to events at high-end Manhattan hotels to celebrate a new mascara’s “lash technology” (these are the terms that she uses) like it’s the cure for cancer. She is pretty and always has been, in a young Faye Dunaway sort of way, but now she’s as well groomed as a contestant at the Westminster Dog Show, all polish and sheen. Bobby, her longtime boyfriend, is a hedge fund manager. They make piles of money, will likely get engaged within a year, and will live a glossy, superficial existence. It’s not for me, but it seems to make her happy.
“So you took the train down last night?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Yes, after work. You’re lucky to have a car. Bobby offered to let me take his but, God, I haven’t driven in almost a year.” I remember Bobby’s car. He is one of those BMW owners whose license plate references being a BMW owner: BBYZBEEM.
“It worked out anyway,” she says. “I actually like taking the train, and I had a ton of work to get done.”
I’m tempted to ask what kind of urgent beauty editing would require such attention but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to endure a twenty-minute monologue about moisturizer.
“So he did this a few months ago?” Lucy says, stretching her legs out on the couch and flipping her hair to one side. I once heard a story on the radio about a person’s definitive gesture —a physical trademark like Bob Hope’s imaginary golf swing, Bruce Lee’s air-punch, Carol Burnett’s tug on her ear. With my sister, it would be the hair flipping, the incessant, never-ending hair flipping.
“Sure did.”
“Ridiculous,” she says through a mouthful of food.
Our mother is in the laundry room, just off the den, not missing a word of this. She is many things, but not a housekeeper, and from the spot where I sit, I can see her folding my father’s undershirts as methodically as if she were packing away my sister’s and my baptismal gowns. I can feel her looking at me. I wish she’d give up the act and just come join us.
“And the girl?” Lucy says, her left hand swiping at her phone.
“What about her?”
“She’s younger? Works with him?”
“Yup. A classic tale.”
“What does she look like?”
My mind flashes to the pictures I found on the Internet. “Like the girls in your magazine.”
This gets Lucy’s attention. “Hmph,” she says quietly, almost as if she’s saying it to herself. She shakes her head. “So he’s confused or something? That’s what you said the other night on the phone.”
“Apparently. I haven’t really talked to him since the other day.”
Mom can’t help herself—she puts down the laundry and rushes over to where we’re sitting.
“You haven’t talked to him?” Mom asks. She sits on the arm of the sofa and clasps her hands tightly in her lap like she’s cold.
“I really haven’t, Mom. Why would I?”
“Umm?” Lucy says. They exchange a look.
“What?”
“If I were you, I would demand more of an explanation from him,” says Lucy. “Not just about how he let this all go down but also about how he plans to fix it. You can’t just let someone walk out of your life like he’s walking out of a restaurant. Not without some repercussions. I mean, you guys have been together for how long?”
“Ten years.”
She looks at me like I’ve just told her that it’s been that long since I’ve been to the dentist.
“I see you’re still wearing your wedding ring.” She points at my hand.
“And?” I knew she would say something. “I’m still married, Lucy.”
“Really, Lucy.” Mom pats my hand. “It’s not like they’re getting divorced or something.”
Lucy’s eyes widen. “Of course they are!” she says to Mom, as if I’m not sitting right there. “She can’t stay with him—not after this.”
I pick up a cracker and jam it into the cheese. When I crunch down on it, I immediately wish that I hadn’t. It tastes like glue.
“Nobody’s getting divorced,” Mom says.
Lucy looks
“So you took the train down last night?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Yes, after work. You’re lucky to have a car. Bobby offered to let me take his but, God, I haven’t driven in almost a year.” I remember Bobby’s car. He is one of those BMW owners whose license plate references being a BMW owner: BBYZBEEM.
“It worked out anyway,” she says. “I actually like taking the train, and I had a ton of work to get done.”
I’m tempted to ask what kind of urgent beauty editing would require such attention but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to endure a twenty-minute monologue about moisturizer.
“So he did this a few months ago?” Lucy says, stretching her legs out on the couch and flipping her hair to one side. I once heard a story on the radio about a person’s definitive gesture —a physical trademark like Bob Hope’s imaginary golf swing, Bruce Lee’s air-punch, Carol Burnett’s tug on her ear. With my sister, it would be the hair flipping, the incessant, never-ending hair flipping.
“Sure did.”
“Ridiculous,” she says through a mouthful of food.
Our mother is in the laundry room, just off the den, not missing a word of this. She is many things, but not a housekeeper, and from the spot where I sit, I can see her folding my father’s undershirts as methodically as if she were packing away my sister’s and my baptismal gowns. I can feel her looking at me. I wish she’d give up the act and just come join us.
“And the girl?” Lucy says, her left hand swiping at her phone.
“What about her?”
“She’s younger? Works with him?”
“Yup. A classic tale.”
“What does she look like?”
My mind flashes to the pictures I found on the Internet. “Like the girls in your magazine.”
This gets Lucy’s attention. “Hmph,” she says quietly, almost as if she’s saying it to herself. She shakes her head. “So he’s confused or something? That’s what you said the other night on the phone.”
“Apparently. I haven’t really talked to him since the other day.”
Mom can’t help herself—she puts down the laundry and rushes over to where we’re sitting.
“You haven’t talked to him?” Mom asks. She sits on the arm of the sofa and clasps her hands tightly in her lap like she’s cold.
“I really haven’t, Mom. Why would I?”
“Umm?” Lucy says. They exchange a look.
“What?”
“If I were you, I would demand more of an explanation from him,” says Lucy. “Not just about how he let this all go down but also about how he plans to fix it. You can’t just let someone walk out of your life like he’s walking out of a restaurant. Not without some repercussions. I mean, you guys have been together for how long?”
“Ten years.”
She looks at me like I’ve just told her that it’s been that long since I’ve been to the dentist.
“I see you’re still wearing your wedding ring.” She points at my hand.
“And?” I knew she would say something. “I’m still married, Lucy.”
“Really, Lucy.” Mom pats my hand. “It’s not like they’re getting divorced or something.”
Lucy’s eyes widen. “Of course they are!” she says to Mom, as if I’m not sitting right there. “She can’t stay with him—not after this.”
I pick up a cracker and jam it into the cheese. When I crunch down on it, I immediately wish that I hadn’t. It tastes like glue.
“Nobody’s getting divorced,” Mom says.
Lucy looks
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