Laura & Emma

by Kate Greathead

  A childish part of Laura wanted to join the gawkers at the end of the platform, but shame prevented her from indulging such morbid curiosity. Slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat, she proceeded in the other direction, away from the spectacle, toward the exit. As she headed up the steps to the street, she had to step aside for a team of paramedics. That they didn’t appear in a particular rush extinguished any doubt she’d had regarding what had happened.

  Laura arrived at Winthrop to find Emma standing on the front steps with Miss Cole. As she approached, Miss Cole patted the top of Emma’s head and said, “Do you want to tell Mom how it makes you feel when she’s late?”

  “Like my time is—like your time is more important than me,” Emma said.

  The suspiciously adult language was not lost on Laura, who resented that Miss Cole would plant such an idea in Emma’s head.

  “Of course that’s not true,” Laura said. “I’m late because my subway was delayed.”

  “You always say that,” Emma huffed.

  “Well, today was especially bad. There was some sort of police investigation and they wouldn’t let us off the train.” Shifting her gaze up to Miss Cole, Laura mouthed the word: casualty.

  Grinning her customary frigid grin, Miss Cole responded, “These things happen.”

  Laura was confused. These things happen was something you said to pardon someone who’d committed a minor transgression—not to the shaken bystander of a tragic accident. In case Miss Cole had failed to register it, Laura leaned over and whispered in her ear, “My subway ran someone over.”

  “Mom.” Emma tugged Laura’s coat. “Can we go?”

  As they waited to cross Lexington at Ninety-sixth Street, Laura noticed a crowd of people loitering outside the entrance to the subway. Several police cars and an ambulance idled by the curb. Their timing couldn’t have been worse. The light turned, and just as they reached the other side, the team of paramedics Laura had seen going down the subway steps came back up.

  In her six years of living in New York City, Emma had seen a number of people on stretchers being loaded into ambulances; she was curious why this one was zipped up in a black bag.

  “How can the person breathe?” she wanted to know.

  “He dead,” one of the corner boys answered.

  “Hit by a train,” another added, smacking his fist into his palm.

  “In real life did that happen?” Emma asked as they stepped into the building. “A man got hit by a train and died in real life?”

  “Of course not,” Laura said. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  When the elevator reached their floor, it always overshot its destination by a small margin, and as it reversed direction there was a brief moment when the body recalibrated its momentum, creating a feeling of low-gravity weightlessness similar to being in a car on the crest of a hill, or a roller coaster. Emma, who usually attempted to prolong the sensation by jumping up as it happened, did not do so today.

  By dinnertime she was herself again. As she squeezed the ketchup bottle, it made a wheezing, spluttery sound, and she giggled.

  “Mom,” she said. “Listen.” She repeated the sound several times for Laura’s benefit, laughing with each stertorous squeeze. “What does that sound like?”

  “Very amusing,” Laura said.

  “But what does it sound like?”

  “Like passing gas.”

  “Passing gas,” Emma squealed, seeming to find these words even funnier than the corresponding sound effect. “It’s called a fart, Mom.”

  Emma revisited the subject of mortality as Laura tucked her into bed that night.

  “Does it happen to everyone?” she asked. “Every person in the whole wide world?”

  Laura nodded. “Eventually.”

  “The good news is we all get to be together again in heaven,” Emma said as Laura snapped off the light.

  “Some people believe that,” Laura said in a neutral tone.

  * * *

  “ARE THERE SOME PEOPLE WHO never die?” Emma asked Dr. Brown at her next appointment. “Like kings and queens?”

  Dr. Brown pursed his lips and shook his head. “Even kings and queens die,” he told Emma, resting a hand on her bare knee. “Part of life is that one day it’s over. Everyone and everything that is ever alive, one day dies. Trees, plants, flowers, birds, bugs, dogs, people, butterflies—we all die. It’s what makes our time together so meaningful, knowing that each moment we’re alive is so precious.”

  Laura tried to make eye contact with him to communicate her gratitude for his sensible yet gentle response, but Dr. Brown’s gaze remained fixed on Emma as she grappled with this information. His furrowed brow and periodic blinks conveyed something. Laura wasn’t sure what, but it struck her as something important; something so fundamental there wasn’t a word for it—something that she hadn’t been offered as a child, and was hence unequipped to provide herself.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS LAURA HUNG up the phone, a crisis of confidence set in. Was it crossing professional boundaries for a pediatrician to socialize with the parent of a patient? Yes, Laura decided, but she had initiated it and he’d been too polite to decline and now it was too late: Dr. Brown was coming for dinner next Wednesday and there was no uninviting him.

  She tried to get used to the idea of it. Visualizing the evening from Dr. Brown’s perspective, it pleased her to imagine his surprise walking down their block, taking note of the grungy store on the corner, the row of abandoned tenements across the street, the wall with the graffiti, and then stepping into their building to be greeted by Frank with his cats and cigarettes. Their humble circumstances would impress and move him; they weren’t at all like his other patients.

  She would need to make a visit to the liquor store, but what should she get? Most men she knew drank whiskey, but that didn’t seem like Dr. Brown’s kind of thing. A bottle of wine seemed appropriate, though she’d have to ask him to open it. But what if he was a recovering alcoholic?

  Laura took out The Moosewood Cookbook and The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. She was not a confident cook, but the books’ slapdash aesthetic and casually chatty tone—sprinkle hither and thither . . . taste to see if it wants more salt . . . bring the whole pan to the table so your eating partner(s) can see how attractive the dish looks—had inspired her to believe it wasn’t too late to become one; that it was simply a matter of allowing her culinary intuition to take over.

  After giving it more thought, Laura decided it was safer to stick with her usual dinner party menu of chicken, wild rice, and peas, followed by a simple green leaf salad. Or perhaps the salad should come first; Laura had grown up eating salads after the main meal, but some people found this strange and confusing.

  Laura planned to give Emma an early bath so she’d be all ready for bed when Dr. Brown rang the doorbell. She’d let Emma open the door, say hello to Dr. Brown, and then Laura would escort her to the TV room, where the VCR would be set up with The Sound of Music. Though Emma would likely fall asleep before the movie ended, Laura also prepared herself for the possibility of an interruption. Emma loved dressing up and making theatrical entrances. In Laura’s experience, dinner guests always found this amusing. Would Dr. Brown? Yes, of course he would; Dr. Brown was very fond of Emma.

  The week passed, and Laura got more and more used to the idea of Dr. Brown coming for dinner and was even excited about it. The morning of the dinner date she took the elevator down with Emma and read Frank’s handwritten sign that had been Scotch-taped to the wall the last few days: NO WATER WENDSDAY NOON–8 P.M.

  Only now did she put two and two together. It was too late to cancel. There was only one option: the dinner would have to happen at her parents’ house.

  * * *

  DR. BROWN ARRIVED AT 136 with a flower in his hand—a single long-stemmed red rose. Laura reached out to take it, and he started to give it to her, but just before it reached her fingers, he pulled it back and said, “Is she still up?” She felt l
ike a fool thinking it was for her, but also relieved, as receiving flowers from men had always embarrassed her.

  “Douglas,” her father said, offering him his hand.

  “Bibs,” her mother said.

  “Bibs,” Dr. Brown repeated. “Short for Barbara?”

  “Vivien,” she corrected.

  “It’s Vivs?” Dr. Brown clarified as Laura led him upstairs to say hi to Emma, who was watching TV in the library.

  “Bibs,” Laura’s mother boomed from below. “Two B’s, as in bosoms.”

  Emma was sitting mesmerized in front of The Sound of Music.

  “Dr. Brown is here,” Laura said as she leaned down to put the VCR on pause.

  “Hello, Emma.” Dr. Brown stooped down to her. “This is for you.”

  He handed her the rose. Emma examined it while rolling its stem between her fingers.

  “What do you say?” Laura prompted.

  “Thank you kindly,” Emma said in her theatrical voice.

  Dr. Brown laughed. “You’re most welcome,” he said.

  “Thank you kindly,” Laura repeated as they walked back downstairs. “I’m not sure where she picked that up.”

  “So,” Bibs said when they were all seated for dinner. “You must love children.”

  Dr. Brown smiled and looked like he was about to reply when she continued.

  “When Laura was little, she used to say the most peculiar things. One morning she said, ‘Mummy, you’re going to have to divorce Daddy, because when I grow up I’m going to marry him.’ ”

  “No, I didn’t.” Laura blushed. She did not remember this, and found it hard to believe.

  “Oh, you did,” Bibs said with a wild grin. “And another time you were watching Nicholas have a bath and you said, ‘I have one, too, and it’s even better because it’s hidden and no one can cut it off—’ ”

  Douglas interrupted by asking Dr. Brown where he had grown up, but it was too late. The dinner was ruined for Laura.

  “Ohio,” Dr. Brown said, his face red with amusement. At least he found her mother entertaining. Laura couldn’t believe she’d thought this would be a better idea than canceling.

  “Cleveland!” Bibs said excitedly. “Did you know the Davenports?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and smiling.

  “The Davenports are from St. Louis,” Douglas said.

  “You’re wrong, wrong, wrong, they’re from Cleveland!”

  “And what did your father do?” Douglas asked.

  “My father wasn’t in the picture,” Dr. Brown said. “My mother was a teacher. We lived in a small town, a few hours from Cleveland.”

  “That’s fascinating!” Bibs said, slapping the table in excitement. “Don’t you think so, Douglas?”

  Her husband nodded.

  “To grow up the child of a single mother in rural America!” Bibs slapped the table again.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Laura asked.

  “A twin sister,” Dr. Brown answered. “Tina.”

  The subject of Emma’s infancy came up. After talking about how big she was, Dr. Brown asked if Laura, too, was a large baby at birth.

  “Oh, no, no.” Bibs shook her head. “She was a beautiful, delicate little thing.”

  “Premature,” Douglas added.

  “I was?” Laura asked. She’d never heard this before, but it would explain why she was so much shorter than all the women in her family.

  “She was not premature,” Bibs countered. “She was perfectly healthy, just small.”

  “How small was I?” Laura asked.

  “Small enough that they kept you in the hospital for a bit,” Douglas said.

  “When she finally came home,” Bibs addressed Dr. Brown, “she was so tiny, I thought she might break. I was too scared to hold her, but the baby nurse said I had to. She said it was important. So every morning after breakfast, I’d sit on the floor and she’d bring the baby downstairs and put her in my arms for fifteen minutes.” Bibs mimicked rocking a baby.

  “Marge?” Laura asked.

  “No, this was your baby nurse.” Bibs’s eyes narrowed in concentration. She snapped her fingers. “What was her name?”

  “Something Polish,” Douglas responded with a shrug.

  “Poor thing never had any children of her own and she was very possessive of you,” Bibs continued. “It was unhealthy. The two of you became so attached, you started screaming every time I held you, so we had to let her go. Wasn’t that the ordeal.” She looked at Douglas.

  “It was an unhealthy bond,” he agreed, taking a sip of scotch.

  * * *

  THE PREEMPTIVE FANFARE BEGAN EARLIER each year. For weeks it seemed like anything they did and everywhere they went, they were accosted with reminders: Father’s Day Sale! Happy Father’s Day! Looking for a gift for Dad?

  Now the actual day was upon them. Laura and Emma arrived at the park to find the group huddled next to a lamppost. It took Laura a moment to register the conflict: some men of Latino descent were playing soccer in the spot where the T-ball game was supposed to be. Everyone was looking at Trip, the class father, who’d coordinated the event. Trip stood there chewing the inside of his lip, unsure of how to proceed. Seeing her husband wasn’t going to rise to the occasion, Margaret, who had no qualms handling these things, intervened.

  “If you wouldn’t mind taking your game somewhere else,” she told the soccer players, “we’ve scheduled a father–daughter T-ball game.”

  The men looked confused.

  “Anyone know Spanish?” Margaret called back to their group. When no one stepped forward, she tried again.

  “Our turn,” Margaret barked with authority, pointing to the field. “So sorry, but no juego here!

  “Mucho gracias!” she bellowed as they packed up their things.

  Nicholas was ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes late.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura told the group, holding a hand over her eyes as she scanned the premises. “Maybe I should take his place on the team?”

  Trip looked down at her feet—she was wearing espadrilles. “Let’s just start without him.”

  Nicholas finally appeared after the first batter, casually strolling through the Ninety-seventh Street entrance.

  “Nicholas!” Laura shouted as he sauntered past them. “Over here!

  “Get out there!” she directed him, pointing to the field. “They already started.”

  “Go, Charlotte!” Margaret yelled when it was her daughter’s turn at bat. “Knock it out of the park!”

  Charlotte made contact on the first swing. The ball soared up and over to where Emma stood staring at the ground looking for four-leaf clovers.

  “Emma!” everyone screamed.

  Laura winced as the ball came down—had Emma been a few yards to the right, it would’ve hit her in the head.

  It took Emma a moment to snap out of her dreamy stupor and notice the ball. And then another to realize she was supposed to get it. After placing the ball in her mitt, she reached behind to pick a wedgie. Then she took the ball back out of the mitt and threw it with such exertion that she lost her balance and fell forward on her knees.

  “Home run!” Margaret whooped as Charlotte rounded the bases.

  All too soon came the moment Laura had been dreading: Emma’s turn up at bat. Emma swung and missed, swung and missed, swung and missed.

  “Three strikes means you’re out!” someone hollered as Emma positioned herself for a fourth attempt.

  “Is that the case with T-ball?” Laura spoke up. “Only three tries?”

  Everyone looked at Trip, the class father, who once again appeared flustered by his authority.

  “Laura’s right,” Margaret announced. “In T-ball, each child gets as many turns as it takes to hit the ball.”

  When Emma finally made contact with the ball, the ripple of excitement was followed by a silence, which Laura realized she was expected to fill.

  “Yay, Emma!” she called o
ut. “Good job hitting the ball!

  “Don’t forget to run!” she added a moment later as Emma stood by home plate wearing a sour expression and staring at her thumb. “Quick, darling! Run to first base!”

  As Emma continued to stand there, others joined in. “Run! Run! Run!” they yelled.

  Now Emma looked irritated. “When I hit the ball, the ball hit my thumb!” she shouted back.

  There were no visible indications of a thumb injury, but Emma insisted the pain was too much to continue playing and joined Laura on the island of blankets with the other mothers.

  “You were supposed to cheer for me,” Emma said bitterly, taking a seat on Laura’s lap.

  “I was cheering,” Laura whispered back. “Did you not hear me? I was saying, Yay, Emma, good job, run!”

  “You weren’t cheering, Mom.” Emma’s body stiffened. “You were talking to me in a normal voice.”

  “I agree, Emma,” Margaret chimed in from a few feet away. “Your mom could work on her projection. Do you know about projecting?”

  Emma shook her head glumly.

  “Projection is . . .” Margaret got on her knees to demonstrate. “It’s when you take a deep breath and really belt out your words, like you’re shouting from the rooftops, to make sure everyone CAN HEAR YOU!”

  Margaret had a shrill voice to begin with; Laura winced, Emma smiled with amusement.

  The inning ended but Emma refused to join her teammates in the field.

  “My thumb,” she whimpered. “It really hurts.”

  Nicholas came over, tapped Laura on the shoulder, and mouthed, “If she’s out for the game, should I stay?”

  “I think it’s over soon,” Laura whispered. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

  “It’s a difficult day for Stephanie,” he whispered back. “Having lost her father . . .”

  Laura was confused. As far as she knew, Stephanie’s father was very much alive and well.

  “Mike?”

  Nicholas shook his head sadly. “Mike’s just her stepfather. Her real dad died when she was just a baby.”

  Laura knew she should drop the matter, but she couldn’t help herself. “How old was Stephanie when Mike arrived on the scene?”

  “A kid,” was Nicholas’s answer.