A Window Opens: A Novel (14 page)

My dad nodded, and smiled warmly.

“Will you be having still or sparkling water today?”

“Still,” I answered for both of us.

When we were alone, my dad fished Buzz out of his breast pocket. He pressed it to his neck, which was scarred from multiple surgeries and courses of radiation. “Now that you’re part of the media elite, I thought this was the right choice.”

“It was. Thanks, Dad.” My heart broke a little, imagining the search history on his Internet browser. (
Midtown publishing hot spot not too loud.
)

“Have you been here before?”

“Once or twice.” I’d eaten at Michael’s a million times on my
You
expense account. “May I
recommend the bay scallops? They really can’t be beat.”

I offered my dad a roll, which he declined.

“Seriously?”

He shrugged. “Saving room for lunch.”

I did most of the talking: about MainStreet, about Georgie’s refusal to wear any color except pink, Oliver’s new obsession with Greek mythology, Margot’s futile campaign for an iPhone, and Nicholas’s networking to attract new clients. My dad was engaged and curious on all subjects, as always. He wanted to know, did Oliver have
D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths
? Had
I
read
Mythology
by Edith Hamilton? I had not but made a mental note to add both books to our family’s TBR list, which tended to double in length after a visit with my dad.

At some point in the meal, I noticed he wasn’t eating his lobster bisque; he was swirling it around in the bowl and rearranging the pattern of parsley flakes on its surface.

“Dad, is there something wrong with your soup?”

He held up Buzz and tried to speak twice before he found the right spot on his neck. Two diners behind him looked curiously in the direction of the buzzing sound, then went back to scrutinizing their
Playbill
s with a magnifying glass.

“No, nothing wrong. I’m just having some . . . problems. Swallowing.”

Had I been in my own personal state of Alpha Omega, this response would have triggered a choir of alarm bells. But I was too preoccupied with the incongruity of being at Michael’s with my dad and—fine—maybe by nagging worry that someone I knew would walk in.

I said, “Really? Do you think you should get that checked out?”

“No need to get worked up. It’s just a cold, probably.” As if on cue, he coughed, covering his stoma with his hand. I held my breath, hoping no bodily fluids would stain the ascot. When I established that they had not, I changed the subject.

I
’d wound down most of my school-related volunteer activities, but I still had to get through the dance I’d agreed to organize for Louisa May Alcott School. The theme was Beach Bash, which had caused some controversy at a PTA meeting.

“Not to be crazy”—all the moms say this, we can’t help ourselves—“but didn’t we have a Summer in January dance last year? Shouldn’t we consider other concepts?” This feedback came from a second-grade mom who made it her life’s work to fight for the rights of allergy sufferers everywhere, even though only one of her two daughters had had a minor allergy that she’d outgrown before kindergarten.

“Thanks, I took that into consideration, but you see we still have inflatable palm trees and duct tape lifeguard stands from Summer in January, so I thought I’d put them to good use for Beach Bash in April. All in favor of recycling?”

Of course, I knew green was the ultimate trump card.

I ended up splurging on some new decor from Oriental Trading Company, abhorred purveyor of crap for kid parties—in this case, foam
sunglasses to be decorated with aquatic-themed stickers by kids who don’t like to dance. I corralled Capri Suns and individually wrapped nut-free treats for the snack bar, to be sold by Margot and her fellow fifth graders to raise money for their graduation carnival. I obtained a permit from the fire department and stuffed an envelope with overtime cash for the custodian, who I see every morning when I go outside in my pajamas to collect the newspaper.

On the afternoon of the dance, which was a Friday, I was at my dining room table, working from home (WFH, in Outlook parlance), when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hello, is Mrs. Alice Pearse available? This is the Filament Board of Education calling.”

“This is Alice.” It’s not every day I receive a call from Central Office, as it’s known, so I didn’t bother to point out that I’m not technically a Mrs.; Pearse is my maiden name.

“Mrs. Pearse, are you the organizer of tonight’s dance at the Louisa May Alcott School on Flower Street?”

“Yes, I am the organizer.”

“Mrs. Pearse, I regret to inform you that you have neglected to secure a $500,000 insurance policy in case of emergency, as advised by district protocol. You need to file the appropriate paperwork by six p.m. Otherwise, you will be in violation of Section B of Clause Two of the safety code and your dance will be uninsured.”

In order to secure the insurance policy, I needed permission from the principal, permission from the PTA president, a copy of the fire permit, a head count for students expected to attend . . . the list went on. In the background, my work computer sounded a symphony of arriving e-mails.
Tingtingting.

The stress rose in my ears like a noise.

For the next hour, I listened to a conference call on mute while inflating fifty beach balls and fifty blue and white balloons. When it was my turn to weigh in on which first editions would eventually be included in Scroll’s television commercials, Rashida said, “Alice, are you sick?”

“No, I’m just working from home.”

“I’m so glad. You sound really out of breath.”

“Really? It must be a touch of . . . asthma.” I shoved my chair back from the table, pressing a balloon into the dining room wall. Of course, it popped.
BOOM.

“Alice? Are you still there?”

“Is she okay?”

“What was that noise?”

“Sorry, guys! I’m fine. A truck just backfired in front of my . . . where I live.” No need to remind my colleagues that I didn’t live in a loft apartment like everyone else.

After the conference call, I picked up my kids at school and then made the rounds of the fire department, the Board of Ed, and Town Hall, collecting signatures in triplicate for the insurance policy. I bribed Oliver and Georgie with red Gatorade and promised Margot I’d buy her blue nail polish if she rang the doorbell of the PTA president’s house and asked for her signature on the appropriate form. I was too irritated and embarrassed to do it myself, but I faked a friendly smile as the PTA president glanced around my kids and out to my car.

When Margot got back into the minivan, I said, “So?”

“She said she never sees you anymore. She misses you.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her you’re busy because you work.”

“You said it just like
that
?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” She popped her head up from the backseat and started applying Bonne Bell Lip Smacker in the rearview mirror, her mouth forming the same O my mom’s does when she puts on lipstick.

“Margot? Just so you know, all parents
work
, whether it happens in the home or outside the home.”

“I know, Mom. Can you change the station?”

By the time the DJ arrived at six thirty, I was 99 percent sure the insurance policy was in place. Still, I held my breath when the third-grade
boys practiced backspins by strobe light. One kid said, “Can you believe there are no party favors? This dance sucks, big time.”

•  •  •

On Mother’s Day, I ate fried eggs in bed and read my crayoned, construction paper, glue-laden cards while propped up on pillows, sipping a Bloody Mary (Nicholas’s contribution). Ollie’s said, “Dear Mommy, You are the Werld. I will never take you for granite.” Margot’s was a little cooler than it had been the year before, but she still made a Top Ten list of her favorite things about me, with open circles as the dots over each i. Number one on the list: “You’re always there for me.” Luckily, she doesn’t remember the winter I made her wear snow boots she hated, cried over, refused to walk in— only to discover, in April, that their toes were still packed with the tissue paper from the store.

Georgie’s family portrait featured a gargantuan mother with hands even bigger than her head. The armchair psychologist in me wondered if these oversized mitts indicated power or if this was her subconscious allusion to the times I’ve grabbed her delicious upper arm and maybe squeezed a little too hard while encouraging her to sit
down
and at least
try
what the rest of us were eating. (Georgie survives on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cut into triangles, not with organic peanut butter—only Jif—and preferably with the jelly slice facing the plate.)

After breakfast, I packed for Scroll orientation in Cleveland. It was Nicholas’s turn to settle back on the pillows, watching, while I filled a duffel bag with an array of dresses, boots, hair drying and straightening devices, three pairs of pajamas, and even a vanilla-scented candle to give my first-ever solo hotel room that cozy vibe.

“What? Say it. You think I’m a rookie.”

“No, I don’t. I’m just glad you opted not to go with the chocolate sauce.”

I’d gotten it into my head that I should bring a little East Coast souvenir for each of the Cleveland team members. When I was at the cash register in our local ice cream store, about to purchase eighteen mini
jars of chocolate sauce, Nicholas stepped in and staged an intervention. He admitted that the plan gave him severe secondhand embarrassment. (“Seriously, Alice, people just don’t
do
stuff like this.”) For once, I listened.

•  •  •

At the airport, I kissed everyone’s foreheads. “Will you guys call me?”

“Mommy, you’re going away for four days.” Margot rolled her eyes. “Jessie is perfectly capable of taking care of us.” This was true. Just that morning, when we were searching for hair elastics, Georgie called down the stairs, “Can you text Jessie? She knows where to find them.” Sure enough, Jessie reported that the mother lode was in a jewelry box on the third shelf of the linen closet.

“I’m also perfectly capable of taking care of you,” added Nicholas, looking wounded.

“Yeah! It’s not like you’re going to the moon. But you know something? I
really
will miss you.” Oliver offered the top of his head to be kissed, and Georgie held on, arms and legs wrapped around me like a koala.

“Mommy, can I braid your hair?”

“Right here? I don’t think so, Georgie. I still have to go through security—”

“Okay, but promise you’ll do braids for your meeting? It looks so pretty.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Have fun,” said Nicholas. “Remember, you
can
go home again.”

This was MainStreet’s motto. We tried to work it into casual conversation as often as possible.

The minute I made it through airport security, I updated my Facebook status: “EWR → CLE.” It didn’t have the same ring as the ultimate high-powered trip, “JFK → LAX,” but still. I hadn’t traveled alone in twelve years; it was dizzying to walk through the terminal without a stroller.

•  •  •

Our family (including Cornelius) made the seven-hour pilgrimage out Route 80 to Cleveland several times a year, always on the Fourth of July and on alternating Thanksgivings. The challenge of having the car packed up by dawn is our version of adventure travel. If we haven’t reached the Delaware Water Gap by seven a.m., we feel we’ve failed.

I was staying at a Scroll-subsidized hotel in the old arcade downtown, but Judy and Elliott still insisted on meeting me at the airport.

“Alice! It’s us!” (As if I didn’t know.) Elliott gave me a tight hug.

“Oh, honey, we are
so
excited for you. Just
beyond
. I’ve been telling all my friends about your new job.”Judy held me at an arm’s length before bringing me in, giving me a moment to appreciate her fluffy new haircut and earrings made of flattened spoons.

MainStreet is the most beloved resident of Cleveland. They set up shop—literally—after the steel companies moved out and the car plants closed down, and they’ve brought business to the lakefront, employing entire neighborhoods. Of course, they’ve also perked up the local retail scene with their six hometown mega-malls.

After I wrestled my luggage off the conveyor belt, Judy, Elliott, and I headed over to Heritage Towne for dinner at Wok ’n’ Roll, a do-it-yourself stirfry “experience.” I was unclear on what distinguishes an experience from a plain old restaurant—perhaps the long list of trademarked salads or the custom fortune cookie station.

Judy and Elliott were more than willing to suspend their disbelief after parking in a heated spot in front of a faux parking meter dispensing MainStreet bucks—mini-coupons to Delia’s, The Body Shop, and Johnny Rockets. “Oooh, now we’ll have to go for milkshakes for dessert,” said Elliott, long-haired former sixties radical who now owns a struggling coffee shop on Cleveland’s near west side.

“OMG, Alice, we’re addicted to the Chocolate Madness Shake. We split one after Zumba, but you’ll want your own, trust me.”
Judy led the way to the restaurant, pointing like a proud tour guide at Heritage Towne’s many charming features: baby-changing stations tucked inside tiny insulated cottages trimmed with gingerbread, a clock tower where locals gather to ring in the new year, a fleet of motorized wheelchairs tricked out like hot rods with chrome and tail fins. The attention to detail was mind-boggling, right down to the milk boxes doubling as umbrella stands under the candy-striped awnings outside each store.

By the time we were seated in an oversized booth upholstered in chinoiserie, I was both dazzled and a little sickened by my endlessly clever employer. I’d been thinking of Scroll as a bold literary endeavor, but now I wondered: would it be just another mall store?

“Tell us, how is our son doing?” said Judy, once we’d made inroads in a bottle of what she refers to, simply, as “chard.”

“So far, so good. I mean, it’s only been a few weeks, but his office looks great—Palm Coast Pale was a great paint choice, by the way—and all his systems are in place. FedEx and well . . . you know.” I struggled to think of another system. “Of course, the final touch will be the sign in front: Nicholas Bauer, Attorney-at-Law, but that’s still in the works.”