Chapter Twenty-Four
“I do love you, Carrie. Just because I’m with Wendy-”
“I know, Dad. I
“Where?” my father asks. He’s clutching the wheel of the car, absorbed in changing lanes on our little highway. I’m convinced he doesn’t really care, but I try to explain anyway.
“At this space. That’s what they call it-‘a space.’ It’s really a kind of loft thing at this guy’s apartment. It used to be a bank-”
I can tell by his glance into the rearview mirror that I’ve lost him.
“I admire your tenacity,” he says. “You don’t give up. That’s good.”
Now he’s lost
I slump down in the seat. Why can’t he ever say something along the lines of “You’re really talented, Carrie, of course you’re going to succeed.” Am I going to spend the rest of my life trying to get some kind of approval from him that he’s never going to give?
“I wanted to tell you about Wendy before,” he says, swerving into the exit lane that leads to the train station. Now’s my opportunity to tell him about my struggles in New York, but he keeps changing the subject back to Wendy.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask hopelessly.
“I wasn’t sure about her feelings.”
“And you are now?”
He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine. With great seriousness, he says, “She loves me, Carrie.”
A cynical puff of air escapes my lips.
“I mean it. She really loves me.”
“Everyone loves you, Dad.”
“You know what I mean.” He nervously rubs the corner of his eye.
“Oh, Dad.” I pat his arm, trying to understand. The last few years must have been terrible for him. On the other hand, they’ve been terrible for me, too. And Missy. And Dorrit.
“I’m happy for you, Dad, I really am,” I say, although the thought of my father in a serious relationship with another woman makes me shaky. What if he marries her?
“She’s a lovely person. She-” He hesitates. “She reminds me of Mom.”
This is the cherry on the crap sundae. “She’s not anything like Mom,” I say softly, my anger building.
“She is. When Mom was younger. You wouldn’t remember because you were just a baby.”
“Dad.” I pause deliberately, hoping the obvious falseness of his statement will sink in. “Wendy likes motorcycles.”
“Your mother was very adventurous when she was young too. Before she had you girls-”
“Just another reason why I’ll never get married,” I say, getting out of the car.
“Oh, Carrie.” He sighs. “I feel sorry for you, then. I worry that you’ll never find true love.”
His comment stops me. I stand rigid on the sidewalk, about to explode, but something prevents me. I think of Miranda and how she’d interpret this situation. She’d say it was my father who was worried about never finding true love again, but because he’s too scared to admit it, he pins his fears on me.
I grab my suitcase from the backseat.
“Let me help you,” he says.
I watch as my father lugs my suitcase through the wooden door that leads into the ancient terminal. I remind myself that my father isn’t a bad guy. Compared to most men, he’s pretty great.
He sets down my suitcase and opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”
“Sure, Dad.” I hug him tightly, inhaling a whiff of lime. Must be a new cologne Wendy gave him.
A yawning emptiness opens up inside me.
“I want the best for you, Carrie. I really do.”
“I know, Dad.” Feeling like I’m a million years old, I pick up my suitcase and head to the platform. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, as if to convince myself as well. “Everything is going to be
The moment the train pulls out of the station, I start to feel better. Nearly two hours later, when we’re passing the projects in the Bronx, I’m positively giddy. There’s the brief, magical view of the skyline-the Emerald City!- before we plunge into the tunnel. No matter where I might travel-Paris, London, Rome-I’ll always be thrilled to get back to New York.
Riding the elevator in Penn Station, I make an impromptu decision. I won’t go straight to Samantha’s apartment. Instead, I’ll surprise Bernard.
I have to find out what’s going on with him before I can proceed with my life.
It takes two separate subway trains to get near his place. With each stop, I become more and more excited about the prospect of seeing him. I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station under Bloomingdale’s, the heat coursing through my blood threatening to scald me from the inside.
He has to be home.
“Mr. Singer’s out, miss,” the doorman says, with, I suspect, a certain amount of relish. None of the doormen in this building particularly like me. I always catch them looking at me sideways as if they don’t approve.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m not his secretary, miss.”
“Fine.”
I scan the lobby. Two leather-clad armchairs are stationed in front of a faux fireplace, but I don’t want to sit there with the doorman’s eyes on me. I spin out the door and park myself on a pretty bench across the street. I rest my feet on my suitcase, as if I have all the time in the world.
I wait.
I tell myself I’ll only wait for half an hour, and then I’ll go. Half an hour becomes forty-five minutes, then an hour. After nearly two hours, I begin to wonder if I’ve fallen into a love trap. Have I become the girl who waits by the phone, hoping it will ring, who asks a friend to dial her number to make sure the phone is working? Who eventually picks up a man’s dry cleaning, scrubs his bathroom, and shops for furniture she’ll never own?
Yup. And I don’t care. I can be that girl, and someday, when I’ve got it all figured out, I won’t be.
Finally, at two hours and twenty-two minutes, Bernard comes strolling up Sutton Place.
“Bernard!” I say, rushing toward him with unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe my father was right: I am tenacious. I don’t give up that easily on anything.
Bernard squints. “Carrie?”
“I just got back,” I say, as if I haven’t been waiting for nearly three hours.
“From where?”
“Castlebury. Where I grew up.”
“And here you are.” He slings his arm comfortably around my shoulders.
It’s like the dinner with Maggie never happened. Nor my series of desperate phone calls. Nor his not calling me the way he promised. But maybe, because he’s a writer, he lives in a slightly different reality, where the things that seem earth-shattering to me are nothing to him.
“My suitcase,” I murmur, glancing back.
“You moving in?” he laughs.
“Maybe.”
“Just in time, too,” he teases. “My furniture finally arrived.”
I spend the night at Bernard’s. We sleep in the crisp new sheets on the enormous king-size bed. It’s so very, very comfortable.
I sleep like a baby and when I wake up, darling Bernard is next to me, his face buried in his pillow. I lie back and close my eyes, enjoying the luxurious quiet while I mentally review the events of the evening.
