EDEN WAS SULKY and unrepentant when Mia tried to discuss what had happened at school.
“But that story was entirely made up,” Mia said. She was still in her cleaning mode, and was gathering all the glass and plastic bottles that she hadn’t actually recycled but that she hadn’t thrown out, either. So far, there were quite a number of them.
“Big deal. It could be true.”
“Well, could be is a lot different from is. You know that, Eden.”
“My teacher is always saying ‘use your imagination.’ I was using mine. Why is everyone getting so mad?”
“Because you’ve been hitting, pulling hair, and cursing.”
“They deserved it,” Eden muttered.
“Eden!” Mia said sharply, setting the bag down hard. From the sound it made, she could tell she had probably broken a bottle or two. “There is no possible excuse or rationale for your behavior. It was totally out of line. I know you miss Daddy and wish you could see him more often, but—”
“It’s your fault that I can’t!” Eden said, raising her voice to match Mia’s. “You! You did it!” She pressed her face into Petunia’s grungy udders and began to cry.
“That is so untrue,” Mia said. But of course she felt it was true, every incriminating, vituperative word. Even though she had not wanted a divorce—had pleaded with Lloyd to see a couples therapist, in a vain attempt to salvage their marriage—she still felt culpable and deficient because of it. She sat, stricken, watching Eden sob. What could she say to make it better?
“I don’t care,” Eden mumbled into Petunia’s belly. “I miss him so much.” She lifted her face and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Every minute of every day. Every second. That’s how much.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” said Mia. She wished she could gather her daughter into her arms the way she had been gathering the damn bottles. “I’m so sorry.”
LATER, AFTER EDEN was asleep, Mia replayed the ugly scene in her mind. But going over all this was getting her nowhere. She had to push ahead to what was next, not dwell on what she couldn’t change or fix. She began making a mental to-do list:
Stop cursing so damn much. At least out loud.
Call teacher.
Call principal.
Call school psychologist. Make appointments with all three. Also learn names of all three—for real.
Call Stu.
Work on chapter about composting in Garbage.
Start compost heap on fire escape?
Buy sheets and towels.
The sheets and towels were not, like the locket, a pure indulgence. She thought of them as a kind of armor necessary for Lloyd’s visit; she had no intention of letting him see the dingy pillowcases and fraying washcloths with which she uncomplainingly lived. Instead, she would buy herself a set of blush pink or pale blue sheets with a skin-caressingly high thread count. For the temporary bed that he would use while visiting, something subdued and tasteful, in ivory or oatmeal. For Eden, she would find a more whimsical pattern—frogs, fireflies, Ferris wheels—bounding or flying or spinning across the fabric. And while she would have loved a stack of thick white bath towels, plush enough to double as a pillow, she knew that such things were better left to those with maids or, at the very least, laundry rooms in the basement. Instead, she would be quite content with six new towels in more forgiving colors: chocolate brown, claret, midnight blue.
She would use cash from her secret stash for these purchases. And when she plucked the bills from the box, she would also set aside a bill, a crisp hundred, for a wholly different but equally essential purpose. Someone, she didn’t yet know whom, would be waiting to receive it—a man in a wheelchair with his pant leg pinned up over his stump, a woman with matted hair and eczema-raw cheeks, a girl with a glassy, stoned look and bare feet black from the pavement. This person would accept her offering in a bag, a cap, a cup, or a creased and naked palm. He or she would have no idea why Mia had done such a thing. But Mia would know. Not just another consumer, taker, user, Mia would become a giver.
Suddenly, it was so obvious. Every time she spent money on herself, she would also give some of it away. A kind of karmic evening of the score—something good happened to her, something good happened to someone else. How simple, how elegant, a concept. The effortless symmetry of it eased her gently into sleep.
In the morning, Eden didn’t want to go to school. Maybe she could transfer to another school and never have to go back to that one?
“I don’t think that will work,” Mia said, pouring juice and buttering a slice of bread. The toaster had died a couple of days earlier and she added Buy toaster to the list she had made last night. “You’ll just have to march into this one and tell everyone you’re sorry.”
“What if I’m not?”
Mia placed the buttered bread and glass of juice down in front of her. “Then lie,” she said. “Pretend you’re sorry, okay? Sometimes, you just have to do that.” She paused, and when there was no reply, added, “ Now I’ve got to get ready for work.” Then she turned away, leaving Eden to mull over this advice as she regarded, but did not eat, her food.
FIVE
LLOYD LOOKED GOOD. Terrific, in fact. So terrific that it just about broke Mia’s heart all over again. It was so patently unfair that he should look so healthy, relaxed, and glowing while she knew herself to be a wan and stressed wreck. He was the one who left her; why couldn’t the remorse and strain have showed on his face, too?
He strode into the apartment, the one she had cleaned and scoured for days, like a traveling salesman peddling snake oil to the barefoot, overall-wearing, hayseed-chewing rubes down on the farm.
“Daddy!” cried Eden. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” In honor of this visit she had donned the long, twinkling skirt he’d bought her a few months ago, along with a lacy white top from some other equally impractical shopping trip. But she did look so pretty. So pretty and so happy.
“How’s my little filly?” he asked, grabbing her in his arms and whirling her around. “How’s my girl?”
“Dad, I am too old to be called your little filly,” she mock-scolded when he set her down again.
“You are? How did that happen? No one told me.”
“Come on, you know how old I am.” She was beaming. God, how she was beaming.
“Of course I do. Let’s see—ten years, nine months, six days, three hours, and, let’s see, about twenty minutes.”
“See? Too old to be your filly.”
“But not too old to be my cream puff, my cupcake, my wishing star. Not too old for that.” He tousled her short hair and swooped down to kiss the top of her head. “Hey,” he said, like he had just noticed. “I like the cut. Very chic.”
Mia watched all this from the sidelines, like the wallflower at the high school prom. Lloyd had always been this way with Eden, and Eden had always loved it. Loved him. Mia used to love it, too. Now she didn’t know. Of course she wanted Eden to have her father’s affection, but at the sight of them together, her heart felt bitten, chewed, and spat back out again. She was relieved when Eden put on her new, blue soft-as-butter coat and they were ready to leave.
“Nice coat.” Lloyd caressed the sleeve. “Where did that come from? Uncle Moneybags—uh, excuse me, Uncle Stuart?”
“No, it’s from Barneys,” Eden said. “Mom took me there.”
“Oh, did she?” Lloyd looked over at Mia, who quickly looked away.
“Yes, and the salesladies remembered me, Dad!”
“Everyone will remember you, Eden. You wait.” He smiled. “Now how about we hit the road, okay?”
“Not too late, okay?” Mia told Lloyd, uselessly, she knew.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “What’s late when you’re out with your best girl?”
Mia resisted the impulse to argue; she would lose anyway, so what was the point? Instead, she watched while the coat was buttoned and the door slammed. They were gone. She was alone in the apartment, which was cleaner than it had been since she moved
in. She even went after places toward which in the past she would have adopted a don’t-look-don’t-tell policy, like the tops of the kitchen cabinets and the fridge, under the kitchen sink, behind the love seat. And what for? All so she could prove something to Lloyd, something that he wouldn’t even notice or care about if he did.
Mia first met Lloyd when she was a junior at Oberlin. He was actually a student at Princeton, visiting someone in her dorm for the weekend. The someone threw a party, Mia was invited, and there, in the middle of the room, holding court, was Lloyd. He was a tall, good-looking boy holding a large rabbit. Mia had been charmed. She had never met a guy who came to a party with a rabbit. A dog, sure. A snake even. But a rabbit?
“Are you a magician?” Mia had asked.
“Would it help get a date with you?”
“Maybe,” she said. He was fun, she decided. Fun to look at, fun to flirt with.
“Then I’m a magician,” he said. “Want me to make this rabbit vanish?”
Mia shook her head. “I like rabbits.”
“Smart girl,” he had said. He offered her the rabbit, and Mia took the creature in her arms. She was surprised at the feel of him—something in his body seemed to vibrate, even when he was still, and she could sense the subtle, animate movements of his ears. Holding him close to her chest was both a privilege and a comfort.
He had not even been Lloyd back then; he’d been Tim. It was only later that he decided that the ordinary name of Tim Prescott was incompatible with all his grand ambitions and started going by his middle name, Lloyd.
Oh, they had had fun back then, hadn’t they? Lloyd had given the rabbit to Mia as a going-away gift. Mia called her Lucy. She was a tidy creature who ate her food neatly and, even when allowed the run of Mia’s dorm room, confined her droppings to a single corner. Of course she called to thank him for the rabbit, and he called to check on how the rabbit was faring. Late in the semester, Lloyd drove out to Oberlin again, and the following spring, she hitched a ride east, with some friends, to visit him. He was from Massachusetts. Both his parents were teachers at Andover, so he’d gotten to go there for free; they had plenty of class but very little money. Mia never would have guessed about the lack of money; Lloyd always had an air of entitlement about him, and she supposed he always would. He was easy in the world, something she never entirely was. And he had passed along a bit of that ease to her, a gift as unexpected and delightful as the rabbit had been.
* * *
LLOYD HAD NOT been her only boyfriend, but he’d been her world-shaping, life-altering boyfriend, the one she’d grown up with, the one with whom she shared a past, a future, a daughter—everything. And then he’d left her. She had been angry at first, angry and disbelieving. She’d stormed and raged, made threats, threw things. Then she tried negotiation, bribes, pleading, none of which worked, of course. She became depressed, parking Eden at a friend’s for days at a time while she remained in bed, staring at the ceiling, while tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, getting into her ears, her mouth, eventually soaking the pillow on which her head rested. In the end, she became resigned, and that was where she most of the time remained, except for nights like tonight, when she actually had to see Lloyd up close, deal with him again, remember every good and every infuriating thing about him.
AS MIA STARED at the immaculate apartment, she decided she couldn’t stay in it one more second. Fortunately, Julie had invited her to Juicy, the bar where she was working tonight. They wouldn’t be able to talk, of course. But even being in Julie’s extended aura was better than sitting here alone and stewing. Mia fluffed her hair and applied a little more lipstick and then a little more on top of that. She didn’t look too bad. She wasn’t twenty-five anymore, but then no one was twenty-five forever. Her dress size hadn’t changed in a decade, and her legs were still in decent shape. Her eyes—large, brown, long-lashed—were still her best feature. Anyway, what did it matter? She wasn’t looking to get laid tonight—only mildly drunk.
She walked to Sixteenth Street and Seventh Avenue. It was not very cold, and the night was refreshing. She was wearing all black—jeans, ribbed sweater, leather jacket, and heavy black boots that were actually Prada, but which she’d scored at a stoop sale for five dollars. Black was a New York cliché, she conceded. Banal and predictable. But there was such a comfort in black. When she wore it, she felt like an urban warrior, at once impervious and chic.
Juicy was warm and welcoming; votive candles flickered on the tables and the long, polished hunk of wood that constituted the bar. There was a seasonal arrangement of pumpkins and gourds on a table by the door. Mia saw Julie, also in black, albeit of a more come-hither variety—tight black pants, low-cut black top, high-heeled black pumps—carrying an outsized tray filled with brimming glasses. She nodded to Mia and mouthed the word Later. Mia shrugged off her jacket and made her way to the bar.
“What can I get you?” said the bartender without looking up.
“Hi, Fred. Long time.” Mia had filled in for Julie a couple of times, so she knew Fred.
He glanced up then and grinned.
“Mia, Mia, Mia,” he said. He had a nice smile, with a slight chip on one of his front teeth. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself ?”
“Oh, you know . . . the usual.”
“The usual.” Fred made a face. “As in, life’s a bore and then you die?”
“I thought it was life’s a bitch and then you marry one.”
“Touché.” He smiled again; the chipped tooth winked. “So what are you drinking? It’s on the house.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Thanks so much.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Fred. That tooth again. That sexy tooth.
“Well, what do you recommend? Your magic elixir, your secret potion?”
“Dirty martinis,” Fred said without a second’s hesitation. “Here . . . wait.” He turned away and began pouring and stirring. Then he whipped around and handed her a glass. “Voilà!”
Mia sipped delicately at first, and then with greater enthusiasm. “Mmm, this is good,” she said. “What’s in here?”
“Snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.”
“No, come on, Fred, really.”
“Organic vodka. Spanish olives. Fresh basil.”
“Killer combo.” Mia took another sip.
“Slow, okay? Those things can be lethal,” said Julia as she swung by the bar for another order.
“Worrywart,” said Fred.
“I’m okay, Julie,” Mia said, already feeling a pleasant buzz. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve eaten dinner, right?” Julie persisted. She placed the brimming glasses on her tray.
“I’m eating now.” Mia reached into a small earthenware bowl filled with Goldfish crackers and popped one into her mouth. These things had cheese in them, didn’t they? And what was this? A bowl of peanuts? She took a handful. So she had some dairy and some protein going on, too. The basil leaf and the olive in her drink could be construed as vegetables. Dinner. And look—it was free.
“Fred?” Julie turned to him. “Don’t let her get too drunk, okay?”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Fred said, with a mock salute.
“Fred!” She gave him an exasperated look and then she was gone.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” Fred said.
“You’re a pal, Fred. A real pal.” The salty snacks were making her thirsty; she needed a drink, and hey, would you look at that, her dirty martini was still right there in her hand, ready to do the job. “Organic vodka,” she murmured, as she took another long sip.
“You say something?” Fred asked. Mia didn’t answer. The bar was getting crowded, and she lost sight of him. He was pretty busy now anyway, pouring dirty martinis and what have you for all and sundry. But whenever her glass was empty, he refilled it quickly. Mia nursed her drink, and didn’t even try to talk to the clot of twentysomethings whooping it up next to her. Instead, she arranged the peanuts and Goldfish in pleasin
g little patterns—a star, a heart, a flower—on her napkin, and when the design was completed, ate it. Every now and then Julie swooped by; on one of those occasions, she hustled Mia up from her seat and off to the ladies’ room.
“But I don’t need to go,” Mia said.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Julie. “Come with me anyway.”
It was cooler in the bathroom; Mia realized only then that she was hot in her high-necked sweater. Waiting for Julie to finish, she stared in the mirror, studying her flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Her lipstick had worn off, and she rummaged around in her purse to see if the tube was in there. It wasn’t, but she found the perfume samples from the day at Barneys with Eden. Eden, who was right now with her father, the man Mia used to love more than anyone on the planet. How could it all have come to this? The two of them together while Mia was alone and exiled to the bathroom of a bar? Tears suddenly started to flow, an unexpected and seemingly involuntary response, as if she had been slicing onions.
“Mia?” asked Julie when she emerged from the stall. She hastily washed her hands and placed them, still wet, on Mia’s shoulders. “What is it?”
“Everything,” Mia blubbered. “Just everything.”
“You mean Lloyd?” asked Julie, succinctly boiling down the vastness of “everything” to a single word.
“I guess.” She sniffed loudly, and Julie passed her a tissue from a box on the sink.
“I know this is a tough weekend,” Julie said.
Mia didn’t say anything but blotted her eyes with the tissue.
“Listen,” Julie said, looking down at her watch, “my shift is over in about half an hour. If you can hold on, we can go someplace quieter. How does that sound?”
“Thanks, Julie.” Mia tossed out the used tissue and ran her fingers through her hair. “But I’m totally wiped out. I think I should just go home.”
“Fred wanted to join us.”
“Fred? Why?”
“I think he’s got a little crush on you.”
“Oh.” Mia put her head in her hands. Fred. Had a crush. On her. She saw the smile, the chipped tooth. Suddenly it was all too much. She couldn’t imagine going out, even chaperoned by Julie, with Fred or anyone else tonight. She lifted her head again. “Maybe some other time.”
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