Love and Miss Communication (9 page)

         
No more blogs. (She was slandered on one, for God’s sake!)

         
No more watching two-year-olds boogie to Beyoncé on YouTube.

         
No more playing Scrabble against house-bound Aspergians.

         
No more Candy Crush, that time-sucking psychedelic mess of sugar balls.

         
And, best of all, no more OkCupid, JDate, eHarmony, and Match.

Evie felt empowered. She flexed her wrists, which now would be saved from carpal tunnel syndrome—another bonus! Maybe her reproductive organs would gain a few more useful years without her laptop battery burning holes in them. She lifted her hands symbolically from the keyboard and rested them in her lap. Sure she couldn’t order the heavenly throw pillows from Anthropologie she found online the night before. But she could just as easily go to the store and buy them, couldn’t she? It was a measly twenty-minute walk from her apartment, and some brick-and-mortar shopping would probably be refreshing.

Contentment spread through her body like a vapor rub until she looked down at her legs and remembered about the mole on her right thigh. She had meant to look up signs of melanoma,
because she could swear the mark above her knee had changed shape and color. She couldn’t remember if the cancerous ones were round or asymmetrical. Maybe she’d just check that one last thing on WebMD—and then she could use Facebook to find some pictures of herself in shorts and see just how much the mole had enlarged in the past few months. As she was about to reopen the browser, she stopped herself. WebMD had led her to the very improbable conclusion that she had a stroke just weeks before. And tuberculosis last spring after she ran a 3:00
A.M.
Internet search on bad coughs.

Now she just needed to notify her closest friends that she was planning to go off-line. She opened Gmail, taking in the primary colors of the Google logo one last time, and began a message to Tracy, Caroline, Stasia, and Paul. She would tell her mother when they next spoke. Fran, with her prehistoric AOL account, wasn’t such a wiz with e-mail anyway. This was the woman who recently asked Evie how a deposed Nigerian prince in need of $10,000 got her e-mail address.

She typed slowly and deliberately.

Not thirty seconds passed since she pressed the Send button and she got three new messages. The first was from Paul.

Next came Stasia.

She followed up with a text message.

A far more startling text message from Verizon followed seconds later:

Verizon better not be charging her for the message they just sent her. She abruptly decided to quit texting while she was at it. It was just another form of insincere, truncated communication, where a misplaced comma could inadvertently set off World War III.

Caroline’s e-mail followed.

Naturally, Evie was curious. It could be the girl Evie accused of peeing in the communal shower in their freshman dorm. Or the slutty reservationist at Paris Spice who was always trying to get in Jack’s pants. Or maybe it was Marianne. She proudly resisted e-mailing back “WHO?”

Only Tracy had the brains to call instead of e-mailing. Evie let it go to voicemail, feeling too busy quitting the Internet to chat.

She sent out a follow-up e-mail to the group.

Evie ejected her credit card and watched the screen turn to black. There was no exact plan in her mind. Stasia did raise a fair point about her job search. Without being able to e-mail her
résumé and access her online Rolodex, it wasn’t entirely clear how she’d get a job. But in the time that she’d been out of work so far, her attempts to find employment could best be described as nonexistent.

Somehow quitting the Internet felt right. Like it was taking the bite out of the knockouts she’d been dealt recently. At least this would make her different from everyone else, more unique than another faceless lawyer at a big firm or single girl in Manhattan looking for love. At least she’d have something to talk about on a date, if she ever went on one again. But that was just it. She was relying on the Internet for dates—now she’d go out and meet people in the flesh.

She gathered her belongings and headed outside, where the perpetual sound of sirens and pushy pedestrians couldn’t prevent her from feeling lighter and less burdened. Even her stomach felt better. It was like a snowplow was working its way through her body from head to toe, clearing away impurities. Since her go-to activity of web surfing in pajamas all day was now out of the question, she decided she would take a long walk through the park. There was no particular rush to get home—no e-mail to check, no blogs to read or dating accounts to monitor. Maybe just a movie night with Stasia and Rick. She wound her way through the maze of trees and playgrounds and jogging trails and ended up back at the Central Park Reservoir, where she had been with Tracy earlier that day. She paused to admire the stillness of the water.

Then she threw her decimated laptop in and watched as the once calm blackness rippled from the unexpected entry of an Apple MacBook Pro.

Over the weeks that followed, long walks through the park became part of Evie’s daily ritual. She observed Labor Day by doing zero labor. A slower pace of life was fighting to set in, though her entire being was conditioned to resist it. She had always been more of a power walker than a rose smeller; more a scroll-to-the-bottom type than a read every word.

At first, the withdrawal from the Internet was unbearable. She felt anxious all the time, her hands actually twitching. Every time she saw someone using a smartphone, she wanted to pry it from them for one last fix. She’d heard
that reading e-mails triggered a release of dopamine—how true she knew that to be now. It was unsettling to be so out of touch with the world—with her friends, with the news, with everything.

But there was an undeniable calmness in not being beholden to a tiny device that demanded she be on call 24/7. She found peace alone in not having to multitask—trying to text while crossing the street or e-mail while juggling shopping bags had caused her enough headaches and bruises. The day she discovered Jack was married, Stasia had been shocked when Evie hadn’t written back to her e-mail immediately. Something just wasn’t right about the world when people expected a response to a movie invitation in under five minutes. The pace of New York City was rapid enough without the added rush of insta-communication.

Still, her body was accustomed to constant connection, and when a runner would brush past her on the Big Loop, the motion would remind her of the vibration of her BlackBerry and she’d involuntarily look inside her bag to check it. Every twig snapping in the Ramble reminded her of a new message ding. Then she’d remember there was no e-mail to check or text to respond to and she’d continue on her walk, forcing herself to admire a sprawling tree or take notice of a chirping bird overhead. What was she missing, really? A message from Tracy with a sonogram picture of her unborn child that looked like a white, fuzzy alien? An e-mail from Paul notifying her that he saw a celebrity pick a wedgie at Tao?

It was definitely harder to be off-line at home. There she took on professional puttering, choosing a new drawer or closet to organize every time her mind revisited the image of Jack at his wedding. But it didn’t take long to color-code her sweaters and arrange her shoes by heel height. She really would have loved to use her free time to redecorate her apartment. Swanky Barcelona chairs in white leather would be much chicer than her
dated wingback armchairs. And her lonely mattress would be so much more fulfilled if it was butted up against a custom-made headboard in lavender shagreen, but it was impossible with her dwindling savings account.

It was time for Evie to return to work. To see people. To use her brain. To rejoin actual society, since she’d thoroughly dropped the virtual one. She just didn’t feel ready. Jack—her Jack—was married. The world as she knew it was forever changed, and she was nowhere near acclimated to the new reality.

# # #

“Evie, let me in.” Caroline’s voice drifted to Evie’s bedroom. “I have a surprise for you.”

Evie was startled by the 8:00
A.M.
knock on her door. Outside, the heavens had opened up and the pedestrians were struggling under cheap umbrellas intent on inverting. She couldn’t imagine what was bringing Caroline across town in the tempest.

Through her peephole, Evie made out Grace, Caroline’s older daughter, by the sliver of plaid pinafore showing through the space between her mother’s calves. Evie normally loved children, but in her maudlin state a playdate with a preschooler did not qualify as a pleasant surprise. She unlocked the door.

“Hi, Evie,” Caroline said as she forced Grace into Evie’s apartment with a tug on her chubby wrist. “I booked us a full day at the Plaza Hotel spa. You don’t even have to get dressed. Jorge is downstairs and ready to take us.” Caroline lowered her voice. “And don’t look so nervous. I’m dropping Grace off at school on the way.”

“But I love Grace,” Evie protested, but Caroline put up her hand to shush her.

A day of beauty was a splurge Evie would barely consider even with her plush salary, let alone in unemployment. She drank up
Caroline’s generosity, happily stepping into the chauffeured SUV that sailed them to Midtown past the agitated commuters with their arms stretched out of sockets trying to hail taxis.

Thirty minutes later, they were nestled in a cocoon of tranquillity only twenty blocks from Evie’s apartment, but it may as well have been a different universe. Evie was surprised when her manicurist starting pouring hot oil on her feet and rubbing it in with heavenly circular motions all the way up to her knees.

“Is this what a pedicure is supposed to be?” Evie mumbled to Caroline, who was seated in the cushiony white leather chair next to hers. The room looked more like an Italian furniture showroom than a spa. Enya played in the background, the only noise other than the rhythmic dripping of a waterfall on one of the walls. “My usual lady just gossips about my blisters in Korean. But I get a free lip wax on Mondays.”

“Shhh,” Caroline said, with a sideways glance that made Evie feel like she deserved to be gossiped about in a foreign language. “Just enjoy yourself.”

“You’re right. Thank you again for this,” Evie said, and then because she was desperate not to be a total downer added, “Did you watch
Preggers
last night? I’m psyched Jolie is getting back together with Todd.”

“No way. Jolie can do better. Plus Todd is never going to marry her.” Caroline looked down to examine the vampy shade of plum she had painted on her toes, or maybe to avoid looking at Evie. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine. At least I’m not fifteen with twins on the way,” Evie quipped.

“That’s the spirit,” Caroline said as she was whisked away by a tiny woman wrapped in a kimono taking her for a salt scrub. Moments later a different woman in a matching robe led Evie into a room with a bubbling stone bath and massage table.

Still it was difficult for Evie to free her mind, even as the expert therapist worked magic on her tense muscles. When she felt the masseuse’s strong hands press into her temples, the only effect was to sharpen her mind’s focus on her dismal state of affairs. Job-less. Man-less. BlackBerry-less. Soon-to-be penniless. There was a sign in the spa that said
NO PDAS ALLOWED
, but if she still had her BlackBerry, she’d no doubt have snuck it into the treatment room and checked her e-mail while her face was pressed down into the doughnut-shaped pillow at the head of the massage table. At least the constant buzzing of new e-mails would divert her from the far more perilous distraction of her own thoughts.

After several more indulgent treatments, including an African head massage and a dubiously effective tummy-toning rub, she and Caroline reunited in the luxurious waiting room to sip cucumber- and acai-infused water.

“Want to head to the Oak Bar for a real drink?” Evie asked, lifting her glass to show the inadequacy of its contents. After the spa services, many of which were sticky and goopy, a stylist had come in to do a ten-minute touch-up on Evie’s hair and makeup. The results more than compensated for Evie’s less than desirable outfit and were too good to waste sitting at home.

Caroline glanced at her watch.

“I would just love to, but I’ve got to be gettin’ home to fix some dinner for Jerome.” Her Texas-speak always emerged when she was fibbing. Evie was too appreciative of the spa day to ask Caroline what her chef would be doing while she prepared dinner. “But let me give you a ride home.”

“Thanks. Drinks another time.” Evie went to her locker, where her sweats and raincoat were stashed. The combination was the same one she always used—04-04-46—her father’s birthday. For some reason, those six digits had always been her family’s passcode for everything—the safe, the alarm, you name it. Even
though she felt a pang each time she used those numbers, she couldn’t bring herself not to. Today, it was hitting her harder than usual. Having stepped out of her isolation, it suddenly seemed unbearable to go home again. In her modest apartment, she felt like a mannequin sentenced to watch real life through a window. She piled into the backseat of Caroline’s SUV, noticing that one of her freshly painted nails was already chipped.

She took stock of the day. Although it was shorter than she would have liked, it had been the best she’d had in a while. As the car glided across Central Park South toward the West Side, Evie wondered if a quiet life at home, peppered with meaningful time with her friends, could sustain her until she figured out her next steps. She could probably swing at least six months without a job if she was prudent about her expenditures. Baker Smith had given her that much severance. The trouble was the ridiculously high monthly rent she paid for her five-hundred-square-foot apartment, but she had seen too many episodes of
Law & Order: SVU
to consider living in a nondoorman building. Leaving the Upper West Side, her beloved neck of the woods, was also out of the question. She’d have to make cutbacks elsewhere.

Suddenly Caroline’s driver slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched and Evie rolled down her window to see what had transpired. A taxi had cut in front of Caroline’s car, a run-of-the-mill traffic incident in Manhattan, but the scare had been enough to draw her attention to the street, where her eyes landed on a sign in an empty store window at the base of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. In a petite and exquisite font it read
DEGUSTATION: A NEW RESTAURANT BY JACK KIPLING—OPENING THIS FALL. FOR INFORMATION, VISIT WWW.JACKKIPLINGCUISINE.COM
.

“Give me your phone,” Evie said, reaching for Caroline’s tote.

“No,” Caroline reproached her. “I’m not giving you my iPhone so you can look up his restaurant. What’s that going to do for
you? So you’ll see a few glossy photos of him. Maybe read about his sanctimonious views on farm-to-table cooking. Who cares? He’s married now. And you deserve someone who is totally crazy about you.”

It was strange how Caroline had put it. “You deserve someone who is totally crazy about you.” Was that what her friends thought? That Jack didn’t propose because he wasn’t truly in love? That hurt, even though she didn’t believe it to be true. Something else must have changed for Jack to one-eighty on marriage. Some pheromonal clutch this Turkish girl had on him. A baby. An impending bankruptcy.
Something.

Her friends certainly seemed excited for her when she and Jack were dating. They never complained about complimentary dinners at his restaurants or VIP access to the annual NYC Food & Wine Festival. A few times Stasia had made disparaging comments about these “don’t-believe-in-marriage types,” but Evie dismissed them forgivingly because her friends didn’t know the gory details of his parents’ divorce. When Evie first met Jack she chalked up his gap-toothed smile to the stereotype about the English and their teeth. It turned out his teeth were just one of many things neglected during his preteen years while his parents went through their four-year bitter divorce and custody battle. She grew to love the vulnerability that Jack’s parents’ turbulent marriage fomented in him. It made him more accessible to her and needy of her validation when he was otherwise closed off emotionally. She took it as her duty to show him that a loving, stable partnership was possible. The kind her parents had had.

Stasia’s straight-to-the-altar route was lucky, but most couples Evie knew endured more tortuous twists along the way. Not to mention that reaching the chuppah was no guarantee of living happily ever after. Evie had a handful of friends and acquaintances with broken engagements and divorces on their CVs.

Caroline never said much about Jack’s unwillingness to tie the knot. If Jack was wary of the idea of marriage, Jerome celebrated the institution. Caroline was his third wife. She was a stepmom to a litter of kids, some of whom were almost her age, so she basically kept mum on the subject.

Paul had been so enamored of Jack’s celebrity and his food that his enthusiasm for their relationship was actually overbearing. When they broke up, Paul moaned about having to rely on “reservations.” After the split, all of her friends and closer confidantes at work offered the usual platitudes, like “you’ll find someone better” and “it wasn’t meant to be,” but they spoke with palpable restraint, thinking they might reunite and Evie would harbor the nasty things they said about him. Despite their hesitation to speak freely, Evie did recall the words “narcissistic” and “self-aggrandizing” thrown around on more than one occasion.

“You’re right,” she agreed, rather than squabble. “Thank you so much for this fabulous day.” She hugged Caroline and popped out of the backseat. “Thanks, Jorge,” she called behind her.

Stretched on her sofa upstairs, Evie felt physically rejuvenated but emotionally drained. She wished the aesthetician could have dug just a little deeper, extracting her memories of Jack along with her blackheads. She couldn’t shake the sight of his new restaurant sign.

During their two years together, they had attended four engagement parties and six weddings. While Jack was perfectly content to be a well-wisher, a rice-thrower, a gift-giver, what have you, Evie couldn’t wait to be the guest of honor.

Having kids was something he said he’d love to do, but “down the road” when his career was more settled and he didn’t have to travel as much. That was confusing to Evie, because all of his restaurants were accessible via the subway, but she assumed he had bigger ambitions and was just getting ahead of himself. Still
at times he’d comment how fortunate they were not to be tethered by children. It wasn’t like Evie was against sleeping late or pro diaper-changing. She knew being a mother was a lot of fucking work, unless you were Caroline who espoused the “it takes a village” (from the Philippines) theory to raise a child. Being childless was a chance at a self-indulgent life. But
she
was Evie Rosen, a nice Jewish girl from Baltimore who wasn’t game to jump red-eyes to Paris and party until sunrise. She wanted to have a family like the one she grew up in—it was their Rosen triangle against the world. She didn’t know if being a stay-at-home mom would be for her, but she felt more excited about motherhood than corporate mergers.