Rescuing Julia Twice (23 page)

I glance at a letter lying open on my desk. It says parents should come forty-five minutes early the first day of nursery school because children have a tough time adjusting. I snort. I know there will be no tears or tantrums. Julia has never made a fuss, not once. The lack of drama is what makes it dramatic. But I've witnessed gory separation scenes, and I often count myself lucky that it isn't me in the situation. A child is inconsolable. The mother is at her wits' end. A child looks like she is going to vomit. So does the mother.

I'm walking with Julia up West End Avenue to the Purple Circle. I clench her hand tightly, but she's straining to get loose. I pull her back because the streets are slippery with wet snow. “Are you ready for nursery school?” I ask her. She doesn't look up. I think about Anna, and already I miss the reliable routine we had established over the past fifteen months. But everything is changing. We are buying a house in the Hudson Valley. We have sold our apartment. By July, we will leave the city and live in the Ellenville lake house while our new house undergoes a monster renovation. I cried when I told Anna the news. Her eyes moistened too. I begged her to stay on for evenings and weekends. It's inevitable she will
fade from our lives. I explained to her we thought Julia needed a school setting. She understood, but she was hurt.

We enter the large brick synagogue on West 100th Street and ride the elevator to the fifth floor. An overweight woman holding a clipboard directs us toward a room beside a classroom. Down a long hallway beyond a bathroom and a wall of cubbies is a tight sitting area with couches and bookshelves. I take a seat, but Julia is buzzing about, grabbing picture book after picture book scattered on the table and in boxes. A woman asks if I'm Julia's mother and extends her open hand. “Welcome to the Purple Circle,” she says. I feel like I'm a guest on a talk show. “You can put Julia's jacket and lunch box in this cubby.” Then she turns to say “Hi Julia! I'm Janet. How are
you
today?”

Julia runs to Janet and gives her a loose hug.

“I know all the letters of the alphabet,” she says.

“
Wow
,” says Janet. “That's
wonderful
.”

It's public Julia. Eager to please. She reminds me of a starlet who can turn on charm, flash a smile, and dazzle with her lashes but just as easily morph into a brooding handful when she's offstage.

Janet asks Julia if she'd like to visit the classroom.

Julia sticks out her hand to be held.

Janet looks at me, checking to see if I want to come too.

I gesture for her to take Julia to the adjoining room without me.

Two minutes later, Janet returns on her own.

“That is some independent child,” she says.

“Yes,” I nod, realizing I live in
The Twilight Zone.

“Well,” Janet says, clapping her hands together.

Before she can finish, I stand up.

“I think it's okay for me to leave, yes? Her dad will pick her up at 6:00
PM.”

“Don't worry. She'll be fine,” she says.

She doesn't have to tell me that. Julia will be fine. She will not miss me. I won't miss her either.

On the way out, I hear a child wailing. As I walk back toward the elevator, I see a mother dressed in a business suit clutching her lanky,
hysterical son who is blubbering so hard he's hyperventilating. In between sobs he says, “No, Mommy! Don't go! Don't leave me!” The mother looks pained.

I skip past them and step onto the elevator.

I remember how hard it used to be to leave my mother's side when I went to sleepaway camp and then to college. I had no problem integrating in social situations, but I ached for my mother's assurances that everything would be all right. Right up through my divorce, my mother's voice was a constant in my day. I never felt completely separated from her, the way I do now.

The fresh morning tingles. I head back to the apartment and prepare for a day of juggling responsibilities for our house purchase, our apartment sale, and our temporary rental in Ellenville. There is so much to be done.

A routine forms. Every morning I ride up the elevator with Julia. When the doors open she tears away from me like a Tasmanian Devil and disappears into the classroom. When I call out good-bye, she doesn't wave. I ask the teachers how she is doing. They tell me she is a delight. She knows everyone's name, and she's extremely generous. Every evening Ricky walks through the door with her at 6:15
PM.
He doesn't understand why she's so filthy. The smell of stale yogurt permeates her shirt. Her fingers and face are sooty with grime—she looks like an urchin.

“Why can't they take her to the bathroom and clean her up?” he asks, annoyed.

“I've mentioned it,” I say. “They tell me she likes to explore on her knees.”

“They've got no interest in her,” he says.

“It's true,” I say. “It's a warehouse. They tell you what you want to hear. Their mission is to get through the day.”

Ricky sighs, and the conversation changes to real estate.

The last thing left to do is get our two cats into their carriers. Nothing remains in the apartment except scuffed walls, worn wooden floors, and strewn wrapping materials the movers left behind. Both of our cars are packed and waiting to be driven from the gate of this old life. Today we are heading for the Ellenville lake house where we will live for three and a half months. I have devised a grand plan. We will commute nearly two hours to Nyack each day. Julia will start a new nursery school. I have rented an office for work, and I'll be managing the house renovation. Ricky will travel to the city and the surrounds for business. At the end of each day, we'll head back to the mountains. On weekends, we will remain upstate but work on outfitting the house. I've given the contractor a Halloween deadline.

Ricky comes into the apartment and lifts a cat carrier in each hand.

“Where's Julia?” I say.

“Julia, Julia,” Ricky bellows. Then I hear her voice in the hallway.

“Are you ready?” Ricky asks me.

“I need a minute. I'll meet you downstairs. I'm going to follow you in the car. We're taking the Palisades, right?”

He nods and disappears.

I go back into the bedroom. I want the memories, good and bad, to soak into my skin. It's been seven years since I moved in, single with my dog, broken but hopeful, determined to teach myself to be strong and independent. So much has happened since that March day. I unpacked every box, filled every bookshelf, and hung every picture before I went to sleep that night.

I glance at the tiny bathroom, thinking how impossible it was to kneel by the tub and bathe Julia because most of the tub was lined up against the toilet. I walk slowly through the living room recalling how when I first bought the apartment and it was still empty, I'd come in the evening and sit in the middle of the floor and sketch plans for my furniture layout. How over the years so much more furniture was squeezed in to accommodate me plus husband plus child. I walk into Julia's room, which was really only ever a glorified foyer and not the nursery a mom takes pride in, but Julia put her stamp on it. I notice a torn cover of an
old picture book sticking out under the closet door. I take one final lap around the kitchen and stand at the window where I've spent my treasure working and worrying and making a spectacular life unfold. I toss a set of keys on the counter and break down sobbing. I pull tight the heavy door for the last time. Then I jiggle the taut door handle. The past is behind me.

By late summer, our new house has been stripped to the studs, every inch of obsolete infrastructure has been pulled out, and floors have been ripped up. There is a Dumpster on the property filled with old wood and a Porta-Potty for the crew working day and night. One day I'm at my temporary office working. Ricky calls.

“Listen, I think you might get upset when you get to the house,” he says. “They've taken off the roof. The house looks, I don't know, vulnerable. I just wanted to warn you.”

I push aside my work and grab my car keys. I'm bracing myself for the shock. I swing into the driveway and clatter down the sloping path. I can see the gaping opening from the top of the driveway. Ricky is talking to the foreman. I stop midway and put my hands over my face. Ricky sprints over to me. Tears are streaming down my face.

“I warned you,” he says. “It will be okay.”

“No, no, you don't understand,” I say. “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It's like witnessing a birth.”

“What?” Ricky says, convinced I've lost my mind.

“This doesn't upset me. It's, like I said, watching a birth.”

There are these decisive moments in life when you know something has begun. I can't say when that was with Julia—the video the orphanage sent? The first time we met her? The night we spirited her away? I don't know. Seeing my house like this is one of those times.

On the drive up to Ellenville that night I see storm clouds gathering.

“What happens if it rains?” I ask.

“They'll cover the house with a tarp.”

“Hmm.” The house is no longer just a thing. It's become part of me.

“You know,” I say, “I know we're not speaking to my parents and I'm happy to have it that way for now. But my dad would find this whole process fascinating.”

“And your mother would find every way to let you know you've made a big mistake,” he quips.

“So true.”

Every spare moment I have I work on the house. I lay out fifty paint chips across the floor and eliminate them one by one before deciding what color to paint a wall. I toil for hours on our dial-up computer, scrolling websites on bathroom sinks and lighting fixtures. We spend our weekends in the Catskills at kitchen-and-bathroom specialists, picking tiles and shades and appliances. Every day there's one glitch or another, but I soldier through because I'm determined to keep the contractors on schedule. I find myself thinking about Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. I wish I could do something more than send money, like adopt a dog or even go down there, but I'm bringing a dead house back to life.