CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Nellie lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the city waft through the bars of her open window: A honk; the shouted lyrics to “Y.M.C.A.”; a car alarm wailed in the distance.
The suburbs were going to seem so quiet.
Sam had left a few hours earlier, but Nellie had decided to stay in. If Richard called, she wanted to be at the apartment. Besides, the tumult of the past twenty-four hours had left her feeling depleted.
When she’d gotten home from the Learning Ladder, she and Sam had plastered on cobalt-blue algae masks while they waited for their Chinese food to arrive—spareribs, pork dumplings, sweet-and-sour chicken, and, in a token nod to Nellie’s wedding diet, brown rice.
“You look like a Blue Man Group reject,” Sam had said as she smoothed the paste over Nellie’s cheeks.
“You look like Sexy Smurf.”
After the morning’s tension and the inexplicable menace she’d felt at the school, it was so good to laugh with Sam.
Nellie had grabbed plastic forks from the drawer beside the sink, the one that was also crammed with packets of hot sauce and mustard and mismatched paper napkins. “I’m using the good silver tonight,” she joked. It hit her that this would likely be the last meal they shared alone before the wedding.
When the food arrived, they washed off their masks. “Ten bucks wasted,” Sam proclaimed as she examined her skin. Then they flopped on the couch and dug in, chatting about everything except what was really on Nellie’s mind.
“Last year the Straubs gave Barbara a Coach bag after graduation,” Sam said. “Think I’ll score something good?”
“Hope so.” Richard had presented Nellie with a Valentino bag the previous week after he noticed an ink stain on the one she usually carried. It was still under her bed in its protective dustcover; no way was she going to risk a kid finger-painting it. She hadn’t mentioned the purse to Sam.
“Sure you don’t want to join me?” Sam had asked as she shimmied into Nellie’s AG jeans.
“I haven’t recovered from last night.”
Nellie had wanted Sam to stay in and watch a movie with her, but she knew Sam had to maintain her other friendships. After all, Nellie would be gone in a week.
Nellie had thought about calling her mother, but their conversations often left Nellie feeling a bit on edge. Her mother had met Richard only once, and she’d immediately honed in on the age difference. “He’s had time to sow his oats and travel and live,” she told Nellie. “Don’t you want to do the same before you settle down?” When Nellie responded that she wanted to travel and live with Richard, her mother shrugged. “Okay, lovey,” she said, but she didn’t sound completely convinced.
It was now after midnight but Sam was still out; maybe with a new boyfriend, or maybe with an old one.
Despite Nellie’s exhaustion and the rituals she’d tried—chamomile tea and her favorite meditation music—she kept listening for the scrape of Sam’s key in the lock. She wondered why it was always on the nights one most craved sleep that it was elusive.
She found her thoughts returning to Richard’s ex. When she was in Duane Reade earlier picking up the face masks, she’d stood in line behind a woman who was talking on her cell phone, making plans to meet someone for dinner. The woman was petite and yoga toned, and her laughter spilled out like bright coins during the call. Would she be Richard’s type?
Nellie’s own cell phone waited within reach on her nightstand. She kept looking at it, steeling herself in case it erupted with another unsettling hang-up. As the night stretched on, its silence began to feel more ominous, as if it were mocking her. Eventually, she got up and walked over to her dresser. Moogie, her childhood stuffed dog, was perched atop it, listing to one side, his brown-and-white fuzz worn but still soft. Even though she felt silly, she lifted him up and brought him back into bed with her.
She managed to doze off at some point, but at six A.M., a jackhammer erupted just outside her apartment. She staggered out of bed and closed her window, but the insistent sputtering continued.
“Shut that fucking thing off!” Nellie’s neighbor bellowed, his words carrying through the radiator.
She pulled her pillow over her head, but it was futile.
She took a long shower, rolling her head around in circles to try to ease the ache in her neck, then put on her robe and rifled through her closet searching for her light blue dress with the little yellow flowers—it would be perfect for graduation—only to remember that it was still at the dry cleaner’s, along with half a dozen other items.
Picking them up had been on the to-do list she’d scribbled on the back of a spin-class schedule, along with Move books to Richard’s storage bin and Buy bikini and after Change mailing address at post office. She’d yet to make it to a spin class this month, either.
Her phone rang at seven on the dot.
“I got a deodorant commercial! I’m Sweaty Girl Three!”
“Josie?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to call so early, but I’ve tried everyone else. Margot can do the first half of my shift. I just need someone to take over at two.”
“Oh, I—”
“I’ll have a line! I can get my SAG card after this!”
Nellie should have said no for so many reasons. Graduation wouldn’t end until one. She still had to finish packing her things. And tonight was the dinner with Richard and Maureen.
But Josie was such a good friend. And she’d been trying to get her SAG card for two years.
“Okay, okay, break a leg. Or is it break a sweat?”
Josie laughed. “Love you!” she shouted.
Nellie rubbed her temples. A faint headache began to pulse between them.
She opened her laptop and typed herself an email with the subject line TO DO!!!!!!: Dry cleaner, pack up books, Gibson’s at 2, Maureen at 7.
A ding announced she had new messages waiting: Linda, reminding the teachers to come in early to set up for graduation. An old sorority sister, Leslie, who still lived in Florida, congratulating her on her engagement. Nellie paused, then deleted that email without replying. Her aunt, asking if Nellie needed any last-minute wedding help. A notification that her automatic monthly charity donation was being deducted from her checking account. Then an email from the wedding photographer: Should I refund your deposit or do you think you’ll reschedule?
Nellie frowned, the words making no sense. She reached for her cell phone and dialed the number at the bottom of his note.
The photographer picked up on the third ring, sounding sleepy.
“Hang on,” he said when she asked about the email. “Let me go to my office.”
She could hear his footsteps, then papers shuffling.
“Yeah. Here’s the message. We got a call last week that the wedding was being postponed.”
“What?” Nellie began to pace in her small bedroom, passing her wedding gown with every few steps. “Who called?”
“My assistant took the message. She told me it was you.”
“I didn’t call! And we haven’t ever changed the date!” Nellie protested, sinking down on the bed.
“I’m sorry, but she’s worked with me for almost two years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
She and Richard had both wanted an intimate wedding with a small guest list. “If we do it in New York, I’d have to invite all my colleagues,” Richard had said. He’d found a breathtaking resort in Florida not far from her mother’s home—a white-columned building facing the ocean, encircled by palm trees and red and orange hibiscus—and was paying for the entire bill, including the guests’ rooms, the food, and the wine. He was even picking up the airfare for Sam and Josie and Marnie.
When they viewed the photographer’s website, Richard had admired the journalistic-style images: “Everyone else goes for the stiff posed shots. This guy captures emotion.”
She’d been saving money for weeks, wanting the photographs to be her wedding gift to him.
“Look . . .” Her voice lilted the way it always did when she was on the verge of tears. Maybe the resort could find another photographer, but it wouldn’t be the same. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but this was clearly your mistake.”
“I’m staring at the message right now. But hang on, let me check something. What time is your ceremony again?”
“Four o’clock. We were going to do pictures before, too.”
“Well, I’ve already booked another shoot for three. But I’ll work something out. It’s an engagement portrait, so I bet they won’t mind being bumped an hour or so.”
“Thank you,” Nellie breathed.
“Hey, I get it, it’s your wedding day. Everything should be perfect.”
Her hands shook as she hung up the phone. The assistant must have messed up and the photographer was covering for her, Nellie decided. She’d probably confused their ceremony with another couple’s. But if the photographer hadn’t emailed, blurry shots from her mother’s cheap camera would have been the only pictures they would have had.
The photographer was right, she thought. Everything should be perfect.
Everything would be perfect. Except . . . She went to her top dresser drawer and pulled out a small satin pouch that held a light blue monogrammed handkerchief. It had been her father’s, and since her dad wouldn’t be able to walk her down the aisle, Nellie planned to wrap it around her bouquet. She wanted to feel his presence on that symbolic journey.
Her dad had been stoic. He hadn’t cried even as he told her about his diagnosis of colon cancer. But when Nellie graduated from junior high school, she’d seen his eyes grow damp. “Thinking about all the things I’ll miss,” he’d said. He’d kissed the top of her head, and then the mist disappeared from his eyes, like a morning fog evaporating in the sun. Six months later, he was gone, too.
Nellie smoothed out the soft handkerchief, winding it through her fingers. She wished her father could have met Richard. Her dad would have approved, she was certain. “You done good,” he would have said. “You done good.”
She touched the handkerchief to her cheek, then put it back in the pouch.
She checked the clock on the kitchen stove. The dry cleaner would open at eight; graduation was at nine. If she left right now, she’d have just enough time to pick up the flowered dress, change, and make it to school to set up.
Nellie leaned against the bar, waiting for Chris to finish making the dirty martinis destined for Table 31, a group of lawyers celebrating a birthday. She fidgeted with the new bracelet on her wrist. The beads were thick and bright, fastened with a clumsy knot. Jonah had given it to her at graduation.
It was her table’s third round, and it was almost six—the time she’d planned to leave. Nellie hadn’t told Richard she was covering Josie’s shift and couldn’t be late to meet Maureen.
It had been slow at the restaurant initially. She’d chatted with a white-haired couple visiting from Ohio, recommending a great bagel place and suggesting they check out a new exhibit at the Met. They’d pulled out pictures of their five grandchildren and mentioned that the youngest was having trouble learning to read, so Nellie jotted down a list of books that might help.
“You’re a doll,” the woman had said, tucking the sheet of paper into her purse. Nellie had noticed the gold band on her left hand and wondered how it would feel, decades from now, to have photographs of her own grandchildren to show to new acquaintances. By then her engagement ring would surely feel as if it were a part of her, ingrained into her very skin, rather than the weighty, new object on her finger.
But toward the end of her shift, the restaurant was full of clusters of twenty- and thirtysomethings.
“Can you close out my tables?” Nellie asked Jim, another waiter, as he passed by the bar.
“How many do you have left?”
“Four. They don’t want to eat, they’re just parking.”
“Damn, I’m in the weeds right now. Give me a few?”
She looked at her watch again. She’d been hoping to get home to take a shower and put on her black eyelet dress. She always smelled like french fries when she left Gibson’s. But now she’d have to change back into the flowered sundress she’d worn for graduation.
She was about to lift up the tray of dirty martinis destined for the lawyers when someone draped an arm over her shoulders. She turned to see a tall guy who’d probably just turned twenty-one crowding in next to her. He was accompanied by a few friends, who emanated the rowdy energy of athletes before a big game. Normally groups of guys were her favorite customers; unlike women, they never asked for separate checks, and they tipped her well.
“How do we get in your section?” The guy was wearing a Sigma Chi T-shirt, the Greek letters close to her face.
She wrenched her eyes away. “Sorry, but I’m leaving in a few minutes.” She ducked out from beneath his arm.
As she grabbed the drinks and spun away, she heard one of the guys say, “If I can’t get in her section, how do I get in her pants?”
She fumbled the tray and it flipped, soaking her in gin and olive juice. Glasses shattered against the floor, and the guys burst into applause.
“Damn it!” Nellie cried, wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Wet T-shirt contest!” one of the guys hooted.
“Settle down, boys,” Jim said to the guys. “You okay? I was just coming to say I could cover for you.”
“I’m fine.” A busboy approached with a broom as she hurried to the back office, holding her soaked shirt away from her chest. She grabbed her gym bag and went into the bathroom, peeling off her clothes and mopping her skin with a handful of paper towels. She wet another paper towel and rubbed herself down as best she could, then reached into her bag for her flowered dress. It was a little rumpled, but at least it was clean.
She stared at her image in the mirror, not seeing her flushed cheeks or messy hair.
She saw herself at the age of twenty-one, waking up in the sorority house the morning after everything had changed: her throat raw from crying, her body shivering despite her warm pajamas and quilt.
She exited the bathroom, planning to cut a wide berth around those assholes.
They were clustered in a circle by the bar, holding bottles of beer, laughing raucously.
“Aw, we didn’t want to make you leave,” one of the guys said. “Kiss and make up?” He held out his arms. His back was to the bar, as were the other guys’—probably so they could ogle the women in the room.
Nellie glared at him, wanting to throw a drink in his face. Why not? It wasn’t as if she’d get fired.
But as she moved closer, she noticed something on the bar, just behind him. “Sure,” she said sweetly. “I’ll give you a hug.”
Nellie plopped her gym bag on the bar, then leaned in and endured the feel of his body pressing against hers.
“Have a fun night, boys,” she said, picking up her things.
She quickly hailed a cab. Once she was ensconced in the back, she opened the slim leather check holder she’d scooped up when she took her gym bag off the bar. The one with the edge of the credit card poking out of the top.
A block later, when the cab had stopped at a red light, she casually dropped it out the window, into a busy intersection.