Chapter 6
6
I head straight for the fridge before I even take off my coat. My encounter with Hot Josh has my stomach churning. I haven’t put in a take-out order yet and it’s past six; delivery will take at least an hour at this point. Maybe I won’t order in tonight. Maybe I’ll actually cook something. At the very least, I need a nosh to take the edge off.
Everything feels better with a full belly , I can almost hear my grandmother say. Have a little bite.
When I was a little girl, Bubbe constantly slipped me food. An extra slice of toast in the morning. A second sandwich hidden beneath the first one in my lunch box. Apple slices tucked in a napkin, placed carefully into my pocket, in case I needed a little something on the way to school. Even though I didn’t need it, I always took the food she offered because I saw it for what it really was: a way for my brusque immigrant grandmother to say I love you .
A day like today, I really wish I was coming home to Bubbe. God, what I wouldn’t give right now for a snack and some solid advice from her.
My bubbe was a woman with slate gray eyes, a spine of steel, and blue-inked numbers on her papery arms. Her years as a child in one of Hitler’s camps had left their mark on her in more ways than one. She had no ability to express affection verbally. She made sure that I knew she cared about me by always being there. Listening with such rapt attention that it was almost unsettling. And relentlessly ensuring that I was well-fed; that before my stomach could even express interest in sustenance, it was already full again.
In the twenty-plus years since her death, she’s still someone I think about daily. She’s right up there with my father, vying for the dubious distinction of being the most influential person in my life. Bubbe was my greatest protector, Dad my greatest source of unconditional love. With both of them gone, it feels like I enter every situation without a shield or shepherd.
I love my mother, but we’ve never been as good at connecting with one another. Dad and Bubbe were the ones who could intuit my fears, tell me what I needed to hear—make me laugh, in the case of my father, or light a fire under my ass, in the case of my grandmother. Both were valuable contributions. Now that they’re both gone, I feel rudderless. That’s probably why I keep having dreams about Bubbe. My mind must be trying to find some way to comfort itself.
But I’ve never hallucinated a vision of her on the train before.
Make... the woman on the train—or in my hallucination—had said.
Make what, though?
Make something of your life.
Make me proud.
Make a difference in the world.
Whatever this vision of my grandmother was telling me to do, I guarantee I haven’t been doing it. Unless she was going to tell me to make a sandwich or make sure to remain alone and childless . In which case, I’ve been doing Bubbe proud.
My thoughts are interrupted by another growl from my stomach, right on cue. Why am I still hungry, when I had breakfast, lunch, and snacked all day at the office? I hate how quickly something I’ve already taken care of can come back. Appetites are like weeds, or zombies. Cut them down and they spring right back up again.
Hunger, it’s a powerful thing , Bubbe once observed, watching me wolf down my fifth or sixth snack of the day. Hunger knows what it wants. Hunger has teeth.
I wondered how hungry she had been when she was a young girl, starving in the camps. How brutally hunger’s teeth had ravaged her small stomach. She knew all too well what the pangs of actual ravenousness felt like, and never wanted me to feel anything like it.
Trying to tamp down all my guilty memories of too many meals consumed, I stare into the fridge to see what I can throw together for dinner. Empty milk jug, some expired condiments, a half-full jar of peanut butter, one lonely Sketchbook brewery growler. Looks like in spite of my momentary motivation to cook, I’ll be ordering Thai.
Again.
I dig into my pocket for my phone, giving silent thanks for food delivery apps, the only reason I like to turn my phone on these days. I know eventually I’ll have to start more reliably keeping my phone on, but I’m not ready. Besides, only my mother really knows how often it’s off. She calls me, but everyone else texts and just thinks I’m slow to respond. I know it bothers my mother; she’s worried that in an emergency, she won’t be able to reach me.
Sure enough, when I turn my phone on, there are three new voicemails—all from my mother. HOT MAMA RENA is how her name appears, every time she calls or texts. It’s the name my father entered for her when he gave me my first thick-brick phone in high school. That’s how I’ve had her in my contacts ever since.
My rumbling gut momentarily clenches at the sight of that name, over and over. A little over a year ago, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I was out with my friends and left my phone at home. When I got back to my apartment, I had five missed calls from Mom, along with a text saying 911 CALL NOW . When I called her back, I found out about Dad’s heart attack. She could barely get the words out to tell me he was already gone.
It’s the sort of thing that should have made me better about keeping my phone close by, but it’s only made me even more phone averse. I always hated the phone, and my loathing for the modern ball-and-chain has deepened over the past bitter year. I tell my friends it’s a moral stand: I wish society didn’t expect us all to be so constantly available; I don’t want to be controlled by this stupid little thing. But the truth is, I can’t remember the last time a phone call brought me good news, so I’d rather just chuck the thing out the window and be done with it.
I open the fridge again and pull out the peanut butter jar. If I have to call my mother before ordering dinner, I need something to tide me over. I dig a spoon out of the one and only drawer in my tiny kitchen. Then, steeling myself, I call my mother.
“Eve, call your sister,” Mom says as soon as she picks up, bypassing any actual greeting.
“Hi, Mom,” I say stubbornly.
“Hello,” she retorts. “Call your sister.”
“Why do I need to call Rosie?” I ask, confused. “I don’t have any messages from her. You’re the one who called me three times.”
“To tell you to call your sister!” Mom says, already exasperated. “Did you even listen to my voicemails?”
“Mom, come on,” I say. “You know my policy. I never listen to voicemails. No one should. Barbaric practice.”
“For Christ’s sake, Eve,” Mom says with a massive sigh.
It’s a familiar sound.
I can picture her in her kitchen in Winnetka, shaking her head of silver curls, perpetually baffled at my ineptitude. If she knew that at this very moment, I was standing in my still-zipped winter coat eating peanut butter out of a jar while planning my next take-out order, she would be appalled. For her dinner, she’s probably sipping a plant-based shake, pulled from her pristine, carefully curated fridge. When Dad was alive, the fridge was always full of leftovers—he was a hell of a cook—and the pantry was full of snacks. Now that he’s gone, there’s never real food in the house. My mother is terrible in the kitchen. She exists primarily on green drinks, prepackaged salads, and vague memories of meals gone by.
The kitchen isn’t the only thing in her life that she’s reduced to practically nothing. My mother has stripped the whole house of its once-charmingly-cluttered glory. Immediately after our week of shiva, she cleared out Dad’s stuff from every closet, every drawer, every last corner. She joined the JCC gym, dropped twenty pounds, and is now training for a half marathon. She keeps the house and herself immaculate, not wanting to bring in anything that might add clutter or character. I imagine right about then, she’s smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from a tailored pastel pantsuit, looking around to make sure there’s no mess she somehow missed.
“I’m sorry I’m so exhausting,” I tell my mother around a mouthful of peanut butter. I wonder if I can put her on speaker so I can pull up the Grubhub app while we chat. “I know how tired I make you. Maybe you should go lie down.”
“Hilarious,” says my mother. “I can’t, I’m having the house photographed tomorrow. He’s coming first thing in the morning. The photographer my office always uses is so busy these days, he’s really doing me a favor, but he wanted to come by at seven so I have a bunch of staging to do tonight.”
“You’re...having the house photographed?”
“I have to, if I ever want to get it listed.”
This takes me aback. Even though I know Mom should ultimately sell the house and get a condo or something, the idea of her actually taking a step toward getting rid of my childhood home stings. I wonder how soon she’s planning to make this happen. I try to keep my tone casual.
“When are you thinking about listing the place?”
“Not yet,” my mother says, her own tone unreadable. “I just figured—can’t hurt to get the photos done. While it’s clean and all. Looking its best.”
“When does it not look its best?”
With her as its only inhabitant, the house is always immaculate. It’s also inarguably a nice piece of real estate, even if some of the design is distinctly dated. It’s in a neighborhood that’s become incredibly expensive, and it will definitely go for a stupid amount of money if Mom decides to sell. But it was cheap when she and my father bought it as newlyweds. A real bargain , Dad always said with pride.
The last time they did any renovation was right after my grandmother died. Just like with my father, there was no keening or wailing from my mother when we lost Bubbe. Just a stoic week of sitting shiva, then Mom rolled up her sleeves. Without consulting the rest of us, she quietly purged all of my grandmother’s old-world doilies, afghans, and antique lamps from the house. Next, her grief manifested as a deep need to gut rehab the spaces where Bubbe had loomed largest. Which obviously meant she had to start with the kitchen.
I need something modern , she said when convincing my father to start getting quotes from contractors. This place feels haunted, David, and I swear to God I can’t live with all her ghosts anymore.
So, they redid a third of the house in the late nineties: the kitchen, the dining room, the bedroom and bathroom that had been designated as Bubbe’s when she moved in with us. After that, they never updated anything again.
The pristinely preserved rehab job is why Sasha calls my parents’ house a “ Friends -era time capsule.” The kitchen is full of particularly strong choices. It has large black-and-white tile flooring, cherry red curtains blooming like poppies in the windows, all-white cabinets, and black Formica countertops. It’s a definite vibe.
Not that I should judge. It’s not as if I’m some revolutionary interior designer. My apartment has “vintage charm,” which is to say it’s very old, but has some character. All the doorways are arched. There are built-in bookshelves on each side of the bricked-over fireplace. The crown molding is original to the building, which is lovely, but so are the windows, which means the place is freezing eight months out of the year. I have cozy blankets scattered throughout my apartment, since I’m in constant need of a little extra warmth.
My apartment has made its way to shabby-chic, though its inhabitant remains merely shabby. A few years ago I finally got rid of my cobbled-together living room furniture and bought a modest but matching mint green sofa and love seat. Sasha gifted me some accent pillows in celebration. And at Bryan’s insistence, for my birthday last year I framed the small collection of art prints from local Chicago artists—including Bryan—that I’d purchased at various art fairs and small-dollar charity auctions over the years. Bryan and Carlos helped me arrange them artfully on the wall. Never turn down a designer willing to help elevate your look , Bryan wisely advised.
Life-and decor-wise, I get by with a little help from my friends. But I wish, sometimes, that I had some of my grandmother’s things. That my mother hadn’t gotten rid of them all. Come to think of it, my apartment looks a helluva lot like my bubbe’s old house. An actual item from her collection would complete the look.
But thanks to my mother, it’s all gone. And now she’ll also be selling my childhood home. Something deep in the pit of my stomach shifts uncomfortably.
“But, like,” I say, chewing my lip, “are you really going to sell the place?”
“Eventually,” says my mother. “ Any way. Call your sister.”
“Why am I calling Rosie?” I ask.
“She needs you.”
“She hasn’t called me.”
“You’re her maid of honor,” Mom says. “And the wedding is this weekend.”
“If she needs something, she’ll let me know,” I say, hearing the snap in my voice.
I can’t help it. My little sister has never once had a problem advocating for herself. The only time she ever calls me is to ask for a favor. Hey, can I get a ride? Hey, do you mind if I borrow your car? Hey, can you pick me up from O’Hare? Now that I think about it, almost all of the favors have to do with using my Subaru.
Rosie is six years younger than I am. It’s a big enough gap that we barely grew up together. When I was ten, she was four; when I was starting high school, she was still getting visits from the tooth fairy. She hadn’t even had her bat mitzvah yet when I left for college. Some part of me sees her as perpetually twelve. Her tendency to unabashedly whine when she isn’t getting what she wants, to ask for yet another favor without ever saying thank you for the last one, and to somehow still always be everyone’s favorite, doesn’t help alter that perception.
Plus, she’s blonde.
And thin.
And getting married while I remain terminally single.
“Just call her,” my mother says.
“Fine,” I sigh.
“Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Are you still paying?”
“Ha-ha,” Mom says, clicking her tongue. “Don’t be late, please, I have to get my nails done after we eat. It’s a busy week. Speaking of which, you gonna tell me who you’re bringing to the wedding?”
I wince.
When I sent in my RSVP to the wedding, I was a little tipsy. That’s a lie: I was shit-faced drunk on half-off well vodka after a night out with Bryan and Carlos. In spite of Sasha telling me for weeks that it was a terrible idea, I had, in my alcohol-soaked state, RSVP’d to the wedding with a plus-one. Even though I had no idea just who that plus-one would be.
Didn’t matter, because the idea of attending my little sister’s wedding solo was more than I could stomach. After all, I was coming out of the worst year of my life. Losing my father, putting on almost twenty pounds of grief weight, world affairs being an ever-growing dumpster fire, Sasha ghosting me while she was with Emmet, and feeling fully abandoned as my fortieth birthday approached. Everything was already too awful. Showing up alone to the big family wedding was not an option.
I’ll find a date, dammit , I promised myself.
Rosie’s impending nuptials have made me feel deeply insecure about my singlehood. I wasn’t expecting it to be so bruising. After all, Rosie was always the social butterfly—queen of her summer camp cabin as a kid, president of her sorority in college, popular fitness instructor now. I’ve always been more introverted than my baby sister. But despite all her extroverted joiner tendencies, Rosie was also the one who swore up and down she’d never get married.
My childhood was the one spent fantasizing about my wedding, my future children, my life as a wife (and veterinarian/investigative journalist, two other life goals that have yet to materialize). I was the one with the steady high school boyfriend, Marc, who broke my heart when he told me he didn’t want to do the long-distance thing in college. I was the one who found another steady boyfriend in college, Derek, who I truly thought was The One—right up until he spent his junior year abroad and emailed to let me know about his new Spanish girlfriend, Sofia.
In spite of all the early heartbreak, it was me who kept putting herself out there for years, trying to meet someone. It’s not fair that I’m the one who wound up sad and alone. And Rosie’s the one getting married. On the eve of my fortieth birthday, barely a year after we lost our father. All things considered, at the very least I needed a goddamn wedding date.
Even if he wasn’t The One, I needed Some -One. That’s why I RSVP’d for two. Besides, I had plenty of time to find a date, I told myself. Six whole weeks.
That was five weeks ago.
Since then, I’ve tried literally everything. I went on three first dates in rapid succession, none of which led to a second date. I called two exes, one of whom mumbled some bullshit excuse about work travel, the other of whom awkwardly informed me he was recently engaged. I congratulated him and hung up, wondering what his stupid fiancée had that I didn’t. The next night I was out at the bar and some young ruddy-faced Irish guy told me I was “an exotic beauty,” and instead of laughing in his face I asked him if he had a favorite Jewish holiday. He stared at me blankly and then walked off, presumably to hit on someone a little less “exotic.”
I even asked Bryan if he’d be willing to play my straight date for the night. He gave me a very sad look, and a kiss on the cheek, and told me that there was no way he could pull it off once he hit the dance floor. Which, I had to admit, was a fair point.
I’ve got no one.
“It’s a surprise,” I tell my mother, who snorts in response.
“A surprise.”
“Yep.”
“You’re lucky it’s buffet and not a plated dinner.”
“That’s what they call me, Lucky Eve,” I say, stomach rumbling louder at the sound of the word buffet .
I jam the last spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth. I can barely track what my mother’s saying at this point. All I can think about is what I’m going to order for dinner tonight. Pad Thai? No. Pad Se Ewe? Maybe. Or Panang Curry. Yes! Curry.
“And how’s work?” Mom asks.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” I mumble, not wanting to get into that mess right now, either. It’s already been a long damn day. I just want to curl up, eat takeout, and binge whatever Netflix recommends.
I finally manage to put my mother on speaker and open up the Grubhub app. Dammit—it’s less than an hour until closing time at my favorite Thai place, and they’re not taking online orders anymore. But I bet if I call them, I can get an order in. My stomach raises its volume, urging me to get this done.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” my mother is saying. “I’ve got a packed schedule—”
“Yeah, got it,” I say to my mother. “Me, too. So I should get going.”
“Am I on speaker phone? Why am I on speaker—”
“Okay, love you but I gotta go, lots to do, apparently there’s some big family event this weekend—”
“Call your sister,” says my mother loudly.
“Yep,” I say. “Will do.”
And then instead of calling Rosie, I call Green Leaf Thai.