Balancing Acts (25 page)

H
ave a good night, Rob,” called Bess as he left the office.

“Don't stay late!” he reprimanded over his shoulder.

Bess took in the silence of the now-empty office. She looked around, making sure that she was alone. She saw a light on in her boss's corner office. She swore she had seen her leave for the night, but maybe she had returned, anxious to capitalize on the latest starlet's unfortunate crotch-flashing incident.

Bess got up from her chair and strolled casually by, glancing to the side as nonchalantly as she could. If she was in there, Bess certainly didn't want to attract any attention to herself. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was engage in bullshit banter about the spring fashion collections.

She glanced in to find Esme, the cleaning lady, dusting the window ledges. “Hey, Esme.”

“Hey, Bess,” she replied, turning the trash can upside down to empty its contents into her cart. Bess didn't know how long Esme had been cleaning these offices, but she suspected since the dawn of time. She knew everyone. It was one of Bess's goals to stay late and get drunk with Esme one night and pump her for insider information. The woman had to be a vault of blackmail-worthy gems.

Not tonight, though. Bess had important business to take care of. She returned to her desk. She watched Esme leave the office, dragging her cart behind her. She rattled down the hall and made a left. Moments later, Bess heard the telltale
ding
of the elevator opening. The coast was clear.

Bess gathered her notepad and pen and approached the office—now clean as a whistle thanks to Esme's skilled expertise. She tiptoed to the chair. She felt like Velma in
Scooby-Doo
.

She settled herself on the ridged leather of a chair that she was sure cost more than three months of her rent. It was a lot more comfortable than the sad contraption she sat on. She spun around once for good measure, taking in the view as New York City went by in a blur of lights.

Facing forward, she opened her notepad to review her scribbles. She uncapped her pen. She cleared her throat. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered. As she dialed the number, her palms began to sweat. She remembered a former boyfriend that had been repulsed by her overactive sweat glands. He had called her lava hands. She had broken up with him shortly thereafter.

As the phone rang, Bess tried some yoga breathing. She inhaled as deeply as she could and then let it
whoosh
out in a rush. Mid-
whoosh,
Kathryn picked up.

“Hello, City Section,” she answered. Bess desperately tried to cover her
whoosh
with a cough.

“Hello!?” Kathryn barked.

“Oh, sorry!” said Bess. “I have a little bit of a cold. Kathryn, it's Bess.”

“Bess?” asked Kathryn, towing the line between pretending to know who Bess was and actually having no idea.

“Yeah, we met through Jason at one of his get-togethers? About six months ago or so?” Bess prayed that Kathryn had a decent memory. In truth, they had spoken for about four minutes, and that estimation was generous. “I work at
Pulse
? We talked about Britney Spears's weave?”

Kathryn laughed. “God, I have that conversation way too often, sadly. Bess, I can't say that I honestly remember you, but I'll buy it. What's up?”

“Well, I have a piece to pitch. I'm hoping it's a natural fit for the City Section. Is this a bad time?”

“No, no, it's fine. Go on,” encouraged Kathryn.

“So, it's about a yoga studio in Bushwick,” Bess said.

“I like that. Bushwick is the new Prospect Heights, Prospect Heights is the new Carroll Gardens. . .”

Bess laughed. “Exactly. So, the article is about four, thirty-something, single women in a six-week Basics class. In a nutshell, ten years after college graduation, they're all on a quest for balance in their lives. You know: work, passion, love, yoga, happiness. . .”

“Um, not to sound like a dick, but the City Section is not
Marie Claire
, Bess. All due respect to my sisters, but this sounds like every other women's magazine puff piece I've read in the past six months.”

“No, I swear, it's the women themselves that make this article special,” Bess explained. “Their quest for balance and self-actualization is new and fresh. My article does not define ‘having it all' in any kind of stereotypical way. It's about the individualistic nature of that goal set against the backdrop of today's New York. The point is that ‘having it all' for women today, especially urban women, is becoming more about being able to express and utilize different facets of ourselves. It means having the drive to fulfill ourselves creatively while supporting ourselves and hustling the way city life requires us to. These women are inspirational—this is the type of balance that all women strive for on some level—or at least, they should.”

Bess noticed that her heart was beating quickly as she talked. She was more passionate about this than even she had realized. She truly believed in it. It wasn't about her byline anymore, it was about a piece that she thought might really make a positive impact on its unsuspecting reader—the same way Charlie, Sabine, and Naomi had made an impact on her.

“Shit, that sounds good. Girl power!” Kathryn yelled. “Hmmm. It might be tough to get this past my editor, who's a man, thank you very much. I mean, I see the validity in your piece, but he might tell me to take a hike. . .. Can you promise me an emphasis on Bushwick and details about its revitalization?”

“Absolutely,” answered Bess. “I'll weave it in like Britney's hairdresser.”

“Ha! That's a good one. You know what, we do have space. Let's run it. Can you have it to me within the week? If I like the finished product, I'll run it in next Saturday's paper.”

It was all Bess could do not to scream. “Done.”

“All right, cool, I gotta run,” said Kathryn. “Just e-mail it to me as a Word doc by Wednesday afternoon, latest.”

“No problem,” said Bess. “Thanks a lot for the opportunity.”

“Not at all,” she answered. “Your idea sounds very relatable. I'm looking forward to reading it.”

“Thanks so much! Bye!” said Bess as she put the phone back in its cradle.

She took a few liberty spins in the fancy chair. She couldn't believe it! Her article actually had a shot at running in
The New York Times
! She had been visualizing this moment for so long. She faced the window and took in the New York skyline. She had used her boss's phone to make the call so that she could actually see New York supporting her; her own cubicle had no windows. The city never failed to impress her, even after being here for more than ten years. Its sheer immensity always made her agape with wonder—the same way it had made her feel the very first time she soared above it.
I will really miss this place if I move to LA,
she thought, staring out at the gigantic buildings with their randomly lit windows. New York was one of a kind. She circled back and got up from the chair. She wondered if it had always been her boss's dream to end up as editor in chief of a vapid celebrity rag. She guessed not.

Sure, her boss was living a glamorous life that almost anyone would applaud and envy—wealthy, powerful, a mother of two with what appeared to be a loving husband—but maybe, in the back of her mind, she had a dream to be a pianist. . .or a painter. . .or even a kung fu master. Who knew? The possibilities were endless. By day she ran a magazine and took care of a family, but maybe late at night, or early in the morning, she made time for whatever it was that truly inspired her and made her feel whole: the juggling act of every woman was not to be trivialized.

Bess returned to her own desk, gathered her jacket, and switched off her computer. She had pitched to the
New York
freakin'
Times
and it had worked. To say that she was psyched would be a tremendous understatement. She would buy a nice bottle of wine on the way home to celebrate and then call Dan immediately. She was so grateful to have him in her life. Without him, the article would have sputtered and died before she had even given it any gas.

On the street, she hurried to the subway, anxious to get home to call him. Speaking to him in transit always felt so rushed. She liked to be stationary when they spoke, so she could concentrate fully on him and not on the jerk riding her ass on the sidewalk.

Holy shit,
she thought,
I'm sweating!
She unzipped her jacket and unwound her scarf, noticing similar looks on her fellow urbanites.

Spring was on its way! At last!

N
aomi sat in front of her computer, staring at her screen. She had finished the layout for the Prana website and really liked the way it was coming along. It was warm and inviting, just like the studio itself. The technology was fresh without feeling intimidating. She liked the rollover that led to Felicity's hair products the best. She had fashioned a black-and-white illustration of a Buddha with an Afro, smiling broadly. Click on the Afro and voilà—you're in hair heaven.

It was the copy that was eluding her. Naomi was many things, but a writer was not one of them. Although she didn't usually provide copy for her clients, she really wanted to deliver the full package for Prana. She had perused other sites for inspiration, but it was futile. She put her head in her hands, thinking of the studio, the students. . .

Sabine!
She had completely spaced on Sabine's talents. She was perfect for this, and she was sure she would welcome the opportunity to flex her scribe muscles. She clicked into her e-mail and began to compose her plea. As she began, her buzzer shrieked.

What?
she thought, stunned by the interruption. It was the middle of the afternoon. Who would be buzzing her? Maybe it was a Jehovah's Witness. She continued typing, hoping that was the case. The buzzer shrieked again.

“Shit,” she mumbled, noting her pajama pants and coffee breath. She got up to find out who was bothering her. She pressed her intercom button. “Yes?” she asked.

“Um, Naomi?” a timid voice crackled.

“Shit!” Naomi said for the second time. It was Gene.

“Gene?” she asked, hoping that the UPS guy's voice bore an uncanny resemblance to her ex's.

“Yeah, hi! Can I come up?” Naomi so did not want him to invade her space at that moment, but she didn't seem to have a choice in the matter. To deny him entrance would be bad manners. She pressed the button to open the door.

Once again, I am in my pajamas
. It was a good thing she wasn't attracted to him anymore. Any chance of seducing him looking like this was out of the question. She cringed as she heard him clomp up the stairs. She was sure he would reek of Paris—cigarettes, Côtes du Rhône, models, and hashish. She, on the other hand, reeked of Mommyhood—milk, Cheerios, and coffee. Intoxicating.

The knock on the door erased any hope she had of brushing her teeth. She took a deep breath and opened the door. Gene stood outside it, the very picture of European sophistication: worn jeans, a perfectly softened cotton tee, a slim-fitting, buttery leather jacket, a patterned cashmere scarf, and a knit cap that cradled his pretty head. She wondered how many women he had slept with during fashion week and then immediately felt bad for Mini-Noah. She hoped Gene had made him some mini-blinders.

“Hi, Naomi.”

“Hey, Gene.” She opened the door farther to let him in. “How was Paris?”
I hope it was fun. I might have multiple sclerosis. Can I get you some coffee?

“Oh, you know, the usual bullshit,” answered Gene, pulling the cap off his mess of dark curls—the very same curls that cupped Noah's beautiful head. The kid had good genes, what could she say? “Fourteen-year-old models, near overdoses, champagne morning, noon, and night.”

“Sounds like torture.”

Gene laughed. “I know, ‘poor me,' right? But I'm telling you, Naomi, the scene is getting tired. I don't know if it's me being older or what, but I'm pretty sure, finances allowing, that this is my last year.”

“Are you serious?” asked Naomi.

“Yeah, I think I am. Send out a news bulletin—Gene Hoff is officially an old man.”

“Wow, that's really some news,” said Naomi. “Being old isn't that bad, I promise. You can wear your pajamas all day and not give a shit.”
Should I tell him? I know I have to. . .eventually, but it feels too soon. Why does he need to know? I know, I know. I need his help with Noah.

“I hope that's not the only perk of adulthood,” Gene teased. “Because I distinctly remember that being a perk of adolescence as well.”

“You have a point. It's not. I guess I just mean that there's a comfort in accepting your age, you know?”

“I do know. I'm telling you, Naomi, the best part about Paris was this silly little cardboard guy.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a manila envelope. He shook it, and Mini-Noah came tumbling out onto the couch, intact and actually looking as good as he had when he left the country, all things considered. “Look, I made the little dude a cast!” He picked up Mini-Noah with his thumb and forefinger to show Naomi. Sure enough, a tiny white cast had been attached to his tiny cardboard arm.

“You're kidding me!” exclaimed Naomi. “The cast is a great touch.” She paused. “By the way, thanks for being there for Noah at the hospital. I know I behaved pretty badly when I saw you there, but I really was grateful.”

“Hey, I understand. I would have a hard time trusting me with the whole dad thing, too. I've changed though, Naomi. Honestly. I. . .I really love that kid, you know? I would do anything for him.”

“I think I know that now,” replied Naomi. “You just have to be patient with me, if you don't mind. It was just him and me for so long, you know? To have you come sailing back in. . .it's not the easiest pill to swallow.”

Gene nodded. “I know.”

Naomi picked up Mini-Noah and examined him. “So, you actually had fun with this guy? I couldn't decide if the project sounded adorable or like a giant pain in the ass. The science fair of 2006 comes to mind.”

“Noah had to enter a science fair when he was six?! What did he enter, a stool sample? Jesus, that's a little young, isn't it?”

“Totally,” answered Naomi. “I'm convinced these projects are just the government's way of punishing us for procreating. We made a model of the solar system. It was beyond complicated and I think it shaved about two years off my life.”

Gene laughed. “I am telling you, Mini-Noah and I had a blast. After hearing your science fair woes, I feel bad. Almost like I'm rubbing your nose in our cardboard-human love affair.”

Naomi smiled. She had forgotten how charming Gene could be. “Don't feel bad. You shouldn't have to keep your new romance a secret. So, you had fun taking him all over town?”

“I really did. The pictures I took are hilarious. Here”—he pulled another envelope out of his bag—“have a look!”

“You already got them developed?” asked Naomi, surprised once again by Gene's sense of responsibility.

“Oh yeah, it was nothing. I have a color printer at home, so I just hooked it up.”

Naomi took the photos and began to flip through them. “These are fantastic!” There was Mini-Noah in front of the Eiffel Tower, on the edge of a fashion runway, drinking red wine with Johnny Depp. Wait, with Johnny Depp!?

“Um, excuse me!” she practically shrieked, pointing to the photo with a wavering finger. “Is that who I think it is?”

Gene nodded sheepishly. “It's Johnny.”

“Hello, I know it's Johnny! Holy cow, how do you know him?” Naomi stared longingly at his perfectly chiseled face. He was pretending to be engrossed in a chess game with Mini-Noah. The way the board had been set up, it looked like Mini-Noah was about to pulverize Depp.

“He bought a few photographs of mine back in the day,” Gene explained. “We sort of became buddies. I always try to see him when I'm in Paris. He got a real kick out of Mini-Noah.”

“This is unbelievable!” She shook her head in wonder at the life that Gene led. As she looked down, she noticed a piece of cereal stuck to her breast.
Ah, the irony.
Gene was hobnobbing with Johnny Depp and she was a human cereal bowl.

“You think the pictures are okay? That Noah will like them? It really was so important to me to do a good job by him.”

“Gene, I know he'll love them. No one in his class is even going to come close with their minis. It's no contest.”

Gene smiled broadly. “Thanks, Naomi. I'm so psyched to show him. I was thinking I would take one more photo here, if you don't mind.”

“Here? This is hardly Paris. Why?”

“Well, Mini-Noah lives here, you know?” answered Gene, suddenly looking so much like Noah that Naomi's heart broke a little. “He went on a trip to Paris, but he comes home to his mom when it's over. Just like the real Noah.”

“Oh, is that how it works?” asked Naomi, touched by the gesture, but also hoping that Gene did not want her actually in the photo.

“Yep, it's my creative vision,” Gene teased. “I thought I'd lay Mini-Noah in Noah's bed and take a shot of you kissing him good night.”

“Oh no, Gene, I am in no shape for pictures! I look like death. The photo might scare the kids.”

“Are you kidding me? You're Noah's beautiful mommy. I know he'd want you included in the montage. C'mon, pleeeeeeeeeeeaaase?” Gene begged.

“Oh man. You are good. I guess I can do that. Just let me try to contain my hair for chrissake.”

“Yes!” said Gene, pumping his fist in victory. “This is going to be fantastic. He sprung off the couch with Mini-Noah in tow, headed for Noah's room.

Naomi retreated to the bathroom. She smoothed some of Felicity's pomade over her strands in a halfhearted attempt to style it. She thought about the day before—the confinement of the MRI tube and the haunting, spaceship noises it made as it scanned the interior of her skull. As she sat in the waiting room beforehand, shivering in her hospital robe and flimsy socks, she had thought about how she would tell people, particularly Gene. It was hard to conceptualize an easy way to drop such a bomb. She had decided to just make it as casual as possible—no fuss, no muss—but now, in the moment, that was much easier said than done. “Just tell him, already,” she said to her reflection in the mirror.

“Okay, I'm ready for my close-up,” she announced, as she entered Noah's room. Mini-Noah lay on his pillow, but Gene had positioned him so that just his tiny cartoon head poked out from underneath the blanket.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Naomi. “That is too funny.”

“I know, you would not believe how much fun I had with this ridiculous paper doll. Okay, so just lean over the little guy and give him a good night kiss.”

“But what about the light?”

“Already took care of it.” He pointed to the drawn blinds. “I thought I'd shut off the overhead light and just switch on his bedside lamp—kind of frame your profile a bit.”

“Sounds good.” She let Gene do his thing and then leaned in for the kiss. Gene shot away in the corner with his digital camera.

“Looks fantastic! That's a wrap. Here, Naomi, have a look.”

Naomi approached him. “Hey, that is nice.” Her profile looked pretty. “Cool shot, Gene.”

“Thanks. I'll print this out later,” said Gene, switching off the camera. “Have you been taking any pictures lately?”

Naomi immediately tensed up at the question. If only Gene knew how intertwined her photography was with her memories of their life together. He had no idea that she had abandoned photography as soon as they had broken up.

“Oh, I take shots here and there,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could. “Mostly of Noah, you know.”

“You always had such an amazing eye. You taught me so much. I probably never told you that when we were together—mostly because I'm an asshole. But you really did.”

“Really?” asked Naomi, touched by his honesty. “Yeah, we did some good stuff together.” Feeling awkward suddenly, Naomi fluffed Noah's pillows and smoothed his comforter.

“I started taking some photos again recently,” she offered—surprising herself with the ease of her revelation.

“Oh yeah? Excellent. Of what?”

“I'm taking this yoga class on Saturdays in Bushwick. They've asked me to design their website, so I figured I might as well take some shots of the staff and the studio to weave in.”

“Yoga! Nice! That is really cool. Have you been taking some candids and stuff?”

“Yeah, trying to capture the essence of the studio itself,” explained Naomi. “The people there are so cool. . .. And the space is so inviting. There's nothing even remotely pretentious about it.”

“Wow, you're the right woman for the job then. Your photos were always so pure—not an ounce of ego in them. They're so special. I mean, I don't mean to be a total kiss-ass, but. . .I just have a lot of respect for your eye. For you.”

Naomi was taken aback by Gene's gush of kindness. A small part of her wondered what his angle was, but she decided to ignore her cynicism and take the compliment, just this once. “Thank you, Gene. You know, actually. . .I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” said Gene, nervousness clouding his perfect face. “What's up?”

“Some health stuff came up while you were gone. With me, not with Noah. I, uh. . .I may have MS.”

“Oh no, Naomi. Wow. Are you okay? When will they know? Shit, I'm asking too many questions. Forgive me.”

She went on to give him the condensed version of the story. The headaches, the flare-up, the doctor, and the MRIs.

“Nay, I'm so sorry. This is terrible news. How have you been dealing?”

“Eh, each day is a little easier. Or, well, some days are easier than others. It helps that my symptoms are going away.” Out of habit she touched her stomach. The numbness was pretty much all gone, save for a lingering tingle here and there.

“You're an amazing woman, Naomi. You always have been. I don't know how I would deal if I was hit with something like this. But you, you just get on with it. It's inspiring as hell.”

“Gene, it's not like I have a choice, you know? I have a son and a career and a life that needs me. Even so, I have my sad, ‘why me?' moments. They're just not public.”

“You know, you can make them public with me. I want to help. With Noah, with you, with anything. What can I do?”