Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (4 page)

His office was a few blocks away, on MacDougal Street across from Washington Square Park. I strolled down Fifth Avenue, glad to be out on a warm, not too humid Tuesday afternoon. This was the second day of what counted as my “weekend.” Saturdays and Sundays were the busy times in my shop. I decided to relax in the park and take another look at that journal. An empty bench had a good view of the Washington Square Arch. Just as I opened up the journal, a stroller-pushing mom sat down next to me. She beamed
with pride over her baby, so I offered my admiration. “What a cutie. How old?”

“She’s six months.”

The baby’s mouth widened into a charming toothless smile. “She’s adorable.” So adorable that it hurt. I didn’t need reminding as I clung to my thirties that I’d yet to reproduce. For no apparent reason, the baby’s smile turned into a grimace, and she began wailing like a banshee.

“It’s time for her nap,” the mom said miserably, “but she refuses to sleep.”

I offered her a look of sympathy; at least I was free to escape. Checking my cell phone as if a pressing appointment demanded my presence, I put the journal back in my bag and wished them a good day.

Dr. Markoff’s office was in a prewar building on the corner. The doorman nodded me through, and I entered the waiting room ready to explain to the receptionist that I was early. There wasn’t anyone to greet me, though, only the whooshing sound of a white noise generator. Settling in on a green twill sofa, I yawned. If only I could bottle the drowsiness that plagued me during the day so I could use it at bedtime.

I opened the journal and forgot to be tired while reading about Olive Westcott and her ambition to be a department store buyer. I’d once considered that career myself. When I was growing up, Manhattan department stores were still considered an attractive destination. Tourists included the New York City flagship stores in their sightseeing, along with Broadway shows, restaurants, and museums. Suburban malls had no glamour, no history, no character. As nationwide chains they’d lost their soul.

Macy’s, Altman’s, Lord & Taylor, Bloomingdale’s . . . As a little kid, I’d loved going with my mom. The scent of perfume when I walked in; all those pretty women, so sophisticated, behind the makeup counters; bright lights, shiny mirrors, and glimmering
cases of jewelry. Festive—like a holiday year-round. In the girls’ department, Mom would let me try on dress after dress. I marvel now at her patience. Would I be so tolerant with my own daughter? Would I have the chance to find out?

By my teen years, shopping with Mom had morphed into a classic power struggle, but I went to department stores with friends or, even better, by myself. By the time I was in my twenties, even the city stores had lost their pizzazz, as if no one could remember why they’d been worth visiting.

The sound of a man clearing his throat brought me back to the waiting room. “Miss Rosenbloom?”

“That’s me.”

I’d expected someone younger, wearing perhaps a black jacket over a black turtleneck and sporting a little pointy beard. Turned out Dr. Markoff was about seventy years old—tall and gaunt, with gray hair and age spots. He wore a dark suit, a white button-down shirt, and to my delight, a red bow tie. As he motioned me into his office, I gave a cheerful hello and smiled as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

At first glance, his office looked elegantly conventional, with a blue and red Oriental rug, a couch, and a Chippendale claw-foot desk. I noticed an old phrenology chart on the wall. It showed a human head with the brain divided into different areas that supposedly determined particular character traits.

We sat opposite each other in two easy chairs: his big and leather, mine not so big, microfiber, in need of reupholstering. Two bookends on the shelf behind him were in the shape of a human head divided down the middle.

“So,” he said, “how can I help you?”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“Insomnia?”

I didn’t like that word. It made my problem seem more like an illness. “Well, it’s just that for months, I’ve been staying up until
four or five in the morning, and then during the day, I’m constantly tired.”

“Yes, insomnia. I imagine you’ve already tried the usual remedies?”

“Nothing works. My friend Molly, who referred me, said you helped her quit smoking. Maybe I should try a different kind of sleeping pill. I tried Ambien for a while, but then it stopped working.”

“Sleeping pills can be addictive. I’d recommend them only as a quick fix for the short term. But hypnosis can be helpful, especially when the problem is related to obsessive, negative ruminations. Do you feel open to trying?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should ruminate obsessively about it for a week.” I grinned so he’d know I was joking.

He gave me an obligatory smile. “It’s important for the subject to be ready to make a change and believe that change is possible. It would help if I could get a sense of what’s on your mind. Can you identify any problems or important decisions that might be keeping you up at night?”

I’d gone over the situation a million times with my ex-therapist and didn’t feel like exposing myself to this stranger, but clearly, I’d need to spill some ugly secrets. “Well,” I began, “I’m having an affair. With a married man. We’ve been together six years. I’ve been trying to break up with him, on and off, for the past five. Therapy was supposed to help me figure out why I can’t.”

“It didn’t?”

“Not really.” I’d analyzed every angle in therapy so often that even I’d gotten sick of talking about it. That didn’t lead me to take action, only to avoid the subject in sessions, which made me feel uncomfortable, which made me put an end to it. Therapy, not the affair. At least Jeff spent money on me instead of charging an hourly fee. “It helped me understand, but understanding didn’t help me do anything about it.”

“And what did you come to understand?”

“Basically, I stay up getting angry with myself for wasting the prime years of my life in a relationship with a married man I’m attracted to for being unavailable, like my father, who made me feel unlovable because he abandoned me and my mom for another woman, blah blah blah.” Dr. Markoff and I stared at each other for a bit. I crossed my legs. “What do you think of Xanax?”

“As I said, the mental dilemma won’t be resolved unless you get to the underlying problem. Perhaps you’d like to give me a general sense of your parents’ marriage?”

“Right.” I crossed my legs the other way. “So my mother found out my father was having an affair the summer before I started high school. Since our apartment was small and the yelling was loud I knew all about it. I took sides with Mom and felt rejected along with her.”

“It must’ve been quite upsetting for you,” he said, looking straight into my eyes with a serious expression.

I nodded and continued, dodging his obvious attempt to empathize so I’d break down in tears. “He moved out. They got a divorce. The end.”

“You were about to begin high school . . . where?”

“La Guardia.”

“The public school? With the theater program?”

“And dance, music, art . . . That’s where I met Jeff. He came from a wealthy family but was sick of private schools. Plus, they had a really good art program. That’s how we met, in a painting class.”

“And what was your relationship like?”

“Really good. We started going out junior year. I lost my virginity with him, went to prom with him. It lasted two years.”

“And then?”

“After high school, he went off to RISD to study architecture. I stayed in the city and went to FIT for business and fashion. The
separation was sad but not horrible. I mean, we were young; it wasn’t like we were going to get married. Occasionally, we’d meet up for coffee when he was in the city. We lost touch after a while, but a friend of mine spotted his wedding announcement in
The New York Times
. His fiancée was a descendent of J. P. Morgan. They were getting married at the Pierre Hotel. Later, I heard he lived up in Westchester and was designing houses for rich people. I guess he was slumming with me back in high school.”

“And how did you reunite?”

“About six years ago, I was managing a vintage clothing store down on Mott Street. Jeff read an article in
New York
magazine that quoted me on the best places to shop in SoHo. He came to the store under the pretense of buying a present for his wife. Then he asked me out to dinner.”

“And?”

“We’ve been seeing each other ever since,” I said, punctuating the statement with closure. I didn’t want to go into the dismal details.

“What about your father?” Dr. Markoff asked.

“He lives in Costa Rica. In a yurt.”

“A yurt?”

“Uh-huh.” I refrained from rolling my eyes.

“I can see this isn’t easy for you to talk about, so thank you for sharing those details. Do you have any questions for me?”

“What if you hypnotize me and I never come out? Or my mind goes somewhere really upsetting?”

“Hypnosis merely puts you into a more receptive state. While your mind is open, I try to help you focus on the fears and anxieties that are holding you back. If you don’t like where your thoughts are going, or you don’t want to be in the trance anymore, you can always decide to come out. It’s not like I’d be in control of your brain.”

I nodded so he’d think I was reassured.

“But,” he added, “you really do need to be open for this to work.”

I wanted to be open. At the very least, I wanted to come through for Molly. We’d known each since we both went to FIT. Now she had her own store a few blocks away from mine—a teensy-tiny shop selling vintage buttons.

Besides, Dr. Markoff wore a bow tie. Bow ties never should’ve gone out of fashion. “I’d like to try.”

Dr. Markoff nodded toward the couch.

I lay down, adjusted my skirt around my legs, and faced the ceiling. It surprised me, how vulnerable I felt to be splayed out in front of him.

“I’ll tape our session,” he said, “so you can take it with you to play at home when you’re going to sleep. It might help put you in a relaxed state of mind. Before we begin, I’d like you to think of a place where you feel very comfortable and content.”

“My apartment?”

“Somewhere you go to escape, to get away from your usual routine. It could be a beach, the woods, a mountain . . .”

“Nature makes me nervous.”

“A place of worship.”

“I’m not religious.”

“Anywhere that helps take your mind off your troubles.”

“That would be looking for clothes.”

“A store? That’s fine. Which one?”

He went for that? I was half joking. I rarely shopped for new clothes. So much stuff was overpriced or too generic. And as much as I liked thrift stores, they tended not to smell very good. I’d been thinking more of the hunt for merchandise to sell, not to buy.

“Somewhere that makes you feel secure,” he said.

I could hear the impatience in his voice. Obviously, this part of the procedure wasn’t supposed to be such a challenge. I could say a department store, but that applied more to how I remembered
them than the way they were now. The store that appealed to me most no longer existed. “I’m thinking of Altman’s department store, except they aren’t in business anymore.”

“That’s fine. It exists in your mind, in your memory, and that’s all we need; that’s all we really want. Shall we start?”

WHILE RIDING THE
moving staircase up to the second floor, I found myself behind a little girl pleading with her mother to buy a doll. The mother said the girl had enough dolls. The girl began to cry with all her might. I couldn’t imagine having the patience to be a parent. As an only child, I’d never even held an infant in my arms.

Some of my girlfriends back in Cold Spring were already mothers; when they went on about their babies’ alleged accomplishments, I could barely manage to pretend interest. I’d never quite fit in with the girls in my town and often used to doubt myself for being too odd.

When I met Daisy and we became good chums, I decided the girls from Cold Spring were too conventional, and I ceased caring if I was odd. That attitude was fine while living at Miss Hall’s, but after returning home, I found it harder than ever to socialize with my old friends.

Mostly, I divided my time between helping Aunt Ida with the
chores and sitting on the porch swing staring into the trees. As the summer passed, a sense of melancholy came over me. My aunt already had her routines well established; trying to make use of me was probably more of a nuisance than anything else. Whereas she seemed to derive deep satisfaction from her efforts to clean and sanitize, I felt only futility and ineffectiveness, as if the act of trying to wipe out every germ that lived inside our house was gradually making me disappear. I decided to ask Father for a regular paying job at the store.

If I’d been a son, hiring me on as his assistant manager would’ve been a natural development. Since I was his daughter, he wouldn’t even consider allowing me to “debase” myself by working for an hourly wage.

“Stop your crying!” the mother in front of me yelled. “Or I shall take you straight home!”