Life and Other Inconveniences Page 3

  And then, abruptly, I became invisible.

  That was the first inkling I had that I was aging out.

  Oh, I was still fashionable and attractive, but suddenly, I was an older woman. Heads no longer turned, despite my excellent bone structure and thick hair. Doors were no longer held. Young men looked right through me, often bumping into me as if I were made of fog.

  I wasn’t just invisible to men. Females, too—the twittering teens who’d swarm past me on the street, giggling too loudly, exclaiming about themselves in utter self-absorption. Young women were too busy checking their phones or fondling their own hair or adjusting their breasts in their push-up bras.

  Men my own age who once had given me an appreciative glance stopped seeing me, their gazes trained on those hair-fondlers. I found myself hating the young. They were so loud, so self-obsessed, so needy, always wanting all the attention on themselves.

  It seemed to happen overnight. Once, a bartender would flirt with me, admire my taste in alcohol, since I always specified Chopin vodka or Hendrick’s gin. He might say, “I love a woman who appreciates the finer things,” or, “I bet you could teach me a thing or two,” with a crooked smile or a lifted eyebrow. Now it was simply “Coming right up.” Or, far worse, “Yes, ma’am.”

  For decades, I was a regular at the same hotel restaurant and bar in the city. It had been Garrison’s favorite place to take his clients. I stayed loyal after he died, bringing my contacts there, the buyers, the fashion journalists and editors. The manager always greeted me by name—as was appropriate. It was simply good business to recognize a returning customer, especially as I became a tastemaker. I would hold interviews at this hotel, not wanting to let people see my apartment, which would’ve been entirely too personal. Often, I’d book a hotel suite for my corporate guests or recommend it to friends. The hotel was appropriately grateful for the free publicity and stream of business. Seated in the rooftop bar at the Lyon Hotel, Genevieve London sips a classic gin martini and gazes over the city.

  Until the day when I went in and the maître d’ said, “Can I help you?”

  Not “Mrs. London! How wonderful to see you again! James, please escort Mrs. London to her table.”

  When I told her my name, she didn’t give a flicker of recognition. “Enjoy your lunch,” she said, passing a menu to a minion.

  I didn’t move. “One can have one’s teeth straightened, you know,” I said. “Ask your dentist. You could be quite pretty. And please get your superior. Tell him Genevieve London is here and unhappy with the service.”

  Of course it was cruel. But, really, did Helen Mirren get treated this way? She did not.

  No longer did young women look at my shoes with envy . . . they were wearing bedroom slippers, or aptly named UGGs. At home in Stoningham, of course I was still recognized, but sometimes in the summertime, I’d have to wait in line at the wine shop or farmers’ market, and it was as if I were simply invisible. Waitresses would walk past me without even taking a drink order. At Rose Hill, where Hope lived, new staff no longer mistook me for her mother. My gentlemen friends invited me out less frequently, which was fine, as they were now talking about things like sciatic pain and little blue pills. On what would be my final interlude with the man from Christie’s, I caught a glimpse of his dangling scrotum, so reminiscent of a turkey wattle, and decided my sex life was over.

  I had read the articles on hating one’s neck and the lack of male attention, but I hadn’t quite expected it to happen to me.

  I was aging well, mind you. I’d always had perfect skin, and I took care of it, never falling prey to the tanning fad, always wearing a hat when outside, as well as excellent makeup and sunscreen. My neck was crepey, but a little laser treatment from a dermatologist kept that to a minimum. I didn’t mind the wrinkles, as they were slight—a few crow’s-feet à la Audrey Hepburn, a slight softening of the cheeks.

  I did mind the hairs. Every morning when I flossed and brushed and put on makeup, I peered into the mirror—the magnifying mirror that showed every eyelash at ten times its natural size—and looked for hair, tweezing each whisker away before it had a chance to grow. Every night when I washed with gentle cleansers and moisturized with serums and lotions infused with hyaluronic acid and vitamin C, I did the same. And yet there was the day when, in a restaurant restroom, I found an eyebrow hair at least an inch long. An inch! I swore it hadn’t been there the night before.

  The upper lip hairs. The chin hairs, as if I were a nanny goat. The nostril hair! I had no recollection of my mother having to trim her nostril hair, yet there it was, a cluster of fur, as if a small animal had taken up residence in my nasal cavity. I had to check moles, since they seemed to be fertile soil for hair follicles. Every day, it took longer and longer for me to get ready.

  I had to look my best. It was a matter of discipline. If I let one thing go, what would be next? Me wandering down to the post office in a bathrobe covered in dog hair?

  Another indignity: the noises. The grunts and oomphs as I got into or out of a chair, coming out of me of their own volition. The crackle of my knees as I went up the stairs, the pop of a joint if I knelt down. When I rolled my neck to loosen the muscles, the cartilage whispered and creaked like an old windmill. Despite my daily yoga classes, my body was loosening, sagging, drifting ever downward.

  I learned not to wait to go to the bathroom, as the second I saw the toilet, my bladder wanted to empty immediately. I had to file down my toenails because they became thick and yellow and difficult to trim. Though I had strong suspicions about the hygiene of the local nail salon, I finally started making regular appointments there, simply because I couldn’t bend in the shower to spend the necessary time. Donelle didn’t even try, and her feet looked more like malformed hooves than anything found on a human.

  Friends call you less as you age. Or, if they do call, they simply recite a litany of their pains and diagnoses. “My polyps! My bunion! My irritable bowel!” I did not degrade to that level—Mother would spin in her grave—but those calls were much more frequent than the invitations I used to receive. That was one reason I kept up with Friday night cocktails. It was my link to sanity some weeks. I’d invite Miller Finlay, who had done some renovations on Sheerwater a few years ago, and the Smiths, my neighbors from down the street. In July and August, I’d include some of the more pleasant summer people—the Drs. Talwar: Vikram, a cardiologist, and Saanvi, a thoracic surgeon; the lesbian couple, Alesia and Anne, both of them veterinarians.

  It made me feel . . . relevant. Vital. I was not invisible, not in Sheerwater, not when I had all but sold my soul to ensure that, yes, I would live well, with dignity and grace and style. I would not be remembered as a shriveled little lump under coarse sheets in a nursing home with frightened eyes and filthy diapers. No. I would go out on my own terms, definitively and decisively and with grace, as I had lived my life.

  And I would make sure my nostril hairs were trimmed back, thank you very much.

  CHAPTER 3

  Emma

  The night of the fateful phone call, I told Pop about Genevieve’s offer when Riley was safely in her room, music playing.

  “Don’t trust that ancient windbag further than you can throw her,” he said, his impressively bushy eyebrows lowering in a scowl.

  “I know.”

  “Did she try to bribe you?”

  “Yep. She said she’d put Riley in the will.”

  “Don’t trust her.” He paused. “How much is she worth?”

  “I have no idea. The house, though . . . a lot.”

  He grunted. “She’ll probably sell it for your sister.”

  “Hope has a trust that takes care of her. She’s set for life.”

  “At least there’s that. Well, listen. Riley doesn’t need that old cow’s money. You made it work all by yourself.” He tugged at his flannel shirt and nodded at me.

  “It t
ook me eleven years to get my degrees, Pop.”

  “Well, you had a baby! Riley won’t. She’s smarter than you. No offense.”

  “None taken. I also had you, Pop. We’d have been homeless without you.”

  His craggy face hardened. “You would’ve been homeless because of that woman, who’s now trying to bribe you two back to that pit of vipers.”

  “To be fair, there’s only one viper.” Donelle might have been a somewhat inept housekeeper, but she had always been pretty nice. I wondered abruptly if she was still alive. Genevieve would’ve told me if she died, wouldn’t she?

  Pop harrumphed. “That woman has enough venom for an entire pit, then.”

  He had me there. “I’m gonna take a walk,” I said. It was a lovely night, and walking through our homey little neighborhood always soothed me. Peeking into the neighbors’ windows, waving to the folks coming home from work or sitting on their porches, smelling the good smells of dinner cooking.

  It was so normal here. Pop was the typical midwesterner, stoic and kind, understated in all things but generous to a fault, hardworking and decent. The houses were small and tidy, the yards neat, the trees sturdy and unremarkable. It was so safe.

  Stoningham was not normal. It wasn’t safe. The little borough twisted and turned along the rocky shoreline of Long Island Sound, every house prettier than the last, every yard landscaped and designed, crews of Spanish-speaking laborers uprooting every weed, deadheading every blossom. Live-in housekeepers and nannies were the norm. The people of Stoningham were the überpreppy set, driving their Mercedes and Audis, all the kids going to the best colleges. If anyone worried about money, they hid it well. There was competition in the very air, and Genevieve had been the undisputed queen.

  I wondered if it was still the same. After all, I hadn’t been back in seventeen years. Jason still lived there, but we didn’t talk about the town, and he rarely saw Genevieve, certainly never to speak to. They ran in different circles. And she hated him.

  Money. It was so fraught. Money ruined people, both the lack and excess of it. Here, we had food and a good strong roof over our heads, and I knew how damn lucky we were. While my grandfather had been steadily employed since he was seventeen, Grammy’s health insurance hit its limit three years before she died of ALS, and their life savings was sucked into that particular black hole. When I came to stay, Pop opened his doors, but he hadn’t been able to help me with college or grad school. Even though I’d worked, the mountain of my student debt resembled Kilimanjaro.

  The dream of having my own house was secondary to helping Riley pay for college. My career was just getting started, and it was only last year that I’d been able to quit my longtime job at the grocery store. Half of my clients talked about their debt, their financial fears, their inability to get on top of things, the anxiety it caused, how they were putting off marriage, children, home ownership, moving. A lot of them lacked faith that they’d ever get caught up.

  So Genevieve dangling this carrot, though I recognized it as the bribe it was, was hard to ignore. Once, she had been all set to send me to college. I wondered if she’d do the same for Riley. If Riley could walk into adulthood, into a career or grad school without debt, it would be a game-changer. Right now, she wanted to be a doctor, and I’d already done the math. With interest on student loans, it was more than likely she’d be half a million dollars in debt before she even joined the workforce.

  And then there was Hope. Genevieve had to make me her guardian. My father Clark was useless, as thin and translucent as wax paper in my life. He had money, but it was all Genevieve’s—an allowance from his mommy. When Hope’s diagnosis was made and her mother abandoned her, Genevieve took guardianship and paid her superexpensive bills. I doubted very much my father would suddenly decide he wanted to take care of his daughter.

  Since Clark dumped me at Genevieve’s a month after my mother committed suicide, I would only see him at Christmas, when some financial exchange always took place between him and Gigi. In those first few heartbroken years, I’d asked over and over to come live with him again. His answer was that I was better off with Genevieve, and if I wanted a pony, she would probably buy me one. Of course I felt unloved and abandoned. I still did, although now that I could recognize he had his own problems, I could even concede it was probably the kindest thing he could’ve done for me. To the best of my knowledge, he never visited Hope. I asked the staff about her visitors; it seemed like it was just Genevieve and me.

  Hope was born a year after Riley. I hadn’t learned of her till she was three years old, hadn’t been informed that I even had a sister until then. I’d called my father, still hoping that he’d fall in love with the idea of having a granddaughter. After all, I myself was in love with Riley and couldn’t understand how anyone couldn’t feel the same. It was then I learned I was a big sister.

  She’d been born with tuberous sclerosis, a rare condition that caused noncancerous growths to occur. For some people, TS meant having a slight skin condition. Sometimes, people with TS would have seizures because of benign tumors in their brain. Autism wasn’t uncommon. If TS was caught early, there were some good treatments out there. But Hope’s case was extreme; she had tumors in her brain, heart, kidneys. She had severe seizures, some motor difficulties and cognitive difficulties. Sometimes she’d have terrible rages and could trash a room in seconds or hurt herself by banging her head. By the time I learned about her, she was already living at Rose Hill.

  I flew out to meet her, this sister of mine, younger than my daughter. She was beautiful, small for her age, not talking yet, and walked with a listing gait. “Hi,” I said, bending down to look in her eyes. Brown, like mine. “I’m Emma. I’m your sister.”

  It was love at first sight. If I could have afforded it, if my father or Genevieve would have let me, I would’ve adopted her or had her come live with us. But Rose Hill was a beautiful place, and the staff was all so kind, well educated and lovely. From then on, Pop gave me a plane ticket back east for Christmas so I could visit Hope. Most years, I managed to make it again in the summer, too.

  She never did learn to talk, but I liked to think Hope recognized me. She cuddled right up against me and let me brush her hair and sing to her. When Riley was ten, I started taking her with me. Her aunt, a year younger than she was.

  I never saw Genevieve on those trips. Sometimes, Jason would drive up for dinner; Rose Hill was about a half hour from Stoningham. He never managed to bring his sons up to meet us, though.

  If I did go to Connecticut this summer—not that I would, but if I did—I could make sure I’d be appointed Hope’s guardian. Her mother was a party girl I’d never met, but I knew she had signed away parental rights upon Hope’s diagnosis. And Clark was way out of his league with Hope. Genevieve wasn’t a monster; she’d realize I was the only one who could be Hope’s guardian. Whether or not I had to go to Connecticut to make it happen was another issue.

  “Hey, Emma,” someone called, and I jumped, so lost in my thoughts was I. It was Marjorie Pierce, one of our neighbors, just getting out of her car. Marjorie was a sweet, middle-aged lady who’d brought casseroles the first year of Riley’s life.

  “Hey, Marjorie!”

  “How’s that beautiful Riley doing?”

  “She’s great!” I smiled.

  “Thinking about colleges yet?”

  Couldn’t think about much else. “Getting started.”

  “It’ll be hard for you, won’t it?” She made a sympathetic face.

  My stomach curled in on itself. “Well, you know how it is. You want them to grow up, even if it means leaving you.” I sounded as fake as I felt.

  “It’s agony,” she said. “Don’t kid yourself. Have a good night, sweetheart.”

  I turned and headed back home.

  We weren’t going to Connecticut. I wasn’t going to present Genevieve with her great-granddaughter so the
old hag could feel better about herself. I wasn’t going to sell my soul for the chance of money for my child. Even if it would make her future easier. Even if part of me wanted to rub Riley’s wonderfulness in Genevieve’s face and say, “See what you missed out on? See this amazing person you abandoned? I did it without you or your help, you old bat.”

  “We’re not going,” I reminded myself.

  But the night air sat uneasily on my shoulders just the same.

  * * *

  * * *

  Three days later, I was in my office, the tiny den downstairs, counseling Jim, who was telling me how his life would be complete if only he could find a woman tall enough to satisfy him. He had a fixation on women over six feet tall. “If only the Giantess of Nova Scotia was still alive,” he said.

  I had been well educated on Anna Swan. The things they don’t tell you in grad school . . .

  “You said in the last session that tall women were kinder, Jim. Do you really think height has anything to do with character?” He himself was five foot six.

  “I do,” he said dreamily. “There’s this website . . .”

  “How many hours did you spend there?” By his own admission, most of Jim’s free time was spent on porn and chat sites featuring tall women.

  “Seven,” he said. “Seven today, that is.”

  “And did you see any people this week?”

  “Other than Natasha?”

  “Natasha from the porn site?”

  “Yes. So sweet. And tall! Six four.”

  “Or so she said. Jim, all this time on the web hurts your chances of meeting people in real life. Natasha is paid to be sweet to you. She’s paid to tell you she’s tall.”

  “Her feet hang off the bed.”

  He had me there. “Okay, sure. But it’s interesting that you choose to interact with people you can’t really know. Maybe stipulating that a girlfriend has to be taller than six feet is a way for you to have an excuse for why you don’t have someone.” Jim had social anxiety. His love of tall women wasn’t a bad thing . . . but it did give him a perfect reason to avoid not-tall women.