Ask Again Later (23 page)

“So, what do you say? Will you marry me?” Sam asks.

Congratulations

I WALK INTO
Paul's waiting room and someone is in
my
seat. Slight panic. My seat is taken! There are five seats—only one is taken. The one I usually sit in. Eventually, I do sit. I sit in another seat.

I wait for Paul. He'll either open his office door and nod me in, or he'll enter through the main door, giving me pause to wonder where he's been previously. Men's room? House call? Lunch date? Slept in this morning? Once, I imagined an elaborate scenario that had him
swimming laps first thing in the morning. This is the only way I could explain to myself why he would have wet hair at my ten
A.M
. appointment. Certainly, he didn't sleep until nine and then shower and dash to his office. He was too ideal to be late. Or to be the sort to sleep until nine.

Paul opens the door. He smiles. I stand up and walk into his office.

I go back to my favorite diversions. Arranging books on his shelf, staring at the trees outside. But the diversions don't work as well as they used to.

“I'm getting married,” I say.

“Congratulations,” Paul says.

“Do you think you'll ever get remarried?” I ask.

“No,” Paul says.

“I knew it!” I say. “I knew you were divorced when you stopped wearing your ring and that you just didn't want to tell me.”

“Once you get the bit in your mouth,” Paul says.

“Okay, I'm deciding whether I should ignore the fact that you just called me a horse,” I say. “Or focus on how I think you've been lying about being married.”

All sorts of things are occurring to me. For the most part I'm thinking that when I get married it may be time to leave my shrink. My father's diligent understudy. Breaking up is never easy. And because it's never easy he's already slinging mud and comparing me to a horse!

“I think you might miss me if I weren't coming here anymore,” I say.

“What made you think of that?” Paul asks.

“I was thinking about what being married might mean,” I say. “It would probably mean leaving therapy at some point, don't you think?”

“Would it?” Paul says.

“Yes,” I say. In Central Park there is a kite stuck high up in a tree. The kite looks brand new.

“I'd miss you,” I say.

“What would you miss?” Paul asks.

“I don't know. The time,” I say.

We sit in silence for a while.

“Yeah, it's time,” Paul says.

I stand up. I'm walking toward the door.

“Again, congratulations, Emily,” Paul says.

“Thanks,” I say.

We sit in silence for the next thirty minutes.

Bride of Phil

WE ARE HAVING BRUNCH.
Me, Mom, and Phil. They are a pair now. I'm the reason we have to wait for a table for four because we no longer fit at a deuce. There's no seeing Mom without seeing Phil. My popularity is on the decline. No more last-minute urgent phone calls about a spa day I have to attend, or a breakfast I need to be ready for in thirty minutes.

“We have some news,” Mom says.

I get a pit in my stomach. One of them must have cancer again. Which one? Let it be Phil. Let it be Phil. I know, I know, that's just terrible. Please, for the love of God, let it be Phil.

“We're getting married,” Phil says. “It's going to be an extravaganza.”

“In three to six months,” my mom says.

Phil was originally given three to six months to live. It's their magically morbid joke.

“Why wait the traditional one year?” Phil asks.

“I can't think of a single reason,” I say “It will be a momentous occasion,” Phil says.

“And I know exactly what I want my dress to look like,” Mom says. “I want it to be just like Tara's, but instead of white, I'd like it to be lilac. And I'll use better-quality fabrics, of course.”

“Who's Tara?” I ask.

“Who's Tara?” Mom says, her eyes rolling. “Tara from
The Passionate & the Youthful.
You remember her wedding! We watched it over and over again.”

“Oh, right,” I say. It was a three-ring circus of a wedding. We recorded it, and even when we viewed it a second and third time, we cried at their I dos. We were so grateful for any outlet for our emotions at that time. “But you're skipping the headgear, right?”

“Undecided,” Mom says.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs: What the hell do you see in each other?

I imagine Joanie shouting back: Life!

The thought of this, not her wedding, makes me eerily happy. My mom is getting married. She's leaping forward into the great unknown with a smile on her face.

“I'm thrilled for you both,” I say.

“What other mother gets the double joy of planning her daughter's wedding and her own wedding?” Mom asks.

Smell of New Leather

I SMELL NEW LEATHER
even before I'm inside his office, and it can mean only one thing: he got a real couch! It's brown leather. Clubby-looking. It has some strategically placed throws on it that I can't imagine him shopping for. Gifts?

“You said—”

But before he could finish, I said: “I know what I said.” I lay on the couch. A deal's a deal.

There is a new painting, too. It stretched the distance of the couch, a field of poppies. Not masculine. Not feminine exactly.

“What's the story on the painting?” I ask.

“It's by a French painter. Reminded me of van Gogh without all of the craziness,” Paul says.

“I think that's what people
like
about van Gogh,” I say.

“Maybe,” he says.

“The painting is nice. The new couch is nice. But that daybed you had? That was absurd! It wasn't good enough for you. Neither was the rug that I'm sure everyone was probably tripping over for fifteen years. So good work on getting out of your funk. I think you're starting to care about yourself again.”

I hear laughter.

“What?” I say.

“I think you're going to like the couch,” Paul says.

Back in the World

WENDY'S NAILS ARE
painted red. First time I've seen her with a manicure—ever. Looks a little severe, but it seems so sweet that she's trying to get back into the world.

“What should I wear?” Wendy says. “I'll be going from work to a date.”

“You can never go wrong with stretchy stirrup pants and an oversized T. And don't forget the scrunchie,” I say. “How about a suit?”

“A suit?” Wendy asks. “My ex said that women in suits scare men. That's when I started wearing separates. I think it was too late by then.”

“More casual,” I agreed. “You know, Wendy, you're so organized, and on top of things, maybe relaxing your wardrobe will relax you on the date. It might be a nice complement to your strengths.”

“That's good advice,” Wendy says. “Thanks.”

Wendy is my father's office widow. She never asked if I wanted to help clean out his office. I was surprised not to be asked about this, but grateful. My father's apartment has been organized for weeks. Wendy took his books. We donated his clothing and some of his furniture. I gave my sister his cuff links because I have to believe that there will be a time when she'll want to examine her own relationship with our father and that it will be easier for her to do so if she doesn't have to involve me.

We're almost finished with dinner, and a bottle of wine, when Wendy gets to the real reason she wanted to see me.

“I have something to ask you,” Wendy says.

“Okay,”

“It's kind of awkward,” Wendy says.

“Money?” I say.

“Not that awkward,” Wendy says. “Well, maybe it is that awkward, but in a different way.

“I'm, um, I'm thinking of having a baby, and I have to choose a donor. A sperm donor. I keep reading the profiles of all these donors, and instead of seeming like donors they start to seem like potential dates, and it's really
fogging my judgment. I just need someone to read these and tell me who's the best father on paper,” Wendy says.

“That's huge. That's great,” I say.

“Well, so, can you read a couple of profiles and let me know who you'd choose?” Wendy says.

Sure. Of course. I'm flattered; I'm confused.

“Why are you asking me to do this?” I ask.

“I think you're very…sensible. Intuitive, too,” Wendy says. “By the way, if you're having a hard time choosing between two guys, look in their files and see if they have attached or detached lobes. That can be the tiebreaker. I have attached lobes, so let's vote that way,” Wendy says.

Locker-Room Talk

I MEET MARJORIE
at the tennis club. I stretch my legs. She walks toward me in a panic.

“I feel like jumping out a window,” Marjorie says.

“Why?” I say.

She hands me a glossy piece of paper with a grainy, unidentifiable image on it.

“How many do you see?” Marjorie says.

“How many what? I don't even know what the hell I'm looking at,” I say.

“Two! You see twins,” Marjorie says.

“Wow—that's amazing,” I say. “Congratulations. Just
think, it only took you ten months to come up with a name for one!”

“They're going to need names—shit, that didn't even occur to me,” Marjorie says. “My timing is terrible. I wanted to have them two years apart.”

“You get what you get—be happy about it. This year. Next year. Is there really a difference? You always wanted a big family,” I say.

Marjorie wants what she didn't have when we were growing up. More kids. More noise. I want what we had before it all fell apart.

“Yeah,” she says. “That's true. And I can have my boobs lifted after they're born, because I'll be all done.”

“I knew you could find the silver lining,” I say.

After we play tennis we go into the locker room to change. There is a naked woman drying her hair in front of an enormous mirror. She's spraying it, blowing it out, working on a genuine updo. All this—while completely naked. It's taking way too long. People are going out of their way to walk very far around her as she dries her hair.

“What's up with that?” Marjorie says.

I shrug my shoulders.

“That pubic hair is frightening. Seriously, have you ever seen so much pubic hair?” Marjorie says, more with baffled awe than judgment.

“Actually, no, I haven't. It looks like it's been grafted onto her,” I say.

Marjorie starts laughing. She can't stop. “Pubic hair grafting,” Marjorie says.

“Whoa, lady, tame that triangle!” I say, while throwing myself back toward the lockers, pretending the pubic hair is strangling me. The blow-dryer stopped at least fifteen seconds ago, and the woman who was drying her hair is now staring at me in disbelief.

“What are you two—twelve years old?” the woman asks.

Marjorie gathers her gear and hightails it out of the locker room.

There's no such thing as grown-up, I remember Paul saying.

The Brontë Sisters

MY REPLACEMENT STARTED
today. I, Emily the intentionally incompetent, am to train the new receptionist. I am slow to dole out the nuances I've learned in my tenure here. I will pass them out like kibble.

Her name is Charlotte. She is my age approximately. I can tell from the get-go that I can teach this woman nothing. She's a highly functioning individual. Emotionally stable. Average-looking. Smart enough. Pleasant voice. Easy to laugh. She's got the whole package. Unfortunately for her, the reward for having this particular “package” is a desk job that she can keep as long as she desires. That
means she'll have this job for twenty years. Perhaps not unfortunately, because she seems like she might actually enjoy answering the phone. She lifts the receiver as if performing a ballet.

“Funny, we're both named after Brontë sisters,” I say.

“Do they work in the building?” Charlotte asks, while unpacking seven framed photographs of her Yorkie, Lady.

“No, they're…yeah. Yeah. They work in the coffee shop,” I say.

I give her time to organize her dog photos and various dog statuary. She places her makeup mirror directly in front of her on the desk. Her makeup bag (yes, dogs on that, too) goes next to the mirror. In the meantime, I return to making personal calls on company time. I view this as a service to the law firm. The sooner I get on with my life, tie up the loose ends that now keep me in a state of flux, the sooner I get out the door and they move forward with a qualified receptionist. It's my last week, but if things don't work out for me on the outside, we all know I'll be back. And that won't be good for anyone.

It's taken a while, but I've worked it so most of the lawyers now answer their own phones. They grew tired of missing calls, or receiving the wrong ones. If I've taught them nothing else, they will appreciate a good receptionist. I've got high hopes for Charlotte. She moves into the job with zeal. She takes over the place. With her personal
belongings on display for all to see, she's inviting people into her world. An invitation is an invitation. She's not self-conscious or embarrassed about the twisted one-dimensional canine-adoring planet from where she hails. This is self-acceptance on the grandest scale. She might be the most amazing person I've ever met.

Milestone

MY MOTHER IS STANDING
on a ladder, mop in hand.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Cleaning windows?” Mom says. “It drives me nuts to look at that dirt,” Mom says.