Page 83 of Pick-Up
I wake up hungover—physically and existentially—and to multiple texts from Celeste. Apparently, today Nettie’s class has a big field trip to the Museum of the City of New York and I never signed her permission slip. Of course, I didn’t. Her teacher emailed both me and Celeste in a tizzy this morning. If the office doesn’t have the form by 8:30 a.m., when school begins, Nettie will have to stay back and miss the excursion.
My mouth is dry and my head is dryer as I wrap my mind around that potential disaster. I swear I never received a paper permission form in Nettie’s folder. I never received a reminder email. I can just feel the school administrators’ evil eye on me from afar.
By some miracle, the teacher manages to email me the form, I manage to sign it digitally and Celeste manages to print it for me at her house. Just having a printer work on the first try seems like divine intervention. Toner cartridges firing on all cylinders! Thank goodness for these other women. I am broken at the thought of Nettie sitting in that administrative office alone again, eating a sad doughnut while her friends are playing rock, paper, scissors on the bus.
I feel like I’ve already waded through a day’s worth of adrenaline by 8:00 a.m.—and pre-coffee!
I run my rain shower, step underneath the stream and lather myself in coconut milk soap. The water pelts me like a tap on the shoulder, a nudge. The metallic walls glitter and shine. Like stars.
So, of course, my mind wanders to Ethan from last night. To hislips on my lips. His lips on my ear, my neck, my collarbone, the places they never got to tour. The water is suddenly warmer on my naked skin, the steam thick. I am wide awake and borderline desperate.
Why did I walk away again?
No! I won’t go there! I will chalk up the incredible kiss to rum punch and constellations, my lack of willpower to latent libido. A vagina too long under wraps. After all, everyone looks like a good idea in the right lighting. Once upon a time, I thought Cliff was the beginning and the end. Lust is not my friend. I strap on a mental chastity belt, pushing—no, shoving!—men of all stripes from my mind.
My phone’s trill penetrates my shower haze. At least something is getting action. And, because of the morning’s Nettie debacle (and, okay, my primed flight response), I jump to attention, scurrying out and jogging naked to the bedside table to grab the call. I press the green button without thinking, afraid I might otherwise be too late.
It’s my Mom. On FaceTime.
“Oh Lord!” I shriek at the sight of my naked self in the video window, then toss the phone onto the unmade bed and run to grab a towel.For fuck’s sake. Once it’s wrapped around me, I return, heart maxing out, and pick the phone up. My hair is soaking wet, dripping in cold rivulets down my back.
She is back on the couch in her reading glasses, which means they flew home from the conference last night, but this time she’s got some dense theory book sitting next to her and she’s wearing sweatpants.Sweatpants?My mother? That’s new.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Why are you naked?”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t usually shower in clothing.”
“What?”
“I was in the shower.”
I try not to watch myself in the FaceTime window. My bedraggled hair like a wet dog’s. I am all too aware of the gray cast to my skin, from last night, and the way my jawline is losing elasticity, from life.
“Oh,” she says, furrowing her brow. “You shouldn’t answer video calls without clothing on.”
I press my lips together, practicing patience. “Sage advice.”
She looks at her watch, which she has worn my whole life. It’s gold and belonged to my grandmother. The fanciest thing she owns, since she’s not a believer in flashy objects or superficial people. In retrospect, that’s one reason she never liked Cliff. The human embodiment of an overdetermined watch—that needs a new battery. The Rolex of social climbers. “Isn’t it a bit late?” she’s saying. “Don’t the kids need to get to school?”
I am at first annoyed and then something else. Something worse. Nausea descends. Does shereallynot know where I am? After all of our conversations about my trip?
“Mom,” I say. “I’m in Turks and Caicos. For work. Remember?”
I study her for signs—of what, I don’t know.
“Oh. Oh, okay,” she says. But, heartbreakingly, I’m not sure if she does.
My stomach flips. Belly flops. Lands on its face.
“Hey, Mom, are you okay? You’re wearing… sweatpants.”
“They’re performance joggers,” she sighs. “My other pants felt too tight.”
I decide to be honest. “I’ve told you I was coming here multiple times. Do you really… not remember?”
“Maybe I do, vaguely,” she says, toggling her head. “I actually wanted to call you while your father was out, so we could talk about this exact issue.”
