by Mira T. Lee
“Come on, it’s funny.”
She laughed. “Kind of funny.”
“Rafael has the flu. His headmaster called. Apparently, he’s been missing a lot of classes this term. And Grossmuti’s birthday party was a bit dramatic. Sophie slipped on a tablecloth and sprained her ankle.” Sophie, his seven-year-old niece. A sweet, precocious girl, talented at piano, who Miranda was tutoring in English.
“Wait, what? A tablecloth?”
“Don’t ask. My sister was not happy with this caterer.”
“Is she okay? Sophie?”
“Sure. She’ll be fine.”
She’ll be fine.
A freight train, struggling to punch through her sternum. He caught the strain in her silence.
“Miranda, maybe you should just let the professionals handle it now. The doctors. Take it easy for a day. Order some room service. Watch the Wildlife Channel.” Their first trip together to Maine. The Congolese bonobos, the mating rituals, the nonstop sex.
“I haven’t been able to speak to the doctor yet,” she said. Peeved. “I’m getting screened out by yet another self-important social worker. How professional is that?”
“The one I met?”
“No. She’s in a different ward now, thank God. But you know those professionals will let her out the minute I leave.”
“But you’ve given them her history. You’re communicating with the case manager. You’re doing everything you can do. Right?”
This was Stefan. Always calm, always rational. Sometimes she wished he’d stop it, and just be on her side.
• • •
The next morning she drove to the hospital, attired in her gray pin-striped Calvin Klein suit, her pearls, her knee-high leather boots. But her neck felt stiff, her stomach tight. She willed herself to enter the building, that sea of white coats and green scrubs, creaking gurneys and antiseptic smells. She stepped into the elevator, stared at the button that would shuttle her up to Crote Six.
HER. GO. AWAY.
Breathless, she retreated. Into the foyer. Through the revolving glass door. Ejected to the cold, bitter gray.
Back in her hotel room, Miranda opened up a spreadsheet, closed it after ten minutes, unable to concentrate. She would take Metro North into the city that day. Then the 6, down, all the way to Chinatown, where she focused on the gum spots on the sidewalk, smells of durian and fried meat, expertly navigated her way through the crowds. She visited her favorite bakery on Mott Street, bought a sesame milk tea, four pineapple buns to go. She stopped at a souvenir shop to purchase an I HEART NY sweatshirt for Rafael, a snow globe for Sophie, baseball caps for the other nephews and nieces. Then she walked sixty-plus blocks up to Central Park, and then into the park, crunching on slush and ice, over and under bridges, across the Sheep Meadow where a group of rosy-cheeked coeds played Frisbee in the snow, past the band shell, the fountain, the frozen pond where aggressive mallards fought for tourists’ bread crumbs. It was late afternoon by the time she stopped to rest on a bench, eat a pineapple bun, watch the pigeons, and her pulse, by then, was steady and calm.
She dialed Tess from a pay phone. Tess, her oldest friend in the world.
“Oh my God, Miranda! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to town?”
Embarrassed, she could come up with no good explanation, only excuses: My sister . . . not sure . . . how long . . .
They met at a coffee shop on the Upper West Side. Tess came through the door bundled in a short wool coat, and Miranda could sense her friend’s new radiance instantly, even before glancing to verify the bump at her middle.
“Tessie, I’m so happy for you!” A sensation in her chest, an enormous swell, as if this was the truest thing she’d felt in years. And as Tess spilled the details: due date, sex (boy!), morning sickness, et cetera, she found herself prickled by only the tiniest hints of jealousy.
“And what about you? How’s life in Switzerland?”
Serene, orderly, quaint. “It’s kind of surreal. We’re in a small town outside of Zurich. Lots of cows. I’m a bit of an exotic feature—people assume I’m one of those store-bought Asian brides.”
“Ugh. That must be annoying.”
“Yeah, though maybe it’s also a little flattering.” Miranda forced a wry smile. “Have you ever seen those Web sites? The women are gorgeous.”
“They’re probably eighteen!” said Tess. “We were gorgeous, too, twenty years ago. Remember Jamie Cabrera? I ran into him last week, he asked about you.”
“Jamie Cabrera . . .” A Columbia debate champion Miranda had dated for a few months her sophomore year.
“He’s a millionaire, founded some start-up company with Steve Lim. Steve asks about you, too.”
“Steve Lim?”
“Still a sweetie pie.”
“He was a good one.”
“Single.”
“Tess!”
“Just joking! Do you remember our first apartment, the one in Washington Heights?”
“The Dutch landlady who painted nine-foot Jesuses.”
“In the front hallway.”
“In oils!”
“And she didn’t allow overnight guests, and you had to help me smuggle my brother in through the fire escape and he sprained his ankle.”
“And Lucia, with her high school boyfriend.”
“The Greek one, who brought us a box of his auntie’s baklava. So polite!”
Miranda laughed. She missed her friend. She missed New York, the sheer wattage of the place, its mighty abundance, its chaos, its kinetic energy a comfort somehow. How long ago was it, those idyllic years, set free in the city to explore as she liked, to discover some cheap noodle shop or boho boutique or obscure sculpture garden tucked away somewhere in Queens? And her sweet Mei-mei would visit, and she’d wait on the platform at Port Authority, waving as the bus from New Jersey pulled in. And then they’d go find a museum or a free concert or some new art gallery, indulge in falafel or Gray’s Papaya or Ethiopian wat. Life was simpler then. That was before Ma’s illness. Before Lucia’s.
“How’s Stefan’s family?” asked Tess.
“Nice.” She searched for another word. “Dry. But nice.”
“Nice is good. Better than crazy.” Tess started to roll her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean . . . I’m so sorry, Miranda. I just meant, in-laws. . . .”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“Have you gone to see your niece yet?”
“No.” Miranda sighed. “I’ve been avoiding it. I feel awful for her father. I know I should go.”
“You’re amazing, to fly across the ocean for your sister. You know that, right?”
“I’m not sure Stefan thinks so.”
Tess frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Oh, it’s fine, don’t worry.” But Tess was already on alert, brows raised, skeptical. “It’s just that Stefan never knew Lucia the way she was . . . before. All he knows is that she’s a lot to deal with now.”
“Okay, but what about his son? You’re like . . . a stepmom. That’s not exactly easy to deal with either.”
“Rafi?” Miranda shrugged. “He’s a typical teenager, I guess. Awkward. Listens to angry music on his headphones all the time. A bit dirty. His moods take up a lot of space.”
“I can’t even imagine living with a teenaged boy.”
Miranda pointed to her friend’s belly. “Um . . . ?”
“Mine will be perfectly clean. And polite, of course.” Tess grinned.
“I think the trickiest part is trying to be a parental figure without having any real parental authority. But then acting like I’m his friend isn’t quite right either. It’s this strange in-between space. Though truthfully, I don’t see him too often—he’s mostly at boarding school. Stefan worries he’
s unhappy, but I think it’s divorce-guilt. We played tennis a few times last summer, that was fun.”
“And what about work?” asked Tess.
Miranda continued to muster up enthusiasm as she explained how she’d taken on a few clients of her own, smaller companies or nonprofits that needed help with their financials. She was working for Stefan’s hospital, too, and hoping to talk to a couple of museums when she got back.
“A museum would be perfect, right?” said Tess.
Oh, Tessie. Ever positive. Miranda reached over to hug her friend. “You’re going to be such a great mom,” she said.
“You’ll come visit again, won’t you? After the baby comes? And you’ll give me fair warning next time?”
“Sure,” said Miranda. “And I promise to stay in better touch.”
“Should we go buy some stationery?”
Miranda laughed. She still had those old letters in a shoe box somewhere.
“Do you think she really did that?” said Lucy.
Two triangles of tuna sandwich sat untouched on her tray.
“Did what?” asked Charo.
“Coco. Did she flush her baby down the toilet?”
Once again, Loco Coco had hijacked morning Group with theatrics about her famous two-headed baby, and she, Charo, had modeled respect, until Hulk came right out and said it, You’re full of bull crap, and Coco had thrown another fit.
“Did Coco upset you when she said that?” said Charo. “Don’t you have a baby, too, Ms. Bok?”
But the question triggered no sadness, no anger, no yearning, no pain. And though Charo knew, intellectually, that this numbness and detachment were woven into the illness, it still disheartened her.
“She’s my friend,” said Lucy. “She talks all the time. Her voice is loud.”
“What does she say?” Charo couldn’t be sure now whether Lucy referred to Coco or her baby or some aural hallucination.
“It’s tiring.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m protecting her,” said Lucy.
“You’re protecting your baby?”
Lucy rubbed her temples with her thumbs. “You don’t know how tiring it is. I’m exhausted. Do you know Susi?”
“Susi? Susi is your baby?”
“Susi’s my friend. She helps me sometimes.”
Lucy released her gaze from her meal tray, focused now on something just behind Charo’s head. Charo turned, but there was nothing. Only the wall of windows, the snow outside.
“Does Susi live at the house, too?” Finally, yesterday, she’d reached someone at the house. Not Manuel, but the gentleman had been polite enough, though he’d refused to give any information on his cousin’s whereabouts. “Your baby is doing well. Do you know that? Your cousins are helping Manuel take care of her.”
“Manny?”
Charo nodded.
“Well, the live-ins aren’t really my cousins. If they were my cousins, wouldn’t they be my sister’s cousins, too?”
It was exhausting, making sense of people who didn’t make sense, while concurrently trying not to offend them. “Ms. Bok.” Charo summoned her most authoritative voice. “If you want to get out of this hospital to see your baby, the quickest way is to listen to the doctors and take your meds.”
Lucy dissected her sandwich, separated the bread from the tuna, peeled off the crusts, picked out bits of celery. Charo glanced at the television. Game show reruns again.
“Half,” said Lucy.
“Half?” said Charo, confused by Lucy’s dismantled lunch.
“Half a pill.”
“The treatment team wants you on Abilify,” said Charo.
Lucy nodded. “Half.”
Charo wanted to jump, shout, pump her fists. Breakthrough. She knew it. Had known it all along in her gut, that bringing up the baby and the boyfriend was the right thing to do. “Wait here,” she said. She ran to find Nurse Bob.
Coco watched as Lucy stuffed her belongings into a pillowcase. She didn’t have much: four pairs of grayish-white socks, two tank tops, two sweaters, a pair of jeans, a six-pack of dowdy underwear her sister had brought, probably purchased from the Korean grocery.
“Ready to go,” she said.
“Mamacita, you’re crazy,” said Coco. “Look at it out.”
A flurry of fat, wet flakes. Reporters were billing it the Storm of the Year, forecast to go all day. Coco wrapped her blanket tight, glad to be inside. She pointed to Lucy’s hospital slippers. “Like that? You gonna freeze your ass off, baby.”
“Oh, yeah.” Lucy scratched her head. “Where are my shoes? I don’t know where my shoes are. Coco, can I borrow yours?” She dragged a red rubber boot out from under Coco’s bed.
“You planning on making a run for it?” said Coco.
“Oh. No. Someone will come pick me up,” said Lucy. “The social said I could go.”
Coco raised her left eyebrow. Her roommate had taken a couple of pills, and blessed Jesus, she thought she was cured. “Well, good luck, I suppose.”
Lucy frowned. “Did you really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Flush your baby down the toilet?”
Coco laughed. “Hell no, I never flushed no baby down the toilet. Is that why you leaving me now?”
“But you said you did.”
Coco boiled.
“I’m sorry you’re sad,” said Lucy.
“We’re all sad,” said Coco, snapping her gum.
“Bye-bye,” said Lucy. She flung the pillowcase over her shoulder, saluted with one hand, turned and marched out of the room. Coco scowled at the empty doorway. Bye? Just like that? She spat her gum at the bare white wall, satisfied when it stuck, ran to catch up with her friend. Rounding the corner to Hallway B, she collided with Miranda Bok.
“What in hell is going on?” said Miranda, wringing her soggy hair with her fingers.
“Lucy’s leaving,” gasped Coco.
“What do you mean?”
“She said she’s leaving.”
“Where is she going?”
“Out.”
Miranda marched into Charo’s office, Coco tight at her heels. “Ms. Alvarez. She can’t leave.”
“Excuse me,” said Charo.
“My sister cannot leave this hospital,” said Miranda.
“What are you talking about?” said Charo.
“She said she’s leaving,” said Coco.
“Nobody’s leaving,” said Charo. She glared at Coco. “Where is she now?”
Coco shrugged.
They fanned out, searching madly as if on Amber Alert. “Anyone seen Lucy?” they called, in the visitors’ lounge, the nurses’ station, the hallways, room after room. They opened bathroom doors, closet doors, poked their heads under couches, under beds, in places far too small for a grown woman to hide.
They found her sitting alone in the library, her sack of clothes on a metal chair.
“You are not leaving,” said Miranda.
“I am,” said Lucy.
“You are not leaving.” Miranda could not think of anything else to say.
“I took a pill,” said Lucy.
“I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” said Charo.
“You said I could leave if I took the pills. So I’m leaving. Aren’t I?” Lucy glanced at Charo, then her sister. Coco sensed her friend was in real distress.
“You need to get better,” said Miranda.
“You’re upsetting her,” said Coco.
“You’re upsetting me,” said Miranda. “She’s not going anywhere.”
It is impossible to inject logic into an irrational mind. Yet somehow, she could not stop trying.
“I took it,” said Lucy. “Abilify . . . two times.” She held up two fingers.
“Abili
fy? Why Abilify?”
“She agreed to it,” said Charo. “Now, let’s all calm down.”
“Didn’t you read my notes? Why are you giving her Abilify? She won’t stay on it. It gives her migraines.”
“She agreed to take it,” said Charo. She folded her arms, in defense of her victory.
“Where the hell is the attending?” said Miranda. “I want to speak with him, now.”
“This really isn’t . . .”
A loud thud. Charo stumbled backward. Lucy Bok had hurled her sack of belongings at a bookshelf full of old encyclopedias. She dropped to the rug, her face in her hands, slim torso shuddering with weight.
“Oh, honey,” said Charo. The girl was crying hysterically. She had never exhibited this kind of emotion before.
“It’s okay,” whispered Miranda. Instinctively, she extended a hand to smooth her sister’s hair. Stopped. Carefully backed away.
“I’m sorry,” said Charo.
“You’ve done it now,” said Loco Coco. “Come on, baby.” She reached down to remove Lucy’s red rubber boots. Patted her roommate on the head.
The smells permeated throughout the ward: savory, fried, pungent, sweet, meaty, spicy, irresistible. This was what she could do: offer diversion, supply food as truce. She could be of practical use. Miranda Bok had forgotten about the Golden Duck, until she discovered the old receipt crumpled in the corner of her purse.
Each of the twelve Styrofoam boxes was positioned exactly eleven inches from the next. To the left of each box sat a plastic spoon, to its right, a fork. The boxes ringed the entire perimeter of the ping-pong green. Paper plates, napkins, forks and wooden chopsticks were arranged neatly in the middle. Loco Coco clapped, satisfied. She had recruited one of the OCDs to set the table.
“Here we have shrimp with snow peas,” she said, the perfect hostess. “And this is sesame chicken. Spicy eggplant. Ahhhh. . . . king crab legs.”
“Enough for everyone,” said Miranda.
Crote Six smacked their lips.
“Help yourself,” said Lucy.
Hulk dumped the entire box of sesame chicken onto his plate.
“Pig.” Loco Coco glared. “Didn’t your mommy teach you to share?”
“Mmm,” said Hulk, ignoring her. “Delicious.”