State of Grace Chapter One
What Would Nam Nam Do? - Grace
Sweat trailed down my forehead into my eye, burning and mingling with my contact. My teeth gritted and my abdomen spasmed. I couldn’t give up now. I wouldn’t give my torturer the sick satisfaction of knowing she was the one who ended me. Not when I was so close to victory.
“And keep holding for three… and two… and one.” The bubblegum masochist called out to the room of women gasping for air. Over the ringing in my ears and an upbeat pop song, I heard someone dry heaving in the corner (it was me). “High-five your neighbors, ladies! Stretch and be sure to wipe down your machines.”
The woman next to me, a superhuman no doubt, hopped to her feet, flexed her abs, and posed with her phone in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
“Great modification there, Grace!” Master Torturer, Suzi with an i, said as she disconnected her mic-pack from her coordinating workout set. Inside my brain, I flipped her off for the mental and physical distress she caused me, but on the outside, I gave her a weak smile as I wiped the excessive sweat off my Pilates machine. She was a nice lady; it wasn’t her fault I signed up for the one class in the city that made me contemplate all my life’s choices.
“Thanks Suzi, really challenging class today,” I said, sipping (gulping) my electrolyte water. I grabbed my bag from the ground, my vision blurring ever so slightly.
Lovely.
Suzi, the demon, laughed sweetly. “You’re too funny, Grace. See you Friday.” With a high-five, she sauntered to the front of the room and welcomed in her next victims.
My phone buzzed violently in my bag.
10:03 AM. Seven new notifications. Swiping my finger on the screen, I dodged the eager, and honestly quite terrifying, group of Tribeca moms as I shimmied out of the open door.
Mother Hen: Sorry I missed you this morning, Ace. Don’t forget to pick up the video testimonials for the gala <3
Mother Hen: Nam Nam is joining us for dinner tonight; wear something sensible.
I smirked as I liked her messages, shooting off a quick reply. Nam Nam, also known as my mother’s batshit crazy grandmother, was 97 years old, quick as a whip, and had a mouth like a sailor. She survived the Great Depression, war, and her first two husbands. After grandma died, we all thought Nam Nam would follow. But, to my mom’s great dismay, she’s still kicking. And terrorizing Mom.
Making a note to pick up some butterscotch buttons for her on my way home, I hustled through my shower at the studio, humming along to the latest pop song on the speakers. One of the reasons I keep coming back to this torture chamber was their array of luxury soaps and hair products, free to use for members, of course.
It’s one thing to suffer for 45 minutes; another to follow that up with itchy, polyester towels.
As I wrapped one towel around my hair, the other on my body, I swiped through the rest of my notifications.
SmutLover97 liked your latest book review on Fable: “Bulging biceps, a dimple, AND emotionally intelligent. Does someone have a horse I can save? Time to ride that cowboy.”
New recipes waiting for you! Open Pinterest.
Indy: Drinks 2nite?
Charlie:Only if it’s not in some crap hole.
Indy:Plz.
Charlie:Were you robbed or something? What’s up with the 2000s texts?
Several minutes passed between their exchange in our bestie group chat.
Indy:Got flip phone. Fuck smartphones + FUCK AI!!!
Charlie:Here, here.
Chuckling to myself, I replied to the group while buttoning up my straight-leg jeans and throwing on a white tee.
Grace:Agreed :) Can’t tonight. Nam Nam is coming over for dinner.
Indy:Luv her, leave din early
Charlie:Do you need to have Ethan on standby in case Charlotte has a coronary?
Ethan was Charlie’s husband, one of the city’s top cardiac surgeons. They met while Charlie was finishing his MBA and Ethan was in his final year in residency. Five years later, they’re still just as smitten with each other as they were the night they met at a Broadway karaoke night.
Pumping a generous amount of the fancy hair mask in my hands, I lathered my still wet hair and wrapped it up in a tight bun.
Grace:And risk Nam Nam’s wrath? Don’t think so…
A brisk chill ran down my arms as I stepped onto the shaded sidewalk. Pulling the blush cashmere cardigan from my tote, I delighted in the way it matched my Mary Jane flats.
If pink was a religion, I was its most devoted disciple.
Another buzz.
Indy:Nam Nam would want you out. ART BAR BK 9 PM.
Charlie:No, Indy, I refuse to go to another one of your hipster bars that turns into an orgy for the elderly.
Indy:That was 1 time! Plz Plz Plz.
Charlie:Grace, back me up here.
Skipping over a grate on the ground, I shook my head at my phone, inhaling the smell of baked goods from the coffee shop I passed nearly every day. As a lifelong New Yorker, I knew to mind my own business. But, on crisp autumn days like today, I allowed my gaze to wander. There was no shame in taking in the world around you, pulling yourself out of the rat race, and observing the symphony of city sights like a tourist.
The nanny army and their screaming gaggle of toddlers. Executives rushing to meetings. Assistants balancing steaming cups of coffee. The crunch of orange leaves.
It was beautiful. Loud, and sometimes overwhelming, but beautiful.
Grace:Fuck it, let’s run it back.
Charlie:You two are deviants. And so fucking weird for wanting to see wrinkly penises.
Indy:Grace needs 2 get laid. Even if it’s by wrinkle dick.
Grace:Ewwww. I take it back. Charlie, you pick the place. Something less wrinkly.
Indy:Boo!!!
Charlie:There’s a new speakeasy near Fi-Di we can try.
Indy:Men in suits, me like
Grace:Sounds good!
Dodging the crowds, I ordered an early lunch on my phone. Today, like most every other day, would be comfortably predictable. Pilates in the morning. Work a few hours as the liaison for my mother’s philanthropy, Mamas Who Care. Check in on the moms at the shelter. Have dinner. Meet Charlie and Indy for a drink. Read a smutty book until my eyes burned.
Sure, I had the Pride and Prejudice “I’m twenty-seven years old, with no prospects” monologue memorized by now, but I was free!
Twenty-seven years old? Check.
No prospects? Check.
No money? Not check. Some might call me a nepo baby, but I like to say I’m a testament to my parents’ success. And if I’m fortunate enough to not be pressed to find a job, why would I rush the process? My heart was in the work I did at Mamas Who Care, and I didn’t particularly want to explore anything other than that.
“Morning, Mr. Jones,” I called to the building’s doorman, swiping my key on the access card.
Mother came from old money—Nam Nam’s second husband had something to do with the railroads and the mob—and so she started a conglomerate of sorts. A bunch of wealthy people pitching in to help the less fortunate in exchange for a hefty tax cut.
Did I necessarily agree with the methods used to get here? Not particularly. But I wasn’t an idiot. Money greases the wheels.[BS24] For the women who benefit from Mamas Who Care, it’s the difference between losing a child born with life-threatening complications and watching their baby grow up and grow old.
Sterile, white walls lined the hallway of the Mamas Who Care section of the 17th floor. Every now and then, garish, donated artwork would pop up like a bad slasher movie. Most desks were empty as the “office” functioned more as one big co-working space.
Settling into one of the beige, laminate tables, I pulled out my laptop.
My bare, manicured nails clicked on the keys, echoing in the otherwise silent space. Shooting a quick email to Tiffany, our head of outreach, I confirmed we’d meet at 1 PM to review the final edit of the testimonial videos.
Over the last few months, I helped Tiffany and the rest of the staff interview mothers who the charity worked with. It was incredible to see babies who were once the size of my palm now healthy and thriving. I blubbered and sobbed big tears after every recording we took, hugging the moms that I had grown to know and care for over their long stints at the NICU and our Mamas Who Care shelter.
As much as I hated the pomp and snobbery of charity galas, this was our biggest fundraising effort of the fiscal year. It’s where we rubbed shoulders with the city’s rich and powerful. Where old money and new money shmoozed for the greater good.
Sighing, I pulled up the day’s second priority—emailing our donors. Most were great. Some (most) were assholes looking to cash in on the tax break.
And one was a perv.
Richard Easten the Third. A rodent that rivaled even the biggest, nastiest rats that carry pizza slices in their mouths while wreaking havoc on the subway. His gray hair wisped beneath the blend of his toupee, and despite the extra shots of testosterone, he still looked like the crypt keeper. To make matters worse, he loved to call me Baby Gracie even after twenty-five years of knowing the guy.
Note to self: pack vomit bag in purse for gala.
Tapping my foot against the floor, I bit my bottom lip. He was the type of old, rich dude that got what he wanted when he wanted. Maybe meant yes, and no also meant yes. Engaging with him in any way made my stomach recoil.
“Just get it over with, Grace,” I mumbled to myself.
Quickly, I copied the standard email that I’d sent to all our top donors, switching the greeting to Dear Sir Richard Easten the Third.
Yuck.
My parents always did their best to keep me far away from the creepy old fuck, but he always found a way to corner me at galas and other high-society events.
His response was instant.
Baby Gracie,
I’m looking forward to a dance with you.
With excitement,
Sir Richard Easten the Third
Dis—and I cannot emphasize this enough—gusting. Pushing down the bile threatening to come up, I averted my attention to what really mattered.
The women we helped and their children.
Clicking over to a new tab, I opened one of my bookmarks, and instantly, our database sprang to life. Smiling pictures of new mothers holding their babies. Quotes highlighting the healthcare providers who helped nurse the mothers and their children back to health. And my favorite section, Beyond NICU—a snapshot of the babies’ journeys from neonatal intensive care to where they were now.
Entering my credentials, I popped over to our mothers’ support group. It was an initiative I started to help mothers connect with each other. Too often, their day-to-day was overwhelming and isolating. Having a community of women who understood their struggle gave them the support they needed to keep going, as well as access to practical resources.
My official title, according to my mother and the paperwork, was chief liaison. But I hated how that kept me behind closed doors, shoved into luncheons and nonsensical meetings. To me, the real work was actually getting to know these women. Helping them, with my own two hands. Holding their baby while they stepped out to take a shower or grab a bite to eat. Listening to them when their whole world had been flipped upside down.
The rest didn’t matter to me.
“Here’s your hard drive and your lunch, princess,” Tiffany said as she pulled up a seat next to me. Her bouncy blonde hair was in a high pony that accented her perfectly symmetrical cheekbones. When she wasn’t working with Mamas Who Care, she was an on-call private nurse. Think Botox parties and a mobile peptide bank.
I squealed as I grabbed the thin USB from her, plugging it into my computer. “Have you seen it yet?” I asked her as I pulled out two loaded salads. Handing Tiffany her favorite Greek Goddess, I curled my legs under me and got comfortable.
“I don’t need you to buy me lunch every time we meet, but thanks,” she replied. “Not yet. I was waiting for you to watch it together.”
“The raw footage was so moving, I’m sure it’s going to be a hit with the donors.” Stabbing at my salad with a spork, I pressed play and reached for the napkins to dry my eyes of the tears that would undoubtedly be flowing.
