The Neallys

Suzanne: Meeting Kerry

Annie Baxter was not a morning person so I took no offense when her response to my waking her with a nudge was a petulant “WHAT?” I had just pulled into a rest stop along I-80 some fifty miles east of our homes in the Bay Area. “Get me a coffee and I’ll be good,” she added apologetically.

She was my longest and best friend, and we were driving to New York for the first time. She was going to business school at Columbia and I was beginning at its law school. We grew up in Mill Valley, a northern suburb of San Francisco, and she was a Berkeley grad. I went to Stanford.

My name is Suzanne Nelson. I am of average height with long dark-brown hair and a bit on the thin side and were you to ask me to tell you something particular about myself it would be that I was a pretty decent runner, good enough to run on Stanford’s women’s cross-country and track teams but nowhere good enough to think of seeking a pro contract. I was also realistic and confident enough to avoid the eating disorders that too many of my classmates fought through.

My mother did charitable work, and my father was a lawyer, a partner in one of Silicon Valley’s preferred law firms, and that—and perhaps a desire to delay when I had to get a real job—led me to apply to law school. While I did not get into Harvard or Yale, I picked Columbia over Stanford so I could have an adventure in New York, across the country from where I’d lived my entire first twenty-two years. And there were unspoken reasons I did not want to remain in California.

Hence my getting coffee for Annie early on August 16, 2016, at a rest stop on I-80 about 50 miles east of San Francisco.

Why were we driving? And what were we to do with a car in Manhattan? Well, it was easier for Annie and me to bring our stuff and, as to the particulars, my Aunt Mary lived near Sarah Lawrence in Yonkers and offered her driveway as a place to park my hand-me-down tan Camry. Since Yonkers is just north of the City, it would be easy to take the train to get it for occasional weekend trips. Neither of us had been to New York. The car would help us explore.

I did not tell my parents where I would park. They thought it was at a friend-of-a-teammate’s house, but I am getting ahead of myself. Back to the drive.

Annie and I used a system to take turns driving, but by the third day even we ran out of things to talk about and we lingered in our own worlds, listening to random music and podcasts. This changed when we were about halfway across New Jersey. Then the excitement rebuilt.

I drove the final stretch into Manhattan and to West 87th Street. We were suddenly actually in a place I’d seen a million times on TV and in movies. Corny I know, but undeniable. And the Park was right there.

As I double-parked in front of number 17, an attractive woman, mid-fifties, wearing khaki shorts and a pink polo shirt, about my height but not as slim, with mid-length dark hair, rose from the stoop, waited for us, and gave me a tight hug when I reached the sidewalk.

This was my Aunt Mary. I had not seen her in almost six years. I’d texted her when we were about an hour outside the City. She had the keys for our apartment, a furnished two-bedroom in a brownstone. Annie and I had lucked out in finding the place, through my Aunt’s efforts. The three of us brought our stuff upstairs and I took the train and subway back after I went with Aunt Mary to drop the car off at her place while Annie organized our things. Pizza and beer for our first dinner.

Now, a bit over a week later, Annie and I were moved in and I was sitting in the back row of a large semi-circular classroom at Columbia Law staring at the neck and left ear of the woman sitting in front of me. It was my third day of school.

I knew that one of the things you want to do when you start law school is get into a study group. It’s an informal group of four or five classmates who go over course material and prepare for exams together. I knew no one. There seemed to be networks of Ivy League and Little Ivy League and Seven Sister students but I did not recognize anyone from Stanford. The brunette I was staring at and who was making it hard for me to focus also looked to be friendless, and her Columbia backpack was too new to have seen any duty in college. I figured it was a recent acquisition and that she was not among the undergrad Ivy Leaguers.

As she stood when class was over I reached over the long desk that separated us, hoping she had not been taken. She turned and her initial surprise turned into a smile as she said, “Hi.”

“Can I have a word?” My god that was too formal. I sounded like the principal. After she said “sure” we met at the aisle and found a quiet spot in the hallway, away from the din of all the other conversations that echoed through the low-ceilinged hall.

“Are you in a study group?”

“Sorry?”

“A study group. You looked like me, another lost soul who didn’t know anyone else here and you look smart so I thought I’d ask.”