Chapter Nine #2
was the dream. Now it seems like there will always be a missing
piece—a fucking crucial, Rory-shaped piece—no matter what I do
academically or professionally.
Get over it.
Yeah, sure. Will
do, I lie to myself.
I slip my phone in my
pocket and start walking west. I avoid the taxi line that really
only exists for tourists too inexperienced to know that there are
countless cabs available with no line if they just walk a couple
blocks away from the chaos of Penn Station. I hail one within
minutes and head uptown to meet Thea.
I arrive at the building
just after nine. She's waiting in the modern, minimalist lobby,
chatting up the doorman. That's Thea, always making conversation
with strangers, and I bet she'll know his kids' names and birthdays
by the time we actually move into the apartment.
I can feel her excitement
as she greets me, and it stokes my own. I've only been here once,
right after my Uncle Kelly bought the place, when it was completely
empty and bare. Now Thea and my Aunt Nikki have spent a lot of time
furnishing and decorating, and it's move-in ready. She's annoyingly
eager to show it to me, but it's endearing, and I feed into her
mood by overselling my anticipation.
"You're gonna love your
room, Sammy. Honestly. It's so boyish. The-"
"Boyish?" What am I?
Eight?
Thea rolls her eyes.
"Excuse me," her
tone drips with sarcasm, "I meant manly, macho, so very masculine." Her voice drops
an octave as she tries to imitate the depth of mine and I
laugh.
"That's better," I tell
her.
I knew the apartment would
be nice, but I'm not expecting just how nice. It seems somehow even
bigger furnished. And it's stunning. Contemporary, rich in color
and fabric, but not overly done. It's not unlike how I would
picture an ideal hotel suite. The foyer has nothing more than a
brushed chrome lighting fixture and a console table with a beveled
mirror. The living room is done up in taupes and blues, with a
simple chocolate sofa set facing a gigantic flat screen
television.
Thea's bedroom—the
master—is designed just like she is. Subtly feminine, but also
minimalist. She is one girl you could never describe as high
maintenance. And that's one of the many things I've always loved
about my cousin. The room is a light, sea-foam green with beige and
silver bedding and accents, a mirrored dresser, and an antique
looking wrought iron chandelier.
We spend barely a minute
in her room before she drags me down the hall to show me what she's
done with mine. It's the second bedroom, but in a luxury apartment
like this, it's nearly as big as the master, and also includes an
en suite bathroom. And it's done perfectly. The walls are a pale
gray, the decor and bedding stark white with deep blue accents. It
is, in fact, boyish, or masculine, whatever.
Against the back wall sits
a king size sleigh bed with weathered, natural wood head and foot
boards. I turn to find Thea smirking like the Cheshire Cat, overly
pleased with herself, and deservedly so. She smiles up at me,
waiting for the praise she has no doubt she's owed. I muss her
hair, which she hates, but I love her grump-face as she sets her
red curls back in place, not that they end up any less wild after
she fixes it.
"It's perfect, Thee," I
finally concede. Her grin grows and she holds up her palm for our
signature high five, which I give her with an eye roll of my
own.
We make our way through
the rest of the apartment more slowly, and I let her go on about
the vendors and designers she selected, and the flatware and china
in the kitchen, until she finally notices the snide look on my
face. But she only smiles wryly all over again, because we both
know I'm full of shit, faking my disinterest.
Do I have an inherent
interest in these things? No. Certainly not. But I want to be an
hotelier one day myself, which we both know very well, and so I
take in everything from the interior design to the stemware,
considering what would be both chic and neutral, ideal for a trendy
boutique hotel.
We talk about her father's
upcoming project and how excited we both are to be involved. Thea
will get to help with the finishes and decor, and in doing so will
be working closely with one of the world's top interior designers
in the hospitality industry. Another opportunity no college
freshman deserves, and we are both insanely grateful and eager to
be a part of it.
When we're done touring
our finished apartment, and commiserating over the ridiculousness
of living in such a lavish place when our peers will be in tiny
freshman dorms, I walk Thea east where she'll meet her mom at
Bergdorf Goodman, and then I head down to Fifty Fifth and
Madison.
I don't even need to think
where I'm headed. My legs know the direction from muscle memory.
I've walked it hundreds of times. Came here all the time as a kid.
Any day we had off from school, weekends my dad worked through,
sometimes even after school when he worked late.
I liked him at work. He
didn't drink there. And he was the best version of himself. The one
who had a sincere interest in my day, who bragged about my academic
and athletic achievements to colleagues, who occasionally even
cared what I thought.
When he drank it was
almost as if he was a completely different person. And there was
nothing likeable about that man. It's honestly part of the reason I
was relieved that he asked to meet at his office, during a workday.
It's not that I think he'd lay a hand on me now, but the violence
wasn't the only reason I couldn't stand that version of my
dad.
That person was
thoughtless and cruel. He didn't give a shit about the people
around him, least of all his family.
I walk briskly, though
every cell in my body wants to delay. I'm not looking forward to
this meeting, though I am looking forward to what I hope it will
accomplish, and I can only pray that at the end of the upcoming
hour, Rory will be a little closer to safety, if unknowingly
so.
I head into the sprawling
marble lobby and check in with security. They scan my ID, have me
step in front of the desk-mounted camera, and in less than a minute
I'm handed a Visitor's sticker with a black and white pixelated
photo of my face, as well as Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan—45th
Floor, printed across the front. I fold it over and shove it into
my pocket, and head through the security turnstile.
The call button for the
elevator is already lit, and I barely wait a few seconds before I
shuffle into one of the eight cars along with the six or so other
suits, both male and female, who thin out as they disembark on the
multiple stops.
I'm the only one left when
I exit on one of the three floors that houses my father's law firm.
I've rarely ever exited here, on the main reception floor—I've
always headed straight up to 47 where his private assistant, Sue,
sits like a sentinel at his reception desk, managing his
appointments and ushering clients.
I don't know the
receptionist at the main desk. She's either been hired in the past
five years or I just never had occasion to meet her. But then
again, there's nothing memorable about her either, so it's possible
I've met her in passing. She's one of those people who are just
plain. Not plain as in ugly, just literally plain. Short, mousy
brown hair, eyes so bland you wouldn't even recall their color
unless you were looking directly at her, and indeterminably
middle-aged. She could be in her forties or fifties, and something
tells me she's looked this way for decades.
She smiles in recognition
as soon as I tell her my name, and her demeanor shifts from that of
a poised professional to borderline sycophantic.
It's so nice to finally
meet you, Mr. Caplan! Can I get you anything? Some coffee? Tea? You
look just like your father! Such a pleasure to have you
here!
I force a faint smile and
nod vaguely, decline her offer of refreshments, and I forget her
name before she even tells me that my father is expecting me and I
can head right up.
Now Sue was a different
story. Ageless in the precise opposite way, with flawless skin as
dark as night, so wrinkle-free that if you told me she was a
vampire I would probably believe you. Her hair was ever changing,
with a new style or wig almost monthly, and a warmth and sincerity
in her deep brown eyes that elicited a rare kind of comfort and
ease. It was her smile that stood out the most, though. Freely
offered and big enough to take up half her face, it's one of those
smiles that was just inherently contagious.
She's tall as a tree, and
though sweet as she could be, she had a strength about her that
inexorably drew me to her as a kid. In retrospect, it probably had
something to do with the contrast with how I saw my mother—weak,
fragile… a victim. Though I know now how incredibly unfair that
was. That, in fact, my mother is one of the strongest women I've
ever known—a mother who thrust herself into alcohol-fueled, raging
fists so that they would not land on me instead, and I inwardly
reproach my younger self for seeing things in such childish way,
even if I was only a child then, after all.
It makes me think of Rory,
of how she sees herself as weak despite the fact that she embodies
a courage and fortitude one would never expect in an
eighteen-year-old girl. Or most grown men, for that matter.
Especially considering everything she's been through.
I smile inwardly. Sue
would love Rory, I'm sure of it. And I bet Rory would like her
right back.
She isn't at her post when
I arrive in my father's office suite, and I take a moment to look
around. Nostalgia floods my bones and it's both wistful and eerie.
The decor has been updated, but it's all very much as I remember
it. I suspect Sue is either fetching something for my father, or in
the restroom. Otherwise she would be sitting in her usual place,
another fixture, in my mind more permanent to this office than the