Free Other People's Lives by Johanna Kaplan Page A

Standing up herself, Louise felt as if she would have to say it for him, but instead said, “Are you Canadian?”
    Dr. Vinograd smiled. It was the same surprising, boyish smile that had come with his suggesting history. “I was brought up in Montreal.”
    Beyond the waiting room, a narrow hallway separated Dr. Vinograd’s office (LAWRENCE VINOGRAD M.D.) from his apartment: against one wall, which was as far as Louise could see, was a pair of skis. They stood upright, ready, waiting. Rumpled, heavy Dr. Vinograd went skiing down mountains in the snow! His expression lightened from exhilaration and surprise; his wide Russian cheeks grew red and boyish from the cold. Wearing a ski jacket like everyone else, he did not pull at his tie, a gesture characteristic since boyhood; also, there were no phones to answer. It was possible, of course, that he would break his leg.
V
    In the chilly room, Rebecca repeated, “I’m absolutely positive, darling. Where did I meet you? Just give me a hint!”
    Very quickly Maria said, “That’s Louise Weil, Rebecca, and this is Julie Dresner.”
    â€œDresner, Dresner…Of course I know you! Your father is that marvelous, brilliant lawyer.”
    â€œHe’s a psychiatrist.”
    â€œYou have an uncle who’s a violist. With that wonderful new chamber group—I remember them from Spoleto!”
    â€œMy cousin. He plays the oboe.”
    â€œYour sister was a camper at Bucks Rock when my younger daughter was a counselor there.”
    â€œI don’t have a sister.”
    â€œDidn’t your parents have a house on Fire Island? Years ago—you would have been a baby.”
    â€œMartha’s Vineyard. They just sold it.”
    â€œWait a minute, darling. Your father’s a psychiatrist, the house is on Martha’s Vineyard, you’re an only child…Didn’t your mother write a book about indoor plants? It was just reissued?”
    â€œYes,” Julie said. “Her plants! It’s the only thing that stupid bitch ever cared about.”
    â€œ Darling! What a terribly unfair thing to say! Your mother always cared about so many things. Why do you think she wrote that book in the first place? You don’t know! You don’t remember! You don’t know what those times were like! And I don’t only mean McCarthy, though you probably don’t know who he was either! A big blur on the television screen—that’s all it was to you!” Rebecca’s hands were shaking so hard that a section of tangerine fell to the floor. Her face, already puffy and red, became an even darker, more alarming color as she bent down, and a fringe of her choppy gray hair grazed the table. Matthew giggled. There was a smell of sawed wood, cold, and tangerines. It was not “like” anything, Louise thought, and realized that the uneasy, sleepy distance had left her.
    Maria looked very surprised. She said, “What was this book?”
    â€œOh, you know,” Julie said, fully raising her head, but still sneering. “My mother wrote that stupid, boring book for stupid, bored housewives. How to make your plants look beautiful. How to make your house look beautiful. It’s all just a reflection—how to make yourself look beautiful, that’s really all it is. All ego. All self.”
    â€œ Julia. Darling. I know I yelled at you and I’m sorry about it, but if you keep talking that way I’m going to have to yell at you again. And it does terrible things to my blood pressure.”
    Matthew said, “Her name isn’t Jul ya , its Jul ee .”
    Louise looked at Rebecca: she had regained her balance, but the rosiness of her cheeks no longer looked like wind-burn.
    â€œAnd you’re another one, Matthew! Don’t think I don’t see it coming! Sitting there with your sandwich and your drawing paper—did I get one word? One hello? One kiss? One anything? Go ahead and giggle,