Chapter 16
Coming home from a Friday family dinner always leaves me feeling a bit wiped out.
The way my parents talk is a sensory overload. They talk past each other, over each other, interrupt and correct, all while going a mile a minute and never seeming to take a breath.
Tonight’s topics ranged from whether they should turn the butterflies in the Bronx Zoo butterfly house into art once they die (because apparently my mom spent a long time speaking to an artist who preserves butterflies and believes that there’s a missed opportunity for the zoo, and she’s now looking into who she can contact) to the intricacies of whether my dad can fix a clogged pipe by pulling up just a little bit of grout from the tile. There wasn’t a point explaining to my dad that he’d probably end up having to retile his entire bathroom floor if he started this particular DIY project. In the same way, there wasn’t a point explaining to my mother that the Bronx Zoo probably already has a plan in place for their butterflies.
And this was after a session with Ari where she wanted to, once again, talk to me about setting more boundaries with my parents. So I walked in already on edge.
My brother had conveniently begged off, with some excuse about working late (because accountants are known to be particularly busy in early July ...). So it was just me, absorbing all my parents’ energy, like overwatered soil in a pot with nowhere to spread all the excess.
I wish I could be more like Ike and leave my parents to themselves when I’m not in the mood. But I think that’s a little brother prerogative. I don’t have it in me to skip Shabbat dinner with them. That’s not my role.
I’d once again brought the documents for my parents to sign—documents that would move most of their assets into the annuity. My dad signed it without looking at it, which wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for. My mom flitted around ignoring it all night. As I got ready to leave, I decided to try asking her about it one more time.
“Can you please read through everything this week?” I plead. “If you want to talk to Tracey—”
“Who?” my dad asks, and I sigh.
“The financial planner.”
“Oh, right, right.” He’s listening even if my mom isn’t.
“If you want more information, just schedule a call with Tracey,” I say pointedly to my mom.
“You know I find all of this financial stuff so boring.” She rolls her eyes conspiratorially, as though she’s sharing a secret between two friends.
“I know,” I reply. “That’s why I’m trying to make it as easy as possible.”
“You’re such a doll,” my mom coos, kissing my cheeks about twenty times and leaving me with the distinct impression that she’s going to feed the papers to one of the Waldos before actually reading them.
I resign myself to having to have this conversation again next week and say my goodbyes.
I make my way home and then trudge into my apartment, carrying a heavy package of what I assume is the dog food I ordered. The evening has exhausted me, so I immediately slump happily onto my couch. George nestles himself into my lap, and I grab my latest half-read book off the table (yes, with the basics of the ending already known. I eventually caved. I am who I am.). I pull a blanket over me and open WhatsApp, because I have a few missed texts from J, sent while I was at dinner.
J: I know this is seasonally nonsensical, and I don’t even celebrate, but please hear me out.
J: Why are there so many birds in the “Twelve Days of Christmas”? Everyone sings this song like it’s totally normal, but we’re talking about some psycho showing up to their partner’s house every day with increasingly larger live animals. On the first day it’s like, “Aw, a partridge and tree I can plant in my yard. How nice!” Second day you’re like, “Oh cool, turtle doves can go with the partridge.” But after the french hens and calling birds, you’re going to wonder what’s up. The fear is mitigated by the golden rings, and maybe you think, “Okay, this makes much more sense for Christmas.” But then the next day the person shows up with GEESE!? Then it aggressively gets larger with swans. Why is this person not stopped?!
Then I see he wrote again, after an hour went by with no reply.
J: Sorry. This is what working from home does to someone’s brain.
I’m laughing as I start typing back.
Nora: You forget I talk to people about their innermost thoughts all day long. A long but logical dissection of the bird jump-scares of Twelve Days of Christmas is nowhere close to the weirdest thing I’ve heard all day.
Nora: And actually, yeah, it’s kind of amazing how many songs we sing along to with no thought to the words we’re saying.
The little dots pop up, an immediate indication that he’s typing and stopping. I look at the clock. It’s past two in the morning in London, and I wonder what’s keeping him up so late.
J: You don’t think it’s totally normal to sing “I am the walrus”?
I snort a laugh. He’s such a British stereotype—of course he’d go straight from Christmas carols to the Beatles.
Nora: Well if we want to get philosophical about the Beatles, I really think starting with Yellow Submarine has to be the best place.
J: I should look up who wrote “Twelve Days of Christmas”—maybe they also turned to LSD for more abstract lyrics.
Nora: It’s an excellent theory.
Nora: Anyway, I’m sorry I texted you back so late, but I clearly couldn’t let those musings go without a response. Hope I’m not keeping you up. Better let you get back to dreaming of a house full of geese and swans.
George hops off me and goes to smell the package I’ve brought in. He looks over at me and gives me a small bark, like I’m not moving fast enough for him.
“All right, big man,” I say, pulling myself off the couch with a groan. I walk over and open the package so George will stop bothering me. Maybe he doesn’t need to confirm visually that it’s his food, but I’m guessing he won’t stop smelling the box and trying to get my attention until I put the food away.
However, when I pull the bag out, I’m frustrated to realize they’ve sent me the wrong thing—it’s not his typical dog food but the same brand’s cat food. They must’ve mixed up the packaging.
I hop onto the app to try and initiate a return. They agree to send me a new bag, but when I ask for a return label I’m informed the food is too heavy to make it worth sending back.
So, what, I’m just supposed to throw away a perfectly good bag of food?
I try to think of who I know who has a cat. And of course, the obvious answer sticks out right in front of me: Eli.
In the week and a half since our roof debacle, I haven’t seen him. It’s not unusual—our building does only have one elevator, but I’m not exactly constantly going in and out. And while I realize I actually still have no idea what Eli does for work beyond Tom vaguely saying he’s a writer, he doesn’t seem to be on a nine-to-five routine the way I and a few other people in the building are. And without a dog, he’s also not on that particular schedule either.
But since we left things off on a positive note, there’s no reason to not bring him some cat food, right? Maybe that would be nice, actually.
I grab the bag and walk down the stairs. When I get in front of his door, I knock and then wait. I hear some shuffling inside, but it’s slow and muted.
When the door finally opens, it’s clear what’s taken him so long. Eli looks terrible. His nose is red and raw from a cold. His hair is mussed and looks pressed to the side, as though he’s haphazardly slept on it. His face, usually so smooth, is covered in patchy stubble. He’s swaddled in the coziest-looking sweater, hood up, as though it’s a barrier to the outside world.
“Are you ... okay?” I ask, trying to not be completely obvious that I think he’s looking worse for wear.
“Hey, Nora,” he says, a little confusion in his scratchy voice, but mostly tiredness. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”
I give him another look up and down. “You’re clearly not fine.” I hold up the bag of cat food. “I accidentally got shipped this cat food, so I thought I’d bring it to you—”
“Oh thanks—”
“But seriously, what’s happening to you?”
He reaches out for the cat food, as though that’s going to solve everything, but I hold it back. Maybe it’s not nice to offer something and then withhold it, but I’m getting the sense that if I don’t insist on an answer, he’s just going to crawl back into his man cave and let illness overtake him.
“It’s just a cold,” he says, his voice so depleted that it comes out almost like a sad sigh rather than a statement.
“It looks like a lot more than a cold,” I respond, the biggest understatement ever. “Do you have any medicine, at least? Have you been to see a doctor?”
I can’t help it; I reach out to feel his forehead. He leans into the touch, as though it’s the most soothing comfort he can find. I would feel sorry for him except that I’m more alarmed by how much he’s burning up.
“Have you taken anything for your fever?”
“It’s just a cold,” he repeats. “I’ve been on my laptop doing work all day; I’m fine.” I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve seen a lot of men with the opposite reaction to man flu—usually a lot of whining over a fever that barely breaks ninety-nine degrees. But this is stubbornness of a different kind.
“You can’t just say you’re not sick and have it be so.”
“Well, I got a lot done today, so I’ll sleep it off and be better tomorrow,” he says with effort.
“You should’ve been asleep already if you’re feeling this sick,” I respond.
“Well ...” At this he looks away from me and shuffles a bit, like a little boy caught in a fib. “I tried earlier, but it’s been hard to get comfortable,” he admits. “It was easier to just try and focus on work instead. But I’ll fall asleep eventually. This isn’t a big deal.”
I’m not even sure he believes himself with that tale. He can’t go on like this.
“I’m coming in,” I say, mind made up.
I push past him and set the cat food on the counter. His apartment is a bit of a mess, and I somehow get the immediate impression this is not the way this space typically looks. The bookshelves and desk are organized and methodical—I’d guess that’s the regular state of affairs. But the sink and countertop have abandoned mugs and half-eaten plates of toast strewed around. The lights are all dim, and every cabinet seems to be in some version of ajar. The couch is covered in cushions and blankets, but his laptop and phone are sitting open, as though the evidence of technology at hand might drown out the rest of the mess surrounding him.
Two cats wander into the room, and I can’t help but smile when I see them. There really is no way to describe them other than “floofy.” They look as though two delicate, dainty white kittens got their paws stuck in an electrical socket, and it immediately made them puff out. I reach down to give them a pet, and one of them leans into my hand the way Eli did earlier when I touched his forehead.
I turn around to see Eli staring at me, unsure. I can’t tell if he desperately wants me to get out or if he’s one step from begging me to stay. I imagine it’s some mental tug-of-war over both.
I walk into his bathroom and open the cabinets. Totally bare except a spare toothbrush and a few travel soaps.
“Do you have any cold medicine?” I ask, turning around to him again.
“It’s the middle of summer,” he grumbles. “When I moved here, I didn’t think I’d need anything.”
“Well, you know the whole catching-a-cold-in-the-cold thing is not how a virus works, right?”
“Yes,” he pouts.
“Okay. Good, because you are sick. You need to hydrate and take some cold medicine and probably ... shower?”
I feel bad saying it, but I bet it would make him feel better. He looks like he’s been sleeping in the same clothes for days.
He’s silent for a minute, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it a little too far. But then he speaks again, with his voice now so small and his eyes on the ground. “I don’t want to shower, because then when I get out, it’ll be really cold.”
He seems so in pain that I take hold of his wrist just to give him some indication that I hear him. It’s hard to watch someone being this fragile and stubborn simultaneously. It kicks something into gear for me.
“You need to shower,” I insist. “You’ll feel better, and you’re already up. Come on—I’ll turn on the heater in the bathroom and put a lot of towels in there and fresh clothes, and it’ll be hard, but it’ll really help. And then we’ll get you into bed, and I’ll go get you medicine, okay?”
“Okay,” he says quietly, nodding slightly, as though he wants to say yes but it hurts too much to move. To be honest, I’m surprised that he’s immediately acquiescing. “Thank you for that.”
“No problem,” I reply, swiftly getting into gear now.
I turn on the shower and the heater in the bathroom. I open the linen closet (thankfully Esther’s old apartment has the same exact layout as mine) and grab two big towels, then find a new shirt and shorts in his drawers. I carefully guide him into the bathroom and look around.
“Do you need help in here?” I ask tentatively, not sure if I’m way overstepping by now discussing what is essentially his undressing. But he’s looking so out of sorts that I can’t help but worry he might not be able to get his sweater over his head.
He shakes his head softly. “I’ve got it, I think.”
I nod and close the door. I can hear him slowly moving, and I step away, not wanting to eavesdrop.
I look into his room and see his sheets are a mess—sweaty and disheveled. I go into caretaking autopilot, stripping the bed and placing fresh sheets on top. I pick up a knocked-over box of tissues and tidy up around the room. I fill a large glass of water and place it on a coaster on his bedside table. I light a candle to try and make the atmosphere more soothing than stale. Then I put the dishes in the dishwasher and wipe the counters.
Paws and Whiskers watch as I go, heads pinging back and forth as they follow my movements.
He comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, already looking a little better. I can see the relief written all over his tired expression. He walks into the bedroom and stands in the doorway, looking at his tidied room and newly made bed.
“You did all this?” he asks, turning toward me and fixing me with a confused stare.
“Yup,” I say, brushing past him, not wanting to make a thing out of any of it. “I’m running out to get you medicine. Are you allergic to anything?” He shakes his head. “Okay then, lie down. Leave your phone and computer in the other room so they don’t tempt you to try and be productive again, and I’ll be right back.”