by Ilana Masad
In the split second it takes her to glance down at her phone in order to press the microphone button so she can order it to call Lucia, a gunmetal-gray Lexus swoops into her lane to get out from behind a slow sedan. When Maggie looks up, her mouth open, the word “Call—” already uttered, the Lexus is so close to her that she panics and slams on her breaks—her hands, without any conscious decision of her own, turn the wheel left—but there is no more left to go, there is only the concrete barrier between the west-bound and east-bound lanes.
It isn’t like people say. Time doesn’t slow down. It rushes toward Maggie without pause, and the crash is tremendously loud, the pain excruciating. The airbag inflates. The seat belt cuts into her neck, and her chest slams against it so hard it feels like a ton of stones rather than a strap of fabric. The sounds of cars rushing by outside, a series of honks—these are the last noises Maggie hears before she loses consciousness. Lucia’s name is still on her lips.
IRIS
DECEMBER 24, 1985
Merry almost Christmas, Mom. Love you. Mhmm. Yes, I’m okay. Really. Yup, bye, bye, say ciao to Papa.” Iris waited until she heard her mother click the phone down on her end before beginning to disentangle herself. She had a habit of carrying the landline with the long curly cord around and around the small living room while she talked, pacing, which meant that she inevitably got the cord wrapped around a piece of furniture or, just as likely, around one of her feet. This time, it was twirled three times around her right wrist.
It was a yellow phone, and one of the only cheerful things in this wretched apartment. She wished she could paint it all this color, this bright sunshine color, a crayon color. The furnished one-bedroom otherwise featured dark browns—the couch, the single bookcase—and grayish whites—the tiles, the walls—that made everything look dirty, coated in a layer of soot. At least for her bed she had a light orange coverlet her mother bought her years ago. Shlomo had hated it, so it never went on their bed, which Iris is now grateful for, because there were so many things she used to love and had left behind when she moved because she couldn’t stand the association with him.
There were no Christmas decorations, of course, and no tree, because Iris didn’t celebrate the holiday and never had. But she and her parents always tried to talk around that day, because the one thing the culture of Christmas seemed to do right, they thought, was making it an occasion to celebrate family. She’d heard all about her mom’s new neighbors, who were very nice even if they did cook smelly food, and her father had told her absentmindedly when forced on the phone by his wife that he loved her and couldn’t talk because he was listening to a historic game between the Knicks and the Celtics—he said that about almost every game, though, so Iris didn’t take him seriously. She didn’t mind hanging up quickly; long-distance calls weren’t cheap. Plus, Iris couldn’t bear when her mother took that tone she’d started on toward the end of the talk, that concerned and slightly passive aggressive are-you-sure-you’re-okay-my-divorcee-daughter-oy-vey-what-did-we-do-wrong tone.
But now she was faced with the emptiness of the depressing apartment. Her neighbors across the hall, two model-slash-actresses, were out of town visiting family. The old man who lived upstairs seemed to have company over because for the first time since she’d moved in almost a year ago, she could hear multiple pairs of shoes walking around above her. There must be a child there, she thought, because there was definitely some jumping happening, and a rhythmic sound like a ball being bounced. She couldn’t complain, though—for one, it was Christmas, and for another, the occasion of noise from upstairs was so rare that it would be small of her to take issue with it.
She grabbed her library book from the kitchen table and stuck as much of it as would fit in her purse. She’d made a book-buying celibacy vow, because she was in debt to the lawyer she’d had to hire for the divorce—Shlomo hadn’t agreed to give her a get at first, even though he was willing to go through with the civil proceedings, and it wasn’t until she strategized with the lawyer into near-blackmail regarding how Shlomo treated her that she’d managed to obtain the damn religious document. She would have left it alone, if her parents hadn’t insisted, but they’d convinced her that if she wanted to marry in a Jewish ceremony again, she needed to do this. Meanwhile, Shlomo was supposed to be paying her alimony and wasn’t, but she couldn’t afford more lawyer time.
Iris locked the apartment behind her and got into her used and rather beaten-up Pontiac. She began driving, not entirely sure where she was going. It was early evening, still light from where the sun was setting behind the mountains. The sky was the exact shade of blue as the word-processing program on the computer she’d used at the synagogue. She hadn’t used one since then—too expensive—and was back to her typewriter. But she made do, trying to scrimp and save while she worked to find new clients; Shlomo had managed to badmouth her to every synagogue she’d worked for but one, and thank goodness for her friend Dena who’d defended her so vociferously to the board of Beth-El. Still, the careful network Iris had built had come apart, and she was trying to woo some smaller, newer synagogues and expand to churches. She didn’t know yet that her first corporate bite would come soon enough, and that from there her occupation would be pretty much set for years to come.
Ten minutes after she set out, after driving a bit aimlessly and watching families and couples going into other people’s decorated houses laden with food or drink, wearing sweaters and Santa hats, she decided where to go.
Gold Dragon was one of the restaurants Iris had been going to since she first moved to Los Angeles with Shlomo all those years ago. It was also, thankfully, free of his taint, since his palate ran toward what he was already familiar with. She hadn’t been there in a long time, because she was trying not to eat out, but it was Christmas Eve, which meant indulgence, and the perfect time for a Jew to eat Chinese food. It was a cliché that Iris loved. She’d first heard about the tradition in high school, and she’d dragged her Italian and Polish immigrant parents out to the Lower East Side in Manhattan, where her friends had told her there was a kosher Chinese place. It was one of the only times Iris had managed to make her parents do anything that broke from their routine.
The restaurant was mostly empty when she got there, only one man waiting to order at the counter. The woman behind it was presumably taking an order over the phone, though she was laughing and smiling and talking as if to an old friend in a tonal language, though Iris couldn’t presume to know which.
The man looked behind him when Iris came over and shrugged. “She’s been on the phone for a while,” he said. He had bright green eyes, a rather thin mouth, and thick, well-shaped eyebrows.
“It’s okay, it’s Christmas,” Iris said.
He seemed to think about this for a moment. His posture straightened, and he smiled. “Yeah. You’re right.” He turned back to the counter with a nod, and the woman put the phone down a moment later.
“What can I get you, sir?” she asked, her words accented.
Iris thought it sounded beautiful. The man’s voice when he ordered the beef egg foo young sounded beautiful too. Everything, she realized, was absolutely lovely, from the wallpaper with its curlicue designs to the red lamps hanging above all the tables to the wafting scent of frying food coming from the kitchen behind the counter. She had no idea where this surge of goodwill and cheer was coming from. Maybe there was something to that Christmas spirit people talked about.
“Ma’am? What can I get you, ma’am?”
Iris glanced down to realize the woman was addressing her now. She’d still been staring up at the paper-covered lantern. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, can I have the chicken lo mein, please? To go?” She handed over a couple of dollars, got a nickel back, and chose one of the wooden tables to sit at while she waited. She pulled out her book and opened it, ready to settle back into the main character’s world.
“When the Bough Breaks by Jonathan Kellerman.” S
he looked up to see the man who’d ordered before her scrutinizing her book. “Is it any good?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiled, and went back to reading. She heard a scraping and glanced up to see the man turning his chair a little so he could gaze up at the small muted TV that hung in a corner between wall and ceiling. His face looked worn, though he seemed like he was her age. No, not worn, she thought. Sad. He looked sad.
Her desires warred. On the one hand, she wanted to go to him, chat a bit. He was good-looking, and he’d been pleasant to her, hadn’t pressed her for more conversation or gotten touchy. But on the other hand, she wanted peace and quiet and to read her book, get her food, drive home, and watch reruns of whatever show was on TV. Maybe Three’s Company. She kind of hated it but kind of loved it too. Or there would be a classic holiday movie airing, maybe A Charlie Brown Christmas, and she could watch that and cry and get into bed early, read until two in the morning, and try to sleep late tomorrow. Maybe she’d even buy a bottle of wine on the way home to make sure she slept through the night this time; she was still having the nightmares that started once she left Shlomo. Yes, red wine and a movie and a book. It sounded heavenly. Living alone was something she used to be terrified of, the prospect of loneliness somehow worse than tiptoeing around her husband, trying to keep him calm between bouts of fire and fury. It was with some rueful self-flagellation that she’d realized, despite the depressing apartment and the nightmares and the tight budget, that she reveled in the privacy.
But even though she liked her independence now, it didn’t look like the man was enjoying being alone as much. He got his food from the counter and sat back down, digging into a bowl of rice as if it were his only lifeline. Iris closed her book and went to his table.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Hey! You bet!” he said, so eager to agree that he’d pouched his food in one cheek to do so. He resumed his chewing as she sat, smiling.
“So,” she said. “Jew?”
He shook his head. “Ex-Catholic,” he said. “Very ex.”
“Oh,” Iris said. “Sorry, it’s just. Jews and Chinese food on Christmas. It’s a thing.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, and then smacked himself on the forehead. “I mean. Obviously. You know that. Anyway. So, you’re Jewish?”
“I guess,” she said. “I mean, yes, I am, but I was married to a rabbi for a while and it . . . wasn’t great. So I’m kind of taking a break from religion, I guess.” She hadn’t gone to synagogue for any of the High Holidays, hadn’t even lit Chanukah candles a couple weeks ago, or bothered buying a new chanukia, though she hadn’t admitted as much to her parents. She just couldn’t get the image of Shlomo out of her mind when engaging in rituals he used to dominate; when she reached for memories of her parents, the synagogue in Brooklyn, the summer camp, his face would interrupt, his too-red lips curled, menacing.
The man in front of her, his face clean-shaven and open and so utterly un-Shlomo, put his chopsticks down and looked at her intently, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” He seemed to mean it, too. It made Iris blush a little, this sincerity. She wasn’t used to it.
“So why are you all alone and here on Christmas Eve?” she asked. “I’m Iris, by the way.”
He put his hand out and she shook it. He smiled. “Peter. Good shake,” he said. “And, ah, well, I guess I just really don’t like Christmas. Or Christmas Eve. Or any of it.”
“Because of the ex-Catholic thing?”
He nodded.
“Chicken lo mein!” the woman at the counter called out. Iris got up and took the plastic bag.
“I hope your night gets easier, Peter,” she said.
“Thank you, Iris,” he said. Again, his sincerity, as if no one had ever told him to have a good night, did something to her insides. She paused before she got to the door, turned around, and went back to his table. She rummaged in her purse while he looked up at her, mouth full again, confused.
“Forget something?” he asked.
“Yeah. Here.” She ripped a piece of paper out of the back of her Filofax, which always went with her everywhere, just in case. She wrote her number on it and handed it over. “Call me,” she said, two words she had never spoken to a man before.
He opened the bit of paper carefully, as if it were precious, and looked at the scribbled digits. “I will,” he said.
She smiled and walked back to her car and went home for some TV and noshing.
When she got in, there was a message on the machine—an expense, but one that really was a necessity if she wanted to get more work. She assumed it was her mother, maybe making her father call her back after the game was finished, and clicked the play button. As she began unpacking her food and putting it on the coffee table in front of the couch, she smiled at the voice that was very much not her mother’s.
“Hi, Iris. It’s Peter. You said to call. And I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat, so I thought I better do it before I lose my nerve. Since you may be free during Christmas . . . Want to go out tomorrow? I’m, uh, calling from a pay phone. Here’s my number.” He rattled it off, and then closed with, “Thanks, Iris. Wow, that was dumb. Sorry. Okay. Bye!” She laughed out loud. The sound reverberated in the empty space—she wasn’t sure she’d ever laughed in there yet. Maybe she would be doing more of that soon.
AUGUST 28, 2017
Flashing lights, shouts.
Then nothing.
A loud voice. “Ma’am? What’s her name—have you found her ID yet? Miss, can you hear me?”
Then nothing.
The hum of an engine underneath her, the wail of a siren above.
Nothing again.
* * *
• • •
WHEN SHE’S AWAKE next, it’s like opening her eyes into dense San Francisco fog. She blinks.
“Oh shit, Dad, Dad, she’s awake—”
“Maggie? Maggie, oh my god, Maggie, Maggie . . .”
“Hi,” she says, and a pain, like the worst kind of muscle ache, shoots through her, but only for a moment. The fog still cradles her. She’s vaguely aware of her father’s head resting on her stomach, the vibration of his deep voice as he mumbles unintelligibly. Ariel is standing next to the bed looking supremely uncomfortable, eyes wide and damp. “I think I’m really high,” she says after a moment.
Peter’s head comes up. He stares at his daughter and starts laughing. Big, hearty ha-has that in later days Maggie will recognize as hysteria. In the moment, though, she just finds the noises he’s making very funny and begins to laugh herself, but it hurts and she stops.
“Okay, okay, what a cheery bunch, let’s see here.” A nurse pulls back the curtain around her and Peter and Ariel, letting in more light. “I see you’re awake. That’s excellent. You’ve cracked a couple of your ribs and you have a pretty bad cut on your neck, but you were extremely lucky, missy. I can’t tell you how lucky.”
She tries to nod, which also hurts. “What am I on?” she asks.
“Morphine, but it’s temporary. Don’t get used to it, eh?” The nurse wags a finger at her, a beaded rainbow bracelet shimmering around his wrist. Maggie wants to reach out and touch it, feel its unevenness between her fingers, but her arms are too tired.
“That’s sort of like heroin, isn’t it?”
“Pretty similar,” he says.
“Good. Like Mom,” Maggie says, and drifts off again.
* * *
• • •
SHE WAKES TO Peter slowly caressing her forehead, his thumb smoothing it over and over. She feels remarkably more sober, though drowsy, and she’s aware now of the pain in her ribs every time she breathes in.
“Hey, Daddy,” she says. Speaking is painful. She supposes they’ve lowered her dose now that they know she’s going to live and all.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says. His eyes are gliste
ning. “I thought—I can’t lose both of you—” His voice catches and he turns his face away, as if to shield her from his grief, his fear.
“It’s okay, Dad, I’m okay. I’m sorry,” she adds. “I won’t do it again,” she promises. He smiles at this.
“You better not. You damn near gave me a heart attack.”
“Where’s Ariel?” she asks. “What time is it?”
“He’s getting some coffee. And I think he’s on the phone with Leona too—guess he got a girlfriend while I wasn’t looking. He was really worried about you, you know. Oh, and it’s about eight.”
It hasn’t even been that many hours—she was on her way back to Oxnard around noon, she thinks. And now she’s in a hospital bed, having scared her remaining family half to death. After disappearing for days. “So, uh, how’s the shiva been?” she asks.
Peter gives her a watery smile. “It’s a shiva,” he says. “It’s miserable. Your mom had such a love-hate relationship with them. She thought they were probably necessary, a good idea, but she didn’t like being compelled into sitting still. She didn’t like being forced to do something just because it was how things were done.”
Maggie isn’t sure if this is meant to be an indictment or praise of her mother’s behavior—or her own for that matter. Should she say she’s sorry for having skipped out? Should she thank Peter for emerging from his detached state to come to the hospital? She remembers that her plan was to get home and snap him out of it—and now she has, though not intentionally, nor in quite the way she’d meant to do it. Sometimes, she supposes, life is funny that way. “Where’s my phone?” she asks. “I need to tell Lucia I’m okay.” Her heart begins to pound, worried about what Lucia knows or doesn’t know yet, the anxiety about losing her rearing up again—because now Lucia will not only need to contend with Maggie’s feelings but with her recovery from this, however long it’ll take. Will she want to stay?