Young Jane Young(7)

The dressing room at Loehmann’s was communal, which meant the other shoppers weighed in on what you tried on.

“You look great in that,” an older woman (younger than I am now) in her bra, underwear, and a chunky turquoise necklace said to me. “So svelte.”

“It’s not really my style,” I said. “I like your necklace.”

“I got it visiting my son in Taos, New Mexico,” she said.

“I’ve heard it’s nice there.”

“It’s a desert,” she said. “If you like the desert, it’s fine.”

I swung my arms. It felt like I was wearing armor.

“The suit looks made for you,” the older woman said.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The woman in the suit looked frumpy and severe, like a prison matron. She didn’t look like me, which was exactly the look I was going for.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Embeth was there as was Congressman Levin’s director of fund-raising, I don’t remember the exact title. His name was Jorge, and he seemed like a very nice man, but I wanted to stab him with my fork. How irritating that she had brought someone! I had to pretend to talk about a fund-raiser that I had no intention of throwing. An excruciating forty-five minutes into lunch, Embeth said she had to leave Jorge and me to continue planning the fund-raiser without her. “This was lovely, Rachel. Thanks for getting me out of the office.”

“So soon?” I said.

“We should do it again,” she said, in a tone that meant that we shouldn’t.

I watched her leave, and as she rounded the ma?tre d’s station, I stood and said, “Jorge.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Excuse me. I have to go to the ladies’ room!” I knew I was being oddly specific, but I didn’t want him to suspect my real purpose.

“Well, you don’t need my permission,” he said lightly.

I walked at a measured pace toward the bathroom, but as soon as I was past the ma?tre d’ and out of Jorge’s eye line, I sprinted toward the parking lot. She was still walking to her car. Thank God, I thought. I ran and I called her name like a madwoman: “Embeth! Embeth!”

The pavement was so hot it had almost turned back into tar, and my heel sank into it. I tripped and I skinned my knee.

Through my panty hose, I could see glistening flecks of pavement, embedded in my flesh like jewels.

“Rachel,” she said. “Oh my God, are you all right?”

I immediately stood up. “It’s nothing. It’s… the pavement is sticky,” I said. “What a klutz I am.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I think you’re bleeding,” she said.

“Am I?” I laughed, as if my own blood was a great joke.

She smiled at me. “Well, this was fun. So great that we could do this. We should… Yes, you’re definitely bleeding. Maybe I have a Band-Aid?” She began to dig through her handbag, a shiny leather pentagon with brass corners, the size of a small suitcase. In a pinch, the bag could double as a weapon.

“You carry Band-Aids?” She didn’t strike me as a Band-Aid carrier.

“I have sons,” she said. “I’m basically a registered nurse.” She continued searching through her bag.

“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s probably best to let it breathe anyway. That way, it can dry out.”

“No,” she said, “that’s an old wives’ tale. You keep a wound moist for the first five days and it heals faster and leaves fewer scars. Found it!” She handed me a Band-Aid with dinosaurs on it. “You really should wash it out first.”

“I will,” I said.

“Maybe I have some Neosporin?” She began to dig through her bag again.

“It’s like a magician’s top hat, that bag,” I said.

“Ha,” she said.

“Enough!” I said. “You’ve done more than enough.”

“Well,” she said, “we should do this again.”

And I said, “Yes, we should.”

And she said, “Was there something you wanted?”

I knew it was now or never, but I was having trouble saying the words. There was no polite way to deliver such news and so I just said it. “Your husband is having an affair with my daughter, I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” she said. The music of that syllable reminded me of the flat line of a heart monitor: shrill but final, dead sounding. She smoothed down her own St. John suit, which was navy blue and almost identical to the one I was wearing, and she ran her fingers through her straightened, scarecrow hair, which was growing frizzier every moment we stood in that infernal parking lot. “Why not go to him?”

“Because…” Because my mother told me to go to you? Why hadn’t I gone to him? “Because I thought I should handle this woman to woman,” I said.

“Because you don’t think he’ll end it without a push from me.”

“Yes.”

“Because you don’t want your daughter to know that you’re the one who betrayed her,” Embeth filled in. “Because you want her to love you, to think of you as her best friend.”

“Yes.”

“Because she’s a slut —”