When she’s done, it’s Jason who picks up the mantle.
“This is really good,” he says, gesturing to the lasagna with his fork. “Thank you, Ilsa.”
Ilsa looks momentarily confused. “You know I had nothing to do with the lasagna, Jason,” she says.
“And the salad! You’ve perfected your recipe, Ilsa.”
She eyes him wearily.
“You’re teasing me—is that it? It happens that Sam is an excellent cook. There’s no need for me to contribute.”
“Oh, but you always manage to contribute, don’t you? There isn’t a situation, big or small, that doesn’t require the contribution of your opinion. Sam’s cooking, Sam’s boyfriends, Sam’s future, Sam’s life—your opinion is the only ingredient you can provide, isn’t it? Just a little dash of poison for any occasion.”
I jump in. “Jason. This is not why I invited you.”
Ilsa waves me off. “No, it’s okay. It’s been months since Jason’s graced us with his presence—but how refreshing to know he’s still an expert on your life and family!”
“It’s all about figuring out the patterns. People like you are sudoku for armchair therapists.”
“Fuck you, she’s a Sunday crossword,” KK contributes. Then she adds, “I happen to be very good at crosswords.”
There’s a booming noise from outside that shushes everyone.
“Was that thunder?” Jason asks.
“Or was it a bomb?” Parker says.
He’s not joking.
There’s another sonic burst.
“Like God clearing his throat,” Li says.
A torrent of rain is unleashed. Our windows are open, and the wind blows through, making the tablecloth a ghost about to lift.
“It’s just a summer storm,” Ilsa says. “That’s all.” I stand up to close the window, but Ilsa tells me, “No, don’t. I like it like this.”
I’m worried about the rain coming in, about rugs getting wet, wood getting warped. But I don’t want everyone to know the extent of my agitation. I want to cover it up. So I sit down.
“It’s only a matter of time before the city drowns,” Li says.
“Excuse me?” KK seems personally offended by this fact.
“I don’t mean tonight. Or even in the next few years. But eventually, the oceans will rise, and everyone in this city will need to find a new place to live. I’ve seen it.”
“You’ve seen it?” Jason says.
“I know it sounds strange, but I’ve always been a little bit of an oracle. Or at least I’ve had oracular dreams for as long as I can remember. After Hurricane Sandy, this one became more pronounced. Seeing the water rise in the streets. Everyone forced to evacuate. It always makes me so sad. And angry, too.”
“Well, thank God I live on the top floor!” KK chirps.
“And where do you think all of the electricity and drainage and water for that apartment comes from—the air?” Parker asks.
I shudder.
“I’m not saying this to be scary,” Li continues. “I just don’t see any point in ignoring the inevitable. If we talk about it, at least we have a chance of navigating it.”
“I wish that’s how it worked,” I say. I don’t mean to say it. That is, I don’t mean to say it to anyone but myself. But I’ve said it out loud.
“What do you mean?” Johan asks.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”
“No,” Ilsa says. “Tell us.”
You’re trapping me, I think. But I don’t say that out loud. They’re all looking at me.
I—
I—
“I’m just not sure talking about things makes any difference. I mean, when something’s worrying me, I think about it and I think about it and I think about it, and I don’t know that any of the words I think change the situation at all. I just get lost in it more.”
“I’m not talking about thinking,” Li says. “I’m talking about talking.”
“What’s the difference?” I ask.
It’s Caspian who answers. “The difference is that when you’re talking, there’s usually someone else in the room, and the hope is that the other person can help you understand it more. Or you can help each other understand it more.”
“I grew up in a house where there was a lot of thinking and not much talking,” Johan says. “Believe me, there’s a difference.”
“Well, I grew up in an apartment where there was a whole lot of talking and not much thinking,” Jason says. “At least, not until the divorce. And, let me tell you, that’s no fun, either.”
Ilsa’s attention is still on Li.
“Do you think there’s hope?” she asks. “I mean, for the future.”
And maybe it’s Czarina’s caftan, or maybe it’s just the eerie wind rushing around us, but as she prepares her response, Li truly does look oracular.
“Of course there’s hope,” she says. “There’s always hope. We have an endless capacity for hope. We just tend to lock that capacity down.”
“So we’re not just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?” Parker asks.
“Wrong question,” Li replies. “My point isn’t about deck chairs. Nobody cares about the deck chairs. What I’m saying is—there comes a time, long before the accident, when you decide how many lifeboats the Titanic should have. That’s what we need to do—in many ways, it’s the only thing we can do. Make sure we have plenty of lifeboats.”
Is this why I’m so scared of what comes next? When I stay here for college, Ilsa will be the only lifeboat left with me. And she leaks. She doesn’t mean to, but she leaks when I weigh too heavily on her. I need more lifeboats. But at the same time, many of my lifeboats are in this room right now, and I’m still scared. I really wish my mind would stop being such a contradictory jerk to me. Because how can I feel that the future is way too big for me to change it and at the same time feel that if I make the smallest wrong move, I’m going to cause permanent damage?
“Can you see specifics about the future, too?” Caspian asks Li.
“There’s a difference between an oracle and a fortuneteller,” she replies. “Sorry.”
Caspian shakes his head. “No, no, no—I don’t want to know my future.”
“I
