“I have a meeting at one with Dr. Wallace,” I reminded him. It wasn’t a complete lie; I did have a meeting at 1:00 p.m. with Dr. Wallace—in two weeks. But I also had almost twenty-five years of Immigrant Parent experience, and I knew that the best way to avoid a guilt trip when trying to make an early exit was to come up with a school-related excuse.
“Well, next time you should come home earlier,” he said petulantly. “You have a car, and you live close. You need to commit more time to family.”
Miss you too, Daddy, I thought.
“I’ll visit soon,” I said, skirting past him. Momma was already at work, a small blessing. “I promise.”
“Okay,” he said, following me out the front door. He pulled me into a hug that would have been comforting if my skin hadn’t been crawling with anxiety. “Drive safe. Tell Nia I said hi.”
Last night’s nkatenkwan had only temporarily delayed my despondence. After twenty-four hours of high-intensity exposure to practically all the potential triggers for my impending breakdown, I was in need of two things: （1） an exit plan （achieved） and （2） a distraction. I’d texted Nia, but she had planned for my absence by finally scheduling the bread-making class I’d given her for Christmas and wouldn’t be home until late. Michelle, who had journeyed with me from our Midwestern college to our Midwestern medical school, was still on her Step study block, and wouldn’t be free to hang for another week. A bummer; I couldn’t very well go sit in my apartment alone with my thoughts. I would have to entertain myself.
Thankfully, it was summer in Chicago. Every Friday to Sunday, there was bound to be a niche street festival or four to explore, a free concert, a park performance of King Lear. I scrolled through the city calendar of events, selected an art fair in Pilsen that was only twenty minutes from my apartment, and went on my merry way.
Evidently, the entire city had the same idea.
“Y’all don’t have to go to work?” I muttered, grinding my teeth as I drove farther and farther away from the festival, looking for a free parking spot.* This is fine, I reminded myself, tamping down on my frustration before it could bubble over and turn into misery. You have nothing but time to burn. Besides, it’ll be nice to explore the neighborhood.
Eventually, I found parking about a mile and a half away from the festival entrance. Outside, the bright afternoon sun flared in full force. Somehow, I had forgotten that a world existed outside my sphere, one that consisted of city noise and summer color. I thought back to my last few months, which I’d spent holed up in various libraries studying for Step or hiding away in suburbia at my parents’ house and realized that I hadn’t been properly out in a long time. My world had narrowed to me, Nia, and the occasional interloper,* and the abrupt expansion to so much more stretched my senses thin. I popped my headphones in and selected an upbeat song, the soundtrack for my reintroduction to my bright new world.
Pilsen had a grungy charm, I decided. I’d wandered its streets before, but almost always at night, almost always after drowning my post-exam sorrows with Michelle at some bar. A shame—a neighborhood like this deserved to be appreciated sober and in the light of day. Practically every building featured a colorful, heavily detailed mural, and the juxtaposition of cultures—Mexican, Chinese, Gentrifying Yuppie—meant that every block hid a pleasant surprise.
About a mile into my walk, a gated clearing came into view, an interruption of brick and awnings with lush green and pink and yellow. It was small, barely half a block wide, but glorious. A flaking hand-painted sign at the entrance designated the area as lydia’s floral arrangements urban garden, est. 2013, and another read, public access encouraged. Despite the inviting message on the sign, Lydia’s garden was unoccupied. The gate creaked noisily as I entered.
Inside, the garden was even more breathtaking than I expected. Butterflies fluttered through the air, and squat, fuzzy bumblebees buzzed over the petals of bright orange daylilies. I knelt in front of a rosebush so perfect that my mother might have tried to uproot it. My fingers hovered over the unblemished white blossoms, just barely brushing against the velvet-soft petals.
Frederick used to bring me flowers. On our first date, I told him that I hated them as gifts （“they’re so much work to prep, you can’t really do anything with them, and they die, like, instantly”）， and after that, every time I saw him, he had some for me—a fat blue hydrangea blossom, a bushel of baby’s breath, a half dozen red roses. At first, I thought it was our little joke. I would hunt around my apartment for the most ridiculous container for them—empty coffee canisters, Diet Coke bottles, and, once, a whole saucepan—and put them in a place of honor in the living room for him to find. At first, Frederick had played along, egging me on . . . but after a few weeks, the flowers stopped coming. And then one day, when we were out to eat, he’d told me that I was ungrateful. “I bet every woman in this room would love to get flowers from their man,” he’d insisted, and I realized that, all along, he hadn’t been getting those flowers for me. He’d been getting them for himself: to prove that he was the kind of guy who got girls flowers.