His hand moved slowly in my hair. “I got the papers you sent, and I know I should have signed them. I knew you weren’t coming back. But I never did. I just kept hoping. .” His hand was on my shoulder now. “Are you happy?” he asked.
Eyes closed, I whispered, “For a while, I was.”
“Did you ever think of me?”
“Sometimes.” It was true. In Los Angeles, when I was broke and lonely, getting rejected at auditions a dozen times a week, I’d think of David, who had always been unfailingly kind. I’d remember the coat he’d given me, the mugs of milky coffee, his mouth warm against the back of my neck.
“My husband and I… we were supposed to have a baby. With a surrogate.” He came to sit beside me on the couch. His eyebrows drew together as he studied me. I met his gaze, telling myself I wasn’t the girl he’d known, the girl he’d saved, the cat who’d crept out of his bed and out of his house one summer morning with all the cash in his wallet, the girl who’d sold her engagement ring at a West Hollywood pawnshop and tried to think of that brief, early marriage as the first of many skins she’d shed, the first of many selves she’d outgrow.
“About that divorce,” I said.
He sighed, nodding. “I figured someday you’d be back for that.”
“I should have done it a while ago.” The truth was, I’d hoped that sending him the papers would be enough, that he’d sign them and file them and it would all be over without my having to do a thing.
“Does it mean,” he asked, “that you’re not really married to the other guy?”
“That’s a little unclear. He’s dead now.”
“Oh.” He looked sympathetic, and I felt stabbed through with remorse. He wasn’t a bad guy, and he’d never done anything except try to help me. I had treated him poorly, and being young and mistreated myself wasn’t much of an excuse.
The papers I’d sent David, my petition for divorce, were in a drawer in the kitchen, still in the envelope I’d used to mail them. I felt my heart stutter, looking at my teenage handwriting, big and loopy, young and hopeful. I’d called a lawyer from the train that morning. In David’s apartment I called her again, and she said she’d meet us in her office in an hour. The rules, as she explained them when we arrived, were clear: I’d filed papers, but David had never signed them, which made me guilty of bigamy. “We can file for leniency,” she told us, and David had nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to make this right.” My mind wandered while they talked. I wondered what would happen: if my marriage hadn’t been legal, then maybe Marcus couldn’t have left me anything. Maybe not even the baby was mine. I wondered, too, why David had never remarried, whether there’d been a string of teenage girls in the years since we’d parted or if maybe he was still in love with me.
“Is my mother…”
He shook his head and took my hands. “I saw her obituary in the paper, maybe six or seven years ago.”
“Oh.” I tried to remember something good about her, the way she’d looked when she was young, how she’d smiled at me like I was the best thing she’d ever seen, the stories she’d whispered in my ear, curled up next to me in the bed that had once been hers. I knew better than to even ask about my half sisters. They’d been little girls when I’d lived here, and I didn’t think I’d ever told David their names.
He walked me to the bus stop and gave me an awkward hug. “I wish you well,” he said. “I always did.” I nodded, knowing I didn’t deserve his good wishes, knowing I couldn’t answer him without crying.
The bus pulled out of the station at six o’clock. By nine, I was back in the city. By nine-forty-five, I was walking up the five flights of stairs to my old single-girl apartment. I took off my shoes and lay on top of the narrow bed, fully dressed, without turning on the lights. Tears slid down my cheeks and pooled in my ears. Tomorrow I’d get up, get dressed, leave the last vestiges of my girlhood behind, go back to the grand apartment, and be a mother.
I’d tried calling Kimmie the night after Bettina had made her proposition, but her cell phone just rang and rang. The e-mails I sent over the next ten days went unanswered, which I knew because I was checking my BlackBerry approximately every five minutes, prompting Rajit to deliver a barrage of snide remarks about the charming new tic I’d developed.
“Did your boyfriend forget to call?” he smirked, thumbs in his suspenders, monogrammed cuffs flapping.
“My girlfriend,” I said coolly. It was out of my mouth before I’d known I was going to say it. Rajit’s mouth hung open for a gratifying instant.
“Oh, my,” he said, almost to himself. “Well. That’ll give me something to think about this weekend.” Normally I would have ignored him, but today I straightened myself to my full height, which was at least three inches more than Rajit’s.
“You’re disgusting,” I said pleasantly. “I just want you to know that. You’re a horrible human being, and I’ll bet your parents would be ashamed if they knew how you treated people.” Then I turned off my computer, shouldered my bag, and, head held high, walked out the door to a smattering of applause and a single wolf- whistle.
It was seven o’clock, still light, but getting cooler. I wondered how long it had been since I’d left the office before the sun set. Most of my colleagues wouldn’t make it home for hours. I took the subway uptown and dashed up the stairs two at a home, stationing myself in front of Kimmie’s building’s front door. I had a key, but it didn’t seem right to use it. After about twenty minutes I saw her round the corner in her black tank top, with her backpack bouncing on her narrow shoulders and her hair tucked up into a twist. I ran to meet her.
“Hey.”
She looked up, then quickly looked down and kept on walking. “Hi,” she said, so quietly that I almost didn’t hear it.
I caught up so that I was walking alongside her. I’d lost my father. I’d probably torpedoed my job. I didn’t have any real friends in the city, just colleagues and acquaintances, same as it had been in college. I’d been so lonely, lonely for years until I’d met her. I couldn’t bear the thought of being that lonely again.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed her by her upper arms, and spun her around, and kissed her.
Her backpack slipped off her shoulders. My bag fell onto the sidewalk. Somebody hooted, and someone else yelled, “Get you some!” but I didn’t care. Her lips were stiff underneath mine, but they softened as I held her.
Then she pushed me away. “What was that about?”
“I don’t want to lose you,” I said. “I couldn’t stand that. I’m sorry I’m so… so slow about these things, but I just. . I really. .” I blurted out the only thing I could think of at that moment. “There’s a baby. From my egg. The baby’s half sister got in touch with me. They’re here, in New York.”
Kimmie bent down, picking up her backpack, brushing it off before slipping it back on. Then she smiled, showing me her tiny, even teeth. “You’re making a spectacle,” she said. She squeezed my hand. “What’s the baby’s name?”
“Rory.” I walked close enough to her that our hips bumped as we made our way back toward her apartment, holding her hand, toward the tiny metal-walled elevator, the hallway that smelled like air freshener and chicken soup. The evening would unfold in its ordered, wonderful familiarity. We’d cook something, noodles and stir-fry or meatloaf and mashed potatoes. We’d spoon ice cream into mugs and snuggle on the couch, watching the shows we’d taped, and I would tell her about Bettina’s call, about the grand apartment, about the baby. In bed with her, I’d feel safe in a way I’d once been at the dining-room table with my father, working on my homework, knowing that he was there to help. I smiled, wondering what I’d done to deserve her, to deserve such happiness.
