Hanging by a Thread. Karen Templeton
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look. It’s a look I hope to God nobody ever sees in my eyes. A look I’m petrified somebody will, someday.
Do all mothers live in mortal fear of screwing up? I think of Tina, her terror at the thought of being a parent; of Frances, the worry lines permanently etched between her eyebrows, bracketing her mouth, lines that deepen to gullies whenever her kids pull a number on her. Whenever Jason enters her line of sight.
My heart begins to race as all the 4:00 a.m. ghoulies make a rare daytime appearance, that Starr will be irrevocably damaged because I work / am single / leave her with her grandfather / leave her with Jason / leave her with Frances / won’t get her a dog / let her eat junk food / eat too much junk food myself / wear my father’s clothes / give her too much freedom / don’t give her enough freedom.
And that’s just in the first thirty seconds. You want the full list, leave a number and I’ll get back to you.
“Ellie, angel,” Nikky says, draping an arm around my shoulder and shaking me out of my brooding. Is it my imagination, or does the glower intensify from across the room? “We just bought Marilyn the most adorable one-bedroom in the West Village—”
Hey. When Nikky Katz atones for her guilt, she doesn’t mess around.
“—and I actually found a decorator who says she can get it in shape—you wouldn’t believe the wallpaper in the bedroom—before Mar’s roommate gets married at the end of the month. Anyway, the poor baby’s just swamped, has to go straight back to the hospital, and God knows I can’t get away, so…”
A manila folder, clippings crammed inside like refugees in a fishing boat, appears in front of me. “I was wondering if you’d mind whizzing down there and giving these to the decorator? They’re ideas I pulled from magazines to give her an idea of what we’re looking for.”
Mildly curious, I glance over at Marilyn to see if there’s any reaction, but she’s gone into zombie mode, staring out at the ice floes meandering down the Hudson. I’m tempted to toss something at her, just to make sure she’s still alive.
“The decorator’s supposed to be there around four or so, taking measurements and such.” This is said while I’m being led toward the door. “Oh! Before I forget—would you tell her to send her bills here? And to invoice the company, not me personally?”
Every bookkeeper since I’ve been here has had a cow about Nikky’s taking her daughter’s personal expenses as business deductions. And God knows how she pulls it off. But then, it’s not my problem, is it?
Nikky rattles off the address to me, then asks me twice if I’ve got it—yes, Nikky, I can remember a two-digit house number and apartment 2-B—but just before I step out of the office, some perverse impulse makes me turn back and say to Marilyn, “I bet you’re excited, huh, getting your own place?”
The question seems to startle her. “I guess,” she says, the words dragging from her lips. “Not that I’ve seen the apartment. But I imagine it’s perfect. After all—” Like twin lizards, her eyes dart to Nikky. “It must be, if Mom picked it out.”
Okay, I’ll just leave now, shall I?
I mull over that little scene during the subway ride. Can you imagine what holidays must be like for the Katzes? There’s an older brother, I hear, but I’ve never seen him. He escaped years ago. To Chicago, I think. Smart man.
Twenty minutes later, I find the building, a charming four-story redbrick on West 10th. A very pretty block, even in the dead of winter, the kind filmmakers use for romantic comedies set in New York. Oh, yeah, this place has Meg Ryan written all over it. I ring the bell for 2-B; a lively, slightly breathless female voice answers and buzzes me in. The apartment is on the second floor, the door slightly ajar. I hear children’s voices, wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
I step inside, only to stumble backwards as egg yolk-yellow walls jump out and yell SURPRISE!
God, the place is—or at least, will be—gorgeous. Honeyed wooden floors blurrily reflect the brick-and-marble fireplace at one end; through the pair of virtually transparent floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see a small terrace. “Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing tentatively inside the large, bare living room.
A pair of toddlers streak out of what I guess is the bedroom, startling me. The one girl, long-legged with curly dark hair, chases a smaller blonde, their laughter shrill and infectious in the still, empty room.
“Hillary! Melissa!” Dragging a metal tape measure behind her, a tall, bony, very pregnant woman in a stretchy black jumpsuit suddenly appears, her expression slightly harried underneath an explosion of dark curls. “Sorry,” she mutters with an apologetic smile, then tries to glare at the two little girls. “Hey, you two. Cool it.”
Naturally, they just laugh all the harder and take off again, their sneakered feet beating a syncopated rhythm against the bare floorboards as they race each other up and down, up and down, the length of the room. The woman rolls her eyes, then smiles in a whatcha-gonna-do? grin. “Baby-sitter crisis, sorry.” She extends her hand. “I’m Ginger Petrocelli. You must be Marilyn?”
“No, Ellie. Levine. Her mother’s assistant. Marilyn couldn’t make it.”
Ginger’s brows lift slightly, then she grins. “God, that is a great hat,” she says, eyeing my red wool cloche. “Where’d you get it?”
“It was my grandmother’s,” I say, once again scanning the living room. “Is this place a knockout or what?”
The woman laughs. “That’s one word for it.” Over in the far corner, the little girls collapse on the floor in a fit of giggles. “At least they’re not trying to kill each other,” Ginger mumbles under her breath, then nods toward the folder clutched to my chest. “Is that for me?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” I hand it to her. “I tried to organize it a bit on the way over, but I’m not sure how much good I did.”
Halfheartedly shushing the children, Ginger starts flipping through the torn-out magazine pages. A plain gold band gleams on her left hand. And from out of nowhere, I feel this…prick of envy.
This is very weird, especially since I don’t tend to think much about my marital status, much less obsess about it. Maybe because I already have a kid, I don’t know. Not that I haven’t gone out occasionally since Starr’s birth. Fix-ups happen. But honestly, it got to be more trouble than it was worth. You dress up, you go out, you’re on your best behavior. So what do you really learn about the other person, other than whether or not he’s got good table manners? Then there’s the whole will-or-won’t-he-call-me-or should-I-call-him? trauma, which usually is more about your own ego than whether or not you really want to see him again—
“Well, if nothing else,” Ginger says beside me, scrutinizing one of the clippings, “she’s got good taste.”
“That would be her mother. I don’t think Marilyn has any taste—”
We’re interrupted by the tiny brunette who looks just like Ginger, all done up in mauve Baby Gap.
“Gotta go potty.”
“I thought you just went.”
“Gotta go ’gain.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say, following them back through the equally large, airy bedroom to the bathroom. Yeow—Nikky wasn’t kidding about the wallpaper in here. Sunflowers. The size of garbage can lids. On a lime-green background.
“You have kids?” I hear from the bathroom.
“One.” I look away, but now reverse-image sunflowers are seared onto my retinas. “A five-year-old girl. With the smallest bladder in the metropolitan area.”
Ginger emerges, the little girl shooting past her and back out to the living room, where the giggling starts up again. “I doubt that. Right now, that honor goes to me.”
I like this woman, I realize. Her