Good Riddance(47)

“What kind of interview takes all day?”

“That’s beside the point. I meant this can’t wait.”

“Hold on. I’m naked. Let me get some clothes on.”

A neighbor I’d never seen before, to the right of Geneva’s apartment, a skinny tattooed man with earrings up and down his lobes, opened his door shirtless. “People are sleeping, for fuck’s sake.”

I repeated that it was the wholly decent hour of eight-thirty. “The city’s awake. It’s full of people rushing off to work.”

“Is that so? I go to work at five and get home at three if I’m lucky. And that’s three freaking a.m.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess that’s why we never met. I’m Daph—” But he’d slammed the door just as a bathrobed Geneva was opening hers. “You never heard of having a conversation by phone?” she asked.

I didn’t say that I wanted to see her face-to-face, to catch her in a lie, to read her unprincipled mind. To sucker punch her if words failed me. I said, “You don’t answer my calls.”

“Is this how you dress for a job interview?”

I said it was at a Montessori school, so dowdy was fine.

“You’d do this full-time? What about your chocolate thing?”

“Don’t change the subject. The woman in episode three? Where did you find her?”

She retreated but didn’t close the door on me. I followed her into her electric-lime-green kitchen, where she put a pod into a coffee machine without asking me if I’d like a cup.

“That woman who said every boy was in love with my mother? First of all, that’s ridiculous. If she and my mom were bosom buddies, I’d know her. Did you check her employment records—”

“What for? The episode has already aired. It’s out there in the universe.” Geneva’s hands made otherworldly circles in the air.

“You don’t seem very worried that she might not be who she claimed to be.”

“Want a cup? It makes tea, too.”

“Who the hell is she?”

Was that a sigh of annoyance over me being me again, resisting and challenging at every turn? Or was it capitulation? “I probably have it in an email, but I don’t have time to find it now.”

“Why? If you do a search, you’ll find it pronto.”

“I meant you don’t have time to wait for me to do a search. And how do I search when I don’t remember her name? Plus, I think she had one of those cute email addresses—like her cat’s name. And you have a job interview”—she checked the microwave clock—“in less than an hour. Casual or not, I’d change into something more professional.”

“Okay. But I want a name. I think she could be an imposter.”

Shouldn’t she say something like, “I can assure you that I double-check every source”? But there was no reassurance, no pushback. She merely raised her cup in a half-hearted toast, as if she’d, of course, be complying with my request.



I changed into a skirt and sweater because I actually did have an interview at a Montessori school, an opening created when a pregnant teacher’s ob-gyn prescribed bed rest. Even with my new, unearned, male-sourced income, or maybe because of it, I felt that life above the poverty line was suddenly within my grasp. I wanted a paycheck again; I wanted enough to shop at Whole Foods, to hail the occasional taxi, to save some money, and eat in a restaurant not just when my father was treating. Why had I waited this long? It was time to admit I occasionally missed sitting in a circle with toddlers who wrapped their arms around my legs in wild enthusiasm over not much: my little clients dispensing unconditional love; my own little peeing and pooping clients; my New Leash on Life.

After the interview I was observed, which in Montessori terms meant pretty much my observing the little bees at work, using, then putting away the tools I knew by heart. I was well practiced in guiding, consulting, hanging back, and speaking calmly. The Manhattan children were better dressed and more racially diverse than the Pickering three-and four-year-olds, but otherwise it was all so familiar. I was told by the head teacher they’d decide soon, surely by the end of the week, but when I returned home, my phone was ringing. I’d been hired. They’d reached my old supervisor in Pickering. My new chocolate-making skills were a bonus—well, not the sugar or the allergens or the double boiler, but knowing my way around a kitchen. Skill building!

I texted Jeremy, who had encouraged me to apply on the basis of my leaving the apartment and getting out in the world.

GREAT NEWS, he texted back. WE NEED TO CELEBRATE. YOU FREE FOR DINNER?

I said yes. His place?

NO, OUT. IN STYLE. ANY PREFERENCE?

Joking, I named the swanky place, impossible to book, where I’d last lunched with my deceased ex-mother-in-law. Adding, JUST KIDDING. ANYWHERE.

He texted me a half hour later. PUBLICIST GOOD FOR SOMETHING. SEE YOU THERE, 7:30.



The ma?tre d’ greeted Jeremy in sycophantic fashion and me not at all. We were led to a table that seemed the opposite of Siberia—in the front of the restaurant by the windows. The place looked different at night, sconces dimmed, votives lit, china gold-rimmed. Jeremy insisted we both order the four-course tasting menu with wine pairings and the Grand Marnier soufflé that required advance notice.