As I make two cups of this tea which smells like lovely cosy ginger, Mrs Ramirez tells me about her bad leg and how it’s kept her indoors for the last two weeks, how she hates being stuck inside. She tells me about how she has lived here for twenty years and she knows all the comings and goings of the various Airbnb guests next door. ‘None so pretty as you. Or crying so noisily and with so muchself-pity.’
Allright,jeez.
‘It’s just been a crazy, crazy day,’ I say, taking a sip ofthetea.
Mrs Ramirez nods, slurping from her cup and making an ‘aaaaaah’ noise. ‘Whathappened?’
I must really need to get it out, or maybe it’s this tea making me relax a little, but I tell Mrs Ramirez –a total stranger– everything. I blurt about the flight and Seth, about Anders and the Gramercy Park getaway, and then about that wretched sketch onSundayNightLive.
When I’ve finished telling her, I take a breath. ‘And that’s why I’m crying. I’ve never experienced this many emotions in such a short spaceoftime!’
‘New York can be… a little challenging,’ Mrs Ramirez remarks. ‘But it is the most magical place in the world. Anything can happen here – as you are finding out. Most people dream of coming toNewYork.’
‘Oh. Well, yeah. I never expected to be here. I’ve come for my friend. Birdie. She’s dying and wants me to deliver a letter to a man calledChuck.’
Mrs Ramirez’s hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness. How terrible. What is wrongwithher?’
‘It’s lupus,’ I say. ‘She’s had it for a while. It’s just a matter of time now until it gets the better of her. She’s a had a few close calls and she’s gotten through them. But she’s starting to get poorlier as the monthsgoby.’
Mrs Ramirez narrows her eyes. ‘It is very interesting how bluntly you tellmethis.’
I frown. ‘How doyoumean?’
‘Like… it doesn’t bother you. You are so matter-of-fact about your frienddying.’
I wave her away. ‘Of course it bothers me. I just don’t think about it too hard. I can’t, because ifIdo…’
I trail off, not bearing to even thinkaboutit.
Mrs Ramirez gives me an odd sort of look. Like she’s trying to work me out. ‘Forgive me. I just… grieving is veryimportant.’
‘Birdie’s not dead yet,’ I sayheatedly.
Mrs Ramirez’s soft tanned cheeks flush pink. ‘Of course. I’msorry.’
There’s an awkwardmoment.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to get grumpy.It’sjust…’
‘I know, chica,’ Mrs Ramirez says, leaning across to pat my knee. ‘Iknow.’
‘I should probably let you get back to bed,’ I say, talk of Birdie’s illness lodging like a stone stuck into my throat, neither coming up nor going down. Just there. Waiting for me toconfrontit.
‘Wait!’ Mrs Ramirez says as I stand up to leave. ‘Why don’t you just call this TV show and tell them you don’t like what they saidaboutyou.’
I fight the urge to laugh. For someone so well-travelled Mrs Ramirez doesn’t seem to have a great handle on how thesethingswork.
‘You can’t just phone a TV show. And even if you can, they won’t do anything. It’s already happened! It wasliveTV!’
‘Isuppose…’
I approach the door when Mrs Ramirez calls meagain.
‘Will you do me a kindness? My knee is not quite healed and I need to post these letters to my pen pals. They have been sitting on my dresser for two weeks and I would very much like to get them in the post. Do you think you might take themforme?’
‘Oh, sure,’ I say. ‘Noproblem.’
She stands up, leaning on her walking stick and hobbles over to a large mahogany dresser where a small stack of postcards are arranged neatly in a pile. She picks them up and limps her way back overtome.
