The Vanishing Year(53)

When we’d met, I’d been staying at a homeless shelter, wearing third-and fourthhand suits to job interviews that I was neither qualified for nor eligible to work, having not had a valid identification, a college education, or a permanent address. I wandered, exhausted, into La Fleur d’Elise and sat helplessly on a chair, clutching the help wanted ads from the Treasure Hunt.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The girl had snapped her gum in my direction. “Also your clothes look like shit. When did you last go shopping? Nineteen ninety-two?”

“Do you always greet people this way?” I sat up straight, studying her pink-and-purple-tipped hair, the large curling tattoo on her wispy upper arm, her bloodred lipstick.

“Most of the time. Do you always wear suits to interview for custodial positions?”

“Custodial? I thought it said florist assistant.”

“You’re basically pushing a broom, sister. Do you think you can handle that?” She studied the paper in front of her over a pair of electric blue glasses. I realized, with a start, that the lenses were fake, and suppressed a smile. I nodded and she handed me a broom.

“That’s it? I’m hired?”

She snatched the broom out of my reach. “Unless you don’t want the job . . . ”

“I want it.”

“Good. Now, what are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” I blinked at her, wide-eyed. The shelter had a curfew.

“Yes. Tonight. You need to see the inside of a mall, stat.”

“There are malls in Manhattan?”

“There are, but we’re going to Joisey.” She shrugged. “I live in Hoboken. There are malls there. You can stay with me.”

“You just met me.” I gave her a slitted-eye stare. A few months distanced from all that had happened in San Francisco, I was unaccustomed to common courtesy, downright wary of kindness.

“Call me crazy. Or nice. Or lonely.” She shrugged and unwrapped a Dum Dum. She stuck out her hand, a ring on every finger. “I’m Lydia.”

“Are you new to the city?” I asked her, thinking of her or lonely.

She furrowed her eyebrows. “No. But everyone is lonely. Right?”

She was arrestingly vulnerable, even while she was cutting you. You could just see people blink, unsure if she was putting them on. She linked her arm through mine. “I have a feeling about you.”

I miss her. I miss her laughter, her unique bitchy-nice. I miss having a friend.

? ? ?

In the coffee shop, I wait for Cash, restless and fidgety. With a start, I realize then that I didn’t get my call from Henry at nine o’clock. There had been no envelope of cash on the counter this morning, no note. No I’m sorry, nothing. I wonder if he’s called the credit card company. These little money envelopes feel like a leash that he can take away at any time and I’m left powerless. My face flushes at the thought. What would I have thought of an allowance five years ago? It would have been an extravagance.

I text Henry’s cell. Are you okay? I’m sorry about our fight. Love you. I avoid saying I’m sorry for any specific thing, because I’m not sure that I am. But I struggle with being ignored. Everyone has fights, this I know. But our relationship feels cracked down the middle.

Cash slides into the seat across from me with two paper cups and a tray of sandwiches and I quickly tuck my phone into my purse, depressing the ringer down button.

“Can you ever pick a place with mugs, please?” He flashes me a grin and I make a face at him.

“Are you really too good for paper cups?” I peel off the plastic lid and let the curling steam escape.

“Hey, just because I scrape to make rent doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the finer things in life.” He gently pushes a turkey sandwich in my direction.

I smile and busy myself spreading mustard on the roll. “Are you still up for helping me? Tomorrow?”

“I am. What’s your idea for a game plan?”

“Well, I can rent a car. I just want a navigator. I have no idea where I’m going. I have no idea what to expect when I get there.” The turkey suddenly looks limp and slimy. Oh, God. Tomorrow I’ll meet my mother. It feels so weird to think about, to say, because my whole life, my mother has been Evelyn, although I haven’t called her Mom since I was fifteen. The word mother gets twisted around on my tongue, snagged in its own connotations. Who is more my mother? Caroline, who birthed me and left me? Or Evelyn, who rescued me and raised me? Who bought me my first bra, taught me about love and sex, and later, death. Why are the words mother and love synonymous?

“Expect the best, prepare for the worst?”

“Ha. That’s a Henry-ism.” I almost laugh.

“He’s a smart man.” We sit in silence for a moment while Cash chews. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and wipes a splotch of mayonnaise off the table. “Have you told him?”

I shake my head, averting my eyes. I don’t want to talk to Cash about Henry. I’m not na?ve, you don’t talk to another man about your marriage. “No. Not yet. I will. He’s been stressed about work lately. If it amounts to anything, I’ll tell him.”

“What do you expect?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing?” I feel the lie slip around my mouth.

He nods and presses his forefinger into the tines of the fork. “It’s okay to want something, Zoe. I knew a man, back in Texas, dying of AIDS. He had no one, not one single person in the world who cared about him. His friends didn’t know how to handle a sick guy, and this was in the late nineties. Anyway, he read my article and he called me. Wanted to find his mother. Not his father, just his mother. He was raised by his father, a real son of a bitch. Anyway, it took me a few months, and I was racing the clock with this guy. Finally, I found her. I had concrete proof that it was her, there was no doubt in my mind. There still isn’t. Anyway, I called her, explain the whole situation. I tell her that her son, her flesh and blood, is dying in hospice care, not fifty miles from her house. Her response? She denies the whole thing. Says she never had a son, to never call her again, and hangs up on me. I kept calling for days. She never picked up the phone. He died a week later.”