“My mother doesn’t believe in throwing away books.”
He shoves the book back onto the crammed shelf. “I think she’s very glamorous. Elegant. I’m surprised she hasn’t remarried.”
“You’re welcome to sleep in her room tonight. Her bed is bigger than mine.”
“Now, now.”
“I finally bring a man home to meet my mother and her first instinct is to flirt? What does that even mean? My mother has barely had the energy to wash her hair the past few years. Between losing Leo, and losing the baby. She’s been wandering around the house in a defeated trance for so long, I forgot she was ever attractive. She spends most of the day in her nightgown. The only reason my mother bothers to get dressed is to go across the street to Gristedes for whatever meat is on sale because it’s reached its sell-by date.”
“Sounds like she lives life on the edge.” Peter laughs.
“Don’t,” I say, and walk away down the hall.
He follows me into my room and tries to put his arms around me, but I shrug him off.
“Elle, I’ve just flown across the Atlantic, in a raging storm, to see my beautiful girlfriend. Who, for the record, I am sickeningly, utterly in love with. I’m exhausted. All I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours is a piece of moldy cheese. And my socks are wet.” He sits down on my bed and pulls me onto his lap. “Be nice.”
“Ugh. You’re right.” I burrow my head into his chest. “I should be glad you’ve cheered her up. I am glad. It’s just been a shitty few days. And I missed you.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He lies down on my ancient twin bed. His feet stick out two feet off the bottom. “Hmm,” he says, “I may need to sleep in your mother’s bed after all.”
“I fucking hate you, Pete.”
“I know. All the women do. That’s my particular charm.”
And I laugh, despite myself.
1990. January 1, New York.
New Year’s Day, and if today is anything to go by, this will be a truly shitty year. It’s below freezing, I’m sick to my stomach after our annual family dim sum at a loud, overheated restaurant in Chinatown, where I ate ten too many steamed meat-ish things I didn’t even want, and my mother got into an argument with the waiter over the check. Now Peter is pressuring me to return my father’s calls.
“It’s New Year’s. Perfect time for an olive branch,” he says as we head down Mott Street in the biting wind.
“Shit. I left one of my gloves in the restaurant.”
“They’re probably feeding it to some poor sucker,” Peter says.
“Don’t be an ass.”
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, we’re squeezed inside a telephone booth a few blocks from my father’s apartment. I feel like kicking Peter. I cover the receiver with my hand. “This was a terrible idea,” I hiss.
“This is between you and Mary,” my father is saying.
“How can it be between me and Mary?” I snap.
“You two need to work this out.”
“There’s nothing between me and Mary. I’ve met her once.”
“I know,” my father says. “I want that to change. She’s important to me.”
“And I’m what?”
“Elle—”
“She convinced you your daughters were drug-addict thieves.”
He’s quiet on the other end of the phone. “Look, Mary made a mistake. I know. I made a mistake. And I am very sorry. Can we please move past this?”
“Fine. But if you think there is a world in which I will ever set foot in a room with that chicken-lipped woman, you’re insane.”
“Please don’t make this any worse.”
“Do not try to make this my fault.”
He sighs. “Mary and I are engaged. We’re getting married in March.”
“You just met her.”
“I know it’s soon, but Mary says there’s no reason to wait. We love each other.”
“Wow.” A piece of greasy dumpling rises in my throat.
“I need you to tell me it’s okay.”
“You’re pathetic.” I slam down the phone.
“That went well,” Peter says.
I stare at the receiver in my hand. Someone has scratched the word cunt on the back of it. And a smiley face.
“They’re getting married.”
“Ah.”
“Why did I listen to you? I should’ve hung up the second he mentioned her name.”