EZRA
I T ’ S ABOUT MIDDAY WHEN THERE ’ S A KNOCK AT THE DOOR – Caroline’s door. I’m still pretending to be asleep on her sofa, so it’s an unwelcome surprise when she stretches her leg over from the armchair and nudges me with her foot.
‘I know you’re awake,’ she says. ‘Go get it.’
‘It’s your apartment,’ I reply thickly, keeping my eyes stubbornly shut. ‘If it’s a parcel then they can leave it outside.’
‘It’s not a parcel,’ she says, shutting her book with a snap. ‘Go on. I’ll make coffee.’
‘Jesus.’ I groan, forcing myself upwards and shuffling towards the door. ‘Are you staging an intervention?’
‘Good one!’ she calls back, just as I open the door to Maggie in a baggy blue sweatshirt, arms laden with bags.
‘I brought you some clothes,’ she says, proffering one. ‘Caroline mentioned you slept here.’
Fuck. This is an intervention.
‘Uh – thanks,’ I say, taking it. I didn’t even realise that she and Caroline were on speaking terms again. Maybe they weren’t, but my meltdown was the catalyst for reconciliation – a mortifying prospect.
‘I wasn’t sure what you guys would be in the mood for,’ she says, sweeping past me and dumping the rest of the bags on the coffee table. ‘I went to that deli near my office—’
‘Oh, that place is amazing,’ Caroline interjects, having reappeared with plates and cutlery. ‘Did you get the potato salad? The one with the fennel?’
‘Uh-huh. Tom is obsessed with it.’
‘Romy literally buys it in bulk. Are you going to sit down?’
I realise with a start that Caroline is addressing me now.
‘Yeah, uh – I didn’t realise that we were doing lunch today,’ I manage.
‘Among other things,’ she replies brightly. ‘We’ll multitask.’
There it is. I grip the bag tightly, fighting the impulse to run – I’m so comically hungover that I’d probably concuss myself on the doorframe.
‘We’re not trying to gang up on you,’ Maggie informs me, busily unloading cartons and boxes. ‘But it’ll be good for us to create an open dialogue.’
‘A what?’ I laugh, and her cheeks colour.
‘It’s something I’ve been working on with my therapist,’ she says. ‘Dialogue. Expression.’
Shit. I try to sneak a glance at Caroline but she’s back in the kitchen. This is brand new information, and now I feel a total prick for laughing.
‘It’s a recent thing,’ Maggie adds, clearly flustered.
‘That’s great,’ I say quickly, attempting to backtrack. ‘I mean – you’re liking it, right?’
‘It’s been productive. Difficult. But overall good.’
‘Good. Glad that it’s … good.’
‘It is,’ she says. Then, after a beat, ‘We talk about Mum.’
Oh God. Hungover or otherwise, I’m not equipped to deal with this. Caroline must have told her about last night’s performance – Maggie might even know more about it than I do, seeing as I don’t remember anything between vomiting in the bathtub and waking up on the sofa.
‘And – I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t,’ she continues solemnly. ‘Talk about her, I mean. What happened on your birthday …’
‘I told you, it’s fine.’
‘But it’s not,’ Caroline says – she’s back with the coffee. ‘If we hadn’t been bickering we might have noticed that you drank an entire bottle of wine by yourself.’
‘Who did?’ I demand, affronted.
‘Dad.’
‘Dad?’ I laugh. ‘He was too busy looking at his watch, surely?’
Maggie sighs, perching on the edge of the sofa. Caroline sets down the mugs and flops back into the armchair, their mutual silence weighted with disapproval.
‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘I thought this was an “open dialogue”?’
‘It is,’ Caroline says. ‘Which is why I can say that I think you’re too harsh on Dad.’
‘He does try,’ Maggie chimes in.
‘To avoid me? Agreed.’
‘Only because you act like you can’t stand him!’ Caroline retorts. ‘And don’t think that he’s oblivious to it, because he’s not.’
‘So what? He’s the one that shipped me off to a different country.’
‘You agreed to go, Ezzy. No one forced you.’
‘Only because he so obviously wanted me gone!’
‘No,’ Caroline says flatly. ‘He wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to have structure. He didn’t want you to skip school and roam the city getting wasted with a bunch of random dirtbags, which I happen to think is fairly reasonable.’
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She’s referring to the one time I got picked up (and dropped home) by two plain-clothed officers in the park after puking a stomachful of Bacardi on to a memorial bench. The dirtbags in question were the guys who’d bought me cigarettes a few hours prior – they bolted, which is fair, and I got off with a warning after Maggie relayed our sob-story to the cops. I always wondered if I might have gotten away with it entirely, had Caroline been the one to answer the door. But she wasn’t, and I didn’t. A month later I was in England.
‘He missed you, Ezra,’ Maggie says. ‘He tried to call – he wrote you all those letters. You never wrote back.’
Sure, yes. Letters were received. Actual hand-written letters recounting every mundane thing that had happened the week prior. They were sad – unknowingly so, which made them even sadder. And they undermined my self-righteous anger, so I ignored them. Eventually they dwindled into the occasional email and an annual birthday card, and I was relieved. It made it easier to convince myself that he didn’t really care, and I don’t know why I wanted that. Or why it’s only just occurring to me how fucked-up that is.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m a terrible son. Is that what we’re all here to talk about?’
‘You’re not—’
‘No, I am. A shitty brother, too. A worse friend – a bad person, basically.’
It all comes out in a rush, and it’s the first time I’ve given voice to it – the deep, gnawing conviction that there’s a reason why everything I touch turns to shit. I thought it might make me feel better, admitting it – nope. I’m mortified by how pathetic I sound, which isn’t helped by Caroline’s abrupt bark of laughter.
‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘Just – do you really think that anyone who was actually so awful would spend as much time agonising over it as you apparently do?’
‘You’re not a bad person,’ Maggie confirms. ‘Have a sandwich.’
She proffers a box of them, crustless and neatly cut. I hesitate, then sit beside her on the sofa and take one.
‘And we’re not here to talk about anything in particular,’ she adds. ‘We’re just … here.’
‘Because I’m having a breakdown?’
‘Are you?’ Maggie asks, eyes big and soft.
‘No,’ I say instinctively. Then – ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t have to know,’ Caroline says. ‘We’ll just take each day as it comes. Today, lunch. Then maybe a movie …’
‘You could have a bath,’ Maggie interjects. ‘Baths always make me feel better.’
‘Mags has a point. You stink, actually.’
Maggie responds by picking up a pillow and tossing it at Caroline’s head. I laugh, taking a bite of my sandwich. A mouthful is enough to make me realise that I’m ravenous. I take another huge bite, and for some reason my eyes are suddenly flooded with tears. Because I’m sad? Because I’m not? I have no idea, so I just keep eating, tears dripping down my face as I chew.
Maggie and Caroline continue bickering, both kind enough to pretend that they haven’t noticed.