A Window Opens: A Novel (7 page)

Genevieve was seated at a table for two with her back to the door, so my first impression of her included the heart-shaped bentwood of the café chair as part of the snapshot. When I approached the table, faux-tentatively since I knew I was in the right place, she held up a finger and smiled—closed lips, no teeth. It was an efficient smile. She was on her phone.

I slipped out of my coat and draped it over the back of my own chair, carefully, in order to spare Genevieve a view of its torn satin lining. When I sat down, she made the universal “I’m just wrapping up this call” gesture. Her brown eyes remained fixed on a spot above my head, which made me self-conscious about the root touch-up I had applied to my hairline in the rearview mirror of the minivan. Did it look like clumpy mascara?
Please no
.

“So we’ll take this offline until Monday, then circle back . . . Fine . . . Fine . . . Done.”

No good-bye—but this didn’t register until later, during replay and postgame analysis with Nicholas. In the moment, I was surprised by the deep timbre of Genevieve’s voice, which didn’t at all match her pixie stature. She had Mia Farrow’s haircut from
Rosemary’s Baby
, but hers was light brown instead of strawberry blond. In pictures, she had come across as elfin and cute. In real life, she was attractive in a powerful way, like a compact car with impressive pickup—the human equivalent of a Fiat. She exuded energy.

“Alice. I’ve heard so many great things.” Genevieve smiled again, for real this time.
Heard so many great things
 . . . from who? I wondered. She cast a pointed glance at my dorky folder. “This is purely a
meet-and-greet—me trying to determine whether you would be the right fit for Scroll. From there, we can talk next steps. Sound good?”

“Absolutely.”

“So why don’t we order some drinks and jump right in?”

I perked up a little, thinking we’d upgraded from coffee to wine, but in a dizzying flurry, the waiter materialized and Genevieve ordered a cup of humdrum peppermint tea. I leaned over, peeked at the menu card in its Rolling Rock stand, and ordered an exotic-sounding Japanese hojicha green tea.

Then it was just the two of us. She smiled, widened her eyes, and held both arms out in a way that said,
Where to start?
The gesture was charming, since we’d never met before and I suddenly had absolutely no idea what to say.

“Tell me, Alice, how do you like to read?”

“Oh—well. I
love
to read! It’s my favorite thing to do. I—”

Genevieve crinkled her eyes a little and her face softened. I noticed she was wearing a tiny gold ampersand on a delicate chain around her neck. “I mean, do you use an e-reader or . . . ?” She leaned forward slightly, like she wanted to reach over and catch my answer in her hands.

“Of course. I have a Kindle, first generation. I also read galleys, manuscripts, hardcovers, basically whatever I can get my hands on.”

“So you’re agnostic.”

“Actually, I was raised Catholic, and I’ve fallen pretty far from the flock, but I still consider myself a
spiritual
person, if that makes any sense?” (Why was she asking about religion? Was this even legal?)

“Good to know. But I meant
platform
agnostic, meaning you toggle back and forth between your device and carbon-based books.”

Carbon-based books?

“Sorry, yes. I do toggle. I’m a toggler.” OMG, stop acting manic. Breathe, Alice. Think
confident, grounded businesswoman
.

The waiter arrived and deposited two mugs on our table as I struggled to heed my inner voice, which tends to be more sensible than my actual one. (Bossy, too.) The restaurant was starting to fill up, and
the waiter quickly moved on to other customers—but not before Genevieve said briskly, “Just the check when you have a chance.”

I looked down at my mug and transferred my dismay over Genevieve’s apparent rush to what I saw inside. Floating in the brackish water was a big hairy ball of undulating brown leaves, lashed together by a loose fiber that looked like nude pantyhose. I had no idea how to navigate this unappetizing spectacle: sip around the ball? Remove the ball from the mug and dump it . . . where? There wasn’t a saucer in sight; it would make mincemeat of a cocktail napkin, and extraction would be a two-spoon job, so I made a split-second decision to leave the ball in the water. Once, I had choked down a link of my Irish uncle’s homemade blood pudding; I could certainly soldier my way to the bottom of this cup of tea.

The first sip was the worst, with the seaweed leaves brushing wetly against the tip of my nose. The tea tasted earthen, with an undernote of Tabasco.

Genevieve bobbed her neat teabag up and down by its string, looking pensive as she watched me swallow, hard. She said, “You’re adventurous. I like that.”

Her vote of confidence washed over me like a spell from a magic wand, relaxing my shoulders and dislodging intelligent conversation from the thorny bramble of my nerves. I
am
adventurous, but I hadn’t had a chance to act on the impulse in years.

When we were finished—tea choked down, questions answered, night just beginning to fall on SoHo—Genevieve shook my hand (firm downward movement, release) and said, simply, “We’ll be in touch.”

•  •  •

At Blue Man Group, our seats were so close to the stage, we had to wear ponchos to protect our clothes from the paint and Cap’n Crunch cereal being hurled into the audience by the show’s mute yet oddly peaceful stars. A trio of imitation iPads hung from the ceiling, with three different feeds—text, numbers and symbols, video clips—scrolling across their movie theater–sized screens at lightning speed. When I peeked at my
kids, their eyes darted in every direction, attempting to take in the visual assault in a way that left me disheartened.

•  •  •

“So do you think it went well?” Nicholas was at the wheel; we were midway through the Lincoln Tunnel and already our passengers were sacked out behind us.

This is one of my favorite dynamics in parenthood: being with the kids without being constantly interrupted by them.

“Hard to say. I couldn’t tell if she liked me or not. She asked a
lot
of questions. I think she’s really smart.”

“Did she get into what they’d want you to do, exactly?”

“Not really. She mentioned that they’re looking for Content Managers, but I’m not sure if that’s what she has in mind for me.” I glanced over at Nicholas, who glanced over at me in the same instant.

“What’s a Content Manager?”

“I have no idea!” We burst out laughing. When I glanced behind us to make sure everyone was still asleep, Oliver was resting his head on Margot’s shoulder. Everyone’s cheeks were flushed pink.

“Well, did you ask?”

“No, I was too embarrassed.”

“
Embarrassed?
Alice.”

“I know. Lame. Anyway, she mostly talked about the kind of people she wants to hire. She says she wants disrupters.” The two of us exchanged a knowing look; I’m more of an envelope calligrapher than an envelope pusher. “Strange, right? But you know what? It would be fun to be at the
beginning
of something. How many years have I been listening to the death knell of magazines?”

“How did you leave things?”

“She said she was trying to figure out if I’d be a good fit in the Scroll culture. If she decides I am, they’ll have me come in for meetings.”

“Do you feel good about it?”

“You know what? I do. I guess we’ll see what happens, but I’m really excited. I
hope I get a chance to find out more.”

•  •  •

As it turned out, I heard from Genevieve at six thirty the next morning, which was a Saturday. She wanted me to come in and meet the team the following Friday.

Dad:
Dear Alice, how did it go?

Me:
Went well. Going in to meet other Scrollers.

Dad:
Nice. Does it sound like interesting, fulfilling work?

Me:
It sounds like a job, which is what I need.

Dad:
Yes, I get that. But some degree of satisfaction is nice, too.

Me:
Dad, I already read What Color Is Your Parachute. Now I need the sequel: Your Husband’s Parachute Is Broken. Kidding, but still.

Dad:
Life is long. It will work out. Remember, I raised you to bring home the bacon!

Me:
Ha

Dad:
Mom & I off to see Don Giovanni. G2G. Love, Dad

N
icholas and I were twenty-six when Margot was born. We were the first of our crowd to have kids—to the extent that, when we told our friends I was pregnant, more than one wondered whether we were planning to keep the baby. Like many prospective parents, we were excited but wary, with no idea what we were in for. We fantasized about tossing our baby in a straw basket and placing her on restaurant tables alongside wine bottles and tea lights.

Right away, I was on a different track from everyone I knew. My friends were taking the GMAT or the LSAT, working at start-ups, writing for blogs, and staying out till all hours with the very people they played Nerf basketball with during the day. In a stunning about-face, my brother quit his job at Lehman and moved to Hurricane Island, Maine, to become a wilderness instructor for Outward Bound. The timing wasn’t great—my dad was in his first round of chemo—but I think we were all happy for Will to put his days as a frat bro behind him. I almost couldn’t square the guy I remembered doing shots at Stuff Yer Face in New Brunswick with the one who sent long missives on recycled paper flecked with bits of twigs
and leaves. “Big Al, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m learning to live with only what I can carry in a canoe. The natural beauty here is humbling; I’ve never felt such a sense of home. Hey, have you read any Thoreau? Dude is really worth checking out.”

In August of 2001, Nicholas and I moved, too: we upgraded to a bigger apartment in Battery Park City to be closer to the firm. By then, Margot was four months old, and I had been a mom long enough to know that the restaurant table plan was pure fantasy. Bath time was the new cocktail hour, with Avent bottles in lieu of cosmos. But we loved watching the sunset behind the Statue of Liberty and the stealthy uptown glide of cruise ships arriving in the harbor at dawn. At night, we strolled the esplanade by the Winter Garden, where Walt Whitman’s poetry was soldered onto a low fence: “City of tall facades and marble and iron! Proud and passionate city! Mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!”

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in our apartment four blocks south of the World Trade Center, changing Margot’s diaper when the first plane hit. I heard the sound and looked out the window, expecting to see a car accident at the mouth of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. Instead, I saw pigeons flying through the air. When I put on my glasses, I realized they weren’t pigeons; they were papers. Was there a tickertape parade for the Yankees?

Nicholas had been on his way to Citibank in Tower One, and he ran back home when he felt the impact of the first plane in the sidewalk under his feet. He closed the door to our bedroom, which had a view of the towers, and started filling the bathtub, lugging pots of water from the sink to the stove.

“
What
are you doing?” I burst out laughing.

“Alice, I’m telling you, that was not a small plane. I’m worried we’re going to be stuck here for a while.”

“Nicholas, you’re
crazy
. I’m sure it’s no big deal.” This exchange perfectly illustrated our dynamic at the time—and for years after, until our roles reversed just recently, post–Sutherland, Courtfield, and I became the worrier.

The second plane hit, the first tower fell, and we ran down the stairs to our lobby, hoping to seek shelter in the basement. There was no basement. The doormen were soaking gym towels and throwing them over the heads of hysterical residents so we wouldn’t breathe in the noxious gray dust that rushed through the cracks between the front doors. Someone threw a towel over Margot’s head. “Get that baby
out of here
!”

“Get your hands off my baby,” I hissed, in a voice I’d never heard come out of my mouth before.

We stampeded back upstairs to our fourth-floor apartment with strangers, assuring them that we could safely jump out the window in a pinch, even though it was a forty-foot drop to the ground below. When the second tower fell, I was sitting on the living room floor, holding the hand of a woman I had never seen before and wouldn’t see again until five years later, when we bumped into each other during rush hour in Penn Station and both burst into tears on the spot.

I hadn’t been to church since college, but I whispered a Hail Mary quietly into the top of Margot’s fuzzy head. Nicholas paced the room, stopping every so often to look out the window, even though there was nothing to see; at ten forty-five in the morning, the world was dark in every sense of the word. I thought we would die.

I wondered, is this how my dad feels every day?

Then: a soft knock on the door, from a Red Cross volunteer, warning us of a bomb threat in Battery Park; next, the distribution of white masks, including a child-sized one that covered Margot’s entire face; then, the evacuation by police boat, where a father shook his head at the receding, smoldering city and said to his teenaged son, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

We spent the day in the mess hall of a Jersey City army barracks. Fellow evacuees carried paintings, wedding albums, birdcages, jewelry boxes. One woman wore oven mitts on her feet. Our proximity to Ellis Island was not lost on us. Nor was the fear on the face of a young soldier in full fatigues, brandishing a machine gun—an unfamiliar sight back
then—barking, “Stop asking questions! Our country is in a state of Alpha Omega! This is the state of highest alert!”

I kept looking around for movie cameras. That guy over there with the eyebrows . . . was he Oliver Stone?

When we finally made it to my parents’ house, my dad met us in the kitchen—vertical for the first time since his surgery and crying for the first time ever, in my memory.