The Nest(101)

“I always knew you had this in you,” Stephanie told her, thrilled and relieved not to be reading about a thinly disguised Leo; she couldn’t have done it. After much urging on Paul’s part, Bea had finally sold her apartment, put the money in the bank, and moved in with Paul. She was writing full time. She’d brought at least five gifts for Lila.

Stephanie put Lila on her lap and let her tear pieces of wrapping paper into tiny bits while Bea tried to interest her in the parade of presents: the little red fire engine with wheels that Lila could sit on and ride down the sidewalk, propelling herself forward with her meaty legs, a teddy bear twice her size that briefly made her cry, three Marimekko dresses bought at a fancy baby boutique that would make Lila look like a mini-Bea, a multicolored plastic monstrosity called Baby’s First Smart Phone from Melody (Stephanie would take the phone—and most of the other needless toys—to Goodwill the following Monday), an exquisite tiny antique bracelet from Jack, pink gold with inlaid chips of ruby, Lila’s birthstone. “What a remarkably beautiful choking hazard,” Melody joked as Stephanie tried to get Lila to sit still long enough to clip it around her chubby wrist; no dice.

After the presents were opened and the wrappings collected and lunch was served, they all gathered around the table in the yard and sat Lila at the head in her high chair. Lila tugged at the elastic from the sparkly party hat Melody had put on her head. She finally pulled the hat loose and flung it to the ground, legs swinging, feet banging against the rungs of the chair. She started squirming to be let down, but when a cupcake with an unlit candle was placed in front of her and everyone started singing “Happy Birthday,” she quieted and stared at the joyful looming faces above her.

Stephanie knew what everyone was doing while Lila offered a rare still moment to search her resplendent face: They were looking for Leo. It was impossible not to see Leo in Lila, the way her bright eyes would narrow when she was angry, her pointed chin was his, as was her broad forehead, the elegant tapered eyebrows and overbearing mouth, all sitting below bright red curls just like Stephanie’s. Leo was gone but he was right there in front of them. And as they concluded their off-key warbling and started to cheer, Lila looked up and shyly smiled and applauded herself.

“Throw a kiss, Lila,” Louisa said, wanting to show off the trick she’d taught her cousin that week.

Lila brought her fleshy, sticky palm to her mouth and then flung an imaginary kiss to the crowd; she squealed as everyone pretended to catch it and threw one again, and again, flinging kisses to the left and to the right, until suddenly it was too much! Spent, she rubbed her eyes, her face crumpled. Then she raised both arms high. “Up,” she said, looking desperately from one eager face to another. “Up!” She opened and closed both hands as if she were grabbing fistfuls of air. “Up!” she said again, as her family rushed toward her all at once, each of them hoping to get to her first.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


For so generously offering their support, time, and wisdom (and sometimes letting me borrow from their lives), I owe a million thanks and nearly that many cocktails to: Belinda Cape, Madeline Dulchin, Rory Evans, Kate Flannery, Robin Goldwasser, John Hodgman, Natasha Lehrer, Jenny McPhee, Liza Powel O’Brien, Rebecca Odes, Rachel Pastan, Amy Poehler, Amy Scheibe, Katherine Schulten (who enthusiastically read so many drafts of these pages that I began to fear for her sanity), Jill Soloway, Jen Strozier, Sarah Thyre, Janie Haddad Tompkins, and Paul Yoon. And to the late, great David Rakoff.

The Bennington Writing Seminars is an ideal place to invest two years of your life, and it was there that I found my Nest—true friends, trusted readers—Rob Faus, Erin Kasdin, Melissa Mills-Dick, Kathryn Savage, and the (sorely missed) Megan Renehan. Thanks to my workshop peers and to the faculty and staff at Bennington, especially Bret Anthony Johnston, who read the first thirty pages of what I thought was a wreck of a short story and told me it was the beginning of a novel. His enthusiasm gave me the confidence to start this book and his advice, insight, humor, patience, and friendship guided me to the finish.

My agent, Henry Dunow, and editor, Megan Lynch, not only made everything in these pages better but are an absolute joy to work with in every way. I don’t know what village I saved in a previous life to deserve them, but it must have been huge. Thanks also to Daniel Halpern and everyone at Ecco for working so hard on my behalf, especially Eleanor Kriseman and Sonya Cheuse.

I am grateful to my parents, for reading to me and passing along their love of books and language. I am grateful to my children, Matthew and Luke, for letting me read to them until they started staying up past my bedtime, for growing into remarkably interesting, intelligent, and entertaining people, and for filling our house with music.

Finally, and most importantly, a world of love and thanks to my husband, Mike, whose belief in me was so absolute on such flimsy evidence, that this book is my attempt to stop him from looking like a fool. As long as we’re making each other laugh, all is right in the world.