Our Short History

by Lauren Grodstein

  It was your father. He was holding flowers.

  Never had someone waited for me on a doorstep, with or without flowers. “What are you doing here?”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I made us reservations. But if you’re not hungry, I can cancel them.”

  I wasn’t hungry.

  But then, hours later, I was very hungry indeed, and so your father and I walked down to a place I hope is still there, this bar on Jane Street where there were famously good hamburgers and decent beers. We got a table in the back room and ordered burgers and beers and sat at the table across from each other, holding hands. There was a football game on television, I remember, and people crowded around us cheering on whichever team was playing, and I remember thinking, This will be my life. Your father, some beers, the crowds around us and us not even seeing them. Work and then breaks from work. Your dad’s strong hands, a football game. I had put his flowers in a vase in the kitchen except for one, a small tiger lily, which I had bobby-pinned behind my ear.

  “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Is that crazy?”

  “It’s not crazy,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.” I felt myself blushing and knew that I was giving up embarrassing or dangerous material about myself, even though your father was also giving up embarrassing truths about himself. Your father was the one who had made himself vulnerable first. In Maryland, a few weeks before, we had gone to a Ravens game together (Griffith had been there too, in better seats, close to the field), and we had been to Ocean City; in New York, we had already eaten at a few good restaurants. But still I felt like I didn’t know your father too well—not nearly well enough to know if I loved him. Did I love him? I thought about that as we sat there. Love, to me, was something akin to habituation: I know your smile, I love your smile. I know what you’ll say in response to this question, and I love that I know how to predict your response. Your predictability and your familiarity are, to me, what make me able to love you—they are, in fact, inseparable from love.

  What I mean is that I identified what I felt for your father that night as something more like a crush. Something a teenager might feel.

  We held hands and ate and drank and then walked around the city in the dark for a little bit. I had only six or so more hours before I had to catch my train back down to Baltimore, and there didn’t seem to be much point in sleeping. The night seemed to be warming up a little, or maybe I was just warm from the beers and your dad—so we just started walking, directionless. I don’t know. At one point we passed a mirrored length of wall and I paused so that we could look at ourselves together, see what we looked like next to each other. I was just about as tall as his shoulder. We looked beautiful.

  There’s so much to see in New York at night, all night, which might be something you know or maybe isn’t, since you’ve now probably lived most of your life in Seattle. The primary reason for this, and the reason New York City has survived its various seasons of misfortune, is because of its subway system. Because of the subway, New York City’s economy is able to run in every corner of the (vast) city, every hour of the day; people can work around the clock, people can eat and travel and come home and go out again. Because of the subway, New Yorkers are more productive than people in other parts of the country (no lost time in traffic, no lost time spent parking) and healthier too, because they die in fewer traffic accidents and because they have to walk a little more to get where they’re going. And the subway, especially in your lifetime, is clean and safe. It’s almost a miracle, but it’s a miracle people don’t think about enough.

  Anyway, at four in the morning we took the subway and went to the Battery so we could take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. We did this because I had mentioned, casually, that I had never done it before, and your father was dismayed. He said I’d missed one of New York’s best adventures, and that much like the subway, the ferry ran around the clock, so there was really no excuse.

  And because we were lucky that night, we made it to the ferry terminal just as the boat was about to leave, and we boarded and glided off into the night, New York City’s sequined skyline looming above us. And your father stood behind me with his arms around me, and rather than look out toward where we were going, we stared at where we had just been, the glow of the harbor, the blue and white and yellow lights of Lower Manhattan.

  That’s when I realized we were, in fact, going to Staten Island, and I felt a little bit nervous about that—what would happen when we got there? For a moment I thought: we will leave Manhattan and the scene of this magical night and all this magic will vanish. Your father would see me for what I was, an exhausted woman in dirty clothes pushing forty, a wilted flower behind my ear. I imagined Staten Island would be all fluorescent lights and truth serum.

  But that’s not what happened at all. We stayed in Staten Island for a total of five minutes; we had to get off the boat, walk a circuit through the terminal, and then reboard. And it was there, in that bleak, silvery terminal, that your father took my hand, whirled me around to face him—the flower escaped my hair—and said, “I love you, Karen.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded. He was smiling broadly, as though he had just pulled off something heroic. Was I supposed to say it back to him? Would I even be telling the truth? Did I love him? Did I know him well enough to love him? Would it be an automatic giveback if I just came out with it too? Wouldn’t it be a better thing to just have the power for a little while, whatever I could take of it? He loved me, but was there a law that said I had to love him too?

  (Oh, but of course I loved him, Jacob. He was mysterious to me, but I loved him so much it felt like my heart had built a new chamber.)

  We stood there kissing for a while under the ferry terminal’s bright lights—it was still so dark outside—and then we reboarded the ferry, where it was freezing.

  Do you know that poem, Jacob?

  We were very tired, we were very merry—

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

  And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

  From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

  And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

  And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

  Okay I know how cheeseball it sounds, but that’s what happened that night, Jacob. A poem. He took me to Penn Station, and just before I got on my train, I told him that I loved him too.

  Anyway, until the night you were born, a little more than a year later, this night qualified as the best of my life. And then—wait, shit, Jacob, I just broke a rule. This Big Formless Project of Mine’s Rule #1, which is, I’ve just realized, to always be honest. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how embarrassing—I need to tell you the truth. I will not lie to you from beyond the grave. And I was just not being honest there; I mean, I was saying what I felt like I was supposed to say but not what I meant to say. The night you were born was not the best night of my life. I was in pain, I was terrified, I was tired, I was sad. I missed your father and I wanted to kill your father. I looked at you and started to shiver all over. My mother had to hold me in bed while I cried. It was not the best night of my life, nor was it even a very good night at all.

  No, the best single night of my life was the night your father took me to Staten Island to tell me that he loved me.

  I have known more happiness since then, of course, but never so fleetingly profound.

  A THIRD STORY: the nurse came in a little while ago to take my blood pressure. It’s a little high, she said. You feeling okay?

  By then you were asleep at your dad’s house, probably in the guest room, which was, last time I checked, furnished with a double bed, an incongruous poster print of a Renoir painting, and plastic crates of your dad’s old crap. The sheets were grimy; your father never washed them nor asked his cleaning lady to do it.

  Maybe there was better stuff in there now. Maybe he cleaned it out for you, m
aybe he thought to furnish it with a stuffed animal or a children’s book. Maybe he knew to leave a night-light on, and another light to guide your way to the bathroom.

  (I tried to imagine you there, sleeping on his old grimy sheets. I wondered if you would know where you were when you woke up. I wondered if, for a moment, you’d be frightened—or if you’d know instantly where you were and feel thrilled.

  I missed you so much, Jacob. I missed you like I’d never see you again.)

  I LOOKED AT the clock; it was only five in the morning. I of all people knew better than to wish away time.

  Dear God, when would this spiteful sun rise?

  10

  But I must have fallen asleep, because in the morning the first person’s face I saw was Allison’s. She had taken a red-eye the night before, got into Newark probably just as I was finally passing out. She’d been sitting in the corner of the room drinking coffee when I opened my eyes. I gasped. “Shhh,” she said. “You have a new roommate,” and she pointed theatrically to the bed on the other side of the room. “Diverticulitis,” she said, and I thought she meant me, but then I realized that she meant the person on the other side of the curtain, and I relaxed.

  “What time is it? Did you get Jacob?”

  Allison nodded. Evidently she’d rented a car as soon as she’d gotten off the plane; now you were ensconced at the movies with Kyle, and it was almost three in the afternoon.

  “Did you see him? Did you ask about Dave? What he did all night?” I knew, by the way, that instead of making demands I was supposed to start thanking her for schlepping out all this way in the middle of the summer when she was supposed to be at Friday Harbor with her gorgeous family, but luckily she was my sister, so I didn’t really have to thank her.

  “I think he had a nice time. His apartment looked very nice. He made breakfast.”

  “Breakfast? You had breakfast with him?”

  “He made pancakes.” Of course.

  “Did he feed him anything else?”

  “I assume he gave him dinner.”

  “Junk food?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Allie said.

  “I bet they had McDonald’s—you really didn’t ask?”

  Allie was starting to look more annoyed than tired. “No, Karen,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  The needle in my arm was pulling at me. I took the platinum ring off my finger, palmed it. Put it back on.

  “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.

  “Allison, did he say anything about keeping Jakey?”

  “What?”

  “Did he act like he wouldn’t let him go?”

  “He said he’d be happy to help out again—”

  “Was he reluctant to let him leave? Was he trying to hold on to him?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. He seemed a little sad. But nothing crazy.”

  “He let him out of the apartment?”

  “Well, what were you expecting, exactly?”

  “That he was going to take him from me,” I whispered, but Allie just wrinkled her nose like I’d said something insane and I decided that was good: she thought I was being insane. She did not think Dave was trying to take my baby.

  “Seriously?” she said.

  I shrugged. Slid the ring up and down my finger.

  With her there, I felt a renewed determination to eat, digest, and get the hell out of there. I knew there were new things for me to worry about—Steiner came in to discuss new potentialities, inflammations, adhesions, side effects, and whether I might need new medication. And when and where we expected my tumors to metastasize, although that was mostly me asking the questions. First things first. Mixed good news. They were going to run a few more tests. I wasn’t even sure what he was talking about.

  But like I said, I felt renewed in spirit and vigor. Allie was going to stay in your bedroom on the bottom bunk, because she didn’t want to stay in a hotel in case of an emergency. Jesus, I was sick of emergencies, but I was also glad she’d be able to stay. I couldn’t risk another round with your father. Or even, frankly, with Yuki.

  So one more day in the hospital during which I ate and—huzzah!—digested, and then I was discharged Saturday morning. It was raining out, gentle New York City rain. Before I got into the cab, I tilted my head up and let the rain wash down over my face.

  AND THEN IT was Sunday and I was in my own home. Allie took you and Kyle to the park, and I was relishing all of your absences. I was relishing being alone in the apartment. I was in my bathrobe. I had just changed my bandage and was not feeling anything bad. In fact, I had an appetite. In fact, I had some energy. I hadn’t realized how the pain in my side had been dragging me down or how I needed it to disappear, but now that it was gone I felt almost like a person. I was not that worried anymore about your father suing for custody or about having the strength to fight him.

  The Times had been delivered. I was going to sit there in my bathrobe and read the Times and eat half a bagel like a normal New Yorker, like the person I was. I poured myself a little decaf. At three o’clock I was settled in on the couch with the Styles section and a Law and Order rerun on television. I was gazing endlessly at my toenails, which needed painting. The bum-bum of Law and Order periodically lured me to the screen. Then the phone rang, an unknown number.

  “Karen Neulander? This is Jorge Grubar, Beverly Hernandez’s campaign manager, returning your call.”

  Grubar! I muted the television, flipped open my laptop, started taking notes. “Glad you called, Jorge,” I said. “I’m wondering if Beverly wants to do a community forum with Ace, maybe at PS 19, sometime in October? If so, we need to get that on the schedule now, and if there are any other joint appearances she’s interested in, I’d like to—”

  “Of course,” Jorge said. “We would, in fact, like to plan three joint forums, including one at the Roosevelt Hospital and one in territory where your candidate has a natural constituency.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, so happy, too happy, to be back in the game, “but if you think I’m going to let Ace do a debate at Roosevelt—”

  “Listen, Ace doesn’t have to worry about—”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to do you guys any favors—”

  “Although, candidly, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed there are new rumors starting to surface . . .”

  I paused.

  “Rumors,” Jorge repeated. “Which I realize are usually your stock in trade.”

  “What?”

  “Dealing with rumors,” Jorge prompted. “Isn’t that how you usually operate?”

  “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Just some whispers about our councilman’s extracurricular behavior.”

  “Honestly, Jorge, all that’s a million years old.”

  “Another round, Karen,” Jorge said. “Another round.”

  But if there were another round of rumors, I would have known about it. “You know how these things go, Jorge,” I said. “Ace was shamed once before and nobody cares.”

  “Yes, but this time? A trip to France with an intern from his campaign?”

  “He went to France with his wife,” I said. “It was an anniversary trip.”

  “Hmm,” Jorge chuckled. He had a very suave voice, a very suave chuckle. “You don’t have to sandbag me,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jorge chuckled again. What a jackass. “Well, evidently his wife had to leave France early, and instead of going back with her, Ace stayed around for a couple of days and had a visitor from his campaign fly in. Briefly. A young visitor. A recent Hunter College grad. One of his constituents, I’ve been told.”

  Oh fuck. The empty space in my stomach flooded.

  “You have proof of this?”

  “No,” Jorge admitted. “There are only rumors.”

  “Where do these rumors come from?”

  “Come up to the Bronx and ask around,” Jorge said.

  “Jorge, listen, even if
this stuff is true, it doesn’t matter.” But suddenly I was spinning, and I knew he could hear the spin in my voice as loudly as I could. “Ace was busted for this once before and was still elected by eighteen points. The public just doesn’t care what a city councilor does in his private life. It’s not illegal. If it even happened, which I have to say I doubt. Rumors swirl around the Bronx all the time.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jorge. “But it is also possible that his district has grown just a bit tired of his extracurricular proclivities. I mean, after all, this was his anniversary trip.”

  While Jorge talked, I did a series of rapid-fire Google searches, trying to see if Ace’s name came up in any recent news reports in conjunction with the terms infidelity, intern, Hunter, anniversary, France. It didn’t. Then I went wide on an image search, but there was nothing, a few old photos of the tabloid covers but that was it. My heart was still pounding, though.

  “Jorge,” I said, “I don’t see what good it’s going to do us going back and forth over rumors. Why don’t we pin down a date for a community forum at the school and then I’ll ask Ace what he thinks about any other meetings.”

  “Fine,” Jorge said, and we went over some dates, and meanwhile I was still clicking around Google just to calm my nerves. Really, there was nothing. An old shot of the Pace soph Ace boffed. She wasn’t even that pretty. I felt a tiny bit assured.

  “By the way,” Jorge said, before we got off the phone, “you’re feeling better? I heard that you were in the hospital.”

  “How did you hear? I’m fine, by the way. It was just a stomach thing.”

  “Ah, well,” he said. Then: “I’m Beverly’s campaign manager. It’s my job to know things about her opponent.” A cough; he had a hard time delivering this line. I Googled Jorge Grubar. Jesus Christ, this kid was like twenty-five. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.”

  As soon as we hung up I called Amani, but she didn’t pick up. I called Ace’s cell: nothing. I called his home number, even though he hated when I did that. But honestly, if my candidate had been banging some intern on his anniversary trip with his wife, then clearly, even if I believed in Ace’s politics, which I supposed I did, I had serious doubts about his ability to make sound judgments. The phone rang a few times and then an out-of-breath woman answered and at first I thought, Oh Jesus Christ, it’s the intern, but then I realized it was his wife. Jill.