9

Ollie showed up at our mother’s house with a yoga mat and a backpack. By then Mom, about to turn fifty, was living in a two-bedroom condo, claiming to love the place, but she seemed lonely and vulnerable most of the time. Though who was I to judge; I was still casting about months after Josh moved out.

All Ollie told Mom was that she had been living in Denver with a naturopathic doctor and she had left after he became too serious.

“How do you know he didn’t break up with her?” I asked my mother.

“Well,” Mom said, “I guess we’ll never know.”

“So she’s living with you now?”

“For the time being.”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t let her.”

“For the time being, Amy.” End of discussion.

In her first few weeks at Mom’s, and at her behest, Ollie agreed to see a dentist, a dermatologist, and a gynecologist. She reported that she had no cavities, and my mother acted as if she’d won the Fields Medal. She took Ollie shopping for clothes and didn’t say a word about her new tattoos: a lightning bolt on her knee, a rose on her shoulder, and a spade on her lower back. My mother hadn’t exactly mellowed, but something in her had shifted. After losing her daily sparring partner, her dukes had come down.

Ollie loved Clinique cosmetics, with their medicinal pale green packaging and dermatological approach. Mom, too, was impressed with the paraben- and fragrance-free products and indulged them both in a buying spree at Saks. They received a complimentary case with miniature samples inside that Ollie put aside for me, having remembered how much I liked miniatures.

“Wasn’t that thoughtful?”

My mother needed me to get on board with her fantasy that the world had returned some new and improved version of Ollie, one that wouldn’t hurt or disappoint us. She cooked healthy meals, introducing our mom to tofu, tempeh, hummus, and green tea. “It takes some getting used to,” Mom said, but declared that she was a new person thanks to Ollie’s diet of greens and legumes.

Ollie found a part-time job baking bread at a health food store in New Haven and became known for her yeasty sourdough boule. At night they watched Turner Classic Movies on Mom’s bed and ate apples with peanut butter from the natural foods store. You could grind the peanuts right there! They started walking together in the mornings, Ollie waking up “bright and early” to join Mom. They talked about a walking tour of the Lake District, and in anticipation my mother started reading Wordsworth and Coleridge. Ollie was interested in taking psychology classes at the University of New Haven. Maybe criminology. I did a spit take when I heard that.

I told myself it wouldn’t last, as if I didn’t want it to last, and that made me feel punky and small. I didn’t want to bet against Ollie, but I couldn’t put my money on her either. She wasn’t in therapy, wasn’t on medication. My mother was now fully on board with meditation and the various concoctions Ollie made with ginger, turmeric, and St. John’s wort.

Mom had also been reading up on Chinese medicine. “It makes a lot of sense,” she said with the conviction of a convert, condemning Western doctors for their tunnel vision.

A month into her stay, Ollie heard about a foreclosed bakery in a once-thriving but now struggling part of New Haven. She dragged our mother there.

“It has potential,” Mom admitted.

When they went back a second time, Ollie persuaded Mom to call the realtor.

“He explained the history of the place; it used to be the premier Italian bakery in New Haven,” Mom told me with pride, and I could see the train leaving the station, fueled by Ollie’s grandiosity. She had a zillion ideas for renovating the space and the inspiration to call it Dough, which our parents (Dad now on board) agreed was incredibly clever; Mom was already hunting down period fixtures.

It was easier for Dad to write a check than dig too deep into the details. He was busy sending golf balls into the Floridian horizon and following up with an extra-spicy Bloody Mary to “wake up” his veins. During our weekly call, I suggested that the bakery might be a bit ambitious, expecting him to agree with me, but he said it was a promising idea and potentially a solid investment. Anita had coincidentally discovered sourdough bread at their local Publix.

“That’s not exactly market research,” I countered.

“Your sister needs a shot,” he said. “She’s good at this.”

Dad needed to believe that Ollie was rebuilding her life. To further convince himself, he added, “And she’s a born salesman.”

No shit, Shred.

Four months later, Ollie made off with my father’s $70,000 investment. My mother was flattened. She had gotten way ahead of herself: choosing tiles and fixtures, ordering fifty-pound bags of artisanal flour milled in Vermont, red-and-white bakery twine from a distributor in the Bronx, and aprons with “Dough” embroidered in pink. Ollie left it to Mom to deal with the building, the landlord, and all the equipment that had to be returned or sold. Mom had to cancel the permits, insurance, and the health department inspection, then auction off the brand-new cases and cabinets. The pink neon “Dough” in loopy letters was not returnable. In a fit of pique, my mother was going to throw it out, but I stashed it in the back of her closet, where the fluorescent tubes would gather dust. After Ollie left, Mom threw out the powders and capsules and yoga mats and the handcrafted Himalayan singing bowls.

How could she do that to us? How could she do it to Mom? For a long time, I was convinced that Ollie was responsible for everything that went wrong in our family. At random moments, I’d find myself having one-way conversations with her in my head. I saw her everywhere: standing on a subway platform, in line at a movie or crossing a street. When a woman with Ollie’s blond ringlets stepped into an elevator, I waited for the next one. One time I saw her exact double harassing a deli guy for giving her the wrong pack of Marlboro’s; she sounded so much like Ollie that I froze. I continued to watch her out on the sidewalk as she struggled to light her cigarette, throwing match after match on the ground. When she finally lit it, she took a drag so deep it seemed to stir her soul.

Then, after weeks of seeing Ollie everywhere, days would go by without my thinking of her at all.

After Ollie disappeared, I fessed up to my mother about my half-hearted attempts to find a job. She insisted I make an appointment with Rena Adler, a career counselor she met on one of her bridge cruises.

All the furniture in Rena’s office was Scandinavian. There were two enormous ficus trees and a crystal pendant hanging in the sunny window that threw prisms of light, tiny rainbows that danced on the walls. She had two framed degrees. On closer inspection, I saw that they were certificates, one from a place called The Learning Center, the other from EST, a trendy course in self-actualization.

Rena herself was a version of my mother, only she had proudly taken control of her life after taking the EST seminars: “Those two weekends changed my life.” Rena had dropped her “mask” and “confronted” herself, she told me. She also fell in love with one of the facilitators, left her husband, found an apartment in Kip’s Bay, and trained to become a life coach.

She drilled me with questions: education, hobbies, goals. What would I say were my strengths and weaknesses? Was I comfortable speaking in front of people? Was I a problem solver, a team player? She said she would “crunch the data,” and we would meet again in one week.

“I don’t have a magic wand; it’s going to take work,” she warned, handing me an EST pamphlet (in case I was ready for personal transformation) and reaching for a book on her shelf. There were multiple copies, the spine a gentle wash of rainbow colors. It was What Color Is Your Parachute? by Richard Nelson Bolles.

“This is our bible,” she said, handing me a copy. “No extra charge!”

My mother had left four messages on my machine. She wanted to hear all about the session with Rena, but more than that, she was excited to tell me she had met someone. A widower at her condo, Al Gottfried. They were both taking in their garbage cans and he waved to her. “I invited him in for a cup of coffee, and now we’re going to a movie!” she exclaimed.

“Mom, that’s amazing.”

“I keep telling you, you have to put yourself out there!”

That night, I opened the book Rena had gushed about. It was filled with dated illustrations and sidebars of clichéd advice, but I found myself taking the quizzes, wondering what job I might be able to get, which skills were transferable. What color was my parachute? If I even had one?

At my second session with Rena, she could hardly wait to pounce. “Magazines! Have you heard of Scientific American? Omni? Smithsonian?” She had proudly done some “research” on my behalf and saw editorial work in my future. “You have the science. They need women. Come on, Amy, let’s fire up the resume!” She schooled me on my attire, suggesting that my mother should take me shopping for two suits and some mix-and-match shells. She said a little heel wouldn’t hurt, given my slight stature. Rena prided herself on telling it like it is.

“Maybe I’m stepping over a line, but you seem a little depressed to me,” she said, handing me a business card for a therapist.

In closing, Rena said, “Have you given any thought to your hair?”

I turned the card over in my hand many times before calling Paul Weiss, MSW. Mom and I were shopping at Ann ­Taylor when I mentioned that I had made an appointment with a social worker. “How is a social worker going to help you? You’re not on welfare.”

“He’s a therapist social worker,” I said.

“You’d get more out of joining a gym, at least you might meet someone.”

“Please stop.”

“I don’t know what good therapy did Ollie.” It was the first time Mom had mentioned her since the bakery debacle. “Sometimes I wish I had mental illness, then I could do whatever I want.”

“She doesn’t mean to hurt us,” I said.

“She doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. That’s the problem.”

Mom paid for my suit. The salesgirl started to shove it into a shopping bag, and my mother demanded a garment bag. “For goodness’ sake!”

Paul Weiss worked out of his apartment. He had sectioned off half of the living room with a partition; it had a leather couch, a well-worn Eames chair, and was filled with large hanging spider plants, some sprouting new shoots with babies dangling from them. The apartment was overheated, permeated by the smell of last night’s meal and a coffeepot too long on the burner. Paul had the empathic face of a noble Saint Bernard: deep-set eyes, and gentle jowls; I could see him carry­ing stranded people down a snowy mountain. He wore gray slacks, a V-neck sweater, and paisley socks.

He started every session by crossing his legs and clasping his hands together in his lap. I worried that I wouldn’t have enough to talk about during our introductory meeting, but then the fifty minutes were over. Paul asked if I’d like to come back, and we set an hour for the following week.

As I left Paul’s office, I asked if I should leave the door open or closed.

“Either way,” he said.

“Which do you prefer?” I said, my hand on the doorknob.

“Either way is fine,” he said again.

I paused in the doorway; surely he had a preference. How could I get a gold star if I didn’t know the rules? Over the next few years, whenever I asked about the door, Paul, benevolent sphinx, maintained that it was up to me.

Never give up on your hair. I’d been seeing Paul for almost a month when I noticed the sign outside a hair salon.

I felt Rena Adler’s invisible hand push me through the door. A young man at the reception desk asked if I had an appointment.

“I don’t,” I said.

“No problem.” He jumped up and led me over to a chair. I saw that the place was empty and instantly regretted going in. He put his hands on my shoulders and asked what I had in mind. I couldn’t lift my head to look at my reflection. He massaged my shoulders a bit, and I tensed more. Then he came around and raised my chin.

“Would you mind taking off your glasses?”

I folded them in my lap.

“You’re pretty,” he said.

Then he felt the texture of my hair. “What do you say we clean this up? Bring it up to here,” the heel of his hand touching my neck. I nodded yes.

“What about some color? Perk you up.”

Two hours later I left the salon with auburn hair and a bob with bangs. Walking down the street, I couldn’t stop glancing at myself in the storefront windows, happily surprised each time I peeked.

Walking by Mattress World on Broadway, I made another rash decision: I needed to get a double bed right then. Inside, a small crowd had gathered around a man in a suit who had fallen asleep on one of the display mattresses. He was quietly snoring, blowing out little puffs of air, and a thin line of spittle escaped his mouth. The knot of his tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and his wingtips were scuffed. What if a pea was buried beneath the mattress? What if he was my prince? My fantasy life was full of such encounters. Men on subways, at the cash machine, buying a baguette at Dean & DeLuca. Any one of them might have been my husband.

Perhaps emboldened by my new hair, I touched the sleeping man’s shoulder. He twitched. I shook him a little harder, and he roused himself awake. Still slightly disoriented, he swung his legs around and sat up.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Show over, the circle of gawkers moved on.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’ve been working around the clock.”

He stood up, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his mouth. “Oh god, that’s gross. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy the mattress.”

“I don’t work here.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Was I snoring?”

“More like blowing bubbles.”

“Oh, god.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re too nice,” he said.

“I’m actually not that nice.” A combination of my new look and my overwhelming attraction to this man made me bold—more flirtatious and available than I had been in all my twenty-four years.

“I’m Marc,” he said.

“Amy.”

He asked if I wanted to get a bite; had I ever been to Eisenberg’s, an old-fashioned deli nearby. We were wedged in at the counter, our thighs touching. He had taken off his jacket, undid the top button on his shirt, and loosened his tie. A single curl of chest hair escaped the collar. My world boiled down to watching his Adam’s apple bobbing as he talked about college, LA, where he was from, and wanting to get a dog.

“I just don’t think it’s fair in a one-bedroom,” he said.

“Totally.”

Marc wondered what I did, and I explained that I was transitioning from grad school. I was sending my resume around to publishers and science magazines. In fact, I hadn’t yet sent a single resume.

He insisted on paying and took out his credit card. I saw his full name, Marc Charles Goodyear.

“Are you related to the guy who invented rubber?”

“I am.” He seemed impressed. “Not too many people put that together.”

“Science geek. Well, former science geek.”

I nervously yammered on about vulcanization, the process that kept rubber from hardening in the cold and melting in the heat. “It was genius.”

“He was a royal screwup when it came to the patents. He died broke and left the family destitute.” Marc explained that the present day rubber company kept the Goodyear name, but the family-owned company had been sold long ago. “My grandfather and father became patent attorneys!”

“And you?”

“Yup, I’m a lawyer, well, a litigator.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not like on TV.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Yeah, not to brag, but I am.”

“What makes you good?”

He took a few seconds before answering: “Because I can be a real prick.”

I knew I was meant to laugh, but I saw it in the set of his jaw, his perfectly pared nails.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Well, sort of.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Self-knowledge.”

We headed toward the subway. The light was changing, the air cooler. Marc checked his watch and said he had to get back to the office, he was working on a big case and would probably pull another all-nighter. Only we wound up sitting on a bench in Union Square for another half hour, and he mentioned a friend from high school who worked at a major publisher. He said he’d call her; she might be willing to give me an informational interview, and we exchanged numbers.

Five days passed and I still hadn’t heard from him. I called Kira for her take. She said he’d call. “Men need to make you suffer.”

“It’s almost a week,” I whined. “Should I call him?”

“Absolutely not. Throw away the number if you’re so much as tempted.”

Eight days later, when the call came, I acted a little distracted to cover my excitement. “Oh, hi.”

Marc had spoken to his friend Courtney, and she agreed to meet with me. Though happy for the contact, I was also a little crestfallen. Then Marc asked if I liked sushi.

Courtney took me under her wing. She was the youngest senior editor at Rogers & Rogers. She had a knack for signing celebrities just as their careers were taking off. Dressed in designer jeans, a man’s button-down shirt, fat pearls, and Belgian slippers, she seemed much older than her twenty-nine years, a blend of Mae West and Kathleen Turner from Body Heat.

We met at an outdoor café near her office. She commented on businessmen and messengers alike as they walked by, declaring them fuckable or not. If she saw a woman in a great outfit, she’d say, “Love that.” She and Marc had gone to the same high school, went to prom “as friends,” and had drifted apart until their paths crossed in the city.

“He’s too busy for me,” she said. “Hell, I’m too busy for him. I hate this city.”

I would learn that Courtney had her “spots,” restaurants where she regularly schmoozed with the maître d’s and waiters. “The key to success is being able to get a great table.” She laughed.

She turned to my resume.

“Well, you’re a smarty-pants.”

I tried to deny it.

“No, no. This is good. We’ve been looking for a science editor.”

A few days later, the publisher’s secretary called to set up an appointment. I put on stockings and the Ann Taylor suit Mom had bought me and modeled it in the mirror. Then I took it all off in favor of a miniskirt, tights, and Doc Martens. I’d swapped out my wire-rimmed glasses for Buddy Holly frames. Courtney called them “nerdy-chic” and approved. I recalled Ellen’s advice: go to the audition telling yourself you’ll get the part. I took the subway to Midtown, rehearsing my lines.

The publisher’s office had sweeping views of Manhattan. An entire wall was filled with books, the credenza behind the desk piled high with manuscripts. Crammed in were photos of what must have been his family in the Caribbean, going by the color of the water, and on ski trips out West, by the color of the sky. He was tall with slouching shoulders and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. I noticed that his wedding band was loose on his finger, resting at the knuckle. He put his feet up on the coffee table between us and asked if I’d like a Diet Coke. He’d been trying to find someone to edit science books, “popular science, the stuff that sells, not that dry academic crap. I’d give my eyetooth to find the next Carl Sagan.”

I had read science books almost exclusively, for school and for pleasure, and I mentioned a few possible reasons why some became popular and others didn’t.

“I like the way you think,” he said, and then, “What kind of a name is Shred?”

“A mix,” I said. “Mostly German.”

He asked if I was afraid of long hours, explaining that editors did their reading on their own time. I said I put in twelve hours a day at the lab. He wanted to know why I quit graduate school.

“I’m done with research,” I said. “I can’t fry any more mice brains.” He clapped his hands and said, “Ha!” He asked where I grew up, went to college, what I wanted to be when I grew up. I blanked on the last one, and he said that’s okay: “I’m still trying to figure that out!” Then he stood up, signaling the end of the interview.

I was prepared for him to say that he’d keep my resume on file, that it was nice meeting me. But he took me in his sight and asked, “Why should I take a chance on you, Amy Shred?”

“I’m a good bet.”

“Good answer.”

I walked out of the office with the title of junior editor, a low salary, health benefits, a small windowless office, and a new friend in Courtney. I also had a second date with Marc.