by Anna Woltz
• • •
Thirty-six minutes later. Time is going way more slowly than usual. Abby and I are looking at a book of photographs of New York. She’s doing her best to distract me, so I try to concentrate on the skyscrapers—but I can see my mom’s and dad’s faces floating in front of every picture. I can’t think of anything else.
“Abby!” Seth comes back from the computer books with his cell phone in his hand. “Mom called. She finally managed to get a flight last night and she just landed. She’s coming home.”
“Really? Has she already picked up her luggage?”
He nods and Abby starts dancing wildly down the aisle, in and out and around the People of Darkness.
“Mom’s coming home, Mom’s coming home, Mom’s coming home!”
Her dark braid swishes to and fro as if she’s on a roller coaster; her pink boots make a massive din in the bookstore.
“Did you really miss her that much?” Seth asks.
“Duh!” she says. “Mom’s never, ever been away for so long. And we had a hurricane! It was dark and cold and Emilia screamed and Jim’s finger hurt and Mommy wasn’t there.”
Seth comes and sits next to me while Abby goes on dancing. We just watch her.
“We have to go,” she cries excitedly, and tugs at Seth’s sweater. “I want to be home when she gets there!”
“We can wait a bit longer, you know.”
“But we have to walk all the way back!”
Seth sits there silently. I wonder if it’s dawned on him as well. That our hurricane shelter is over now.
“I want to tell Mom … ” Abby stops dancing. “No. I won’t tell her Jim got us drunk or that Emilia wears gloves to eat and that she yelled at a journalist in the middle of the street.”
Her brother still doesn’t say anything.
“And I won’t talk about Dad. I really won’t. I know it’s not allowed.”
We look at Seth. For a long time, no one moves. And then I do, just a little bit. I’m sitting right beside him, so I can put half my index finger on top of half his index finger without anyone noticing. But he can feel it. I know he can.
It’s a perfect bridge for bacteria, but that doesn’t matter anymore. We’re both as dirty as each other.
“You definitely don’t need to tell her about Jim getting us drunk,” Seth slowly says to Abby. “But you are allowed to talk about Dad. Not today—Mom’s only just gotten home and there’s been a hurricane and she needs to settle in. But after that, when it’s light again, then it’s allowed. Okay, Abby?”
She looks at him with a serious expression. “And what about him not being here anymore? Am I allowed to talk about that?”
Seth nods.
“And about me missing him? And that I’m really good at remembering things, but I’ve forgotten what kind of shoes he wore?”
I press his fingertip with mine. But I don’t think Seth feels it, because he stands up.
“Come on, Abby,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
Together with Jim, I walk along Fifth Avenue. I was too anxious to stay in the bookstore any longer, and Jim needs to go to the hospital again. I haven’t looked at his hand too closely, but he says there’s pus coming out of his finger. Or something that’s making the bandage wet in any case. That can’t be healthy.
My boots drag across the gray sidewalk. With every step, a little bit of Emilia remains behind in New York. If I just keep going, scraping away my soles and feet and legs and body and head, then I won’t have to think anymore.
I keep trying to imagine what my mom and dad and I are going to say when we see one another. But I can’t. It makes my head ache. I have a stomachache too, so perhaps I should just go with Jim to the hospital. If I have to choose between bacteria and parents, then right now I’ll go for the bacteria.
The only thing that’s not bothering me today is weak and wobbly knees. It’s funny, but I can look at Jim now without getting that feeling. It’s like I’m walking along with my fun, crazy cousin.
“This way,” the crazy cousin suddenly says. He takes hold of my sleeve and pulls me off to one side, up a wide flight of steps. “Maybe the Dutch atheist can still be saved.”
It’s a cathedral. An enormous neo-Gothic building that seems to have come straight from Disney World, but goes almost unnoticed among the skyscrapers. Jim wanders inside as if he’s here to visit a good friend, but I stand there awkwardly. High above my head, arches reach up toward the heavens. The warm air smells of burning candles and dust.
Slowly, I start walking forward, still thinking about my mom and dad. My super-rational parents who never set foot inside a church—except on vacation, because then visiting a house of God is all part of the itinerary.
I look at the stained-glass windows and the organ, but then I forget the building and I can only look at people. The silhouettes I see sitting in the pews in the semidarkness are clearly not tourists. They’re New Yorkers.
They’re people who have just lived through a hurricane.
I slip quietly onto a smooth pew. I see people kneeling and praying. And I see people crying. Real, grown-up people who have come here to cry. God only knows what they’ve lost over the past few days.
I look at them, and for the first time in my atheist life I can imagine what a church can mean to people. Particularly in the past, when the whole world looked like our dark New York does now. In a world like that you’d need a place where the candles are lit. Where it’s warm and where you can cry while the arches listen to you.
I get up and walk slowly to Jim, who’s standing by the racks of candles. I take some money from my bag and light one. You’re probably not supposed to light a candle for yourself, so I look at the flame and decide that it’s for my mom. And for the victims of the hurricane. For Obama, who’s up for reelection next week. And of course for Seth and Jim and Abby. And then I take more money from my bag and light another two candles, because I can’t imagine that God would want to help so many people for just one puny little flame.
Beside me I hear Jim sigh as if all is lost. “What am I doing here?”
“In church?” I whisper. “You know that better than I do.”
“In New York! I can’t work. I don’t have any money to pay the rent, and I don’t even want to think about the hospital bills.”
“Do you really not have a plan?” I ask quietly.
He looks at the sea of flames. “No.”
“Abby does. She’s planning to marry you. She’s going to make tons of money as a surgeon and then you can lie on the couch all day long, talking about the economic crisis.”
He turns around and we leave the church together.
“Did she really say that?” he asks. He looks at the dark clouds. “Fucking hell.”
“Don’t you want to marry her?” I ask casually, but he’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him before.
“That’s exactly what my dad does all day long! He lies on the couch and talks about the crisis.” He looks at me. “Seth and Abby are pretty annoying, huh? They’re so well behaved and they work so hard and have all those big plans they’re always coming up with … ”
I think a moment. “I have no idea what I want to do when I’m older. I don’t even know what I want to do next week … ”
We walk past window displays full of diamonds, watches, and expensive candy.
“And do you know what’s most annoying of all?” says Jim. “That it’s actually pretty cool that Abby knows, even at the age of eleven, that she wants to be a surgeon when she grows up. And that Seth is going to be some head guy at Google or Apple.”
“Really?” I say. “You think that’s cool? You’re way cooler. Neither of them has a leather jacket, their shoelaces are always perfectly tied, and their fingers are all intact. And you still think they’re cool?”
He stops at the corner with the glass cube. On the other side of the street, a line of horse-drawn carriages is waiting. For tourists who want to pretend they’re in a movie.
<
br /> “Seriously?” he asks. “That’s all there is to me? My leather jacket and my loose shoelaces?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know that,” he says with a smile. And then he sighs. “It’s true. I’m not capable of tying my shoes. I hope one day God will give me the strength to accept that … ”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, isn’t that what they say?”
He nods. “God takes fingers and He gives pus.” He looks at the bandage. “I really need to go to the hospital now, or they’ll want to amputate my whole hand. Am I going to see you this evening, or are you staying with those supercool parents of yours?”
My stomachache instantly gets worse. “No idea. Maybe they’ve brought in five police officers and they’re going to drag me off to the airport. But if they haven’t, I’ll come back to the hurricane shelter.”
“Good. Well, say hi to your mom from me. And tell your dad he’s a jerk. He should have kept his mouth shut to Juno and just screwed her.”
“Jim!”
He grins. “I know. I’m a crass loser.” As he starts walking, he holds up his hand to wave. “Good luck, Emilia! I’ll pray for you.”
What was I actually planning to do? I ask myself as I walk past Central Park to the museum. Last week, all I wanted to do was run away, that much is clear. I wanted to escape from the swamp, and it worked. And then Sandy came along and I could stop thinking.
But what had I intended to do, here in New York? Did I think I could go on renting an apartment here on my own forever? Had I really thought my parents would just forget about me? Of course not. But I don’t know what I was thinking either.
I know what I’m thinking now, though.
It was crazy to come here. I should have just stayed in the Netherlands. Then I could have ignored my dad for months before starting—maybe, just maybe—to speak the occasional sentence to him. Beginning with “It’s cold today,” and moving on to “Is there any apple juice left?” and ending with “I passed my final school exams. Bye.”
But now, because I ran away, there’s going to be a Conversation. Which is an absolute disaster, because we never have Conversations. We just don’t do it. When my dad becomes school principal or my mom sells a painting to the sheikha of Qatar for a crazy price, then we nod at each other. And when my mom cuts a canvas to pieces or I start to hyperventilate, then we sigh briefly. But we never Talk.
Until today, that is.
I can see the museum already. It’s not time yet, but I head inside. I’m more nervous than I was at Immigration. They had no idea who I was. But the people I’m going to see now, they do know me. The people I’m going to see now think they know me better than anyone else in the world. And I have to tell them they’ve got it wrong.
The Frick Collection isn’t a big museum. It’s an impressive building, but in 1915 it was simply a house that belonged to one pretty wealthy gentleman. And you can still see that it was once a home. You don’t walk around bare galleries, but through the dining room and the sitting room and through Mr. Frick’s study. And it just so happens that there are world-famous paintings on the walls.
I wander around the rooms without seeing anything. My feet sink into the thick carpet, but I hardly notice. I am Emilia. A scared little girl. A sexy cat. I sleep next to Jim, next to Abby, I am the daughter of a sleazy school principal, I am a girl who stands on the sidewalk, swearing at the top of her voice, and exploding with the light of a billion suns—I don’t know who I am anymore.
And then I’m in the courtyard and I see my mom sitting on a marble bench by the pool.
She’s alone. She’s wearing the green dress I like so much, and her red hair is in a complicated bun. She looks up and sees me standing there.
“Darling!”
As I walk over to her, her gray-green eyes watch me. We don’t hug. Suddenly, I feel again how incredibly filthy I am. Thanks to my seven packages of antibacterial wipes, I’m still way cleaner than Seth and Jim and Abby. But compared to Nora Quinn, I’m a prehistoric gunkmonster.
“You’ve dyed your hair!” she cries.
“It’s greasy.” I don’t touch it with my hands. “I haven’t washed it since Monday morning.”
She looks at me as if she’s studying a painting. For a long time, with a frown on her face. And then she nods. “That color suits you.” She glances around. “Have you had a look at the museum already? I got here early, because I wanted to take my time. Did you see the Holbeins? And the miniatures from Limoges? Breathtaking!”
“Where’s Dad?”
She sighs. “He’s in bed with a migraine. He’s hardly slept for the past week, and he finally collapsed a couple of hours ago. I closed the curtains and left him there.”
I take a step back. “Hey, don’t expect me to feel sorry for him.”
“There’s no need.”
Light falls in through the glass ceiling. The fountain splashes.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why aren’t you furious with him? Why don’t you want to leave him?”
She frowns. “Have you really managed to acquire an American accent within a week?”
“Maybe.” I put my chin in the air, Abby-style. “I have American friends here and we do everything together. The four of us are sharing an apartment and yesterday we celebrated Halloween at a Thai restaurant. And we all wore costumes. Including me.”
She studies me again for a while, and then she starts to laugh. “Do you know something? I think it was a good idea of yours to go to New York.”
“So do I! But Dad … ”
“Darling, we’re in the most beautiful museum in the world! Shall we talk tomorrow about how terrible it all is and how badly your father has behaved? Right now I’d like to show you a Vermeer.”
Her fingers are moving as if she’s holding a paintbrush. Impatiently. With determination and longing. I’m no match for her.
No, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to be a match for her. I just wish I were a little more like her. That I had a talent that everything else had to give way to. Then I wouldn’t have any more doubts. Then I’d know who I was.
I don’t say anything else, but let her lead me around the galleries.
For days I’ve thought about nothing but my most basic needs. My stomach and my phone had to be fed—that was my life. And now it’s my soul’s turn. I forget Out and About with a Plug and let the fiery colors, the wonderful pictures, and ancient stories wash over me. I remember that there’s more to life than popcorn, disinfectant wipes, and power.
I listen to her in absolute silence, because it doesn’t often happen that my mom gives me her undivided attention. Usually, there are at least two museum directors and three reviewers running around her. But this time she’s telling her story just to me. And when Nora Quinn talks about a painting, you understand it. You feel it.
“Can you imagine?” she cries excitedly. “Frick had this particular gallery built specially for his paintings. In the evening, when he was finished with his work, he’d walk on his own around the masterpieces. As dusk fell outside, he’d quietly look at Rembrandt and Vermeer.”
“Jim needs to hear about this,” I say. “He thinks people nowadays are rich. But this Frick guy could just create his own museum.”
My mom sighs. “Imagine what it must be like to live in New York. To be able to come here every week.”
“To have a burrito at Dos Toros every week,” I say. “To know the fairy-tale tower with its silver scales like the back of your own hand. To have a picnic with a view of the Statue of Liberty. To live in Seth and Jim and Abby’s city.”
“To be able to walk over to the Guggenheim before you start work … ” She beams. Her silk dress swishes.
I look at her, and I know this is how I want things to be. If anyone should be furious about what my dad’s done and someone should keep smiling, then this is the right way around. Me furious, and my mom smiling.
The other way around would be unbea
rable.
I am sitting on my own in a taxi on the way into the darkness. At the end of the afternoon, my mom wanted me to go with her to the place where they were staying, but I said I couldn’t. I had to go back to the place where I was staying.
She looked at me for a long time. I tensed all my muscles to run away if she tried to grab me. But Nora Quinn doesn’t grab ahold of people. And fortunately, she hadn’t thought of bringing along five police officers to drag me off to the airport.
Finally, she nodded, like a queen who was not amused.
“Fine,” she said in a chilly tone. “You can stay there one more night. And then you can stop acting up and come back to me and your father.”
I didn’t promise anything.
• • •
I pay the driver with money that the unamused queen gave me, and he leaves me behind in the night. For the first time, it’s a bit less dark, because the sky is clear. The moon is shining. I can see stars in the middle of New York.
I put down the plastic bag with the mineral water in it and rub my hands. Now I have to wait. It was a risk returning to the hurricane shelter, because I don’t know for certain that I’ll get in. Seth and Abby were in such a hurry to get home this morning that we didn’t agree what was going to happen this evening.
I hope they remember the arrangement we had on Tuesday: Open the front door every fifteen minutes after dark. But maybe they’re not even home. Maybe they’re eating out with their mom or staying somewhere else. I sit down on the sidewalk and put my hands in the pockets of the moss-green coat. Half an hour, I tell myself. I can wait for half an hour. If no one’s come downstairs by then, I have to find a cab and go to my mom and dad. Then it really is all over.
I watch the time pass on my cell phone. And then, after thirteen minutes, the front door opens.
“Seth!”
He’s standing in the doorway with a flashlight. I get up and take a step forward.
We don’t fall into each other’s arms, but it feels awkward all the same.