Chapter SIX

THE NEXT MORNING, I’m the one with the hangover. My eyes are puffy and my head is aching—whether from the wine or embarrassment I can’t tell. And worst of all, I have lines on my face from the pillowcase. I can’t even put my head down at this age without my face turning into a road map.

I roll over on the pillow to try to get back to sleep. I might as well make sure both sides of my face are equally etched. Is this what they mean by turning the other cheek?

“Saaa-raa,” calls Berni from outside my bedroom door. “Are you there? Come on out.”

Is there anybody who doesn’t barge into this house? I pull on a pair of shorts and wander out in my T-shirt and bare feet. When I get to the living room, Berni’s lying flat on the floor, knees up, a baby balanced like a barbell above her head.

“What are you doing?” I ask, rubbing my eyes sleepily.

“One . . . two . . . three . . . four,” Berni counts out loud, the baby wavering in her hands. Berni inhales deeply, then lowers her arms slightly. Next she exhales and lifts again, picking up the pace. “Up . . . down . . . up . . . down,” she says, moving her baby barbell more vigorously.

I’m barely awake, and Berni’s already bonding with the babies while using them to build her biceps. What the heck. Looks like more fun than my Thursday afternoon spinning class. I lie down on the floor next to Berni and take the other twin from the Jolly Jumper.

“Make sure you lift slowly but don’t shake,” Berni warns. “And keep one hand under his head and the other under his butt.”

In unison, we raise our babies and count together. I kind of like this. Better than a Nautilus machine, though frankly, this baby doesn’t weigh enough to put a muscle on a mouse.

“Now arm curls,” Berni says, sitting up and repositioning Baby A. She stretches her arms straight in front of her, curls the baby to her face, kisses her, and brings her back. Curl, kiss, curl, kiss. I can do that.

But four repetitions later, my barbell is starting to get a little soggy. Something that never happens at Crunch.

“I think he needs to be changed,” I say, abruptly ending my exercise session and trying to hand the baby back.

“Diapers are in the bag,” she says. “House rule. Whoever’s holding the baby last gets to change him.”

Could make for a mean game of hot potato. I try to pass Baby B back to Berni but she’s not taking. I dutifully go over to the bag figuring I’ll change the little tyke quickly—but instead of Pampers, Berni has cloth diapers and it takes me forever to figure out how to fold one. I probably should have guessed Berni would go for something complicated. She didn’t quit a full-time job to pat down a piece of Velcro.

Berni watches me for a minute and then laughs. “You need a degree in origami to do this right,” she says, taking over and finishing the job with a flourish. And looking at her handiwork, I wonder if she actually got one.

Berni turns to me, cuddling the now happy baby.

“So what happened at the party last night?” she asks. “Olivia called. Such an uproar.”

“You heard from Olivia?” I ask guiltily.

“First thing this morning. Ken Chablis, head of the Food Network, called me, too.”

Was he at the party? Maybe I poisoned him. Or maybe he choked eating a gumdrop. Or choked just looking at it.

“That dessert’s usually foolproof,” I say, ready with my excuses. “But I never made it for so many people before.”

“It’s all anybody can talk about,” Berni says.

“If Olivia’s upset, that’s just tough. She’s awful and she had it coming.” Wow. Where did all this false bravado come from?

“Why would Olivia be upset?” Berni asks.

“Because . . .” I hesitate. Seems like I’m missing something here. “Why did Ken Chablis call you?”

“Olivia told him I’m your agent. It must have killed her to have to say that.” She grins gleefully. “That Chocolate Surprise dessert you made knocked him out.”

“Are we speaking literally or figuratively here?” I ask.

“Sounded pretty awful to me,” Berni continues, “but he loved it. Said retro-chic could be the next big trend.”

He must know. This is the network that discovered Emeril and the Iron Chef. Though given what they sometimes make, my Chocolate Surprise deserves a James Beard Award.

“So he wants the recipe?” I ask nervously. God knows what I threw in there. Because I certainly don’t.

“He wants the recipe and wants you,” Berni says. “He asked if you’d come in for an audition, but I said no. I played hardball and told him no tryouts. Either he books you or not. And he did. Two weeks from tomorrow, you’re on live.”

“Berni, you can’t keep doing this,” I say, exasperated. “I mean, I appreciate it and all, but you can’t run my life.”

“Of course I can,” Berni says, nonchalantly. “That’s what agents do. I’m good at it, too. Listen, Sara, this is a big deal. People love that network. Think of the future. You could end up endorsing a grill.”

Ah, the American dream. I could marry a prince. I could live in a castle. I could endorse a grill.

“But I’ve never done anything like this before,” I say.

“Exactly the reason to do it,” says Berni, looking tenderly at her babies. “Trying something different is the whole point. Nobody expects doors to open at our age. But look at us. Isn’t it amazing? New husband for you. New babies for me. And new careers for both of us. We’ve zipped past forty, but we get to start again. Who would have thought?”

Not me, for one. But Berni’s convincing.

“So how much would I get paid?” I ask, apparently ready to buy into the dream.

“Nothing,” Berni says putting down Baby A, who’s now blissfully asleep. “You do this to build your career.”

“Clothing allowance?” I ask hopefully. Berni’s a barracuda. Her negotiations must have gotten me something.

“Are you kidding? This is cable. You’ll get an apron. With a logo if you’re lucky. Ken said to bring your own bowls and spoons to the set. And sugar. Just in case.”

“Hair and makeup?” I ask.

“Sure. If you do it yourself.” She picks up Baby B and begins wagging her head in his direction, leaning in closer until she’s rubbing his nose with hers.

“Boo-ful, boo-ful baby,” she burbles, fully forgetting about me.

So much for the art of the deal. Bring my own sugar? Maybe I should call Olivia.

 

Kate has convinced me to come with her to a chic Madison Avenue day spa for the latest South American Wrap. I thought I’d be getting some Nuevo Latin chicken with salsa on the side. Instead, I’m the one getting wrapped. Apparently, the very same Brazilians who sent us the bikini wax have devised a new form of torture. This time for weight loss. Your targeted body parts are covered in a plaster cast, and after just one session you end up thinner and cellulite free. Or you vow never to go skiing again.

Right now, the white-uniformed Felita is carefully bandaging my calf. The material is slowly snaking its way up my leg, and I’m starting to get an itch somewhere above my ankle. An area that she entombed five minutes ago.

“When you get to the thighs, wrap really tight,” Kate commands, waving her fingers excitedly. Her fingers are about all she can still move, since her own plaster casts reach from shoulders to wrists. With her encased arms extending straight out in front of her, she looks like a sleepwalking Egyptian mummy.

“Very tight,” Felita agrees, without a break in her wrapping rhythm. English doesn’t seem to be her first—or even second or third—language, so I’m not sure how much faith I can put in her assent. But she smiles pleasantly.

“Is good?” she asks, finishing one leg and starting on the other.

Oh yes, is good. Nothing makes your day like double casts, an itch you can’t scratch, and interrupted blood flow.

I look down at my legs, now thoroughly trapped in white plaster. I can’t even ask anyone to send me an FTD bouquet or a Hallmark “Get Well” card because this is my own fault. What was I thinking? I can’t be this desperate to lose five pounds before my television debut. Oh yes I can.

“Are you feeling thin yet?” Kate asks, staring at her own plastered arms.

“I’m feeling like a refugee from M*A*S*H,” I reply.

“But a thin refugee, right?” Kate suggests.

A strange aroma starts to waft up off the cast. Either the fat is disappearing or the herbs and algae that were mixed into the plaster are marinating on my sweaty legs. Kate claims one hundred and sixteen secret ingredients, all flown in fresh daily from South America, go into the mix. Sounds like we could have had lunch here after all. The Brazilian comes over and shakes something from a container over the top of the casts. Salt and pepper?

She pats the casts, then pings the flesh on the underside of my arms. “Wrap arms?” she asks.

I watch mesmerized as she pinches an inch of flab. Guess those curls with Berni’s babies didn’t do the trick. Maybe Dylan would make a better barbell. But I can’t bear to have my arms wrapped, too. In fact, if Felita doesn’t stop playing with that too-soft upper arm flesh, I’m going to use one of my leg casts as a battering ram.

“How much longer do we have to stay like this?” I ask Kate when Felita finally leaves.

“Fifty-nine minutes,” she says, trying to look at the watch on her outstretched wrist. “Some people leave the casts on for days, but it’s not recommended.”

As if this shorter stint has the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. I can’t imagine that researchers have run any double-blind studies on this little procedure yet. Or even any animal studies. And come to think of it, if anybody did to a dog what we’ve each paid the Brazilian three hundred fifty dollars to do to us, they’d end up on PETA’s hit list.

I’m trying not to think about a second itch I can’t scratch when Felita comes back with a worried look on her face.

“Problemo!” she says excitedly. “Big problemo!”

Damn. I knew something would go wrong. I’m going to be really embarrassed if I end up dying because she put the wrong herbs in the plaster.

But she has something else on her mind. “Problemo,” she repeats. “Is a man. Come.”

It should be pretty obvious that we’re not exactly in a position to handle problems right now. Or men, for that matter. But Kate has already jumped off the table.

“I’m sure it’s Owen,” she says smugly. Since she can’t run her fingers through her hair, she tosses back her head and shakes it a few times. “Nina has been my secretary forever and I love her. But if she doesn’t stop telling Owen where I am every second of the day, I’m going to kill her.”

I’d be mortified to have anybody see me this way, never mind a lover. But Kate gives a little smile, secretly pleased that Owen can’t bear to be without her for a minute, and heads confidently out the door. I hope the emergency isn’t that he needs a dose of affection because there’s no way she can give him a hug.

Whatever Owen wants must be pretty important because the meeting takes longer than I would have thought. I wiggle my toes to make sure they’re still moving and decide that maybe I should get a pedicure someday, after all. Kate finally comes back, looking shaken. She glances at me briefly and takes a moment as if deciding what to say. Then she takes a deep breath.

“You better sit down,” Kate says.

“How can I sit when I can’t even bend my knees?” I ask. I’m sprawled across the table, but if this requires my total attention, I can make an effort. I prop myself up with my elbow.

“I just meant for you to steel yourself,” Kate says. And then she seems to do the same. “Sara, there really is a problem. The man outside. He wanted to see you, not me. It’s James.”

So it isn’t Owen who showed up. It’s not Dylan. Not Bradford. It’s James. The name doesn’t make any impression for a moment.

“Oh my god,” I say, suddenly jerking so abruptly that my elbow slips and smashes against the side of the table. “The James? My James? I mean not ‘my’ James. My ex-husband James? It can’t be. He’s in Patagonia.”

“I know it can’t be, but it is,” Kate says consolingly. “He’s here and he hasn’t changed. Or maybe just a little. He looks even better.”

This is helpful. Without thinking, I massage my injured arm, then run my fingers through my own hair. But what am I doing? I don’t want to see him. Not now, not ever. Although if he waits a few more minutes, at least I’ll be thin.

“Tell him to leave,” I say vehemently. “I want him gone. Gone, gone, gone.”

Of course gone is what he’s been. The real question is what’s brought him back. Maybe he knows I’m finally happy and he figured he’d show up and try to screw up my life. Again.

“He says he came back to New York a week ago,” Kate explains. And then she adds quietly, “He wants to see Dylan.”

I fly off the table—casts and all—and land flat on my face. I scramble back up and tentatively touch my nose. Not bleeding. Probably not broken. But at least there are plenty of bandages if I need them.

“He’s never wanted to see Dylan before. And he’s not seeing Dylan now,” I say, trying not to get hysterical. “Go tell him that.”

“Tell me yourself,” James says, striding into the room.

In an instant, the whole world stops. Adrenaline is pulsing through my body and every nerve ending is on alert. My heart is pounding and I can even feel the blood vessels throbbing in my forehead. But somehow I’m frozen in place, staring at the man in front of me.

James’s sandy blond hair is as thick as ever, but instead of the long ponytail he sported last time I saw him, he’s cut it short and neat. The beard is gone, too, and his skin is deeply tanned and smooth. The slim shoulders have gotten more solid—maybe carrying a backpack through the mountains does that to you—and he’s added some ropy muscle but no fat to his arms. The deep blue eyes are still piercingly sharp, and right now, they’re focused intently on me.

How many nights did I lay awake over the years, imagining this moment of coming face to face with James again? How would I feel? Would I still be in love? Now I have the answer.

I can’t stand the sight of him.

Maybe I should use these casts as a battering ram after all. One good hard kick to send James right back to Patagonia.

“As usual you’ve picked a bad time and a bad place,” I say, my voice trembling. “Get the hell out.”

He sits down on the therapy table I’ve just abandoned. “Sorry to startle you,” he says. “I’ve been trying to track you down for a week. I finally went to Kate’s office and got sent over here.”

“Nina,” Kate mutters. “Can’t keep a secret. Too bad she doesn’t have the combination to Harry Winston’s safe.”

“I didn’t want to waste another minute,” James says, looking down at his Merrell hiking boots and shifting his weight from side to side. “I figured there’s no time like the present.”

“The present was a long time ago,” I say. “Eight years, to be precise. You missed it.”

A soft chime sounds and the Brazilian comes back in. “Time up,” she says. “Unravel.” She starts to nudge the edge of the cast with a tiny knife. As if I’m not unraveling enough.

“How should we do this?” James asks, ignoring the treatment going on and forging ahead with his plan. “Should I come to your house? Or do you want to bring Dylan somewhere like the zoo or Central Park? Maybe that’s an easier way for him to get to know his father.”

“You’re not his father,” I say stalwartly. “And you’re not seeing him.”

For a full minute James stands absolutely still, as if mustering his resolve. “I’m moving back to New York to be near my son,” he says. “If you need me to say I made a lot of mistakes in the past, I’ll say it. I did. But I’m ready to make up for it now.”

“Well, you can’t. You don’t just waltz back in here after all these years and expect things to be the way you want. You left me and went off to hike. I went on to be a mother.”

“I wasn’t just hiking,” James says defensively. “I was doing important work. I’ve been part of the international team trying to rescue the Patagonian language.”

“Only you, James,” I say bitterly. “You go off to some dangerous mountains in a godforsaken country and you’re not even rescuing people. You’re rescuing a dead language.”

“The Endangered Language Fund has put Kawésqar on the critical list,” he says grandly. “Only six people still speak it. We’re preserving it for the children of future generations.”

“Then go back to focusing on those children,” I suggest angrily. “And keep away from my child. Dylan’s happy. And he doesn’t need you.”

“I just want to see him,” he says quietly. “Take a day or two to think about it. I know we can work it out.”

Felita continues scissoring her way from thigh to ankle on both casts. When she finally gets the plaster off, I can’t tell if my legs are thinner but they’re definitely an odd shade of green. Maybe too much basil in the mix. With my legs finally free, I should feel as if a huge weight has been lifted. But with James hovering, an even greater weight seems to be pressing down.

James starts to walk out of the room, but then turns back. “Sara, you have every right to be angry at me. I understand. It took me a long time and a lot of years in Patagonia to grow up. I’m not trying to get our old life back. I’m just trying to make a new one.”

I’m distracted from answering since Felita is now rubbing my legs with soft chamois cloths that must be soaked in fifty other secret ingredients, because the green is coming off and my legs are glistening.

James watches the procedure for a moment. “One more thing,” he says, smiling slightly for the first time since he came into this Brazilian beauty chamber. “You don’t need any of these crazy treatments. You look even prettier than I remember.”

 

As soon as James is gone, Kate holds out her arms so Felita can remove her casts, too.

“It’s going to be okay, Sara, it really is,” she calls out to me gently.

“No, it’s not,” I say, grabbing my things. “This is a nightmare. Everything is a nightmare where James is concerned. Sorry to leave you. But I have to get out of here and find a lawyer. Right away.”

I rush out of the dim spa and into the bright sunlight. I blink a few times and dash madly down the block, as if I expect to find Johnnie Cochran standing on the corner with a sandwich board, looking for new clients. But I pull myself together enough to shakily speed dial Bradford who immediately hears the tremor in my voice. He doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. He just asks if I need him. I feel a flood of gratitude.

“Yes, I need you,” I say, choking back tears.

“Then you have me. I’ll drop everything,” he says, making a quick plan to meet me at the understated private club where he’s a member. “See you there in fifteen minutes.”

I start walking toward the club, trying to keep my knees from buckling. All of a sudden my neat little world is falling apart. James can’t be back now. I have a fiancé. I’m supposed to be getting married. Everything’s in place and under control. But what’s that old expression? If you want to hear God laugh, make plans.

My head is spinning as I try to think how James’s reappearance could change my life. What will happen next? This being New York, I may not have to wait long for an answer, because right in front of me on the steamy sidewalk is a huge purple sign proclaiming, learn your future! madame rosa knows all. for $15 she tells. I pause in front of the grungy storefront and try to peer in. A round-figured woman in a gypsy headscarf and flowing flowered robes comes with unexpected speed to the door.

“You unhappy, I tell you good future,” she offers, grabbing my arm and trying to hustle me inside.

“I could use a good future,” I say, sniffling, but still not making a commitment.

“For you, ten percent discount,” the gypsy woman says, figuring that the buck and a half is the only thing between me and her tarot cards. “I promise, only good things in my crystal ball.”

“Only good things, that’s right,” I say, suddenly remembering that this is one of those scams the mayor cleaned up. Psychics were predicting terrible futures—and then charging a fortune to lift the spell. “It’s illegal in New York City now to give bad news, isn’t it? I wish CNN had the same policy.”

Madame Rosa looks askance. “An educated consumer is my worst customer,” she says, abandoning me on the sidewalk and walking back into her den of tea leaves. Green tea, no doubt, for the antioxidant effects.

With even a psychic turning me away I walk several more blocks and slip into the discreetly marked club. The moment I see Bradford, I fall into his arms and burst into loud sobs.

“Come on, we need a quiet place to talk,” Bradford says, taking my hand and leading me up to a private conference room. But I notice the reserved sign on the door and start sobbing even louder.

“Nothing’s working out today,” I cry. “Where else can we go to talk?”

Bradford smiles as he opens the door. “It’s reserved for us,” he says.

We go into the carpeted room outfitted as an old-fashioned library with large wooden tables and oversized chairs. I collapse onto a leather sofa and before Bradford says anything or even asks me what’s wrong, he tilts my head and kisses away my tears.

“Whatever it is, we’ll fix it,” he says reassuringly, leaning against me and continuing the kisses.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I say, sitting up abruptly. “James showed up this afternoon and he wants to see Dylan.”

I’ve told Bradford enough about James in the past that he doesn’t need to hear any more. He can fill in the blanks by himself.

“I won’t let James into Dylan’s life,” I tell Bradford furiously. “I’ll fight him. I need a lawyer. An expensive one. We’ll take it to the Supreme Court.”

“They may be busy this week,” Bradford says calmly, taking my hand. “And getting involved in a court battle is never a good plan.”

“Ruth Bader Ginsburg would be on my side,” I say.

Bradford smiles. “She probably would. But so would my old friend Joy Brown. You know who I mean—the psychologist who has a radio show. When Mimi ran off, Joy reminded me that no matter how angry you are at your horrible ex-spouse, you have to focus on what’s best for your good kid.”

“I was focused just fine on my kid until James came back from Patagonia. Tierra del Fuego. Also known as the End of the Earth.”

Bradford rubs my hand sympathetically. “Okay, but this isn’t the end of the world.”

I stand up and start pacing around the room. “I have to do something,” I say.

Being a man of action, Bradford picks up a portable phone from the corner table.

“Should I call Joy for you? I have her private number.”

“You might as well,” I say with a shrug. I’m hoping she’s bound by the same rules as Madame Rosa and can’t give me any bad news.

Bradford dials and, after a brief pause, exchanges pleasantries with someone on the other end. He quickly explains he’s a friend of Joy’s and outlines the situation. Then he passes the receiver over to me.

“Her assistant said Joy will be on the line in a second,” Bradford says.

I take the phone, but I’m on hold and plugged into a radio news station. Traffic out to Kennedy airport is backed up for seven miles and there’s a thirty percent chance of thundershowers this afternoon. A commercial for Pizza Hut offers a free loaf of garlic bread with every jumbo order. And the next spot, for a weight-loss pill, guarantees to help you lose twenty pounds in a week. Though probably only if you don’t order from Pizza Hut. Someone in scheduling isn’t paying attention. Or else has a sense of humor.

Finally there’s a staticky sound on the line, and then a click.

“Hello, Sara, this is Joy,” says a friendly voice. “We don’t have much time so let’s get right to it. What’s your question for me?”

Doesn’t have much time? If she’s a therapist, shouldn’t I get an hour? Or a fifty-minute hour? Apparently not. So all I have to do is describe my life in thirty words or less. I give it a shot.

“I’m engaged to be married,” I say, carefully thinking this out. “My ex-husband has just come back after nearly a decade to see the child he’s never met.”

Hey, that was pretty succinct. Maybe I could get a job at Reader’s Digest.

“Where was he?” asks Joy Brown, as if in certain situations it would be acceptable to be missing for eight years. Like if you’re Tom Hanks stranded on a desert island talking to a Wilson volleyball.

“He was in Patagonia,” I say.

“Is he with the Endangered Language Fund? Wonderful project,” Joy burbles.

How does she possibly know about the Endangered Language Fund? Maybe she’s one of the last six speakers of Kawésqar. Bradford said she was smart.

But Joy is still talking. And apparently not only to me. “If any of our listeners don’t know about the Fund, I’ll give the phone number for donations later in the show,” she announces.

Wait a minute. Our listeners? The show? If Joy’s a radio psychologist, am I on the air?

“Am I on the air?” I ask in a panic, my voice suddenly shaking.

“Of course, cookie. Just take a deep breath. I know it’s thrilling to get me on the phone. But pretend it’s just you and me talking.”

That’s just what I had been pretending. Or assuming. Now what do I do? Hang up or hang in? Or just hang myself?

“I’m on the air,” I hiss to Bradford.

He looks stunned. “How could that happen?” he asks. “I thought this was her private number.”

“So let’s get to it,” Joy says briskly, moving her show along. “The husband who dumped you has come back and wants to see the kid. First impulse is to string him up. Or get a lawyer. Practically the same thing. But at the end of the day, you’ve got to figure out what’s worse—your kid seeing his father. Or your kid seeing his mother and father fighting over him.”

“I think of James as a sperm donor, not a father,” I say, irritated.

“At least he had a strong swimmer. Something good to say about him,” Dr. Brown quips. “Look, I know how you’re feeling right now, but you’re going to have to be the grown-up. Work out something with him. I’m not saying he gets to move in, or gets custody, or even gets a tie on Father’s Day. But your son must have questions. And it’s good that even at this late date, dad wants to be part of his son’s life.”

I start crying again because of course Dylan has had questions. And I haven’t been able to answer them. I can never forgive James and he doesn’t deserve to be Dylan’s father. But Joy has a point. Maybe I shouldn’t keep Dylan from meeting him just to get my own revenge.

“James said we could meet him at the zoo but Dylan’s afraid of lions,” I say, looking for any excuse.

“Hypnosis is very successful in dealing with phobias,” says Dr. Joy, our endless font of information. “But you could just take Dylan to the sea lions. Feeding time is four o’clock. It’s adorable. But don’t be late, it gets crowded.”

Bradford was right. Joy’s rational and she knows how to lay out a plan.

“Thank you, Dr. Joy,” I say, meaning it.

I hang up and give Bradford a hug. I’m grateful for my new perspective—though totally humiliated that I’ve been on the air and the whole world now knows my problems.

“Very helpful,” I admit to Bradford. “But embarrassing. Talk about airing your dirty laundry.”

“Don’t worry, Joy’s been complaining her ratings are down. Nobody listens,” Bradford says reassuringly.

I’m comforted by that thought for exactly five seconds—until my cell phone rings.

“Did I just hear you on the radio?” Berni asks.

“I hope not,” I say. What must Berni think of me, that I’m calling a radio psychologist? On the other hand, why was she listening? Maybe all that diaper folding doesn’t quite fill her day.

“It was me, but I shouldn’t have called,” I say, embarrassed.

“That’s right,” says Berni, not mincing words. But her complaint isn’t quite what I would have expected. “You shouldn’t have called. You’re a TV star now. And if I’m your agent, you clear all media through me.”