by Ruby Lang
He took a congratulatory swallow of caffeine.
His phone trilled at him, and he leapt for it. It was his sister. He couldn’t exactly ignore his sister. She never called during the day.
But it wasn’t Maxine’s face who appeared on his screen. It was his youngest niece, Ronnie.
“We’re on winter break until tomorrow. Mum says I should talk to you because she needs just one single minute to herself,” she said by way of greeting.
Ronnie was a solemn-looking child with glasses, whose placid facade hid a swirling mass of pure, anarchic energy. Currently, this energy seemed to be concentrated on adjusting and readjusting the position of the phone.
“Are you having a good vacation?” Simon asked the blur.
He propped his own device against a stack of books, grabbed his coffee, and leaned back, settling in for a long chat.
“It’s okay. I read thirty-three books so far, and we went sledding and skating.”
“Thirty-three. That’s a lot.”
“It is.”
“Are you a good skater?”
“I’m very good. I’m better than Mum. She likes to sit on the bench and watch me.”
“I’ll bet.”
Ronnie launched into a story about a raccoon that had gotten into their garbage bins, and was telling Simon about how she was going to have baby raccoons as pets when she stopped and yelped, “It’s a kitty! You have a kitty.”
Simon turned very slowly. The cat was crouched behind him. When she saw his face, though, she streaked under the couch.
He turned back to his niece. “She’s very shy. Maybe if you sing her a song, she’ll come out.”
Ronnie wasn’t about to be fooled into a performance. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t think Lana has given her a name yet.”
“Lana. That’s my aunt, isn’t it?”
Simon didn’t know. Had she ceased to be their aunt when she and Simon divorced? Ronnie hadn’t even been born yet when they split. It seemed oddly heartless to tell this to his niece. At the same time, it probably wasn’t healthy for Lana to keep the aunt title.
Was it any healthier to hang around the door in hopes his ex might pay attention to him as she got ready for work?
While Simon puzzled this over, Ronnie had moved on. “The kitty’s name is Muffin,” Ronnie said confidently.
“I don’t know—”
“She looks like a Muffin.”
“You only saw her streak by. You didn’t get a good look.”
“She’s brown like a muffin. When she curls up she’s going to look like one.”
“She might be what they call a tabby cat. So, she’s actually—”
Ronnie stared at him.
He was mansplaining to a seven-year-old, and she’d called him on it.
“I’ll see what Lana thinks of the name,” he sighed.
Chapter Seven
It started out as an ordinary day. By the time Lana had risen, Simon was already out and the cat had been fed. Muffin, which was what Simon had reluctantly told her his niece had suggested calling the tabby, had gotten bolder as the week wore on. Bold enough that when Lana came home last night, she found the arm of the new couch scratched up and streaks of claw marks down the curtains of her bedroom. The cat had gotten into her closet and torn up one of Lana’s old sneakers. And she’d knocked several books down from the chair Lana kept beside the bed.
Lana picked up the novels, threw out the shoes, covered the couch arm with a blanket, and hoped fervently that Muffin hadn’t gotten into Simon’s room.
Now, the cat was still in hiding. Lana made and drank her chard and mango smoothie. It was a cardio day, so she went for a run down Malcolm X Boulevard and along the top edge of Central Park. On the cold, half empty playground, she went through a series of stretches and resistance exercises that helped her arms and wrists and core for the night ahead. Years ago, she’d consulted a physiotherapist to help her deal with the strains and possible repetitive injuries that came from tossing and twisting pounds and pounds of dough around every night; she’d been careful about going through her routine ever since. Her roommates at the time had called her dedication to it her Olympic training.
If only they could see her now, she thought, giving herself a good stretch on the dome-shaped climber. She grimaced slightly, feeling a twang—several twangs, a banjo chorus, really—somewhere near her midsection.
The exercises were supposed to make her feel better for her work. But more and more lately, even the warmups themselves were exhausting her to the point where the idea of going in to work all night made her tired.
She thunked her head against the cold bar of the playground climber and breathed in deeply. She had been officially working at Lore for three months. A month left before she was assured of a more permanent position, a month left before she could sign up for insurance and maybe go see a PT again.
She jogged slowly back up the wide, spare expanse of Malcolm X, turning onto the tree-lined street. By the time she’d made it up the stairs, she was holding her side, and she probably looked like a swaybacked farm animal.
She stood a moment in the hallway trying to catch her breath.
“You never used to exercise.”
Lana jumped. Or she would have if that hadn’t required using her limbs. She hadn’t seen Simon coming up behind her.
Half of her braid was probably sticking right up from the wind. The smaller tendrils were plastered to her head with sweat, the heat of the apartment mingling with the lingering cold of the outdoors to create streams of moisture running down her red cheeks.
“We could go running together,” Simon added before she could say anything.
The cat peered from behind Simon’s ankles. Muffin seemed to prefer him. Catching a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror confirming her suspicions about her hair and face, Lana could understand why.
She shook her head, partly to dismiss those thoughts—why did she care what Simon thought of her looks?—and partly to put him off the idea of them being running buddies. “I don’t know about the exercising together. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your routine.”
He’d been a runner since high school and in his forties he was still built like a fucking gazelle. There was no way she’d be able to keep up with his pace. She’d barely made it home.
Of course, some days were better than others. Today was...not a better day.
She bent down slowly to pet the cat, who sniffed at her curiously, accepted a couple of scritches before hissing, and darting away.
“Of course,” Simon said, stepping back, his face in shadow again.
Leaving, like the cat.
Maybe she’d hurt his feelings, putting him off. But he liked running alone, he’d told her long ago. He liked the opportunity to get his thoughts in order, to have the wind rushing past his ears. Simon had made running sound exhilarating. Just like he’d made school sound fascinating, and the kids and other people seem endlessly good.
But these things came easy to him. Maybe that’s why her experience of it never matched his.
She could call him back to explain, but she wasn’t here to get close to him again. She went and took a hot shower, letting the water revive her somewhat. When she was dressed and neat again, she came out to check Muffin’s food bowls and put on her jacket.
Simon really had disappeared.
She sighed. She’d gotten used to him seeing her off. It was probably the wrong thing for her to enjoy. But it seemed like such a tiny, harmless pleasure to have him hand her scarves, hats, to have him hold open the door. In those moments, it was as if she knew she could—she would—come back to someone who cared about her.
She trudged down the stairs, back out into the cold, and to the subway station, not paying attention to the audiobook she’d downloaded for her commute. Once at work
, she greeted her coworkers, and got herself ready for the long evening ahead.
She felt off.
Who knew what it was. Maybe it was the fact that Simon hadn’t said goodbye. Her mouth twisted ruefully as she thought about how she’d been irritated by his routines when they were married, and how she now had her own.
Talia came by her station. “We’re down a few prep cooks and we’re already behind. Can you pitch in?”
Lana nodded. In a few minutes, she was coring, quartering, and chiffonading napa cabbage.
The atmosphere was tense. At least four people were out with what was probably the flu, although no one liked to speak out loud about illness in the kitchen. The front of the house was set to open in two hours. Out back amongst the prep cooks, it wasn’t exactly quiet; the ventilation fans roared and pots clashed. Knives chopped frantically. But even the cursing was down to choked-off mutters.
Lana cleaned off her board and started on the next batch.
“Did you do any formal training, Lana?” Talia asked, sidling up.
“In Singapore for a little while. But most of my learning comes from working.”
“I’d love to do that,” Yara, one of the other cooks, said. “Travel and cook my way through places.”
They were keeping their voices quiet. “It was good for me in a lot of ways, but it wasn’t glamorous. And the credentials don’t translate as well as you’d think, especially when you’re a woman and not white.”
All three of them grimaced.
Yara muttered almost to herself, “This is my first gig out of culinary school.”
“And it’s a big one,” Lana reassured her.
“Yeah, I don’t want to mess it up. But at the same time.” Yara lowered her head so her nose was almost touching the counter. “It would be nice to be able to travel and learn more.”
“You’re better off staying here longer and getting job experience that looks good on paper,” Talia murmured. “Having the health insurance you can’t use because you can’t ever take time off to go to doctor’s appointments and then getting fired if you really do get sick.”
“They aren’t really going to fire those guys, are they?”
“Shhh.” Talia looked around. She lowered her voice more. “They might try, depending on how long they’re out.”
Lana kept chopping grimly.
“Well, I got my—” Yara glanced around “—my F-L-U shot, so I should be okay.”
“I did, too,” Lana whispered.
She’d paid fifty dollars out of pocket for one. No use taking chances.
They managed to get through ’til about 8:00 without too many disasters. Luckily it was a slow night. But by 10:15, as Lana was finishing up a last batch of noodles to be cooked, she started feeling a familiar cramping.
“Oh, no, no,” she said through gritted teeth, as she did a quick mental calculation.
She should have started taking painkillers yesterday, just in case. But with the cat, and her new place, she’d been distracted.
She fanned the noodles with a grimace, and managed to cut them before bringing them over to Talia. “Can you take over? I need a minute.”
Talia eyed her, but gave a terse nod.
A moment later, Lana hobbled to the employee bathroom. The nausea was getting worse. She dialed Julia, who didn’t pick up. Then she called Simon. “Can you please come get me?” was the last thing she remembered saying before the pain rolled over her and she passed out.
* * *
Someone had wrapped her in her jacket and scarves and propped her in a metal folding chair before Simon arrived. “Just get her out of here,” a bulldoggish white man in a chef’s coat muttered.
Simon knelt to take her hand. He glared up at the man.
“It’s not the flu,” Lana breathed, her eyes closed.
She looked gray, in sharp contrast to earlier today when she’d come in flushed and breathless from her run.
“It’s endometriosis,” she said in a louder tone.
Chef Asshole reared his head back, but the tall Black woman, Talia she’d said her name was, snapped, “It’s not catching. You don’t have to worry that we’ve made customers sick.”
“Is it some kind of cancer, then?”
Talia rolled her eyes. “No.”
She strode out saying, “Do I look like Google?” as Chef Asshole followed, still asking questions.
“I’m so sorry,” Lana whimpered as Simon helped her get up.
“It’s all right. You’ll be all right,” Simon told her.
He didn’t know that. He took one moment to put his face in her hair, and then went through the checklist of all her things he seemed to already know so well: the scarves tied the way she liked them, one on the inside, one on the outside, the jacket, the hat over her ears, the bag, the gloves. He peeked in her purse to make sure she had her keys, wallet, and phone. Then, half carrying her, he bundled her out to the waiting car.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and he wanted her to stop. The last time she’d apologized so much was when she’d told him she’d decided to leave New York. She’d told him she knew his life was here, but she couldn’t stay. She asked him to come with her, but he’d been too angry and hurt that she hadn’t wanted their life, that she could think he could give up everything he wanted for some whim of hers, that he wasn’t enough to hold her there.
But he didn’t know what was making her sick now, and he didn’t want anything terrible to happen to her. He didn’t want her to leave. So the whole ride back, he held her. He kept her in his arms as they climbed up the darkened West Side Highway, even as they slowed to a crawl on 110th Street and the driver murmured into his headset, and the cab grew too warm. Every time his body complained about how hot it was, Simon tightened his hold on her against the thought. When they finally turned onto their street, he reluctantly let go. He tipped the driver generously, checked again to make sure they had all of Lana’s things, and the two of them slumped slowly up the familiar and welcome steps. Back home. Home where they belonged.
Lana got her things off and stumbled to the bathroom as soon as they came up the stairs, and she stayed in there for such a long time that Simon wondered if he should go in. He took off his shoes and coat. He was in the T-shirt and sweatpants which he’d donned hastily before running out the door. The cat rubbed herself against Simon’s legs and then, in a perverse moment of camaraderie toward Lana, chose to wait by the door behind which her dear rescuer had hidden herself.
The cat mewed, a rusty, breathy croak that would have been amusing if Simon weren’t so tense.
“I know how you feel,” Simon muttered.
He took out his phone and tried to search the thing Lana said she had. But in truth, he couldn’t remember the term. The only part he recalled was “not catching” and “not cancer.”
That left a lot of other ailments.
He heard the door of the washer-dryer slam and Lana exited the bathroom a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel even though she hadn’t taken a shower, and then padded to her room.
It had only been a glimpse. The white bath sheet, her hair loose, her bare shoulders, and Simon felt everything roil through him: relief she was all right, fear she wasn’t really, lust, disgust with himself at his lust, and finally grief, overwhelming, almost incomprehensible. Why grief, of all things?
He stared at her door for a couple of minutes more, then took a deep breath. He walked the ten steps through the hall and knocked. She made a sound and that was enough for him. He opened the door and peered inside, almost afraid of what he’d find.
A nightlight glowed softly and Lana huddled in the bed, covers pulled around her ear as if she couldn’t get warm enough. The towel lay neatly folded on the chair. “Lana,” he whispered. It was still too loud. “Are you going to be all right?”
She nodded and seemed
to shiver. How could she be cold in this warm room?
“Are you sure you don’t have a fever?”
He came closer.
“It’s endometriosis,” she said. “Let’s just say I recognize the symptoms—in me, at least. It’s not always this bad.”
Her voice was fading, and he didn’t know what to do with the new fear sweeping him. He knelt down. The bed was a low platform. To be sure, he checked her face for assent and laid his hand on her forehead. Not feverish, not at all.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s like this sometimes.”
She reached her own hand to where his fingers rested gently on the covers. For a few minutes, they were both still, both watching those places where her skin touched his. Then she drew his arm in underneath. She pulled him as she turned, until he was under the blankets with her, his chest against her pajama-clad back, his legs twined with hers.
He let out a long, shuddering breath and pulled her closer to him. It was never close enough. In a few minutes, her trembling stopped. Her breath deepened. She was asleep.
He told himself he was afraid of waking her in order to justify not slipping out of her bed. But that didn’t explain why he smoothed her hair and pressed his lips to it before closing his own eyes.
Chapter Eight
Lana woke up early in the morning with an unexpected companion in her bed. Muffin, the cat, was sprawled in the center, taking up more room than a creature that size should be able to occupy. Lana had been pushed almost to the edge of the mattress, her fingers clutched around the duvet as if to save herself from falling onto the floor. She tried to ease her way back into her own bed, but the cat was immovable.
“Now is when you decide you like being around me?”
Like was perhaps too strong a word. The cat gave Lana an indifferent stare and stretched her limbs wider until Lana was almost over the edge.
