Chapter 5
In the week since my run-in with Eli, I’m ashamed to say I’ve spent a large chunk of my free time reading the building bylaws and googling articles about co-op disputes. I’ve written and rewritten a letter to the board apprising them of Eli’s plans, trying to explain why they’re a bad idea. But I haven’t had the gumption to send it.
My best friend, Dane, is an urban gardener (which in New York City mostly means she plants tiny gardens for people in brownstones with a “yard” and creates living plant walls for companies that want to look like they’re ecofriendly while actually sucking up a ton of water), so I’ve pestered her a lot about every potential hazard that could come with rooftop gardens. Those notes have made it into various versions of my letter, but I keep deleting portions when it looks too petty. Maybe knowing about the specific growing mediums for rooftops and the percentage of perlite you should add to maintain a healthy roof makes me seem a bit over the top.
It also doesn’t help that every time I ask Dane another question, she responds with some version of “calm the hell down.”
I’ve thought about mentioning Eli to my neighbors every time I run into them, but I chicken out at each opportunity. It’s as though my people-pleasing gene can’t possibly be switched off in order to even attempt to pick a real fight.
When Kwan came to drop off Lucy on Saturday night, I didn’t even bring it up then, even though he was in my apartment with his dog. We talked at length about the visit he was going to have with his daughter in Baltimore and had a long chat about whether we felt the strawberries at the farmers’ market had reached peak yet (the mutual decision was “not quite”). But I couldn’t think of a way to ask whether he’d heard any rumblings about renovations without sounding like I had another agenda. So I left it.
Ari reminded me in our session yesterday that I’ve also left another thing to fester. I walked in ready to complain about Eli and also nitpick something my brother had said, and instead she immediately asked me what I’ve decided about J. When I admitted I’d pretty much actively avoided thinking about it, I got a lovely little lecture about the need to put myself first and not bury hard things.
I know she’s not wrong. But after that conversation, trying to go to sleep last night was like a master class in failure. Ari’s words floated in my mind along with J’s, like letters in a thick alphabet soup. After last week’s column’s heavy confessions, this week’s led to much lighter conversation. A woman had asked a question about the ethics of having sex dreams about someone other than your spouse.
??Is it weird that all of my dreams are mostly about obtaining food??? J commented. ??Like, why do you think some people are having their kinky sex dreams and I’m over here having dreams where I keep running and running to try and get my mum’s shepherd’s pie???
??I’ve never been the kind of therapist who bought into Freudian dream analysis I’m afraid, so I don’t have much for you on that front,?? I responded. ??But I’d have to agree that my subconscious is also probably mostly concerned with food too. Although for me it would be the ultimate New York choice of a black and white cookie. Or a bagel. Impossible to decide between carbs.??
All my other potential answers were too loaded to even consider: If you’re really good in bed, do you not have sex dreams? Wishful thinking. Maybe you’re too sexually satisfied to have sex dreams? Not what I want to even consider. Do you ever dream about me and you just can’t say that? Too creepy to even think about writing.
So as a result, I’m tired today from spending a night tossing and turning. After a week of hyperfocus-avoiding by considering and failing at a plot against Eli, the reminder of J both in written words and in therapist nudging made it impossible to go to sleep. And now this morning, out walking George, I’m dragging.
The only thing that got me up—other than George’s persistent whining and the necessity of seeing my first client at 9:00 a.m.—was the promise of the early-summer Wednesday farmers’ market. I’m lucky to live near the city’s oldest and largest, in Union Square. And I had to give those strawberries another whirl to see if half a week had made them even sweeter since I last talked to Kwan about them. And pick up some bread. And see if maybe there was rhubarb left too.
The desire to make a strawberry-rhubarb something was enough to get me moving. I threw on my favorite floral vintage romper and headed out the door with George. He trotted in front of me like a prince making his way through a crowd of loyal subjects. For such a cantankerous dog, he sure loves to parade in front of people. He’ll give a low growl to any poor enthusiast who thinks he must be friendly because he’s a small dog and try to pet him; but he certainly loves being outside and getting to see what’s happening.
And the market is almost invigorating enough to make me forget the fuzziness in my brain. This early, stalls are still finishing setting up, beckoning with their bounty. Bright-green textured lettuces are set out against deep-purple curved eggplant. Cheesemongers are forming their displays next to bakers’ stands. New York always feels at its most magical for me in the mornings, when it’s coming alive with community.
As I’m wrapping up my purchases, my phone rings. I’m surprised to see it’s my editor, Celia—she rarely calls me. We’re kind of a well-oiled machine at this point, and after seven years it’s extremely rare for her to have any commentary on my column.
“Hi, Celia,” I say, popping my headphones into my ears while I balance my tote bags, now laden with food. “Nice to hear from you.”
“I loved the column this week, Eleonora,” she starts in. She’s the only person who even occasionally calls me Eleonora, which is how she claimed she could keep the column anonymous despite using my legal first name. “‘Sympathy for Sex Dreams’ is a great headline. Her poor husband, though! I’m not sure if I’d love it if Charles was waking up thinking about someone else.”
“Well, the subconscious does what the subconscious does,” I reply, wondering where this is going.
“Damn right!” she says with a laugh, and I consider if maybe she’s had some dreams of her own that she wouldn’t readily admit to. “Anyway, love, it’s so nice to hear your voice. How’ve you been?”
It’s funny how she says that as though we regularly catch up. We’ve been acquaintances since college, and I appreciated her thinking of me for the column, but I doubt we’d have maintained a real friendship otherwise. She moved back to London and I moved back to the US right after we graduated, and we mostly kept in touch through mutual liking of each other’s social media posts from time to time.
But after I finished grad school, she reached out with the idea for Ask Eleonora. Ever since I said yes, we’ve been in regular contact now through that, even though I’ve only seen her a handful of times when she’s been in New York. I do like her, though—she’s to the point and always has my back. She’s the kind of person who never asks for a favor that she wouldn’t give.
But because of that, and because most of our correspondence is over email, I know she’s not just calling to hear how I’ve been.
“I’m good. It’s been nice to have the days getting warmer,” I reply, hoping the easiest way to get through pleasantries with any Brit is to mention the weather.
“Oh, lucky. It’s still dreary in London, I’m afraid,” she replies, true to form.
“Well, soon enough,” I reply.
“Indeed,” she agrees succinctly, making me grateful knowing the chitchat is over. “Anyway, I wanted to give you a ring because I have some fun news!”
“Oh yeah?” I fidget with the strap of my bag, wondering what the possible context for that could be.
“I have a new boss who’s taking over Lifestyle, and she’s actually dying to meet you. She loves the column. They’re doing a little lunch reception for her in a couple months, once she gets her bearings, and I’d like you to fly in to see her. What do you think?”
I’ve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. I mutter apologies to the person who was walking behind me and almost ran into me when I made the cardinal New York sin of interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic.
I move to the side and lean against a wall. Is this kismet? Right when I tell Ari about J and when she’s now telling me to do something about it , a rationale to be in London opens up right in front of me? What better reason could I have to ask J if we should meet? Maybe he’ll even be at the reception?
“Nora?” Celia says, and I snap back to the call. Right. “I know you like being anonymous in your column, but this wouldn’t be a public event or anything. It’s not even seated, so if you didn’t want to make it a thing with anyone else at the paper, it wouldn’t have to be. I just know Donna—that’s the new boss—thought it would be fun if you came.”
“Oh, yeah, no, that sounds really fun,” I quickly reply, not wanting my silence to make Celia think I’m ungrateful. “I’d have to figure out the timing, of course ...”
There’s a part of me that wants to blame work and busyness and say no to it so I don’t have to actually face up to seeing J. Ari’s right that I avoid hard things, and this is, most definitely, a version of a hard thing. If I go to London, I’ll have no excuse not to reach out, and that thought terrifies me.
But I have to admit that without the J stuff, I would say yes in a second. Not because I need to go back to London so badly (although who would say no to that? I do miss the UK after having spent so much time there for college), but because if Celia’s asking me for something, I should say yes. Doing the column has been such a bright spot for me. And I owe this to her if she wants me there.
“But of course I’ll come,” I say.
“Wonderful!” Celia exclaims, with a bit more glee in her voice.
“Great,” I reply, a little dumbfounded at the implications of what I’ve just agreed to.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Celia says, in her typically polite brush-off. “The event will be at the start of August, so we have a couple of months to make plans. I’ll send you all the details over email, and we can coordinate from there.”
We say our goodbyes, and I start walking back toward my apartment. I can feel my stomach twisting up, knowing what I’m going to have to do. What I want to do but otherwise would’ve found a multitude of reasons not to do.
I’m so in my head I barely hear a familiar smoking-scratched voice call out to me. “Nora, sweetheart!”
I turn around and see Meryl sitting at an outdoor table at the local coffee-and-bagel place. Today’s skirt looks like a billowy quilt come to life, and her usual glasses sit on top of her head in favor of some rhinestone-encrusted cat-eye reading ones. Although I imagine she’s not doing much reading if she’s noticing her neighbors walking by.
“Hey, Meryl,” I say with a smile.
She immediately puts her water cup on the ground for George (who would never touch water he deemed to be stale or used, but it’s a nice thought) and pats the seat next to her. “I have an extra coffee to bring back to Tom, but I’m happy to throw him overboard and give it to you if you keep me company for a little.” She grins slyly, and it’s easy to imagine her as a small child wreaking havoc.
I’ve got a client in less than an hour, but the lure of coffee when I’m this tired is too strong. “Is ten minutes enough to scam Tom out of his coffee?”
She snorts with happiness. “Oh heck yeah.”
I sit down and tie George to the table. He looks up nonplussed but then lies down to take a nap and ignore me. Meryl slides the coffee over, and I sigh with my first sip. I’m not sure why coffee wasn’t my first move of the morning.
“Haven’t seen your hot brother in a while,” Meryl says casually, and I almost choke on my coffee. “What? He’s got that gangly look I like.”
I shake my head. “First I’m taking Tom’s coffee; now I’m listening to his wife objectify other men?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think your brother is leaving anyone for an old bag in her eighties.”
“But if he would?” I tease.
“Then sayonara, Tom. At least for a night.” She winks at me, and I pretend (and sort of not pretend) to gag.
“He’s fine,” I say casually. “I haven’t seen him for a bit, because whenever he starts avoiding my parents, he avoids me too.”
Meryl’s mouth goes taut, as she clearly doesn’t like my answer. “That entire family of yours takes you for granted,” she says, pulling a hard candy from some fold in her skirt and popping it into her mouth.
I roll my eyes, because even though I do get pulled into Meryl’s coffee vortex a fair amount, I don’t exactly overshare when it comes to my family.
But maybe I’m hiding my weariness worse than I thought.
“They are who they are,” I respond, my typical attempt to underplay.
“Please.” She gives an exaggerated sigh and pats my hand. “Paying our super to go look at a leak in their sink because they didn’t want to ‘bother’ theirs and then realizing it’s because they tried to install an illegal garbage disposal themselves should not be on you.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Vardan, our building super and all-around handyman, let that little tidbit slip to Meryl. I think he loves gossip just as much as she does, despite being a bearish-looking man who you’d never expect it from.
I give her a shrug, not really sure what to say. But that never deters her. “And what do you think about that Eli, huh?” she asks.
“What about him?” I reply cautiously, wary to get into this conversation with Meryl of all people.
“Well, I heard he wants to do something on the roof. It’s funny that none of us ever thought about that before!”
I know if I ever had an opening to sway someone (and someone who might repeat their viewpoint to everyone else in the building), then this is it. But I need to pretend to be casual about it so I don’t look as desperate as I feel internally.
“Oh yeah, I heard that too. It’s a nice idea as long as he comes up with a really solid plan to not keep people awake at night or wreck any common spaces.”
“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that!” she says, and I try to hide my smile. Maybe this will be easier than I thought.
“Yeah, I wonder if the roof is thick enough to cover noise for the people on the top floor if someone’s walking around above them. Or like ... since there’s no trash or restroom up there, we wouldn’t want people tramping dirty feet back and forth up the stairwell, since the elevator doesn’t go there. Or plants! We wouldn’t want to cause a leak watering plants.”
I stop myself there, because I’m starting to get the sense that I’m ceasing to appear casual on this topic.
“Those are such good points. We should ask some of the board members what they think about it,” Meryl says.
“Tom’s on the board. Why don’t you just ask him?”
“He never knows anything,” she says, waving my question away, and I laugh.
It is true that our building’s board sounds a lot more official than it is. We’re supposed to rotate every year, but considering no one ever actually wants to do it, a lot of the same people keep getting roped back in. Kwan has been the treasurer apparently for ten years now, because he worked in finance before he retired and he’s the only person willing to even pretend to care about the building’s budget. Tom is the sort of do-gooder that keeps getting persuaded to stay on out of fealty to his neighbors. I did it one year and found myself bored to tears by our building management company’s frequent agenda items about tax statutes and building codes. I think most of the people who end up serving feel the same way and are doing it out of obligation. Kwan is a noble exception. Our building president, Hearn, seems to relish his little fiefdom and is probably half the reason why every meeting goes on too long. But while I think he’s pretty universally disliked by everyone in the building, no one wants to challenge him because no one wants to actually take on the required work.
“Well, I’m sure Eli means well,” I say, lamely attempting to be nice even while I’m trying to sabotage someone. “But yeah, we should all stay on top of the implications.” I look at my phone and catch the time. “I’ve gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime, gorgeous.” She blows me a kiss, and I start walking back home to drop George off before heading to my office.
And that’s the beauty of starting my day. Whatever problems I have with J or Eli or my family, I’m well trained to leave them at my door and focus on my patients. My own life will have to take a back seat.