Henry has asked me for something no investor takes the time to look at. He wants to know exactly which mortgages are in each bundle, the actual bricks and mortar they represent. To get this information I pulled many strings, and now I have to review it. I have to be up to speed on the stuff most clients don’t even look at. We have yet to say anything to each other about our night in Palm Beach, and as the weeks pass, my loneliness seems to grow too.
I click open his email as I stand there in Columbus Circle. Blue lights glisten in the trees behind me, giving my screen a hallowed glow. I read:
In my ocean, you were the drop of ink that turned the water blue.
I stand there for many seconds, forgetting to breathe.
CHAPTER 21
Ticker Tantrum
I DON’T ALLOW myself out of bed before the first number on the digital clock is a five. Even though it’s bonus day, I stand firm on this rule, so I lie still, inhaling the dried-out air of our home, and jump up when 4:59 turns to 5:00 a.m. Once again, Bruce slept somewhere else in the apartment. On evenings when I’m not out late with clients, he goes to the gym after dinner, stays until I have everyone in bed, and then prefers to shower and sleep in the back maid’s room, where he won’t wake anyone up. We haven’t had sex in a month but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.
I studied the mortgage papers until a mere four hours ago, until my eyes seemed to have cotton sticking in them, and the bottle of eye lubricant I was using ran dry. By then I had accomplished enough to email Tim and Henry the ideas I thought best to buy and sell in their portfolio. And that was the only email I sent Henry. All business.
The more I think about Henry’s flowery message, the more I believe it to be misdirected. Maybe his thong-wearing wife was the intended recipient and he misfired? Maybe he has a girlfriend? Still, last night I couldn’t stop flipping back to my in-box, rereading his message and trying to not let myself remember that he was capable of being a very different person.
Even though it’s early, Brigid has delivered my shoes for the day, a sensible pair of brown loafers. My daughter must sense it’s a serious day and has chosen to have me dress like a law student. She places them at the foot of the bed and I lean down toward her smell of cotton and fitful sleep. The sweet breath she exhales into my face calms me. She locks herself onto my neck but I don’t have time for our lovey nose kisses this morning.
Greene hands out executive bonuses in fancy restaurants and I want to look neat but not showy. I have no time to deal with my daughter’s brown loafer delivery. I’m so distracted I don’t even bother to pretend to wear them for Brigid’s sake. I opt for some cannot-offend-anybody Cole Haan pumps and Brigid’s face scrunches up with tears of rejection. I feel a little heartless not indulging my four-year-old as I toss the loafers in the closet but today I have to be cut from stone. For some reason, before closing the bathroom door on her teary face I say, “This is not me. Real Mommy is coming soon.” She looks puzzled. I have to believe this is true for both our sakes.
Four hours of sleep is not enough for any human, no matter what anyone says about Einstein or other geniuses who exist on less. My sagging gray face reflects what’s going on inside me. I slap on self-tanner, hoping it will make me appear slightly more vital, but the effect is a little orange. I poke conservative pearl earings into my ears, apply light mascara, and select a fitted suit. I look just okay, which is what I want. I pull out my glasses with clear glass in them—I have good eyesight but wearing them makes me look brainier.
Bruce snores away in the back bedroom despite the fact that all three kids are up, and the ransacking and mayhem is well under way. The apartment needs an entire day’s worth of picking up and it’s only 6 a.m. There’s hardly one drawer that doesn’t have something hanging out of it. No book ever gets read and returned to its shelf, no jar of food ever seems to be put in the fridge or the garbage. We dwell in a life of half steps, almost getting clothing to the laundry basket, almost getting the plates out of the sink, and almost closing the coat closet door. I bolt for the door before I become enmeshed in diapers, breakfast, voices pleading to be walked to school, or marital bickering. Like a soldier heading to war I can’t think of my family, at least not until tonight.
I walk across the off-white sea of Lincoln Center and I rehearse my litany of accomplishments for the year. My speech to Simon rings like my own aria as I cross Central Park to get to the most power-charged breakfast scene in all of Manhattan.