Bombshell (7 page)

Suddenly my question seemed inappropriate. For I had never broached the subject of her personal life in a session before. It had never been an issue before and I suppose it wasn't now, I thought, glancing at her ringless left hand. A flutter of questions rose in me about the stranger who sat before me and I stared at her, hoping she'd give me some information for a change.

Of course, she didn't. “Have you ever missed a period before?”

“Never,” I said—a bit smugly, considering the fact that I couldn't entirely remember if this was true. “And I've never had a condom break inside me,” I continued, finding the validation I was looking for in the facts of this particular case. “Besides, I feel…different. My body feels different.” It was true. Ever since my period had failed to show up in its usual clockwork fashion, my body seemed to have shifted onto a new timetable. I was aware of myself in a way I hadn't been before. I woke up in the morning with a heaviness in my limbs that I couldn't attribute to sadness, for my mind felt suddenly clear.

Now here I was, sitting before a licensed professional and finally giving voice to that which my body already believed, and growing ever more suspicious of her by the second.

Just who the fuck did she think she was, telling me I had cramps? You see, that was the whole problem with this therapy business. As if anyone else could truly tell you what the hell was going on inside of you.

“I'm just saying it's a possibility you are simply suffering from PMS,” was all she replied to my protest.

I retreated then, deciding I didn't give a shit what she
thought, and moved on to the subject of Claudia, who, predictably, had already started to pine for Laurence Bennett, Eligible Bachelor Number 6,785.

“I just don't get her,” I said. “If she wants the fucking guy, she should just go after him. But instead, just like she always does when she meets a guy, she's going to go on and on about how hot he is. Then, when he doesn't notice the way she's gawking at him across a meeting room, whine, whine, whine to me about how no one appreciates her for the goddess she is, how she's better off alone, when what she really needs is to get fucking laid.”

I should mention that Shelley did not utter so much as a word during my discourse on Claudia. This was another thing I found irritating about her. How do you have a conversation with someone who seems to have no response to anything you have to say? It's so fucking ridiculous. And because she was really getting on my nerves today, I decided to tell her so.

“What makes you think I don't care about what you're saying?” she replied.

“You should see yourself,” I said, angrily trying to pull together a prim yet blank expression for her benefit. “It's clear to me you don't give a shit about what I just told you about Claudia.”

“Maybe
you
don't give a shit about what you just told me about Claudia.”

That silenced me. Probably because I had never heard Miss Priss utter a swear word—or any other word my mother might deem distasteful. Or maybe it was that she was right. I didn't give a shit—not
really
—about Claudia's love life. Or lack thereof. Then what the hell was I blabbering on about it for, especially at these prices?

So I moved on. Or thought I moved on, anyway, to the new campaign, the work I suddenly found myself deluged in. Until I came back around to someone else again, this time Lori. And just as I was summing up my assistant's weepy little love fest, I realized I was doing it again. Going on and on about nonsense. What the hell was wrong with me? I had more important things to think about. Like the fact that I could be a mother in less than a year.

But knowing that wouldn't yield the response I wanted from Shelley, and because she indicated in her usual miserly way that our time was up, I decided not to go
there
again. I mean, couldn't the woman throw in an extra five minutes of therapy once in a while, for chrissakes?

When I stood up, I suddenly realized I was exhausted. Probably from the effort of talking. I couldn't remember the last time I had spoken so much in a session.

Then, as if I couldn't resist getting in one last little bit, I turned to Shelley once I reached the door. “Oh, I guess I should tell you. I got a letter back from K. Morova.” Then I laughed mirthlessly, as if finding humor in the fact that I had been all but obsessing over a signature I had believed belonged to my biological mother, but had in fact belonged to my aunt, who was equally a stranger to me. “As it turned out, K. Morova is also my biological aunt—Katerina, I think she signed it.” Then, as quietly and simply as I might have commented on the weather, I said, “Kristina would have written herself, I suppose, except she died last year. Cancer.” Then I shrugged, tugging my pocketbook more firmly onto my shoulder and reaching for the doorknob. “So I guess I'll see you next—”

“Grace, do you realize what you've just done?” Shelley said, stopping me as I made my exit.

I looked at her, a bit startled that she'd ask me a question and allow me even an extra minute of her precious time. “What?” I replied, feeling like a recalcitrant child.

She paused, as if carefully planning her next words, which inevitably put me on guard. I didn't trust people who thought that much before they spoke.

“You told me about Kristina's passing as you were walking out the door. Why do you think you did that?”

I shrugged, though I was starting to squirm a bit inside. I guess, to be fair, I should have given the death of the woman who gave me life more than a passing mention. But then, Kristina Morova obviously hadn't thought all that much about me while she was alive, had she?

“I'll tell you why,” Shelley offered, startling me out my thoughts. Now this was getting interesting. I'd been fattening up this woman's bank account for months, and up until this moment, she had yet to offer me one bit of advice.

This better be good, I thought, standing firm as I looked down at her.

“I think you waited to talk about the most important thing that's happened in your life recently until you knew there was no more time left in the session to talk about it. In fact, I'd guess that you canceled the last two appointments for the same reason.”

I should have known she was going to turn it into one of those crazy little paradoxes. I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Then, because for a change I didn't have a proper retort, I merely shrugged again. “Maybe,” I said, giving in a hair. “But I don't think so.”

“No?” she said, her dark eyes meeting mine as if she were…challenging me.

“Nope,” I said, more firmly now.

“Let me ask you something, Grace. Have you talked to anyone since you've received that letter?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I told my friend Angie.”

“No one else? Your parents, for example?”

“Look, I'm a grown woman. I don't have to tell my parents everything.”

This got an eyebrow raise from her. Then, whether because she was too cheap to carry this conversation on for another minute, or because this was some stupid tactic of hers to get me good and mad, she simply said, “Why don't we pick up with this topic next week?”

“Sure,” I said, with a final shrug, then waltzed out the door as if I didn't have a care in the world.

 

I called my mother that night. I told myself I was just doing my usual dutiful check-in, but an undercurrent of anticipation swirled through me that I couldn't deny. In my heart, I had decided to tell my parents about Kristina Morova. I mean, they
knew
about her, had stood by me as I tracked her down. They deserved to know that she was…gone.

Besides, I was still irritated by Shelley's implication that there was some deep psychological reason why I hadn't talked about this with my parents. It wasn't as if I weren't
close
to my parents….

“Gracie, what a surprise!” my mother declared once she picked up.

I found myself taking offense at her words. It wasn't as if I never called.

“Tom!” I heard her bellow, “It's Grace.”

“Is everything all right?” my mother asked, concern evident in her voice.

Suddenly everything didn't feel all right. The weight of
all I needed to say suddenly slammed down on me, and I felt an urge to cry. “Everything's fine,” I protested, if only to convince myself.

“'Lo, Grace,” my father intoned into the phone a moment later. Something about his chipper tone had me biting my tongue.

I quickly made a decision. There was no way I could saddle them with this information on a Wednesday night. I knew my mother would cluck and murmur sympathetically, all the while working out a way she could be by my side as quickly and inexpensively as possible—because although my mother's maternal instincts always outweighed her miserly ones, she couldn't help fretting over fares. She'd be surfing the Internet all night, and she and my father would be on the first flight she could find that didn't wipe out his retirement fund.

It just seemed like too much to ask on a weeknight. “Everything's fine,” I said again. “I just called… I just called to say hello.”

My father grunted at this, and I tried not to allow this to rankle beneath my painfully—and surprisingly—thin skin.

“We're so glad you did,” my mother chirped, the obvious merriment in her voice making me feel the distance between us all the more keenly. “We have news. Tom, tell Gracie about the panel you've been invited to speak on.”

I felt an ease flowing back into my body as my father started regaling me with the details of the paper he was to give. Though he'd retired four years ago, he was still revered as one of the top scholars in his field for his research on the Age of Revolutions and occasionally lectured at some of the local colleges near Albuquerque. I smiled as I listened to him go on for a few moments, taking comfort in the fact that I could rely on my father always to take satisfaction in his discipline.

My mother, on the other hand, was getting impatient. “Tom, never mind that, tell Grace where you're giving the paper!”

“Oh, right,” my father said, as if remembering himself. “Paris.”

“All expenses paid, Grace,” my mother chimed in. “And just in time for our fortieth wedding anniversary!”

The full import of her words struck me then. My parents had met in Paris. My mother had been a promising young cellist fresh out of Julliard and traveling with a small symphony orchestra. My father had been on sabbatical, writing the book that would seal his career as a history professor and, ultimately, land him the tenured position he was to hold most of his life at Columbia University. It had always seemed the grandest of ironies that though they were both New Yorkers living within miles of one another for most of their lives, they had met in Paris. And what a meeting it had been. The way my mother told it, my father had approached her at an art opening featuring Paris's newest crop of artists, and within an hour of taking her hand in his and kissing it so fervently my mother claimed she blushed with embarrassment, he had declared to her that he would one day make her his wife. She had laughed mercilessly at him. Less than a year later they stood before a priest in St. Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, promising to love and cherish each other forever.

“That's wonderful news,” I said. And it was. So wonderful, in fact, that I felt my own news fading away. I was glad I hadn't told them tonight. Now was clearly not the time for such ugly declarations about wasted lives. So I swallowed it down firmly, listening as my mother waxed poetic about the museums she couldn't wait to revisit, the sights she hoped to take in, the streets she longed to walk on again, arm in arm
with my father, just as if it had been four days since they'd met, rather than forty years.

I smiled, feeling the familiar ache roll through me. Though my parents' lifelong love affair filled me with a certain happy wistfulness, it often made me feel like an interloper. Except now I didn't feel like the third wheel. I felt invisible. I don't think they even remembered I was on the line.

Well, my mother did. Eventually. “Gracie, there's only one problem,” she said. “We need to leave on December twelfth in order to be there in time for the symposium on the fifteenth. And then we'd hoped to stay on for our anniversary, which means we'd be there through Christmas….”

My parents had married two days after Christmas, filled with the notion that their love was the greatest gift they could give one another. “Oh, don't worry about me,” I said immediately. “I can always go to Angie's for Christmas.”

“Are you sure, Grace?” my mother said.

“Of course I'm sure,” I said. “I'll be fine.”

And in that moment, I was sure I would be. In fact, I was almost relieved not to have to hike to New Mexico for the holidays this year. I love Christmas in Manhattan. And Christmas with Angie's family was almost as good as Christmas with my own.

Yes, I would be just fine. I always was, wasn't I? And besides, I thought, my hand coming to rest on the swell of my stomach. I might not be so alone after all….

S
ome might say I had sunk into a world of fantasy. Perhaps I had, seeing as I felt no need to seek out the truth of my physical condition, which some voice sounding annoyingly like Shelley's told me I should do. Instead, I chose solitude, wearing it like a protective shell. I spent Friday night alone and was quite content to do so. I didn't even need vegetables to chop or bills to pay. Not even Malakai's inquiries after my absent boy
du jour
could distill the comfort I had found in being alone.

Because I no longer felt alone.

And whether this child I was convinced grew inside me was a fantasy or not, it was something I wanted—needed—to cling to for the moment.

So I clung, curling up on the couch in my fluffiest robe
with a salty box of Chinese takeout and settling in to watch an even saltier woman. Mae West in
I'm No Angel,
which I stumbled across while channel surfing.

I didn't bother to answer the phone, letting the machine pick up instead. Claudia called first, probably looking for some affirmation that Laurence Bennett—who had followed up our meeting with a full-blown proposal for the new campaign coupled with a vague promise of cocktails—found her just as desirable as she had found him. There were also a few hang-ups, which I would normally attribute to the ex, in this case, Ethan, but I had no need to imagine desire where there wasn't desire. One message was from Angie—and I almost picked up, as she sounded kind of desperate. But since she went on to assure me that nothing was wrong, I decided it was just Angie's usual drama. Whatever she had to tell me could wait.

So I waited, going to bed early and rolling into a lazy Saturday morning. I ignored the paperwork I'd dragged home, barely even glanced at the newspaper after plucking it up from my doormat. Instead, I indulged in a hearty bowl of fruit and yogurt, then took a long, hot shower, feeling for the first time in ages, a certain comfort in my skin.

I no longer felt compelled to do anything—strive, socialize, mate. It was as if some great pressure had been lifted.

I discovered, that very afternoon, where that sudden release of pressure had come from.

My period.

Never had I felt such a rush of pure disappointment. But as I let out a long sigh, I realized deep down I had been expecting it along. Did I really think I was going to get what I wanted simply because I desired it?

 

“Why didn't you call me back?” Angie complained when I finally did pick up the phone on Sunday night.

I started to make up some plausible excuse when she cut me off.

“Listen, I was gonna invite you over for drinks to tell you, but now it's Sunday night and I know you have work tomorrow, and Justin and I are getting up early to scout out a location. I'm not even sure we're going to be able to get to use it for the movie. God only knows why we have to get there at six—”

“Angie, what's up?” I asked. I knew whenever she started to babble like she was right now,
something
was up.

She paused, then, as if finding no other way to frame it, she said, “Gracie, Friday night, Justin—that is, we're engaged!”

My stomach dipped and tears rushed to my eyes. “Oh, God, Angie…that's—that's wonderful. Congratulations!” I exclaimed, and despite my joy for her, I felt myself over-compensating. “Wow, I almost can't believe it. I mean, not that I can't believe it—” I stopped short, not understanding what I was feeling but suddenly flooded with a throat-clogging emotion. My God. Angie was getting married. The girl I had shared everything with since the age of twelve was going to share her life with someone else….

“I can't believe it either, Grace. I mean, I knew Justin and I would always be together, but
now
he decides to get engaged? We're going to start shooting in April!”

But she put whatever anxiety this clearly had produced in her aside as she proceeded to explain how he had proposed. “We're at the movies on Friday night—we went to see the new Nicole Kidman movie. Which was excellent, by the way….”

I had to bite back a smile as the expected movie review came. As she was just about to comment on the art direction, I said, “Angie, the engagement? What happened next?”

“Right. Okay, so we're walking out of the theater—you know, the AMC theater on 42nd Street? Anyway, I'm heading for the escalator down when Justin starts tugging me toward the escalator up and I don't know what he's doing but you know how he loves exploring buildings, so we go up to one of the top floors—you know how big that theater is, right? And then he's dragging me through these doors outside that I've never seen before and I'm a little nervous, you know, because no one up is up there, but he's looking around like we're about to get in trouble and I realize this is because we probably aren't
supposed
to be using these doors, and suddenly we're standing on some kind of balcony. It overlooked 42nd Street and we could see the lights of Times Square in the distance and it was so beautiful. Except I don't think we're supposed to be out there, and I turn around to tell Justin this and suddenly I don't see him. I mean, I do see him, but he's no longer eye level. He's on one knee and suddenly he's taking my hand in his—” She broke off on a sob.

“Why are you crying?” I said, concerned.

“Oh, I don't know, Gracie. It's just that…it was like everything I ever dreamed of was suddenly happening. Like, out of nowhere. I mean I had no
idea.
”

I smiled. It wasn't exactly out of nowhere. She and Justin had known each other for five years and lived together for most of them. It was true that they hadn't technically become a couple until a little over a year ago, but by the time of their first kiss, I imagined, they were already in love and hadn't even realized it.

“You should have seen my mother when we told her the
news,” Angie continued once she got control over her emotions once more. “We went out to Brooklyn this afternoon as usual,” she said, referring to the weekly four-course meal her mother served up for the family on Sunday and which Angie now went to on a fairly regular basis, probably because she wouldn't deny Justin a taste of her mother's fabulous red sauce. “Justin was gonna wait until he had a chance to crack open the bottle of champagne we brought with us to tell them, but it was like my mother had some kind of crazy radar on. She spotted the ring from the second I stepped into the kitchen. Next thing you know, she's crying and laughing and she and my grandmother—hell, everyone—was suddenly hugging us and screaming. It was a nuthouse.”

I smiled, remembering that nuthouse well.

“One glass of champagne later and my mother is really crying,” Angie continued. “She starts talking about my dad, how she wished he had lived to see his only daughter get married….”

A tremor moved through me at her words, and I felt a sense of loss I couldn't define.

“But she got over it the minute Sonny and Vanessa showed up with my adorable goddaughter….”

Sonny was Angie's older brother—and one of my first boyfriends. He was married now to Vanessa, and they had just had their first baby girl a year ago. Sonny always had been a wiseass. Which was probably why our preteen romance had ended amicably. It was hard to get broken up over a boy who kept you chronically breaking up with laughter. Or maybe it was because I hadn't truly lost anything when I lost Sonny as a boyfriend. After all, I had gained a best friend—and her family.

“Anyway, now my mother is already starting to talk about
the wedding. Justin and I haven't even set the date yet, and all of a sudden she's putting together this list, and it's getting bigger by the minute. I mean, I always knew my family was big, but she's pulling relatives I never heard of out of the woodwork. Did you know I have a cousin Mildred in Staten Island? Anyway, it's insanity! My mother was up to 150 people by the time we left, and that's not even including Justin's family….”

I had nothing to say to all this. Because I suddenly realized the true source of the sadness that had pierced me the moment she told me her happy news.

While Angie's family was growing larger, the little family I had suddenly seemed to be fading away….

 

I came to work the next morning a bit later than usual, feeling a sluggishness in my bones that made dragging myself out of bed difficult, and found a bottle of Dom Perignon on my desk.

Not feeling particularly jubilant—and somewhat wary of whatever joyful news would be heaped on me today—I paused in the doorway. Turning to Lori, who was already busy at her desk, I asked, “What's with the champagne?”

“Dianne sent it over for everyone in Marketing,” Lori replied cheerfully. “Well, you and Claudia, at least,” she continued. “Apparently, Mimi Blaustein called Dianne on Friday, and Irina's going to sign on with us for the new campaign.”

Well, at least someone was getting what they wanted, I thought, heading into to my office. I studied the fancy label, remembered the last time I had had Dom (with Michael, on the beach). Then, as if I could will that memory away, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and was about to tuck it into my bottom drawer when Claudia showed up in my doorway.

“I guess you heard the news,” she said, smiling crisply at me.

“Yes, I did. That's fabulous, Claudia. Congratulations,” I replied, my tone belying my enthusiasm.

Not that Claudia noticed. “Don't open it,” she said, as if that had been my intention. “She hasn't signed the contract yet. In fact, Dianne is personally giving Mimi and her insufferable client a tour of the Long Island compound this week. Something about Irina being some kind of animal activist and wanting assurances that our facilities are on the up and up.” She rolled her eyes. “But by the look of things, we should have a contract as early as next week. In fact, we're planning a reception for Irina here as soon as a deal is signed, to welcome her into the Dubrow family.” Another roll of the eyes, followed by a somewhat gleeful smile. “Oh, fuck it. Let's open it.”

I glanced at the clock on my desk. “Claudia, it's barely 10:00 a.m.”

“Oh, come on, Grace. Don't be such a party poop.”

Yes, Claudia Stewart, my supremely sophisticated boss, actually said “poop.”

My antennae went up. Even more so when she disappeared, only to return moments later with two champagne flutes in her hands and a smile on her face that looked positively…
merry.
Well, for Claudia, that is. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the sight of Lori, who had been looking just as curious as I was about Claudia's sudden uplift in spirits.

I mean, yeah, I was sure she was relieved to have the talent practically secured for the new campaign, but it had been clear from the start that Claudia despised everything the nineteen-year-old supermodel stood for. Surely it couldn't be Irina who brought the glow to her eyes….

As it turned out, I was right.

“So I reviewed Larry's proposal.”

“Oh, Larry, is it?” I asked, remembering how a week earlier, Claudia had been railing against the very same Laurence Bennett, who had yet to follow up on his promise of drinks with her, though his assistant had already called two times to see if we'd had a chance to look at his bid to win the Roxy D campaign.

She ignored my implication, focusing instead on the wire at the neck of the bottle as she carefully twisted it off. “His ideas are very good. In fact, we're having drinks on Wednesday to discuss them further.”

“Is that right?” I said, studying her features, which were now slightly flushed. I had a feeling that flush had little to do with the exertion she was now putting into opening that bottle. “So he finally called?”

“Actually, I called him,” she said, freeing the bottle of the wire. “You know, to talk to him about the proposal, of course,” she added quickly, as if she feared she might look like she was chasing after the man.

“Oh, of course,” I said, studying her.

“Anyway, we got to talking, and I told him I was passing his proposal on to Dianne for a look, and one thing led to another and he suggested we meet for drinks.”

I stared back at her, understanding suddenly just how Laurence Bennett was about to win probably the biggest ad campaign—at least in terms of budget dollars allotted—from the usually formidable VP of Marketing at Roxanne Dubrow.

He had hit Claudia right where she was most vulnerable. Her feminine ego.

“Claudia, you do realize that we can't make a decision on this until we consider other agencies.”

She glared at me, her hands poised around the neck of the bottle. “I know
that.
” Then she smiled again, a bit dreamily. “But I have to say, this proposal from Larry's agency looks very…
promising.
”

The cork came flying out, nearly decapitating the cardboard cutout of Priscilla, last year's only-25-and-now-discarded model, which I had allowed Lori to prop up against one of my walls, as I found myself unable to toss it out.

I bit my tongue, not wanting to dispel the happiness on Claudia's face as she filled our two glasses. Who was I to tell her how to run her campaign—or her love life, for that matter? It wasn't as if I were any shining role model in either department.

She held up her glass, narrowing her eyes as she carefully considered her toast. Then, clinking her flute gracefully into mine, she said, “To getting what we want.”

Then, apparently satisfied that she was going to get all
she
wanted, she downed that glass of Dom in one fell swoop.

 

“So what do you think of Pete?” Angie asked, as we lounged together on the couch that bordered the back wall of Three of Cups, the East Village bar that she and Justin had chosen for their friends to gather together in for an informal celebration of their engagement on Tuesday night.