See Jane Date (24 page)

Natasha didn't say a word as we took the elevator to the fourth floor. When we arrived at 4K, she took a deep breath, smiled at me and knocked. When the door opened, Natasha attempted to hug and kiss her mother, but she'd caught Mrs. Nutley off guard, and the whole thing turned
awkward. Natasha had ended up air-kissing her own mother.

“Jane! How nice to see you!” Mrs. Nutley exclaimed. “My goodness, you look so much like your mother, God rest her soul.” I smiled. “So come in, sit down,” Mrs. Nutley said. “Natasha, your father had to go out for a little bit. He should be back soon.”

Natasha offered an
oh, okay
smile, but I could see she was disappointed. We followed her mother into the living room. The room hadn't changed in fifteen years. I'd been in this apartment once before, when Natasha had invited every girl in our sixth grade to a “beauty” party. From four o'clock to seven, we gave each other facials and manicures and pedicures. That had endeared Natasha and the Nutleys to the parents of every girl in Mrs. Greenman's class. Natasha was the popularity queen that every girl talked incessantly about at home, so invitations to her party made everyone feel important, and in turn, made parents feel their daughters were on the social A list. The Miner twins and I had been sure the Nutleys understood that and insisted she invite
all
the girls, or else no beauty party. The dynamic of the party was the same as it was in school. Cliques formed immediately. Lisa, Lora and I had found a corner and painted each other's toenails and sung along to the Go-Go's, just like everyone else. We'd refused to admit that we'd had a good time or that we'd been thrilled to be invited.

Natasha and I sat down on the sofa, which was covered in plastic like Andrew Mackelroy's parents' on Delancey Street. Mrs. Nutley sat in one of the hard-backed chairs on the other side of the coffee table, the strained expression never leaving her tight face. “Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the pitcher of iced tea and the plate of
vanilla wafers on the table. “So, Jane, I understand your cousin Dana is getting married. How nice.”

How monotone. I blabbed on about Dana's shower and the upcoming big day, more to fill the painful awkwardness than because I wanted to talk about Dana. Mrs. Nutley wasn't even looking at Natasha. And I seemed to be the guest here. I wanted to bring the conversation back to Natasha, let her have some of her mother's attention.

“Well, you must be so proud of Natasha,” I said to Mrs. Nutley. “She's so accomplished at such a young age! And who knew she was such a great writer!”

Mrs. Nutley sipped her iced tea and turned the strained smile to me. “I understand you're the editor of the book. How did you get into publishing? Did you always want to be an editor?”

I glanced at Natasha. She had an equally strained smile on her face. I blabbed on for a minute or so about my career and again tried to turn the subject to Natasha, but her mother kept changing the channel. The tension in the room was almost unbearable.

“Daddy's not coming back, is he?” Natasha asked in a small voice. “Not till I leave, right?”

“Natasha, you made your bed,” her mother said, looking at her for the first time. “I'm sorry, but you did. You're going to have to live with the consequences of your actions.”

Natasha put down her glass of iced tea. Was she going to throw the tea in her mother's face? Storm out? “Mom, there was a special reason I wanted to come visit you and Dad today.”

I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

“Well, that's no surprise, Natasha,” Mrs. Nutley said. Her voice was so cold. “Your father said there had to be a reason. How much do you need?”

Natasha turned white for a second. “No, Mom, I'm not here to ask to borrow money. Is that what you thought?”

Mrs. Nutley had the decency to color. “Natasha, I don't know what to expect from you anymore.”

“Well, speaking of expecting,” Natasha began, seeing her opening, “I have some really great news. I wanted to tell you and Dad together, but I guess you can tell him for me.”

Her mother waited, the strain on her face never giving. She picked up her glass of tea and sipped it, more to have something to do than because she was thirsty, I surmised.

“You're going to be grandparents,” Natasha announced. “I'm going to be a mother. Isn't that wonderful?”

Mrs. Nutley looked at Natasha with an expression of pure disgust. “I don't see a wedding ring on your finger. And I don't suppose there'll be one. I don't suppose you even know who the father is. What a piece of work you are.”

“Let's go, Jane,” Natasha said, bolting up. “I'm sorry I interrupted your day. Please tell Dad I'm sorry I'm embarrassed him by coming to Forest Hills.”

“Don't you use that tone with me,” Mrs. Nutley snapped. “As though
you're
the wronged one. You
are
an embarrassment to this family, Natasha. And you just keep it up, nonstop.”

Natasha grabbed her straw bag and ran to the door. I shot up and glanced at her mother; she stood and turned her back. Suddenly I wasn't so sure which was worse: having no parents, or having parents who didn't respect you. Who didn't like you enough to just love you. Who kept a record of all your mistakes and shortcomings in indelible ink.

I ran after Natasha; I could hear the clatter of her san
dals down the stairwell. I caught her at the landing to the first floor. She dropped down onto the bottom step and cried, her face buried in her hands.

“Come on, Natasha,” I whispered, extending my hand. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

She looked up at me, her face crumpled and tearstained. She took my hand. She didn't say a word as we walked the short distance to the Continental Avenue subway station and waited on the hot platform for the R train. She twisted her hair up into a bun at the back of head and put on her sunglasses.

The train roared into the station, offering a bit of wind relief. We settled ourselves onto two seats on the now crowded train. “You were right, Natasha,” I said, once the train moved out. “Your family is a bigger nightmare than mine.”

She let out a small laugh and reached a hand under her sunglasses to wipe away tears.

“How did you make your bed, anyway?” I asked.

She sniffled and reached into her bag for a tissue. “I've been a slut in their eyes since my mother caught me and Jimmy making out on my bed when I was in the seventh grade. I could never do a thing right as far as they were concerned. My grades disappointed them, the phone ringing off the hook annoyed them, Jimmy and his tattoo bothered them. My mother liked to say that my looks would get me places I hadn't bought a ticket to, and that I'd be in a for a rude awakening someday.”

I could definitely imagine Mrs. Nutley saying something like that. I wondered if my mother had really liked Mrs. Nutley or if they'd only been acquaintances. I couldn't imagine my spirited, fun mother being friends with such a cold bitch, who clearly had serious issues. “I
had no idea things were so bad back then,” I told Natasha. “I thought your life was perfect.”

Natasha shook her head. “My parents and I have always had a very strained relationship. They were horrified when I told them I wanted to be an actress. To them, Hollywood's like one big orgy, and when I dropped out of college to pursue the acting dream, they freaked out. When I went into rehab, they pretty much wrote me off. And then I went on national television and told the world about my affair with The Actor. That did it. I'd shamed them, and they told me they were washing their hands of me.”

I was shocked. “But you're their only child. And you're pregnant!”

“They're weird people,” Natasha said. “Cold and unforgiving.”

“What is there for them to be ashamed about?” I asked. “It's not like anyone in Forest Hills thinks of you as anything less than a major celebrity. You saw how Dana reacted to you. She's proudly told everyone she knows that the famous Natasha Nutley is coming to her wedding. She's so thrilled.”

Natasha smiled weakly and shrugged. The train lurched into the next station and flung me against her.

“Don't you have any other relatives?” I asked. “A doting grandma or aunt? Anyone?”

Natasha seemed to brighten for a second. “I do have an aunt Daphne—my dad's sister. We were close when I was young, but she's always sided with my parents. I'm afraid to even call her to say hi.”

“I just don't get it,” I said. “How could your entire family not appreciate everything you've accomplished? Don't they know how hard you worked to break into show business? How agonizing it is to deal with a broken
heart? How difficult it is to conquer an addiction? Your parents should be applauding you.”

It was true. They
should
be applauding her. You'd think her parents would be hungry to forgive and forget, even if they were toughies. She was trying to keep the relationship alive, but if even a grandchild couldn't crack Mrs. Nutley, things truly might be hopeless. I had a feeling that Natasha wouldn't give up on them, though. It was becoming clearer and clearer to me that Natasha wasn't a quitter. No matter what, she wasn't afraid to keep trying, to keep forging ahead. I wasn't like that. I'd never been like that. The minute I felt defeated, I stopped. I gave up. I always figured there was no point in wasting time and effort and energy trying so hard for something that would never be.

Something occurred to me just then. Perhaps that defeatist mentality had something to do with why I wasn't upset about Jeremy's engagement. It wasn't that my crush hadn't been real. It was that it had been just that: a
crush.
A crush you have on a movie star, a rock star—from afar. You don't expect anything to really happen, so it's completely safe. And you expect stars to marry models. You don't get upset. Natasha had been right to express her surprise about my never making a play for Jeremy. Out of my league or not, I'd put the kibosh on even the possibility. I'd been doing that forever. Expecting the worst and acting accordingly. I'd focused on Jeremy Black for five years because I'd been afraid to focus on a “real” guy, a guy I might be able to have a real relationship with. “Loving” Jeremy from afar had kept me safer than I ever realized. I'd never make my feelings known, and he would never be attracted to me himself…no, there would never be a thing to worry about. I'd never have him—and I'd never lose him.

Natasha pulled a pack of tissues out of her bag and slipped one underneath her oversize glasses. She was crying.

“Natasha, they
should
be applauding you,” I told her. “They should.” I wanted to make her feel better, but I had no frame of reference for what she was going through. My parents had been so supportive, so loving, so good to me. I couldn't imagine what it felt like not to have my parents' love and respect. I only knew what it was like not to have them at all. But at least I knew that they'd loved me while they were alive.

“Applauding what?” Natasha asked. “Jane, I sign another person's name when people ask for my autograph, remember? No one knows who I am.
I
don't even know who I am—” Her hands reached under the sunglasses. “Let's change the subject, okay?”

“You
do
know who you are, Natasha. You make things
happen.
Your acting career. Your relationship with The Actor, getting around The Document, writing an outline for your memoir and selling it, your relationship with Sam. You're totally proactive. And when things don't work out, you pick yourself up and try something else, something better. You have so much to be proud of! And you
should
be proud of yourself. I can never make anything happen the way you do.”

“That's not true,” Natasha said. “You're an executive editor, you've got a doctor for a boyfriend, your family loves you, you have a circle of good friends. Your life is so enviable, Jane. You don't realize it because it's yours, but it is. Trust me.”

I think I already did. A little. Maybe.

“Don't you see, Jane?” Natasha continued. “I'm just trying to
cope.
Everything I do is in reaction to something awful that happened, you know? I know this'll sound cli
chéd, but it's like I have to write out where I've been to see where I'm going. Does that make sense? That's why I'm writing the memoir. People think I'm capitalizing on The Actor's fame, but that's not it at all. I really loved him,” she whispered. Both hands sneaked under the sunglasses again.

“Natasha, I know what it's like to be heartbroken,” I said. “And it's not like my life is so perfect. I'm not an executive editor—just an assistant editor.” That was all she was getting. There was no way I was 'fessing up about my made-up boyfriend who lived on the Upper West Side. No way. I didn't know Natasha. Not really. She clearly had no trouble telling anyone her personal business. She wasn't necessarily confiding in me. She was simply yakking to an interested party—the editor of her autobiography. How did I know I could trust her?