Balancing Acts (9 page)

“Lassie!!” she whispered. “I met Subway Crush!” Lassie gazed at her, unfazed.

“I. MET. SUBWAY. CRUSH,” she said—slower this time. As Lassie wriggled out of her arms, Sabine sat in awe on her couch. Did that really just happen? Did she honestly have a date with Subway Crush/Raisin Jewels/Zach!?! What if she saw him on the train before then? How bizarre that would be. Speaking to him instead of ogling him from a safe distance.

She closed her eyes and hugged a couch pillow tightly. The phone rang, breaking her out of her revelry. She eyed the ID. Her mother! Perfect. Her timing was uncanny.

Sabine picked up the phone. “Hellooooo,” she sang.

“Wow, you sound happy as a clam. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Mom, I met him!”

“Who? George?!” Her mother's George Clooney crush was epic. As far as she was concerned, he was the only bachelor suitable for Sabine. She would tell Sabine to “go out to one of those clubs I read about in the papers” in order to meet him. “He likes normal girls,” she would explain matter-of-factly when Sabine laughed off her ridiculousness. “That girl he was with? She was a waitress. Give me a break. Put on some lipstick, show off the girls, and get out there.”

“Um, no. Not George.”

“The guy from the Bond movies? I just rented that last one the other week. He is a gorgeous young man, Sabine. He's not even my type really—a bit too Aryan—but there's something about him. . .I think it's the accent.”

“Mom, no one famous! I met Subway Crush.”

“Really!?” she squealed. “Oh Sabine, this is even better. How did it happen? Tell me everything.”

Sabine relayed the story. “So can you believe it? We have a date!”

“Of course I can believe it. I told you that he was checking you out. Who wouldn't be? You're the whole package.”

“He came up to ME,” Sabine said dreamily. “I didn't have to do any work at all.”

“It is nice that he did the approaching. Men these days are such, well Sabine, they're not like they used to be. We have to do all the work. And for what?”

“Tell me about it,” Sabine agreed. “But he seems like a mensch.”

“Sure. What's this mensch's name?”

“Zach,” Sabine replied, savoring the syllable.

“Ohhhh!” replied her mother. And then, in a whisper, “He's Jewish!”

“Mom, how do you know that?”

“Who names their kid Zach if they're not Jewish?”

“Plenty of people,” Sabine answered—her mind suddenly flashing back to the character Zack Morris on
Saved by the Bell
. He was definitely not Jewish. Although he was a fictional character on a television show. She couldn't really rely on him as an example.

“I don't know what he is, actually.”

“You don't know? Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. As long as you're happy. And he's rich.”

“I am happy,” said Sabine. “But I don't think he's rich. He's an environmental lawyer.”

“Oy. Well, at least he has a job. Mindy was telling me that her daughter was dating a homeless person.”

Sabine laughed. “Mom, please! To Mindy,
homeless
just means he pulls less than a six-figure salary. Mindy is the worst. And Nicole, the daughter? Don't get me started.” Sabine had been forced to go on a friend-date with Nicole when she had first moved to the city. At Nicole's suggestion, they had met at a bar filled with men drenched in copious amounts of hair gel and girls with tiny Louis Vuitton bags. Nicole fit right in. Needless to say, there was no second “date.”

“Fair enough,” agreed her mother. “Anyway, you sound happy, Saby. I'll take happy.”

“Thanks, Mom. I better run. The day is getting away from me.” Sabine glanced at the clock. How was it already three thirty? And why was it that the work week inched by like molasses, but the weekend went at the speed of light?

“I know! I have to get to my Pilates class. Bye, honey, love you.”

“Bye, Mom.” Pilates?? To name a class her mother hadn't taken was impossible. She eyed the grocery bags on her kitchen counter and smiled.
Zach.
Best Saturday ever.

M
ama, can I have more syrup?” pleaded Noah as he pushed his pancakes around his plate with his fork. “These aren't gooey enough anymore.”

Naomi glanced over at his plate. “What happened to that syrup ocean I saw earlier? I could barely make out pancakes floating around in there!”

“Mooooooonm,” bellowed Noah. “It wasn't an ocean.” He smiled. “And the pancakes soaked it all up.”

“Like delicious sponges?” asked Naomi, as she squirted more syrup out of the bottle. Usually she was pretty strict about Noah's sweet tooth—which was a monster—but today was Sunday. Everybody should be cut a break on Sunday.

Noah laughed. “Yeah! Like delicious sponges!” He speared a pancake morsel with his fork and lifted it, dripping with syrup, to his mouth.

God, I love this kid,
thought Naomi. The force of her love for her son often shocked Naomi. Nothing else had ever affected her like motherhood. Not being in love, not taking photos. . .it was the most amazing feeling in the world. Sometimes, when she thought about the fact that Noah almost didn't happen, tears sprang to her eyes. It was a little sappy, she knew, but it was how she felt.

“Mama, are you still sore?” he asked, spearing another pancake piece and eyeing her, his amber eyes twinkling.

“Ugh, I really am! Everything hurts. It feels like I was run over by a Mack truck or something.” Yoga had really done a number on her. She had left class feeling much better than she had during her heavy leg moment, but by the time dinner rolled around, she was stiff as a board and completely exhausted. Where was the Zen in that?

“Yikes,” said Noah. He dropped his fork and Naomi watched it sink beneath a golden syrup pool. He moved around behind her and put his sticky hands on her neck. He began to knead her skin, hoping to help. Each contraction of his hands felt distinctly unhelpful though, as his technique was more reminiscent of karate than massage therapy.

“Baby, that is very sweet of you to want to make me feel better, but that's not really helping so much.”

“Okay,” said Noah, returning to his plate of syrup. “I was just trying to help.” Naomi could see his lip quivering a bit.

“Hey, I didn't mean to make you feel bad. It's just that I hurt so much that any touch at all is bad news right now.” She got up from her chair and moved behind Noah's body, scooping him against her from behind. He was a sensitive little bugger. Sometimes she worried that the fact that he was mostly dad-less might be turning him into a mama's boy, but most of the time she was pretty confident that she was doing a decent job of exposing him to sufficient levels of testosterone. Whatever that meant.

“Okay,” he said, settling back into her scoop.

“What's cooking at school lately?” she asked, releasing him with one last squeeze and collecting their plates.

“Did I tell you about Mini-Noah?”

“No! Who's Mini-Noah?”

“It's so cool!” he replied. “Mrs. Lynch read us this story at school about a little boy named Flat Stanley. He's this little cardboard boy that gets to do all sorts of cool stuff because he's flat.”

“Like what?”

“He goes to California in an envelope! He doesn't need to take a plane even!”

“Cool!”

Noah nodded excitedly, his curls bobbing. “We get to have Flat Stanley's, too, except for us it's mini-us! Get it?”

“Mmmm, not really,” answered Naomi. “Tell me more, please.” She cringed a little inwardly. The last time Mrs. Lynch had given an assignment that had evoked such excitement from Noah, Naomi had been the one up until 2
AM
the night before, pasting cutouts on a three-dimensional poster board for the science fair. Not fun when she was eight and definitely not fun when she was thirty-two.

“See, we drew little mini versions of ourselves at school and cut them out,” Noah explained. “Here, let me show you.” He ran from the table into the other room. She heard him unzip his backpack and rummage around in its depths.

“Here he is!” Noah said triumphantly as he ran back into the room. He held up a cutout of himself, complete with his mop of brown curls. “See!”

Naomi laughed, charmed by his excitement. “I see! He looks just like you!”

“He's wearing my favorite shoes,” Noah said, pointing to its tiny cardboard, Stan Smith sneakers.

“It's you!” agreed Naomi. “So what now? What do you do with him?”

“I'm going to send him on trips and take pictures of him. And then I'm going to write about them.” Naomi breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God no poster boards were involved. The picture thing she could handle, especially since she would be taking them with Noah. It might actually be fun.

“Where are we going to take him?”

Noah guiltily gazed at the floor. “Well, I had an idea,” he said, adopting the tone he used when he was asking for something that wasn't going to warrant an immediate yes.

“What?” asked Naomi, envisioning a ferry ride out to the Statue of Liberty. Although sort of a pain in the neck, it was certainly doable. She would just have to get the bulk of her work done during the week and free up a weekend day. Not a big deal.

“I wanted to ask Dad if he could help me,” answered Noah.

Naomi fought back the urge to yell.
Be calm,
she said to herself.
Calm
. She thought about yoga.
Breathe.

“What?” she asked, as pleasantly as possible.

“Well, I know Dad's going to Paris in a coupla weeks,” explained Noah. “And I just thought it would be really cool if Mini-Noah got to go. Dad could take cool pictures of him in all these French places. Places that the other kids aren't going to get to use.”

“What's wrong with Brooklyn?” Now she really felt like she had been run over by a Mack truck.

“Nothin', Mama. It's just that Paris is different, ya know? I think it would be awesome to have my mini at the Eiffel Tower and stuff.”

Naomi took a deep breath, searching desperately for her center. She made a mental note to ask Charlie about the proper utilization of yogic breathing when in full-on panic mode. It wasn't just that her feelings were hurt, although Noah's decision to involve his father rather than her certainly stung. It was more that she was certain that Gene would let Noah down.

The version of himself that Gene presented to his son was undoubtedly very different from reality. Noah thought his dad would take his mini to the Eiffel Tower, but Naomi was visualizing his true trip: Mini-Noah hoovering lines of coke at a model party. Mini-Noah passed out in front of the minibar. Mini-Noah asking some fourteen-year-old Estonian supermodel for her number.

Gene was a fashion photographer, and if his life was anything like what it used to be, he was going to the Eiffel Tower only if he was meeting his dealer there. Gene had told Naomi that he was clean when he reentered Noah's life, and hadn't indicated otherwise when he picked him up for their weekly visits, but still Naomi didn't trust him. She so wanted to warn Noah of his father's inability to do anything for anyone other than himself, but she knew she couldn't. Noah was a little boy and this was his dad. It was that simple. Noah would have to find out the rest for himself.

“Honey, if that's really what you want to do, then I think you should ask him.” She tried to smile while saying it, but her smirk was made of steel.

“Really, Mama? Thanks!”

“Well, thanks for asking me what I thought about it,” answered Naomi. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Yes I did,” answered Noah, pressing his warm body against hers in a hug. He released her and smiled. “I'm gonna ask him today when I see him, okay?”

“Okay,” answered Naomi. Sunday afternoon was Noah's day with Gene. It had been ever since Gene had reappeared, after eight years of nothing, in her in-box. Just seeing his name on-screen had made her want to throw her monitor against the wall. She had ignored the e-mail, and the four more that followed, knowing that if Gene wanted something, he didn't give up.

Sure enough, she was right. Coming home from the Laundromat one morning last spring while Noah was at school, she had found him on her stoop. He wanted to meet his son, he had told her. It hadn't been pretty. Naomi resisted until her conscience had gotten the better of her.

Noah did need to know this man, as much as she couldn't stand or trust him. She had let Gene back in tentatively. What began as walks in the park—Naomi at a distance behind, watching fearfully, had bloomed into Sunday afternoons. So far, Gene hadn't screwed up, but Naomi was always braced for his disappearance.

“Thanks, Mom,” cooed Noah in her ear.

“You're welcome, peanut,” she answered. She squeezed him as tightly as she could.

C
harlie climbed her stairs slowly. She was exhausted. It had been a hectic day—five classes plus a money meeting with Julian and Felicity. A money meeting as in “we don't have any.” They certainly had their fair amount of students, but not enough traffic to get them fully out of the red.

Really, there was only one way to increase their visibility: a website. Charlie had immediately thought of Naomi. She designed websites for a living. Charlie had promised Julian and Felicity that she would ask her about designing a site for Prana.

Part of Charlie regretted even mentioning Naomi's day job to them. She had learned many times in her previous life as a Wall Street drone that mixing business with pleasure was almost always a gigantic mistake. But in this case, when the business was yoga and the pleasure was teaching it, it seemed like it was safe for Charlie to bend her own rules a bit.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and breathed a sigh of relief. She had taken great pains to make her home her haven, and it showed. It wasn't much—really just a studio with a tiny alcove for her bed, but the walls were painted a pretty, delicate shade of egg-shell blue and her sparse furniture looked expensive but actually wasn't, thanks to Charlie's flea market and stoop sale obsessions.

Her couch was a chocolate brown, cushiony work of art with a few orange and white patterned pillows strewn across it. A small, honey brown table hugged the corner of what was her eating area and a Persian rug in rich shades of maroon, navy blue, and gold lay on the floor. A smattering of framed black-and-white photos adorned the walls. Small lamps perched on a few wooden tables throughout the space and a towering bookshelf was filled with her favorites. Her bed was a vision in white—fluffy and inviting, with pillows piled high. It was perfect.

“Honey, I'm hooooome,” she called to no one, as she dropped her bag and struggled out of her jacket.

Mmm, it's warm in here,
she thought. She changed out of her yoga gear and put on her favorite pajama pants and her old BU hooded sweatshirt. There were few things in life that felt as good as changing into pajamas after a long day.

Charlie opened her refrigerator and surveyed its contents. She was starving. She could make a salad and sizzle up some tofu. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Tofu and wilted vegetables were not going to cut it tonight. She was hungry. She closed the door and moved to her cabinet.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. Macaroni and cheese. The old-school kind—filled with preservatives and ingredients that no one could pronounce. Most of the time she ate healthfully, but every once in a while she had to break out of the box. The box in this case being filled with dry noodles and powdered cheese.

As she filled a pot with water and placed it on the burner, she smiled, remembering her mac 'n' cheese birthday. Neil had been in between bartending jobs and pretty strapped for cash, but she had come home from work to find their dingy, Lower East Side apartment transformed into a cozy bistro, complete with flowers and a tablecloth. He had served macaroni and cheese and red wine, and had saved up to buy her a delicate gold giraffe charm necklace that she had been eyeing at one of the boutiques down the block. It had been the best birthday of her life. Sweet, romantic, thoughtful. . .all the things that Neil had been before he became somebody else entirely.

Charlie sighed and poured the noodles into the boiling water. Sitting at her table, which pulled double duty as a desk, she switched on her laptop.

“Ads, ads, ads,” she said aloud, as she deleted them with the click of her mouse.

Ugh, what is the story with Facebook?
she wondered, as she saw three more invites from people she hadn't spoken to in a good five years in her in-box. Over the past couple of months, she had gotten countless requests from various names that rang a faint bell in the caverns of her mind. Part of her was intrigued, but a much larger part just couldn't be bothered.

Just then her phone rang. She picked it up, eyeing it warily. Sasha! Sasha was a friend from one of Charlie's very first yoga retreats. She, too, had left a well-paying corporate drone existence to open her own studio in Queens. Honest, funny, and smart as a whip, Charlie really liked her. As new studio owners however, they were both so busy that they barely had time to see each other.

“Hey stranger,” answered Charlie. She envisioned Sasha on the other end—in a borough that was really only a subway ride away but felt like Mars in terms of destination reality. Charlie barely even made it into the city these days. She got up to check on the status of the water's boil.

“Helloooo! What's new in the world of Charlie?”

“Oh, you know, same shit, different day.” She ripped open the box of noodles, her phone cradled between her jaw and neck, and poured them into the bubbling water.

“Tell me about it. All I do is work.”

“How's everything going with your studio?” asked Charlie. She loved hearing about Sasha's experiences, as they were always very close to her own.

“It might end up sending me to an early grave. Our pipes burst last week. Total nightmare.”

“Cha-ching!” said Charlie, cringing at the thought of that unplanned expense.

“You ain't kidding. But what can I do, I love it too much to back out now.”

“Yes, me too. When it's good, it's really good and when it's bad. . .”

“It blows,” said Sasha, finishing her sentence. “And you're broke. It's like a relationship with someone who has no money and never has sex with you.”

“Remind me what the good parts are?” asked Charlie, laughing. “I'm making macaroni and cheese,” she confessed. “I am a bad yoga teacher.”

“Ooh, the boxed kind that's filled with garbage that rots your insides?”

“Yep, the one and only.”

“Yum! That sounds really good right about now. Too bad the only thing in my kitchen is a can of chickpeas.”

“Yuck,” said Charlie. She returned to her computer. “Hey Sasha, are you on Facebook?”

“Yes! I am a Facebook geek and I am not even ashamed to tell you that.”

“What's the story with it? Aren't we too old to join?” She glanced to her stovetop to find the water bubbling out of her macaroni pot. She got up quickly and removed it from the burner. As she poured the noodles into the strainer, the steam flushed her face with its warmth.

“What do you mean, what's the story? It's like high school except without the pressure to interact. You can be friends with hundreds of people you never speak to.”

“So it's like being a single, thirty-something woman in New York?” asked Charlie. “Only in cyber-form?”

“Ha! Good call. But no, it's more fun than that. The best part about it is the ex factor.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlie, as she poured the powdered cheese, milk, and butter into her noodles. She began to stir.

“Well, my friends and I have actually developed a tag line for Facebook that pretty much sums up its appeal. Or lack thereof, as the case may be,” Sasha explained.

“What is it?” Charlie finished stirring and scooped a portion of her macaroni and cheese into a bowl.

“Take your vagina back in time with Facebook,” answered Sasha.

“Wait, what?!” Charlie almost choked on the gigantic spoonful of macaroni she had just consumed.

Sasha laughed. “Charlie, let me tell you. Everyone I have ever slept with has sought me out on this thing.”

“No wonder you have hundreds of friends.”

“Oh, snap!” said Sasha, laughing. “Very funny. No, but seriously. It's actually kind of hilarious. You get this invitation from someone whose name looks kind of familiar. One click later, you realize that it's the guy from 2004 who disappeared after a month.”

“So these men are still alive?! I thought they all died when they pulled crap like that. Or at least that's what I hoped.” She took another bite.

“Me, too. But guess what, they're all alive and well and more than happy to engage in cyber-friendship. They might not be able to tell you why they left you at that party in Green Point, with no way to get home at four in the morning, but they are more than willing to wall post with you.”

“Unreal! This is hilarious. Wait, you didn't accept this Green Point asshole as your friend, did you?”

Sasha was silent.

“Did you!?” yelled Charlie. “You are such a sucker!”

“I know. But I couldn't see his profile otherwise. I wanted to see if he had gotten fat, since that is what I wish on all of the assholes that have come and gone in my life.”

“Did he?”

“No, but he is totally bald,” answered Sasha.

“Nice!”

“Seriously, it's fun. Vagina past or no vagina past.”

“All right, maybe I'll check it out. My vagina might not necessarily want to go back in time, but lord knows she needs to go somewhere.”

“That's the spirit!” exclaimed Sasha. “Good girl. Ooh, my sushi is here. I have to go. Find me on Facebook!”

“Will do. Bye.” Charlie hung up and returned to her computer, plopping down in her chair with a thud.
Vagina back in time,
she thought to herself. She wondered if Neil was on Facebook. Most likely, yes, as the entire world seemed to be on board. She was the sole remaining survivor of the cyber-networking apocalypse.

Do I stay the course or sell out?
she asked herself—her cursor poised on top of the ‘Sign Up!' link. “Sell out!” she yelled, clicking on it with abandon. She wondered if Facebook would have held any appeal if Sasha hadn't pitched it the way she did. The moment she had explained it to be a link to lovers past, Charlie's Neil-meter had gone into overdrive.

Spooning the rest of her now slightly cold mac 'n' cheese into her mouth, Charlie filled out the required fields. She realized she didn't have a picture to upload. That was okay by her. No need to get nuts.

She saw the search button in the upper right corner of the screen. Should she? She hesitantly moved the mouse toward it. Her fingers hung over the keyboard, ready to hit the
N
key.

No
, she said to herself.
Not yet.

Maybe, just maybe, Neil would look for her, just like Sasha had said. She would give it a week. No, two weeks. It was a test. She wasn't sure why she wanted to see him—even if it was only in cyberspace—but her need for some sort of redemption was palpable. He had been the love of her life and had consequently smashed her heart into a million pieces. She hated herself for still giving a shit about him after all this time, and after all the pain that he had caused her. That said, as long as her longing was mostly private—save for the occasional drunken ramble to Julian or friendly commiseration with Sasha—who was it really hurting?
After all, obviously I have some will power about it. If I was really psycho, I would search for him.
She switched off her computer, the irrationality of her pseudo pep talk embarrassing her a bit. She knew who she was hurting—herself. Despite that knowledge, she couldn't move past him. It was somehow infuriating and comforting at the same time.

Speaking of will power,
she thought, and scraped the rest of the macaroni into the trash.