Joan Is Okay(40)

Stay, Fang had urged.

But for how long?

We’ll see.

Those words had angered my mother, as had his tone—could she sense some glee in it, in finally being able to tell this old lady what to do? She felt boxed in and exasperated in the quaint mountain cottage where mother and son were having their fight.

I said the virus was real and my professional opinion she could relay back to Fang, hypothetically.

Of course it’s fucking real, said my mother, shouted my mother. I wasn’t born yesterday.



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ON JANUARY 28, A large piece of card stock was stuffed into every mailbox in our building, and a pile of them was stacked neatly outside on a newspaper box. The NYC Tenant helpline: Are you a tenant who needs help? Are you being harassed by your landlord? Do you have questions about your lease? Call 311 for more information.

The very same day, my mother texted me from Eagle County Regional Airport, thirty-seven miles outside of Vail, that they were waiting to fly back to JFK, where a car would be waiting to drive them back to Greenwich. So much waiting, she wrote. Then: See you at the bash.

I’d completely forgotten.

(No, I hadn’t.)

But I thought I’d completely forgotten that I was expected in Connecticut this weekend for their Chinese New Year bash. I tried to forget Fang’s ultimatum again, but it was impossible to fake-forget twice. I had nothing else to do, nothing else on my mind, and when I looked at my calendar for February, it was totally blank.



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THE BRAND OF SPARKLING water that I bought in bulk was LaCroix. But on January 30, when I went to the store to stock up, they didn’t have the tangerine flavor or my other flavor of choice, pamplemousse, no orange, passion fruit, hibiscus, nothing except coconut, the flavor I liked least so was never going to buy.

Been a hiccup in the supply chain, explained the manager. And restocking could take up to a month. He suggested I try another brand, maybe Poland Spring.

I said for the sake of my family, I only bought from the French. My brother preferred L’Occitane amenities bags. My sister-in-law was in love with Celine. And once in Paris, they could both eat an inordinate amount of boeuf bourguignon.

The manager said he didn’t know how to break it to me but felt that someone had to since it was a common confusion and he could sympathize.

Break what to me?

LaCroix isn’t French, it comes from La Crosse, Wisconsin, and a brewery that used to make lagers.

Lagers?

Yeah, lagers.

But that’s not even remotely French.

They’re German, said the manager. Bavarian.

Can’t be.

Afraid so.

Sans cans, I walked back to my building in a daze. The doorman was not at his desk either, and there was no sign of where he had gone or when he would be back. I had to let myself into the building with a key and push the elevator buttons myself.

Upstairs, I found my apartment transformed. A new dining table had been brought in, rectangular and long, with rows of appetizers, crackers, nuts, marinated olives, various-colored dips laid out down its spine, and more cubed cheese than I’d ever seen. This not-mine table ran from the edge of the kitchen to the other side of the living room, right up next to Suede Chair. People I didn’t know were meandering around this table, picking at food. A nightmare? I closed my eyes and rubbed them. When I opened them again, the scene hadn’t changed.

Joan! some elegantly dressed woman shouted from the bay window where she was drawing the blinds. We were going to surprise you but weren’t sure when you would be back. Not everything is prepared yet and not everyone is here.

What’s going on? I asked. Who are you?

Mark’s idea, actually, said the man beside her, in a sweater vest and khakis, cradling a handful of nuts. Been planning it for days, told us all to keep it secret. The man pointed to my tallest book stalagmite and said I had some good ones in there, some of his faves. But he would be interested in my thoughts on them, and why I’d chosen to include certain titles over others, whenever I had a free minute to chat.

For the first time in a while, Mark was nowhere to be found.

My door opened, and in came the same weight and height couple from the elevator where they had been discussing apartment 9B and cultural moments. They handed me a bottle of wine and patted my shoulder. Nice to see you again, they said in unison, keep up the good work.

I took the bottle of wine and asked, What good work? But they had already moseyed on.

The door opened again and in came another stranger with another bottle of wine.

With no free hand left, I had to move away from the door and entryway. I backed myself into the kitchen and bumped into something. I turned, and the something was an Asian. Whoa, I said. I hadn’t met other Asian tenants in the building before and assumed that I was the only one.

You lost? she asked, her lids dusted in a cool electric-blue shadow, her bangs cut on a slant. She introduced herself as the Korean exchange student subletting 4D for the year and studying graphic design at Columbia. Then she introduced herself as a postmillennial.

A what?

Because feeling lost is okay, she went on. I feel lost all the time.

For you, she said, and held out a packet of Chapagetti, or the best instant ramen that I would ever have. She handed me a round bowl of microwaveable rice and a tin of low-sodium Spam. The Spam should be fried and put over the rice in strips, like rays of a pink sun. If I felt adventurous, I could add a fried egg on top and blanched spinach on the side.