“You’re late,” I told Brenda. It was Monday, mid-March, cold and clear, with trees just starting to show nubs of nascent blossoms. I hated it. I wanted weather like my mood, the skies gray and stormy, ripped by lightning. I had hardly slept for the last month, had barely eaten. The last conversation I’d had with Andy was playing on a loop in my head, illustrated with images of Maisie, leaving me exhausted and with no patience for Brenda’s nonsense.
“Yeah. My car broke down, so, um, my friend, um, Lynn, was giving me a ride.”
“Your friend Lynn looks exactly like your ex-boyfriend Stephen. You need to be on time for our appointments. No matter what. You know that our help depends on me signing off on your compliance.”
“I’ll try,” said Brenda, sounding unapologetic. She unlocked the front door, leading me up three flights of narrow stairs and into the chaos that she’d managed to re-create in the three different apartments she’d had since I’d known her. A bird in a cage shrilled from a bedroom. Her dog lay farting on the floor. I could hear the frantic beating of the bird’s wings, and I could smell cigarette smoke, male sweat, cheap perfume. There were newspapers and magazines layered on the coffee table, shoes and socks on the floor, a coat crumpled in one corner, and the TV remote, backless and emptied of batteries, on the couch. Brenda picked it up, examined it, then held it as she sat. “I had to turn the cable off. Too expensive.”
When I didn’t answer, she continued. “And then my car broke down, and the guy at the shop won’t give me a loaner. ‘Go get a rental,’ he says.”
“Is the car under warranty?”
Brenda looked at me like I’d stopped speaking English, and my sorrow hit me like a sandbag. “You know what?” I said, gathering my bag. I’d stuffed it with a fistful of folders before leaving the office without even making sure they were the right ones. “I’ll come back next week.”
“Wait, what? You’re leaving? But what about my car?”
“What about the subway?”
Her brown eyes widened. “Why are you being so mean?” she whispered. “The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never been mean to me. Never once.”
I leaned against the wall. “I owe you an apology,” I said, but Brenda wasn’t done.
“Everyone else is mean. The people at the OCFS, the people at the school. The supermarket checkers, when I give them my card, everyone else in line, they all look at me like I’m nothing. But you don’t make me feel bad.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been dealing with some personal issues.”
Her expression brightened. “What happened?” she asked, leaning forward, ready to dish. “Why’d you come back, anyhow? You split up with your man?”
“This is not appropriate. I really need to go.” A vague memory surfaced. “Did you ever get Dante tested for ADHD?”
Brenda’s face fell. “Oh, yeah. That shit. So guess what? No ADHD. He’s gifted,” she said, her tone making it clear this was not a welcome development.
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “You don’t get money for gifted.”
“Actually, you can,” I said, pulling on my coat, zipping up my bag. “It’s a special condition. There’s money for enrichment . . .” The zipper caught. I yanked it hard, and it broke off in my hand. My bag burst open, spilling papers all over Brenda’s floor. I crouched down to start picking up the mess, and found that I couldn’t move. I rocked back on my heels and covered my face with my hands as tears started spilling down my cheeks.
“Oh, now.” Tentatively, Brenda touched my shoulder, then wrapped her arm around me, helping me stand. “Hey. Come on. No man’s worth all this.”
I didn’t say a word as she led me to the couch. I just kept crying. Brenda handed me a box of Kleenex (name brand, even though we’d discussed how generic was the exact same thing) and then a cup of instant coffee. “Look at us,” she said, and shook her head. “The two saddest girls in New York.”
•••
I went to Brenda’s bathroom, splashed water on my face, went back to the office, then took the subway home. I made myself behave like I was a normal, functioning person. I set my alarm, savoring the handful of seconds after I woke up and before I remembered what Andy had done, where I was, and that I was alone. I forced myself out of bed and into clothes. I saw my clients, kept my appointments, attended my review session for the licensing exam. At the end of the day, I stopped at the corner grocery, bought a frozen Marie Callender’s chicken potpie, put it in the toaster oven, and took a shower while it cooked. By the time the hot water ran out, my dinner was done. I put on a robe, ate my pie with a glass of wine, climbed into bed, took one of the Ambien I’d talked my doctor into prescribing, and fell asleep like I’d been concussed. I wouldn’t let myself call him or go near the Internet to look up his race results or see if there were pictures of him, of her, of them together. I tried to remember the bad stuff, how it felt to be the only person in Andy’s little enclave who had any visible body fat, the way the female runners looked at me when I’d gone to use the gym; the way I was always the last thing on Andy’s mind, behind his workouts, his diet, his training schedule, the race he’d be running the next month or the one he’d run the month before, and how every time I suggested going out to dinner or to a movie or a play or a museum, he was either too busy or too tired. What kind of a life was that? I’d asked myself . . . and then I would remember something—having sex in the shower, or how it felt when he’d laugh, and I couldn’t lie—despite all the annoyance and embarrassment, it had been the life I’d wanted.