Imogen arrived home and drew herself a long bath, pouring a glass of wine and trickling a bit of lavender oil into their antique claw-foot tub. She liked her lavender better in her tub than in her coffee. She and Alex discovered the tub at a tiny antiques shop upstate in Phoenicia and spent hours negotiating for it, only to find out that it had a terrible leak once they got it home. They had to have the entire thing resealed and it cost them a small fortune, but Imogen loved it so much she believed it was completely worth all of the trouble. It was deep enough that she didn’t have to slouch to slide her entire body beneath the water. She was able to submerge herself up to the middle of her neck in water scalding almost to the point she couldn’t stand it.
Annabel was asleep when she got home. Imogen kept thinking back to those comments she’d seen on her daughter’s Facebook page. What kind of monster would write that kind of thing to a little girl? She didn’t know how to bring it up without looking like she was spying on her daughter, a surefire way, she knew, to make any and all personal conversations end before they even had a chance to begin.
Everything was a mess. Her daughter was being bullied online and she was being bullied at work. She woke each day with a pit in her stomach about the very thought of walking into that office and seeing Eve. Not a morning passed when Eve didn’t comment on something Imogen didn’t know or had done wrong. She didn’t send a document in the right format. Why didn’t she understand how to access the photographs they now stored in the cloud and not on the server? You know you don’t have to reply all to emails! You know you should reply all to emails more often! Could she tweet more?
There was now a very clear line drawn through the story of her life, Before Eve and After Eve. It should be Before Cancer and After Cancer, but Imogen wasn’t certain that the cancer had more of an impact on her well-being than the reappearance of Eve in her life.
We all have tropes that run rampant in our heads. Before Eve, Imogen thought endlessly about being the best editor in chief out there, about beating the competition, about selling more magazines. That little voice told her that Glossy could always be better if she just tried harder. Now that little voice changed its tune. Now she was no longer good enough. Now it told her to just give up because she couldn’t survive here.
She stretched her leg out, which felt good, and wiggled her toes. Decades of six-inch heels did feet no favors.
The hot water from the faucet falling created a pleasantly thumping crescendo and Imogen indulged in a new fantasy. What if they just left? What if they gave up the wildly expensive mortgage on their town house and the private school tuitions? What if they packed it all up and moved to New Orleans? Taking a large swallow of wine, she remembered how much she fucking loved New Orleans.
What would it cost to live in New Orleans? Maybe a fifth of what it cost them to keep up appearances in New York? She picked up her phone from the little vintage bamboo table she kept by the tub and fumbled with her wet hands for the real estate app, the one Tilly downloaded for her. Careful to keep the device above the water, Imogen pecked in some parameters. New Orleans – Garden District – Bedrooms (4+).
So many options. She shook bits of water off her thumbs so she could scroll down the smooth screen. Then she fell in love.
It was a nineteenth-century historical manse in the Garden District. Peculiar and beautiful, with its all-white exterior and robin’s-egg-blue trim, a formidable wrought-iron fence wound lazily around the property. Enlarging the picture allowed a glimpse of a rickety porch swing. The price for this gem was less than 20 percent of what they’d paid for this town house.
Down south, Alex could put up a shingle as a local attorney, fixing DUIs and divorces. The kids could go to public school. She’d find the space to figure out what she wanted to do next, what she could do next. Photography? Interior design? Both fields were different and digital now, but she had an eye. It was the only place in the world besides New York City where she felt like she could thrive as a creative person.
Butterflies fluttered in her belly. She was excited. New Orleans would be new and fresh. A challenge, sure, but a new challenge. Goddamn it. Did everything always have to go in a straight line? Her career could move across a diagonal. What if Alex came home and she just said, ‘Leave your goddamned job’? She could have choices!
Imogen finished her wine. Why didn’t she bring the bottle upstairs?
The phone slipped from her hand onto the bath mat.
You think New York is everything, until it isn’t anymore.
She sighed. It really was just a dream. Sure, getting rid of the house and the private school would give them some breathing room, but both Imogen and Alex had aging parents, both with little in the way of retirement savings. Then there was her pile of medical bills, growing all the time, which needed the attention of her jaunty Robert Mannering Corp. insurance plan.
The weight of an entire family cleaved to her shoulders. No matter how much hot water she put in the tub now a chill crept over her and goose pimples prickled the surface of her skin.