Chapter 11. Brynn
brYNN
I walk in the opposite direction of where Micah gets on the subway. I can’t lose this guy. What a day.
Of course, no seats are left. I wrap my arm around a pole and close my eyes for a minute.
The train jerks forward.
My body goes with it.
Bright purple shoes paired with a teal pencil skirt catch my attention. The dark beard and bright red lips startle me at first. They smile.
Rikki and I became friends in seventh grade when we were assigned to the same group project on ancient Macedonia in our world history class. Our small team of researchers met for weeks after school at my family’s apartment, one block from the Dekalb Ave L train.
Rikki always came hungry and requesting jelly-only sandwiches.
I preferred only peanut butter on mine.
My dad would shake his head, claiming if only our tastebuds could agree, we’d have a winner of a sandwich.
We stayed tight even after our project received a measly B+, which I disputed to no avail, pulling Rikki along to plead our case.
The rest of our group didn’t seem to care.
Our friendship worked; being so different, we never competed.
At twelve, they loved tight, trendy clothes, where I found comfort in a baggy T-shirt and athletic shorts.
They obsessed over the movie Twilight, especially polar bear–white Edward, and I fantasized under the covers about the entire wolfpack from New Moon.
We did share similar musical tastes, singing at the top of our lungs in my bedroom to Carly Rae Jepsen and begging our parents to let us see One Direction at the Beacon.
We remained close until we ended up at different high schools and lost touch.
What a body they have now. Unlike me, Rikki’s narrow hips can rock a slim look; I’d look like a stuffed sausage in that outfit.
I open my mouth to say something.
Their earlier smile falls and they glance away.
Guess they changed their mind.
Ugly words stream from the guy behind me. He sounds like a character from a bad ’80s coming-of-age movie with his less-than-creative homophobic slurs.
For a few minutes, he lets up. I sigh with relief.
Then the a-hole spouts off something about God, closes in, and spits.
Not everyone’s a fan of Rikki’s.
My old friend’s eyes widen. They back away.
My palms slip around the pole.
Wrapping their arms around their waist, Rikki stares at the ground, eyes swimming.
The train enters the station.
One of the passengers, a man in a utility uniform, leans into my line of sight and winks.
I follow his eyes and connect with the other faces around us. A silent agreement is passed.
I catch a whiff of a cigarette and hear Rikki’s cry before the lit end enters my peripheral. I spin around, slam my full weight on that a-hole’s foot, and then rush my tall, skinny friend before they know what’s happening.
They fall backward, onto the train floor.
A lump clogs my throat and I dive forward to help them up.
For a brief moment, we’re touching, and I try to come up with something to say. But then we reach the next stop and Rikki bolts out the train doors without a word or second glance.
A nameless sadness spreads through me. We used to be so close.
Dragging myself up the four flights to my apartment, I’m hit first with the tangy aroma of barbecue and then, on the next floor, red sauce and garlic bread.
Climbing higher, my mouth waters. I picture my mom and dad taking these same stairs and my heart squeezes.
I want them to be there to hug me when I walk through the door.
Want to tell them about my bizarre first day.
“God, what I wouldn’t do for a beer.” I thrust my key in the lock.
“What’s that?”
An unfamiliar face exits the communal bathroom.
“Oh, um . . . I wish I had some beer in my fridge.”
“I’ve got some. Want one?”
“Oh, no . . . thanks, though.”
She extends her hand. “Debra.”
“Brynn.”
Her fingers wrap around mine, all warm and soft.
I smile a little at her orange and pink floral caftan, half expecting an officer of a cruise ship to be nearby. Her long, blue-silver hair drapes in a loose braid down her back with a few rogue strands framing her face; a simple gold cross hangs from her neck.
“I haven’t seen you before and I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years.” She grins, revealing teeth that are ultra-white for someone her age. “Did you just move in?” Her smokey blue eyes study me.
“A couple of weeks ago. My parents used to rent it out.”
The skin crinkles around her eyes. Her mouth falls open. “Basilio and Katia?”
My breath catches.
“You’re their baby girl! Of course—you favor your mom. We met when she was a little older than you are now, I suspect. Your dad would crack us up with his jokes. They didn’t live here long. I think you have the smallest unit in the building.”
“Yes, and the cheapest.” I blow out a heavy sigh.
“All sorts of recording artists have stood right where you are. I used to jam with a couple of them.” She presses her shoulders back.
“You’re a musician?”
“I sing and play guitar. You may recognize me from a long-running children’s television show.”
“Sesame Street?”
“The same.” She flashes her teeth again.
“I grew up watching it. My parents never mentioned they knew a cast member.”
“Well, well, come here, baby girl, and give your Aunt Debra a hug!”
“Aunt?” I pronounce it like she just did—rhymed with font.
“Nah, not really.” She chuckles. “I did babysit you a few times, though. Such a pretty little thing.”
Knowing she knew my parents somehow soothes the upset belly I’ve had all day. “Thanks. I think I will take that beer, if the offer still stands. Been a long, strange day. The air-conditioning broke on the subway. We all jammed into one car. Then this a-hole on the train . . .”
“That’s Man-hat-tan.” She sounds like Cody doing his booming announcer voice.
Cody. My stomach feels sickish one again.
She stops. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I rearrange my face.
She cocks her head. “Have you eaten?”
Debra’s apartment could swallow mine three times. It reminds me of an antique shop, one that smells like soup that’s been cooking all day. Everywhere I look, another thing draws my eye. Decades of concert and theater memorabilia from the ’70s layer the tables and walls.
“Did you paint this?” I motion to a canvas of a man shaking a pair of maracas, his chest glistening beneath his open shirt. “Wait, is this Mick Jagger?”
Deb laughs. “Yep. 1977. When I attended Skidmore. I’m not much of a painter, but it captures his sensuality, don’t you think? I met him once.”
“The energy coming off his body is electric,” I agree. “God, I wish I could move like that.”
I peruse her place like it’s a museum, stopping to study every charcoal drawing and dusty oil.
I spot an old pop art poster with the logo of my parents’ club, the Flaming Flamingo, and memories flood back of waiting at the club after school to take the train back to Brooklyn with my dad so he could cook dinner.
My nose stings. I wipe it, sniffling. I work up an excuse to leave.
She strolls back into the room carrying two beers in one hand, the necks laced between her fingers. Her eyes flit over to the poster and then back to me. She frowns a little, then pops off the caps and passes me one. “Here, sit.”
I follow her to a pink-upholstered sofa with an S-curve back. I step around the vintage trunk covered in band logos and album stickers and half-drunk cups of tea that serves as her coffee table, and plop down.
She lowers herself onto a blue vinyl bench that looks like it was pulled from an automobile. “I read about your parents’ car accident in the Voice.” Her expressive face drips with motherly sympathy.
My eyes fill.
“I used to love how your mom and dad jammed with the bands onstage at the end of every show. The room would erupt. Their passion invigorated the downtown music scene. Many artists owe their careers to that tiny club.”
I nod, my lips on lockdown. Do not cry. You just met this woman.
“Not holding up so well, are you?”
I grind my teeth and look away, wishing she’d quit.
“Hard to be the one left behind.”
Bull’s-eye. Cue ugly cry.
“Faking happy is tiresome, isn’t it?” She bobs her head, encouraging me to share.
I swipe at my streaming snot with the back of my hand.
She places a box of tissues before me.
“I’m a mess . . . a fucking . . . utter . . . mess.” I whisper the last few words, only to realize I’m oversharing. I look up at her, eyes wide. “I-I didn’t mean . . .”
She clasps her veiny hands in her lap. “Sometimes those are the only words that make sense in circumstances like these. Say them loud, get ’em out.”
I sniffle. “I’ve lived in this city my whole life, now everything feels foreign.”
“So leave.”
“I can’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
I shake my head.
“Are you in school?”
“I’m interning at an ad agency. They don’t know any of this.”
“Everyone’s got stuff.”
“I’m pissed off.” I sputter more snot and spit everywhere.
She leans forward, dipping her chin. “You should be, baby girl—their deaths are still fresh. Give this roller coaster of grief some time. There’s no universal standard for mourning. Every-one’s different.”
I swallow the ache in my throat. “When they died, we weren’t on the best of terms.” They were so angry at me. Cody tried to smooth things over . . . but I couldn’t let it drop.
She sighs, smiling. “I’m sure they loved you.”
“I really hurt them.” My voice is on full wobble now.
“Our kids can break our hearts, yet we still love them.”
I glance down and fiddle with the hem of my skirt where I ripped the seam with my She-Hulk strides racing to my interview. Girl clothes can be so restricting. I yank on the loose threads, making it worse.
I suck in a slow breath. “My boyfriend also died that night. Struck by a car outside a music store in Westchester. Hit and run. We planned to travel the world together, make it as singer-songwriters. We talked about getting married one day.”
I picture the two of us on the lawn in Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Me in a pale blue peasant blouse, Cody wearing my favorite green button-down of his, looking all vintage Abercrombie with his surfer-blond hair, threading daisies through my hair.
Deb blinks a few times but doesn’t say anything.
“I have so many regrets from that night. Like I could have done something.” My gaze drifts. “If I had, they’d all be alive right now.”
“Do they know what caused your parents’ accident? Was it a drunk driver?”
“Um, t-they never found the other car. Only tire marks.” I roll my fingers into a fist.
“Now you face each day without your mom and dad . . . and your young man.”
“Yeah, can anyone be more cursed?” A fever rises up my neck.
I dig my nails into my palms, creating half-moons of blood.
I hide my hands and swallow, releasing my balled-up breath.
The vacant eyes of the old woman from the elevator float into my head, then Rikki’s face contorting in fear when the man threatened to burn them.
“It’s been a day.” I blot my lashes with my finger.
Her expectant eyes stare back.
“I shouldn’t bother you—”
“Go ahead, bother me. I’ve got all the time in the world, baby girl.”
“It’s funny you call me that. My mom . . .” The words get stuck.
A look of recognition registers on her face. “I may be old, but not a day goes by when I don’t miss my parents.”
I nod along, not wanting to talk about them anymore. Nothing will bring them back. Ever. “Do you have children?”
“One. He’s grown, lives in Nevada. I don’t see him much.”
“Any grandkids?”
Her eyes light up. “Would you like to see a picture?”
I take a long swig of beer, savoring the break. A warm buzz travels down my legs. Cody liked to tease me for being a lightweight.
“Here she is, Georgina. I call her Gina for short.”
“She’s precious—all those freckles,” I gush. “How old?”
Debra looks up to the sky as if calculating. “She’s five.”
“Does she visit often?”
“Only once. My son’s a pilot for American. You’d think I’d see them more.” She snorts. “His wife doesn’t care for me much.”
“I can’t believe that. You’re so kind and welcoming.”
“She doesn’t trust me around Gina. When my son was small, I still partied—did some hard drugs, too. Been clean for the last twenty years though. Guess you can say I’ve been born again.”
I eye her beer.
She turns the label to me. “No alcohol in this one.” She frowns a little. “Still, booze was never my issue.”
I blink. “It’s good that you’ve stayed clean.”
She sighs, breaks eye contact. “A few of my friends weren’t so lucky.
” Her voice drops off. “I was a young mom, alone . . . lonely . . . I needed a break. So I’d leave my son with my folks in Park Slope.
Come back two or three days later after a binge.
His little face would light up when he saw me.
He’d come running. No matter what, that little boy loved me.
” She shakes her head. “One day I left him with my parents for another few days. But that time the few days became a week, then two . . . a year.” Her fingers flex in her lap.
I lean in and think about touching her strong, veiny hand, the same one that wrangled the necks of our beers like a bartender’s.
Her face falls. “I regret who I was back then . . . what I put him through.”
“Does he know how you feel?”
“We’re both hard-nosed.” Her chin falls. “At least Gina can see me on television.”
“I’d give anything to have another day with my parents,” I say wistfully. “Tell them about my internship, get their advice. I find this adulting thing rather overwhelming.”
Her eyes settle on mine. “You can tell me.”
Something skips inside my chest and I’m drawn to the etched lines pushing up her high cheekbones and folding in waves on either side of her mouth, each one earned from her colorful life. Her heart, perhaps, strums a lonesome chord like mine.
“I’d like that.” But not today. I take a mouthful of beer and then press my lips into a smile. “Tell me more about the good ole days—especially how you met Mick Jagger.”