Where We Belong Page 7

  “Kirby, I’d like you to meet Peter. Peter, this is Kirby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kirby,” Peter says in the confident, deep voice of a news anchorman. He steps toward me, his posture as perfect as his smile, and extends his hand. Sunlight glints off his gold watch, as I stand and nervously shake his hand. His handshake, of course, is strong, borderline painful. I wonder if he is making a point. Regardless, I decide I don’t like him—at least I don’t like his type.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” I mumble, glancing at Marian, waiting for her to fill the silence. But she says nothing, the three of us forming an awkward triangle. Peter finally asks a question that fills the room. “So? I heard you arrived last night?”

  I nod, recross my arms, and say yes, my voice as small as his is large. I find myself wondering if he really knows who I am, and how she told the story of my arrival. Was she happy? Upset? Annoyed? Stunned? Was she worried that I’d try to move in, mess up her perfect life? Maybe he had warned her that although we were related, she knew nothing about this stranger in her home. I might be here to steal from her or sneak into her room at night and attack her. Had she called him last night, in a panic? Is that why he had come over? For protection?

  If he is suspicious of my motives, he fakes it well (as I bet he always can), booming, “Great. Great.” And then, “So what are you girls going to do today?”

  Marian shrugs and says, “Oh, I don’t know. I think we’ll probably just do a little Upper East Side tour. Walk around. Show Kirby my neighborhood.”

  “The park? The Guggenheim? French toast at Caffe Grazie?” he says.

  Marian says, “All of the above. And maybe a little shopping. If Kirby is up for it.”

  I nod and force a smile, but seriously can’t believe that she’s suggesting shopping. Not only do I have zero desire to shop, but the thought also intimidates me, the retail equivalent of not knowing which fork to use at a restaurant.

  “Ahh. Barneys. How could I forget?” Peter’s tone is teasing. He winks and looks at me. “Be careful. Marian has been known to get trapped in that building, poor thing.”

  She rolls her eyes and tells him to hush, but he makes another quip about how he’s had to rescue her from the jaws of that beast on Madison Avenue. The whole thing is very Hollywood, very Manhattan. Very strange.

  A few beats of laughter later, he rubs his palms together and says, “All right. I’m out. Gotta go get Aidan from his mom’s.”

  I process that he is divorced as he looks at me and explains, “My son. Maybe if you’re here for a bit, you can meet him. He’s about your age. Fifteen. Wait. How old are you, again?”

  “Eighteen,” I say. “I just look fifteen.”

  “You’ll appreciate it one day,” Marian says.

  I watch as Peter leans over and kisses Marian on the lips, no other part of their bodies touching, before walking to the door. As I sit back down on the sofa, he turns and gives her a look I can’t read. Perhaps it is moral support, maybe it is sympathy. But whatever it is, I glance at her, just in time to see her mouth, Thank you.

  I look away, wondering what she is thanking him for, if it has anything to do with me.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later Marian and I are walking into Caffe Grazie, a bustling restaurant in a two-story town house near Marian’s apartment. The hostess smiles at her in recognition, then leads us to a narrow booth in the back of the room where Marian pushes aside her menu and tells me there is only one way to go.

  “The French toast?” I say, remembering Peter’s words.

  “You bet,” she says, as our waitress arrives with two glasses of ice water and Marian’s coffee.

  “Would you like some, hon?” the waitress asks me, holding up the carafe.

  I tell her no thank you, and after glancing at my menu and noticing that the orange juice is six dollars a glass, I mumble that I will stick with water.

  “We’ll both have the chocolate croissant French toast,” Marian says.

  The waitress nods, then briskly departs as Marian looks at me and says, “So? Is there something in particular that you wanted to do today?”

  I shake my head, feeling tempted to make the point that I didn’t exactly come here to see the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building. And if we must do the tourism thing to avoid real conversation, then I’d prefer to check out Carnegie Hall or the Brooklyn Philharmonic or the Jazz Museum in Harlem or one of the city’s many music stores I found on the Internet. Like Drummers World that carries everything from Epstein castanets made of rosewood and black grenadillo, to Albright Milt Jackson jazz mallets, to a vintage Rogers kit from the seventies with a fourteen-inch dynasonic snare. I obviously can’t afford to buy any of it, but I’d kill to see it up close and test it out. Rogers drums have a richer, more musical sound than most other drums, which are more about a big upfront attack. They are the best freaking drums on the planet—noticeably better sounding as well as being really beautiful. But I don’t say any of this—mostly because I have the feeling that she really doesn’t want to know.

  Instead I shrug and say, “I don’t care. Whatever you want to do is cool with me.”

  “Well … Let’s see,” she says as I stare at her huge diamond stud earrings. “When do you have to be back at school?”

  I know what she is getting at—when will I be hitting the road?—so I say, “Wednesday. But … I can leave before then. I mean, whatever you want … I can go anytime. It’s totally up to you.”

  “Let’s play it by ear,” Marian says with a little too much cheer. “Stay at least for the night, okay?”

  In other words, not two nights, I think, and mumble thanks.

  She starts to say something, but then stops and taps the newspaper that she toted along with her. “Do you read the Sunday Times?”

  I tell her no, but in case she thinks I’m some apathetic, clueless teen, I add, “I do read the paper, though. We get the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.”

  I mean, I am apathetic, but only about my life, not the whole world, and I do follow current events, unlike most of the kids I know.

  She smiles and says, “Well? Would you like a section?”

  I tell her I’ll take the front page unless she wants it, wondering why we’re reading the paper when we’ve covered about one percent of what I think we need to cover. Including, like, oh, I don’t know, who my father is and why they gave me away. Apparently she doesn’t feel the same, though, because she hands me the front page as if we’ve been sharing Sunday newspapers for years. I take it from her, with a surge of frustration, bowing my head to read an article about a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv. I can’t concentrate on anything other than the fact that she is across the table from me, which suddenly feels like the freakiest thing ever, our silence only making it more weird. I have the feeling that she is marveling over our reunion, too, because every couple minutes, I can feel her glancing at me up over the Styles section. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe she’s really just moved by something in the newspaper. Something earth-shattering, like the fact that bell bottoms are back in again.

  * * *

  After breakfast, we stroll one block over to Fifth Avenue, where I see my first glimpse of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The building is huge and important looking, spanning several long blocks—a quarter mile according to Marian—people covering the expanse of steps, some snapping photos, some sitting and reading guidebooks, some just standing there. There is even a group of skaters about my age in hoodies and cargo shorts lounging about as if it is their everyday hangout. A far cry from Francis Park where kids I know hang out—although the clothing is pretty much the same and they are all wearing the same bored expression.

  She watches me taking it all in and says, “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  I say yes, and then drop my only real frame of literary reference, albeit a juvenile one. “I loved From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler,” I say, trying to remember the details about the lit
tle girl who runs away and hides out in the museum. I think her name was Claudia.

  Her face lights up as she tells me that she, too, loved that book as a child.

  Then she says, “And have you read Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence?”

  Edith Wharton rings a faint bell, but I haven’t read the book—I haven’t read any books for pleasure in years except the Twilight series (which I liked but for the incessant description of Edward as hot—I mean, how many times and in how many ways can an author tell us that the dude is good-looking?).

  “The two protagonists have a clandestine meeting here and one of them says, ‘Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum’ … She was actually pretty instrumental in establishing it.”

  I can’t help hanging on her every cultured word, even though I have the feeling she’s sort of showing off. Or worse, testing me. Like those college admissions interviews where they’re pretending to chat, but really making mental notes about how smart you are. Or in my case, how dumb.

  We walk north a block as Marian points across the street at a white limestone building with a green awning. “See that building?” she says. “Ten-forty? Jackie O moved there the year after JFK was killed. She lived there for thirty years. On the fifteenth floor.”

  She goes on to tell me that her apartment wasn’t as grand as you would think; it didn’t even have central air. “But it has a gorgeous view of the Central Park Reservoir and the thirty-four-hundred-year-old Temple of Dendur, which she helped bring to the Met from Egypt.”

  I nod, remembering the one thing my mom always said about Jackie—that she was a world-class mother to John and Caroline—which suddenly seems a lot more important than some temple. I glance at Marian, wondering when—or if—she’s going to get real.

  We keep walking, finally arriving at the Guggenheim, a large, modern building corkscrewed onto Fifth like a big white ribbon. As I gaze up at it, Marian lapses into tour guide mode again, telling me that it was Frank Lloyd Wright’s last major work and that it was very controversial when it opened back in 1959. It took him fifteen years and seven hundred sketches to design, she says, and then laughs and adds, “He once said that it would make the Met look like a Protestant barn. What do you think?”

  “I like it,” I say, still feeling some weird combination of nervous and resentful, wondering whether I just gave her the right answer. “It’s pretty cool looking.”

  “I love it,” she says. “I mean, the Met is the Met, but this is one of my favorite spots in the city. Would you like to go in?”

  I shrug and nod, then follow her into the cool, dark lobby. She heads to the ticket counter, as I drift toward the center of the room, gaping up at the open-floor spiral toward the ceiling. Like the outside, the interior is like nothing I’ve ever seen—which apparently is the consensus, as the ground floor is dotted with tourists craning their necks toward the ceiling, snapping photos. I take one with my phone and send it to Belinda with a text (about the fourth update since I arrived) that says: At the Guggenheim. She’s pretty badass. More later.

  It occurs to me that I’m putting a certain spin on the visit, a more positive one than I feel so far, and I find myself wondering what I’m trying to prove, especially when Belinda writes back: OMG. Way kool! Take one of her!

  I put my phone back into my purse, thinking there’s no chance that I’ll do that, as we slowly ascend through the tiers of the museum, Marian continuing her soft, competent commentary. She tells me that along with the architectural critics, many artists protested the museum in the early days, too, saying that the curved walls and nooks didn’t properly showcase their work. Just like with the newspaper, I realize that I can’t fully focus on her words, or the works themselves, just the sound of her voice, the way her face lights up when she points out her favorite Chagalls and Picassos.

  When we get to the dead end of the very top layer of the museum, she says, “You know what’s crazy?”

  “What?” I ask, hoping that she’s finally going to say something of substance.

  She looks at me, then returns her gaze to the lobby far below. “I’ve stood right here. Right in this very spot, and thought about you. Wondered where you were. If you were happy.”

  In spite of myself, a warm, tingly feeling fills my chest, but I don’t let on that her words have affected me. Instead, I look down, memorizing the stark white view and say, “Well, now you know.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Now I know.”

  * * *

  The morning has warmed and the crowds have swelled when we emerge back onto the sidewalk. I take off my fleece and tie it around my waist as we stroll back down Fifth Avenue, lingering on the stairs of the Met, people-watching, and then making our way down the sidewalk to the shade of Central Park, until we hit the Plaza Hotel, home of Eloise. We cross the street in front of FAO Schwarz then continue over to Madison Avenue, ending up at Barneys, just as Peter predicted.

  “Do you like to shop?” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say, even though I hate shopping. For one, nothing really looks good on me—or at least nothing looks any different on me than it would look on a ten-year-old girl. Or boy for that matter. For another, we don’t really have money to shop—so it’s always frustrating and winds up feeling like too much pressure. And finally, I’d so much rather spend my money on iTunes or sheet music or concert tickets than clothes. But I know this isn’t the right answer, so I nod, and give her a smile that says, What girl doesn’t?

  Marian beams in response as we enter the front doors, pass the security guards, concierge, and a display of plasticy looking handbags marked with a logo I don’t recognize, over to one of several, large glass-topped cases filled with jewelry. It is clear that Marian has the whole joint memorized because she beelines to one corner, then another, showing me her favorite designers: Jamie Wolf, Irene Neuwirth, Mark Davis. Blah blah blah.

  I nod, wondering if the pieces are a few hundred dollars or a few thousand. Not that it makes much of a difference when you can’t afford any of them. After we’ve made our rounds past all three cases, we continue toward the back of the room, wandering past handbags with exotic names and questionable pronunciations. Balenciaga, Nina Ricci, Givenchy. Marian lingers for a moment, sliding a large gray Givenchy off a hook. She throws it over her shoulder, inspecting her reflection in a mirrored column.

  “Do you like this?” she asks me, gazing in the mirror again, this time with a frown. “Or do you think it’s too large?”

  I take her cue and say, “Um. Yeah. Maybe a little big?”

  She agrees, replacing it on the hook and then leading me over to the escalators, up several flights to a floor of artfully arranged clothing with plenty of blank space between the racks. As we make our way around the perimeter of the room, Marian flips through dresses and pants and tops, rarely checking price tags, as if it doesn’t matter. At one point, we run into a glamorously bohemian woman with long-layered hair who embraces Marian and says in an Eastern European accent, “I was just going to call you. I got in a fabulous Giambattista Valli dress you’ve got to try. Emerald green. Stunning. It was seriously made for you. And I have a L’Wren Scott cardigan in a more muted pink than that magenta one you tried. Do you have time to try? My one o’clock client just canceled so I’m free.” She glances at me for the second time as Marian hesitates then tentatively introduces me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Agnes, this is Kirby.” There is another long, awkward pause before she says, “Kirby is visiting from St. Louis.”

  Her vague description is not lost on me as she continues more fluidly, “Agnes gives me my style.”

  Agnes laughs and says, “Don’t believe that for a second. Marian was born with style.” She turns and gives me a nonjudgmental once-over, then says, “You have a darling figure. Do you wear skirts?”

  “Just my school uniform,” I say. “Otherwise, it’s pretty much jeans.”

  Agnes tells me I’ve come to the right store for denim, and that she’d be happy to have her assistant go downs
tairs and pull some for me. “Would you like to try a few things?”

  “She’d love to,” Marian replies for me, and before I know it, I’m in a dressing room in Agnes’s office, with a pile of jeans, and a dozen or more funky, bejeweled tops. At one point, when I’m standing alone in the dressing room, wearing a pair of killer J.Brand jeans and Prada wedge heels that would make me the envy of any girl at my school, I snap a photo of myself in the mirror and send it to Belinda: At Barneys. Very Gossip Girl. I take a separate close-up shot of my shoes and then another of the price on the box. Four hundred and fifty freaking dollars.

  Within seconds, my phone buzzes back with Belinda’s reply: OMG. No fuckin’ way!!!! You’re sooo lucky!

  I start to reply, just as I hear Agnes ask Marian how she knows me.

  I freeze, craning my neck toward the dressing room door to hear her answer, hoping that she not only tells Agnes the truth but that she says it with pride. Instead, I hear her muffled reply. “Oh. It’s a long story.”

  My heart sinks as I glance back at my reflection and watch my smile fade. I tell myself that she doesn’t owe her life’s story to every Tom, Dick, and Agnes—and that I’m being oversensitive, probably because I’m trying on clothes and shoes that no one in my life could possibly afford.

  Suddenly, I hear Marian ask, in a much louder voice, “Anything to show us yet?”

  “Um, I guess so,” I say, opening the door and standing awkwardly in a black tank, skinny jeans, and wedges that shoot me into the realm of “average” height. Agnes instructs me to turn around as they both praise the fit. “A-dorr-able! Those jeans look sooo good on you,” Agnes says, handing me a cropped black cardigan. I put it on and she adjusts the zipper of the sweater, cuffs the sleeves twice, and examines me with a poker face before delivering her verdict. “Fantastic,” she says, with a somber nod. “Soo cute.”