Chapter Thirty-Two
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On Tuesday, Roman is home before seven with spicy cumin lamb hand-ripped noodles that make my mouth all tingly like I French-kissed a bowl of potpourri.
Holden is teething and inconsolable. He’d lost his chupete and dropped his Munchkin Stay Put Suction Bowl, spilling the Gerber organic single-grain baby oatmeal all over the kitchen floor.
So much for staying put. I take Holden out of the high chair and bounce him on my hip, trying to calm him down (“At the Copa…Copacabana…”).
No reaction. Had he moved on from Manilow?
Oatmeal under my toes, I open every drawer trying to find a spare pacifier.
Roman comes up behind me as if all is calm.
He puts his hands on my waist, kisses my neck. “Yesterday…yeah, that was something.”
I have no idea what he is talking about. I have a Gerber cereal crisis, a missing chupete, and a screaming baby who may or may not have refined his musical tastes without me. Who could remember what happened yesterday? Roman pops a spicy sour lamb dumpling. “Naughty stuff.”
“Have you seen his chupete?”
“His what?”
I give him a prickly look. “I’ve spent thirty minutes trying to calm him down and you don’t even know what a chupete is? Classic…Classic. Oh, and did you want to help me clean up this shit? Or nah? Just figured it will clean itself?”
Roman reaches for Holden. “Here. Hey there, buddy. Hey, big guy…” Holden stops crying. He stares at Roman, happier than he’s been in hours. Dada. I want to eat that baby like a dumpling.
“You’re good at that. You should do it more often,” I say, taking an oyster box of noodles and a pair of chopsticks into the bedroom and slamming the door behind me.
But as soon as I sit on the bed, I see the turtle.
The vague smell of a penguin house. Turtly’s cold-blooded neck craning at me, reminding me that it is one thing to eat spicy noodles in bed in protest. Quite another when a turtle also lives there.
I burst out of the bedroom. By day, I wore Roman’s tattered menswear.
By night, I started wearing a geisha-like muumuu that I’d recently found on the sale rack at Century 21.
Roman didn’t initially notice that I’d ditched the flannel pajamas that I’d bought in the hospital and that I really should’ve burned.
But the way he put his hands on my hips, kissed my neck, as ill-timed as the effort had been, told me he noticed.
I come out of the bedroom and Holden is asleep on Roman’s lap. “I can’t move or I’d do the cleaning up,” he whispers.
“Uh-huh.” I scoop Holden up and put him in his crib and then walk to clean up the oatmeal. Roman sits on the sofa, a buffet of spicy noodles on the coffee table.
“I’ll take the feedings tonight,” he says.
Even though a big part of the reason we agreed that I would pump was so that Roman could help with night feedings, he’s never offered.
Not since the layoffs. We used to fight about it, but then I started using the nights to browse Juju Bean and research Daisy.
I started to like having that time to myself.
“Now you offer?”
“What?”
“He’s finally sleeping through the night.”
“Is he?”
All right, so we hadn’t quite mastered sleep training, but we were close.
I walk into the bathroom. I look in the mirror.
I don’t have the energy to fight, but hiding in the bathroom and letting him finish the shrimp shumai feels like accepting defeat.
I stick my feet in the tub to wash off the oatmeal and walk back to the couch.
“Want the last soup dumpling?” he says, and I forgive him because I know that sharing dim sum is how Roman shows love.
I finish off the dumpling. Roman plays with a strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. He’s never done this before. Or at least I don’t remember if he did it before we had a baby. I didn’t register every touch, every sidelong glance, back then.
When we are finished, Roman sweeps the empty plastic containers into the plastic Thank You bag.
He rubs down the coffee table with a flimsy napkin.
He walks to the front door and drops the greasy remnants into the recycling bin in the hallway.
I’d never told Roman how much it annoyed me when he shoved an entire bag of takeout into the kitchen trash can and then I had to empty the whole thing in the hallway. Somehow, tonight, he just knew.
Roman comes back inside. I am waiting for him to pressure me to come to bed.
After the spicy noodles and my geisha robe and wiping down the table and taking night duty.
He must really want a blow job. Maybe a colleague told him at work drinks?
“Dude, you gotta be real nice to her.” But he doesn’t try to lure me to bed.
He picks up my pillow and professionally fluffs it, something he picked up the summer he spent working in a motel in New South Wales.
He gives my forehead an affable little smooch.
“Get some sleep? We’ll try to keep the party down if he wakes up. ”
—
In the morning, Veronica calls me for the third time. “I don’t know exactly what kind of deal you worked out with Phil, but you can only get a remote-work arrangement, and maintain your salary, if you write a minimum of twenty letters a week.”
“Not a problem. I can do that.”
“Good, because there’s already a stack building up on your desk and Ted is buried in Feed the Children.”
“Can you messenger them over?”
“Emily. This isn’t Vogue in the nineties. I’ll leave them with Phyllis at reception.” She hangs up.
I look at Holden. I’m spooning him an airplane of oatmeal.
He’s playing with his Baby Einstein Sticky Spinner BPA-free high chair activity toy.
“Well, she is cranky-cranky, isn’t she? I guess we’re going to take a trip to Mommy’s office, koala.
How fun is that?” Holden sticks out his tongue, his jibber-jabber so close to forming actual words now.
“Yep, you said it, exactly that much fun, little koala man.”
—
I am pushing the Yoyo down Fourteenth Street in a wintry mix when Penelope calls on FaceTime.
I pull in at Union Square Park, past a group of Falun Gong protestors, to answer.
I sit on a bench near a man with an overgrown beard who is hitting everyone up for an egg salad sandwich and rambling that George Soros planted a microchip in him.
Penelope appears to be lying under a weighted blanket. I’ve been avoiding her calls.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks.
I fiddle with the Velcro on the side of the stroller. Yes, you treated me like the help and I have no idea why we are still friends. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“You just left so fast and haven’t returned my calls.”
“Sorry.” Whyyyyyy, Emily Joan? Why are you apologizing?
“Honestly, don’t even worry about it. Postpartum depression is real.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“You didn’t miss much. Char spitting out the soup was a real highlight, so thanks for that. Piper, oh my God, going on and on about some room mom at Trinity who she hates and the guys just talked about the markets and playing Bethpage. When did we all get so boring?”
“Yeah. I figured there’d at least be a throuple in the mix.”
“You’d think. But that crowd doesn’t even do orgies. Too many thank-you notes.” I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
Freezing rain starts to fall. I pull my hood up and cover Holden in the Babylo Universal Raincover. Penelope hasn’t noticed. “We’re gone for ski week, then the holidays, but let’s do something when I get back, just us—”
I walk toward the train. “I gotta go.”
“—something fun. Nobody’s fun anymore.”
“Yeah, cool. I’m down.” Would I be taking Beau’s drink orders at said fun event?
I am soaked and shivering and getting knocked around and picking Sophie the giraffe up out of a thick puddle.
I am staring down at the gaping jowls of the subway stairs with a wet, screaming eight-month-old.
Penelope always reminds me of my place in the world.
I am a person who can’t do it. I can’t tell Penelope off.
I can’t get to the uptown subway platform.
I can’t even give a man an egg salad sandwich.
I notice Daisy leaning against the railing. I try to keep my face as still as possible. I don’t want Daisy to see how much I’ve missed her. How much I need her. How I don’t know what to do without her.
“You look like you could use a ride.”
I wipe my wet hair from my face. Sophie is covered in grime. Holden is screaming his head off, thrusting at the plastic, reaching for Sophie. “What makes you say that?”
Daisy smiles, reaching her open arms our way.
I give her a hug, inhaling her scent, her presence, when I realize that she was reaching to take the Yoyo off my hands.
I try to play it off. To not look too desperate.
Five minutes later, I am strapping Holden into the Mercedes and Daisy and I climb into the back seat.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess the Audrey thing freaked me out.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Daisy says, smiling.
I don’t want to kill the moment, but I have to ask, “Where did Brit go?”
“Who? Wait. Is she the one who’s always plié-ing around the place?”
“What did you do to her?” I ask. I hadn’t meant to sound so pointed, but it’s too late. Daisy cracks up.
“I didn’t do anything to her. Who do you think I am, Em? Your girl wouldn’t stop asking questions. You aren’t believing that shit, right? I do let them leave.” Daisy flicks her cigarette out the window. “She probably moved back to Alabama or Arkansas or whatever. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Daisy shoots me a tricky smile. “I guess ‘y’all’ weren’t as close as you thought.”
I don’t tell Daisy about the disconnected number, the stack of mail on the Howdy doormat.
I don’t tell her about overhearing Brit and Audrey fighting in the bathroom.
Or that I thought I saw her in the kitchen fiddling with one of those slim voice recorders she uses for auditions.
Daisy doesn’t own me. She has secrets. I have secrets, too.
Anyway, how much can you ever know about a friend?
About anyone? Neither of us speaks for a while.
I feel the question that I’ve been asking myself for weeks bubble up and explode before I can stop it.
“What do you do up there anyway? In the penthouse?”
“See? You can’t leave anything to mystery, Em. It makes life very dull.”
“Can we just not talk?” I look out the window, pouting.
Daisy glances at me, registering my mood. “You were always like this.”
“Like what?”
“Afraid. Afraid of everything, timid, scared little Emily. Anything that’s worth it comes with some risk, Em. You can’t live your whole life like a sad little virgin.”
I look at Daisy. As much as I want to hate her, she’s right.
—
After I pick up the stack of grants that Veronica has left with the receptionist at the Elevate Comprehensive Grant Writing Company, I get back in the Mercedes.
Daisy is in the back seat playing with Holden, squeaking Sophie at him to sound like “Für Elise.” She puts the giraffe down and sighs.
It’s four p.m. She doesn’t feel like going home.
What about the Campbell, a hidden bar inside Grand Central Terminal?
An hour after our fight, we are sharing oysters on the half shell as if nothing ever happened.
“Is it true that oysters are an aphrodisiac?” I ask Daisy, assuming that she knows the answer. She opens a bag of oyster crackers for Holden.
“It’s the zinc. It impacts your dopamine levels. It’s in all bivalve mollusks, but you have to eat a lot of them.”
I flag down a waiter. “Another dozen oysters, please?”
“East or West Coast?” He glances at my ears, annoyed that I still have AirPods in.
“Both,” Daisy says. She smiles, the smile that I could live in forever.
—
The next day, I am slightly hungover, attempting to FaceTime with Sue on a bench by the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park.
It’s almost one in the morning in Melbourne and Sue’s lit only by the phone and the flashing lights of Gigi’s vital signs.
I hold the phone up to Holden. He’s all wrapped up in his 7AM Enfant removable down stroller blanket, only his rosy cheeks and smile showing like a happy caterpillar.
He has a dimple in exactly the same spot as his dad’s.
I put Aquaphor on his cheeks and they are glowing and dewy.
Sue could cry. She’s shattered that she’s missed all these months with him.
I tell her that Holden is hitting all of Dr. Brooke’s developmental milestones, maybe she can plan a visit soon?
A rat, matted and slimy, sprints across the clearing, stopping to stare at me, a predatory look.
It’s a sign. Sue isn’t coming to help. No one is.
Carleigh calls for the third time. We say goodbye to Sue.
It’s always too quick. Carleigh tells me she’s worried.
I missed another PT session. She’s going on vacation for the next few weeks, for her wedding and honeymoon.
They settled on an all-inclusive in Playa del Carmen.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Carleigh says.
I feel touched by the genuine concern in Carleigh’s voice, but also confused about how to answer.
Am I okay? Are any of us? I tell her I am fine.
I apologize for not showing up for our past couple of appointments.
It’s just that lying on her torture table made me feel like a gutted deer—when I could be at 527 Park getting ritual face sculpting or taking an Impressionist art class with my baby.
“It’s just, I’ve been really busy now that I’m back at work full time. ”
“I totally get it. I already told Troy that I don’t know if I even want to work full time after we have babies. It’s just…we were making progress, and—” Were we making progress, Carleigh? Really?
“Yeah. I’ve had some issues with my insurance…” I need to find the most practical way out of this.
“Diane called Dr. Weatherstone. She wrote you another referral, so you’re all set. Derek’s seeing my patients while I’m out.”
“Thanks. I’ll schedule something next week,” I say, even though I will not, under any circumstances, be spreading for Derek again.
“Sweet. We didn’t come this far to only come this far, right?
” Carleigh quotes the inspirational poster hanging at the STAR Physical Therapy and Rehabilitation Center.
Normally, this would annoy me, but there is an earnestness to Carleigh.
Here she is headed to her dream wedding on Long Island, worrying about my lady parts.
It’s hard not to appreciate that level of job commitment.
Whatever you are, be a good one. I make a mental note to get her the air fryer off her registry.
“Thank you, Carleigh. Hey, I hope Troy came around on the seafood tower and you have the happiest day and life together.”
“Thanks, Emily.”
I hope that when Carleigh has babies, it is easier for her. I hope that for Carleigh, everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.