Love and Miss Communication (13 page)

His last point made Evie think about Patricia Douglas, the litigation partner from Baker Smith who made partner after only
seven years as an associate and was the youngest member of the firm’s management, partnership, and recruiting committees. Her rise in the firm’s ranks was nearly apocryphal. Would Patricia, were she handed a diagnosis of breast cancer, wait for a case to settle before scheduling her surgery? Almost definitely. That thought alone made Evie glad to be done with the place.

“Okay then, Dr. Gold, I guess I’ll see you in October,” Evie said, though she remained anchored in her seat. She wasn’t ready for their conversation to end but couldn’t think of any reason to prolong her visit.

She supposed she just yearned for the company of men. She missed the guys from her office—the ones she mock flirted with for sport and who often flirted back. She even missed dating, not that she was particularly great at it. Conversation with friends was a breeze for her, and the give-and-take of sharing opinions and stories was second nature. But on dates, especially first ones, she often found herself unsure of how much to say and ask. Sometimes she set out on a fact-finding expedition, and her dates looked like suspects cooking under the hot lights in an interrogation room. Other times, she’d ramble, orally presenting her memoirs to a glazed dinner companion. Neither proved a winning formula.

By now, it had been a few months since she’d summarized her life story to a perfect stranger. She hadn’t sat side by side with a guy at a noisy bar or across from one at some happening restaurant waiting to feel the spark that never seemed to ignite. Normally she’d return home from a date feeling exhausted, climb into bed and review her mistakes. From the anticipation to the preparation to the conversation to the instant replay at home, the whole process could be excruciating.

How was it that in spite of the hellaciousness of the dating world, she found she longed to be a part of it again?

The doctor stood up.

“I’ve got rounds to do now,” he said. “But here’s my card. Contact me any time with any questions.”

“Thank you so much. I’d actually like to request that you keep me in the loop on everything—any updates and any decisions that need to be made. I don’t think my grandmother will object.”

“You got it. It was really great meeting you. Sorry it’s under these circumstances, but I’m looking forward to talking again.”

“I appreciate your time, Dr. Gold,” Evie said.

“Edward, please,” the doctor said, his sizable dimple making another grand appearance.

# # #

Back in her apartment, Evie found herself thinking about Dr. Gold. She was surprisingly intrigued by him, so much so that she’d actually forgotten to ask him a number of questions she had about Bette. She didn’t know how long her grandmother’s treatment would be, or if that was even known at this point. They’d never gotten around to discussing the survival rates. Maybe she’d subconsciously avoided asking him.

She decided to call Stasia at the lab. Stasia was doing Alzheimer’s research but certainly would know more about breast cancer than Evie. Evie dialed her at work, but her research assistant said she had called in sick that morning. Evie tried her at home and was surprised when Rick answered.

“Evie, hi. Nice to hear from you. How are ya?”

“Been better. Is Stasia there?”

Rick paused before answering and Evie heard the tapping of shoes around the apartment.

“No, she’s visiting her sister in Boston.”

“Oh, okay. The lab said she was sick. Whatever. Wait—what
are you doing home in the middle of the day? Nobody’s sinuses need draining anymore?”

Rick didn’t skip a beat. “Just home because I forgot some patients’ charts that I was reviewing last night. Heading back to the office in a few. You don’t sound good, Evie. Can I help?”

She hesitated. Talking to Rick without Stasia present was new for her, though hardly inappropriate.

“It’s my grandmother, Bette. She has breast cancer. I’m pretty freaked-out. I know she’s already older, but still I can’t imagine losing her.” Evie felt tears well up in her eyes, but she forced herself to stay composed. “You know I lost my dad in college. I feel like I’ve had to deal with enough loss already. It’s not fair.”

“First of all, I’m sure your grandmother is going to be fine. This isn’t my field, but honestly, I think it’s generally treatable if detected early. I’m here for you if you need anything.”

Hearing those words—“Evie, I’m here for you”—made her ache for the type of comfort she really sought in the larger picture. Strong hands to rub her back. An ear that was always at the ready. Her lip-biting and lump-swallowing were starting to fail her. She forced a deep inhalation.

“It wasn’t detected early,” Evie said, at last yielding to the tears. “She didn’t get a mammogram for three years because she was worrying about me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Listen, Evie, you shouldn’t be alone. You’re on the West Side, aren’t you? Off Columbus Avenue? I can come over in a little while. Or Stasia can, when she gets back in town.”

At least she was more to him than his wife’s college friend who sometimes tagged along on date night. Still, she resisted.

“Thanks, that’s really sweet. But I’m fine. Honestly.” He protested
and she almost decided to have him come over, but then his beeper sounded, and while he placed her on hold she decided she was better off alone.

“Okay, I’m here,” Rick said. “Though I do have to get back to the office. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Actually, there is something. What do you know about Dr. Edward Gold? I just came from his office and he said you know each other.”

“Gold? Yep, the surgeon. He led a small group of us in a laparoscopy rotation. Really smart guy. He gets crazy grant money. I am pretty sure he was even short-listed for the President’s Council of Advisors on Science. Bette is lucky he was able to fit her into his schedule.”

It felt strangely intimate to hear Rick say her grandmother’s name. It must be that whole bedside manner thing that doctors pride themselves on. Stasia told her there was actually a class on this in medical school. It made her feel less special about the way Dr. Gold had treated her. That was just pro forma, she supposed, making patients and their families feel comfortable. At least she understood what the phone call Dr. Gold took was all about. He must have received another grant.

“Gold is terrific,” Rick went on. “I actually remember that his wife and baby sat in on his lectures a few times. It was very cute.”

“Well that’s great to hear,” Evie said, even though for some reason she got an icky feeling inside when Rick mentioned Gold’s spouse.

“Listen, I’m going to head to the office, but Evie, take down my cell number.”

She grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and jotted it down, unsure that she’d ever use it. “Thanks, Rick.”

“Of course. Oh, and I’ll tell Stasia to call you back.”

Rick couldn’t have been kinder, but she felt worse than ever when she rested her kitchen phone back in its cradle. All she could think about was how getting through her grandmother’s illness, and her professional troubles, would be so much easier if she had somebody constant to support her. Stasia had Rick’s shoulder available whenever anything went wrong, be it a missed promotion at the lab or even something really trivial like losing a new earring on the subway. Evie had her friends, but she couldn’t rely on them indefinitely, could she? What if their busy lives juggling jobs, kids, and spouses eventually started to eclipse the strength of their college bond? Then what would happen to her, she just didn’t know.

Days passed, and Stasia did not return Evie’s call. That, coupled with her absence from the lab and her revelation at Paul’s wedding, got Evie thinking. Stasia must be pregnant. Evie had been expecting it for a while. Actually, preparing for it was more like it.

Now it all seemed obvious. Rick was home in the middle of the day to care for his wife. Stasia hated her passive-aggressive sister in Boston. There was no way she’d visit her midweek for no reason. Rick didn’t bring home charts to study at home. They were home midday because Stasia was brandishing a fetus and she and Rick
needed to visit the doctor and read baby name books on the couch and have mock fights over nursery wallpaper choices.

How foolish she felt for even considering having Rick visit. He was busy with Stasia—holding back her straight, but not too flat, blond hair while she puked into the toilet. Rick was probably rolling his eyes during the call in a gesture to show Stasia he couldn’t get Evie off the phone.

Once Stasia came clean about her pregnancy—she would likely keep it private until the first trimester passed—that would make it official. Not only would Evie be the only single one and the only jobless one, she’d also be the only childless one. Caroline already had two little girls and a baseball team of stepchildren. Tracy was due in November. She calculated that Stasia would have her baby in the spring. What a way to celebrate turning thirty-five in May. Her birthday would probably fall on Stasia’s baby’s christening or on one of Caroline’s girls’ birthday parties. While everyone else was enjoying cake and smiling for pictures, Evie would be in the corner using a plastic knife to cut vertical lines into her wrists (although Caroline and Jerome usually rented the Plaza Palm Court for birthday parties, Eloise-style, so she’d probably have access to a real knife).

Evie took a deep, solemn breath. It wasn’t that she necessarily ached for a child at this moment. But she knew it was something she did want in the not-too-distant future. If she’d married Jack, she’d happily have started a family by now. It was better to do it young anyway when the risks were lower. Evie thought back to something she’d seen online several years ago, before she met Jack. She was at work, perusing Match.com, when a pop-up ad exploded on her monitor. “FREEZE YOUR EGGS!” it said. Her instinct was to click it shut, but something compelled her to read the smaller print:

At the time, Evie was outraged. How dare this company, obviously in cahoots with Match, scout her profile and target her for some sketchy egg-freezing scam? What were they going to do when she needed her “good” eggs—nuke them in the microwave? But now that it was three years later, and she was no closer to starting a family than she had been that day, she wished she’d found out more about this service. With her luck, by the time she got married and pregnant, her eggs would have salmonella.

Now she yearned for her computer, and not just to look up the particulars of egg freezing. She had plenty of other research:

       
1. Read more about McQualin’s M&A practice.

       
2. Determine if Luke Glasscock had left the country.

       
3. Find out where Jack and his new wife were residing (could it be his studio walk-up in the West Village that he insisted on calling his “flat”?) and pass by there by chance.

       
4. Check how much money was left in her savings account.

She did have a vague sense of how much she had socked away; it should be enough to last for a while as long as she was prudent. This was easier said than done. The opportunities to part with money were endless now that she didn’t have the commute that took her up and down the same exact streets and into Manhattan’s underworld via the C train for the last eight years. Low on discretionary cash, she’d have to be merely a window-shopper of the city’s fineries.

Besides the pressing inquiries, there were many other little itches that only the web could scratch. When she tossed her computer into the Reservoir, she abandoned a Words with Friends game in which she had a substantial lead over Stasia. She lost out on covetous sale items saved in her shopping cart on Net-a-Porter. And she couldn’t remember who the senators from New York were but was too ashamed to ask anyone. How the hell could she ever figure that out without the Internet? Maybe at the library. But she didn’t know where the library was without her computer, except for the daunting main branch on Forty-Second Street with the massive lion sculptures guarding the entrance.

Agitated by the idea of Stasia being pregnant and exasperated that she couldn’t refresh herself on the egg-freezing procedure, Evie flung herself on her bed, resolved to identify a bright side in her life.

Sushi.

That was it. Pregnant women couldn’t eat raw fish. But she could. She reached for the phone to call her favorite Japanese restaurant, Haru. Jack never wanted to order in from there—he was always poo-pooing its lack of inventiveness and deriding any eatery that was part of a “chain.”

She dialed Haru’s number, which fortunately she’d committed to memory.

“Hi, I’d like to place an order for delivery.”

“For how many?”

“One. I’d like a salmon-avocado roll, one eel roll, one spicy tuna roll, and three pieces of tuna sushi, plus a house salad.” She was suddenly ravenous and ecstatic about devouring sushi without having Jack critique the presentation of the avocado slices on her salad.

“You say one person?”

Evie sighed. “Yes, one person. How much will that be?”

“Forty-eight dollars and sixteen cents.”

That was a bit steep for a solo lunch in her apartment. She decided to cut back.

“Which is the kind of fish that has a lot of mercury—the eel, the salmon, or the tuna?”

“You say you want add Mercury Roll. Now fifty-five dollars. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

“No, no. I don’t want a Mercury Roll. I was asking which of your fish has high mercury levels. It’s the eel, right?”

“Okay, you want one more eel roll. Sixty-one dollars. Thank you.” The woman hung up, leaving Evie alone in her apartment
to await a mercury-laden meal she couldn’t afford. Now she could add the inconvenience of not being able to look up mercury levels in fish to her list of living-without-Google annoyances.

It was undoubtedly getting harder for Evie to ignore the mounting inconveniences of being computer-less. But still she was confident about maintaining her abstinence. Albeit slowly, quitting the web was purifying her mind the way drinking kale shakes would detox her body. Without Facebook’s news feed streaming into her mind like an IV drip, she felt freer than she had in years. Free from reading things like “Alice Saltz (a sycophantic Baker Smith associate with her lips stitched to the partner Bill Black’s ass) got promoted” and “Harry Shamos (Evie’s high school ex, the guy who dropped her before the big dance) posted new pictures to the album ‘The Shamos Twins—6 months.’” She was free from feeling like she needed to measure up with posts of her own. Free from discovering things about people she was better off not knowing. Free from scouring dating websites for fresh meat. And that was worth not knowing who the senators from New York were for at least a little while longer.

# # #

Even though Tracy was the openly pregnant one, her bulbous stomach inviting attention and unwanted petting everywhere she went, Evie couldn’t stop fixating on whether Stasia too was with child. A pit in her belly formed whenever she questioned if all her friends knew about the baby but were keeping it from her for fear she’d have a breakdown. She tried to put up a strong front to them most of the time, but who was she kidding? She had succumbed to a gloomier disposition the minute she and Jack split, and her halfhearted attempts at covering it up weren’t particularly convincing.

After one week of torturous curiosity, she decided to call Caroline to sniff around.

A familiar accented woman picked up the phone at Caroline’s house.

“Michaels residence, can I help you?”

In the background, Evie heard the girls laughing and Jerome yelling, “You better run. I’m going to get you!” It was strange to think of him like that, the Wall Street titan horsing around with the toddlers.

“May I speak to Caroline? This is Evie Rosen.” It was frustrating that she had to identify herself, but she knew the next question would be “Who may I tell her is calling?” if she didn’t.

She heard the housekeeper say, “Mrs. Michaels, are you available to take a call from Miss Rosen?” Even the freaking maid knew she was a “Miss” and not a “Mrs.” Caroline and Jerome probably talked about their unfortunate single friend Evie while turning the pages of their four-volume wedding album. And the whole “Mrs. Michaels” thing was so pretentious. If this had been just five years ago, the conversation would be more like, “Mrs. Michaels, are you available for Miss Rosen to scrape you off the floor of the men’s room at Automatic Slim’s? Security is on the way.” Caroline Michaels (née Murphy) thought being Irish and Texan meant she had a wooden leg. It did not.

Caroline came to the phone quickly and said breathlessly, “Evie, I’m so happy it’s you. I have great news. First, though, how is your grandmother doing? Jerome said he knows a few of the trustees at Sloan Kettering if you need any strings pulled.”

“Thanks, but things seem to be under control. My grandmother seems eerily calm, which I can’t quite figure out. So what’s this great news?”

“Just that I have the best guy to set you up with.”

Evie gripped the phone more tightly. Caroline didn’t offer to set her up frequently. If it were Tracy, she’d suspect it was some hipster friend of her husband’s and be totally uninterested. Stasia’s
scattered attempts over the years led Evie to believe her only criteria were male and single. Paul and Marco claimed to know very few straight men and were frequently apologizing that they couldn’t find anyone for her to date. Which was okay with Evie, because she wasn’t just looking for “anyone.”

“He’s very good-looking,” Caroline went on. “Black hair. Really wavy and thick. Dark eyes. And he’s tall.”

“Keep talking.”

“He’s intelligent, successful,” Caroline continued. “He works for—I mean with—Jerome at JCM Capital. Started six months ago. I just met him at the corporate retreat. He’s got good schools and all that crap I know you care about.”

Did she care that much about pedigree? Or was it the optics? She supposed it was both. Caroline was telling her that this guy was smart, so she didn’t need any independent verification, did she? She was upset she was as transparent as celery skin to her friends. She spoke often about wanting to meet a great guy and claimed that she didn’t care about the résumé details—“so long as he’s nice and smart” was her tagline—but here Caroline was calling her out without a second thought. And she called it crap.

“I don’t care about where he went to school,” Evie self-consciously fibbed. “Tell me more.”

“Well, his name is Harry Persophenis. His parents are Greek.”

The image of John Stamos was now complete.

“Anyway, he already has your number and is going to call you. He asked for your e-mail address but I told him your computer was hacked. I didn’t want him to think you were a freak.”

Evie was grateful. It was hard enough for her friends to grasp why she had disconnected—she didn’t want to get into it on dates. She hung up the phone after thanking Caroline, deciding for now to avoid asking her about Stasia. Evie spent the rest of the day feeling optimistic about her new setup. She let her mind
travel to ridiculous places—like two years from now when they’d get married on a Greek Island in a ceremony far more picturesque than Jack’s Turkish nuptials, then Harry would leave Jerome’s office to open his own office where she’d head up a crackerjack team of attorneys as lead in-house counsel.

Energized, she treated herself to a new sweater at a cute boutique on her block and then called Bette to see how she was feeling. She casually let it drop that she had a date coming up. It was a bold move, sharing this information with Bette, who was likely to ask, “Have you met his parents yet? Vhat do zey do for a living?” It was tricky for Evie to cross the two generations that separated them and explain that even if she were dating someone, meeting the family would be out of the question for at least six months.

It was safer in Evie’s case anyway.

When Bette first met Jack, she asked him to repeat his last name about three times. “Did you say Kiplitz?” “No, Grandma, he said Kipling.” Then Bette proceeded to drop rampant Yiddish phrases into their conversation, hoping to see if they flummoxed Jack. Unsatisfied, or at least unsure of his reaction, she asked him directly which synagogue in London his family belonged to. She nearly choked on her babka when Jack explained that he was only half-Jewish. Evie thought Bette might go into cardiac arrest then and there until he clarified it was on his mother’s side, the so-called right side.

“Very nice, bubbela,” Bette now responded. “Just enjoy yourself.”

Excuse me? Who gave her grandmother an unauthorized lobotomy?

“Tell me, Evie, how vas ze meeting vith Dr. Gold? I’m in good hands?”