A Window Opens: A Novel (41 page)

I heard him smile. “How do you feel?”

“Numb? Relieved? Worried I’m never going to find another job.”

“You will. You did the right thing. You couldn’t stay there. Remember the first tenant: Winners Get It Right.”

To: [email protected]

Cc
:
[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Alice Pearse’s last day with us will be on April 17. We thank her for her service and wish her the best of luck in future endeavors. Please refer any questions to the Employee Resource Center or file a trouble ticket.

One by one, my New York colleagues filed into my office, closed the door, and recited their own litanies of frustration. They were universally supportive of my decision, especially Matthew, who followed up with this e-mail: “You’ll be missed, Pearse.” I looked over at him, two feet away, glued to his laptop, sitting in a defeated slump at his standing desk. At least I’d leave Scroll with one friend. Matthew and I were soldiers together in the same war, and I wouldn’t forget him when I landed on my native soil.

I didn’t hear from anyone in Cleveland.

•  •  •

I went straight from the train to the bookstore. Susanna was reading on a high stool by the cash register. When she heard the jingle of the bells on the door, she looked up, then looked momentarily surprised to see me. Maybe I’d been avoiding her; maybe she’d been avoiding me. The rift between our older girls remained unexamined, and I tried not to notice or care that Audrey’s birthday had come and gone without an invitation to the annual hibachi party at Benihana. Friendships wax and wane; I knew that. I didn’t want to be a stage manager mom, although it was harder than I expected to be relegated to a bit part in Margot’s life.

I walked to the middle of the store, stopping at the counter between a rack of Blue Owl bookmarks and a little bowl of Werther’s caramels. “Susanna, I quit.”

“You—
what? 
” She leaned forward and grabbed my shoulders, knocking over the wooden stool behind her. “
What?
”

“It wasn’t the right place for me. I don’t want to be the horse in the parking lot.”

Knowing nothing about the pivot or the spreadsheets, Susanna threw her arms around me and said, “You were too good for them.”

This time, she was the one who cried. Over her shoulder, I watched two burly men lug a deli counter out of Mercadante’s.

•  •  •

My kids were nonplussed.

“Does this mean we won’t redo the kitchen?” asked Margot.

“No, we won’t redo the kitchen. But I’ll be around more while I’m looking for a new job and I’ll be able to come into your classrooms for book clubs—”

“Mommy, did you know Cornelius can go down the slide by hisself?”

“Actually, Georgie, I did
not
know that. Thanks for telling me. Are you glad I’ll pick you up at school more?”

“I guess. Will Jessie come, too?”

“No, lovebird. But when I find a new job, we’ll find a new babysitter and she’ll be really nice, too.”

Oliver looked up from his baked ziti. “Mommy? I need to bring an abacus to school on Friday. Do you have one?”

“No, I do not.”

“Mommy, do I have to eat this kale? It’s so . . . ruffly.”

It’s lucky I wasn’t expecting a ticker tape parade.

•  •  •

The next morning, I woke up and felt the most exquisite sense of relief. Then I turned to Nicholas, who was also awake and staring up at the ceiling.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, too. Do you feel like this is the first day of the rest of your life?” He rolled over and lifted my chin with his index finger. Suddenly we were eye to eye—so close I could see faint flecks of yellow in his irises.

“I do. Nicholas?”

“Alice?”

“Are you worrying about the money?”

He sighed and rubbed his face. “No. I mean, yes. Long term, do I hope you find a job you love where you have a fat paycheck? Yes. But short term, I think you need to give yourself some breathing room.”

“Breathing room?”

“A month, maybe, or the summer. Just to figure out where you
are
. You deserve that.”

Georgie skidded into our room like Kramer from
Seinfeld
. The day was upon us.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Please provide me with a list of names and contact information for the contacts you’ve been working with. We’ll take it from here, thanks.

I picked up a batch of dresses and skirts from the dry cleaner and wondered when I’d have a chance to wear them again. I threaded Georgie’s ponytail through the little hole at the back of a baseball cap and realized I’d be home to see her turning cartwheels in the outfield during her softball games. As I started boxing up my office, flowers arrived from Susanna. The note said, “Congratulations! No more horsing around.”

•  •  •

The Sunday before my last day, we all drove into the city to collect my belongings. It was the first time my family had seen my office and I felt oddly proud to give them the grand tour: this is the kitchen I flooded with
coffee; this is the airshaft I dropped the bathroom key into, this is the toilet where I flushed the brownie.

It was bittersweet. I felt relieved and I felt like a failure. I felt as though I was moving back home after dropping out of college.

While Nicholas and I carted boxes to the elevator, the kids appropriated some Expo markers and used them to draw Martians on the glass window next to my office door.

“Can we leave them, Mommy, please?”

“Fine,” I said, remembering the dismissive conversation I’d overheard in Cleveland.
What can I say? She’s a mom.
There were worse ways to be remembered.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

I left
You
with a mock-up of a magazine cover featuring my face on Maria Menounos’s body. I leave Scroll knowing how the retail business works, from the ground up. Thank you for answering my questions, solving my technical problems, and being my friend while I was here. No matter how much you think you might miss me, please do not hit “reply all” if you’re moved to respond to this e-mail. That can be your farewell gift!

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: last day

Do you want to grab lunch?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: last day

Sure, I’d love to. What time?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: last day

Are you okay with eating in my office?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: last day

Sure. When should I come by?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: last day

1 p.m. I’ll have a turkey with pesto, an apple, and a seltzer.

I collected the meal from Pret and brought it back upstairs.

When I arrived at Genevieve’s door, she was wrapping up a phone call. She indicated that this was the case by reaching her arm out and making a swirling gesture with her index finger, a move that made me feel like I was the waiter and she was a customer requesting the check.

In the same vein, I arranged her order on the desk: sandwich, apple, bottle of seltzer, straw, napkin folded in half. I almost bowed, in the way of trendy waitstaff, but then thought the better of it. With the meal all teed up, I settled into my usual spot on the couch, feeling a jolt of joy when I realized that I would never again sit in this spot—ever
ever
, as Georgie would say. I released my egg salad sandwich from its clear plastic container and nibbled daintily around the edges while holding my hand underneath to prevent stray yolk from falling to the floor.

Lunch at the Union Square Café this was not.

Alice Pearse is holding steady, approaching her final one hundred meters. She looks strong, head held high. She has one more hurdle to clear before—

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Genevieve returned the receiver to its cradle with a loud
thunk.
“I was just schmoozing with Greg. I finally had a chance to play
Urban Bomber
last night, and oh man, what a hoot—” She paused midsentence, realizing who she was talking to. “Sorry, I forgot you’re anti—”

I had just taken a big bite of egg salad but I waved away her discomfort with one hand. In a full-mouth cheap trick I forbade my kids to employ at the dinner table, I let the other hand hover in front of my lips and spoke before I swallowed: “Please. No judgments. Suicide bombers just aren’t my . . . cup of tea.”

Genevieve shrugged. “And I get that. But the sound effects in this game are truly phenomenal. You feel like you’re
right there
.”

I imagined her in a dark room, her face lit by the glow of the game. Then I remembered the cozy blanket of Georgie as she sprawled on my lap while I read
Officer Buckle and Gloria
and
A Bad Case of Stripes
. That had been the highlight of
my
night. Or maybe when Margot beat me in Hangman, or maybe when I planted a kiss on Oliver’s eyelid right before I went to bed. It was a toss-up, really.

“So.” Genevieve cleared her throat. Her sandwich remained on the desk, untouched. Considering that it was too late for me to get reimbursed for the meal, eating with gusto seemed like the least she could do. Suddenly I remembered Genevieve’s youthful voice chirping, “Bon app!”

“So. I guess this is it.” I folded my napkin and returned the uneaten half of my sandwich to its container, making a mental note to pack it in Margot’s lunch the next day; egg salad was her favorite. But sulfurous leftovers in the middle school cafeteria? Maybe not the best idea.

“I guess it is. Alice—” Genevieve cracked open her seltzer, then winced as the bubbly water exploded all over her laptop and down the front of her shirt. Naturally, I’d given the bottle a vigorous shake in the elevator. (Mature, no. Satisfying? Absolutely. Listen, I wasn’t born a mom.)

She regained her composure and smile-smirked at me. “Alice, I really can’t wait to hear about your next adventures.”

“I really can’t wait to find out what they are.” I smiled right back, for real.
Genevieve Andrews is no match for Alice Pearse! The Jersey native is nearing the finish line in a full-on, all-out sprint! The end is in sight!

Genevieve looked away, her tired eyes finding their way to the drop tile ceiling, which wasn’t as pristine as it had been when I first started: the white was now mottled with a rusty-looking stain. Blood, perhaps?

I started to feel giddy. Visions of exclamation points danced in my head!!!

Suddenly, Genevieve was all business. “Alice, I’ll need to collect your first edition, please.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out
A Room of One’s Own
, still trapped in its transparent pocket. I’d removed it only one time, that very morning, to insert a three-by-five notecard in the middle of the book. The card was printed with three words, written in pencil so as not to harm the beloved old pages:
ALICE WAS HERE
. I didn’t care who found this proof of life. As my girl Virginia said, “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.”

I knew there was a room of my own in the future, but it was somewhere else—far, far away from Scroll.

Quietly, as gracefully as I’ve ever done anything, I gave Genevieve a farewell hug. I’m not sure we actually touched each other, but our arms went through the motions and our faces wore appropriate neutral expressions. Then I deposited my laptop and ID tag on her desk and exited her office.

I said good-bye to some people, not to others. I wished them all the best. And then I exited the building.

When I emerged from the revolving doors into the early spring day, I turned around and looked up at the tall box of glass. I wondered how long it would be before I worked in a skyscraper again, how long before I would drink a fresh cup of coffee in a quiet midtown conference room. Would I have an office again? A view? A business card? Direct deposit?

I walked by a shoeshine guy, Korean delis, luggage stores, camera stores, three Duane Reades, the back of the Winter Garden Theatre, Ray’s Famiglia, Red Lobster, Ruby Tuesday’s, all the places I’d walked by so many times in either an angry huff or a sad slump on my way home from Scroll. Now I threw my shoulders back and lengthened my stride, grinning from ear to ear like the star of a romantic comedy after her first date with the love of her life.

•  •  •

The sun was setting on the way home, draping a blanket of pink clouds over the Meadowlands and the Newark Bears stadium and the back lots of downtown Bloomfield.

As the 6:09 train approached Filament, I deleted my Outlook account from my iPhone. The touch of one red lozenge of a button and it was gone. No more reply-all messages referring to a joke that had happened in an office halfway across the country; no more OOTO notifications from a stranger letting me know that they were missing a half day of work to renew their driver’s license; no more dizzying columns of numbers.

I scrolled to the top of a year’s worth of text conversations with my dad and deleted that too. I worried I’d regret it, but I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I wouldn’t feel terrible for all the messages I never responded to, all the links I never clicked. Besides, those texts were no more his real voice than Buzz Lightyear had been. That voice was still in my head, getting louder every day as the memory of his suffering receded. This was the silver lining of loss.

I turned off my white noise app, plucked out my earbuds, and listened to the sound of the real-life train whistle. I knew every curlicue of graffiti on every cement wall we passed. I looked for the EMTs smoking cigarettes behind the rescue squad and into the windows of offices whose layouts I imagined I knew as well as my own. When the conductor came around to collect tickets, I handed mine over before he asked.