A Window Opens: A Novel (42 page)

We hadn’t planned it, but I wasn’t surprised to find my kids waiting for me when I climbed down the steps to the platform. Three rosy
faces aglow with expectation and excitement; three wide smiles revealing baby teeth, big new permanent teeth, and one upper row fenced in by a retainer. Margot quietly slipped her hand into the pocket of my coat, and Oliver and Georgie each grabbed a hand.

“Congratulations, Mommy! You made it.”

“Thanks, lovebirds. I did.”

In a four-person tangle, with the promise of spaghetti on the table and Choco Tacos in the freezer, we walked home.

O
f course, we had to cancel the renovation. Marjorie came by to pick up a monogrammed tape measure she’d left behind and, on her way out the door, paused for one final assessment of our dilapidated kitchen. I braced myself, resisting the urge to apologize for the Tupperware piled willy-nilly on top of the fridge.

“You know, Alice, this is one of the ten happiest houses I’ve worked in.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

•  •  •

We splurged on the dishwasher of Nicholas’s dreams: Bosch, whisper-quiet, three racks. It works wonders on wineglasses (all mine).

•  •  •

I made a list of people to talk to about jobs: agents, editors, even a friend who writes copy for a wig catalog. The list was longer this time, and I
found that people e-mailed me back more promptly than they had the year before. A few wanted the scoop on what had happened at Scroll—how could I have walked away from such an exciting opportunity? Those people were probably sorely disappointed to hear my epiphany about the horse in the parking garage. But most just seemed eager to welcome one of their own back to the fold. Book people stick together.

My high-powered publishing friend, Bonnie, and I became friends on Facebook. She invited me for lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. She wrote, “If bucket lists had been a thing in 1995, ours would have included oysters Rockefeller. Let’s do it.”

•  •  •

I listened for the 8:16 train every morning. Most of the time, I was happy not to be on it.

•  •  •

My mom needed a hip replacement; all those years of climbing marble museum steps had finally taken their toll. When the doctor delivered the news, she was sitting on his table, wearing paper shorts. Reading glasses on, notebook out, she dutifully transcribed every word of the treatment plan: surgery, two nights in the hospital, four days at a rehab facility, six weeks of physical therapy.

The doctor turned to me. “How’s your schedule looking? Will you be able to help Mom out?”

I thought of my dad in a hospital bed, in a hospital gown, tears streaming down his cheeks. No sound.

That would not happen again.

“Of course. My brother will be here, too. We’re a team.”

•  •  •

On the last day of school, I pored over report cards, admired final art projects, served real Oreos, not Newman-O’s, and then hustled everybody into the minivan so we could get to the pool.

Georgie and Oliver were in a vicious spat for the duration of the six-minute drive, and Margot’s eyes remained glued to her phone no matter how many times I tried to engage her in conversation. Maybe I had too much riding on the afternoon, but something in me snapped. “You guys, can we just treat each other
like human beings
?”

I yelled so loudly, the tendons in my neck ached for days. (Name a parent who hasn’t suffered from this affliction and I will show you someone who is not my friend.) It was a depressing turn of events but also cathartic, and a powerful reminder that there is no scripted fun where kids are concerned. You have to be nimble.

After dinner, when the four of us were eating ice cream cones at the snack bar, Georgie said, “It’s funny, because Jessie never yelled at us.”

•  •  •

After the deli closed, a Christian Science reading room moved in next door to the Blue Owl. I never found out why Scroll didn’t take the spot, and I never told Susanna they’d planned on opening there. In the front window of the reading room was an easel with this quote from Mary Baker Eddy: “Home is the dearest spot on earth, and should be the centre, not the boundary, of the affections.”

Amen. Even people who are half-Jewish, half-Christmas can get on board with that.

•  •  •

I collected book review assignments and worked on them during Margot’s early-morning swim team practices. In one ear, I heard Genevieve’s voice: “No exclamation points. Think like a business manager. Are you on the bus?” In the other, the booming, Polish-accented voice of Margot’s coach: “You can do it! Go for it! Kick, kick, kick!” Her encouragement was directed at a pool full of winded kids, but the message had a cleansing effect on me, drowning out a litany of self-doubt. I would get back in the game. I just needed to figure out which story
I belonged in, and I gave myself until the end of the summer to think about how it would unfold. As Thomas Edison said, “There is a time for everything.”

Dear Jessie,

Happy birthday! I remember when you couldn’t even buy a bottle of wine. Or
vote
! But you were always wise beyond your years.

25! Wow. Let’s see . . . do I have any useful advice?

First of all, enjoy your straight, dark hair because soon it will be threaded with kinky, coarse gray. And go easy on your eyebrows—you’ll miss them when they thin into pale shadows of their former selves.

If you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with someone, make sure he’s funny. You might find that your definition of
sexy
changes over time; but what makes you laugh will stay the same. Money, looks, ambition, success—those change, too. Funny has legs.

Also, please don’t waste time wondering whether it’s possible to “have it all.” Banish the expression from your vocabulary; make sure your friends do, too. A better question is What do you really
want?
Diving headlong into the second quarter of your life without asking this question is like going grocery shopping without a list. You’ll end up with a full cart but nothing to cook for dinner. Figure out what you feel like eating, and then come up with your own recipe for the whole messy, delicious enchilada.

Also? Everyone reminds you to call your mom. Call your dad, too. Not one day goes by when I don’t wish I could call mine.

You are a beautiful human being. We are all so lucky to have your particular sparkle in our lives.

Love,

Alice

Even though the card I wrote it on cost $6.95, I never gave this note to Jessie. I crumpled it up and hid it at the bottom of the recycling bin. In the end, I collaborated with Margot, Oliver, and Georgie on an acrostic for Jessie’s birthday. I’m pretty sure she recognized my contribution:

J
aunty

E
xcellent

S
avvy

S
weet

I
ntelligent

E
ssential

In two months, Jessie went from receptionist to office manager to finance lead at her new company. She was the first person to see a picture of Georgie missing both front teeth.

•  •  •

Greg followed me on Twitter.

Matthew was miserable at Scroll, but at least he had his own office. We toasted sticktoitiveness over dinner. It was one of the tenants, after all.

•  •  •

MainStreet became embroiled in a high-profile lawsuit with the city of Cleveland for illegal disposal of waste and noncompliance with the
mandatory recycling program. As a cost-cutting measure, the Rockwells had sanctioned late-night dumping of bottles, cans, and cardboard into a Dumpster behind Walmart. They were caught on camera by a local activist group, Occupy Main Street. As an editor, I applauded their commitment to the space between Main and Street.

As of this writing, the Scroll stores have not yet opened in New York or Chicago.

•  •  •

Nicholas and I left Margot in charge at home for the first time and the kids were thrilled to see us go. We ended up having so much fun at dinner that we missed our movie.

•  •  •

At the beginning of August, two struggling Pennsylvania paper companies consulted the same bank about borrowing money to save them from bankruptcy. The bank had been so impressed with the work Nicholas did for the Mercadantes, they recommended him as an outside counsel, who could handle negotiations with other lenders.

“Not to go all retail on you,” I said, “but this bank sounds like a promising anchor tenant, don’t you think?” Nicholas and I were lounging on the front porch after the kids went to bed. Above our heads hung Georgie’s latest art project: CDs decorated in Sharpie, spinning dizzyingly on fishing wire. The neighborhood reflected in miniature as they turned: school, skip laurels, silver sky. I shuddered to think of books becoming as superfluous as CDs.

Nicholas took a sip from his O’Doul’s. “Definitely promising. I think I can safely say, I’m in good shape.”

“What a huge relief.”

“You know, Alice, I never thought we were as close to the poorhouse as you did, but I’m glad you’re glad.” Nicholas wrapped his arms around me from behind and leaned his head down to kiss my neck. I turned
around and reciprocated. Soon we migrated upstairs to spare the neighbors a show.

Afterward, lying in bed, I rested my cheek on his chest and took a deep breath. “Nicholas?”

“Yes?”

“You know the money from my dad?”

“Yes?”

“I know what I want to do with it.”

“You mean, instead of putting it in the bank for college?”

“Well, that, too. But I want to give some of the money to the Blue Owl.”

Nicholas propped himself up on one elbow. I gently removed my hair from under it. “Really?”

“Really. I know Susanna is behind on rent, and I want to help her catch up. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s how much I want the kids to grow up knowing stores like hers.”

“She’ll never take money from you, Alice. You know that.”

“But you’re her lawyer now. Can’t you arrange for her to have an anonymous benefactor?”

“Like Magwitch? How very
Great Expectations
of you. Yes, I think I might be able to arrange that. The question is, how will you ever pay my fee?”

I smiled. “I’m sure we can figure it out.”

•  •  •

It was the summer of Rainbow Loom. Kids sprawled on every available surface—bellies poking out of tankinis, little necks tan beneath baseball caps—weaving rubber bands into bracelets and anklets. Demonstrating a new crafty side, I learned all the stitches and waited in line with other moms at the toy store to meet shipments of new elastics. I even invested in a clear plastic tackle box so we could keep our tie-dye rubber bands separate from our glow-in-the-darks and glitters.

Susanna and I were at the pool, sharing a paper cup of french fries
while our kids sat out adult swim, bent over their looms. Margot and Audrey worked on a fishhook design, alternating who got to pick the color. Theirs was an easy détente; I worked harder to forget that mean glint in Audrey’s eye, knowing I had to move on.

“Hey, Alice?”

“Hang on.
Oliver!
You need to wait until the kid in front of you is
off
the diving board before you climb on the ladder!” I turned to Susanna, who rubbed her ear where I’d yelled directly into it. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“While you’re looking for a new job, would you want to pick up a few hours at the store? The weirdest thing happened—some Filament bigwig made an anonymous
donation
to the Blue Owl! I’m caught up on rent and, believe it or not, I think I can afford to hire a part-time salesperson. It wouldn’t be much—”

“When can I start?”

We talked logistics. The pay was hourly and astoundingly low. But I had an idea for how I might be able to earn more money, even if I would never approach the salary I’d earned at Scroll, not to mention the stock options. I leaned forward in my chair. “Susanna, have I ever told you about the Book Lady?”

•  •  •

We hired a new babysitter. I bought new shoes and a new notebook.

When I arrived for my first day of work, visible rays of light crisscrossed through the store, turning the shelves into a rainbow of spines: thick, thin, shiny, matte, striped, printed with small pictures and designs, lettered in gold. The effect was dazzling. I already knew the bustle of the Blue Owl on a weekend afternoon, or after closing with customers in work clothes lingering over platters of Triscuits and cubed cheese. But, I realized, this was my first time in the store before it opened and, instantly, I knew it was the best time to be there—the bookseller’s equivalent of watching your kids sleep. I could feel the peace in my bones.

•  •  •

My dad is not everywhere, as people promised he would be. He isn’t with me, no matter how many times I search for his face in the melee of Penn Station or listen for his voice at my mom’s house, where Buzz Lightyear slowly loses its charge in her sock drawer. Still, I’ve joined the well-meaning chorus perpetuating this myth for others who are on the brink of losing someone they love. My dad is everywhere and he is nowhere. My world tilts on a different axis, orbiting the sun of my own family—but still, I feel his warmth.

In August, my mom rented a beach house on Long Beach Island. Much to the surprise and delight of our kids, we rented a surrey with a fringe on top, which Nicholas and I pedaled past the site of the cottage from the year before. It had been destroyed by a hurricane, reduced to a stretch of sand marked on four corners with cedar stilts. Even though the scene was desolate and depressing, I felt reassured by the sight of those four sturdy columns.

That night, we watched the sunset from my mom’s new rental. There was a small, square deck on top of the house—nothing fancy, but just the right size for all of us to gather under a wonky blue umbrella: my family, Will’s family, my mom. We were sandy-footed and still damp from the outdoor shower. There weren’t enough chairs or Tostitos; the corn for dinner needed to be shucked. The kids wanted to go to the water slides, the adults wanted to go to the lighthouse, and my mom wanted to know who had eaten the last piece of fudge. It was a typical night on a typical family vacation, the same one we’d been on at least twenty times before.