Page 45 of Paparazzi

“Milk and cookies? I thought at least a six-pack of beer or a bottle of whiskey,” I tease him.

“Are you kidding? I can’t sleep if I haven’t finished my day with a hot cup of milk and cookies,” he says, pretending to be shocked.

I burst out laughing when I realize that, in our own way, we’re working things out.

“Not a rock star, you have the lifestyle of a Teletubby,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes, nodding toward the door.

“Come on, let’s go meet Max before you kill my dignity completely.”

*

I climb into the black Range Rover with darkened glass parked in front of my house, and immediately I am met by Max’s greeting and smile.

I tell him the address, and he flashes his gray eyes in the rearview mirror to seek the silent approval of Thomas, who gives him a slight nod of his head. He starts the car and heads into the light traffic of my street before diving into the chaos of the rest of the city.

We exchange a few jokes on light topics in the car, perhaps because even Thomas can sense the nervousness that begins to churn in my stomach and makes me silent.

“Do you know what surprises me the most right now?” I ask, looking away from the city out the window and turning toward his smile that beckons me with a nod of his head. “That I have been coming to this place for years, but I have no idea what the city around it is like, the neighborhoods nearby. I’ve always reached it by subway. I know every detail of the stations where it stops, but I have no idea what’s on the surface.”

Thomas smiles at me and nods. “I know, and maybe that’s the beauty of New York, Manhattan in particular. Though you’ve been living here for years, it’ll always surprise you by showing you a corner you’ve never seen or slightly changing some place you haven’t been in a long time. The great thing, though, is that it always manages to make you feel at home, even though it’s never the same.”

I know the feeling. I’ve lived all my life in New York, and I think I could never call anywhere else home. Strangely, when I walk here, I always meet people I’ve never met before, but I feel like I know them. Eight and a half million people, and it still seems like everyone is part of a large neighborhood.

“We’re here.” Max’s voice recalls us to reality, and when I look out the window, I realize that the gates have opened and we are slowly entering the parking lot that I never use, despite being entitled to it.

I turn to Thomas and notice the attentive and perhaps even worried look when he realizes where we are. We get out of the car, and I tell him to follow me into the clinic. When I look at the nurse behind the counter, she looks up, and immediately her worried gaze rests on me.

“Oh, honey, are you okay? I saw on the news what happened at the Gala, and I was scared to death.” The concern is heartfelt in her voice and on her face.

“I’m fine, really, just a little pain in my shoulder but nothing more.” I try to minimize it when I feel Thomas’s eyes on me.

She rounds the counter, takes my chin between two fingers, and moves my head to look at my bruises more carefully. Her serious glance, from my face to the arm stuck to my chest, makes me realize that I couldn’t convince her.

“You know that if you need physical therapy, you can come to us, right? We can find room in Liam’s schedule, and you don’t need to pay,” she adds when she notices how slowly I sign the register.

I smile and nod, then turn to Thomas and look at him doubtfully. “Is it a problem for you to sign the guest register? They don’t let anyone in without a signature.” Maybe he doesn’t want his name on a long-term illness clinic list.

“Of course, no worries.” He approaches the desk, smiles, and takes the pen from my hands, short-circuiting my brain when our fingers touch.

We greet the nurse at the entrance—who lingers longer than necessary on Thomas’s slender figure—and reach the cream-colored room where my mother is sitting alone in her usual armchair in front of the window overlooking the garden.

“Hi, Mom, how are you today?” I whisper to her as I go to gently kiss her head, pressing my lips to her hair that smells of vanilla and baby powder.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thomas carefully following my every move, his eyes glued to me, to my hands as I untie the braid that keeps her long hair gathered and start brushing it. I beckon him to approach, and he does so slowly, weighing every gesture with sweetness as if he could somehow disturb the stillness of this place. I see him inhale deeply and hold his breath. His eyes are glistening and he can’t hide the pain on his face. I wasn’t prepared for his reaction—it’s as though he’s suffering physically at what he’s seeing, at meeting her for the first time. When he sees me watching him, he tries to recompose himself and gives me a half-smile, but his eyes can’t hide the pain he seems to be feeling since entering this room.

“This is Thomas, the guy I told you about. The one whose arms I literally fell into. Do you remember that?”

Thomas smiles.

“She hasn’t answered me in years, but I like to keep her up to date on my life,” I explain.

He nods with a smile more confident than before and warmth in his eyes.

“He’s a famous drummer. I know you only consider the drum noise, but he’s definitely good.”

I can hear Thomas chuckling as he sits in a nearby chair. “What happened to her? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I place the brush on the bedside table, and I go back to braiding her hair. “Senile dementia.”

---