by Tash Skilton
“So. Is there anything I should know about your parents before we go in?” It serves the dual purpose of getting information and maybe even distracting her from her anxiety.
She sighs. “Where to even begin,” she mutters.
“How about their names?” I say.
“Liz and Melvin.”
“And how did Liz and Melvin meet?”
“Peace Corps,” she says flatly.
“Ah, do-gooder types.”
“Well, actually, here’s where it gets interesting.” She shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other. “They think they’re do-gooder types. But, honestly, I think their two main interests are traveling and soapboxing about whatever issue du jour they’ve decided to foster at the moment. So now the Peace Corps is a corrupt organization and the real way to heal the world or what have you is to be on the ground . . . at whatever location has the best background for their travel blog and—now—Instagram account. I guarantee you my mother will bring up their follower count within two minutes of us sitting down.”
“I see,” I say, remembering the brief tidbit of conversation I overheard on the phone. “And so where are they based out of now?”
“Last I heard, Central America. Grenada.”
“Perfect for selfless acts and selfies, eh?”
She gives a small laugh, as if surprised that I’ve understood her parents so quickly. “Exactly.”
The train pulls into the station. I notice a group of people getting up to leave it one door down, so I indicate that we can grab their vacated seats.
As soon as the train starts moving, she’s back to staring off into the distance again and taking deep breaths in and out. I decide to keep talking. “So when’s the last time you saw your parents?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe three years ago now? Actually, I think exactly three years ago. Because it was my twenty-seventh birthday.”
“It’s your birthday?” I look at her again, suddenly understanding the dressing up.
She looks over at me. “Dirty Thirty,” she says with a small smile. “According to some, my dating expiration date.”
“Who told you that?”
She waves it off. “No one. Forget it.”
“Well, happy birthday,” I say, feeling bad that I had no idea and therefore didn’t even bring her one of Café Crudité’s cupcakes or something (especially now that I know she likes red velvet). “I’m sorry . . . I bet you’d rather not be spending it with me.”
She shrugs. “Honestly, if it wasn’t for this, I’d probably be holed up in my apartment.” She looks briefly at the wall of midriffs that is now placed squarely in front of us on the crowded train. “Which would probably be an improvement. God, I miss LA.”
She wraps her arms tightly around her knees.
Keeping her mind off things is tougher than I realized. It might work better to get a rise out of her. “What could LA possibly have that New York doesn’t?” I ask.
“Legal weed,” she grits out.
I laugh, surprised. “Well, you have me there.”
“What, I’m supposed to leave my emotions up to fate?”
“You know, there is booze. Prohibition ended here in 1933 just like it did everywhere else.”
“It’s not the same. I just want to be mellow,” she says, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
“It’s not a mellow city, I’ll give you that. But I think that can be a good thing.” When she doesn’t respond, I add, “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.” Looking up at our fellow commuters, I notice a pregnant woman standing a few people down from us. I glance quickly at her face just to make sure it’s not Jordan in case fate has decided it loathes me today. Relief washes over me at the same time that the woman senses me looking at her and meets my eyes. I gesture to her, asking if she wants my seat. (I’d like to think I’d do the same thing even if it was Jordan but, look, I’ll be honest and say I’m not sure, okay?) She shakes her head.
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” I mouth.
She considers and then flashes me a smile of yes. “Thank you,” she says as she comes over and takes my place.
“No problem,” I say as I stand up and squeeze myself in by the pole in front of Zoey. She’s looking at me, but turns her gaze away after a second.
“This is us,” I say as we pull into Fifty-Seventh Street. A herd of commuters are now crowding around the door, clearly about to stream out of the train. I don’t even think about it, but I take Zoey’s hand to lead her out of the car and navigate through the swarms of people who are heading toward the exit stairs. I only let go to let her walk in front of me as we make our way up.
We don’t talk as we walk the crowded streets, her trailing slightly behind me as I traverse the three avenues to the restaurant.
When we get to the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Ninth, I pull her aside and take out my Bluetooth headset, turning it on.
“So just put this in your ear,” I say as I take out my phone and dial her number. “Can you hear me?”
“In stereo,” she says. She’s smoothing out her dress, her fingers moving up and down the fabric nervously. It’s both strangely endearing and kinda hot.
Jesus, I need to get laid soon if the sight of a girl’s fingers on her dress is making me think dirty thoughts.
“Um, you walk in first,” I say, pointing to the restaurant. “And I’ll come a few minutes behind and try to get a table where I can see you. Just remember not to react to what I’m saying to you.”
She nods.
“See you in there,” I say with what I hope is an encouraging smile.
She just nods again as she turns around and walks to the restaurant.
“Oh, and by the way, Zoey.”
“Yes?” she says, though she heeds my advice and doesn’t turn around, continuing to open the door of the restaurant.
“You look really nice today.”
CHAPTER 20
ZOEY
I don’t spot them right away; I’m too busy trying to figure out if agreeing to be Miles’s ventriloquist dummy to get through dinner with my parents represents the precise moment I lost my mind, or whether that occurred when I held his hand as we were getting off the subway. Either way, it’s too late—RIP Zoey’s sanity, wish you were here!—and I’m no longer capable of assessing anything with a clear head.
As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of Lo Busco, Lo Busco, I find them in the largest, swankiest booth. They sit on the banquette against the wall, cushioned against the red velvet, which will place me solo across from them. Mom’s hand is frozen in a wave, her expression curious and wide-eyed as she tilts her head to the side. Instinctively I wonder who’s caught her eye, because I know it’s not me. Did Miles not give me enough of a head start? Has our cover been blown and she’s wondering if I brought a “date”? The very idea would’ve been hilarious to me yesterday: me and Miles existing anywhere other than Café Crudité. Surely, we’d pop like bubbles if we ever encountered each other in the real world. Yet here we are, more than acquaintances, not quite friends.
Of course, would anyone other than a friend have offered to do something like this? I swallow hard and look behind me. Sure enough, there’s someone there; two someones. They look to be mid-sixties, Cruella de Vil black-and-white hair for him and a feathery pixie cut for her, probably a power couple of some sort, but I don’t recognize them. The maître d’ does, though, and steps out from the podium to greet them and escort them to a table a few down from Mom and Dad’s.
My parents’ heads swivel as one unit to watch them and for the second time tonight I consider bailing on the whole thing. I mean, honestly, what is the point? They perked up more at spotting two strangers than seeing their only kid, and I hate that I refer to myself as a kid around them, that I revert to a six-year-old jumping up and down to get their attention.
I duck my head and barrel toward their table.
“Hi guys, great to see you, I’ll be right back, just gotta
. . .” I make some type of swirly motion with my finger that’s supposed to mean “freshen up” but could mean dunk my head in the toilet. Which might be preferable.
In the cramped hallway outside the ladies’ room, I test out my tech connection with Miles.
“Abort, abort,” I whisper.
He chimes in right away, soft in my ear. “Already? What’s going on?”
“Imagine your parents looking past you to see if someone more interesting has entered the womb.”
“Room?”
“I know what I said.”
“Huh.”
That’s one of the reasons I loved working for Mary so much: She never looked at me that way, and she knew actual stars. She was an actual star. Academy Award winners or MacArthur Geniuses could show up at her house and they’d have to wait until our conversation was finished before she’d acknowledge them.
Which is why it hurts so damn much that she’s replaced me.
“So, I’m thinking, we came all this way, right,” Miles continues reasonably. “And I’ve had a look at the menu, and I think it’s worth staying, if only for the free meal. Tonight’s special is cochinita pibil, which is slow-roasted pork wrapped in a banana leaf . . .”
“I know you didn’t just tell me what to order,” I remark.
“Ha. Sorry.”
“It sounds delicious. That’s why I’m pissed.”
He chuckles. It’s nice to argue with him again. This is what passes for normal in my life these days: arguing with Miles. It gives me the strength to go back out there.
“Are we doing this?” he asks.
I nod, before remembering that he can’t see me. “Yes. Okay.”
Back at their alcove booth, my parents stand to greet me. Mom’s bright-eyed in a polyester-velvet jumpsuit, a pleather fanny pack covered in teeny tiny rhinestones serving as a belt. Dad wears a cashmere hoodie and hemp drawstring pants. I assume both ensembles were organically sourced or at the very least Jaden Smith–approved. He commented once on their Instagram, years ago, and they still bring it up as though they’re old friends.
“Did you see who was behind you?” Mom asks, pecking each of my cheeks with a kiss. She smells like incense and sage.
I roll my eyes, vindicated.
“Only the owner of Food for Thought Media,” Dad pipes up, and squeezes my arm. “We need a self-self with him before we go.”
(Yes, that’s what my parents call selfies of more than one person.)
“A top-shelf self-self,” Miles replies.
My lips quirk and I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s not exactly easy.
“You look lovely,” Mom says, pressing my hand to her cheek.
“We’re a bit crunched for time, so we ordered for you,” Dad says. “Oooh, and here it comes now.”
“One vegetarian medley, two cochinita pibils,” the waiter declares, placing the vegetarian dish in front of me.
I have never been vegetarian.
“Seriously?” Miles groans.
“It’s our cheat day,” Mom explains. “But I’m betting you don’t get nearly enough vegetables in your diet.”
“Ah,” is all I can say.
“Seriously?” Miles repeats. His commentary is a salve against their hypocrisy, but it’s not exactly helping. I can say “Ah,” all day long without his assistance.
Perhaps sensing this, he changes tack. “I’d hate to see you guys go without veggies! And wouldn’t you know I spend most of my time at a vegan café, so no need to worry. Let me just scoop a bit of yours on my plate. Since you have two.”
I repeat his words verbatim and slightly robotically. Mom and Dad tilt their heads but don’t stop me from snatching a portion of their meat.
“He’s getting up,” Mom hisses, bumping Dad with her elbow.
“Zoey, stop him,” Dad urges, nodding at me.
“Stop who?”
“Food for Thought,” he whispers urgently behind his hand.
I’m not quick enough doing whatever it was my dad envisioned me doing (tripping the guy? Flashing my tits?) to stop Mr. Mogul from passing by.
“There goes that plan,” Mom sighs.
“What was the plan?” Miles asks. “Kidnap him?”
I repeat his words before I can stop myself.
They glance at each other, apparently trying to assess whether or not I’m being sarcastic.
“Well, no, I just thought we could engage him for a moment and perhaps slip him our new business cards,” Dad replies slowly.
“Take a look. Tell us what you think,” Mom adds, unzipping her pleather fanny pack and procuring a fistful.
“Maybe Zoey can set one on his table,” Dad suggests.
“Or crawl underneath it and pop out during dessert,” Miles deadpans.
I snort but don’t have the guts to repeat it.
Mom slides the new business card over to me, a sly gleam in her eye. The card reads “Eco-Friendly Tourism. We curate a Zero-footprint trip, you get Peace of mind. And spirit!”
The copy editor in me begs to fix their sentence fragments and random capitalizations.
“You changed your business model again?” I ask. They are now travel agents, it appears.
“With the exception of the plane ride, it’s carbon-footprint–free,” Dad crows.
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Does it?” Miles asks.
“So,” Mom prompts, leaning in slightly. “Tell us about New York.”
“It’s the greatest city on earth, obviously,” Miles jumps in.
My eyes narrow and I wish I could mute him for a moment. I’d rather he not hear this part of the conversation, because if they’re genuinely asking, now’s my chance to get a little parental advice. I take a deep breath, ready to spill my guts about how lost and lonely I’ve been feeling. It’s not like Miles and I are going to hang out after this. It’s a one-shot deal, a spontaneous good deed on his part that won’t be repeated. Of course, anything he hears tonight could be used against me in the apartment hallway. But it might be worth it—after all, Mom and Dad have lived in six out of seven continents. They must have experience feeling disoriented or unsure of themselves.
“It’s a lot tougher than I expected.”
Dad nods, and says, “We were surprised to find out you’re not working for Marly anymore. From what Nana said, she really pulled the rug out from under you.”
I don’t bother to correct Mary’s name.
Mom makes a clucking sound and shakes her head. “Sending you across the country like that.”
“You know when we came here tonight, we had half a mind to ask if you’d like to join us on the next leg.”
I’m stunned. They want me to travel with them?
“But we forgot how much you hate change, how much trouble you have adjusting to new things,” Dad continues. “Any little difference used to set you off.”
“Some people aren’t cut out for travel. We learned that with you right away, didn’t we?” She pats my hand. I pull it protectively toward my body.
“It wasn’t the travel I minded,” I say quietly.
“Of course it was. You and your nana are cut from the same cloth. That was always our burden,” Mom chuckles. “Your generation and Nana’s generation had more in common than either of you had with us.”
“You never know which traits will be passed on, and which ones will languish,” Dad agrees.
“And no one ever tells you how difficult it is to balance parenting and sense of purpose. How jarring it is when you have to give things up.”
“You didn’t give anything up,” I interject. “You didn’t find balance. You sent me off with Nana.”
“Well,” Mom huffs, “you can’t say we weren’t all happier that way. You most of all. You thrived living in a single location.”
She’s right, of course, but that wasn’t the point I was trying to make.
“What do you remember about Indonesia?” I ask.
They glance at each othe
r, perplexed. “Indonesia?” Dad says. “Indonesia when? We’ve been there three or four times. . . .”
“The time with me. After Manila, but before Nana took me to California,” I clarify.
“The weasels,” Mom reminisces, delighted. “You helped us with the weasels.”
“I’ll never forget it,” Dad adds, slapping his hands together. “What a rush.”
“Not Manila. Indonesia,” I repeat, my voice sharp and gaining volume. “What do you remember about Indonesia?”
“Why don’t you come right out and tell us what you’re referring to?” Mom says, leaning forward.
They don’t remember. They really don’t remember what caused Nana to put her foot down. There’s no point in having this conversation if they don’t remember.
A light bulb practically materializes above Dad’s head. I take a deep breath. Finally.
He turns to Mom. “Hon, hon, where’s the treat?”
“What treat?” Mom asks.
“The one Nana sent.”
All the fight leaves me. I’m not going to get any answers from them, let alone the answers I want or need. Maybe it’s for the best. I’d almost forgotten Miles is listening in, he’s been quiet for so long.
“For what it’s worth”—and just like that, his voice fills my ear—“I don’t think it’s true, that some people aren’t cut out for things, or that they can’t change. People can always adjust, people can learn to enjoy new things, even if they didn’t before.”
For a moment the rest of the room falls away, and it’s just Miles’s voice, murmuring thoughtful words in a careful tone. Kind words. Encouraging words.
And then reality interrupts.
“Hand her the cornbread bibingka, Liz,” Dad urges.
I refocus. It’s been way too long since I’ve had Nana’s and my favorite dessert. The combination of creamed corn, rice cake, and coconut milk crisped to a light brown fresh from the oven always made my mouth water, especially since Nana adds extra sugar on top. Even a stale, room-temperature one would be amazing right now; the best birthday present ever. I perk up, imagining biting into the sweet, chewy texture.
Mom swallows, eyes wide. “That was for Zoey?”
“Yes!”
She slowly unzips her bedazzled fanny pack again and pokes her finger around.