by Tim Murphy
Kyla: It’s pretty definite. I miss you Millipede!
[No, you don’t, Milly thought. You’re too busy, too full. You don’t know what it means to miss someone. It’s not a warm, fuzzy feeling. It’s a cold void.]
Milly: Well, hang in there with the kids!
A pause.
Kyla: OK, I will. Take care.
Then: “xoxo.” As far as Milly was concerned, “xoxo” was the end of a conversation, so she left it at that. She and Kyla went back to their usual one-word exclamatory comments and smiley-cons. The winter that followed was the warmest in New York ever. On January 6, the temperature hit seventy-one degrees, a record breaker, and it never really got properly cold for three months. Milly couldn’t take it. When she went out, people were frolicking in the park, throwing around a football in shorts or with their shirts off, and she would wrap an unnecessary midweight coat around herself just to feel some semblance of normalcy. Everybody else loved the warm weather, it seemed, while to her it just felt like the end of the world.
She left the house to do whatever she had to do as quickly as she could, then came home and made hot tea just to pretend it was an old-fashioned January. If it wasn’t for the thought of her father alone at night, fumbling to put his dinner together, she probably wouldn’t have left the house that winter. Half the time, she ended up staying uptown with her father. Once she stayed up there for a week. She would be lying around reading her tablet regardless of where she was, so it made little difference to her whether she was uptown or down. She slept in her childhood room and read old papers from high school. She found letters from J. from the summers of ’89, ’90, ’91. “I got a house off campus with Jon and Lew for next year,” read one. “There’s a huge kitchen where I’ll make you dinner every night—penne with broccoli rabe, Cajun salmon, all your favorites, sweet Milly.”
He was going to leave me someday, Milly thought, reading the letters. He just didn’t know it yet.
In March, Kyla pinged her: “Hey! So like I said, we’ll all be at Xtian’s sister’s place in Brooklyn the second week in April. Would LOVE to see you. Please let me know how that week looks for you. xoxo.”
They would all be here. Not just her. All.
Milly got that message on a Saturday. She had the wherewithal not to reply until she could talk about it with Gallegos the following Monday.
“It sounds like she misses you and she really wants to see you,” he said after she told him.
“How can I make it clear to her I don’t want to end up in one of her chapters as the childless single friend she goes to visit in New York?”
He laughed. “Is she working on something?”
“She’s always working on something.”
“If you’re really worried about that, you could wait to bring that up until after you’ve seen her and you know for sure she’s working on something.”
Milly crossed her arms in her chair. “I just don’t want to feel like I’m being used as fodder.”
“Has she ever written about you before?”
“A little bit, in her first book. She was sweet about me.”
“Then why are you worried about it?”
Milly thought about this on the way home. She thought that she would definitely not go out to Brooklyn to see them. It didn’t seem fair that she’d have to be the one doing the traveling just because they had strollers and bags of diapers and that sort of thing. So instead she did some research online and found a brunch spot in the East Village that was right off the F train for them.
“Hi,” she wrote back. “Would love to see you guys. How about Four Figs Sunday at noon? Right off the F train in the old hood. I’ll make a reservation.”
A few hours later Kyla pinged back: “Restaurant in Manhattan a bit tough for us with the kids. But we’ll rally! It’ll be an adventure. See you there. Can’t WAIT to see you! xxoo Kylaboo.”
From that moment on, Milly was pretty much sick whenever she thought about it. She saw Kyla’s post when they arrived in New York: “Grime! Shoving! Assholes! New York, I’m back and I’m loving it!” Oh, jeez. The pic of the four of them on the stoop outside Christian’s sister’s brownstone in Brooklyn. Saturday night at dinner, Milly told her dad she was meeting them the next day.
He looked vague, like he couldn’t remember from their last conversation exactly who Kyla was, never mind that she’d had twins. “That sounds jolly,” he finally said.
“I don’t wanna go,” Milly told him flatly. “I’m sick about it.”
Her dad seemed to truly look at her for the first time in a long time. “Come here,” he said, beckoning Milly to lower her head toward him.
“What?”
“Lemme see that forehead.”
She bent forward and he kissed her there.
“What was that for?” she asked him.
“For being here for me,” he said. “And for what a beauty you are.”
Milly looked at her dad’s face. His nose had to have grown about twice its size in the past ten years. That’s what happens when you age, Milly thought. Your nose grows. She was disgusted at the thought of that happening to her, though unfortunately it was already happening. For the first time in a while, she let herself cry a little, her hand on her dad’s.
“Everyone’s gone, Dad,” she said.
He started in with his head nod, vaguely side to side, like his brain was going ticktock as he weighed that idea. “A lot of people are gone,” he finally said.
Milly stayed up reading dumb mysteries at her dad’s that night till three A.M. Finally she took half a pill to get to sleep. She woke up, feeling crappy, to the sound of the day nurse coming.
Back downtown, she showered and tried to put together something upbeat to wear. It was so rare when she cared that she hadn’t bought new clothes in about four years, but this particular morning, her choices seemed truly grim. She finally put on some jeans that once fit her like a glove but now actually were a bit slack around the waist, plus a red-and-yellow Mondrian-type blouse, the brightest thing she had, and some midnight-blue leather boots she once thought of as her “fun shoes.” She applied some eyeliner and lipstick for the first time since maybe her mother’s funeral and tried to do something presentable with her hair and a hairband.
Then she started walking toward the brunch spot, feeling increasingly nauseated. Truly nauseated. She thought it was the lack of sleep and the pill. It was an eighty-one-degree early April day and she started sweating, feeling the blouse stick to her back. She never walked across the neighborhood during Sunday brunch hours anymore. There was too much life, too much romance, too many couples, too much Sunday-morning post-sex dewiness and arm clutching going on, too many babies, and way, way too many loud teens talking that outer-space hip-hop talk that was completely indecipherable to her. At a certain corner she just stopped and put a hand to her forehead, and a gentleman behind her slammed into her and scowled at her irritably before hurrying on his way. She had pills in her bag but she’d be damned if she was going to take one.
She was barely lucid by the time she crossed the street and, through the big, old-timey front glass window of the restaurant, she saw them. The four of them. Christian, his hair half gray now, appearing to try to talk down the manager. And her, in her big dark L.A. sunglasses, soothing one of the babies in her arms as it—she, meaning the baby—wailed.
Milly put both hands to her lips. She hunched her shoulders very small. Then, slowly, she started backing up, then quickly turned, walking rigid and compact in the hopes that if she made herself very, very small, she could get away.
“Milly!”
It sounded like her, but Milly kept walking. Just get home, she told herself. Get back home.
“Milly! I saw you! Where are you going?”
Kyla was going to catch right up to her; she wasn’t letting her off the hook. Milly just stopped in plac
e without turning. And then suddenly there she was in front of Milly, out of breath. Milly hadn’t seen her in a few years. Sure, she had aged. She had some lines around the eyes that seemed deeper than the last time Milly saw her. And Milly noticed that Kyla had a stain on the chest of her Pucci-type silk blouse, probably where one of the babies had been drooling on her. But otherwise she looked great. She looked like she still managed to do yoga every day, even if she didn’t. She had huge Dior sunglasses propped up on her head, and her toenails were painted a deep, velvety red against her raffia wedge sandals.
Kyla took Milly by both arms. “Where are you going?” she asked, laughing, confused. “You saw us in the window, right? I mean,” and she laughed again, then pulled Milly close and kissed her. “Hello! It’s so good to see you!”
Milly just stared at her, blank, at a loss for what to say. Over Kyla’s shoulder, Milly could see Christian stepping out of the restaurant with one of the wailing girls in his arms, walking her back and forth, trying to calm her.
“I suddenly felt so ill walking over here,” Milly finally said, “I thought I’d just better get home and text you I couldn’t come.”
Kyla’s brow furrowed. “What?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to give one of the girls a bug. I haven’t felt well all weekend.”
“But we’re together now,” Kyla said. “Don’t worry about the girls. Just come sit with us at least a half an hour and have a juice. I want you to see them. I’ve waited so long for you to see them.”
The brunchy-shoppy types were rushing past them, to and fro, through the bright, fake world of Sunday morning. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Milly said. Then, shocked to hear herself, she said: “I’ve really struggled with your having decided to do this in the first place.”
Kyla started back. “Do what?” she asked. “You mean have kids?”
“You can’t undo it now,” Milly said.
Kyla opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. She took a step back from Milly and just looked at her, as though something was slowly dawning on her. “Oh my God,” she finally said. “Christian was right.”
This caught Milly off guard. “What do you mean, Christian was right?” she asked. “About what?”
Kyla continued to look at Milly, as though she were staring deeper and deeper into her soul. Milly didn’t like what she was feeling. She kept searching Kyla’s face for clues to the Kyla she had known. But all she could see was a glossy, superior stranger—the kind of woman, the kind of entitled mother, taking up too much space, whom she would resent if she passed on the street.
Kyla’s face softened and she took Milly’s hand. “Come inside and sit with us, Millipede,” she said softly. “Please.”
It made Milly profoundly uncomfortable to be pleaded with like that. “I really don’t feel well. I haven’t—I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I know,” Kyla said, still holding her hand. “Please come and sit with us.”
Milly let Kyla lead her forward. They were still holding hands. They walked a few paces, but a tidal wave of ooze was engulfing Milly. She stopped on the sidewalk and wept. She found her way into Kyla’s arms and wept on the shoulder of her silk blouse.
“It’s all gone wrong,” Milly said.
“Oh, sweetie,” Kyla said over and over, stroking her hair. Milly could hear street conversations swirling around them, then that pocket of silence as passersby realized something was amiss. It was one thing for a woman to cry on the street late on a drunken Saturday night, Milly knew, but she wasn’t supposed to cry on a bright and cheery Sunday morning.
“Is she okay?” Milly heard a woman’s voice.
“It’s okay,” Kyla said. “I’m with her.”
Milly kept on crying. She was horrified at herself, but she also didn’t really care anymore.
Finally, Milly laughed. “Okay, all done!” she said.
“Come sit with us, Mills. Have something to eat. Have you eaten yet?”
Milly shook her head no. Kyla led her into the restaurant. There was such a high-pitched, desperate din in the crowded room: mimosa-swilling youth and frantic waiters, everyone’s shouts clanging off the pressed-tin ceiling and brasserie mirrors that lined the walls. Like a little girl, Milly let Kyla pull her across the room toward the table where Christian was daubing mushy food into the tiny, pursed mouths of two baby girls, one of them wailing away, who sat side by side in high chairs wearing tiny calico pinafore dresses that Milly guessed cost $300 each.
“I caught her!” Kyla exclaimed triumphantly.
Christian stood up and took Milly in a long, tight hug. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “And never, never again do we go this long apart. Deal?”
Milly laughed, self-conscious about looking like a holy freak from her crying jag. “You’ve obviously been busy,” she said, gesturing at the little wriggly calico bundles, one’s hair tuft slightly darker than the other’s.
Christian picked up the one who was wailing. “This,” he said, handing her to Milly, “is Erika. And Erika, this is your Auntie Milly.”
“Auntie Milly, oh, no!” Milly exclaimed, trying to settle the baby in her arms comfortably. “That’s a spinster if ever there was one.”
“Sexy, fabulous, brilliant Auntie Mills,” Kyla corrected. “A New York bohemian and a painter. Like Auntie Mame!”
“Now you’re setting the bar too high,” Milly said, sitting down. Erika kept on wailing. “Oh, come on now, shh, shh,” she said, smoothing back her tuft, “come on now, it’s okay.” Milly rocked her a bit until she quieted down. Her adorable face—like a ball of dough with two eyes, a nose, and a mouth pressed into it—went slack, dreamlike.
“Now you know why I dragged you in here!” Kyla exclaimed.
So there it was, thought Milly. She and Kyla were back on. After brunch and a walk, Kyla sent Christian back to Brooklyn with the girls in a double stroller and she and Milly sat in a café to have a tea. There was a moment when Kyla was looking up at the waitress to order her tea, one leg crossed over the other, and it occurred to Milly that she hadn’t seen Kyla in so long, she’d forgotten how beautiful she was.
When the waitress left, Kyla leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “So you’re still at the Christodora? It’s yours?”
“It’s not mine,” Milly said. “Two years ago, his lawyer told me I had the option of staying there indefinitely, at least for the coming year or two, as long as I paid the maintenance. But it’s getting hard to pay. I think I’ll be moving into my parents’ place soon.”
“Would you ever consider moving to L.A.?” Kyla asked. “Even just for half the year? Nobody should have to live through winter here.”
Milly laughed. “The winters here now are practically as warm as in L.A.!”
Kyla’s eyes widened. “Everybody tells me that,” she says. “I guess I just haven’t really experienced it. That must be awfully weird, right?”
“It’s beyond weird. It’s so creepy. The world is falling apart. I’m glad we’re not long for it.”
“Millipede!” Kyla exclaimed. “You are fifty, not eighty. Please take a break from here and come to L.A. and stay with us so I can introduce you to some guys. Or some girls. Just some fun dates for you!”
Milly recoiled. “Oh God, no, please!”
“Boaz!” Kyla persisted. “You have to meet a guy named Boaz. Please, please come.”
“What about my father?”
“Can’t you leave him with a nurse for even a week?”
Milly didn’t like that idea. No doubt the minute she landed in L.A., the nurse would ping her to say that her father was back in the hospital. “I don’t know,” she said.
Kyla just shrugged. “The invite’s open,” she said.
“Thank you,” Milly said before falling silent a moment. She was itching to ask Kyla something but tryi
ng to hold on to enough pride not to ask her. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Have you seen Mateo?”
“Umm,” Kyla began, as though she were slowly turning to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “No, in fact. He knows he’s always welcome—he and his girlfriend. But other than a smiley face online once in a while, nothing.” Her mouth twisted ironically. “Mateo’s far too big for all of us now anyway. What about you?”
“Nothing,” Milly said quietly. “No contact.”
Kyla absorbed this. “You do know . . . ?” she finally began.
“Know what?”
“That he’s going to be here in a few weeks? In New York. Working on a project for an underground park.”
This startled Milly. “No, I did not know that. How do you know it?”
“He posts it all over his feeds. He’s looking for a place to stay in New York.”
“Oh,” Milly said. “We’re not connected on there. All I see are a few pictures that aren’t private.”
The tea came, two separate little pots. Kyla lightly traced the teapot handle with her finger. “Maybe now’s a good time to reach out to him.”
Even the thought of doing that filled Milly with humiliation. “I most certainly will not,” she said. “I vowed that day in L.A. he’d never hear from me again, if that’s what he wanted.”
Kyla pursed her lips, looked down. “That kid pisses me off, Milly. Wait! Don’t get me started. It’s not my business.”
“It’s okay,” Milly said. “I know you know I’ve got a broken heart. That’s enough.”
Kyla took Milly’s hand across the table.
Walking home, Milly felt lighter than she’d felt in a while. She wondered how she’d come to tell herself a bitter story about Kyla in her head and let the past few years between them slip away. In the grocery, picking up a few things, she chatted longer than usual with the cashier lady before leaving.
Up in the apartment, she pulled up the vertical posts. Sure enough, she saw, he’d be working on the UnderPark, not ten minutes away from the Christodora. In the very same neighborhood he’d grown up in. After a week or two, Milly started wondering if he was in town yet. Then she read something on a vertical that made it clear he was in town. It appeared a reporter had actually gone up to him and asked him about his parents. And he’d said, “I think they needed a break from me.” And: “I really put them through it.”