Two of a Kind (4 page)

“But you have other money, right? Other clients? And there's the rent that Stephen and Misha pay.”

“That's a huge help, of course,” Christina said. “But it doesn't cover all our expenses. When Daddy died, I had to refinance the house.” Jordan must have looked blank, because Christina continued. “That means I went to the bank to get another mortgage on it. I'm still paying that off.”

Jordan tried to make sense of this information; her mother had never talked to her so openly about money before. Then she had a terrible thought. “Do you think we would ever have to sell
our
house?”

“No!” Christina said. “I would never do that.”

Jordan was relieved. She knew how much her mom loved their house; she'd grown up here, and inherited it from her dad when he died. “When did you find out about Mimi?” she asked.

“This afternoon,” said Christina.

“So why did you wait to tell me?”

“I was going to bring it up at dinner; you know I can tell Misha and Stephen anything. But then you came home with your lovely news and I didn't want to spoil the mood.”

“Oh, Mom!” Jordan flung her arms around her mother's shoulders, inhaling her familiar lily-of-the-valley scent. Could there be a better mother on the planet? “I don't want you to treat me like a baby anymore. You can tell me stuff.”

Christina smiled, but she did not look happy. “There is one more thing,” she said as Jordan released her and sat back in her chair. “I got a job offer today.”

“You did? Congratulations! You should have brought
that
up at dinner; we could have celebrated.”

“When you hear the details, you may not think so. It's in Greenwich.”

“You mean like Connecticut?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“Oh,” said Jordan. “Oh.”

“I applied weeks and weeks ago and after the initial interview, I hadn't heard anything back. So I just assumed they weren't interested. But then I got a call today; they're offering me a full-time position with some very attractive benefits.”

“What about Christina's World?” Jordan asked.

“I'd have to close it down. At least for a while.”

“That would make you really sad, wouldn't it?” Christina nodded; to Jordan it looked like she was going to cry. “And where would we live?”

“For the time being, right here. I'd commute; it wouldn't be so bad. Though at some point I might consider relocating.”

“But you just said—”

“I know, I know—that I would never give up this house. But maybe I could rent it out and we could find an apartment in Greenwich.”

“Greenwich is a long way from West Sixty-fifth Street,” Jordan said quietly.

Christina got up from the table. “Let's not be so gloomy, okay? I haven't taken the job yet.” She waved her hand over the cluttered table. “I'll deal with all this tomorrow; we should both go to bed now.”

Jordan followed her mother upstairs. She must really be upset; she
never
left dirty dishes overnight. Jordan wanted to comfort her but did not know how. What if they did have to move to Greenwich? That would be
awful
.

Jordan got into bed. What a relief to lie down and close her eyes. In the dark, her worry about her mother receded and in its place came an image of Ms. Bonner. The ballet teacher's words reverberated, not only in her head, but also in the cavity of her chest, her lungs, and her beating, yearning heart.
Just keep it up, and things—
good
things—will be coming your way.
But good things came only to those who worked hard. She would have to work even harder to live up to Ms. Bonner's prediction, harder than she had ever worked in her whole entire life.

O
n the Tuesday morning following the wedding, Andy Stern was up sixteen minutes before his alarm went off at five forty-five, sixteen minutes in which he was able to don his workout clothes, stride into the stainless-steel and granite kitchen for a quick infusion of espresso, and march down the hall to his son's bedroom. “Ollie,” he said, rapping on the door. “Ollie, you told me to get you up early today.” Nothing. “Ollie,” he tried again, and when there was still no reply, he turned the knob and peeked in.

There was his son, sound asleep and splayed like a starfish on top of the jumbled bed. He wore a tie-dye T-shirt—had that trend really come back around again?—and faded boxers. Around him, the room erupted in a familiar sort of chaos, with clothes strewn everywhere and the floor a minefield of soda cans, textbooks, crumpled napkins, and dirty plates. On one wall, a built-in desk and shelf unit housed all of Oliver's techno-toys, which included a large flat-screen TV, the latest-model iPhone, iPad, and several laptops. “Ollie, you said you had a paper to finish.”

“Paper,” Oliver mumbled. His eyes opened and he propped himself up. “Right.”

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah, up.” He stood and picked his way across the floor to the bathroom. “I'm going to shower.”

The bathroom door closed and seconds later, the sound of running water could be heard. Andy stepped into the room, looking for . . . what? Clues to his son's evident unhappiness? He made his way over to the desk, stepping on something disgustingly slimy that turned out to be part of a red pepper and mozzarella sandwich that had probably been here for a week. Jesus. He picked up the offending mess and stuffed it into a plastic bag he plucked from the clutter. He'd have to speak to Oliver about leaving food around; it really wasn't sanitary. On the desk, along with all the gadgets, he saw open boxes of LEGOs, wooden trains, and a very elaborate helicopter he seemed to recall Rachel buying when Oliver was about eight.

Andy stumbled toward the bed—this time his foot had an unfortunate encounter with something molten that turned out to be a chocolate bar, its wrapper haphazardly torn open—to investigate an odd lump he spied behind the pillow. The chocolate joined the remains of the sandwich in the bag. Moving the pillow, Andy found a stuffed elephant that was more than a decade old. Once blue, it was now a soiled gray, and missing an eye besides. Buster, that was the name Oliver had given it. Andy tugged Buster's outsized ear by way of greeting and tucked him back under the pillow.

Then he felt something else odd. Andy pulled out a small plastic bag filled with rolling papers and, damn it, marijuana; even without sniffing the contents, he could tell by the dry, twiggy look of it. The discovery explained a lot of things—the way Oliver seemed to burn through the money Andy gave him, his erratic performance in school, the maddening funks into which he seemed to slip so easily. It was troubling too that his son could be so casual, even brazen, about his recreational drug use. Lucy changed his sheets on a regular basis; didn't he care if she found that bag? Andy checked his watch. The shower was still running and anyway there was no time to deal with this now.

He pocketed the bag. Oliver would not ask him about it; of that he was sure. Then he went back down the hall, to the exercise room on the other side of the apartment. The trainer, Cassie, was now four minutes late and her lateness annoyed the hell out of him. But he tried to subdue his irritation with a few deep squats and a stretch. Then he walked to the window, where he stood forty stories above the city, gazing out at the sparkling ripples and toylike boats of the East River.

When the concierge buzzed—
finally!
—Andy turned away from the view. The fitness room boasted an elliptical trainer in one corner, StairMaster in another. A wall of free weights, each set color coded. A bench press. Mats. He viewed this room as a necessary sanctuary; while he was here, he tried to keep the outside world at bay. As soon as Cassie came in, they began; he knew the basic drill—stretch, warm up, quick cardio blast followed by the core work she favored. Planking, her core technique du jour, was a bitch. He'd worked his way up to just over three minutes and was trying to reach four today. He assumed the position with his arms along either side his body, his toes flexed and sustaining his weight. At 90 seconds he was still in command; at 120, the strain was apparent.

“You're doing great.” Cassie's upbeat voice provided the necessary encouragement. Andy had just passed the three-minute mark when Oliver came charging into the room despite having been told, numerous times, not to bother his father while the trainer was here.

“I have to see you,” he said in response to Andy's request that he leave,
now
, and save whatever it was until Cassie had gone. “It's, like, urgent,” he said, pushing the hair—long, blond, springy, and so like his dead mother's that it made Andy want to weep—out of his face. Andy wavered; he did not want Oliver to think it was okay to come barging in here whenever he felt like it. But he loved the kid and didn't want him to feel ignored. Reluctantly, he got up from his plank, and excused himself to speak to his son.

“All right,” he said, “what's the emergency? Does it have to do with your paper?”

Oliver shook his head. “It's Cunningham, Dad. He said that since I missed my third appointment with the school psychologist, I couldn't go on the eleventh-grade retreat. And I
have
to go on that retreat, Dad. I just
have
to.”

“When did you find this out?” Andy asked. It was only six thirty in the morning; school would not start for another hour and a half.

“Yesterday,” Oliver admitted.

“And you waited until now to tell me?” Andy asked.

“Uh, well, yeah.” Oliver had the grace to look abashed.

“All right, Ollie,” he said. “As soon as I'm done with my workout, I'll see if I can get Cunningham on the phone to discuss it. When does the retreat start?”

“Today. We're supposed to leave right after school. The bus will be waiting at three fifteen.”

“Pack your stuff and go to school now. I'll text you later.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Oliver said. He fingered the hole in his faded gray T-shirt, stretching the dime-sized opening to that of a quarter. All the money Andy spent—and gladly!—on the kid's clothes and still his son insisted on wearing stuff not even fit to donate.

Andy returned to his workout, but his concentration was shot. It wasn't just this thing with Cunningham. The kid was all over the place. Excelling in some courses, failing others. Took the PSAT last fall and scored a cool eight hundred on the math, yet this year he was getting a D in algebra. It was the loss of his mother, of course. Andy sympathized. Empathized. Hell, he wasn't over Rachel's death and he was a man; Oliver was still just a kid.

A little more than an hour later, Andy was showered, dressed in a bespoke suit and crisp white pima cotton shirt from Brooks Brothers, and walking through the door of his Park Avenue office. It was still dark when he entered; as usual, he was the first to arrive. He had two C-sections scheduled later on, but he reserved these early-morning slots for meeting new patients. He flipped on the lights and walked through the reception area with its framed vintage movie posters, sleek black leather sofa, and wall-sized aquarium before reaching his sanctum.

Today he was seeing Beth Klein, a woman who had gone through four first-trimester miscarriages in the last two years. Her fifth and last pregnancy had lasted six months, only to end when a raging bacterial infection had necessitated inducing her; she gave birth to a one-pound baby girl who'd lived for half an hour and died in her arms.

He opened the file and began to read. Beth had an incompetent cervix as well as an abnormally shaped uterus—a cramped almond instead of a roomy triangle. Why the idiot doctor who'd treated her before had not ordered bed rest and had her surgically stitched was a total mystery to him. Letting her run around,
take Pilates and
play tennis even
, with all those miscarriages behind her? But it would do no good to dwell on this. He needed to help Beth bring a healthy baby to full term.

There was a light tap on the door, followed by the appearance of his newish secretary, Joanne. “Here's your breakfast, Dr. Stern.” She set the Morning Glory muffin and freshly squeezed carrot-apple-orange elixir from the juice bar on Lexington Avenue in front of him. He took a long swig of juice and unwrapped the muffin. Stone-cold. Joanne
knew
he liked his muffin toasted, damn it. Was that so hard to remember? He was just about to call her back when his eyes settled on the framed photograph of Rachel that had pride of place on his desk.

It was his favorite photo, taken on the beach some years before she'd gotten sick. Her corkscrew blond curls were partially contained by a red bandanna, and her eyes, the clear, light blue of a swimming pool, looked straight at him.
Give it a rest, Andy-boy,
she seemed to be saying.
Joanne's a good egg and you know it. So she forgot about the muffin today. Is that such a big deal?
Rachel had this way of talking him down from himself. He was a better man in her presence and now that she was gone, he missed the person he'd been when he was with her almost as much as he missed her.

Biting into the cold muffin, Andy looked down at the file, though he wasn't really seeing it anymore. He was thinking of his Rachel, and the unbelievable irony that she'd died of ovarian cancer, when he was in fact a gynecologist, trained to diagnose such diseases. Of course he hadn't been her gyn; that was a breach of protocol. But still, he felt haunted by the idea that somehow he should have
known
.

There was a knock on the door. “Dr. Stern, your first appointment is here,” said Joanne. “And oh, I realized I forgot to have them toast your muffin; sorry about that. I'll make sure it's done tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Joanne,” he said, glancing at the photograph.
See,
Rachel seemed to say.
You can have your muffin toasted without being an
ogre.
“Send them in.”

Beth and her husband, Bob, entered his office. She was thirtyish, with pretty features clouded by an anxious look; the husband held her arm like he thought it might break. Andy took in Beth's expensive-looking slacks and top. On her arm she carried a quilted Chanel bag—he recognized it because many of his patients carried those bags—that cost more than four grand. But all the women he saw had money; he charged a
lot
and took no insurance. Only the very wealthiest women could afford him.

Even though he now made plenty of money, Andy never quite shook off the feeling of inferiority when he met people like the Kleins. He'd been a scrappy kid from the Bronx, dying to claw his way out of the neighborhood where the three of them were crammed into a tiny apartment above a butcher shop; life there had been permeated by the smell of blood. His parents were always fighting and Andy's memories included slammed doors, dishes hurled, and plenty of shouting. It was a relief when his father finally left. He and his mother moved in with her best friend while Ida looked for work. She'd found it too, and she was able to see him through City College, where he'd been in the top one percent of his class. She even helped with his medical school bills, though he'd taken out plenty of loans to pay those. As for his father, there had been sporadic attempts to stay in touch, but eventually those petered out. Andy had moved from grief to anger to apathy; he never thought about his father anymore. The man had been dead for twenty years now.

“Please sit down,” he told the Kleins. “I've read through your history,” he began. “That last pregnancy must have been excruciating.”

“It was,” she murmured, looking down.

“I know. Which is why I am going to make sure that nothing like that happens the next time.”

“Next time?” This was from Bob. “Will there be a next time?”

“Absolutely,” said Andy. “We know that Beth can
get
pregnant. Now we just have to make sure she
stays
pregnant.”

“Do you really mean it?” Bob said. His wife was weeping softly and he took her hand.

“Yes, I do.” Andy handed Beth a tissue. “Now, let me tell you exactly what we're going to do.” For the next fifteen minutes, he outlined a plan. Pending the results of the pelvic exam and the sonogram—he needed to see whether there was any residue from the last pregnancy—he would urge her to begin trying again, using an ovulation predictor to speed the process along. Once she was pregnant, he'd stitch her cervix until it was as tight as a cork in an unopened bottle of wine. Then he'd place her on total bed rest. The only thing she would be allowed to do would be to come—in a taxi—to see him. Would it be an ordeal? You bet, he told her. But at the end of it, she would have her baby.

“You'll take up knitting,” he told her as he escorted her to the examination room. “Or read
The Magic Mountain
.
In German.” This elicited a smile. “Why don't you have a seat in the waiting room?” he told Bob. “We won't be long.”

Andy waited the requisite few minutes while Beth undressed and put on the blue paper gown; after Pam, the technician, completed the sonogram, he went in, scrubbed his hands, and donned the latex gloves. The instruments had been warmed and he kept his tone genial, conducting the exam with such delicacy that he actually had her smiling while her feet were in the stirrups.

Beth got off the table, dressed, and came into his office while Joanne got Bob from the waiting room. “Everything looks good,” Andy said. “The sonogram was all clear.” He could see how their faces began to open, like flowers in the sun. Once they were gone, Andy saw his unfinished muffin and juice still sitting there. He dumped the muffin, drained the juice, and pulled out the next file. By lunchtime, he was ravenous and he had Joanne order him a tofu platter and a cup of gazpacho, both of which were consumed at his desk. Andy scrupulously watched what he ate and was proud that in his mid-forties he still weighed 178 pounds, the same as he had the day he graduated from college.