The last time she’d seen her college roommate, Marcia had left Preston, discovered she was pregnant, and spent the whole visit unloading on her best friend.
“Absolutely. You have to come over. Can you stay a couple of days?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll feed you. How long before you can get here?”
“I’m in your lobby now,” Ann said. “Talk to the concierge, I’m handing him my cell phone.”
Marcia asked the concierge to send Ann up, and in a minute was at the door waiting for her with a big hug. While Marcia called the Trump Grill and ordered lunch, Ann was busy talking to the airline about changing her return flight to the next day. Soon their lunch arrived. They moved to the stools at the marble countertop, ate lunch, and drank wine, and Marcia listened to Ann’s colorful description of the speakers and interactive exercises at the editor’s conference.
After an hour or so, Marcia could see and hear from the monitor on the counter that P.J. was starting to wake up.
“I’ll introduce you to His Majesty in a moment,” Marcia said. “I’d like to make him presentable first.”
Marcia went into P.J.’s room, cuddled with her son, changed his diaper, and brought him out with considerable fanfare and presented him to Ann, who took him in her arms.
“Look at him. Those eyes. Wow. Marcia.”
“I agree,” Marcia said, taking him back and placing him gently in his bouncer with wheels. “He’s a bit wobbly, but he’ll be walking soon. We’ve baby proofed the whole condo. Our nanny will be here in half an hour to take him to the park.”
Marcia and Ann sat on the floor and played with P.J. for a while.
“How’s his hearing coming?” Ann asked.
“It’s not. That’s one of the five thousand things I want to talk to you about before Preston comes home. You’ll have to keep extending your flight.”
“Tell me.”
“Remember our phone conversation about the nature of P.J.’s loss, the architecture issue, and the Clarke Schools for Hearing and Speech?”
“Of course.”
“P.J. needs hearing aids. The window is about twelve to fourteen months. Preston loves P.J., but he doesn’t get it. He thinks because P.J. hears certain sounds, everything will work out—that P.J. just needs time for his hearing to develop—and the pediatrician he consulted for a second opinion agrees with him.”
“It’s good that P.J. hears certain sounds, right?” Ann asked.
“Sure. But the audiologist has tested P.J. His loss is moderate at certain frequencies and severe at others. Even though he hears sounds, he’s not hearing all the letters. It’s gibberish. And it’s harmful.” Marcia felt a sense of dark despair, like the sky had suddenly been overtaken with heavy black clouds blocking out all the light. She reached for a box of tissues. “I’m sorry, enough of this.”
“How are you and Preston doing—apart from the hearing stuff?” Ann asked, curling up on the couch, her legs and feet beneath her.
Marcia followed her to the couch. “Do you remember when we talked at your house last year and I told you about my conversation with my dad when my favorite doll broke?”
“Yeah—well, not word for word, but the idea was he could either fix it or get you a new one . . . ”
“That’s right,” Marcia said. “If he fixed it, it wouldn’t be perfect, and if he got me a new one, it wouldn’t be my favorite.”
“And if I remember correctly, you said that’s the way you felt about Preston, that deep down he was a good man, but you couldn’t wait forever for that to surface. You said you’d lose yourself in the process.”
“Right. It’s complicated. Preston’s father was not a good guy. He was always chasing rainbows, waiting for the next big deal—to make up the losses from the last one—and that’s not all he chased. He wasn’t the most attentive father either. Finally Preston’s mother had enough of the squandering and womanizing and divorced him. Preston was just fifteen at the time. He’s always been scared that he, too, would be a failure.”
“I thought his business problems were turning around.”
“It looks that way. I never know, but that’s another problem.”
“I’m missing something,” Ann said.
Marcia got up, walked to the credenza, and poured herself bourbon, neat. She looked at Ann, who shook her head and held up her half-filled wine glass. Marcia looked out the window to the park, sighed, and returned to the couch.
“He has a daughter.”
“What?”
“He recently found out that he’s the father of a twenty-three-year old. Her name is Katherine; she lives in New York. Just finished her graduate studies and is about to begin her career as a reporter.”
They both sat quietly for a few moments, staring at each other. Then Marcia looked down and ran her foot across the soft carpet.
Ann broke the silence. “Has he met her?”
“Yes, we both have. Preston had lunch with her not long ago, and the three of us had dinner together across the street at Armani’s last Thursday.”
“Do you like her?”
“Yes. She’s smart and thoughtful,” Marcia said, feeling comfort in their symmetrical exchanges and her ability to read the analogical codes. “This has been difficult for her, too. She’d been told by her mother that her father was killed in the Air Force before she was born. There was a man killed in the Air Force—her mother’s boyfriend—but, recently, Katherine discovered that he was not her father, and that Preston was,” Marcia said in a soft, distant voice.
“How’s Preston doing with all of this?”
“He loves it. He’s got a new sales campaign.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s got to win her over—going all out.”
“And you’re pissed.”
“I don’t know what I am anymore. Preston didn’t ask for this. He was twenty-three, for God’s sake. He never knew . . . until the girl’s mother called him out of the blue about a month ago. I thought he handled it pretty well for the most part.”
“So you’re not upset?”
“I’d like not to be. Okay, I am upset. But I’m not . . . pissed. I’m okay with his having a daughter, and, in a way, I admire his reaching out to her. She needs a father. And she’s a good kid. My problem is with Preston, his inability to truly understand P.J.’s impairment. Passive-aggressive procrastination. Maybe even embarrassment. He’ll use his newfound daughter as a welcome distraction. I’ve already seen him pulling away from me and P.J., and I hate it.”
“Embarrassment?”
“I’m not sure, but he’s always wanted a son. Now he sees imperfection in the mirror.”
“Sounds like a psychology paper. Does he know you feel that way?”
“I haven’t told him in so many words. He knows I’m upset. And it’s likely to be fueling his fears about my leaving him again. He’s never really gotten over that. And you know what? I may do it. I don’t know.”
“How long has that been going on—your thinking about leaving him?”
“If you’re asking whether I started this after I found out about Katherine, the answer is no. Everything was going well when I was pregnant. Preston was attentive; his business was getting back on track; he was talking with the Collectibles—you know that group of Joe Hart’s friends I told you about—and he seemed headed back to the Preston I fell in love with.”
“That sound like a, Yes.”
“No.”
“Okay, so what was the trigger? P.J.’s hearing?”
“Probably. His lack of response . . . but even before that. It’s a pattern. He didn’t follow through with Joe’s friends. He and I see his commitment to Joe differently.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the door, which opened and a pleasant-looking woman walked in.
“This is Nadine, our nanny. We love her to death. Nadine, this is my dear friend, Ann.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Ann,” Nadine said with a Jamaican accent, smiling at them both and picking up P.J. “How’s my little man today? Are you ready for a stroll in the park?”
They all laughed when P.J. thrust his arms in the air and smiled.
“He responds readily to smiles and laughter,” Marcia explained to Ann. “C’mon, Ann, let’s get you settled in the guest room while P.J. and Nadine go out and get some fresh air.”
P.J. and Ann were asleep when Preston came home and found Marcia sitting on the couch, staring at the bookcase.
“Ann’s in the guest bedroom, Preston. Her conference ended early and she came over to talk—she’s leaving in the morning.”
“That’s fine. I’m sure you two have had a good time. How’s she doing?”
“Very well. Her newsletter has really taken off.”
“Great.”
Preston looked in on P.J. for a minute and then, back in the living room and seeing Marcia’s glass of wine, poured himself a scotch, and sat down in one of the leather wingback chairs across from the couch.
“Have you had dinner?” Marcia asked.
“Yeah. At the club.”
“We need to talk.”
“We are talking.”
“I’m serious. This can’t wait.”
“What can’t wait?”
“Your son.”
“How much wine have you had?”
“Not enough. It’s not the wine. I’m going to have P.J. fitted with hearing aids as soon as the audiologist can do it.”
“We’ve been through this,” Preston said.
“This is important to P.J. and to me. My way can’t hurt him. Your failure to see the need—or your procrastination—can.”
“But P.J. is hearing. You know what my pediatrician says. These are honest differences of viewpoint.”
“I don’t care about honest differences of viewpoint anymore. There’s the big D school of thought, too. Is that what you want?”
“I’m just saying give it a few more months,” Preston asked.
“I’m not doing that, Preston. I’m having him fitted with bilateral aids as soon as possible.”
“I thought we were a team on this,” Preston said.
“Then I’m resigning from the team.”
“What does that mean?”
“You figure it out. I’m going to bed.”