If We Lived Here (23 page)

Chapter
22

“A
nd this is my china. Ems, tilt the screen this way.” Annie held up a bowl and a plate, and beamed at Emma’s parents through the Wi-Fi connection.

“Ooh, beautiful,” said Emma’s mother. “Honey, we should think about investing in some new dishware, don’t you think? That pattern is
perfecto
.”

“How much longer are we doing this show-and-tell?” Emma asked, tailing her friend with the laptop. “My arms are getting tired.”

“Come on, Ems. Be a good sport and come to the bedroom. I wanna show your folks the sculptures we got in Johannesburg.”

Emma endured ten more minutes of gift ogling before Annie finally acknowledged her pout. “Poor Ems, have I hijacked your Skype session? Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Feit, here’s another object for your inspection: my beautiful best friend, gifted to me by you, many years before my wedding, as beautiful and stunning as any antelope I spotted on the South African reserve.”

“Cheers,” said Emma’s mom. “Lovely gifts, darling. Happy wedding!”

“Ta-ta, Feit fam!”

With Annie out of the spotlight, Emma waved to her parents.

“Oh, Emma, I found a great program for your little friend.”

“She’s not my friend, Mom, she’s my client.”

“Well anyway, it’s an intensive year of art history and painting classes at the University of Madrid, designed for students taking a gap year. I’ll send you all the info.”

“Wow, thanks.” It sounded perfect for Sophia.

“So do you have a new address for us yet?”

Emma experienced one of her parents-specific mood swings, snapping instantly from grateful to annoyed. Why couldn’t her mom phrase the question in a way that implied she cared whether or not they’d found a new home, instead of what was in it for her? But Emma chose to let it go, and began describing the apartment, glossing over the aspects that worried her and focusing on its interesting location and the decent landlord.

“Sounds great, dear—and you can receive packages there?”

“I dunno, Mom.”

“
Por supuesto,
she can.
Claramente.
” Her dad furrowed his brow as he attempted to roll his “r.” “What kind of
casa
can’t receive
correo?
”

“Isn’t he darling? He’s working on exclamations. He’s dying for a language partner at his level, so in the meantime he’s been torturing me. Haven’t you,
querido?
”

Huh, Sophia had mentioned how Spanish was the one subject she struggled in. And if she got to know Emma’s parents, they could be like surrogate parents for her while she lived abroad. “Dad, how would you feel about having a teenager for a language partner?”

“¿Porqué no?”
he said.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her.”

For once Emma ended a Skype chat with her parents feeling invigorated instead of defeated. She left a voicemail for Sophia, filling her in on the Spanish art program—if she wanted they could fill out the application together next session—and proposing the language exchange with her dad.

 

Emma relayed her evening plans to Annie via text: She and Nick would “measure the hell out of” their new place, as Nick had put it.
Thrilling Friday night!
Annie replied
. Can Eli and I come? Double date? We’ll bring beer. Dying to see new hood!
It was a sweet gesture from the person who’d gasped in horror when Emma had first mentioned Red Hook. Emma found Nick loading up his bag with graph paper and two types of measuring tape. “Okay if Annie and Eli crash our party?” she asked. He groaned; despite his gratitude toward their hosts, Emma knew he’d been getting fed up with spending so much time with them. “They’d bring booze.”

“Ugh, fine.” Nick stretched out one of the tapes to a foot, then snapped it back at Emma’s butt. She swatted his hand with a nearby ruler, then ducked out of his reach.

As their subway car tunneled downtown and under the river to Brooklyn, Nick went on about the tutoring program his school was planning to pilot; at a recent meeting, he told Emma, he’d floated her name as a possible director. “No one knows what they’re doing yet, and you have so much experience,” he said. “We could really use your help.” Emma smiled noncommittally, not wanting to put a damper on his excitement. “Plus, it might be fun to work together.”

That was an interesting point, though Emma was still skeptical. She’d been to Nick’s school just once, as one of two total audience members at the fifth grade’s performance of
West Side Story.
It was the farthest north she’d ever traveled on the subway, and despite Nick’s assurances that the neighborhood was safe during daylight, she’d found herself striding quickly from train station to school, head held unnaturally high in attempts to radiate confidence. The kid actors had been cute, but the school was a mess: In the girls’ bathroom Emma had had to try three stalls before she found one that wasn’t clogged, and someone had desecrated the bulletin boards, scrawling Fs just to the left of the “Art Show” announcements. When, as a Good Samaritan, Emma had reported these items to the main office, the secretary had rolled her eyes so dramatically that Emma had wondered if the woman was all there in the head. She was impressed that Nick battled that scene day in and day out. It also made her realize how lucky she had it at work—the resources, the facilities, the capable coworkers. And for all her complaints about the Hellis, Emma had to give her clients’ parents credit for being on the ball and caring about their kids—or at least about their kids’ entrance to a top college.

As if Nick had been reading her mind, he said, “Think about it: The parents at my school are the anti-Hellis; they’d be falling all over you with gratitude.”

“Hmm, that is tempting,” she said, and Nick lit up. “Okay, calm down. I am considering it. But please lay off the pressure for now.”

Nick obliged, and they spent the rest of the ride riffing on the ads plastered across the subway car. Emma did her best Dr. Zizmor, lending the infamous dermatologist a nasally whine while raving about miracle cures for bunions. Nick explained how he’d managed to earn an associate’s degree online, all while working full-time and raising three kids; “now I’m a proud medical assistant!” he beamed. The two of them tested out new taglines to frighten people away from obesity-causing soft drinks: “Soda: 9/11 in a bottle,” Emma said, and Nick grimaced. “Ingredients: sugar, carbonation, death,” he tried. In this way they entertained themselves, nearly missing their stop.

 

Emma and Nick found their friends in Fairway’s juice aisle, where Eli was trying to persuade Annie to step away from the packages of lemonade powder.

“Ooh, Emma’s here, she’ll understand,” she said. “Remember Country Time from when we were kids? You’d pour the powder in your mouth, add water, shake it all up, and then bam, instant lemonade! They’ve got the gourmet kind here.”

“Gourmet powdered drink?” Eli said. “For some reason I’m skeptical.”

“I always preferred the chocolate milk version,” Emma said.

“Right,” said Annie, “with milk and a squirt of Hershey’s! I bet they have that, too.”

So while Eli and Nick picked out practical picnic supplies—bread, cheese, meat (portobellos for Nick)—Annie supplemented the cart with items chosen for nostalgia’s sake: an organic take on Cheez Whiz and a jar of half-sour pickles. Eli paid for the whole haul despite protests from Nick and Emma, and the quartet carried their bounty to the nearby riverside park. Emma stretched out on the blanket, and happily took in her surroundings: the sparkling bay beyond the pier, the sun bleeding soft, peachy streaks into the horizon, and Annie performing somersaults around their blanket. The breeze tickled Emma’s skin as she listened to the lazy lapping of water against the rocks.

Annie stopped tumbling to catch her breath. “Not exactly Tompkins Square Park, right? No junkies or crusty kids or crazies. It’s like we’re on the other side of the world.”

“I guess,” said Eli, “except for the Statue of Liberty staring us in the face.”

“Good point,” said Emma, who’d been thinking the same thing as Annie.

Eli produced nips of bourbon. “Here’s to you guys for finding a new home—and for finally leaving us alone in our place.” On three, they threw back their shots.

“I’m gonna miss you guys as roomies,” Annie said.

They ate and drank as the light drained from the sky. Nick pulled Emma toward him, pointed at Lady Liberty’s twinkling torch, and whispered in her ear, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” Emma thought about her journey with Nick and their impending emigration from Manhattan to Brooklyn. They’d pushed their move back a few days, so they could go in ahead of time to paint, and then have a whole weekend to unpack. One week from today, they’d both cut out of work early to meet up with the movers, and then finally arrive at their home. Tired and tempest-tost indeed.

While the rest of them topped their crackers with the Gruyère they’d picked out with the help of the store’s
fromager
, Annie insisted on reviving the art of Cheez Whiz towers from their youth. “That is revolting,” said Eli. “I hope you’re not going to eat it.”

“Of course I am,” she said. “Ems, too.”

“Speak for yourself. Jeez, you’re good at that.”

“How many coils you pile up is how many boyfriends you’ll have, remember?”

Annie was up to at least fifteen coils. “Looks like we’ve got a real player on our hands, folks,” said Eli, who then knocked down the tower with his finger.

“Hey!”

“Just preventing you from getting too cocky. Remember the Tower of Babel?”

“So does that make you God?” Nick asked Eli. Annie guffawed and went for Eli’s fingers, licking them clean of Cheez Whiz.

Next up were the lemonade shake-ups. Emma went first—shaking her head like crazy, she was transported back to her childhood kitchen. The first time she and Annie had orchestrated a coed hangout involved inviting boys over for lemonade shake-ups; Emma’s first kiss was with Jonathan Siegel, fizzy-headed and dusted with sweet-and-sour powder. Max had come home and, as uptight back then as he still was now, insisted they clean up immediately. After that, he’d asked their mom to buy actual lemonade, instead of the mix.

“Me next!” Annie opened wide as Eli shook the powder onto her tongue and added water. She spun around, tossing her head, then slowed to an unsteady stop. Her eyes went wide and she bolted to the park’s edge, where she leaned over the fence. When Emma ran over, her friend was hurling the contents of her stomach into the river. Emma rubbed her back and focused on the horizon, trying not to look at the foamy vomit polluting the water.

“I guess I’m a little old for the lemonade shake-up,” Annie moaned. The color had faded from her cheeks, like a reverse sunset.

“Annie, have you seen a doctor yet? You seem really sick.”

“I’m sure it’s just a bug. It needs a few days to work its way out of my system.”

“But you’ve been home almost a week.” Emma couldn’t believe how nonchalant Annie was; what if some parasitic worm was eating up her intestines, killing her from the inside out? Emma pushed the thought from her head. “Promise me you’ll see a doctor.”

“Fine.”

When they returned to the blanket, Nick was stuttering and red, and Emma soon realized why: Eli was drilling him about the budget of the school’s new tutoring program.

“You know,” said Eli, “my company has been looking into funding charitable ventures. The shareholders want us to seem more humane.” Emma saw Nick bristle and then try to hide it. “We could probably throw at least ten grand your way.”

“Ten grand would be great.”

“I bet you’d make it count more than our corporate team. They blow that kind of money on a couple of boozy lunches at Le Cirque.” Eli slapped Nick on the back, and Emma could see him battling between wanting to reject Eli’s offer and realizing how much good ten thousand dollars could do for a program with a budget of a tenth of that.

“Maybe that could pay for Emma’s consulting stipend,” said Annie.

“So does Annie get a recruiting fee if I join up?” Emma asked. “Or did you bribe her, Nick, to help convince me?”

“I think Emma would prefer we pick another topic of conversation,” Nick said, squeezing her arm. “Like politics, or religion, or the weather.”

“Speaking of which, it’s getting chilly.” Emma pulled her cardigan closed, shivering. It was now nearly dark and the wind was picking up. They’d been pushing it to picnic that evening, when summer was already long gone and fall was in full swing. It always made Emma sort of sentimental, the shifting of seasons. “Should we ship out?”

They gathered up their garbage, and Emma pulled Annie in for a good-bye hug. “Make that doctor’s appointment, okay? I mean it.” Annie nodded.

“We’re changing the locks,” said Eli. “Good luck squatting at your new place.”

“Very funny,” Emma said. “See you in a couple hours.”

Emma and Nick left to size up their future home, though Emma knew the exercise was pointless—it would be a while before they could afford any new furniture (and they certainly wouldn’t be buying anything used, considering the recent bedbug scare). They’d be moving with what they had, working to make it fit however they could. Still, there was something soothing about mapping their new home with numbers and measurements. It was a balm to imagine they could quantitatively capture what it all might mean.

Chapter
23

M
oving day was upon them in a blink. Rather than operating on her usual autopilot, Emma had spent the week devoting as much thought to each of her clients as she had to Sophia. In addition to assigning the required test-taking drills, she’d conducted interviews with them that were different from the usual mock admission interrogations inviting them to humble-brag about their accomplishments and goals; now, Emma asked them to picture a world without the pressures of college or parents and to consider what they truly enjoyed. Her questions sounded corny but yielded results:
What would you do with a free hour, endless money, and no responsibilities?
Some kids looked at her blankly, like the scenario was terrifying, maybe even impossible, to imagine. But it was a start—Isaac Goldstein opened up about his obsession with video-game art, and Emma was able to direct him to animation programs at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and R.I.T. upstate. Paul Spencer admitted he’d had a panic attack taking a practice PSAT (and he was only a freshman), so Emma introduced him to Hampshire and other schools that didn’t look at test scores or give grades; the look of relief on his face was reward enough.

Emma realized how much more satisfying than usual her work felt, and that perhaps this was her own answer to the kinds of questions she was asking her clients. She flashed on Lily Bart, and how having to stoop to work as a hat maker had horrified the heroine; whereas once Emma had sympathized with Lily’s despair, it now struck her as sad. Because being useful—whether by making hats or helping kids figure out what they really wanted to do—seemed like the simplest, most decent way to feel fulfilled. Between clients, the idea of working with Nick’s school kept popping back into her head.

As gratifying as the workweek had been, it left Emma exhausted for the move. She’d anticipated an emotional day. But as the movers arrived and transferred all the boxes from Annie and Eli’s storage space to the truck, and then she and Nick hopped aboard, Emma felt like a zombie. As soon as the vehicle began its rumbling, she drifted off to sleep. She slept hard, nestled among their belongings, not stirring as they rode downtown and over the Manhattan Bridge then onto the BQE, or even as they bumped across the cobblestone streets of Red Hook. Nick had to nudge her awake upon arrival. It was through a drowsy fog that Emma observed the two tall men empty the truck and then stack, floor to ceiling into the small space of their new home, her and Nick’s whole lives.

 

Emma’s usual approach was to unpack immediately, as she always did within five minutes of returning home from vacation or the Laundromat. But in this case the lure of inertia after a long day—and a very long week—felt too strong to overcome. Plus she was starving. Nick offered to get a pizza, and when he returned with a large, there was a FedEx carton perched upon the box—a care package from Emma’s parents, no doubt. Emma’s annoyance gave way to gratefulness when she discovered the contents: a huge array of paper goods, plates and bowls and cups, plus plastic utensils, meaning they wouldn’t have to dig out the boxes labeled
Kitchen
in order to eat dinner.

Nick held up a plate. “This looks just like Annie’s china pattern, doesn’t it?”

Emma would’ve questioned why Nick had noticed their friends’ china pattern, but she was distracted by the fact that he was right—the swirls of baby-blue flowers around the paper plate’s rim made it look like a knockoff of Annie’s new dishware. Emma pulled out the card:
Until we get you the real thing someday, enjoy and happy housewarming! Love, Mom and Dad.
Again, the annoyance seeped back—must her parents’ housewarming gift also include a dig at the fact that Emma wasn’t yet married? She tucked the note away without showing Nick.

The next day, Skyping with her parents, Emma again found herself cycling between those two emotions: grateful as her father described his recent Spanish exchange with Sophia and how she was teaching him about
el arte
and he was teaching her about Madrid’s various neighborhoods, then annoyed as he poked fun at Emma for still being surrounded by boxes; grateful when her mother praised their choice of neighborhood (she’d apparently been researching Red Hook online), then annoyed when she said that working with Nick’s school sounded “cute” (although, Emma admitted to herself, she’d originally thought the same thing). Emma cut the conversation short, claiming she had to go unpack; but as soon as they signed off she felt guilty for having been so abrupt. She headed out on a walk to make herself feel better, leaving the boxes untouched.

So Emma was dismayed, come Sunday night, to realize that she and Nick had spent the entire weekend eating takeout on flower-rimmed paper plates, admiring their new views of picturesque brick buildings, giddily referring to “
our
apartment” (Emma was more interested than Nick in this last activity), and talking about but not actually doing any unpacking. As a result, on Monday morning Emma found herself yelling, “Shit, shit, shit!” while frantically searching for something, anything, decent to wear to work. In a suitcase’s side pocket she eventually located a frumpy maxi-dress she’d been meaning to toss for years. She also happened upon her jewelry box and, while shoving down a slice of leftover pizza, dumped it out onto the kitchen counter. The contents went careening across the counter—the charm bracelet Nick had been adding to for years, a bunch of costume necklaces, and a dozen pairs of studs. Emma grabbed a string of faux-pearls, one of the only items not tangled up with other pieces, and then inexpertly twisted her wet hair into a clip. Forgoing coffee to save time, Emma arrived at work disheveled and un-caffeinated—and, for the first time ever in her year-plus at
1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies!
, late.

 

In retrospect, it was hard to understand how little Nick had paid attention to the news that week. But at the time, he was plenty preoccupied: by the new apartment that they had yet to settle into, by the upheaval of trying to launch an after-school program, and by the court date with Luis, which was scheduled for that Thursday, October 25. Nick had planned on reviewing the paperwork for their case against the landlord, but every time he approached the accordion folder that Emma had smartly kept separate during the move, his stomach seized. The thought of seeing Luis again in the flesh—those beady eyes, that stupid soul patch—filled Nick with dread. And now that he and Emma had moved on, literally to another apartment, Nick wished they could move on from this mess, too—accept their losses and leave the rest in the past. But Emma was adamant about recouping what was rightfully theirs; and though Nick wished he could’ve given her a good-luck kiss and sent her off to court solo, he knew that opting out would result in worse repercussions to his relationship than was worth it. So for better or, as Nick suspected, for worse, they were in this together.

He planned his Thursday school day according to how anxious and distracted he knew he would be; instead of teaching, he kept the kids busy with worksheets and video clips. He’d worn a suit and tie, but the outfit was itchy and constricting, making him fidget and sweat. More than one student asked him if he was okay.

Nick didn’t realize quite how resentful he’d been feeling toward Emma for spearheading this ordeal until he met her at the courthouse, where she greeted him with a granola bar and he felt his anger recede. “You knew I’d be too nervous for lunch,” he said, gratefully tearing into the snack. It calmed his stomach, both the sustenance and the reminder that his girlfriend understood him so well.

Luckily their case was number two out of nearly fifty on the docket, so when Luis still hadn’t appeared halfway through roll call, Nick let himself hope that he would arrive too late to testify. But after the announcement of two separate cases against one management company and the calling of a plaintiff and defendant who shared the same unusual last name—Nick didn’t want to look to see if they appeared related—Luis showed up, sauntering up the aisle to find a seat. Even from half a room away, Nick could feel the landlord’s eyes like lasers through his back. His hands grew clammy and, as if sensing this, Emma reached for one; her cool grasp soothed him.

They had to sit through the first case as observers. It involved a landlord claiming his tenant had broken and/or stolen his refrigerator, and the tenant countering that the fridge had been broken to begin with, and that since the landlord had refused to replace it when it started “stinking to high hell and leaking like a nursing mom’s ti—” (here the judge had cut her off), she’d tossed the thing. Nick felt bad for both parties and mostly tried to tune them out, but a glance at Emma revealed she was rapt. They didn’t learn the verdict—judgments got mailed out—but it was pretty clear the tenant had won. When the judge, a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and a thick Queens accent, asked the landlord how old the fridge was, and he answered twelve years, she gave him a withering look and then launched into a lecture about how everyone knows the shelf life of a refrigerator is seven years (Nick didn’t know this), and that no decent homeowner should expect to keep one humming along for so long. Case closed.

Nick was trembling as the judge called them to the stand. Luis stood inches away, and Nick smelled his musky cologne. “So what’s your story?” she asked. “Not another dud appliance, I hope.”

Mercifully Emma did most of the talking, laying out a succinct version of the events that had transpired between them and Luis, the landlord shaking his head and laughing under his breath throughout. When it was Luis’s turn to speak, Nick was surprised at how similar his account was to Emma’s (in Nick’s mind the landlord had morphed into one of those street bums who twitchily spurts out nonsense); only in Luis’s version Nick and Emma were the villains, expecting him to spend a fortune to get rid of harmless little bugs, acting too fancy for a reasonable solution like foggers, and turning their noses up at his floors as if their feet were too good to walk on them. Nick could tell Emma was relishing the drama—her eyes went wide when Luis mixed his metaphors—but all this rehashing of their trauma sickened Nick. Luis talked about how “man to man, me and Nick had an understanding” and how Emma “was a trickster with a capital T.” Emma was likely thinking Luis’s sexism would tip the judge in their favor, but Nick simply wanted it to be over. When the judge asked Luis to confirm whether this—she pointed—was his signature on the lease, which stipulated that he would pay for his tenants to redo the floors, he claimed he’d been forced into it. “As in physically forced, like with a gun to your head?” the judge asked, wearing a wry grimace. Luis seethed. For another half hour they rehashed the last month’s events, point by painstaking point, the judge interrupting the he-said, they-said with her sassy commentary. In the end, Nick was pretty sure they’d prevailed, although he didn’t feel very triumphant.

Out in the hallway Luis appeared as if from a shadow. He stalked up to Nick. Nick tried to retreat but ended up trapped against a wall. “You know this is fucking bullshit,” he whispered. Nick’s eyes darted around in search of a court officer, but none was near; plus, Luis had a smile on his face that might’ve looked friendly from afar. “Buddy, if you win this case, I’ll never pay. I’ll appeal your ass, I’ll sue you, I’ll do whatever it takes to wear you down and make your life miserable. You and your stupid girlfriend will be so sorry you ever messed with me.”

“All right, enough. Let’s go.” Emma stepped between them and tugged at Nick’s sleeve. He found it hard to pick up his feet.

“What a crock of B.S.,” she said on the walk downstairs. “He knows he lost, so clearly he’s feeling helpless and angry. But he’s so obviously all talk. Wanna get a drink and take our minds off all of this?”

No, Nick didn’t want to get a drink. He didn’t even want to open his mouth to say so. Emma was doing her best—she’d taken charge, whisking them into the stairwell so they wouldn’t have to wait for the elevator with Luis, and then rubbed Nick’s back in a way that usually eased his tension—but Nick didn’t want a drink. He wanted Luis out of his life, and to live somewhere that wasn’t covered in boxes. He wanted to be back in his old apartment, alone, playing video games. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he mumbled, and took off, pretending he didn’t hear Emma ask after him whether she should wait or go.

 

Nick had made the Herculean effort to hook up the TV and then clear off a small area of the couch so that he could assume his Friday post-school position of half conking out and channel surfing. He flipped past the BBC version of
Pride and Prejudice,
one of Emma’s favorites, wishing the cable was set up so he could DVR it for her. Nick thought about how strangely all over the place he’d been feeling. Last night after the run-in with Luis, he’d retreated to a bar and played round after round of pinball, letting the flashing lights and the balls’ movements lull him into a stupor. When he’d finally snapped out of it, it was much too late for a school night. And although hours had passed, he’d still dreaded going home to Emma, facing her questions and looks of concern. And yet, after several minutes of jiggling his key in the lock he still wasn’t used to, Nick had realized what a comfort it was to return to his girlfriend. She’d already been asleep, curled up on top of the covers, and when he’d climbed into bed beside her, her warm body instinctually found its way to his. She smelled exactly like herself, and their bodies fit together just so. Nick thought of this now and, aware of Emma’s absence on the couch, threw a blanket over his legs. He flipped to another channel. The screen flashed onto what looked to be
The Perfect Storm,
a perfectly decent movie for his end-of-the-workweek ritual. Just as he tossed aside the remote, his cell phone rang: Carl’s dopey mug accosted his screen.

“So sorry to interrupt your daily masturbation hour,” Carl began, “but I just got set free from an epic meeting with our beloved principal. The one time I dared glance at my phone she shot me that ice queen death glare. It was brutal.”