Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“Before you say anything or suggest ways that I should improve my hair or make my skin more glowy, just know that I lost my job yesterday,” I say as we stop, start, stop, start, stop, start our way down Fifth Avenue.

“Cliff, I’d really take Park,” she offers.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” I say.

Cliff brakes too abruptly, and the seatbelt digs into my collarbone.

“I’d never say anything about your hair.” She smiles, then frowns. “You got fired?” She tries to look concerned but her eyebrows don’t move enough to express it.

I stare.

“Yes,” she says. “I caved and got Botox…Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“I don’t think I’m going to have to. It’s kind of obv...”

“Shut up, Willa,” she interrupts. “It will wear off.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want me to ask around at the firm?”

“About your Botox?”

“About a job, Willa. And please. I have four kids under the age of seven. And I’m one of three female partners. And I’m not getting any younger. The Botox was my gift to me.”

“I thought that was your trainer.”

“He is my gift to me too.”

“Hmmm,” I say. “That doesn’t sound right at all. Does Jeremy know?”

“Oh shut up.” The SUV finally lurches forward and we cruise two blocks without stopping. Then she says, as if she’s given this a fair amount of thought: “Besides, I’m pretty sure that Nicholi is gay.” She sighs. “But what happened at work? And do you need my help?”

“Adult Diapers happened, that’s what happened.”

“What?”

I start to explain adult diapers and sexiness and how I was texting Vanessa because she could have actually saved the day in the way that Vanessa tends to, but it all feels pointless, and besides, her own phone beeps right then anyway. She glances at it quickly, then shuts it off.

“Jeremy swore he could handle all four tonight. What he meant by that was handle them while texting me constantly with questions. Dear husband: I’m pretty sure that if you look in her underwear drawer, you will find Eloisa’s underwear .”

“Where’s Gloria?”

“I’m giving her Saturday nights off two times a month.”

“That’s generous.”

“Jesus, Willa! I know, I know. I am a pampered working mom with full-time help, and I’m spoiled and gross and all of those things to you. Seriously. I get it! But you asked me to rearrange my night to come to this dinner with you because your husband has broken the sacred rules of Shilla…”

Cliff glances in the rear view mirror, then quickly averts his eyes.

“What’s Shilla?”

“You’ve never heard that? It’s what we call you guys — Shawn and Willa. You know, your celebrity name. Because you guys never do anything apart.” She smiles because she knows that it’s a little mean but it’s also a little true.

“Shilla?” I ask. “It sounds like…an Eskimo town in Alaska or something.”

“Well, you’re not Brangelina.”

“We could be Brangelina.”

“You’re not Angie,” she says, and then wavers. “Sorry. That was said out of jealousy. I take it back. You could be Angie.”

We both know I could never be Angie, but it’s nice of her to say all the same.

“I don’t get it. What are you jealous of?”

“You guys do everything together. Remember that time a year or so ago when we went to get a manicure, and Shawn actually came along just because he didn’t have anything to do that Sunday?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds really pathetic.” Did he really come along because he just didn’t have anything better to do that day?

“No, it’s sweet, actually. Of course, it’s also little sickening,” Raina laughs, then examines her own manicure, lost in a tail end of a thought. “Do you know the last time Jeremy voluntarily spent time with me?”

“Don’t say that,” I say. “He loves you. And besides, Shawn’s not here tonight, so we can’t do everything together.” Because he’s too busy at Grape! ? Because he’s too tired to run down to Hop Lee and French kiss me for free egg rolls!

We stop again at a light, the rush-hour traffic at a standstill, the taxis honking their horns, the pedestrians rushing through the streets, weaving through the cars, paying no mind to the sidewalks or the crosswalks or any of the rules set in place.

I roll the window down and yell, “There are rules set in place, you know!” An angry-looking twenty-something woman likely on the way home from her lousy magazine job gives me the finger. My cheeks feel hot, and I immediately press the window button back up.

“I don’t know why I did that,” I mutter.

“Anyway,” Raina sighs, “please don’t give me crap today. I have enough. And you have Shilla.”

“I’m sorry about the Botox comment,” I say, both because I am and because I also don’t like arguing. “I’m being a bitch. I got fired, and I think that Shawn is having some sort of early mid-life crisis-slash-possible-affair, and I’m having weird fantasies about Theodore Brackton…”

I drift silent. Cliff turns up the radio to fill the space, and some mind-numbing hip-hop artist comes on, the bass blaring, his words unintelligible. Raina bobs her head — she probably knows this song from Soul Cycle or something — and fishes in her purse.

“Here.” She holds out a pill.

“What’s this?”

“Xanax.” She shoves one in her mouth.

“You’re on Xanax?”

“Oh William, everyone’s on Xanax.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You always were the last to know.”

My parents are waiting for us at the Four Seasons when we arrive. I see them before they see us, my mom dabbing the sides of her mouth with her napkin, my dad perusing the menu as if he’s reading it for the first time. The Xanax has blunted me, dulled the edges, and though there’s normally a slight beat of — of what? anxiety? tension? desire to please my dad? — tonight, I just let that flow over me, as if immune to them all.

My mom waves, then registers Raina beside me, and her face shifts, from pleasant to overjoyed. The firstborn. The prodigal daughter. And then there’s me. The kid who was supposed to be a son.

We weave our way to their table, and my mom stands, clasping Raina’s cheeks in her palms, kissing her on each side.

“Now this is a surprise. Both of our children at once.”

“There’s a third child too, Mom,” I say, as the waiter pulls out my chair, and I sit.

“Oh well, Oliver. The only way that I know anything about him is that Tweeter.”

“Twitter,” I say.

“Oh, yes, that!” she answers enthusiastically.

“Hello girls.” My dad reaches for my hand and kisses it. “Raina, what brings you here? I thought you were preparing for a trial.”

“Shawn is at the Yankees game with Nicky. Last-minute sort of thing.”

“I do have a trial, but I made the time.” Raina talks over me.

My dad motions for the waiter. “It’s just as well,” he says. “There are things we wanted to talk about with just you.”

“Just me?” I’m unsure if it’s the Xanax that has me confused, or if he’s intentionally being vague.

“Just our children,” my mom replies, pursing her mouth, her ruby red lipstick sinking into the fine lines just above her lips. She looks tired, more worn than the last time I saw her, even though that was just last month at this very same restaurant at this very same table.

“Is one of you dying?” Raina asks with genuine concern. I can tell that she’s adjusted to the pill, the brain-softener; that this is a regular habit, like candy, like a glass of white wine. She’s lucid but soft, softer anyway, at least for Raina.