Do This For Me Read online

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Picking you up from school, of course.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s go.” I was on edge about our looming conversation.

  “Yo, Kate’s mom,” said one boy.

  “Sweet ride,” said the other.

  Arnault had left the truck to consult with Jorge. “What’s in the truck?” Kate asked.

  “All our earthly possessions. Where’s your sister?”

  “I’ll text her.” Kate pulled out her phone. The boys were still staring at me.

  “Kate, who are these people?”

  “Strangers who pay me to sleep with them,” she replied, eyes on her screen.

  I sighed. “Get in the car.”

  “No worries, Kate’s mom,” one boy told me. “She’s totally joking.”

  “Yeah,” said the other. “She pays us.”

  They guffawed. Kate punched one of them in the chest. “Bye, losers.” She opened the door and took the backward-facing seat, across from me. “I thought we were taking the bus home today.”

  “We’re not going home. We’re moving.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Where to?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  Kate opened her mouth to ask another question, but thought better of it. Kate has excellent instincts. She buckled her seat belt. She swiped her hair from her forehead and straightened the pleats of her skirt. She pulled a book out of her bag.

  The door opened and Maisie stuck her head in. “Who died?”

  “Nobody.”

  She threw her backpack inside and clambered after it, settling next to Kate. Although “settling” is the wrong way to describe anything Maisie does. She is frenetic, agitated, constantly in motion. She is Kate reflected in a cracked mirror, disheveled, fritzy and distractible.

  “You wouldn’t be here if someone wasn’t dead,” she insisted.

  “Weren’t dead,” Kate said.

  “Shut up. It’s Nana, isn’t it.”

  “It’s not Nana.”

  Maisie pressed. “But it’s somebody. The way you answered it has to be somebody.”

  “Nobody died!” I cried. “I promise you, nobody died.”

  She pursed her lips, unconvinced. She dragged her backpack up from the floor. Half the contents spilled out.

  “Dumbass,” Kate muttered.

  “Anal cleft,” Maisie muttered back.

  “Enough!” I snapped.

  “We all set, Miz Moore?”

  “Yes, Jorge. We’re going to Brooklyn. Park Place between Vanderbilt and Underhill.”

  Kate cocked her head. “Your old house?”

  “That’s where we live now.”

  Maisie gasped. “Our house burned down!”

  I hadn’t even begun, and already this conversation had gone off the rails.

  The car pulled away from the curb. Kate was frowning at her phone. “What’s with Dad’s Twitter?”

  Maisie read over Kate’s shoulder. “Yikes.”

  I needed to Explain the Decision Using Neutral and Productive Language. Then I needed to Stress the Love. After that I needed to—

  “Mom?”

  I tossed my phone onto the seat. I didn’t need guidance. These were my daughters. My people. They were smart and kind and good. They were solid and sound. I knew how to talk to them.

  “I have some bad news,” I said.

  They waited.

  “Your father and I…”

  Courage, I told myself.

  “We’re…splitting up.”

  “Huh?” said Maisie.

  “What?” said Kate.

  I tried again. “We’re…we’re separating.”

  “Ha ha,” Maisie said.

  “Seriously, Mom.” Kate smirked. “Don’t quit your day job.”

  They didn’t believe me? “I’m not joking.”

  Silence. They exchanged a look. Kate tried again, but she was less certain this time. “Cut it out, Mom. You’re being weird.”

  “We’re going to stay in Brooklyn while I figure out our next step. I’ll find a good school for you in the city, and—”

  Maisie was shaking her head. She waved her hands, silently begging me to stop. But I had to get through this.

  “I know it’s sudden. I know it’s a surprise—a shock, even. I want to stress how much your father and I love—”

  “No!” Kate cried. “This is not—no!”

  Maisie had drawn back in her seat, staring with scared eyes. Kate was angled forward, hands on her knees.

  “This morning, you came in and woke us up. That was, what, nine hours ago? Had you and Dad…I mean, had this already happened?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “But now it has? How is that possible?”

  “I can’t give you the details right now.”

  “Shouldn’t Dad be here? When Audra’s parents split up, they sat her down together and—”

  “Oh my God.” Maisie began to shake. “Oh my God.”

  I reached for her. “Breathe, honey. You have to breathe.”

  “This is nuts!” Kate cried. “This doesn’t just happen!”

  “I’m afraid it happens all the time.”

  “No!” she shouted. “Not you guys. Most people’s parents fucking hate each other.”

  “Watch your language, Katherine.”

  “You and Dad are happy.”

  “Why are we here?” Maisie wailed. “What’s going on?”

  “Maisie, please calm down. Your asthma—”

  “Why, Mother?” Kate said. “Why is this happening? Why why why why whywhywhywhywhy?”

  I scrabbled around inside Maisie’s bag and found her inhaler. I should have known their first question would be the one I couldn’t answer. Maisie pressed the pump and took a deep breath. I couldn’t tell them the truth. Kate was so judgmental. Maisie so emotional. Their father’s infidelity could have serious repercussions in their lives and romantic relationships. I wasn’t going to have that on my hands.

  Especially since none of this was my fault.

  Kate crossed her arms. “There are only so many reasons people divorce.”

  Maisie nodded and wiped her nose. “They aren’t like Jordan’s parents, who can’t stand each other.”

  “Nobody’s an alcoholic,” Kate said, “like Sam’s dad.”

  We were stuck in traffic. I willed the car to go faster. I willed a huge distraction, like an earthquake or an alien invasion. Because I’d forgotten who I was dealing with. My daughters were inquisitive, obstinate, relentless.

  And smarter than Aaron and me combined.

  “Could it be money problems?” Kate asked.

  Maisie shook her head. “I checked our balances this morning.”

  “Maisie Clare!”

  “Sorry, Mom! I get anxious.”

  Kate peered at her phone. “Growing apart? We would have seen that coming.”

  I stared at her. “Are you…googling this?”

  I reached for the phone, but she held it away. “Religious or cultural differences?”

  “Impossible,” Maisie said. “They agree about everything.”

  I was helpless. A fox cowering under a hedgerow. I could hear the beat of hooves and the baying of hounds, growing ever closer. “Girls, I don’t think—”

  “Abuse?” Kate continued. “No way. Lack of communication? They never shut up. Midlife crisis, nah, gambling, ditto, sexual—”

  She broke off.

  “What?” Maisie said. Kate looked at me.

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  “Infidelity,” she said.

  Silence.

  “No way.” Maisie almost
laughed. “Not Daddy.”

  “Mom?”

  I could have lied. I’d been lying all day. To my employees. To Aaron’s Twitter followers. To the Visa Network.

  But I was tired of lying. And I couldn’t lie to my children. Not about this.

  So I nodded.

  Maisie buried her face in her hands. Kate threw her phone across the car. “That asshole!”

  “Kate, please.”

  “How could he do that to you?”

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Maisie sobbed.

  I opened my arms. They unbuckled their seat belts and flew across the car. I tried to console them. They tried to console me. We all failed.

  After a while, Maisie said, “Where is he now?”

  Kate turned on her ferociously. “Who gives a shit?”

  “He’s flying home,” I said.

  They had more questions: Who was she? How did I find out? Had I talked to him? What did he say? I evaded them all. Eventually, we were quiet. I had a girl on either side of me, my arms around their shoulders. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, utterly spent.

  What have I done?

  My phone pinged. I ignored it. The girls gazed out at the traffic. Jorge, unwilling witness to the day’s circus, kept his eyes fixed on the road. No doubt I’d have another new driver in the morning. I couldn’t blame him.

  * * *

  —

  We arrived in Brooklyn at six thirty. The beautiful late-summer day had turned into a crisp early-fall evening. The old neighborhood was looking good. There was a new coffee shop on Washington Avenue, a juice bar. A condo building had arisen on the corner of my block, silver skinned and futuristic. We turned onto Park Place. The houses were all brownstones, models of thoughtful, historically sensitive renovation.

  Until we got to mine.

  What an eyesore. Peeling paint, broken windows. A relic of dirty old irascible Brooklyn. My parents bought it forty years ago, before I was born. They ran a legal clinic out of the parlor floor, helping addicts, welfare moms, the poor. They died when I was three. Car accident. My grandmother left her retirement community on Long Island and moved in to take care of me. She lived here until she passed away, ten years ago. That’s when I should have had it cleaned it up, put it on the market. But I never seemed to find the time.

  A man was crouched at the base of the stoop, his back to us. Faded jeans and filthy sneakers. Homeless, no doubt. Possibly deranged. I braced myself.

  He straightened and turned. He was slim and bearded and wore a T-shirt that said THIS IS WHAT A COOL CAT LADY LOOKS LIKE.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  He adjusted his glasses. “Checking out these steps. There are some big cracks and gaps, and I’m hoping to…” He trailed off. “Hey. Are you the owner?”

  I crossed my arms.

  “I live next door,” he said. “My name is Wade. I—”

  “I know who you are. You keep sending me letters.”

  “I’d really like to talk to you about—”

  “The house isn’t for sale.”

  “But it’s falling apart. It hasn’t been occupied for years.”

  “It’s occupied now.” I marched past him up the steps. The girls trailed behind me. The moving truck pulled up.

  “You need me to stick around, Miz Moore?” Jorge was standing on the sidewalk next to the perplexed hipster.

  “No, Jorge. Thank you.”

  “You bet.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “So, good luck with everything.” Kate and Maisie waved to him.

  Arnault and his team began unloading boxes onto the sidewalk. A cab stopped, and Cameron and the girl paralegal tumbled out, dragging grocery bags. Everyone followed me inside. The wallpaper was peeling, and the pendant lamp was thick with dust. But it still smelled like it did when I grew up there—floor wax, damp and Grandma’s lavender perfume.

  Cameron inhaled deeply. “Eau de Creepyville.”

  “Where shall we begin?” Arnault inquired.

  The paralegals put away groceries. The movers went room by room, unrolling rugs, hefting furniture, hanging art—reconstructing our suburban home in this decrepit space.

  In a few hours, they were finished. I thanked everyone and sent them on their way. Kate, Maisie and I headed up to an eerie facsimile of their bedroom—beds, desks, nightstands, all in place. We talked. They cried. Finally they fell asleep, miserable and exhausted.

  I couldn’t face the master bedroom, so I climbed the stairs to a room on the fourth floor, now occupied by odds and ends and an ancient leather sofa. My childhood bedroom.

  Outside, night had fallen. Neighbors were dragging garbage bins to the curb. A woman walked her dog. A teenager glided by on a skateboard, texting.

  I glanced at my phone. It was 10:59.

  Twelve hours.

  Twelve hours, and I’d botched everything.

  My rage vanished, leaving me defenseless against a wave of regret. I’d deprived Aaron of his family. Dismantled his everyday life. Diabolically undermined his professional credibility.

  And the girls—what had I done to them? Tearing them out of their lives, revealing a horrible truth about their parents’ marriage they should never have had to deal with.

  I had been deranged, despotic, unforgivably cruel.

  But look at what Aaron had done! How could he?

  I picked up my phone and scrolled through the day’s many e-mails. Back to the beginning.

  Hey hon. It’s the middle of the night here, and I can’t sleep.

  I read it carefully, searching for signs. Where had we gone wrong? How had I lost him?

  We should come here, maybe after the first of the year? Just the two of us.

  I reached the part I’d skipped earlier, already absorbed by the demands of the day.

  I used to think going on a book tour would be so much fun. Doing readings, meeting booksellers, talking to readers. Now I know better. The people couldn’t be nicer, but it’s exhausting. And isolating. I’m a version of myself that I don’t quite recognize. I feel disconnected from real life. Too far away from you.

  There was more, but I couldn’t go on. I dropped the phone, and at last I let go. Alone in my childhood room, gasping for breath, shaking as I sobbed, I cried, and I cried, and I cried.

  PART TWO

  SIX

  I woke just before five, gasping for breath. Someone had been chasing me through a crumbling medieval fortress. As usual, it hadn’t ended well.

  I rolled over on the punishing sofa and reached for my phone. I had nineteen e-mails, which I dealt with as the sky grew light and the city woke up outside my window. At eight I ordered a car and roused the girls. I helped them find clothes and showed them how to use the wonky second-floor shower. They were sleepy and subdued. I was patient and loving.

  Inside I was burning all over again.

  The sadness and hurt of the night before had been swept away, the guilt and regret obliterated by my renewed rage. Aaron had lied to me. Aaron had betrayed me. How could I have thought, even for a moment, that I’d gone too far?

  While the girls got ready, I googled him. As I typed his name into the search bar, autocomplete made this happen:

  Excellent.

  We trooped downstairs. The kitchen was as shabby as the rest of the house, but slightly less gloomy. Grandma’s flowered curtains still hung in the windows. The yellow of the cabinets shone through the grime. The place smelled faintly of apples.

  The girls slumped at the table. “I’m starving my face off,” Kate mumbled.

  “Same,” said Maisie.

  None of us had felt like eating the night before. I opened the refrigerator to see what the paralegals had bought for us.

  “We’ve got California rolls, marshmallows and a southwestern tofu wrap.”

 
; I needed to go to the grocery store myself next time.

  “How did you sleep?” I asked. Maisie snorted. Kate executed a class-A eye roll. “What’s wrong?”

  Kate sniffed at a piece of California roll and dropped it with disdain. “Uh, everything, Mom. It’s freezing in this dump. It smells bad. And we had company. Scratching in the corner, all night.”

  I searched the cupboards for a water glass. “Rats. They’ve always been a problem.”

  Kate turned to Maisie. “ ‘Rats,’ she says. Like her children spent the night in a room infested with, I don’t know. Kittens. Cuddly bunnies.”

  “I can’t have them killed,” I explained. “Their parents and I grew up together.”

  My daughters stared at me. “That was a joke,” I added.

  Kate raised her eyebrows. “It was super funny.”

  Mutiny was in the air. Fortunately, I heard two quick taps of a horn and hustled the girls out of the kitchen. I had a busy day ahead of me. The car would drop me at the office, then take the girls to Westchester. My plan had been to find them a school in the city, bidding farewell to our former life completely. But last night they begged me to let them commute, and I relented. For now.

  Maisie pulled on her coat. Kate slung her bag over her shoulder. I ushered them through the foyer and into a gray, rainy day. I glanced at my calendar as I locked the door behind us. I had (a) half a dozen conference calls, including the ones I’d had to cancel the day before. I also had (b) a team meeting, (c) the Hyperium interview at two, (d) a meeting with—

  “Hello, Raney,” said Aaron.

  I clutched the railing. My phone flew into the air and clattered down the steps, coming to rest at my husband’s feet.

  “Dad!” Maisie ran toward him and threw herself into his arms. I made my way down to the sidewalk.

  Kate followed. “Traitor,” she hissed at Maisie.

  Aaron’s eyes met mine. “We need to talk.”

  What a handsome man my husband had become in the last few years. He was unshaven that morning, rumpled, bedraggled by the rain, but he still looked good. Age had clarified his features, rubbing away some of the softness to reveal the strong lines underneath. The gray in his dark hair gave him dignity.