You Have Seven Messages (4 page)

I try to fill my mouth with food quickly so I can think of a response.

“Just curious, I guess.”

He stops chewing and gives me a look I cannot decipher, then takes another bite.

“How was your date?” I say, changing the subject.

“It was … fine,” he replies.

My father has always been hard to read. He gives you what he wants to give and nothing more.

“Is she a pot dealer?”

He laughs. The simple sound of it warms me up.

“She’s a teacher,” he says.

“Let me guess, basket weaving?”

He laughs again, but this time it’s a chuckle. The pot dealer line clearly had more punch.

“She teaches English. She’s nice enough. It’s just …”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. We both know what he means. It’s hard enough for
me
to imagine someone taking Mom’s place, but no doubt harder for
him
. I cut out the center of my french toast, the best bit.

“You know Oliver, from across the street?”

“I’ve seen him around.”

“Hypothetically, if he invited me, do you think I could go listen to him practice the cello?”

He forks in another bite and wipes at each corner of his mouth. “I suppose that would be fine.”

“I’m going to be fifteen in three days.”

“I know, Moon. I’m not
that
out of it.”

I can tell by his expression that I have room to tease. “No, but for a while there you just wandered around from room to room. I almost called Bellevue.”

He throws his napkin at me but I dodge it just in time.

The truth is, after the accident, I walked around like that too. Tile went to live with my grandmother on Long Island for three months and Dad and I became zombies, living on Thai food and ginger ale. I went through the motions at school, dropping from an A to a C average, and lost my friends, the two Rachels. I’m not even sure
why we had remained friends before; it just sort of happened. In fifth grade we won an art project we did together on Valentine’s Day. While all the other kids did these simple cutout hearts with construction paper, we took pictures of all kinds of couples at our parents’ dinner parties or in the park. Gay and straight, white and black, young and old, smiling and goofing around. We arranged them in a giant heart and the teacher displayed it for the whole year. The Rachels and I were constantly doing creative things together, and hiding out while our parents had cocktails. Now, Rachel One is a pretty-on-the-outside shell of a girl who spends four hundred dollars a month on her hair and is dating half of Central Park West. Rachel Two is basically mute—she rarely talks and is more like a pretty bag Rachel One carries around. I call them Barbots—part Barbie, part robot. They starve themselves, are addicted to lip gloss, and wear their insecurity on their Prada sleeves. After my mother died, they couldn’t understand why I wasn’t grieving outwardly, why I didn’t seem sad. Rachel One said my behavior was “creepy,” and Rachel Two (in a rare use of words) said that I just didn’t “fit in” anymore. I didn’t really blame them. Some inner mechanism in me shut down and I couldn’t feel anything. They defriended me on Facebook and I didn’t really care.

Now I mostly hang out with Janine “Oscar” Myers—probably ’cause we’re both outsiders. Her claim to fame is far more controversial than mine—she made a video
for her boyfriend of herself eating a hot dog with suspicious gusto, only to have him plaster it all over the Internet. I actually thought it was funny, but the Gossip Girls at our school (seniors who dress like they’re on the show) held her down in the bathroom and wrote SLUT on her forehead. I tried to help her wash it off but there wasn’t time. She ended up going through the rest of classes with it still faintly there. The Rachels wouldn’t even look at me after I befriended her, but it was just as well. After I lost Mom, their obsession with things like lip gloss and that android Zac Efron seemed completely unimportant.

I pick up our sticky dishes and bring them to the sink. As I turn on the water my dad says, “I’ll do it, Moonlight.”

When he uses that particular variation of my nickname, I can feel his love so strongly it’s almost palpable. There was a long period of time when that word, that tone of his voice, had gone missing, like a favorite pair of earrings you’re not sure how you lost. You feel like they’re in the house somewhere, ready to surprise you at any minute.

“Cool,” I say, and run upstairs. I retrieve the red cell phone and put it in my back pocket. On my way out, my father calls from the sink, “Cello practice already?”

“I wish,” I call back. “Just going for a walk.”

“Okay, please be careful!”

“I’ll find the nearest creepy guy with a van,” I say. He winces as I close the door.

Everyone on the street is still infused with spring. You
can see it in their bright clothes, their hopeful faces. I find the nearest stoop that looks out-of-the-way and retrieve message number six. Seeing my father almost normal has given me a sense of calm, and my fingers are not shaking this time.

It’s a man’s deep voice with some sort of accent, Australian, maybe. He calls her “love” and tells her she must “pop over.” He leaves an address in a place called Greenpoint, in Brooklyn.

If my mother’s personal life was once off-limits to me, can it really be now? Why did the dress from the dry cleaner surprise Dad so much? Did it have to do with the owner of the cuff link? I walk through the park to the East Side and get into a cab.

“Forty-Four Eagle Street, Greenpoint.”

The driver looks at me with suspicion.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of money and I’m allowed to travel alone.”

This seems to work. He throws up his hands and starts the meter.

I’m not sure what I’m really trying to find, but something beyond my control is taking over. I don’t want to bother my father about it, especially since he’s in good spirits, but I need to know more.

Going across the Pulaski Bridge, I can see most of downtown, the buildings strong and proud above the river. I am looking at a city of eight million people, none of them my mother.

Eagle Street looks industrial, with one lone deli on the corner. The building stretches the length of the whole block and looks like it was once a factory. There are several kids on skateboards carrying squirt guns. They must be on spring break too.

I have the cab wait for me and I enter the building. At the far end of the block some hipsters are doing a photo shoot, and there’s trash swirling in the wind. The door has been propped open, so I wander into the stairway, which smells of wax and cigarette smoke. I climb the stairs, gaining adrenaline. Outside 3B, I stand there, mystified.

What am I looking for?

Before I knock, the door opens and a man with a goatee, in a sport coat, smiles at me as I jump back.

“Can I help you?”

It’s the same accent. The deep voice. I stand there, until words somehow find their way out of my mouth. “Did you know Marion Clover?”

The man pauses, his mouth open a little, then looks at me suspiciously, like I may be dangerous.

“Yes, of course, why do you ask?”

“She was my mother.”

His face melts a little, as if he might cry; then he sweeps his arm into the space and says, “Why don’t you come in.”

The place is vast and uncluttered. The old windows have dozens of little panes the size of paperbacks, and
through them you can see the entire Manhattan skyline. He removes a cowboy hat from a big green chair and says, “Here, sit.”

I sit down gently. I notice he is wearing an old T-shirt and jeans. He doesn’t seem to be someone who regularly wears cuff links, but I can’t be sure.

“Luna, right?”

For some reason hearing him say my mom’s version of my nickname, and what has basically become my real name, makes me want to cry. I nod slowly and try to regain composure.

“I’m Benjamin.”

“From Australia?”

“South Africa.”

Wow, not even close. Looking into Benjamin’s deep-set pale brown eyes, I realize I don’t even know what to ask him. I start with the obvious.

“How did you know my mother?”

“Hang on a minute. Does your pop know you’re here?”

“No. I have a cab waiting, though. I’m not supposed to leave Manhattan, but I can see it right there.” I point to the windows. “Close enough, right?”

“How did you—”

“You left a message, on her cell phone. Why did you give this address?”

The door swings open and in walks a woman with legs that probably go up to my ears. She has on a thin, tight sweater and her lipstick is such a dark red it looks like
blood. In fact, she is rolling the lipstick case through her hands. She looks at Benjamin for an explanation of my presence. He doesn’t say anything, so she turns to me and says, “Daria.”

“My neighbor,” Benjamin adds.

“Well,” I say, standing up, “I’m sorry to come over unannounced.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Your mother was my muse for a while. I’m a painter, and a graphic designer. Some of my best work is of her. I can show you. Anyway, she was always saying she wanted to see my new place, and one day she finally agreed to; that’s why I left the message. I am so sorry about what happened.”

Daria slinks onto the couch, staring at Benjamin. The phone rings and he picks it up immediately, like he’s desperately awaiting the call.

He’s gone for several minutes, during which Daria stares at me like she’s reading a book. I try to be like my father and show blank pages.

“You lost your mom,” she says with a thick accent. Swedish?

“Yes,” I say.

“So did I. When I was a little younger than you.”

She must be a model. She has overblown features and a languid way of being, like so many of them. “I’m sorry,” I say, even though I usually hate it when people tell me that. Sorry doesn’t bring people back.

“Did you ever think about getting, you know—” She’s
pointing to my chest. In order to avoid hearing the words
training bra
out loud, I cut her off.

“Yes, I have one, I just don’t have it on,” I lie. I cannot bear telling her I’m way late on the whole bra thing. “Did you … did you know my mother?”

“No, but I read her book.” She places the lipstick on the end table. “It was devastatingly accurate.”

“Accurate about what?” I ask.

“The misperception of the general public toward models.”

I think about this. Everyone can be misunderstood, whether you’re a model or not. She could’ve come up with a better remark, but I let it slide.

“She didn’t like models,” I say, even though I’m not really sure. I think she just avoided telling people she was a model.

Daria looks at me intently.

“I bet she loved you.”

I don’t know what to say to this. Of course she did, but I don’t want to brag about it. Then I remember my father saying one should always accept compliments with grace.

“She did.” I smile, noticing a pen and a hotel pad on the table. “Listen, I’m going to leave my email address on this pad, ’cause I’ve got to get back to the city. Could you give it to Benjamin? I want to see the work he did with my mother sometime.”

“Of course,” she says, standing up. Her arms are gangly
like spider legs, and she smells like Chanel No. 5. I know because it was the only scent my mother wore. She pats me on the head, walks toward the bathroom, and says, “Nice to meet you, sweetie.”

The head patting puts a damper on the adventure. Do I look like I’m five? I write my email and my IM name on the pad, and before I leave, I take the lipstick, open it, and put some on.

The cabbie is still there when I get back outside. Now that I have the lipstick on, he gives me an even stranger look.

On the way back into the city, I think of what I really knew about my mother. I knew her smell, and that she rarely cooked. I remember her big eyes, her angel laugh, her delicate hands. The way she could turn from being playful to completely serious, and how I rarely could get anything past her. I put on my seat belt and roll down the window, letting the air at my face. I close my eyes and remember that tonight is usually when Oliver plays, and a slight shudder travels through me.

I make it back to the safety of my room and smile because I was right. He’s doing scales. They aren’t as pretty as what he usually plays, but I still love the sound. I know it’s a little “Kumbaya” to say this, but it makes me feel more connected to everything.

A few times he stops abruptly, and I imagine he’s listening for me, sensing me. I wish I could build a secret walkway across the street from our two windows.

When he’s finished, I check my email and see one from Daria, the girl in Benjamin’s apartment.

My dad peeks his head in without knocking, which annoys me. He’s wearing his fuzzy gray robe. “Hey, Moonbeam, what’s up?”

I quickly minimize the screen so he can’t see the email.

“Nothing. Just looking at Internet porn.”

He smiles, but then his face gets all twisted up, and I realize I still have the lipstick on. I try to think of something quick.

“I was fooling around at Sephora.”

He sits down on the floor and starts playing with a scarf I have hanging on the back of the door. “Elise is here,” he says.

I am not prepared for this information.

“That was fast,” I reply.

“Yes, it was. I’m not even sure what I’m doing, but I want to … I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

What am I supposed to say to this?
Yes, it’s fine, just tell the hippie lady to move in?

“I’m okay with it as long as you are.”

He stands up and paces around my room, the scarf wrapped around his hands.

“You know, every time I think I’m moving forward, that just maybe I can be a normal person in the world, I see you.”

He stops and puts a hand to my face, draws an imaginary comma on my cheek. I turn away and wipe off the lipstick with a tissue.