really were in there. Not so she could greet him and welcome him home, but for the express purpose of doing him some sort of bodily harm. And then Grace had another incongruous thought, one in a series of non sequiturs: And he can pick up his own damn dry cleaning, too!
She went to the phone and dialed the number on Mr. Dubrovsky’s card, but his voicemail picked up. After the beep, she began to explain: “Mr. Dubrovsky, this is Grace Brookman. You might not remember me. We met at the Pink Tea Cup. I apologize for the misunderstanding that night. I’m calling because I’m trying to locate someone. I can fill you in on the details when we speak. Also, I have your copy of Oblomov.” She left her number and thanked him before she was disconnected.
Impulsively, she dialed the number of Flik’s Video 2 Go store and asked them to deliver every Katharine Hepburn movie they had in stock as soon as possible, stressing her affinity for The Philadelphia Story and Bringing Up Baby. If that couldn’t take her mind off the methotrexate coursing through her body and the letter she’d found in Oblomov, then nothing could.
Later that afternoon, the videos arrived, and suddenly life was refined, elegant, and romantic. Grace’s mind wandered, conjuring scenarios. She imagined a reunion between Griffin and Laz: Laz would be overjoyed and beside himself with emotion, lifting Grace up and spinning her around, then embracing his son for the first time. Grace would prepare a light supper of penne with shiitake mushrooms and pan-seared tuna with a lentil salad. For dessert, a warm tarte Tatin with crème fraîche and espresso served out of the demitasse cups they’d bought in Portugal. They would eat in the kitchen because it was cozier. After dinner, Laz and Griffin would disappear down the hall to Laz’s study to talk, and Grace would curl up with a cup of tea, admiring the snow falling outside and basking in their newfound familial bliss.
Grace wanted to jump up immediately and call Griffin with the good news, and then felt ridiculous when she realized that not only had she spent an inordinate amount of time planning an imaginary menu, but that there was, in fact, no news to tell.
Her thoughts turned to Kane. On their first quasi-official date, Kane had taken Grace to the Regency Theater for a Katharine Hepburn marathon film festival. He had brought along a wicker basket containing a loaf of raisin bread, Muenster cheese, Martinelli’s apple juice, and Thin Mints, all of which they shared as they watched movie after movie until well after midnight. As Grace thought about how much she missed Kane, she wanted to scream out to Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story, “Don’t lose him! He’s your only true friend.”
When her mother called, it was a welcome distraction. “Sweetie, you’re home for once.”
“Hi, Mom, how’s everything?”
“Fine. Except for Francine. She’s beside herself.” Grace half-watched the film and half-listened, finding it was a perfect balance between reality and fantasy.
“Why, what’s wrong?” Grace could hear her father saying something in the background.
“Milton, I’m talking to Grace. And it’s my business what I tell my own daughter, thank you,” she said. “Sorry, honey, your father says to send his love. Anyway, it’s Bert, who else?”
“What about Bert, Mother?”
“Don’t call me Mother, Grace. You know how that irritates me.”
“Sorry, Mom. What’s wrong with Bert?”
“He’s been acting strangely lately. Francine doesn’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“In what way?” Grace asked.
“You know—wearing turtlenecks, Kenneth Cole loafers, aftershave. And he’s parting his hair on the other side. Poor Francine. She even found a copy of GQ in his briefcase.”
For as long as Grace could remember, Bert had dressed in the exact same way: pressed polyester trousers, a collared shirt in a pale check or stripe, and white tennis shoes. Perhaps he was just compensating for his own insecurities about Francine leaving for two weeks. Grace didn’t divulge this theory to her mother, afraid of the conclusions that her mother would invariably jump to, but did congratulate herself on her sleuthing abilities. Clearly, she could find Laz herself if she ever were to put her mind to it.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Grace said. “Remember when Dad brought home that Huk-A-Poo shirt from that business trip?” Her mother was silent. “Whatever happened to that? It’s probably a collectible by now.”
“I threw it out,” her mother answered. “It was a woman’s shirt.”
“Oh.” Grace realized that she’d taken the wrong path. She knew full well that if left to his own devices, her father would either violate every fashion dictum, or just stay in his pajamas for most of the day. Since the Huk-A-Poo incident, he was not permitted to pick out any of his own clothes. “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing,” she continued. “It’s probably just a stage he’s going through.”
“Well, you can see for yourself tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Grace, don’t tell me you’ve
forgotten about Francine’s good-bye party? We’re going gallery hopping and to Chanterelle for dinner. Honey, I left a message with that new Dolores of yours. Didn’t she tell you?”
“I guess not.” Grace tried to think of a way out. The thought of going anywhere while the methotrexate was taking effect, let alone an entire Saturday with the Sugarmans, was daunting to say the least.
“It’ll be an adventure,” her mother said. Grace had heard that expression one too many times. On one such “adventure,” Grace’s father had to be helicoptered out of Mesa Verde after he had become wedged in a crevice. “We’ll pick you and Laz up at one. Francine and I are off to Loehmann’s today to try and take her mind off things. I’ll keep an eye out for something cute for you to wear for Mambo Night.”
Before Grace could tell her mother that Laz wouldn’t be able to make it—she couldn’t remember if she had told them that he was in Yugoslavia or some other extinct locale—her mother had already hung up.
THAT NIGHT, GRACE dreamt she was in Mary Poppins, but instead of Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke, it was Grace and Kane floating above the tables in the Pink Tea Cup with Bert Sugarman and Griffin. They were all laughing and drinking tea out of over size pink floral cups, and Grace kept spilling her tea. Every time she would try to right her cup, she would begin to descend slowly to the floor, and Kane would take her by the wrist and pull her back up. “We need to keep telling jokes,” he said, but whenever Grace tried to tell one, she forgot the punch line.
Grace didn’t like to dwell on her dreams, but the next morning, this one stuck with her in all its Technicolor details. As a child, she’d had a crush on Dick Van Dyke, his inclusion being the only element of the dream that made sense to her. Bert Sugarman’s cameo in the dream would remain, for the time being, a walk-on without meaning.
19
THE INSTALLATION
It was raining the following day, the kind of drenching rain that never lets up. Grace went into the kitchen to make tea, still holding out some hope that the outing with her parents and the Sugar-mans would be postponed. Dr. Gaylin was right. There was no pain to speak of.
