The Dirty Book Club(6)

Now, knees to chest, she flipped past those old entries and entered the zone where those well-fed letters were now pencil gray and wan.

“It looks like you were possessed when you wrote that,” Dan noted.

“I was.”

Shoulders weighted in alcohol, M.J. told Dan about Dr. Cohn, her grief therapist, who was shiny-eyed with relief when she finally agreed to write about March 31. “He gave me his cup of special pens and said I could use whichever one I wanted.”

“And you asked for a pencil, right?”

“Yep,” M.J. said, instantly warmed by how well he knew her. “Of course, he thought I was messing with him until I told him I hadn’t used a pen since the accident.”

Dan closed his eyes and slowly shook his head from side to side. “Poor guy probably wanted to retire.”

“You have no idea. I thought he was going to bludgeon me with his You Can Be Right or You Can Be in a Relationship mug.”

Dan laughed harder than he needed to, probably capitalizing on the last bits of levity before M.J. turned herself over to the anguish, as she always did on March 31, and read her entry.

“I can’t believe you came,” she said, trying her best to sound appreciative, since what she really felt, ungrateful as it was, was a tinge of resentment toward his surprise visit. Because that screaming pain at the base of her belly was all that remained of her family. Feeling that was feeling them. And now that Dan swooped in with his anesthetizing hugs, the pain would fade—they would fade—bringing her that much closer to them being gone for good.

“I want to help you,” he said, brushing a lifeless strand of hair from her cheek.

M.J. thanked him, as if helping her was even possible. But they both knew that Fortune spun her wheel and this is where it landed. And short of bringing them back, Dan, her savior, would have to accept that there was nothing he could do to help. Because in the end, M.J. didn’t want to be saved; she wanted what she once had. And that was gone. So she accepted her fate—yet again—and for the first time in three years, read the entry Dr. Cohn made her write.

Remembering March 31, 2013

I’m getting off the subway. Heat, stale as morning breath envelops me like a drunk’s hug. I emerge from the tunnel on Prince Street to the putrid smell of trash and an ambulance siren. I wonder if that’s what it felt like to be born. To go from one extreme to the other, with no time to prepare for the sudden change.

I arrive at Cipriani twenty minutes before our reservation and sit at the bar. I write in my journal—this journal—while I wait for my parents and sister to arrive. They are driving in from Long Island to celebrate my big news: after years of circulating proofs, balancing trays of coffee, and pitching articles that other, more “experienced” writers got to write, I am going to be published in City magazine.

“It’s called ‘Dial-Up Parents in a High-Speed World,’?” I say once we’re seated. “Inspired by your struggle to keep up with technology.”

Mom pinches a bread crumb from Dad’s beard. “I can’t help taking this personally.”

“Because it is personal.” I remind her of the e-mail. The one where I told her I was in bed with the flu, and she wrote back: LOL.

April laughs that phlegmy, rolling laugh.

Mom scrunches her curls. “I thought it stood for lots of love.”

“I rest my case.”

April says, “You have to include the time dad texted me to say I left my phone at his house.”

She reaches for a handful of my fries.

I smack her hand. “You have your own!”

“Oh,” she gasps, as if just noticing her plate. “When did those get here?”

We laugh and tease one another through a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and all the way into dessert. Dad orders a latte. I check my phone.

My best friend Katie is around the corner at the Mercer Kitchen and wondering what’s taking me so long. She has four tequila shots and eyes on a “hot Malcolm Gladwell.” She tells me to get my ass over there before some slut with brains clubs him over the head and stuffs him in a taxi.

Dad signs the check. I stand. Mom motions for me to sit back down.

“We have something for you.”

That’s when she gives me the empty Montblanc box.

I glance at April and roll my eyes as if to say, “What is wrong with these people?”

“A great writer deserves a great pen,” Dad says.

“Um.” I wave my hand through the empty box with a Vegas magician’s flair; Look, folks, nothing inside . . .

“We thought you’d enjoy picking it out yourself,” Mom says. “The store is just around the corner.”

I appreciate the gesture. I really do. But I thought celebrating my first big break at the Montblanc store with my parents would be depressing.

So I lie. I say I’m tired and ask if we can go Sunday after our weekly brunch instead.

They smile, trying not to look hurt. April says she has to miss brunch. She’s going to some fitness convention. I tell her it’s no big deal. I’ll see her next week.

We hug good-bye on Greene Street. I feel flushed from champagne, the promise of Hot Malcom, the love of my family, and a career that is about to take off. The feeling: that life doesn’t get any better than this, propels me to the Mercer Kitchen and lights me from within.