Bundle of Joy? (11 page)

“I hear it’s good. Want some?” she pressed.

I followed her into the kitchen and we sat on the stools at the counter. She held the gift glasses up for inspection; I gave her the thumbs-up. She added ice and poured. I clinked a glass against hers and sipped. It wasn’t bad, sort of sweet. Both of us nodded approval and laughed.

I liked Kelly. She was easy—not in a sexual way. I wished I could make an impression the way she did. We had been spending a decent amount of time together, catching up when she got home or watching the occasional talk show together when I wasn’t working or running to apartments. I hadn’t told her or Armando that I was looking. That would have meant I was fully committed to moving out. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure that I was.

“So what did you do tonight?” she asked. “Tell me one of us got lucky.”

“Hardly. I went out with my mother.”

“Your mother live around here?”

“Astoria—where all the Greeks are.”

She topped off my drink and poured herself another. “You guys close?”

I snorted. “No.”

“So why did you go out to dinner?”

I can see how from the outside it would be the right question.

“She doesn’t really have anyone.”

“Your dad passed?”

“No, he’s in Cyprus. He lives there. I don’t know what the story is with their marriage—if there is a marriage.”

“And you’re an only child?”

“No, well, now I am.” Maybe this was why I didn’t like meeting new people. Maybe I just didn’t want to have to share my family history with anyone. “My oldest sister died when she was nineteen, and my other sister, she sort of ran away.”

“Wow,” Kelly said, nodding.

The few times I had said this to someone I had seen that look. The pity look. I got it from all my teachers; from kids at school who otherwise would have teased me for being too smart; and the few times that it came up when I worked at the nonprofit. Only two people hadn’t given me that look: Jamie had hugged me when I told her and not asked any more questions, and Warren Tucker had kissed me on the jetty in Block Island.

“How did she die?” Kelly asked.

I wasn’t expecting it, but it was a fair question. Of course she backed it up.

“I mean, we don’t have to talk about this.”

“She, uh, got into a moped crash in Cyprus. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.”

“She was driving.”

“No, her fiancé was. He died, too. He was Cypriot.” Now that I had started, I was going to tell the whole story. “She was supposed to be home, but she called my parents and asked them to let her stay. They only let her because they liked him. He was from a good family, that’s all that mattered to them.”

“She must have liked him too.”

I nodded. She must have. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d never met him. She saw him on the sly for two years when we were in Cyprus before she told my parents. An image of my sister flashed through my mind. She was getting up from a table, her long red-streaked hair a curtain on one side of her face. She had spent hours on her hair; she hated when it got messed up. My mother had clucked disapprovingly at the amount of time Cristina spent on her hair. It was her only vanity.

“She was really pretty,” I said.

“I can imagine,” Kelly said, nodding.

I looked at her curiously.

“Well,
you
are.”

“Come on!”

“I’m serious.”

“This old thang,” I said, teasing. I poured myself another drink.

“Really. When was the last time you had a boyfriend?”

“Greek girls don’t date.”

“Why?”

“We just get married.”

“So, wait.” Her eyebrows rose. Her eyes shot down to my crotch, then she caught herself and giggled.

“No, I’m not a virgin.”

“What a scandal.”

“Tell me about it. Not a virgin, but a spinster.”

“Jeez,” she said. “I guess we’ve all got our issues.”

“What, do American mutts have problems too?” I was teasing, but her face got serious and I regretted being so flippant. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You don’t get along with your parents either?”

“No, it isn’t that. They were alcoholics.
Are
alcoholics. Sometimes we didn’t even have food in the house. Boy, did they know how to go at each other. They got divorced and started their twelve steps. Now, it’s like they just want to go out to dinner with me, together, and act like nothing was ever wrong.”

“But you’re still mad at them?”

“Yeah, but like, they don’t or won’t remember half of the things I do about the past. They have no idea what they were like, but I can’t forget. I feel guilty because they mean well, they’re trying to make a fresh start. You know, what am I supposed to do with all this shit?”

I shrugged. We were almost done with the Amaretto Di Saranno.

“Do you ever worry that you’ll turn out like them?” I wondered if I was treading on thin ice, but Kelly wasn’t like me. She was open.

“No, I’m so used to being in control of things, you know, being the responsible one, for them. I’ve always known my limits. You can’t be afraid. Although, I guess I wonder if I’ll ever have kids. I just don’t see why people do it.”

I thought of Jamie. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had more in common with someone other than her. It was unexpected. I hadn’t really let myself think about having kids—I had just thought I was too far from it. But the truth was, I didn’t know if I wanted kids either. There. I had admitted it to myself.

“I should get to bed,” Kelly said. “I have a six a.m. call tomorrow.”

I looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. I said good-night, poured myself the rest of the amaretto and took the phone into my room. I planned to call Maureen Soltero and offer $220K on the studio. They were asking $225, but with any luck the prospective bidders had gone way low. She told me I could call her anytime on her cell, but she seemed like the type of person who answered at all hours. And after all of the amaretto, I wasn’t sure I should be talking to anyone. I decided to call her office and leave a message so she would get it in the morning.

I started to dial her number. Then I stopped. Maybe I shouldn’t make this kind of decision in my current state. In fact, maybe the place wasn’t all that great after all. A lot of people thought that doormen really did nothing but add thousands of dollars to the asking price. The same could be said for decorative fireplaces. I wasn’t even sure what the building sublet policy was. I had never thought about things like this until Maureen told me that a liberal policy was good for reselling. Also, how much of the building was owner occupied? This didn’t matter to me, but apparently it mattered to banks. I should have answers to these questions before I made a move, right?

I knew I was making excuses. The truth was that most of me wanted to get my own place, but a tiny tiny part of me feared that if I didn’t have people around me—if I didn’t have roommates—I would turn into a recluse. I would become a cat lady. I would be dead for three days before anyone bothered to look for me. It was silly, but I had realized while talking to Kelly that I wasn’t as introverted as I liked to pretend.
I enjoyed talking to people and listening to their stories; that’s half the reason I enjoyed my job so much. Finding out how other people lived, what it would be like to walk in their shoes, was exciting.

I changed into my pajamas and finished my drink before washing up for bed. Kelly was coming out of the bathroom as I went in.

“Sleep tight,” she said as she passed me.

I wouldn’t get that living on my own.

When I finally crawled into bed, the sweetness of the drink had added a sweetness to the world. I hadn’t been sleeping well since the fire, but I knew the amaretto would put me right out. My body felt heavy and I couldn’t wait to drift off to sleep…

Three hours later, I jolted up in bed. For a minute, I thought that there was an earthquake going on. Animals were yelping like they had been hurt. I heard thumps and I felt my bed shaking. My heart was racing as it had on the many occasions I had been startled out of bed when I was younger. Then I got my bearings and realized that the thumps were coming from Armando’s room. His usual murmurs of “shh, shh,
bella, bella
” weren’t working. He had himself a screamer. This was worse than the time I was certain he was using props.

I pulled the covers over my head, but kept feeling the wall hitting my headboard. I had always meant to move my bed, but had never gotten around to it. Plus I had arranged my room like this after doing an article on feng shui. Why should Armando’s sex life interrupt my long life and prosperity?

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! You’re so big, you’re so amazing. Oh, my God!”

Oh,
Panayia Mou,
this one needed to stop watching so much porn. It was ridiculous. (Though I had always wondered how big Armando really was.) It sounded like they were in the home stretch. “Oh, oh, oh, I looooove yooooooooooooouuu!”

I sat back up in bed. Then I giggled. That was a sure sign of a one-timer. Armando couldn’t stand for women to be too into him. I couldn’t stand the wake-up calls. He had been
considerate about bringing women home since the fire. I think he still felt really guilty, but old habits die hard, I guess.

I dialed the number to Maureen Soltero’s office. What would she think when she got a message from three-thirty a.m.? I didn’t care. I pressed the pound key on the phone when I heard her greeting. I didn’t even have the patience to listen to the whole thing.

“Maureen, hi. It’s Voula Pavlopoulos. I want to bid 220 on the place on West 15th. Talk to you tomorrow.”

W
hen I got up in the morning, I found a note slipped under my door. It was from Kelly. It said, “Amaretto not good for six a.m. calls. Neither are wailing shrieking banshee women. Hope you’re sleeping peacefully.”

I smiled. I had totally misjudged Kelly, but I had learned my lesson. Maybe we could still hang out after I moved. If I ever moved out. I was edgy about Maureen calling me. I wanted her to just call and tell me one way or the other if I had the place. I was dying to find out, but still not sure what I was hoping for.

I called Jamie as I brewed a pot of coffee. I was excited to tell her about the prospect. But when I asked her how she was doing, she launched into a lengthy monologue.

“Well, my skin is worse than ever. I had to come in to work today, because I am slammed with meetings, but I feel like shit.”

“You’re going to have to tell them soon. You’re gonna start showing.”

“I know,” she said in a pensive way before rattling off all the ways she was miserable, interspersed with stories of how great
it felt to know there was a baby growing inside her. I realized that all she was really thinking about was the baby. I doubted she could concentrate on anything else. Or maybe she had just gotten accustomed to me not having anything interesting to say about my life. It wasn’t that she was being inconsiderate, it was that she didn’t know any other way—I never had any news to report.

“This morning I was brushing my teeth,” she continued, “and the next thing I knew I was gagging. I crouched down at the toilet and tried to puke, and then I realized my legs were wet. I was peeing and gagging at the same time.”

“Gross,” I said. How could anyone choose to do this to herself?

“Oh, I wanted to tell you. Last night Raj told me Warren Tucker did body shots with the contestant. He has a strong chance of winning.”

Great, I thought. I still wasn’t exactly sure what the premise of Raj’s dating show was, because every time I asked him he rolled his eyes. He made a good living from working in television, but it seemed to shame him somehow.

“Have you watched the tape yet?”

“No,” I said. I kept it in my underwear drawer, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“You are a freak.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

“Hey, Voul, are you okay?”

Sure I was okay.
I
could keep all the fluids in my body.

“Yep!”

“Is this because of dinner with your mom?”

I heard her other line beeping. It was almost ten o’clock. I was certain she had a meeting coming. She seemed to have them on the hour.

“No. I’m fine.”

She hesitated. “Okay, Voula, look I have to take this call. I’ll call you later.
Watch the tape.
”

“Okay,” I said as she hung up. “I bid on an apartment,” I told the dead air of the phone line.

After a strong cup of coffee, I got started on my article about finding an apartment. The fictional me was a lot more sure of what she was looking for and inquisitive about all aspects of real estate. I wished I could climb into one of my pieces and live the life I presented to the diverse readers of the magazines I wrote for.

Some days I felt like a mysterious force was moving my hands over the keys of my laptop. It all went so smoothly. Nothing distracted me, not surfing the Net, not unopened Netflix envelopes, not even the growl of my stomach. Sometimes I thought it was Cristina helping me write. This was one of those days. When I looked up to answer the phone it was almost three p.m.

“Voula, it’s Maureen Soltero.”

My heart started racing. I felt like my life was about to take a drastic turn.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m sorry, dear. The sellers went with the original bidder.”

“Why?” It was a dumb question.

“Well, I think they bid significantly higher. It’s a bit of a seller’s market, you know.”

I guess she had been telling me that all along. And I had low-balled. I was crestfallen.

“We’re just going to have to get out there and find you another apartment. I’m optimistic, aren’t you?”

She asked me with such seriousness, I thought I might be agreeing to go steady.

“Yes.”

“Fabulous, I have a wonderful loft studio a block from Union Square. I think you would love it. We can head over tonight if you want.”

“You know, I think I need a couple of days to recuperate from the whole market.”

“Oh, I know it hurts, doesn’t it.” This was probably the same voice she used with her triplets. “But, you know, like with everything else, you snooze, you lose.”

“Yeah, but I have some work to do tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t scrap the whole thing. I had to get a place, I realized; otherwise the out-of-touch editor at
Financial Woman
wouldn’t be too happy with me. I had sort of insinuated I was closer and more committed to buying a place than I actually was.

“Okay, have a good night.” She sounded a little frustrated with me.

I lost significant steam after that call. I checked through my Netflix. I tried to keep Daniel Auteuil movies in constant rotation. I saw the same movies quite a few times, but it didn’t matter. I loved every nuance and twitch of his large French nose. The one I had this time was
The Widow of Saint-Pierre.

I planned to watch the whole thing, but first I went straight to my favorite part where he is about to get shot. He looks at Juliet Binoche and says, “They can’t touch us. I love you.” But in French, of course.

It brought tears to my eyes it was so real, so perfect. Warren Tucker had said some beautiful things too. Now, he was doing body shots off E-list celebrity bottom feeders.
He
was a bottom feeder. Jesus. Only Daniel could take my mind off everything. I started at the beginning and watched the whole sad, sordid tale.

The phone rang and I assumed it was Jamie. I answered without looking at caller ID.

“Hey,” I said. “I can’t believe they shot Daniel.”

“Um, excuse me.” A voice that wasn’t Jamie’s but still sounded familiar said, “I was looking for Voula Pavlopoulos.”

She said the last name like a true Cypriot. This time my heart didn’t start pounding, I just knew my life was going to change. “This is Voula.”

I heard a sob and I knew who it was even before she said, “Voula, it’s Helen.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Are you still there?” she asked when she had stopped crying.

“Yes.”

“Georgia gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me calling.”

“No.” I hesitated. “No, I don’t.”

“It’s just that I think about you all the time. I miss you. I’ve been determined to call you for the past year. I kept losing my nerve.”

I waited for her to continue. I wasn’t mad at her, but this whole thing was just too surreal. My sister was no longer a part of my life. That was a given. I had shut that part of me out. Now, there was a woman, a stranger, having an emotional breakdown on the other end of the phone. I didn’t know if I was equipped to handle this.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to get my bearings. “This comes as kind of a surprise.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry to just spring myself on you after all this time.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“I just wanted you to know that I love you, honey.”

It was too much, now. I had loved my sister, but telling someone I didn’t know anymore how I felt was just too much for me. It was too daytime TV.

“Thanks,” I said. She started to cry and I had to say something. “So, Georgia said you have kids.”

“Yes,” she sniffled.

It was a mind-fuck to hear her voice again, to think that I was actually on the phone with my sister.

“I have a boy named Spiro and a girl. Her name is Cristina.”

“Oh,” I said. That made me really sad. That made it real. We shared this. I shared memories of Cristina with this woman who was now a stranger. “How old?”

“Spiro is almost fifteen, I can’t believe it. And Cristina is four.”

“And your husband was okay with you giving them Greek names?”

She laughed for the first time. “Yeah, I even speak to them in Greek sometimes, just like—” She exhaled. “Just like us.”

“Cool,” I said.

“Andre and I would love for you to come over for dinner sometime and meet them. Or if you would rather just meet me sometime… Of course maybe you don’t want to see me, but I would really like to see you.”

“Sure,” I said. But I wasn’t going to commit to anything. “Can you give me your number?”

“You’ll call, right?”

“Yes,” I said. As I took down the number I knew I’d call, I just wasn’t sure when.

“How is your mother?”

In Greek this would have been the right way to ask, but in English I wasn’t sure if she was trying to dis
our
mother. I didn’t blame her, but I felt like someone had to stick up for Mom. “She’s okay, you know. She’s herself.”

I knew she wasn’t going to ask about our dad. “Are you going to go to Georgia’s wedding?” It was about a year away, but I needed to start preparing for it.

“That’s something I hope we can talk about when we see each other,” she said. “Of course, I would never want anything to upset Georgia on her day. If you want, she can even come to our meeting, I mean, if that makes you feel better.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. Did we need an arbiter? “So, I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”

“Okay, I really hope you do. I love you, Voula.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

After I hung up the phone it occurred to me that no one had ever told me they loved me. That’s why it had sounded so strange. A complete stranger loved me. I wanted to get back into bed, lie down and never get up. It was after seven and I had this sneaking feeling that Jamie wasn’t going to call. I could have just called her, but she had said she was going to phone. It was a stupid game, but I didn’t want to be needy and I didn’t just want to be a listening post.

I wasn’t sure when Kelly would be home but I didn’t want her to see me like this, so I took the phone into my room and lay on my bed.

I could feel the blue black buggies coming on. I had always had these moods—well, ever since Cristina died—where I needed to sit, just sit. Maybe it was wallowing. Maybe it was detrimental to my psyche, which is what Georgia had once said, but if I just took this time, I would eventually be able to get up and feel fine.

I turned on the stereo in my room and sat down on the carpet. I let myself think about Cristina and Helen and everything. I let myself sob. That was the best part of the blue black buggies. It sucked to be in them, but if you saved up, if you only let it happen every once in a while, you could let yourself have a really good cry.

Before I knew what the blue black buggies were, before I was in control, they were awful. I remember missing a week of high school because I wasn’t able to get out of bed. My mother didn’t ask me any questions. She could tolerate this so long as I didn’t talk about why. In college, I missed a week of exams. My professors were cool. I told them about my sister even though I felt bad about using her as an excuse. They let me re-take the exams if I promised to see a grief counselor. I said that I would go, but never did.

Now the whole thing wasn’t bad. It was cathartic. And naming this mood, with a term I stole from Maura after I heard her refer to an upset stomach as the bad buggies, made me feel a little more in control. It would have been pretty miserable to anyone who saw me, but it made me feel a lot better. I had it down to a system. The crying was followed by a day in bed and then a day in front of the TV watching the daytime talk shows that my sister’s call had reminded me of. The wonderful thing about Springer and Judge Judy was how much better they made you feel. I knew I was going to be okay as I cried, because I could see my way out of it. I could see ahead to a couple of days from now, when I would be watching Judge Judy calling someone stupid for getting breast implants.

When I finished the sobbing part (it lasted an hour and a half), I was exhausted. I hadn’t really eaten anything, but I had
no appetite. It was only ten, but I wanted bed. The phone rang. I didn’t know if it would be a bad idea to talk to Jamie at this point, but I answered the phone just to make sure she was okay.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello, can I speak to Voula,” a man’s voice said.

“This is Voula,” I replied, then I sniffled.

“Hey, you didn’t sound like yourself. Are you sick?”

“Who is this?” I said, getting annoyed.

“Sorry, it’s Paul.”

“The fireman?” I heard him laugh. “Hi. How did you get this number?”

“Well, I know your address. I work for the city. It’s on the report. It’s a lot easier than you might think.”

“I guess so.” I felt so stuffed up from crying that I could hardly breathe.

“So you have a little summer cold?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Boys didn’t call me. Men—this was a man—didn’t call me either. I put out a vibe, Jamie had told me. I said it was a Greek vibe and she said it was a mean vibe anytime I didn’t want her to set me up.

“Well, listen, Ms. Voula, do you think maybe you might like to go out sometime—you know, grab a beer?”

“A beer?” Was I being asked out? Hadn’t he caught my vibe?

“Yeah, or a coffee, or you know, whatever.”

Whatever? What was whatever? Did Daniel Auteuil ask women out for whatevers? Did it sound better in French?

“Sure,” I said before I meant to. I still had two days of bad buggies to contend with and I was accepting dates for whatevers. Who was I?

“Or maybe dinner. Would you like to go to dinner?”

“I certainly prefer that to whatever.”

He laughed again. “You know, you’re a very funny girl.”

“Thanks. I’m a regular Joe Pesci.”

He laughed again.

He got it, which I liked. He did about a sentence of
Good-fellas
and then stopped just in time. I had seen enough of Ja
mie’s ex-boyfriends recite whole movies to no one in particular to know how annoying it was. I appreciated that he showed some restraint.

“Well, I’m working tonight, but how about tomorrow?”