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Authors: Lynn Schnurnberger
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frantic phone calls to husbands, brokers, therapists, and who-knows-who-else. With people’s anxiety levels rising in direct proportion to the falling Dow, Dr. B. emerges as a King-of-Collagen-post 9/11-Rudy-Guliani, offering strong leadership and taking control of the situation.
“Okay, everyone. Heads high, put away your phones. Gloria,” he commands, turning to a receptionist, “get everyone a bottle of antioxidant pomegranate water. And, ladies, stop fretting, it causes wrinkles. Today’s injections are on the house.”
The house? I’d love to stay for more Evolence but I have to get back to the apartment to see Peter and the girls. I give Dr. B. a quick kiss, grab Sienna, and head toward the waiting room. It’s not until we’re out of the subway and the anesthetic wears off that I realize we never finished filling in my laugh lines. At the moment that doesn’t seem so terrible—they’re a reminder of happier times.
P ETER’S STANDING SLACK-SHOULDERED in the entranceway of the apartment, bouncing a red rubber ball against our Venetian-plastered sky blue walls. Our twenty-nine-year-old boy-wonder lawyer, Bill Murphy, is trying to get him to turn on the lights, but as soon as Bill flicks them on, Peter stops bouncing the ball long enough to turn them off.
“I got here an hour ago, as soon as I heard the news, but I can’t get Peter to focus on anything but that damned ball,” Bill says, patting his hair, which isn’t so much slicked back as plastered, Alfalfa-style, to his baby-faced head. His suit, as always,is slightly rumpled, and although he’s over six feet tall, Bill’s the kind of guy who doesn’t stand out in a crowd. Still, while Bill’s style isn’t sharp, his mind is—he got his degree less than five years ago and already he’s considered one of New York’s best tax attorneys. And he’s awfully sweet.
“It was nice of you to come over. Why don’t we go inside and I’ll fix you both a drink,” I say, guiding Bill and Sienna past my shell-shocked husband and dropping my bag on the now-flowerless Georgian table. “I think Peter just needs some alone time.” And as I step into the living room, I can see why.
The peripatetic financial analyst Jim Cramer is waving his arms manically, shouting out blow-by-blows of the economic meltdown from the sixty-five-inch plasma TV screen. Naomi, dressed head-to-toe in black, is rocking back and forth with her hands on either side of her head like a Sicilian widow at a funeral. “It’s a perfect storm, a perfect storm,” wails my mother, the Al Roker of tragedy. Sitting next to Naomi, patting her arm protectively, is Dr. Barasch, P-H-D, her dancing partner from the benefit.
“Dr. Barasch, what are you doing here?” I ask, more than a little taken aback to see the headmaster of the girls’ private school sitting on a folding chair in my living room. I had no idea that he and Naomi had even seen each again after the global warming benefit, let alone that they were so intimate. I want Naomi to be happy, but if she messes this one up, her granddaughters may not even get into community college. Still, for the moment, Dr. Barasch is gently making little circles between Naomi’s shoulder blades, which actually seems to be quieting her howls.
“When we heard the news about the markets Naomi and I were at her apartment, er, we were just getting out of themovies,” Dr. Barasch says, eyeing the twins and switching to the G-rated version of his story. “Your mother wanted to come right over to see what we could do to help.”
Paige is sitting at a card table (Molly’s already auctioned off the dining room set). In front of her are a large stack of dollar bills.
“What’s all this?” asks Sienna, going over and kissing the top of her goddaughter’s head.
“Moneygami,” says Paige, holding up a one-dollar bill that she’s folded into a spindly legged crane. “If I’m not supposed to
spend
money anymore, at least I can play with
“Okay, everyone. Heads high, put away your phones. Gloria,” he commands, turning to a receptionist, “get everyone a bottle of antioxidant pomegranate water. And, ladies, stop fretting, it causes wrinkles. Today’s injections are on the house.”
The house? I’d love to stay for more Evolence but I have to get back to the apartment to see Peter and the girls. I give Dr. B. a quick kiss, grab Sienna, and head toward the waiting room. It’s not until we’re out of the subway and the anesthetic wears off that I realize we never finished filling in my laugh lines. At the moment that doesn’t seem so terrible—they’re a reminder of happier times.
P ETER’S STANDING SLACK-SHOULDERED in the entranceway of the apartment, bouncing a red rubber ball against our Venetian-plastered sky blue walls. Our twenty-nine-year-old boy-wonder lawyer, Bill Murphy, is trying to get him to turn on the lights, but as soon as Bill flicks them on, Peter stops bouncing the ball long enough to turn them off.
“I got here an hour ago, as soon as I heard the news, but I can’t get Peter to focus on anything but that damned ball,” Bill says, patting his hair, which isn’t so much slicked back as plastered, Alfalfa-style, to his baby-faced head. His suit, as always,is slightly rumpled, and although he’s over six feet tall, Bill’s the kind of guy who doesn’t stand out in a crowd. Still, while Bill’s style isn’t sharp, his mind is—he got his degree less than five years ago and already he’s considered one of New York’s best tax attorneys. And he’s awfully sweet.
“It was nice of you to come over. Why don’t we go inside and I’ll fix you both a drink,” I say, guiding Bill and Sienna past my shell-shocked husband and dropping my bag on the now-flowerless Georgian table. “I think Peter just needs some alone time.” And as I step into the living room, I can see why.
The peripatetic financial analyst Jim Cramer is waving his arms manically, shouting out blow-by-blows of the economic meltdown from the sixty-five-inch plasma TV screen. Naomi, dressed head-to-toe in black, is rocking back and forth with her hands on either side of her head like a Sicilian widow at a funeral. “It’s a perfect storm, a perfect storm,” wails my mother, the Al Roker of tragedy. Sitting next to Naomi, patting her arm protectively, is Dr. Barasch, P-H-D, her dancing partner from the benefit.
“Dr. Barasch, what are you doing here?” I ask, more than a little taken aback to see the headmaster of the girls’ private school sitting on a folding chair in my living room. I had no idea that he and Naomi had even seen each again after the global warming benefit, let alone that they were so intimate. I want Naomi to be happy, but if she messes this one up, her granddaughters may not even get into community college. Still, for the moment, Dr. Barasch is gently making little circles between Naomi’s shoulder blades, which actually seems to be quieting her howls.
“When we heard the news about the markets Naomi and I were at her apartment, er, we were just getting out of themovies,” Dr. Barasch says, eyeing the twins and switching to the G-rated version of his story. “Your mother wanted to come right over to see what we could do to help.”
Paige is sitting at a card table (Molly’s already auctioned off the dining room set). In front of her are a large stack of dollar bills.
“What’s all this?” asks Sienna, going over and kissing the top of her goddaughter’s head.
“Moneygami,” says Paige, holding up a one-dollar bill that she’s folded into a spindly legged crane. “If I’m not supposed to
spend
money anymore, at least I can play with
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