Where We Belong (10 page)

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 little 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 downstairs 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.”

“Wow. Yes. You’re getting all of that,” Marian says. “You look amazing.”

“I can’t,” I say.

“You must,” Marian says.

I start to protest again, for the same reason I turned down the six-dollar glass of orange juice, but Marian shakes her head. “I insist. My treat.”

“It’s too much,” I mumble, looking down at the Prada shoe box splayed open on the floor.

“You’re going to deprive me of the fun of shopping with…”

She hesitates, both of us knowing what she’s thinking, but she finishes her sentence with “you.”

“I guess not,” I say. “Thanks so much. This is really nice of you.”

“It’s nothing,” Marian says, as Agnes pulls a sequined cardigan off the rack and tells her it’s her turn.

As I watch Marian slip it on over her white blouse, snapping the buttons with as much strategic care as Agnes zipped my cardigan, I think to myself that it’s really not
that
long of a story.

*   *   *

“Are those your parents?” I ask Marian, pointing at the framed photo in her living room and breaking a long spell of silence that seemed to descend upon us on the way out of Barneys. I consider this a warm-up to the question I really want to ask—and the topic she is clearly trying to avoid:
Who is my father?

“Yes,” she says, glancing in its direction, nodding, distracted.

“What are their names?” I ask, determined to make her talk.

“Pamela and James. Jim,” she says, then looks away, as if I’ve just asked her a random question about two random people—rather than the identity of my blood relatives.

“What do they do for a living?” I demand.

“He’s a trial lawyer. She’s a homemaker.”

I wait patiently, but she gives me nothing more. Frustration wells inside me as I clear my throat and say, “So what are they like?”

Marian shrugs then yawns. “Oh—I don’t know. It’s always hard to say what your own parents are like, isn’t it? They’re just—your parents.”

I narrow my eyes and stare her down, hoping that my expression conveys what I’m thinking: that this is a totally lame and completely unacceptable answer. She seems to get the hint because she clears her throat and says, “My mom’s very social and outgoing … She loves to throw parties and entertain. She has a ton of friends and lots of hobbies. She can never sit still.” She smiles without showing her teeth, then continues. “My father is more quiet. Serious. He’s a thinker. An introvert.”