How Could She Read online

  “They were, but . . . maybe my husband and I aren’t ready just yet. I think we might need a few more years. Or a year?”

  The doctor’s frown had a tragic tint to it. “Ideally you’d freeze in your mid-twenties. If you think you’re going to be ready for a baby in the foreseeable future, you’ve got to start trying right now. You’re thirty-seven, and you have a partner. Don’t wait.”

  “Hold on to your word,” Margo said. “Don’t let it slip away.”

  Sunny still hadn’t found her word. Was it “baby”? Or “Jesse”? She tried to make a selection, but an image of an infant Jesse was what filled her mind. He was somewhat perverse-looking, this baby, with Jesse’s arrowhead tattoo and eyes that blazed wildly. He reached his arms out to Sunny. There was a rippling deep inside her, and it hurt. Something wet landed on her palm. She was crying. She tilted her head back, as if that could stop the tears. “Hold your word in your heart,” Margo said. “Tell the universe you are ready.”

  “Thank you, Margo. That was beautiful.” A man rose from a mat in the back of the room and came to join the leader. He had broad shoulders and stoner eyes. This must be Aaron, Sunny realized. “And I want to thank all of you for finding the time to come.” He padded across the room, the gleaming wood floor creaking beneath his bare, golden-haired feet. Aaron stopped here and there to hug attendees, men and women alike. “You are all here for a reason,” he said, pulling Margo in for a burly embrace. “Honor your reason,” Aaron said, and Sunny felt overcome with a sense of bright weightlessness.

  The sound of a gong reverberated through the room, and Sunny wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She saw that Geraldine was watching her. “Aren’t you glad you came?” Geraldine whispered. Sunny wasn’t the only person whose eyes were smeared with tears, but that didn’t help lessen the shame that engulfed her.

  19

  Barrett insisted on picking Geraldine up at her place. It was opening night for the New York Documentary Film Festival, and Barrett, who was now working for the Toronto Star’s editorial page and gathering ideas for his Reel Real op-ed series, had invited her to come as his date. On top of his chivalry, Geraldine sensed a streak of the protective little brother in her former roommate. It wouldn’t have totally surprised her if he’d colluded with her mother—Joanne had always been such a fan of Barrett’s, eyebrow ring notwithstanding.

  Barrett came straight from the movie theater where he’d bunkered himself all day. He was bursting with excitement, words bubbling out faster than Geraldine could follow. She had never thought him to be brilliant when they’d lived together, but clearly he was. Had she been that depressed? Barrett was dressed in cargo shorts and vintage Reebok Pumps, a lime-green all-access festival badge hanging around his neck. It had been four months since Geraldine had seen him, and she was hit with raw emotion and the faintest whiff of artificial butter as she hugged him at the door.

  “You live here?” Barrett craned his neck into the loft. “For real? This is some Million Dollar Listing ridiculousness.”

  Jeremy gave a dramatic throat clearing from his place on the couch. He was on his iPad. “Hi.” He waved. “Don’t worry, I’m not a sociopath. I just have violently good taste.”

  “I told you about Jeremy,” Geraldine said, slightly blushing as she introduced her current and former roommates. “He’s my patron saint.”

  “Slumlord with benefits,” Jeremy said, then realized he needed to backtrack lest Barrett get the wrong idea. “Geraldine keeps things civilized around here. Without her there’d be no conversation or flowers,” he added.

  “Plants, mostly,” Geraldine said, and excused herself to change into something a little mellower than the silk dress she had on. “You guys both have English mothers!”

  She kept her bedroom door open so she could eavesdrop on their conversation. Barrett was overcompensating for his prior faux pas by praising the apartment’s “ambient light.” By the time Geraldine came back out, in a batik jumpsuit she’d found at a thrift store with Sylvie, the two were discussing a documentary Barrett had seen earlier in the day, about an extreme mountain climber’s gruesome death in the Amazon Basin.

  “I like him,” Barrett said on the elevator ride down. “You could do a lot worse.”

  The door opened, and Geraldine didn’t move. “Jeremy and I aren’t together. You know that, right?” She was getting sick of insisting on this to everyone, sick of the two responses it invariably garnered. Either people didn’t believe her or they looked at her as if she were the world’s biggest fool for believing that something so good could come for free. Then again, she’d sooner hear unsolicited commentary about Jeremy than about Peter, who was coming back to New York and wanted to take her to Nantucket. He’d gone to a charity auction and bid on a three-night stay at a beachfront home. “You’ll be supporting a good cause,” he’d tried. She’d said no, it probably wasn’t a great idea, but they both knew she’d left the possibility open, just a sliver. The hinges on Geraldine’s door were broken, so it was never going to close completely.

  It was spitting rain, and they walked closely under Barrett’s umbrella, catching up on his new gig and Geraldine’s eternal search for one. “My friend Sylvie and I recorded a couple of episodes of a podcast. Have you heard of Art Gumbel?”

  “Of course. That interview he did with Sylvester Stallone and his yo-yo dieting was unforgettable. Why?”

  “I met him through a friend, and he’s been helping me out with equipment and editing software,” Geraldine said, trying to sound nonchalant about her brush with nerd celebrity.

  “You’re a podhead, that’s awesome,” Barrett said, bouncing along. “Can I listen?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to put them out on my own until I get confirmation that none of the distribution companies I’m talking to want it. There’s this California entity that seems pretty shady, and Barb is low-key helping me navigate the CBC.”

  “The old hometown bureaucracy.” Barrett smiled.

  “It’s insane,” Geraldine said. “I’m not sure how they ever put anything out when nothing ever gets done behind the scenes. I’ve had meetings, but all anybody wants to talk about is who should get cc’d and bcc’d on emails.”

  “Sounds about right,” Barrett said. “They should rebrand as the bcc.”

  Geraldine laughed. “I know I really should get a proper job. I was trying to when I first got here, but everyone told me I’m either overqualified or underqualified,” she said. “You can tell my mother to get the guest bed ready.”

  “You could get married and stay here forever,” Barrett said.

  “Like that wouldn’t be hard to pull off.”

  “Easy peasy. You’re the coolest person I know.”

  Geraldine rolled her eyes. There were many words she’d use to describe herself, and some were nice ones, but “cool” was not among them. And did wife seekers even want cool? Didn’t they want pretty? Or rich? The one exception she could think of was Nick, who had chosen Sunny. They’d married the same summer as Rachel and Matt, in the lush garden behind their friends’ home in the Hudson Valley. Sunny had seemed so solid and beaming in her mauve wedding dress, as if she’d unlocked the cupboard to human contentment. Yet now that Geraldine had witnessed her having a near breakdown at that meditation event, it was hard to think of Sunny as entirely cool, or of her and Nick as remotely happy together.

  Barrett gave Geraldine’s shoulder a squeeze. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he told her. “If things were squared away, life would be less interesting.”

  They came upon the boutique hotel where the party was being held. The red carpet in front sat sodden and empty. A lone photographer had taken refuge from the rain under an awning. Geraldine steered Barrett’s rigid body onto the carpet and smiled determinedly. She had fantastic teeth. With visible reluctance the photographer took their picture and asked for their names.

  The p
arty was on the “lower penthouse” level, aka the second floor, and it was surprisingly packed. The crowd shared an earthy affluence that Geraldine concluded must be common to documentary filmmakers, lots of platform sandals and layered ethnic necklaces. Barrett knew some of the other badge wearers and brought Geraldine over to a circle of them. They were eating lobster rolls the size of baby carrots and discussing the festival’s buzziest film, The Payback. Geraldine gathered it was about a woman who’d bullied Ivanka at summer camp and who volunteered at the Trump campaign in order to apologize to her in person. Geraldine slipped away.

  Standing at the bar five minutes later, she still didn’t have a drink. She couldn’t bring herself to be as aggressive as those being served. While she snacked on curried cashews, she watched the party play out in the mirror behind the bottles. All the banquettes were filled, and a tall woman was walking around with a blatantly old-fashioned VHS video camera propped on her shoulder. Geraldine located Barrett and his crew where she’d left them. Everything in her body went full stop when she saw that Barrett was chatting with Sunny. It didn’t make her proud to feel this way, but was there nothing in the city that Geraldine couldn’t have to herself? She’d taken Sunny to the meditation event, even though Sunny never asked Geraldine to be her date to anything. Geraldine didn’t even want a drink anymore.

  Feeling deflated, she pivoted and came to face a pair of women who appeared to be in their late fifties. One of them had the most beautiful earrings made out of what looked like ancient coins. Geraldine realized that this was Elinda Jackman, the HR woman from Ffife Media.

  “Elinda?” Geraldine tried. “It’s Geraldine Despont; we met a few months ago.”

  “Of course,” Elinda said, as if it were slowly coming back.

  “Are you in film?” her friend asked Geraldine. She was dressed more corporately, with a scarf jauntily tied around her neck.

  “I just know a few people here,” Geraldine said, glancing over at Barrett and Sunny. They were laughing with the woman carrying the video recorder. Elinda’s companion continued to stare at Geraldine, waiting for her to explain her existence. “I’m sort of a free agent.” The words sounded silly and made her smile.

  “You’re an agent?” Scarf Lady raised her eyebrows.

  Geraldine shook her head. “Right now I’m making a podcast.”

  “Are you?” Elinda said. “That’s very interesting. What is the focus?”

  “It’s called Pod People,” Geraldine said. “The host is this girl—I guess I should say woman?”

  “Girl’s fine by me,” Scarf said.

  “Her name is Sylvie,” Geraldine said. “She’s the most hilarious person I have met in New York. For the show she interviews the best podcasters. The idea is every week you have a built-in audience.”

  The women were clucking in approval. “And who’s distributing?” Elinda asked.

  Geraldine tried to still the self-doubt fluttering within her. “I’m in talks with the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.”

  “Are you?” Scarf said in an impressed tone.

  “You should be in talks with me, too,” Elinda said brusquely, handing Geraldine her card: ELINDA JACKMAN, CHIEF STRATEGIC OFFICER AT FFIFE MEDIA. Geraldine felt a quickening. She hadn’t received a card at their previous meeting.

  “We’re undergoing a lot of changes, all exciting,” Elinda said. “We’re moving forward, developing our brands off the page. Some of them are adaptable. Some less so . . .” She frowned. “You must be relieved we didn’t find you a job at Cassette.”

  “Cassette was good,” the other woman allowed. “It really captured a moment.”

  Geraldine felt thick-brained. She’d been so busy chasing after the moment, she hadn’t heard anything about its passing. “They pulled the plug on Cassette?” she asked.

  Elinda let Geraldine’s question evaporate and turned to her friend. “I should introduce her to Doug.” She looked back at Geraldine. “You’ll call me tomorrow. And don’t say anything about the magazine to anybody—it’s all still in flux.”

  Geraldine’s confusion lifted, and a gauzy sadness came to take its place. Rachel had a baby to feed and a husband who earned only in the upper-five figures. They needed Rachel’s income. “I should go back to my friends,” Geraldine said, and assured the women she would be discreet. As she came up to Barrett’s side, Geraldine tried to push thoughts of Rachel out of her mind.

  “Geraldine—there you are,” Sunny said. Her tone was untroubled; she must not have seen whom Geraldine had been talking to.

  Geraldine leaned in for a kiss and attempted to block out the guilt pressing in on her. Even Sunny, who didn’t need Cassette, wasn’t going to be thrilled when she learned the news. Geraldine could feel Elinda’s card turning moist in her palm as she tightened her fist around it.

  “Miss MacLeod!” A man in silver accountant-chic glasses grabbed Sunny by the elbow and slotted her into a new conversation. To go by the look Sunny shot at Geraldine, she was disappointed not to get to talk further. A moment later, though, Sunny was performing animatedly for a ring of attentive strangers, a supernova in a distant galaxy.

  20

  What’s the holdup, Rachel?” Miriam’s tone was sharp as a thumbtack. Rachel x-ed out of her email so a layout of Sunny’s column bloomed on the screen. It was about wabi-sabi, the Japanese art of imperfection. Rachel swallowed and sat up. “I’m sorry,” she told Miriam. “I’ll have everything in by lunch, promise.”

  “Everyone’s in the conference room. It’s very important.” Miriam walked away, her strides heavy with determination. Now Rachel saw that the workstations around her sat empty. She’d been dimly aware of a mass migration, but she’d assumed it was somebody’s birthday and that her colleagues were just marching toward a box of esoteric doughnuts in the kitchen.

  Rachel grabbed her phone and sprinted to the room where she was supposed to be, the blisters on the backs of her feet flaring up in her rubber flats.

  “Hi, Rachel,” Ceri said in an eerie tone, then lowered her head and folded her hands together, which she did when was she was trying to compose her thoughts. She was wearing Buddy Hollys—it was the first time Rachel had seen her in glasses. “As I was saying,” Ceri said, “I am aware you all have so much work left to do on this issue.”

  The staff looked slightly dumbstruck. Rachel ducked her head and settled into a spot in the standing area in the back of the room. Something major was going on. It had been two weeks since the last surprise all-staff meeting, where Ceri had laid out the “tangible assets plan,” which was a fancy way of saying everybody had to come up with ideas for Cassette-related books and kitchenware and other merchandise. Today, though, nobody was passing out memos that were still warm from the copier. Midtown sunlight slashed through the windows, washing out the enormous photograph of Depression-era construction workers that hung on the wall.

  Ceri cleared her throat. “I am so proud of Cassette, and all of you should be, too. I believe the magazine has only become finer over the years, and we saw a seven-percent uptick in sales over the last year, which is quite significant in this economy.” The stench of fear rose up through the room. “I take great pride in what we do as well as what we don’t do,” Ceri said. “Our readers look to us for good taste and integrity, and we deliver on both counts. There are plenty of places to find reality stars and beauty looks. What Cassette has is the sharpest and liveliest in art and design and ideas. We bring our readers the inspiration to live if not their best, then certainly their better, lives.”

  Ceri’s words were turning to slush. It wasn’t until Rachel heard “The issue we are closing will be our last” that she truly came to attention.

  Everyone erupted into a chorus of gasps and omigods. “Are we going entirely digital?” Deirdre asked.

  “To be honest, I don’t know what the company has planned for the brand,” Ceri said. “I won’t be a p
art of Cassette’s next stage. Not my choice.” She paused to accept the stunned looks. “The magazine will continue to operate until a week from Friday, so we will finish the September issue. HR has assured me they are going to do their best to find a place for all of you after that.”

  Rachel’s phone vibrated. It was a text from Matt, who was in Toronto of all places, meeting with a former mentor about a collaboration. Flight’s on track. Will pick up your ketchup potato chips and be home for dinner. All the love. Rachel eased and returned her focus to the front of the room. “Elinda Jackman, whom many of you will remember from human resources and who now runs Ffife’s strategy, is here to answer your questions,” Ceri said. “If you have any questions for me, Miriam will give you my personal email address.”

  Rachel hadn’t met with Elinda since she’d first interviewed with Ffife, over six years ago. She barely recognized the woman who stepped forth from one of the room’s wings. She had a silver bob and coin earrings that told a story of summers on boats in the Adriatic Sea. “Thank you so much,” she said with an uneasy smile. “You’re welcome to stay, Ceri.”

  Ceri made a point of not meeting Elinda’s eye as she surrendered her chair. Ever the dutiful lieutenant, Miriam rose and accompanied her boss out of the room. Elinda wasted no time and spoke crisply about new media-consumption patterns. The company would be prioritizing its digital initiatives, of which there were several, and she assured those assembled before her that there would be ample opportunities.

  “So you’re saying you still have jobs for us?” somebody asked.

  Elinda clasped her hands together. “We are working on creating new positions, and once they are formalized, you will have priority status.”

  “But we’re getting laid off?” challenged somebody.

  “Technically, yes.”