Joe

“Okay, do you have his number in Costa Rica?”

“Didi, no,” I cut her off, tapping the arm rest of the back seat of the Uber.

“Oh, right, I guess it would just be his regular phone number,” she sighs distractedly. “Why don’t you call him now? I will be here for support.”

“No. Stop.”

“What do you mean, stop?” she huffs. “Are you not going to tell him? I mean… Wait. What if I hadn’t found out? Were you even going to tell me?”

My mind is spinning. There’s so much to figure out. Pregnant? Me?

I’ve been on the pill since I was fourteen. Having children is not on my horizon, much less something I’ve actually workshopped as far as figuring out what I would say to the imaginary father, to the imaginary employer, and which of my friends would find out and in which order.

This is insanity.

“Joe? Would you have told me?”

“Of course I would’ve told you. Please keep your voice down.”

Her eyes flicker toward the Uber driver. “I really don’t think she cares. But I do. What is the plan, Joanna? You are always fifteen steps ahead of everybody. What are we gonna do?”

What can I do? Can I see myself in this Manhattan gallery, nine months pregnant? Bring my baby to work during the day? Single mother… Yes. I can do that. It’s a surprise, but there are so many inspiring stories of single mothers out there. I could find a way.

But is she right? Should I call? I try to imagine the sound of his voice and it sends shivers down my spine. I would love to talk to him. I long to talk to him. But I don’t want to talk to him if it seems like I’m swooping in with an agenda. That’s not fair to him. And what am I going to say, how can I explain that in a town full of women he has successfully avoided, I stormed the gates, forgot my birth control, and managed to get knocked up in the space of a week? That sounds ridiculous. It sounds manipulative, conniving.

We had an arrangement: one week of no-strings exploration. A “staycation” for both of us. No strings means no strings.

Finally I twist toward her, taking her hands in my hands and pulling her forward so she has to look me right in the eye. She blinks a couple of times, startled.

“Didi, right now we are on a mission,” I explain tersely. “We are going to Martha Adler to make sure that your drunk ass still has a job. Okay? Let’s just do one thing at a time.”

“I’m not drunk,” Didi scowls, snatching her hands back.

“Fine,” I say as we pull up in front of the gallery. “Now let’s make sure you are also not unemployed.”

Didi walks in front of me and I can tell by the way her spine stiffens that Martha has already seen her. The stiletto heels ring out as she approaches, sharp as gunfire.

“Didi, can I have a moment?”

I step out from behind her, smiling as I catch Martha’s eye.

“Martha, I finally got ahold of Dusty,” I interrupt, pretending that I don’t know how rude I am being.

Martha flinches and scowls, turning her attention toward me.

“Um... all right? Thank you for doing that.”

“I have some bad news,” I announce, cutting Martha off before she can get Didi back into her sights. “Dusty was snaked by another gallery. They saw her at the opening and… she took the job.”

Martha looks affronted. “Who was it?” she snarls.

“I will find out for you,” I assure her, slowly inching my body between her and Didi. “But in the meantime, there’s no one there. We need to be open on Thursday, and so I was thinking… Well, actually, Didi suggested—”

“Didi?” Martha repeats sarcastically. “Yes, please tell me what Didi’s suggestion was.”

Martha folds her hands in front of her chest, tapping her upper arms with her shiny red fingertips. I take a moment to swallow and arrange my story in the most compelling possible narrative.

“Well, the opening was a success,” I begin in a hurry, “but we don’t really have a second show planned. So with Martha Schindler so successful in this space, we were thinking that a co-located show could be a nice way to pivot off of the Manhattan reputation and bring more prestige to the Willowdale location.”

“Co-located?” she repeats slowly. “As in, a double opening?”

“Exactly,” Didi pipes in, hobbling forward. She offers Martha a tight, brave smile. “Your Florida collectors are slightly less sophisticated than New York, which makes Schindler a fantastic choice. Her color palette is really on trend for the Naples area.”

I offer a silent prayer of thanks to Didi for paying attention. I forget sometimes that she really is good at her job, when she bothers to show up to do it.

“Oh, yes… The blue lady. I suppose those large pieces will perfectly match some local sofas. Heathens.”

“I know, right?” I laugh brightly, aware that she is almost bought in. “So Didi and I would like to go down and handle the Florida location.”

Martha purses her lips, flaring her nostrils as she thinks it through.

“Both of you?”

“Well, I know that I can’t do it by myself, and Didi is almost healed,” I explain quickly, hoping it sounds remotely possible.

But as Martha glances at Didi, I realize that this really was her last chance. Martha is only happy to have Didi out of her sight. Dusty getting snaked was a stroke of luck.

“You would have to stay until… through the high season, I suppose,” Martha adds, nodding to herself. “Would you be willing to do that? Through, say, January?”

I take a moment to calculate, and it seems to be just about the right amount of time. After that, maybe I could just take a very convenient vacation, to make sure it all works out.

“Well, then,” Martha announces, casting a brief accusatory look at Didi, “looks like you two are going to be heading out of town.”

* * *

It’s not until we are practically within the city limits that Didi actually seems to work up the courage to talk about logistics.

“So, are you going to stay with your parents?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“I’ve been staying at the cabin, actually…”

But maybe I shouldn’t. I pause, weighing it against the possibility of staying with my mother, under her eagle eye, while I ruminate over my choices. I mean, I haven’t figured out if I’m planning on staying pregnant. I’m sure my mother would like to make that decision for me.

“My mother’s in the hospital,” Didi announces uncomfortably, her eyes flickering up toward the rearview mirror to make sure the Uber driver who picked us up at the airport isn’t listening. He is a older guy, sort of looks like a farmer with a wrinkly, tanned neck the color of a leather handbag. He just stares out the windshield, bored and listening to his talk radio.

“Yeah… Actually, my mom told me about that. I’m really sorry.”

“Well, I guess we all saw it coming.”

I pause, giving her room in case she wants to say something else. Didi doesn’t talk about her mother too much, and she never has. In middle school, she was embarrassed by her outbursts. In high school, she went out of her way to please or impress her, but it never seemed to work. Things would seem fine, then her mom would change suddenly, becoming furious in the middle of dinner. Shrieking. Throwing things.

“Why don’t we both stay at the cabin?” I suggest. “There’s a futon in the living room. It pulls out. It’s a bed. Got a whole ocean in the backyard.”

She smiles at me gratefully. “Really? You don’t mind?”

“It’ll be just like the old days,” I smile back.

Didi gazes out the window, happy at least for the moment. When the palm trees part and Main Street appears in the distance, she taps my leg excitedly.

“Home sweet home!” she chuckles.

I realize she hasn’t been back before now either. I hope this will work out for both of us.