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“I went to see Mom,” she says and takes the piece of toast, spreads orange marmalade on it, and hands it to me. I shake my head, so she takes a bite.

“She told me you stopped by. How was it?” I ask.

“Fine.” I can tell she’s lying. She takes a bite of the eggs, then makes a face and spits them into a napkin.

“I wish you’d give her more of a chance.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“That’s not true. She loves you.” Maggie rolls her eyes. Over the years I’ve tried to bridge the relationship between Maggie and Dorothy, but it hasn’t worked out well. From the beginning, Maggie and I were so much alike that I doted on her. Then when Maggie was five, I made the mistake of coming home from a business trip with a turquoise ring for her and nothing for Dorothy. Dorothy said she understood and didn’t need anything, but the competition between the two of them for my attention got worse until Jerry was born. After that Dorothy gravitated toward him, and Maggie felt abandoned by her. I wish I could go back and do things differently.

“I took your advice, and I switched from a PC to a Mac,” she says. “You were right. It wasn’t that hard to make the change.”

“What’s a Mac?” I ask, having no idea what she’s talking about.

“An Apple?” she says, as if I’m crazy.

“Like the fruit?” I ask.

“Are you playing with me?” She laughs. I look at her blankly, my brain foggy. She stops laughing. “Are you okay?” she asks in a worried tone.

“Of course, an Apple computer, right?” She nods. “Stop worrying. It was just one of those senior moments.” I try to make light of it, but I’m wondering if something’s wrong with me. To calm her down, I say, “It’s this place. You put someone around old people, and they act like one.”

Maggie isn’t convinced, and I don’t like that I’m upsetting her. I tell her that I’m tired, even though I woke up not long ago. Then I close my eyes and breathe as if I’m falling asleep. I try not to move at all, until finally she kisses me and leaves. I wait a moment to ensure that she’s gone, then I open my eyes and push the power button on the remote that turns the television on.

Ten minutes later, Julia comes in to check on me. “Mr. Rubin, how’re you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Maggie told you what happened, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she’s a little worried about you.” She straightens me in the wheelchair because I’m slouching again.

“It was just a momentary lapse. I could use a glass of water though.”

“Of course.” She pours me a glass and holds it up so I can drink out of the straw. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.

“Please tell Maggie not to worry about me. I was probably dehydrated.” I watch the nurse leave, and all I can think isWhat a sweet woman. She’s always good to me.I only wish I could remember her name.

CHAPTER 6

Icalled Ellen to see if she was free to meet for lunch. We decided I’d come to her office, my old publishing firm, and then we’d figure out where to go. My old office was in Stamford, about thirty minutes away, but it felt like a different universe. It was a big city, unlike our little suburb.

I hadn’t been back to that office in years, because the last time, I came home depressed. My job used to be my identity, but when Gia was born, my identity became her mother. I fantasized about where I’d be if I hadn’t left publishing. Would I be an executive editor by now? Or maybe I would’ve started my own publishing company. That used to be my ultimate dream. A dream where I wouldn’t have driven a minivan. A dream where I would’ve gotten my hair colored when I first saw a strand of gray, not when I needed to wear a hat. A dream where Jim didn’t find me boring.

Everyone at my old job used to say I was a hard worker and a fast learner. I moved from editorial assistant to acquisitions editor quickly, and then before I left, I’d made it all the way up to senior editor. I sat down at the computer and searched publishing companies to look at their job listings. Each one seemed to want more qualifications than I had. How would I compete now with people half my age who knew software that didn’t exist the last time I worked? And was it realistic to think I could get back into publishing after seventeen years? Would anyone want to hire a middle-aged woman?

I felt my blood pressure rising, so I leaned down and rubbed Theo’s belly, which made both of us feel better, although he was the only one who howled. Then I went on Linkedin and looked up some old contacts, but everyone I used to work with had moved to New York publishing houses, although my former boss, Lorna, still worked at my old firm. Maybe when I went to see Ellen today, she’d remember how smart and talented I was and offer me a job. And of course, she’d give me the summers off to spend with Gia when she came home from college.

As I dreamed the impossible dream, I rifled through my closet for something to wear that would make me look professional and hide my squishy belly. Everything I owned was either jeans and T-shirts or five years out of date. After a few minutes, my bed was piled with my rejects. Finally, I settled on a black skirt because no black skirt had ever gone out of style. I pulled out my Spanx high-waist control briefs and wriggled my way into them. I liked how I looked but felt like a cigarette that had been pushed back into a full pack. Now I needed a shirt because I probably wouldn’t be taken seriously in just a bra and skirt. I had six silk blouses, none of which screamedhip career woman. So I did the only thing any middle-aged mom would do; I raided my daughter’s closet. It may have been a little young for me, and a little tight, but Gia’s violet lace shirt blew my silk blouses out of the water.

I was running late, but I couldn’t leave without applying makeup that would take ten years off me. That may have been a lot to ask of Estée Lauder. I tried to do a smokey eye but ended up wiping the whole thing off. I was not the smokey eye kind of girl. Black eyeliner and champagne eye shadow would have to do. I took a last look in the mirror and wondered who that older and more worn woman was looking back at me. Note to self: stop looking in mirrors.

As I drove to Ellen’s office, a cloudburst and a sudden torrent of rain hit my car. Thank goodness I had an umbrella, although I was regretting that I’d thrown it in the trunk. As I got out of the car, I was comforted by the busy city noises. A car alarm, an ambulance and a jackhammer were music to my ears. The smell of Polish sausage and churros from the cart on the street made my mouth water. It heartened me to see the cart was still there. When I worked here, I didn’t want to take lunch because something was always going on, so I’d run out and grab a sausage and chips. Then I’d go back to my desk and put a napkin on my lap to protect my clothes from the grease that would trickle down my chin after that first bite. Sometimes the grease missed the napkin and ended up on someone’s prize manuscript. I missed those days.

I was approaching the revolving doors of the building and trying to avoid the puddles when a woman in red high-heel pumps pushed past me. I looked down at my shoes. I never wore high heels anymore; I wore “mom” wedges. Wedges I was instantly regretting, because what kind of idiot wore open-toe shoes when there was a chance of rain? An idiot who wanted to be taller than she was.