We’re not going there now and she opens her book. “Whatever,” she says. “I’m reading.”
Ivan is still screaming at his lawyer and we need to get him out of this house. Ask him to leave, Mary Kay. Do it. You chew your upper lip and crack your brass knuckles and Ivan says he’s sorry and it’s a hollow apology and his voice peters out as he slams the bathroom door. I get out of Phil’s chair and toss the remote to the Meerkat and you follow me into the kitchen.
“Mary Kay,” I say. “You don’t need to let him stay here. You know how it goes with these things. It’s only gonna get louder.”
“It’s not that simple, Joe.”
Nomi opens Columbine—regression is the word of the day—and you sigh. “This is embarrassing but this house belongs to him.”
This is good, you’re opening up to me and I nod. “Okay…”
“It’s a long story. Phil and I weren’t the best with money.”
“So the house is in Ivan’s name?”
You are embarrassed and you shouldn’t be and we’re so close, Mary Kay, inches away from true freedom. Words away from it.
Ivan slams the bathroom door and he’s on the phone again. “You call yourself a lawyer? You wait four hours to call me back and you pooh-pooh me when I suggest we offer these girls some money? Since when did all these women become allergic to money? Before or after they became allergic to dick?”
Nomi closes her book and picks up her phone. “I’m gonna go see if I can get back into NYU.”
See that, Mary Kay? That’s good news and we’re already back on track. But then Nomi tosses her phone onto the sofa and sighs. “I don’t know who to email about school and maybe I won’t even bother with college.” She grabs the remote. “I mean why bother when our whole family is so messed up no matter what we do?”
She makes a good point, but she won’t feel so dismal once you and I start our family. You try to sit by her and she pushes you away. “Nomi, damn it, look at me. I love you. I promise things will get better.”
She’s crying but she’s still fighting you, pushing you away, the way she did when she was inside of you, hesitant to leave your womb and enter this nightmare of a world. The third time you try, she lets you envelop her and she is back in your womb now, crying softly into your bosom.
It’s a tender moment between mother and daughter and I remain silent, respectful, but Ivan slams his phone on your table. He spills beer on your hardwood floor. “Well, the witches are winning. Good job to their dads and great job to their moms.”
“Ivan,” you say, reminding him of his own fucking niece. “Come on, now. I’m asking you to cool off.”
He whines that he can’t cool off because there aren’t enough places to sit in this fucking house so I jump out of RIP Phil’s chair. “Ivan, please. Have a seat.”
He doesn’t thank me and he doesn’t move. “I can’t sit around while there’s an active witch hunt.” And then he contradicts himself and takes my chair. The living room is silent, except for the family on the screen. Ivan starts to cry.
My work here is done—you know it, I know it—and I put on my coat and wave goodbye to the Meerkat so that you can send Ivan on his way, which you will. The crying was a white flag and the man knows he is a goner.
But then Ivan sits up and says, “Well there is one piece of good fucking news.”
You look at Ivan and Nomi looks at Ivan and I don’t look at Ivan because I don’t want to know that he booked an appearance on some daytime talk show to defend himself.
He grabs the other beer out of the freezer. “I will be able to cover my attorney fees…” He pops the can.
All eyes on Ivan, even mine. And he grins. “Because I sold the house.”
Your face says it all. You don’t speak. You turn white and you never really wanted to move and he’s cavalier. Heartless. This is your home and he’s boasting about a cash buyer and you’re looking around the living room—this is where you live—and your Meerkat looks at you and snarls, “So what now, Mom? Are we homeless?”
38
You’re not homeless. And if any man on this island deserves to be sainted, that would be me. I opened my home to you—Generous Joe!—and you live with me now!
Sort of. It’s funny how life comes full circle. When I chose this house, I was in prison. I showed it to Love because I thought she’d be happy about the guesthouse, a place for her parents to stay when they visited. She scoffed at me—That’s way too small for them—but I stuck to my guns because I loved my house. It’s on the water. It has character. It’s not an L.A. Craftsman—I got so sick of those houses—and they’re popular in L.A. because they keep the heat out. But on Bainbridge, we get weather. You want a house with a lot of windows, a place that lets you soak up the sun. I thought my guesthouse would be empty until Forty’s old enough to leave his matriarchal prison, but now you and the Meerkat are in my guesthouse.
It was a rough month, Mary Kay. You had no time for me, too busy pleading with iMan to reconsider and cancel the sale. But that narcissist fuck wouldn’t budge, especially when his dutiful wife filed for divorce.
I had to tread lightly. Ivan left to go to rehab—copycat much?—and you began hunting for a new home. You were more exasperated every day, agitated by well-heeled Mothballs making passive-aggressive remarks about your spending, as if going without your lattes would have made you a millionaire. I was polite. And then, two weeks before your pending homelessness, I knocked on your office door.
“How you holding up?”
“Terrible,” you said. “Lunch?”
I insisted on taking you out—That’s what friends are for—and we had a nice, long, lingering lunch at Sawan. I mentioned my guesthouse in passing and one week later, you insisted on taking me to lunch. This time, we went to Sawadty and you mentioned my guesthouse. It was your idea to move in—it had to be your idea—and you insisted on paying rent. We haven’t been sleeping together—moving is stressful—and my phone buzzes: Are you awake?
It’s your first night in a new house and new houses can be scary. It’s after 2:00 A.M. and I’m your landlord—you insist on paying rent—so I respond, as any good landlord would.
Me: You okay?
You: Yeah. This bed is good. Do you have the same kind?
You’re in my guesthouse but you want to be in my house and the Meerkat is asleep and your rent check cleared and I tell you to come see for yourself.
Three minutes later, you are knocking on my door and I am opening the door.
You pick up Licious and promise him we’ll do something about that god-awful name and he wriggles free and that leaves you with free hands. A free body. A free night.
You walk up to me. Slowly. “I’m not here.”
I walk up to you. Slowly. “And you’re not allowed to sleep over.”
Our mouths are close. We are close. Your daughter will graduate from high school in a matter of weeks and that’s a big goalpost for us. You’ll be one step closer to freedom from being the good day-to-day mom. You tremble. Sore from moving all those boxes onto my property. “And you’re not allowed to tell anyone I was here.”