ERICA IS IN MADGE MILLER’S office at Sotheby’s Real Estate on East Sixty-First Street. The office is perfectly organized and decorated in soothing beiges. Madge herself—in her understated gray dress and pearls, glasses on a chain around her neck and hair in a bun—seems like a throwback to a more genteel New York. This is exactly the kind of calm, ordered place that Erica needs to be in right now. The call from her mother left her rattled; demons she thought she’d conquered flared back to life, screeching, teeth bared, red eyes glowing.
Madge looks at Erica—there’s concern in her eyes. “How about a cup of tea? We have some lovely herbals.”
“That actually sounds nice,” Erica says. She never drinks herbal tea.
Madge presses her intercom. “Rufus, could I get a cup of chamomile-lavender for Ms. Sparks? . . . So, we’re all ready to close. I must say, Erica, I think you’ve made a very good decision. It’s a lovely apartment.”
Rufus—young, wearing an expensive suit—brings in Erica’s tea. She holds it up and inhales the gentle fragrance, takes a sip—it’s soothing. Madge is soothing. Why can’t Madge be her mother—this lovely, understated, understanding woman.
“Does June fifteenth work for you? That’s in two weeks and gives us time to make sure all the t’s are crossed.”
Erica takes another sip of tea—the office is soothing too, immaculate and ordered and sane, and her chair is so comfortable.
“Erica?” Madge gently prompts.
Erica is pulled out of her reverie. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s been an . . . intense day.”
Madge chuckles in sympathy. “We all have those.”
“The fifteenth works.”
“It’s very exciting.”
“I can hardly believe it,” Erica says. She pictures her mother, back from Hannaford, unloading her beer and frozen pizza and Little Debbies in her kitchen with its grimy corners and cheap cabinets and long-busted dishwasher. Erica doesn’t feel a lick of guilt about her new apartment, not a drop, not a crumb, not a scintilla. Why would she? How could she? She sits up straight, puts the teacup on a table.
“Listen, Madge, I wonder if you could help me with something?”
“I’d be delighted to try.”
“I’m trying to track down a real estate agent who has an apartment building for sale.”
“Erica, there are over twenty thousand real estate agents in this city. It’s true that the majority of us don’t deal in apartment houses, but you’re still talking about a large number. Do you have any other information?”
“She’s a woman. And she has a strong Irish accent.”
“The Irish accent helps. Most brokers from abroad try to lose their accents. Except the British—high-end buyers love a British accent. Irish? Not so much. So if this woman has retained her brogue, it may be because she considers it an asset. Which means she may have a largely Irish customer base. Which means she may operate in one of the city’s remaining Irish enclaves.”
“Which are?”
“There’s Marine Park and Gerritsen Beach in Brooklyn, Broad Channel and Sunnyside in Queens, Woodlawn in the northern Bronx. Many of these old neighborhoods still have mom-and-pop real estate agencies. Hold on, let me do a quick search.” Madge starts typing. “I’ll just get the zip codes for those neighborhoods . . . Here we go . . . Now let’s do a zip code search for real estate agencies . . . Okay.” Pages start to flow out of her printer. She hands them to Erica. “Here you go.”
Erica looks down at the list of about two-dozen agencies. “Madge, if you ever want to switch careers, let me know. My show is hiring researchers.”
Madge smiles in bemusement. “I’m not sure you could meet my quote.”
“I’m sure we couldn’t. I can’t thank you enough.”
“My pleasure. And your request was easy. I’ve had clients ask me to babysit.”
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
Back at her office, Erica starts working her way down the list. When she tells them she’s interested in investing in a small apartment building, most tell her they have none listed. And the two agents that do have buildings also have New York accents. It’s drudgework and she’s beginning to wonder if maybe she’s barking up the wrong list. She reaches the last neighborhood, Woodlawn in the Bronx. She calls Celtic Home Realty.
“Welcome to Celtic Home, your home away from the homeland,” says a woman with a lilting Irish accent that she’s milking for all it’s worth.
Erica sits up straight, suddenly alert and focused. “Hi, my name is Erica Sparks.”
“Now why does that name ring a bell?”
“You may have seen me on television.”
“I’m not a big one for television, but never mind that. I’m Fiona Connor. How can I help you today?”
“I’m thinking of investing in some real estate. I know how strong the rental market is, and I’m considering a small apartment house.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve got a nice little apartment building, eight units, been in the same family for forty-two years, maintained with great Irish pride. Would you like to schedule an appointment?”
“I would, yes. Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
After the call, Erica feels restless and out of sorts. She gets up and paces, goes to the window—down below rush hour is starting and thousands of workers are pouring out of office buildings and joining the throngs on the already crowded streets in a great surging wave of humanity. The sight only exacerbates her loneliness. She feels like there’s a piece missing from her essential self, that no matter what she does or how far she travels, something is off, that her family’s sickness and depravity and self-sabotage is hardwired into her DNA.
And then there’s her fear, which has grown constant—sitting still has become difficult, getting to sleep has become a nightly battle. In the long, dark hours she falls prey to terrifying thoughts, horrible scenarios—many involving Jenny being harmed. She feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to see her daughter. She picks up her phone.
Dirk answers. “Hello, Erica.”
“Hi, Dirk. How are you?”
“Pretty well. Linda and I are engaged.” Is there an edge of gloating in his voice?
“Oh. Well, that’s . . . that’s wonderful.”
“Yes, yes it is. Jenny will have a complete family. Which she needs at this point in her life.”
The dig hurts but Erica ignores it. “May I speak to her?”
“Hmm . . . yes. Okay.”
“I’d like to come up and see her.”
“Aren’t you swamped? I saw a promo for your new show.”
“I am busy, but I’d like to see my daughter. I could fly up, just for an afternoon.”
“It took her a week to get back in the groove after her trip to New York. As I predicted, your glamorous life unsettled her. It seemed to exacerbate her insecurities.”
What a lousy thing for him to say. When they first got together, Erica confided in Dirk, told him about her childhood, about Susan, about her own insecurities and fears about motherhood. She had no role model and hoped the combination of her maternal instincts, common sense, and abiding love would guide her. She wants to be a good mother more than anything in the world, to break the chain of negligence and abuse that goes back for generations in her family. All her other success will be meaningless if she fails at that. For him to throw that in her face is a low blow. She wants to lash out at him, to defend herself, to say that Jenny seemed excited and enriched by her New York experience. But she knows that—at least for now—Dirk holds the cards.
“Well, if I come up to Massachusetts, that shouldn’t be a problem. Jenny and I could go out to lunch, go to a museum, maybe do a little shopping.”
“If you take her shopping and buy her a lot of fancy things, she’ll start comparing it to what I’m able to buy her.”
“Does that mean that I’m never allowed to spend money on my daughter?”
He has no answer to that question.
“Listen, Dirk, you know I’m in recovery. I haven’t had a drink in over two years. I’ve apologized to you for my past behaviors. You told me you accepted my apologies, but I’m not so sure.”
Erica can sense him softening.
“I know you’ve worked hard, Erica.”
“Jenny is our child. Our marriage may not have worked out, but it produced a wonderful young woman we can both be proud of.”
“Yes, yes it did. Hold on, I’ll get Jenny. And, yes, you can come up and see her.”
“Thank you, Dirk.” Erica waits, and in a moment Jenny comes to the phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“It’s so great to hear your voice. I’ve missed you. How’s school?”
“It’s good. I had a lot of fun in New York.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Dad doesn’t like me to talk about it, but I did. I think he’s jealous.”
Erica allows herself a small gloating smile. “Well, dads can be like that sometimes. But he loves you very much.”
“I like to watch you on TV in my bedroom. I like Linda okay, but she’s not my real mother.”
In that moment Erica learns something new: tears can just start to flow. Without warning, without fanfare and sobs and sniffles, they just flow, like water from a spring.
“I’d like to come up and see you, hang out for a day,” she manages.
“Cool.”
They chat about this and that, easy banter, mom-and-daughter stuff, for a few more minutes. When Erica hangs up, she feels a tentative confidence. She’s not an iota like her own mother. She is breaking the chain, the sad, sordid legacy. She’s giving Jenny confidence and support and guidance. She’s a real mother. She’s not a fraud. She’s an imperfect woman doing the best she knows how.
Erica’s prepaid rings. It’s Mark. She goes into the closet.
“Hey there, Mark.”
“Erica, I’m g-getting close. The f-ferry was h-hacked from somewhere in Man-hattan.”
Erica’s short hairs stand up. “Do you think you’ll be able to pinpoint the exact location?”
“Yes.”
Erica hangs up and starts to pace. The ferry crash has fallen off the news, but when they can identify the terrorists, Erica will be sitting on a story every bit as big as Barrish’s murder. And it will be her exclusive. But the closer she gets to the truth, the more of a threat she becomes to the perpetrators. Erica feels a sudden chill. She goes back to the closet and slips into a cardigan, hugs herself—but the chill remains. Then she closes her office door and leans against it, slowly sinking to the floor.