“Sophie’s pretty sick,” I tell him. “She wants to stop the chemo and just . . .” I can’t say it. These last four weeks have been rough. “I need that money, Malcolm. If we had an elevator and she could go outside for a few minutes, it would make all the difference in the world.”
“Get Kerr to sign the papers then.”
“He said you’ve sent three others to him and he’s turned them away.”
“Did he?” He shovels more food into his mouth.
I'm getting frustrated. “What is the big deal?”
“Don’t know,” Malcolm mumbles around some food. “But I figure if I had his signature on something, I could blackmail him in the future.”
“Jesus, Malcolm.” I hiss an indrawn breath. “What the hell? That sounds like a quick way to get yourself dumped in the East River.”
“Back at ya, sis. You’re a f**king hypocrite. You’re always busting my chops like working for me is totally beneath you, but you sure like the dough.” He pushes me another padded envelope and a wad of cash wrapped in a rubber band.
“It’s for my mom,” I protest.
“Please, save your situational morality for someone else. We all got mommy problems.” Malcolm scoffs bitterly. “Get Kerr’s signature and I’ll get you any damn apartment you want.”
There’s nothing else for me to say. I choke down the rest of the food even though I’m not hungry anymore. Returning to Ian’s place after he wrote “Fuck You” on the papers seems like a lost cause.
Malcolm’s other packages need to be delivered to the Upper East Side, and it’ll take me a while to get there. I pause for a moment to appreciate that my last delivery for Malcolm is close to home. He’s not always bad, I guess.
I drop off the package at a million dollar townhouse two blocks off Fifth Avenue near the Guggenheim. The guy who accepts it comes out with mussed hair and lipstick all over his collar. I didn’t even know that happened in real life. Thought it was all an old wives’ tale used to scare men away from cheating on their partners—although from the looks of this guy, not an effective one. He empties the package right in front of me, shaking out a vial containing six pills and a sleeve of condoms. Ecstasy. I shake my head. Talk about stupid f**ks. You start having sex on Ecstasy and it’s hard to back off.
“Tell Malcolm thanks,” the customer says.
“Will do.”
He slips me a ten-dollar bill and winks. “You ever get bored, come on back and try these out with me. I’m always up for new blood.”
I try to keep my lip from curling because this is one of Malcolm’s customers and I’m being paid to overlook lewd come-ons along with the illegality of the packages.
“Thanks, but I’m taken,” I lie. “My boyfriend’s kind of a Neanderthal.” I glance furtively around as if I’m being followed. “He doesn’t even like if I talk to other dick.”
The customer leans out and looks around as well and then, after a moment of indecision, scurries back into his townhouse and shuts the door.
I head home. My feet feel more leaden the closer I get to my apartment. Every day I dread coming home. Seeing her in pain is excruciating, but there’s always the possibility that the goodbye kiss I received that morning was the last one I’ll ever get.
When I walk into the apartment there’s no sound but the soft snores of my mom and I breathe a sigh of relief as I set my bike down in the hallway. Then I feel guilty. I should want Mom to be awake so that we can talk about how our days went and what we’re going to do this weekend. Monday’s her chemo day, so by Saturday she’s usually up on her feet and ready for an outing.
I’m thinking we should go to the Central Park Zoo and eat some ice cream. I duck into the bedroom and see that she’s fast asleep, a book spread across her chest. Quietly I tiptoe over to her and lift the book off her chest. I tuck a bookmark to save her last place read and then flick off the lamp. Leaning down I give her a kiss.
The role reversal is striking. At twenty-five I’m tucking my mom into bed and kissing her sleeping forehead. My throat tightens as I think about this bed being empty and me being alone in the world. Not yet though, I tell myself. She’s still with me.
I set aside the worry of the apartment situation and just try to hug that thought close.
Chapter 5
ON MY LUNCH BREAK, I find myself in SoHo. I meant to go straight to Gansevoort to Ian’s place but as I biked down Lexington my front wheel ended up in SoHo, in front of my favorite block of shops. In one store, the Bondoir, they sell hand-made lace lingerie, the likes of which I will never be able to own. Next to it is Urban Adventures, where they sell the Dutch road bike I would sell my left arm to ride, although I’m not sure my arm would cover even the front tire.
I should be back at Ian’s place instead of here, one neighborhood over, mooning over stuff I won’t ever be able to afford. Every day that Mom is stuck in that damn apartment, she retreats deeper into herself. This morning she refused to get out of bed. But I can’t come up with a reason why he should hire me because I don’t even know what the stupid project is—other than that it requires a good memory and pretending to be someone else.
Do I need to dress up in a clown suit? Deliver a singing telegram? I’ll do almost anything. This morning was full of bad behavior. In addition to avoidance, I played a game of dodge with the cars. My mother would kill me if she knew I spent fifteen minutes seeing how many intersections I could beat the lights. Maybe I’ll tell her when I get home just to see if I can rile her up.
Hey Mom, almost got doored by three cars and I lane split between a Mercedes and Bentley today and almost took the mirror off of three cabs. Saw my life flash before my eyes and . . .
God, what a shithead idea that is. To tell my cancer stricken mother that I intentionally rode like a reckless fool down Manhattan? If she didn’t haul off and slap me, I’d be disappointed.
Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I try to calm myself. The stuff in the window looks gorgeous—all lace and silk. One of the ladies on the Real Housewives of New York name dropped it, and now every time I’m down here I stare at the goods through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. Don’t know why I torture myself like this; I couldn’t even have afforded a thong from this place when I didn’t have medical bills piling up like a plow-created snowbank, but I like to look. Nothing wrong with looking.