Sunday's on the Phone to Monday (22 page)

There are people who have it a lot worse,
Claudio used to lecture his daughters growing up, and now he wished he hadn't. There'd
been no need to make them feel guilty for what they had—that guilt was just as useless as complaining about what you didn't have. Time had complete control over luck. Times changed, and you worked with it.
There are kids starving in Africa.
His mother, of a different generation, used to tell him,
there are kids starving in Europe.
There would always be kids starving, all over.

T
here are two kinds of people in this world: those who, when duped, seek confrontation with their swindler, and those who seek redemption for their naïveté through calling attention to all truths surrounding them, no matter how harmful these truths may be. People who feel before they think tend to fall into the latter camp.
There's somebody I think you have to know about,
Mathilde told her daughter.

Lucy's Heart strummed at the indication of her mother's imperative pitch.

Your father has a sister, and she lives in a hospital. A psychiatric hospital in the Bronx. She's lived there for most of her adult life. I used to visit her, and then . . . after you guys were all born, well, it got too hard, you see? It wouldn't've been appropriate to bring children to see her. She's like a time bomb, you see?

Is this a joke?

And your father preferred you wouldn't know about her until she got better.

And she hasn't gotten better,
Lucy guessed.

No,
said Mathilde.
Not yet.
She had a picture of Jane in her pocket, and she showed Lucy, to make her aunt seem more real.
See how she and Daddy have the same eyes?

- One set of eyes for two people, -
thought Lucy. She said,
so he's waiting for her to get better.

He visits her every Tuesday,
Mathilde defended her husband.

It was no wonder. On Tuesdays her father often came home late and in an awful mood. Lucy and her sisters usually avoided him for the rest of the week, it was that bad. Engaging with him was always bothersome, like having an argument with a sore throat. Now it would be easier to understand how hard it must be for him. But maybe she would never fully, since neither she nor her own sisters was sick in that way.

Well, maybe I can visit her too? One of these days with him.

Oh,
said Mathilde.
No!

What?

She's not like us.
Mathilde abused that excuse. Whenever she tried to set an example, she would say that nobody was like their family.
Republicans, they aren't like us. Democrats, not our people.
It was always the same story with most groups: drug users, hipsters, warmongers, religious people, socialists, blue-collar folks, white-collar folks, surfers, city people, country people, athletes, intellectuals. Their family identity was defined by what they weren't and what they didn't have and what they didn't care about. It appeared as though the Simones were like nobody.

Maybe . . . she'd be able to relate to me.

Mathilde arrived at a truth:
you're already related.

Do Natasha and Carly know?

No,
said Mathilde.
It's just you, for now.

But can I ever talk to Daddy about this?

You can't. He doesn't know I'm telling you.

Well, why are you?

For the first time in their conversation, Mathilde had no more words to say.
Do you think it's right that I told you?

How should I know? I've never met her! You're supposed to be the grown-up.

You're right,
said Mathilde, her regret blinking inside of her.
I am.

L
ucy would meet her aunt Jane for the first time, visit her at Lincoln Medical and Mental Health Center in the Bronx. Natasha would drive her. Lucy of course told Natasha everything she knew, that night of her conversation with her mother, not being able to stomach a secret so large. (-
How unfair
, - she'd thought of her mother,
- to lay such a weight on the weakest child. -
)

Natasha's reaction was as Lucy expected: logical, and in search of an answer.
Well, what do you want to do?

I want to visit her,
said Lucy.
To see if she's real.

Natasha sighed with relief, for she could certainly be a help with such logistics. She looked up the address of the only mental hospital in the Bronx and called for its visiting hours: 4:00 p.m., every day. They went on a Saturday, telling their parents they were driving into Manhattan to see the newest exhibit at the Guggenheim Museum.

What shouldn't I say?
Lucy wondered, on the car ride over. She looked out the window, at the sky messy with clouds.

Probably anything scary.
Their aunt Jane was a different kind of sick. One could never know how she'd react.

When they arrived, Natasha parked, unbuckled her seat belt, and took out the memoir of an eighty-year-old shepherd who made dulcimers and lived in the Swiss Alps.
Are you sure you don't want to come in with me?

I'm okay,
said Natasha immediately. Sensible Natasha, who figured whatever was kept a secret from them probably had good reason to be, held Lucy's hands.
Promise me you . . . will expect anything. And be okay with anything happening.

I promise.

The day was cold, even indoors. Lucy didn't want to take off her jacket. A bulb above her burned as she signed in.

You're Claudio's little girl?
asked the nurse.

Yes.

You are! Well, this will be quite the surprise for Jane. You've never met her, have you? Your father is always talking about you. Is Daddy here too?

No—
Lucy breathed—
he's not.
She thought about her father discovering she not only knew about Jane but had also visited her.
- But then, -
she thought,
- who would be in trouble for not telling the other? -

You've come at a good time,
the nurse said as she guided Lucy to Jane's room.
She just finished lunch.
This was kind of a cheerful place, relatively speaking—a silent, surprisingly warm smell in the hallways, something like shortbread or lattes. Lucy ogled the some infantilized, some outwardly normal sights in each room they passed by—a drooly, braless bald woman talking to her nurse. Three men wearing sweatshirts and playing cards.

Guess who's here to see you?
the nurse announced in a preschool-teacher voice.
It's your niece! Your Lucy!

I don't have a Lucy,
said Jane to the wall. When she turned her head to the doorway, however, she opened her mouth. She peeked at Lucy's feet.

I'm so happy to meet you, Aunt Jane,
said Lucy.
I've missed you.
She thought about whether she authentically did miss her aunt Jane, without having known she existed, then decided
- yes. -

I don't believe this,
said Jane.

Lucy carefully stayed for an hour. They talked.
You're so young,
Jane kept saying.
You look younger than I thought.

Oh,
said Lucy.

You know,
said Jane,
your father says we're so much alike.

He does,
agreed Lucy, while thinking -
he does? -

- Imagine being Aunt Jane, -
Lucy thought. Poorly structured Jane. Would Jane enjoy being Lucy? Or would she think it was boring?

Do you count?
asked Jane.
I count everything. Helps me keep track of myself.

You mean like calories?
asked Lucy.
Kind of. You know Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches? They're only like, a hundred calories each. But then I eat six of them at once.

Six, five, four, three, two, one, negative four. I love people only between four and five a.m.,
said Jane. She let loose a yawn so loud her soul could have fallen out.

Then Jane showed Lucy all of the pictures she'd collected of Lucy and her sisters throughout the years, which gave Lucy a morbid, idol-ish feeling: somebody knowing about her so long, and so frequently, before there was reciprocation. -
I'm really not that important! -
she felt like saying.

I'm so happy it's you I got to meet first,
said Jane.
Natasha looks too much like your mother, you see? I was never a fan of Mathilde. And I don't think I would trust Carly. What's she, Chinese or something?

Chinese-American,
corrected Lucy.
She's adopted.

So Claudio and Mathilde rescued her?
asked Jane.
Aren't they scared of her parents coming back? Taking her back to the Communists? Making her wear shirts the color of glowing blood, the sum of skin and tears?
Lucy said nothing.
I've scared you,
said Jane.

No,
said Lucy.
Her birth parents don't know who we are, and we don't know who they are.

What more to talk about? Lucy didn't want to tell her about her own sickness. Nor could they talk about Jane's disease. But then Jane solved their problem.

Claudio told me English is your favorite subject.

He did?

I'm a writer too. That's something else we have in common. You know, you don't really need to go to school to be a writer. You just need a lot of life experience.

Yeah,
said Lucy.
It's kind of like acting. You know?
She was thinking of her mother.

I hate actors,
said Jane.
Actors are all phonies. Well, except Rick Moranis. You know he retired to take care of his family, right? Anyway, right now,
said Jane,
I'm not writing. I'm revising.
She motioned her niece over.
I'll show you what I've got.

This is a blank sheet of paper,
noted Lucy.

I keep erasing,
said Jane,
what I think I can say.
She raised her eyebrows at Lucy.
When I was your age, I had the best handwriting too. I was so proud of it.
She said it in a way that suggested she would never see her own handwriting again, or her own writing again, or her own hands again.

My handwriting looks like a baby's or a boy's,
said Lucy.
You're lucky.

What comes out isn't as important as what stays here. This is where I keep the real stuff,
said Jane, then tapped her skull.
All of my stories. You want to hear one?

H
ello, hello,
said Jane.
Is this on?
She was speaking into her hand, which warped into a pinkish fist. She was wearing a garbage twisty-tie in her hair. This was the second time Jane and Lucy were meeting. Natasha drove her again and refused another invitation to visit, enjoying the company of her weighty book on the anti-intellectualism movement in America. Lucy still didn't know why she was visiting her aunt—all she knew was that she wanted to.

Cool!
said Lucy.

No,
said Jane,
it's not cool.

Sorry,
said Lucy.
I don't know why I say the things I say.

You're like me,
Jane said to her niece.
You're not afraid to apologize.

Nobody said anything.

Are we monsters?
asked Jane.

Uh, I don't think so,
said Lucy.
I'd say I'm pretty human.

I hope so too,
said Jane.

We're,
Lucy corrected herself too late, mortified by her egocentrism. Who was the real monster here?

Why haven't your sisters visited me?

Because they only just found out you existed? Because they are afraid of you? Because they probably have more time than me to? None of these answers worked. Lucy said,
they'll come soon. We want to get to know you one at a time.

Can I tell you something?
Usually whenever Jane spoke to people, especially her visitors and
especially
her family, outside noise would pile, like popping balloons and animals braying, but this time only a surplus of silence lingered. This silence had an intensity of a different kind, the silence of an authentic experience, which made Jane angry—made her feel like half-prisoner, half-marauder.

What's up?
asked Lucy.

I'm married, but I miss my boyfriend,
she said, as earnest as Dolly Parton.

Boyfriend?

Yes, Otis.
Jane blushed whenever she thought of his name, in love and so unhappy. She was dying to tell somebody about him. In a gauche, middle-schooler way, she said,
he's from Ipswich, Massachusetts.

Ooh,
said Lucy, handling the news like the little girl she was.
That sounds like Chipwich. You know, the ice cream sandwich with cookies?

Ipswich is one of the oldest towns in America. But Otis is not so old. In fact, he moved to New Orleans when he was only fourteen.