Or maybe he’ll wrap up the shards in old newspaper and leave the package on the counter by the sink so that I’ll have to ask in the morning, “What’s this?” and he’ll explain, secretly satisfied to have evidence that he does actually help around the house. He won’t admit that’s why he left it there, although we both will know that it is, but I’ll seem irrational for making the assumption. This will infuriate me. He’ll say that I’m unreasonable for getting angry about the fact that he cleaned up the mess. I won’t be able to articulate that the fact he had to leave the evidence on the counter is worse than doing nothing at all. And he will be damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. This will also be my fault.
I turn on my side. I could fix this if I just go downstairs, hug him, tell him that I do acknowledge what he does. Say that I know it’s been hard for him too, that of course it was scary for him to have to see his wife cut open and his baby torn out. That I love him, that I’m sorry I haven’t asked him how his day was for eight months, and that we’ll be OK, we just have to get through this time. This is the hardest time, I should say, but it won’t last forever and we’re going to make it. That’s what I should say.
That’s what I should say.
12 soup A Wednesday in August 2016, 8:30 p.m. London, Grand Euro Star Lodge Hotel, Room 506
The TV’s still on with the sound off. I listen to the bathroom faucet drip and watch the ladies laugh and yell at each other silently. I’ve kept the phone to my ear for a while, unsure whether this is a good idea. The receiver smells like someone’s breath. Finally, I dial the numbers on the ancient international calling card I keep in my wallet.
“Yeah.” Dad picks up.
“Hi, Dad, how you doin’?” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Hey,” he rasps and grunts as he shifts his weight. I hear the effort it takes for him to sit up and talk from his usual position, lying down in front of the TV.
“You guys OK? What’s going on?” I ask, casually, wondering if he can hear in my voice that I’ve left my family.
“Same old, same old, you know, same shit, different day.”
“How’s Ma?” I ask as his TV gets louder in the background. He’s turned up the volume during this call so he doesn’t miss anything they’re saying, instead of turning it down so he can hear me.
“She came out of the room to eat lunch today, so, you know, that’s better, I guess.”
I say, “It’s getting close to Frankie’s time.” That’s what we call it because that’s the easiest way to say it.
“Yeah, it is. She did this on his birthday too.”
“How long’s she been in the room?” I ask, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.
“A few days, I don’t know, since Saturday.”
“Is she saying anything?”
“Nah. What’s she gonna say?” We don’t speak for a while. I listen to the voices change on his TV while he flips through the channels.
I say, “OK, you need money? You need anything?”
“Nah, sweetheart, we’re fine. We’re saving on food now that your mother’s stopped eating.”
“Dad…”
“What? It’s true. She eats too much anyway. We’re fine, don’t worry.”
“Wait, Dad, did you try the soup? The cream of chicken? She likes that one.”
“Yeah, I forgot about that, your trick. OK, I’ll get some later. Anyway, you OK?”
“Yeah, you know, busy, the kids. I’m thinking about Frankie too. I got a lot to—”
He cuts me off: “OK, so take care, tell Harry I said hi. Oh, the baby, how’s the baby?”
“He’s, he’s fine. He’s good. So’s Johnny.”
“Yeah, OK, I gotta go. They got the old Columbo on.”
“OK…” But he hangs up before I can say bye.
Ma and I are both sitting in rooms drinking alone, silent in our parallel pain. There are a thousand ways that she hurt me but I forgive her every time because there are a thousand ways that I’m like her. There are things I do because she did them. Because I saw her do them. I did them with her. She did them to me. I don’t know how not to do them to my kids.
I thought it would end with me. I thought if I left her behind then it ended with me and my kids would never have to know. That they would grow up without knowing this feeling that’s put me in this room alone, the same room she sits in alone across the ocean. But trying to leave Ma is like trying to leave my own skin. So maybe I should go before they learn any of this from me, before they get too old to forget it. Maybe if I go while they’re young they’ll unlearn me and undo everything that me being their mother has done to them already. I’ll melt away from their little lives, like frost in spring, before they can remember what I’ve done.
Staten Island, March 2002
I could barely open the door and I thought it was because they hadn’t been picking up their mail and it was built up behind the slot, but it was Ma, slumped in the corner between the door and the shoe rack.
“Ma.” I slide in through as much of the door as I can open. “Ma,” I say gently, so I don’t startle her. She snorts in her sleep. I get down on the floor, pick up her hand to stroke the back of her palm. “Ma, you gotta get up, you can’t sleep here.” Alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke emanate from her crumpled body. The grief and toxins like a vapor
