The Herd(18)
“Of course! We’re all dying to hear the news. No hints?”
She cocked a pretty eyebrow. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Verbal nondisclosure agreement? Press embargo? I’m good at keeping secrets, you know.”
She laughed. “I would if I could. But it’s good news for everyone.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and changed the subject: “Hey, I’m glad we finally got some one-on-one time. How’s your mom doing? If you want to talk about it, that is.”
Normally I didn’t, but the fact that Eleanor cared, her earnest eyes—they bubbled in my chest like the Prosecco. “Yeah, she’s doing well, so it’s much easier to talk about now.”
“I’m glad. Hana didn’t say much, but I could tell she was really torn up about it.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“She hasn’t talked to me about it. You know she doesn’t get along with our mom. They’re like oil and water.”
When had I first noticed it? Second or third grade, maybe, right around the time you realize your parents aren’t actually superheroes. The way Hana and Mom would both stiffen when they were in a room together; their shoulders would rise as if attached to balloons, and they’d grow snippy, avoiding eye contact. They didn’t fight, certainly didn’t scream—anger was not allowed in our house—but young as I was, I picked up on the charged air. It confused me, in fact: Mom was nice and fun with me, as was Hana, and yet together they morphed into sparking live wires.
“Anyway, how are your folks?” I asked. I’d met them once or twice while Eleanor was in college, and they were the kind of parents everyone adores—gregarious, kind, welcoming, funny. One of many reasons I was sad I couldn’t attend her wedding: I’d missed my chance to see them.
“Oh, Gary and Karen are as ridiculous as ever. My dad retired in September, so they’re getting used to both being at home. They’re talking about buying a trailer and driving around to a bunch of national parks. I told ’em I can’t see it.”
“Gary and Karen in a trailer?” They were both silver-haired and well kempt—WASPy, but Catholic. “They need to bring a documentary crew.”
“Right?” She giggled. “But don’t worry, it’s a luxury trailer. They bought a pickup truck so they can pull it. No, I’m serious.” She shook her head, grinning. “They were like, ‘We thought we’d be okay with this smaller model, but then we went to a car show and realized we’d need the four-hundred-square-foot one to be comfortable.’ It’s bigger than my first apartment. Remember, on Ludlow?”
“With the stray cat on the fire escape and the heaters that sounded like a drum solo? Do I ever.”
We’d had so many good times in that apartment—our mouths bruised with boxed red wine, Mikki and Eleanor confidently advising me on how to ask out the cute guy in my stats class. There was the night a bird had flown through the open window, leading to much shrieking and flapping of towels, and another when Mikki, insistent that Trader Joe’s two-buck chuck wasn’t as awful as Eleanor believed, had set up a blind taste test, complete with classical music and a classy array of cheeses. (Eleanor had sniffed out the cheap stuff instantly.)
“We were so dumb,” she remarked. “Who was that friend of yours you were in love with? And we’d spend all night texting with him, pretending it was just you?”
“That’s right—Devin! I saw he’s engaged now. He moved back to Chicago.” I watched the strings of bubbles in my glass shimmer like tiny pearl necklaces.
“You were so much cooler than him.” She took another delicate sip. “Have you started dating now that you’re back? You on all the apps?”
I froze and thought back to just a couple months ago—the giddy state when my brain wasn’t my own, when every sight or sound or conversation funneled my thoughts back to Chris. Chris would find this hilarious. Chris has a crazy story about four-wheelers. The glorious addiction, the pink flashes of desire. And now, the pain in my chest like a sickness.
Chris will never, ever speak to you again. Chris is the reason you know how ambulance lights look carved up through winding country roads.
“I don’t really have time to date right now,” I said, like every single single person in history.
“I totally get that. And you have way more interesting stuff going on than worrying about stupid boys.”
“For sure.” Like my secret book proposal. There was something I’d been meaning to find out and I finally gave up on nailing a natural segue: “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure how to phrase this.” I rested the glass on my knee. “So in Michigan, I wrote a couple op-eds based on what I was seeing at rallies and stuff. And, like…as a female tech reporter, I’m used to sexist bullshit. But the level of vitriol…the effort people would put into finding ways to contact me, to tell me what an ugly bitch I am—it stunned me. Obviously I was just blocking people like crazy, but it was hard—there’s still emotional labor in seeing that hateful shit, you know?”
Eleanor was nodding while hitting me with her most earnest, empathetic face. I paused and she set her hand on mine.