Hope and Other Punch Lines(51)

I’ve never met Noah’s mother. I have no idea about her schedule.

“You’re right. It’s almost five. She should be there,” he answers himself.

He stares out the window. He’s in a galaxy far, far away.

“Sorry, I’m…I don’t feel so good.” Noah doesn’t look sick. His knee is bopping up and down and he’s picking at his cuticles and he’s still all filled up with that energy I envy.

What I think but don’t say: Didn’t back there feel like the best kind of beginning?

For a second, I consider whether this awkwardness is about the interview. But it was the easiest by far. No tears. No widows. When Jamal hugged us goodbye, he even smelled famous, like fresh laundry and money.

When we left, I was feeling stronger, like maybe we’d all be okay. Like we’d find some sort of Hollywood ending.

Nope.

I pull into Noah’s driveway, shift the car into park. Force myself to look right at him.

“My mom’s here,” he says, and grabs his backpack and runs out of the car and into the house without saying goodbye.





“Noah, is that you?” my mom asks without turning around when I walk into the kitchen. “Don’t tell Phil, but we’re going to count the french fries as a veggie tonight.”

She stands in front of the giant stove, shaking pans and stirring stuff. Since Jamal, I’ve been on autopilot. Key in the door, bag at the foot of the stairs, shoes off. A coldness radiates out to my fingertips.

I’m the fucking ice man.

“Did you know?” I ask, my voice so flat it’s like it’s been run over. Too many emotions and thoughts. Only choice I have is to power down. “Did you?”

My mom turns around, sees my face, and then crosses the room to take my hands. They are shaking. My whole body is shaking.

I feel vacuumed out. I feel almost nothing.

“Noah, honey? Hey, what happened?”

“Did you know?” I demand again. I won’t say it out loud. I shouldn’t have to. If there was ever a time for her ridiculous mother ESP to work, it’s right now. I shouldn’t have to say out loud, Hey, Mom, have you been lying to me for my entire life? Did you know it was Dad in the Baby Hope picture all along? Did you know he went back in? Or worst of all: Did you know I thought he was alive all this time?

Turns out I’m the butt of the longest joke ever told. I just had the punchline backward.

She looks me straight in the eye. It strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I really looked at my mother. A bit of new padding hangs from her neck, and a white hair sprouts from one eyebrow. She’s dressed in what she calls “loungewear,” which is another word for fancy sweats. She’s still my mom, just an older, more tired version, and since she’s my comfort, always has been, I reflexively relax at her touch. And then I remember what is happening.

I don’t know if I want to hug her or hurt her.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I knew.”





“He kissed me and I thought he was into me but then he ran away. What is that about?” I ask. I’m sitting on the newly rediscovered porch swing with my grandmother and her aide, Paula. My grandma seems to be having a good day. Paula has a thick Brooklyn accent and the sort of comforting brashness that makes you think she’d be good in a crisis or on a reality show.

“Well, not for nothing, but how was your breath?” Paula asks, making it clear she’s not here to make friends. I cup my hands and sniff.

“Not bad, I think? But this was hours ago.”

“You guys are morons,” my grandmother declares, not unkindly, though not particularly kindly either.

“Thanks a lot,” I say.

“No, seriously. We always underestimate the narcissism of the young.”

“Worrying about my breath makes me a narcissist?” I ask.

“Garlic lingers, you know,” Paula warns. “When I make pesto, my husband says he can smell it on me for like a week.”

“Maybe it was something I said?” I ask, ignoring my grandma and turning to Paula.

“Gloria Steinem would roll over in her grave if she heard the way you’re talking. Why do you assume you did something wrong?” my grandma asks.

“Gloria Steinem is still very much alive,” I say.

“Whatever. Then it’s just feminism that’s dead.”

“Touché,” Paula says, but she pronounces it like “tushy.” Already my grandma and Paula seem to have come to some sort of agreement about how things are going to be between them.

“You assume whatever happened to Noah is all about you. I get that, but it’s the definition of narcissism,” my grandmother says, and smooths the frizz on the crown of my head with her palm, like she used to when I was five. “Focus on the self is an essential part of growing up. It’s not really your fault that you’re so stupid.”

“To be honest, I bet it was your breath,” Paula says. “It happens.”

“Maybe what’s-his-name really was sick. Maybe he remembered he left the stove on. Maybe he got an emergency text. There are a gazillion reasons why he could have run off that have nothing to do with you,” my grandma says, and then crosses her arms in her no-nonsense way. Paula subconsciously copies the gesture.