Chapter One It begins like any other ordinary workday. I'm in my cubicle of an office at Nationweek, too busy to notice my view, a narrow slice of downtown K Street. In clear weather, from a certain angle, you can see the White House, but on a gray, rainy spring day, like today, I'm not missing much, mostly backed-up traffic and people in trench coats hurrying to their next appointments.
Inside, I'm drowning in paper: overflowing files on my floor and desk, a stack of the day's half-read newspapers at my feet, an in box stacked precariously and ready to tip at the slightest movement. I'm trying not to spill my black coffee on anything crucial -- the fact checkers hate it when the source materials are too stained to read.
Although I hate computer jargon, I'm in my usual working-mother multitasking mode: phone cradled under one ear while
I type at the computer, writing one story for business, editing an education piece for the social trends section, rearranging the boys' nursery-school car pool, and calling friends to guilt them into providing homes for a litter of eight gerbils. The queasiness in my stomach is an acute reminder of my promise to Allison.
"I will be at your recital by five," I told her confidently this morning.
"Don't forget the cupcakes," she reminded me.
By noon, my neck and shoulder muscles were tighter than my prepregnancy jeans. Finally, at 4:15, mumbling about an appointment, I duck out of a cover-story meeting and race to the parking garage.
Despite the drizzle, the traffic is light as I head to Bethesda along Massachusetts Avenue. After years of this commute, I automatically zip past the mosque, the Brazilian and British embassies, and the vice president's house, barely registering the sights.
My first stop is a bakery in Bethesda. I am unprepared for the Lydia sighting that awaits me. As soon as I'm inside, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon reminds me that it's been more than eight hours, and four cups of coffee, since my sole meal of the day, a meager but virtuous bowl of bran cereal. I intended to run out for a salad at noon, but the phone never stopped.
As I stand at the counter, I restrain myself from ordering a fragrant cinnamon roll -- about half a million calories. I impatiently glance across the narrow, crowded store. Only the back of her head is visible, but I know instantly that the woman in the black raincoat paying for the six-grain bread is Lydia Finelli. My stomach lurches and my heart rate rises to the level of forty-five minutes on the elliptical machine.
No doubt Lydia has spotted me, but will pretend she doesn't see me. We've only run into each other a few times over the last five years, but that's her pattern. There's no way she's getting away with this.
I stride over, giving up my place in line. "I thought that was you, Lydia. Hello," I say, managing a neutral tone.
"Claire. Oh, hi," she answers as if seeing me for the first time. "How are you?"
"Fine. Ooops. My cupcakes are ready. See you around." No need to linger. I made my point: I'm not invisible. I've got nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to avoid a simple greeting in a public place.
I pull out my wallet. Lydia pats me on the shoulder and waves good-bye as I wait for change. A small victory, I think, walking briskly in the rain to my Camry, and sliding the bulky cake boxes into the front seat. Too bad I lost the war.
The neon clock on the dashboard flashes 4:53. The rain will slow me down but, if I make all the lights, I'll only be five minutes late. As I turn the key in the ignition, I hear a light tap-tap-tap on the window. Opening the window, I lean out, catching a few drops on my face. This time I register Lydia's appearance. Still exceptionally pretty, but she doesn't look well. Pale complexion, gaunt face, the lines around her mouth more pronounced. Her blond, curly hair has been expertly cut and highlighted, but it's not as thick and shiny as I remember.
"Claire, it's such a coincidence to see you. Really. I've been thinking about you lately. A lot." She hesitates. "Listen, is it okay if I call you?"
"It's always been okay, Lydia," I say evenly. "My numbers at work and home haven't changed. I have to run. Allison hates it when I'm late." I touch the cupcake boxes for explanation.
"Of course. I won't keep you. I'll speak to you soon. I mean it."
I back out of the parking spot carefully. Sure Lydia will call. That's as likely as the Publisher's Clearinghouse van driving to my door with the ten-million-dollar check. As likely as a Hollywood producer buying the rights to one of my magazine stories and turning it into a movie of the week. Lydia will never call and I know it. She hasn't dialed my number for five years. Wait until I tell Aaron about this encounter.
The light turns green and I drive off, leaving my former best friend of twenty-three years, the person who once shared the most intimate details of my life, including the play-by-play of my lost virginity, standing alone on the curb in the rain.
x?x?x
A few days pass, and thoughts of Lydia return to the back of my mind, the repository of the unresolved hurt and angry feelings that have accumulated since she dropped out of my life with no explanation soon after our thirty-fifth birthdays.
Naturally, her disappearance didn't happen overnight. It took me months to realize Lydia was dumping me for good, a process punctuated by me dropping by her house at odd times, hoping to talk, and dozens of unanswered phone messages. When Lydia was home, she would invite me in, but act politely distant, as if I were a pesky neighbor, then recall an urgent errand she had to run. Resentment, denial, hurt, grief, I felt them all, in various combinations. I still do, although with less intensity.
Gnats have nothing on me in persistence. I pursued her like an elusive source until her final snub. When she didn't return Aaron's call, announcing the twins' birth, the door in my heart finally slammed shut. I was too mad to try again, replaying in my head her pregnancy with Colin: all the times I held her head over the toilet, brought her ginger ale or peppermint tea, and drove her to doctor appointments because Matthew, then a lowly intern, couldn't leave the hospital.
For six months, maybe more, I had vivid dreams about Lydia at least a few times a week. Not that I clocked much sleep between nighttime feedings and diaper changing. I longed for some closure with Lydia, but not enough to make any more overtures myself.
The Thursday after the bakery encounter, on an otherwise uneventful workday, as I'm rewriting my lead for the third time, the phone rings.
"Claire Newman," I say curtly, anticipating Tim, the annoying editor who has already nagged me twice about a story that is not due until tomorrow morning.
"Claire, it's Lydia. I know you're mad at me but don't hang up, please. Just hear me out, okay?"
Common sense dictates slamming the phone down but, as usual, my curiosity overrides it. "I hate mysteries, Lydia. How could I possibly hang up when the biggest puzzle of my life is about to be solved?"
"Look, I know I owe you an explanation, big time. I promise you'll get it. But, for now, I need your help." She pauses. "I'm in trouble. I know I gave up my right to your friendship years ago. But, in a strange way, you're the only person I can trust now."
"Trouble? What do you mean?" It doesn't really surprise me that Lydia can still push my buttons.
She hesitates again. "It's complicated. And I'd rather tell you in person. Please, Claire, I know I don't deserve it, but give me one more chance. Please. I'm appealing to your big heart." Her tone is soft, placating.
I'm intrigued. For Lydia, this constitutes groveling. To her, a simple request for help, like asking a dinner guest to bring a bottle of wine, is the moral equivalent of panhandling.