Chapter Seventeen
Eliza threw herself into work. She followed up with every contact she’d ever made, trying to get their support for the gala; went for another tour of the venue, a beautiful event space that had once been the first floor of a department store not far from Central Park; and chased down items for the silent auction. She also made an appointment with the lawyer Josh recommended. Vicky Muhlfelder was a friend of his from law school who had gone into practice with her dad in Brooklyn. They specialized in wills and estates, and Josh assured her that their rates would be much more reasonable than his own firm’s.
Through it all, Eliza tried to forget that Ross was scheduled to speak at a public event. She knew that Patrice had contacted several faculty at NYU but hadn’t yet heard back from anyone. Meanwhile, Eliza had spoken with a professor at a small college on Long Island who was very excited about NOY’s work and the new award, but Vanessa wanted to hold off on making a commitment. Clearly she was hoping for a bigger, brighter star.
On Monday evening, after work, Eliza found herself exiting the subway a couple of blocks from Glenside School. The truth was, no matter how much she denied it, she had known she’d go to Ross’s talk from the minute she saw it was happening. She’d thought about asking Mo to come with her, but if her friend was going to suggest that they wear disguises or spy on him after the event?—even if it was just a joke?—she thought she might snap.
Glenside was housed in a brownstone on a quiet street on the Upper West Side. It was one of the city’s oldest independent schools, known for educational innovation. In fact, one of NOY’s board members sat on the Glenside board as well. It really was a painfully small world.
She took a deep breath before ascending the stone steps in front of the building. The heavy front door stuck a little, and she pulled hard, envisioning herself tumbling back down the steps with the effort.
Suddenly the door eased, and Eliza realized someone was helping from the other side. “So sorry! This door is terrible!” The first thing she noticed about the owner of the voice was her voluminous caftan. Eliza had to force her eyes up to the woman’s face, which was kind and gently creased.
“Are you here for the talk?” she asked.
Eliza nodded.
“You just made it. They’re about to get started.”
Eliza glanced at her watch. She’d meant to be a few minutes earlier. She’d been afraid of being too early and stuck making small talk as the room filled up, but she also didn’t want to draw attention to herself by coming in late.
“Don’t worry, you’re not late,” the woman said, as if reading her mind. “It’s just down this hall in the little theater.” She gestured toward the back of the building.
The little theater? How small was this room going to be? Eliza felt her body go cold, and if it weren’t for the fact that this pleasant woman would think she was crazy, she’d have run back out the way she came. “Thanks very much,” she said instead, and forced her feet to move toward the theater rather than back to the street.
The hallway was lined with paneling, and the tile was a prewar herringbone design. She could almost hear the echoes of the children’s feet that had run, walked, and trudged up and down this corridor over the years. All too soon, she got to the double doors marked with a small brass plate reading Florence Bixby Theater . She was tempted to pause and Google “Florence Bixby” on her phone. Anything to delay entering. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Caftan Lady nodding and smiling at her.
“Just go on in,” she mouthed.
If only it were that easy. She opened the door, which creaked gently. As she stepped inside, she was relieved to see that the little theater wasn’t so little. At a quick glance, she would guess it seated more than one hundred people. About half the seats were filled, and a woman wearing dark dress pants and a red scoop-neck sweater stood at the podium on the stage, speaking into the mike. A man sat beside and a little behind her, looking comfortable in his own skin in the folding metal chair, one leg crossed over the other, his foot bouncing. He had trouble sitting still, Aunt Claude had said. Apparently that was still the case.
Eliza quietly headed toward the right side of the theater and took the aisle seat in the back row. The seats were old and wooden and, she discovered, creaked when folded down. A couple of her nearest neighbors glanced her way as she mouthed an apology and slid into the seat. Clearly, though, the sound didn’t carry that far, as the woman onstage kept speaking. Some platitudes welcoming everyone and talking about the theme of this year’s speaker series. But Eliza’s eyes were glued on Ross. Her father.
He was dressed as if he’d gone to a costume shop for a “professor outfit.” He wore a blazer?—she couldn’t tell at this distance if it was tweed or corduroy?—over a dark blue button-down shirt, paired with jeans. Not a wash that anyone could call cool or fashionable. Just ordinary blue jeans. Loafers on his feet, including the one that continued to bounce.
Applause echoed around the room, and Eliza joined in without thinking. The speaker must have introduced Ross, because now he stood, shook her hand, and approached the podium. His mouth was moving, but Eliza couldn’t hear him over the smattering of applause that continued. She resisted the urge to shush the crowd, and they quieted down.
“Thank you. Thanks so much. I’m truly delighted to be here to speak to you tonight. I’ve long admired the work done here at Glenside, and there’s no question in my mind that we are at a crisis point in American education.” Ross’s voice was a little husky, the kind of voice that sounded like it was used to shouting. As he continued to speak, Eliza looked around the room and saw heads nodding and a few people taking notes.
She tried to imagine how Laura would see him, up at that podium. Would she be proud? Would her pulse quicken? Or would she feel shame? A living reminder of her betrayal of her marriage. Of the enormous secret she felt forced to keep for sixteen years.
Toward the end, Laura was often too tired to speak. She’d whisper to Eliza, generally sweet memories. The hopscotch boards she’d drawn in the driveway for Eliza to play in. The clapping games she’d taught her. Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack; All dressed in black, black, black. Finger games they’d played. “Where Is Thumb Man?” Eliza had tried to smile but was so very angry. Unless Thumb Man could cure Laura’s cancer, who the fuck cared where he was?
Sometimes, Laura whispered about Eliza’s future. The happiness she hoped for her. Now, in the same room for the first time with this man her mother had loved, she could hear her mother’s voice. Don’t compromise, Eliza. Not when it comes to who you share your life with. You’ll have to compromise enough to keep a relationship going. That’s what a good relationship is. Give and take. But if you make a life with someone?—make sure you’re not compromising on who that is. Life is too short to settle for less than the right person.
Was Laura trying to tell her something? Had she settled for Jack? Did she always regret not being with Ross? Or would she have been compromising if she’d stayed with Ross?—and was that night at the reunion just a disastrous mistake?
Ross’s voice rose. “We have seen time and again that programming and curricula designed to boost social and emotional learning of young children are directly correlated to stronger academic performance. And those improvements are shown year over year in subsequent assessments. This is where we need to focus our efforts.” As his gestures became broader and his expression more animated, Eliza found herself thinking of Jack, who was always so calm. Even when he was angry?—about Scott’s tennis coach, whom he rarely saw eye to eye with, or about grades they brought home that were less than he expected?—he rarely raised his voice. In fact, he’d get quieter, more still.
Eliza tried to focus on what Ross was saying but kept getting caught up in the cadence of his voice, the planes of his face, the increasing wildness of his hair as he moved around. Now that she saw him in person, could she see any of herself in him? At this distance, it was hard to tell. Then, before she knew it, the woman who had introduced him rose to join him at the podium.
“Thank you so very much, Professor Sawyer. That was fascinating . I’m sure we have quite a few questions in the audience. We’ll do some Q and A before we break for coffee and dessert.”
“Ah, so I’m going to be standing between everyone and cake. You’re making this tough for me!” Ross grinned widely.
She patted his arm. “Oh, now, I think we education policy wonks are going to be much more excited by what you have to say than by some Entenmann’s.”
Are they flirting? Eliza missed the first question because she was so focused on what was happening onstage. She could have sworn the moderator’s scoop neck was lower now.
Okay, I’m going crazy. So what if she’s showing too much cleavage? As far as I know, Ross is single. And my mother is dead. And she was married to Jack.
Several people in the audience asked questions about metrics for social and emotional growth, and Eliza tried to put all the complicated relationship dynamics out of her head. After all, she reminded herself, these topics clearly connected to NOY’s work. All these people were potential donors. With her director-of-development hat on, she knew she should ask a question herself, one that would reference Nourish Our Youth. But with I’m your secret daughter blaring in her ears, she knew that there was no way that her brain could force her hand into the air.
Red Scoop Neck was now encouraging everyone to give Professor Sawyer a round of applause, and Eliza once again joined in automatically. “Please join us in the lounge for coffee and dessert. I’m sure Professor Sawyer would be happy to continue the conversation there.” She smiled at him. Coquettishly?
The room filled with the sounds of people standing and gathering their bags and the creaking of the old wooden seats. Eliza picked up her tote and moved quickly toward the exit, planning to slip down the hall to the main doors. The last thing she wanted was to be close to Ross.
But when she got to the exit, Caftan Lady was there, blocking her path. “Just this way,” she said, pointing toward the right.
Of course, Eliza could have said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay,” and Caftan Lady surely would have stepped aside. But somehow, her lips didn’t form the words, and she just smiled and followed directions mutely.
The lounge was a cozy space with dark wood paneling and a large marble fireplace flanked by two overstuffed burgundy sofas. A fire was crackling in the grate, and a table in the middle of the room held two large urns, one neatly labeled coffee and the other hot water . A coffee cake and a large danish, pre-sliced, sat beside the urns. Red Scoop Neck wasn’t kidding when she said there was Entenmann’s.
The room was warm, especially since Eliza had already put on her coat in preparation for leaving. She thought about taking it off but liked the idea of being able to make a quick escape. She pulled her bag closer as she moved deeper into the room, which was filling up fast. Most people made a beeline for the refreshments, so Eliza veered toward the far wall, on which hung a series of framed photographs. She smiled as she peered at the groups of children pictured?—apparently each year’s collection of Glenside School students.
Why am I still here? She knew she should leave; nothing good could come of her staying. But there was something keeping her in that room. A desire to see him up close? Or at least closer than he’d been onstage? Her pulse raced, and she strained to detect Ross’s voice over the others’.
But as she thought about coming face to face with him, her pulse pounded and the need to get out of the room overwhelmed her. She quickly turned from the photo she’d been looking at, her heart feeling like it was going to burst out of her chest. And as she stepped toward the door, her eyes on her feet, she walked smack into a man in a blazer. It turned out to be made of corduroy.