Emily & Einstein (40 page)

There was no need. Deep down, she knew it. I knew it.

Emily cupped my head in her hand. “I love you, E.”

And she did, always had.

That’s when I understood I had one last thing to do before I left this body.

It took every ounce of willpower I had to fight the fading. By the time I heard the sound in the outer vestibule, every inch of me was strained. But at the sound, I gathered my remaining strength and let out an anguished howl.

“Einstein,” Emily gasped.

I howled again and seconds later we heard the banging on the front door. My wife scrambled up and whipped open the door.

“Are you okay?” I heard Max ask.

“Oh, God, it’s Einstein.”

Max came over to where I lay and placed his hand on me as if assessing. He looked startled when our eyes met, though I suspect from the instant settling that he had seen something of death and the silent messages of the soul.

When I licked his fingers, he leaned forward. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of her.”

I had done everything I could for my wife, and in that moment Einstein and I began to part in earnest.

There was no pain now, just a growing sense of loss, a gentle pureness that I had not fully appreciated stripping away from me. When the separation was nearly complete I shuddered at the realization that by living as Einstein I had developed a theory. In order to live a life truly worth living you had to have strength in the face of adversity, patience when confronted with challenge, and bravery in the face of fear. As Sandy Portman I had used arrogance in the face of fear, disdain in the face of challenge, and selfishness in the face of adversity.

Emily had been my biggest victim, not because of horrible things I did, but because I had dared her to love me, and when she did I was unprepared for the enormity of that love, the responsibility—something that deep down I had known I didn’t know how to give back. But I had taken it anyway, handling it without care.

The fact was I had married her because in her eyes I saw the man I could be. I ended up wanting a divorce because living with her every day was forcing me to see myself for who I really was, a man who didn’t have the strength to work hard and persevere and do what it took to be something beyond ordinary.

Finally, I understood.

I felt Einstein’s heart beat erratically, and a sense of forgiveness washed over me, forgiveness for who I had been.

I started to shake as if I was cold.

“I’ll get some blankets,” I heard Max say.

I didn’t need blankets, though I was happy for one last minute alone with my wife. I felt her hand stroke my side, felt her bury her face in my neck. I breathed her in one last time, and when I exhaled I left Einstein’s body.

I ceased to see and smell. I became blind to the world, but I didn’t panic, I waited. Eventually my senses began to return—different, more acute, but softer at the same time, as if I had entered an easier place.

Once we had separated completely, Einstein died.

“Good-bye, E,” Emily whispered into the little dog’s fur. “Good-bye, Sandy,” she added softly.

My mother might have suspected it was me. But somehow Emily knew for sure.

The old man arrived then. With his appearance this time, every uncomfortable feeling I’d ever had, both as Sandy and as Einstein, disappeared completely.

“So, you managed to get it right,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

I brushed away what I sensed were my own tears, laughing in relief. “I take it I’m not fading away to nothing.”

The old man snorted. “No, not that you didn’t get closer than I’ve ever seen any soul get and still make it back.”

Joy surged, but there were still traces of the old me left. “Lucky for you, I saved your backside, and you know it.”

“Well, there is that.”

We both laughed before I saw flashes of my life. Sandy Portman as a child with colored markers drawing in the Dakota. Sandy Portman as a young man moving into the Dakota. Sandy Portman carrying Emily over the threshold on our wedding day. Again and again a lifetime of potential had spilled out before me. Again and again I had squandered it. But I no longer felt anger or regret. I simply had a sense that I would miss this place. I would miss my life.

“You’ll like where you’re going even better,” the old man said.

I had no fear, no trepidation. I felt comforted, optimistic. Amazingly, I was ready to go.

The hologram of me moved away from Emily. When she tensed with loss I realized that she sensed I was there. Since the day I met her I had desired her in some elemental way. I had wanted her, had needed her even. But now, I understood, after all we had been through, I had fallen utterly and completely in love with my wife.

Kneeling in front of her, I reached out and pulled her close until our lips nearly touched. “I love you, Emily. Love you forever.”

She drew a deep breath and smiled through her tears, leaning into me. “I know.”

I saw it then, a single feather drifting down, and I was sure Emily somehow sensed it too. This time I didn’t hesitate. I plucked it from the air.

I glanced over at the old man in question. He just smiled. “Yep, that one’s for you.”

I looked back only once, saw Emily on the floor of the high-ceilinged gallery, tears of peace and sadness on her face, Max sitting next to her with Einstein held secure in the blanket. Then everything about me lifted, seeming to fly as the old man and I disappeared through the wall.

I didn’t get to go back and relive my life as Sandy Portman; I didn’t get my body back. But I did get to make things right for Emily. And by becoming a dog I had finally, for once in my life, acted as a true man.

emily

I understand now that by allowing her daughters to witness her own joys and mistakes, my mother gave Emily and me the tools to make our own way, to create our own blueprint. I always believed that Emily and I had nothing in common. But I’ve learned that while we’re different, there is no denying we are sisters. We will always be there for each other, because at the end of the day, no matter what, we are both our mother’s daughter.

—
EXCERPT FROM
My Mother’s Daughter

epilogue

It seems impossible that a year has gone by since I lost Einstein, a year since I truly said good-bye to Sandy.

Yes, I found myself again, but in many ways I’m different now, someone beyond the daughter who was forced to grow up too fast, different from the girl who both loved and was jealous of a younger sister, changed from a wife who fell apart because of a husband’s betrayal. My strength is no longer banked or dependent on a scaffolding of lists and plans.

I still run almost every morning along the bridle path or upper park loop. I even bake some, cupcakes and cookies and chocolate croissants, but in more reasonable quantities. And I go to work in the suite above Sandy’s old apartment. In summer I fill the rooms with peonies, and in the fall I pull together an assortment of autumn flowers, then winter greens. My new home is small, but perfect for the life I have created on my own.

It was this, I now understand, that I saw in my dream, me high up in the grand old building.

The Portmans closed up the original apartment, putting sheets over the furniture. I rarely see Althea. She, like my mother, gave up pieces of herself in an attempt to fit into a world that didn’t accept her as she was, remaking herself into something she never wanted to be. The difference was that Althea found a place for herself that she could live with. My mother wasn’t as fortunate. I’m not sure if I admire Althea for that, or hate her just a little bit more because she survived when my mother didn’t.

Whatever the case, while Althea and I never got along, we now share something in common: the knowledge that we were given a second chance with her son. It makes things both easier and more strained since she still has a difficult time accepting something that seems impossible.

But I understand. It’s hard to believe in miracles until you’ve seen one happen. But once you’ve seen, well, life alters and you can never look at the world around you the way you once did.

*   *   *

I walk into Meeker Books on Columbus Avenue. At the front of the store stands a sign with my photo on it.

Reading & Book Signing

with Emily Barlow

Author of

The Adventures of Einstein:

A Dastardly Dog’s Life at the Dakota

I never wanted to write, still have no interest in writing books for adults. But after finding a box of unused, beautiful blue journals with finely wrought blank pages that my husband left behind, I realized that creating picture books for children, more specifically children’s stories about Einstein, felt right. I am compelled to write about my dog, about his adventures in a home that was Sandy’s gift to me. Telling Einstein’s stories is a gift I have given myself.

I hold a published copy of the large, thin children’s book in my arms. With the tips of my fingers, I trace the cover image—a little white dog watching a single feather float down. The pages are filled with my words and the illustrations I have found the ability to draw. Is this another gift from Sandy, or perhaps from my mother, or another miracle given to me by a hand that I can’t see? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. I found a way to reenter life on my own terms, with strength I earned through events I survived. And this time I step forward with a man I love in simple pureness.

Joy surges through me, then grows deeper when I see him. Max.

He stands by the sign. When he sees me, he doesn’t say a word, simply walks over to where I stand and pulls me close.

“There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He has waited, patiently, kindly, despite the fact that for a few months I slipped away. He has given me the space I needed to sort out my life, but he’s been there whenever I needed him.

Max has found his way back to himself as well. He has returned to Wall Street, working for a fund that invests in start-up companies determined to make a difference. When we aren’t working or meeting deadlines, he teaches me to climb mountains, and I share with him the simple pleasure of reading a good book in a quiet café. I don’t know exactly what is in store for us, but I’m excited about the possibilities.

He takes my hand and we weave through the quaint shop. The event area in back is already overflowing with people. Young readers and their parents fill the seats; reporters and publishing types stand around the perimeter. Dear, sweet Birdie with her Southern charm has brought cupcakes and cookies, Birdie who is the one meant to bake, and love, and sort through her Texas-sized secrets in the apartment she lives in not far from me.

No one has seen me yet, but I see through the crowd to the front table where hundreds of my books wait.

When I met Hedda at the diner and proposed the idea of writing a series of children’s books about my dog, Einstein, she was stunned. Her surprise was followed quickly by those gears in her brain clicking into place.

“It’s genius! Of course you should be writing stories for children! Like Eloise in the Plaza! Only yours will be Einstein at the Dakota. I love it!”

Hedda sent me a copy of the book as soon as it came off the press, but seeing the book in stores never fails to move me.

Jordan’s book hit the best-seller lists the first week out. She flew back to the States without a bit of resistance to tour for
My Mother’s Daughter
. I shouldn’t have been surprised that my sister loved every second of the attention. And I shouldn’t have been surprised when she donated every cent of the profits to women in need. I had never loved her more.

When asked what was on tap for book two she said there would be no book two, at least not from her. I laughed and hugged her tight.

And Sandy?

I feel him every day, watching over me.
“I love you, Emily. Love you forever.”

I wasn’t wrong to believe in him. And I understand now that I don’t feel alone because I’m not. No matter what happens in my life, I am certain that somehow he is there.

The crowd sees I’ve arrived, the children circling around me, wanting to know all about Einstein and his adventures in the nooks and crannies of a grand old building that is more real in their imaginations than the actual structure which stands only a few blocks away.

These children and the world have fallen in love with a wiry little dog who acts just like a snob of a man.

“Who would’ve ever believed?” I whisper.

I’m almost certain I hear Sandy laugh.

also by linda francis lee

     
The Ex-Debutante

     
The Devil in the Junior League

     
Simply Sexy

     
Sinfully Sexy

     
Suddenly Sexy

     
The Wedding Diaries

     
Looking for Lacey

     
The Ways of Grace

     
Nightingale’s Gate

     
Swan’s Grace

     
Dove’s Way

     
Crimson Lace

     
Emerald Rain

     
Blue Waltz

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

EMILY AND EINSTEIN
. Copyright © 2011 by Linda Francis Lee. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Lee, Linda Francis.

  Emily and Einstein / Linda Francis Lee.—1st U.S. ed.

          p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-38218-6

1.  Husbands—Death—Fiction.   2.  Dogs—Fiction.   3.  Bereavement—Fiction.   4.  Grief—Fiction.   5.  Upper West Side (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.   6.  Love stories. gsafd   I.  Title.

  PS3612.E225E45 2011