Authors: Ariella Papa
“I try to do my part.”
“You know—” she dropped her voice to a whisper “—sometimes I think I hate her.”
I looked at her. Her expression was sheepish. “Do you?”
“No, I love her. I know I do. I’m just not getting anything from her at this point. I’m not sure I like her. Can you write about that?”
“Yes.” I often yessed people when they suggested things for me to write about, but this time I knew I was going to.
Ananda made a couple of hiccupping sounds. Jamie paused mid-bite and looked at the monitor. The noises stopped, and I could have sworn Jamie sighed in relief. But then Ananda let out a real wail.
“I can go,” I said.
“No, I have to or she won’t calm down.” Jamie got up and hurried into the other room, leaving her sandwich half eaten.
Easter and Greek Easter happened to fall on the same day. Usually, my mom and I went to Aunt Effie’s house, but my mother hadn’t talked to me since the shower. I tried to call her to find out what she wanted to do for the holiday. It was Georgia who told me that my mother was going to be at Aunt Effie’s. I decided not to go. If my mother wouldn’t return my phone calls, I wasn’t going to sit under her icy glare with our relatives. Let her explain why I wasn’t there. I planned on spending the day by myself and maybe ordering some Indian food. This way at least I could get lamb.
Paul insisted I go to his mother’s house. I had met her briefly one day in Carroll Gardens and she was the type of woman who hugged and kissed you immediately. The prospect of his mother’s baked ziti (which I had eaten cold out of Paul’s fridge) sounded much better than curry heartburn, so I went over to Paul’s.
Paul had Joey for this holiday and as usual he was hyperactive—this time hopped up on the Cadbury Cream Eggs he kept
popping. It was clear that Paul’s parents indulged Joey. Paul’s dad, Gino, was a shorter, stockier version of Paul who still had an Italian accent that reminded me of Armando.
I met Paul’s older brother, Frank, and his wife, Clara. They had three kids who ran around with Joey demanding to play “Fight,” a game I’d never heard of. I deduced that it was just wrestling on Mrs. Torrisi’s plastic-covered couches.
There was also Paul’s aunt Sadie, who was visiting from Florida with her divorced daughter, Teresa, and Teresa’s teenage son, Owen. Owen sulked for the entire time and rolled his eyes when his grandmother declared that everything we ate could not be procured in Florida.
“There’s nothing like Brooklyn bread,” she said. She said the same thing about the pastries, mozzarella and roasted peppers.
Each time she sang Brooklyn’s praises, Paul agreed loudly and directed his comments at me. I shook my head. He still hadn’t given up his campaign.
We had ham instead of lamb, but it was really good, as was the rest of the food. I pretended the delicious lasagna was the
pastitsio
my mother made every year. After dinner when we were having dessert, Paul brought out a bread topped with red dyed eggs and set it among the pastries.
“That’s not from Brooklyn,” Paul’s aunt said.
“No, it’s
sreki.
”
I was shocked. “A
tsoureki.
Where did you get it?”
“A friend at the station told me all about it. He gave me his mom’s recipe. I made it. Joey dyed the eggs.”
“You made it.”
“Yeah, it was hell trying to find the cherry stuff. Try it.”
I ripped off a piece and tasted it. It was delicious. “Paul, this is great. Thank you.”
“What else did my friend teach us, Joey? Remember the game?” Paul called into the living room where Joey was attached to his PlayStation.
“Oh, yeah.” Joey ran in and ripped some of the eggs out of the bread and handed them to me.
I taught the family the game Greeks play where you take
turns hitting the top and bottom of your eggs. The person whose egg breaks last wins. Joey really got into it and the rest of the family enjoyed it as well. I was teaching them what to say,
“christos anesti”
and
“alithos anesti,”
when we realized that Joey had left the dining room and returned to the table with a carton of fresh eggs.
“I think that’s enough of the game,” Paul said, and the rest of the table laughed.
“That was so thoughtful. Thanks, everyone. Thanks, Paul.”
“There’s nothing like Brooklyn men,” Aunt Sadie declared, chomping on a second cannoli.
This time it was my turn to agree wholeheartedly.
I waited in Eve Vitali’s Chelsea office for twenty minutes before she was able to see me. She came out to get me herself and apologized a bunch of times.
“It’s no problem,” I said. I wondered when I could ask her about writing the letter for my co-op board. It was totally inappropriate to ask this of her. Maybe I shouldn’t ask her. Maybe it was a sign that I should move to Brooklyn.
“The thing is,” she said, smiling, “today is administrative professional’s day. You know, secretary’s day?”
I nodded.
“Well, my two partners and I like to go out to lunch to celebrate. It’s a big day for us—we’ll do even more celebrating tonight. Anyway, we went to Chanterelle for lunch and of course Tabitha had to get dessert
and
the cheese course. Then Roseanne had to find out exactly how they did the fish. I’m really sorry about keeping you waiting.”
“It’s quite all right.”
We chatted for a little while. I had already sent her some ideas, but I wanted to prep her for my writing more about
after
the baby was born, not just pregnancy. I told her about Jamie and how she felt completely alone.
“So, I actually got a chance to look at your idea for ‘pulling the goalie’—great name, by the way. I like it.”
I couldn’t blow this by asking her for the letter. “Thanks.”
“I saw you were consistent with your column for
Financial Woman.
Sometimes we get writers who make all these promises and can’t deliver, but you did in that series. You made me start thinking about moving out of my place and buying something. It’s adult. We can talk more about that later.”
That would have been the perfect segue into the letter request.
“
Financial Woman
should do more columns like that. They need to focus on a younger demographic.”
“I agree.”
She smirked at me. I sensed she was sizing me up.
“I know the editor and I’m sure it would have been easy to pull one over on him, but you wrote solid stuff each month.”
“Well, it’s his magazine, but it’s my name.”
“That’s true.” She looked down at my pitch. “How many columns could you get out of this?”
“Well, I notice that some of your freelancers seem to do pieces every other month. Originally I was going to say six months, but now that my friend has had the baby, it seems the fun has only just begun. I think a year would be better. We start with the trying and then go into the pregnancy each month through to the first couple of months after birth.”
Eve nodded, thinking about it. She was agreeing with me. Who knew what else she might agree to?
“I think it’s really interesting. My concern is that I don’t want it to ever be telling the readers that they should be at a certain stage at a certain time. We vowed to never do that.
On the Verge,
as you know, is about beating your own drum. We like your wry voice, but this pitch is more detached. I like the scientific facts, but I want more you. I know you’re interested in this because of a friend’s pregnancy. Put me there. Be the friend who isn’t so sure. We all move at different speeds. Give it to us through your eyes.”
“I will.”
“Cool.”
“Does that mean I’m hired?”
“Yes, but I’m not as easy as the editor at
Financial Woman.
Well, actually, I am. It’s my two partners that are hard-asses. I’m kind of the good cop. The success of our magazine surprised all of us and now we’re scared of doing anything to lose it.”
“I can imagine. Thanks.”
“Thank you. I really like your voice. I actually wanted to tell you that we’re open to anything you want to pitch. It sounds super New-Agey and like we’ve been to one too many human resources conventions, but this summer is about challenging ourselves. For the first time the magazine is doing a fitness challenge, albeit one that is pro all body types and not obsessed with thin. We are also trying to challenge our writers. If there is something that you haven’t written about that could challenge you in any way, we want that.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“For example, you might be giving a lot of women a chance to see themselves through your struggling mother friend. It’s something that isn’t talked about. It invites controversy. Think about your own life. We are doing more personal essays about the problems we face. It’s not Dr. Phil. It’s just reflective personal voice we’re looking for. And it pays well. So keep it in mind.”
“I will.”
“Terrific. I’ll e-mail you with a calendar of deadlines for ‘Pulling the Goalie.’ Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
It was now or never. I needed the letter.
“Actually,” I said. “There is one more thing.”
T
he whole idea of a group of thirteen units judging me made me more than a little uneasy. Who were these people anyway? I had procured a letter from Eve Vitali, who had laughed at the request and told me a story about how she forged a letter to rent her first apartment in the city.
Then I did some fancy maneuvering. Jamie wrote another professional letter saying I would be doing some catalog work for her company. That left me in the lurch for the two personal letters of recommendation I needed. Jamie insisted I use Raj for one of them, because according to her, people would be impressed by his reality TV credentials. I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t ask Paul. He would probably try to undermine my plans. He still hadn’t given up on the idea that I should move to Brooklyn. Truth be told, I was kind of entertaining the idea as well. He had made some good points. I was trying to avoid making a decision by leaving it in the hands of the fates. For example, if the co-op board didn’t approve me, there was nothing I could do about it, but the mind games I was playing with myself prevented me from sabotaging myself. I asked Georgia, who had a different last name than mine, to write the other personal recommendation.
The co-op board consisted of ten apartments in the main building and the three that were in the carriage house I would be moving into. A representative of each apartment was looking at me as I sat at the end of a large table that was almost bigger than the apartment I was buying. It was eight in the morning.
“So we invited you here to explain the co-op,” the guy with the receding hairline said.
Invited? I was under the impression it had been mandatory. I listened as he explained some detailed rules about garbage and recycling chores.
A woman who identified herself as the co-op treasurer explained when the maintenance fee was due and when.
An older guy who was the co-op board president told me about the offices that were up for election.
The youngest person in the room was probably ten years older than me. I wondered if they had already made up their minds that I was too young. I hadn’t smiled at all. I wanted to convey I was mature and serious. I had actually borrowed a suit from Jamie. I wondered if they were just going through the motions. Brooklyn wasn’t so bad, it was, as Paul told me the sign said, not just a borough but an experience.
“So what happens if you don’t get hired to do more articles?” asked the woman who told me that any pets would have to be approved by the board.
I could not imagine a future gerbil’s interview being more uncomfortable than this one.
“Well, as you can see from my professional references, I have two jobs lined up already for the year.” Even though one of the offers was technically a lie.
“Well, that’s only two jobs, and the money you will make from those will barely cover the mortgage,” the co-op board president said.
“Let alone the maintenance,” the treasurer added.
“Well, I usually get different jobs throughout the year. As you can see from my past two tax returns, I’ve done quite well at this job.”
Take that, oldies.
“But the economy is down.”
“It was for the past two years. I think it’s only getting better.” I could pretend I read the Business section of
The New York Times.
The co-op board appeared to be fooled. A couple of them nodded their heads.
“I live in the carriage house with my two kids,” said a man sitting at the end of the table. “We make sure the volume of the children remains respectful. We hope that if you are going to have any parties either in the courtyard or your apartment, you would do the same. That is, if you move in.”
“I would,” I said, meeting his eyes. Did I look like a party girl? The thought of having a summer party in the courtyard did appeal to me. Who was I kidding? They weren’t letting me in.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” the co-op president said, looking around the table for agreement. “Do you have any more questions?”
Shit! I should have had a question. My lawyer, Rob, had given me the minutes from all the co-op meetings. Maureen had told me I should study them and ask a question to prove that I had. I hadn’t. Now I had nothing to ask.
“No.”
“Very well, we’ll let you know,” said the man with the receding hairline.
Then the woman who owned the apartment, who hadn’t really said anything except her name which I had promptly forgotten, got up and opened the door to the apartment. I took this to mean that the meeting was done and I should go. And I did.
“I can’t believe they just kind of opened the door, like that was your cue,” Jamie said.
I had her on the phone the moment I left. I didn’t just stop by anymore. I made plans well in advance.
“Believe me, I took it. I doubt they’re going to approve me. Those fuckers.”
“So are you going to move in with Paul? I don’t see why you don’t.”
“I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense. I might do it.”
“Why are you so resistant? Things are going well.”
“That’s one reason not to move in. The other is that I have never in my life lived on my own.”
“I did it for a year. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You work alone, isn’t that enough?”
“I just sort of want my space. Completely. I don’t want to have anyone on top of me. Just for a little while. Just to see if I can. If the oldies did approve me, this place is still a great investment. It has a flexible sublet policy.”
“Okay, I guess Voula knows best.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew I didn’t always make sense, not even to myself, but I needed support.
“My mom is hounding me to find out if you are bringing Paul to Block Island for Memorial Day.”
“Is he invited?”
“Of course. I can’t tell you how happy my mom is to hear that you are getting laid.”
“Well, yeah, I guess I will bring him—though I was thinking I might move that day.”
“And miss Memorial.”
“Well, it was only if I got approved. It would be nice to be in soon. And if the co-op board approves, I now have a tentative closing for the week of May twenty-four. So much for being out by May first.”
“But they’re not going to approve you, right?”
“Please don’t root for that.”
“Have you even told Armando that you are thinking of leaving?”
“I haven’t seen him in weeks. Kelly knows and I think she sort of let it slip. Of course, when I see him I’ll tell him myself.”
“It’s too bad you never tapped that ass.”
“I’m probably the only one in NYC who hasn’t.” Jamie didn’t say anything to that and I wondered again if they had
ever done it. I wasn’t sure if it mattered at this point. Then I had a bright idea. “Do you think anyone would mind if I asked Paul to bring Joey?”
“No, not at all. I can’t believe you’re going to be domestic.”
“I think it would be nice.”
I knew that I had to step up to the plate about Joey. I was committed to Paul and I wanted to show him. He loved Joey and I would too.
When I got home, Armando was just leaving for the restaurant. He gave me a hug and kissed me on both cheeks the way he did when we hadn’t seen each other in a while.
“Voula, Kelly told me you leaving. Why you no tell me?” He looked kind of crushed.
“I’m not sure if I am. I haven’t told you because I’m still not sure. It won’t be until June first. Kelly seems to be telling a lot of tales. She said that you might be moving to London.”
“Is a good job, but I stay ’ere. Dis is my home now. I am New Yorker.”
“You definitely are.”
“Voula.” He said my name so definitely. “You mus’ tell me when you know.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll find my replacement. As soon as I hear if I got approved, I’ll put an ad on craigslist.”
“No, Voula,” he said. “You tell because I miss you.”
“Oh, Armando, thank you.” It was so sweet. Armando gave me a big hug. I wondered if in spite of himself, he had met a woman that he was friends with.
“I mus’ go to the restaurant.
Ciao, bella.
”
“Ciao,”
I said, waving. I might always have had a mini crush on him. Which was okay. It was harmless.
I went into my office and turned on my laptop. I had hung Eve’s deadlines on my bulletin board. What if they did approve me, and then what if they were right? What if I didn’t make enough and then I foreclosed? It was possible. It was daunting.
The smart thing, the wise thing was to move in with Paul. Why was I being so stubborn?
The cursor was mocking me as usual. If I wanted to ensure I paid my bills, I had to beat the cursor. I had to show it who was boss. I put my iPod on all my Prince songs. I took a deep breath.
“Whatever comes, let it come,” I said to myself. Then I knew what I was talking about—Cristina. This time, I said. “Just try.”
My sister choreographed a dance for us to “Baby, I’m a Star” by Prince. She was vigilant as we practiced, but after we performed it perfectly, she collapsed on the bed laughing. My sister told us all her daydreams. We believed she was a princess and we were her ladies in waiting.
Once I started it kept coming. I wrote for two straight hours. Then I stopped because it was done for the day and I knew I could go back to it. I’d never written about my sister before, not even in my journal. I was completely drained. In two hours, I had given so much of me. I felt as if someone had used a cheese scraper on my chest, but in a good way. It was amazing.
But was I writing to challenge myself for
On the Verge
magazine? I think I was writing it for me and for Helen. I was writing it to feel better, and it was working.
I called Paul. “Can I see you tonight? It’s nice out and I just feel like walking around.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll come right over after my shift.”
Four days later I got an e-mail from the co-op board. They were welcoming me to the building. I couldn’t believe it. I had been approved. I felt a bit guilty, like I had pulled one over on them. And I felt a little scared.
Almost immediately after getting the e-mail, I received a phone call from Maureen. She was the person expediting the whole process, hoping to get to the closing so that she could get her six percent or whatever it was she was going to get.
“Congratulations, Voula, you really impressed them.”
I wondered if they had said that or if those were her words. Before I could ask, she continued.
“Have you heard from Rob about the definite closing date?”
“It’s supposed to be the week of the twenty-fourth.”
“Well, you should make sure that you are still on schedule. Do you want me to call him?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
“Give me a call back as soon as you hear.”
So when I got off the phone, instead of calling Paul or Jamie, I called Rob. He had some bad news.
“It looks like the seller’s attorney is going to be on vacation all that week and then the co-op’s attorney isn’t around the week after. This holiday is really screwing things up.”
“I’ll say.”
“I’ll give you a call when I get a date. Congrats on the board approval.”
The ferry ride to Block Island was calmer than it had been in previous years. Paul and Raj spent a lot of the ride chatting at the railing, while Jamie and I sat in the seats and she rocked and occasionally nursed Ananda. She was getting much better at nursing, although it still wasn’t as easy as Alice had made it seem.
I tried to distract her with questions about pregnancy for my article. She was excited about it and I think she was enjoying the idea that she had been through this pregnancy ordeal and, though it was tough, had survived intact.
She was also feeling better about Ananda. She said that she had recently fallen in love with her and she was happy. This was the way she believed she was supposed to feel. She thought she was finally starting to get it. Ananda was giving too. She was smiling and laughing a little.
The person that was
not
feeling so loved was Raj. It had been three months since the baby was born and they’d only had sex twice. Both times Jamie did it to please him and didn’t enjoy it at all.
“I feel awful about this, but I just don’t want it,” Jamie said, looking down at Ananda’s sleeping face.
It was a shock to me that this was the woman who in col
lege used to e-mail me after a short absence, apologizing because she had spent four days fucking the guy who lived down the hall. I was distressed, but Jamie was already back on Ananda.
“She’s being such a good girl, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I said, wanting to not admire Ananda for once, but to get the lowdown. “How is Raj handling all this?”
“Well, he was really good about not pressuring me. I mean you are supposed to wait six weeks. He kindly waited ten. I felt awful about it, though. You know, Alice gave Peter a blow job as soon as she got back from the hospital, and she told me she just couldn’t wait the whole six weeks and did it at five.”
“I never want to hear another Alice story,” I said. The last time I had heard about Alice she was showing her child flash cards every night trying to get the eleven-month-old to become a genius. “Scratch that! Please tell me all the Alice stories. I can’t resist, but for God’s sake don’t compare yourself to her anymore. I think she’s a liar.”
“Oh, Voula, so do I sometimes.” Jamie laughed. “Anyway, I want to get my sex drive back. I know it’s important, but the idea of anyone touching my breasts revolts me.”
“He doesn’t have to touch them,” I said.
“No, I know.” She nodded and glanced down at Ananda.
Jamie was constantly looking at Ananda. I think the number of times she looked at Ananda indicated the amount of responsibility she had taken on and the amount she had changed.
“My body doesn’t seem made for those kinds of things anymore.”
“Do you feel like being a mom and being sexual are mutually exclusive?”
Jamie thought about it for a minute. “No, I mean, I know they aren’t. My mind knows. I don’t know. I just don’t have the energy. I’m just really tired.”
Joey ran over to us and climbed in my lap. Paul called after him, but I waved that it was okay. I didn’t necessarily love having a fifty-pound child in my lap but I liked that Joey and I were getting along.