Chapter 37
Emily was too nervous to watch Gen’s final USATF event alone.
During a commercial break, she called Rory, who turned on her television, too.
Rory asked if she’d heard back from any literary agents.
Emily, who had sent out query letters and sample chapters a couple of weeks ago in early June, said no.
The commercial on TV became one for laundry.
She watched grass-stained shorts go from green to white.
She wished that Rory hadn’t asked that question.
Now Emily’s own anxiety threaded through her anxiety for Gen.
Rory said, “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
Emily had received Elizabeth’s invitation. The wedding would be in July. The invitation came with an enclosed note:
EMILY!!!!!!
Rory told me your news. I’m sure it was hard to leave Jack and I hope you’re okay, but as Rory says, we’re all glad you got the fuck out of it.
You pulled a disappearing act on your friends but hey, me, too.
I want to believe that you can disappear on the people you love and still come back. Prove me right.
I know this invitation is short notice, but you never would have been a B-list invite if you’d stayed in touch! Be my A-list friend and come.
XOXO,
Elizabeth
“Of course I’m coming,” said Emily.
“Florencia will be there.”
Encouraged by her reconnection with Violet, Emily had tried calling Florencia. Her many calls went unanswered.
“Hey,” said Rory, “it’s on again.”
The camera panned over Hayward Field, then the runners.
It lingered on Gen, who stretched, looking away.
The announcer described her career, reminding the audience how she’d stolen their hearts during her first Olympics in Sydney: someone had given her flowers after she had won a silver.
She brought them to her grandmother in the stands.
Sweat-soaked, face full of joy, Gen placed the flowers in her grandmother’s arms. Emily had watched this moment, in 2000.
She had seen how Nella reached to cup her granddaughter’s face just as she had in the farmhouse kitchen when Emily was a teenager and looked on, wishing that someone loved her like that.
Now Gen scanned the stands, which were emblazoned with the USATF logo of a star with wings.
Emily knew that Gen wasn’t looking for Nella, who could no longer travel—if her arthritis had, in the end, allowed her to attend the trials, the camera would surely be on her right now, for the emotional drama.
The announcer sketched the highs and lows of Gen’s career, adding that she had made an impressive showing at the trials thus far and was one win away from qualifying for London.
He mentioned an injury Emily hadn’t known about—a pulled tendon—that had kept Gen out of an international competition last year.
“You know,” said Rory, “your relationship with her confused me.”
“You don’t know why we were together?”
“Oh, that was obvious. You fucked each other silly. The way you looked at each other oozed over everything. Like the slime in Ghostbusters . You were the green ghost with all the hot dogs.”
“I believe you mean ectoplasm .”
“Okay, Egon. You got your sex-toplasm everywhere. You haunted each other. No, what I meant was that I couldn’t figure out your trope.”
“Trope?”
“All great romances have one.”
“Our romance didn’t work.”
“It was still great.”
“Yes. It was.”
“At first I thought you were the friends-to-lovers trope.”
“We were always more than friends.”
“Right. That trope doesn’t fit. Then there was the enemies-to-lovers period, after you met again at that fundraiser.”
“But we didn’t hate each other. We were just mad.”
“Right! Then I thought: second-chance romance.”
“Those end happily.”
“Love at first sight?”
“We were ten.”
“Then I thought—”
“Shh!”
“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”
“It’s starting.”
“Wow,” said Rory. “I don’t normally feel gay but seeing them all lined up like that does do something for me.”
The starter’s gun fired.
“Holy shit,” said Rory.
“Oh my God.”
“Shh!”
“You’re the one who’s supposed to shut up.”
“She is so fucking fast.”
A bell signaled the final lap. Emily was no longer nervous. It was impossible that Gen wouldn’t win. Rory was screaming in Emily’s ear but Emily was silenced by Gen’s stride, how her whole body became an expression of will.
Gen crossed the finish line. She was A-graded. She made the Olympic team.
Elizabeth’s wedding reception took place at the Boathouse in Central Park.
Her style was Old Hollywood glamour, her blond hair in waves.
She flung her arms around Emily, then whirled away to another claim on her attention.
Emily remembered how it was to be a bride.
Everyone wishing everyone well. She thought about everything that she hadn’t known then about her future.
She thought about Gen, unseen among the guests, watching Emily kiss her husband.
With brittle regret, she wondered what Gen had wished then, and what she wished now.
There were geese on the water near the Boathouse.
The turtles, long out of hibernation, were black and shining.
A family rowed by in a boat. Emily had once been a family in a boat.
She had seen this very place, the one where she now stood, over Jack’s shoulder as he helped Connor pretend to row.
She wasn’t far, either, from the meadow where Gen had run with her children.
Her throat closed. She didn’t want to cry at Elizabeth’s wedding.
She listened to the dip of oars in the water.
The blue cloth of sky had no flaws. You can’t go back, her mother used to say with a shrug, as if surrendering the past was easy.
Emily hadn’t seen Florencia at the ceremony but they were seated at the same table for dinner.
Violet was there, too, her opera singer not in attendance because of a performance in Berlin.
Rory had also come alone, because she was hoping (as she had told Emily earlier) to have coat-check sex with a stranger.
Florencia’s husband was handsome, with a closely trimmed black beard, and he eyed his wife worriedly as Emily approached the table.
Emily was full of apologies that she had rehearsed and hoped that Florencia would let her say.
Florencia folded her arms above the crest of her pregnant belly.
She stared at Emily, brown eyes furious.
“Elizabeth should have seated me at a different table.”
“Mi vida,” her husband said gently.
“Give Emily a chance,” said Rory. Violet said nothing.
“Why?” Florencia demanded. “Where were you?” she asked Emily. “When I fought with my parents? And met Damien? When I found out I was pregnant?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t—”
“You could have!”
Damien spoke to his wife, who argued with him. He persisted. She let out a guttering sigh. “He wants me to tell you something.”
“A story,” Damien said in English. Then he spoke in Spanish, which Florencia, still angry, translated.
“He and his friend were in high school. They had gone to get pizza. Two police officers came into the pizzeria.” Florencia stopped and asked something.
Damien shrugged and spun his hand like a wheel.
She said, “The cops went up to the counter and ordered, but of course they didn’t expect to pay.
Cops never paid. The pizzeria owner had to give them whatever they wanted for free.
My friend and I left. We snuck around a street corner, but at a high vantage, so we could see the front door of the pizzeria.
The cops came out with their pizza. We shouted—” Florencia broke off and stared at Damien.
“Qué loco!” she told him. “Por suerte seguís vivo!”
“What did they shout?” said Violet.
“Mendigos,” said Damien.
“He called them beggars.” Florencia was horrified.
“He has never told me this story.” Damien continued to speak.
“We died laughing,” said Florencia. “They chased us. We thought, They will never catch us, those corrupt fools . But they did.” Florencia had paled.
“You have to understand that during the seventies and eighties in Argentina, many people disappeared.
Anyone the government wanted gone. The police would come, people vanished.
It was the nineties when my friend and I insulted the cops.
The Dirty War was over, but it was still well known: you do not fuck with the police.
“They caught us and split us up. One guy took me, the other took my friend. I’ve never been so frightened.
He asked me where I lived. I was terrified to involve my parents.
He asked if I wanted to go to prison instead.
He drove me home. We stopped in front of my house and he brought me to the door.
My father answered. Shock carved his face into stone.
The cop said, ‘Do you know what your son called me?’
“?‘No,’ my father said.
“?‘Mendigo.’
“My father’s breath sucked in, as though he’d been punched in the gut…
I still hear it. He started to speak. To beg.
But the cop pushed me toward my father. ‘Teach your son better manners,’ he said.
Then he walked toward his car, laughing the whole way.
What a joke to fuck with two little punks who thought they were so smart! ”
Violet said, “Was your friend okay?”
Damien nodded.
Florencia said, “Why did you tell us this? Dios mío, Damien.”
He said, Florencia translating, “We all do stupid shit. How does anyone get through youth? You look back and you are astonished at what you survived. Not because you were good or special but because when you made your mistakes, you got lucky. It’s enough to survive a mistake and be grateful.
Not everyone does. Listen to what your friend has to say, my love.
I know that you missed her. Look at her face. You can see how much she missed you.”