Chapter 19
We walk back home (maybe I hobble a little bit, let’s be honest), and I reject the many ice cream trucks he points out in favor of holding out for something better. We stop into one of my favorite spots, Pamina Dolci e Gelato, and have a long debate over flavors, with him ultimately being excessively boring and ordering vanilla (and refusing to sayfior di latteon principle, even though I promised him it would sound better in a British accent than any of the American ones surrounding him). I attempt to embarrass him by fully Americanizingnocciolaandfragola, but he deliberately ignores it.
We lazily stroll with our cones as we head east, winding through the tree-lined streets with majestic brownstones as we make our way through the West Village and into Greenwich Village. Maybe part of the strolling is that I slow down as we go along, my attempts to forget about my leg not really working the more I walk.
“Sorry that I’m a slow mess today,” I say.
“Well, usually we have George, so I’ve never been on a really speedy walk with you either way,” he points out. “And as for a mess, you’re conveniently forgetting that you took care of me when I had strep, so I’d say you’re still worlds better than I was.” He takes the last bite of his cone, and it’s extremely distracting. “We’ve certainly seen each other at our least attractive.” He chuckles as we approach our building.
I want to ask,Why would that matter?and it’s on the tip of my tongue, the question hanging in front of me, exacerbating the nigglingdesire to know if he sometimes finds me attractive the way I often inadvertently do with him.
But leaning up against my building, typing away and engrossed in her phone, is my mother. She’s wearing some lime-green spandex walking gear, even as her wild hair looks much too untamed for any sporting outing. She’s got Waldo (the blueish-gray one) on a leash that she’s holding so precariously I want to reach out and wrap it more tightly around her wrist. She doesn’t notice as we walk up, but I’m sure she has to be here for me. Although I guess with my parents, it’s safest to never be sure of anything.
“Mom?” I ask, and she looks up.
I can see Eli’s eyes flick toward me, surprised and putting the pieces together. On our long night on the roof, I had some not-so-flattering things to say about my mother. Maybe it was the frustration of being trapped or maybe it was that particular way that Eli makes me incapable of obfuscating. But I appreciate the concern already embedded in his expression.
“Oh, honey, hi!” she says, pushing herself off the wall and coming to give me a hug, apparently oblivious to my disheveled state. I wonder if she doesn’t see it or if perhaps she’s so used to being in her own states that it doesn’t seem unusual. Waldo gives my leg a lick, clearly the only one of this duo who’s going to notice that I’m bleeding.
“I was going for a walk and wanted to bring you something.” She holds out a large wooden sign withFischer Islandpainted on it. “See, it’s funny because in Florida there’s a Fisher Island, but it’s our last name instead.”
“I got that, yes,” I say drolly, wondering why this is an item she’s bringing to me.
“Suzy gave it to me; I think maybe she made it? I don’t know what she was thinking. But anyway, it’s cute, right?”
I keep staring at it. It’s confusing on so many levels. It’s a joke that isn’t funny and is too specific to really even make sense (none of us have been to Fisher Island, and it’s not famous enough to really make anactual joke out of). It’s painted on some kind of driftwood, so it seems more appropriate to a houseinFlorida than an apartment in New York. And most importantly: Why wouldIwant this random decor instead of my mother, the recipient of the “gift”?
“It’s very cute,” I lie. “But I’m not sure what I would do with it.”
“Oh, you could stick it on your wall somewhere,” she breezes.
“My walls are pretty well decorated at this point,” I say, trying to figure out how to politely wriggle out of this situation. “And besides, if Suzy made it for you, don’t you want to keep it for yourself?”
“Oh, you know I have a thing about text on the wall.” She shrugs, as though that’s an obvious, normal proclivity I should remember. “It’s a little too ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ for me.”
“But not for Nora?” I hear a voice say next to me.
In the surprise over this inane discussion with my mother, I forgot Eli was standing beside me. And apparently she didn’t notice, either, because her head whips toward his voice, suddenlyveryinterested and seemingly amused at the rude man in my company.
“Oooh, hello,” she says. “You’re a sharp one.”
“You’re handing your daughter a piece ofart”—he says the word like it’s dirty, and I have to stifle a laugh—“that you yourself don’t like. That would make anyone sharp.”
I’ve forgotten how acerbic he can be when he’s bothered and self-righteous. It’s as though I’ve peeled away those layers and forgotten about them in the subsequent weeks. But that version of Eli—that therapy-evading, renovation-provoking, know-it-all combatant—is still him, even if he’s softened around me. He always lingers above the surface before anyone can get below.
But of course, my mother being my mother, she just laughs. She enjoys being the windup toy that confounds and annoys.
“I never said I don’t like it,” she teases.
“You don’t, though,” he replies quickly, not letting her off the hook.
I watch, enraptured. I never call my mom out on anything. It’s not worth it. Normally all I want is for whatever line of questioning shehas to end. But in this instance I have to admit I’m enjoying watching it play out.
“You can like something and not think it’s your style,” she counters.
“That’s just a nice way to say you don’t like something.”
“Oh, you’re a doll!” she says, doing one of her favorite conversation tactics of completely ignoring what someone has just said and instead giving them a vague compliment to distract them. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Tina.”
