A Window Opens: A Novel (3 page)

•  •  •

“Alice?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything.” We were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Can we not tell anyone about this? It’s really embarrassing.”

“Of course. But, Nicholas, this happens to a lot of people. Law firms are notoriously—”

“No, I’m serious. I’m going to need clients and I don’t want anyone thinking of me as some sad sack.”

“Who would think that? Are you kidding?” (The words
passed over
flashed through my mind like subtitles in a poorly translated movie. I banished them immediately.)

“Alice, I’m serious. You need to promise this is just between us.”

“I promise.”

“Especially your dad.”

“What about my dad?”

“I don’t want him to know.”

“Okay, Nicholas, but eventually we’ll have to tell him.”

“I know. I just want to . . . live with this decision a little bit before I hash it out with him. He’ll have his own opinions and—well, honestly, I don’t want to hear them right now.”

“Okay.”

I remembered my dad at Nicholas’s law school graduation, his lanky frame folded into a plush chair at Carnegie Hall. The dean was firm about holding applause until the last juris doctor accepted her diploma, but when Nicholas strode across the stage, baby-blue robe shining in the spotlight, my dad rose up in the middle of the audience. Just stood there, ramrod straight, no sound except the thump of his chair folding closed, wearing an ecstatic grin.

My mind reeled with people I might talk to in strictest confidence—my brother, Will; my mom; my friend Susanna; one of my college roommates—but then I focused on my own potential to be a hero in this private family drama. I would forge ahead, quietly, full of grit and grace. I would channel my grandmother, who moved to Boston from County Roscommon when she was eighteen, married an underemployed charmer who died when she was pregnant with their sixth kid (my dad), raised her family on the top floor of a Dorchester triple-decker while cooking for a
fancy family in Winchester, and still found time to crochet afghans and serve as prefect of the sodality at church.

•  •  •

Until this point, I’ll admit, I was the tiniest bit smug about my work–life balance. When other moms complained about the never-ending treadmill connecting home and work and everything in between, I kept quiet, knowing how lucky I was to have a part-time job I loved. I wasn’t part of the high-powered commuter set and I wasn’t a PTA insider, but I got to dip into both worlds.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I was the books editor of
You
, a position I’d held since Margot was a baby. My job consisted of reading books sent to the magazine by publishers, picking the ones we would review, then writing the reviews. Sure, the magazine was geared to a demographic Nicholas and I half-jokingly referred to as sorority girl health nuts. But my colleagues were like family, and the job offered the perfect combination of intellectual stimulation and access to the last word in spin shoes from the fitness closet. Best of all, I still had time to actually spin, when I wasn’t refereeing play dates and having coffee with friends.

On a Tuesday, I might take an early shift at a bake sale in the school gym, selling whole-grain organic blueberry muffins to voters on their way to the 8:16 train, and the next day, I’d be waiting on the platform with those same people, this time wearing heels instead of Converse. I kept two bags on the red bench by our front door: one Orla Kiely tote stocked with Band-Aids and flavor-blasted Goldfish; the other, a Furla shoulder bag containing manuscripts and magazine layouts.

I loved those weekday afternoons with my kids, even though there was often a shrill edge to my reminders to put away play dough/crayons/baseball cards/hockey guys/Apples to Apples. And despite their constant grumbling about walking Cornelius and the weird bread I packed in their lunches, despite the hundreds of shapes of pasta I swept off the kitchen floor over the years and all those microscopic Polly Pocket shoes I felt guilty throwing out, nothing gave me greater pleasure than glancing at
the rearview mirror of my minivan and seeing our trio. There was Margot, her blue glasses eternally halfway down her nose; only the top of Oliver’s head visible as he buried his nose in the
Dictionary of Disgusting Facts
; and Georgie, sporting an impossible bounty of hair accessories—ribbons fastened to metal alligator clips, candy-striped bobby pins, plastic Goody barrettes shaped like butterflies and poodles.

Our house is so close to their elementary school, I can actually see each of the kids in their classrooms, depending on what grade they’re in (hello, therapy). When the red doors opened at the end of the day, I waited for them to burst out and race toward me as quickly as was humanly possible beneath the weight of their massive backpacks. On the days we didn’t have soccer or swimming or hip-hop, they each brought a friend home and we crossed over together midway down the block, a chain of seven happy people holding hands.

On my work days, Nicholas and I relied on Jessie, the babysitter we’d hired from Craigslist seven years earlier, when she was eighteen and we were new transplants to New Jersey. She was our first friend in Filament and was still our coolest, by a wide margin. When she wasn’t coloring Shrinky Dinks or carpooling our kids, Jessie was the lead singer with the Prenups, northern New Jersey’s premier wedding band. Thanks to her rocker influence, Oliver could pick out “More Than Words” on her Fender before he even learned to write his name. All three kids could play a mean air guitar.

With her nose pierce, dahlia tattoo sleeve, and blue-streaked hair, Jessie is the opposite of Mary Poppins, but she’s as unflappable as I am easily flustered. On a typical night, I came home to find her in the kitchen, pulling a lasagna out of the oven while teaching Margot how to reduce fractions while supervising a craft project involving Georgie, popsicle sticks, and Elmer’s glue. If Oliver happened to be tap-dancing on the ceiling, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Nicholas and I knew how lucky we were. At least, I hope we did.

•  •  •

A few days after Nicholas’s revelation, I was at the
You
offices, stuffing a stack of publishers’ galleys in my bag, gearing up to race for the 6:09 train back to Filament, when I noticed that the features editor, Annika, was alone in her office. I tapped on the wall next to her door. “Do you have a minute to chat?”

“Alice! Always. Come in, sit.” With one elegantly muscled arm, she gestured at the Ultrasuede swivel chair in front of her desk, her wide-set Jackie Kennedy eyes narrowing with concern when I slid the shower-style door closed behind me. “Oh no. Is this serious?” Her expression rearranged itself from “ready for harmless gossip” to “I’m sorry to hear you have a suspicious mole.”

“I wanted to see if by any chance you guys might have a full-time position for me. My circumstances have changed at home, and well, I need to step it up. Financially.” My unrehearsed explanation sounded unintentionally dire. I corrected my posture, as we were often exhorting women to do in
You
: spine straight, shoulders back, chin up. My imaginary sister hoisted a pair of pom-poms and cheered me on: You’ve got this. You go, girl.

Annika furrowed her brows, which were groomed, like mine, by an opinionated aesthetician who set up his tweezers, scissors, and powders in the photo department once a month. “Is everything . . . okay?”

“Yes! Everyone is healthy. Nicholas and I are fine. It’s just—we’re facing some financial challenges. Also, the kids are all in school now so I don’t really need to be at home so much anymore.” The words felt strange in my mouth,
need
being very different from
want
. My throat tightened. I could picture the expression on my own face since I saw it so often on Margot’s: eyes wide, lips tight, nostrils flared. Determination with a side of hesitation.

“Okay. I hear you. Listen, Al, I can ask around, but with ad pages shrinking—and really we don’t do as much as we used to with books—I’m not optimistic. I wish I could be. You know we love having you here.” Annika’s voice quavered. We’d known each other for years;
You
was a place where I once bared my pregnant belly in a meeting to show
the younger editors my crazy highway system of bright-blue veins. The boundary between professional and personal had long ago evaporated.

“No worries, I get it.” On the wall behind Annika’s desk was an arty photograph of a large broken egg. I could see my reflection in the glass over the yolk: forehead crinkled, hair a little frizzy despite its thrice weekly drubbing by flat iron. “Annika, I think I need to start looking for a new job.”

We sat quietly for a minute, staring at each other over her desk.

Annika gestured at her mega-Rolodex, which contained the stapled-in cards of every editor in New York City, not to mention celebrity gynecologists, pinch-hitting babysitters, pet behaviorists, and Ivy League matchmakers. “Alice, anything I can do to help. Just say the word.”

Dad:
Dear Al, are you out there?

Me:
Yes. On train, heading home.

Dad:
How was your day? What’s the news?

Me:
Nothing to report. You?

Dad:
Mom and I are going to the Saint Patrick’s Day parade in Newark. Join us?

Me:
No, thanks. Bagpipes depress me.

Dad:
OK. Dinner Sun?

Me:
As long as corned beef and cabbage are not on the menu.

Dad:
Lamb, mint jelly, Yorkshire pudding. CU! Love, Dad.

“It’s not that they don’t
like
me, but Annika doesn’t think they have a full-time position in the budget. She said if I was interested in covering beauty, maybe, but otherwise . . .” Nicholas and I were in the basement, separating empty cans of Happy Hips dog food from flattened cereal boxes and tying newspapers in preparation for recycling day. Some couples have date night; we have our weekly powwows over the plastic bins by the dryer.

“And you couldn’t do beauty?” Nicholas’s laser focus annoyed me. Had it escaped his notice that I barely wore makeup and polished my boots more frequently than my nails?

“No, I can’t do
beauty
. Nicholas! I’m a books person. And I’ve been at
You
for too long. Current circumstances aside, it’s time to start looking for a new job.”

“Can you not put it like that? ‘Current circumstances’? It’s not like I’m leaving my firm to run a lemonade stand. I have a plan, Alice.”

“I know. But your plan is going to take a while to implement, and I want to make sure we’re . . . secure.” I sliced my thumb on the edge of a Rice Krispies box, then paused to shake it frantically in the air.

“I appreciate that. But I’m not wild about the subtext of what you’re saying. It’s not like I—”

“I’m just worried. Suddenly I’m married to a man who threw a computer across the room and that makes me nervous. I’m sorry, but it does.”

“Alice, I told you, it was
closed
and we were in a
conference room
. Nobody got hurt.”

“I know, you keep saying that, but the bigger issue is: you just destroyed your credibility in that corner of the legal community and I don’t think—”

“Exactly. You’re right. I did. But the truth is I don’t want to be in that corner anymore, and Win Makepeace just happened to be the person who forced my hand. I’m trying to look to the future. What’s next? I’m about to find out. Sounds like you are, too.”

•  •  •

At Nicholas’s parents’ fortieth anniversary party, one of their old friends gave a toast about how he’d never expected their relationship to last. Judy and Elliott had been a pair of hippies, hopeless dreamers, who got hitched on a lark. But their relationship turned out to have legs: my in-laws traded their Beetle for a Buick, their fondue pot for a crockpot, became homeowners, parents, churchgoers, scout leaders, business partners, Reiki masters.

This evolution could have been their undoing, but—said this bearded man whose martini listed dangerously to the side—instead Judy and Elliott managed to change alongside each other, and that, he believed,
was the key to their contentment. And most likely the key to the dissolution of his own marriage because his ex hadn’t been able to expand her vision of their future together to accommodate his dream of opening a mobile hookah lounge.

The speech ended on an awkward note, with everyone assuring the guy that he should
of course
go into the hookah business. Meanwhile, I held on to one memorable phrase:
change alongside one another
.

There’s something to it. Nicholas and I certainly aren’t always completely in sync—he’s an introvert and a cynic; I’m an optimist. He considers people guilty until proven innocent; I collect new friends wherever I can find them. But changing together? We’re good at that.

•  •  •

Oliver, Nicholas, and my dad were wrapped up in March Madness, cheering loudly for the Hoyas. While Nicholas and Oliver whooped and yelled, my dad had his own unorthodox way of expressing enthusiasm. Since he couldn’t make a peep without holding a little electric wand to his neck, he simply pressed the button on the side of his electrolarynx so it emitted a steady vibrating buzz, the sound of an electric razor. The kids called the device Buzz Lightyear.

My mom and I were in the kitchen, wiping down the counters and preparing a tray of green cannolis for dessert. (In Essex County, everybody is Irish in March, even Italian bakers.) “Mom, have you heard anything from Will?”

She shook her head, her amethyst earrings making a little tinging sound. “Not in a few weeks. I know the boys are getting ready for their recital, so that’s probably keeping everybody busy.” My nephews are Suzuki prodigies—two apples who fell really far from their father’s tree. When my brother was their age, he was a garden-variety dirt bike–riding, baseball-playing, noogie-giving troublemaker. The only bows he knew were the ones he used to tie me to the tetherball pole in our backyard.