If We Lived Here

by Lindsey Palmer

  Aimee shrugged. “I’m just three, you know.”

  “Wise girl.”

  “You’re still wearing my barrette,” Aimee said, beaming.

  “Yes, I adore it.” Emma touched her hair; the clip was adorned with a row of strawberry decals. “Thank you so much for lending it to me.”

  “Aimee and Emma. Emma and Aimee. Aimee and Emma. That’s a tongue twister.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Auntie Emma, I’m sleepy.”

  “Okay, let’s go back to bed.” She lifted her niece, who was surprisingly heavy for her size, and carried her upstairs. They brushed their teeth with Aimee’s bubblegum toothpaste, then Emma tucked the girl into bed.

  “We have to do Goodnight Moon,” Aimee said. She began reciting the words to the children’s book, and Emma added what she could remember—goodnight house, goodnight mouse—until Aimee declared it was okay to make up their own words. Aimee wished goodnight to Dora and Boots and Emma and Mr. Nick and hamburgers and Halloween, and Emma wished goodnight to Aimee and Caleb and Milky Ways and Aimee’s barrette. Then Aimee closed her eyes and tucked her thumb between her lips, apparently satisfied with the ritual. Emma fluttered her lashes against her niece’s cheek, feeling a pang of envy toward her sister-in-law, then tiptoed back to the guest room.

  “Hey, babe,” she whispered, nuzzling into Nick’s sleepy scent. He emitted a noise that was adorably incoherent and it made Emma well up; how sweet and kind and patient Nick was, despite his flaws, and how lucky she was that he was hers. On a whim she asked, “Are you going to love me forever?”

  “Probably,” he mumbled, still seeming to be asleep. “But no promises for now.”

  This made Emma snort out a laugh, which woke her boyfriend. “Huh?” he said, blinking in confusion. “Oh, hi, Em.”

  “Go back to sleep, babe. It’s nothing.”

  Emma could feel her heart pumping as she descended the stairs in the morning, but it calmed as soon as she realized Max was already gone for work—at a satellite site, since his Manhattan office was still closed. She waved to Alysse, who was helping Caleb with a Lego structure while talking on the phone about a food drive. “Yep, I’ll do today’s drop-off,” she said, then whispered to Emma, “Can I make you some coffee? Tea?”

  Emma shook her head, sitting down with Caleb to take over Lego duty. Aimee attached herself to her mother’s leg and complained of a stomachache, and Emma blushed with guilt; maybe a strict limit on Halloween candy wasn’t such a bad idea for a three-year-old. Alysse made two more calls—phone tree duties, she explained—before hanging up and turning her full attention to Emma. “Oh, you’re still in those same clothes from yesterday. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll scrounge up some clean ones. I haven’t had a chance to get these guys fed yet, and I just have to call the plumber about a pipe in our basement. As if our little leak is going to be a priority this week!”

  Emma felt a surge of sympathy toward her sister-in-law, who clearly didn’t ever get a break in her job, even—or especially—after a hurricane.

  “How about Nick and I take the kids out for breakfast and you can have a couple hours to yourself?” Alysse looked skeptical, so Emma added, “I’d really like to help. You’ve been so generous.”

  “Oh, um, thank you. You can take my car to the diner in town.” She sounded tentative, which gave Emma a pang of shame, realizing she’d maybe never before offered a favor to Alysse.

  Apparently the whole town had the idea to take their kids out to eat. A half hour later, Nick and Emma found themselves entrenched in a mob scene of children climbing across booths and screeching at random, like animals on the loose. It was clear they’d all been cooped up inside all week, with school canceled and little opportunity to play outside in the hurricane’s aftermath. But Caleb and Aimee seemed oblivious to the chaos, thrilled as they were by the novelty of an outing with adults who weren’t their parents.

  A ball flung over the booth divider bounced directly onto Nick’s head. Aimee tittered and Caleb pumped his fist. “Bull’s-eye!” he yelled.

  “This is horrifying,” Nick said.

  “I know.” Emma noticed Aimee was drawing on her brother’s shirt and wrestled the crayon from the girl’s grip. “Thank God these guys are just on loan.”

  “For real.”

  And yet, Emma was enjoying herself. She played referee to the siblings’ brawls over the green then the red then the yellow crayons, at first lecturing them about the importance of sharing, then when that didn’t work, meting out three-minute increments for them to take turns. And when Nick again got bonked by the ball, he gave in and began a game of catch with the boy from the next table.

  “For real!” Aimee shouted, parroting Nick, and then her elbow knocked over a water glass and soaked the table.

  “Mommy always gets us sippy cups,” Caleb said with authority.

  “Okay, smarty-pants. And what does Mommy usually make you for breakfast?”

  “Bacon,” he said. Emma nearly ordered it before Nick interjected that there was no way Alysse cooked up bacon for breakfast in her kosher kitchen.

  They managed to make it through the morning with only minor additional catastrophes—a glob of jelly in Aimee’s hair and, upon leaving the restaurant, Caleb sprinting across the parking lot and almost getting himself run over. (“Mommy always holds our hands when we’re near moving cars,” he declared when Nick caught him.) Driving home, Emma felt ready for a nap.

  All afternoon Emma dreaded her brother’s return home, and when he finally arrived she was glad to be on the floor playing with his children like a good aunt.

  “Hey,” he said. “I let Mom and Dad know you’re here. They want to Skype with us at six.”

  “Okay.” God, the thought of dealing with Max and her parents all at once was overwhelming. Maybe the two stressors would cancel each other out.

  Max murmured something about a shower and shuffled upstairs. He remained absent through their early dinner—a slew of neighbors who were still without power showed up, and Alysse made chicken Marsala, plus pasta for Nick and the kids. Emma was amazed at her sister-in-law’s composure serving dinner for a dozen; it had once taken Emma a week to prep a dinner party for eight, then another week to recover.

  Max resurfaced at 5:55, grabbed a leftover drumstick, and launched Skype. Emma sat down next to him. In silence they waited for their parents. Emma kept wanting to say something—that she hadn’t meant half of what she’d said the night before, that in fact she was in awe of her brother and the life he’d built, that she couldn’t imagine the responsibility of feeding and caring for and raising two, and soon three, kids. She wanted to ask him about what he’d said, too—like at this point did he like living in their childhood home? And was he excited to have another child? But Emma felt tongue-tied, unable even to ask after the boy with the broken legs, the one Max had taken to the ER.

  At 6:10, their parents signed on. “Hey-a, kiddos,” said their mom, cheeks flushed. “We’re just in from a night of salsa dancing. Your father’s almost got the moves of those sexy Spanish men. They say it’s all in the hips.” She shimmied before the screen.

  “Are you drunk?” Max asked. Emma realized it was after midnight in Spain.

  “Oh no. Well, maybe just a little,” she tittered. Max seemed irritated, like he was the disapproving parent and their mom the naughty kid.

  “Hola, mis hijos.” Their dad appeared, hair matted with sweat to his forehead. “That hurricane is the talk of the town around here. All of our regulars have been asking if you guys are all right.”

  “It’s nice to hear that your customers are concerned about us,” Max said. Emma shot him a side smile. Their parents either missed or ignored the comment.

  “I’m just so glad you two are safe and sound. You both look healthy and happy!”

  Max filled them in on the neighborhood—the downed trees, the power outages, and how it was a good thing he’d installed a backup generator last winter.

&n
bsp; “Well, isn’t that lucky!” their mom said.

  “It’s not luck, Mom, it’s preparation.”

  “Sadly I wasn’t so well prepared,” Emma said. “Only thanks to the generosity of Annie and then Max and Alysse did we not basically drown in our home. Our landlord says our things were floating in our apartment.”

  “Really?” Max said. “Wow.”

  “You’ll figure it all out, Emma. You always do.” Their father flashed a thumbs-up. “It’s just great that the two of you are together. It’s so important to lean on family at a time like this.” Emma and Max exchanged a tentative glance; she couldn’t read her brother’s expression, but she felt a twinge of remorse.

  “Oh, that reminds me of a segment I heard on the news about a group of urban farmers in New York,” their mom said. “Apparently they’d set up a whole bunch of beehives at the Brooklyn Navy Yard along the East River, and the storm completely destroyed them. One million bees have lost their homes!”

  “Homeless bees, huh?” their dad said, winking. “Let’s hope they don’t go swarming after you guys.”

  “The worst part is,” their mom continued, “they were donated by some retired bee expert who’d made certain their genetics were top-notch.”

  “Meaning what, they were of Aryan descent?” Max asked. “How tragic, the beekeeper’s dream of a master race of bees doomed. What will we possibly do without all that genetically superior honey?”

  Emma laughed. She thought how she should always team up with her brother to talk to her parents; he made the experience much more bearable.

  “Oh, Emma, have you met with Sophia recently?”

  “No, Dad, my office has been closed this week.”

  “Because the entire city shut down!” Max said impatiently. “Not just the beehives! Did you not hear Emma? Her whole neighborhood has been obliterated, and after all she went through to find an apartment.” So this was Max’s apology, his standing up for her to their parents. Emma felt grateful.

  “And you guys should see Alysse,” she said, trying to return the favor. “She’s been cooking for the whole block, like, restaurant-style. She could be a professional chef.”

  “That Alysse has always been resourceful,” said their mom. “It’s a good thing we installed that high-quality oven back in the nineties.”

  “El horno está bueno,” said their dad. “Anyway, Emma, Sophia and I have been having a ball practicing our Spanish, and she told me all about her application to the art program. That girl thinks the world of you.” That was flattering to hear. Emma missed Sophia; in fact, she was surprised to realize that she missed many of her clients. After a week out of the office, she was itching to get back. “Mom and I were thinking how fun it would be to get more involved with teenagers, how energizing they can be.”

  “Not all of them,” Emma said. “Sophia’s sort of an exception.”

  “Ooh, maybe you guys could start an after-school beekeeping club for at-risk teens,” Max interjected. “I bet all those stings would be very character building.”

  “You could sell honey cakes at the bakery and donate the surplus,” Emma added. “Food banks are probably dying for shipments of top-notch, artisanal honey.”

  “That’s an idea,” their dad said, smirking. “Your mother and I would look dashing in those beekeeping suits. The hoods are very hip now, right, hon?”

  “All right, enough,” said their mom. “That’s the last time I tell the three of you an interesting news story. But, Emma, seriously, if you’re up for it, we were talking about investing in you to start up your own tutoring venture.”

  “And then you could call the shots on the type of clientele. Not just kids from Park Avenue.”

  “You could expand to Madison and Lexington, perhaps,” Max said.

  “Well, my point is,” said their dad, “you could broaden beyond the rich families who you say are always trying to buy their kids’ way into top colleges. And maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with those—what do you call them?—Hellios?”

  “Hellis,” Emma said. She was surprised to hear her dad repeat back all of this information; she’d never been sure he was listening when she talked about her job.

  “Right, Hellis. It was actually Sophia’s idea, investing in a company for you. She thought you might hire her on as an online tutor so she could earn some extra cash next year.” Emma smiled at Sophia’s savvy. She would actually be quite a good tutor.

  “Well, it’s something to think about,” Emma said. The idea of being her own boss was intriguing, although she thought of Max’s accusation, that she never stuck with any job for very long. She’d only been with 1, 2, 3 … Ivies! for a year.

  “Max-y, did the kids get our Halloween package? We sent it last week.”

  “Yes, thanks, Mom. They really loved it.”

  “Oh, good. Emma, I don’t think there’s any hope of your receiving our recent goodies for you, considering the weather and all.” She looked stricken. Emma thought again of Shelley saying she had their mail, how absurd it was that she’d probably get the knickknacks from her parents when the rest of her stuff might be destroyed. Hopefully the package included a water damage restoration kit. “All right, kiddos. We’ve got to get up early. The challahs won’t bake themselves. No rest for the weary.”

  After they signed off, Max began laughing. “God, they’re obsessed with those idiotic care packages.”

  “Speaking of which, I haven’t heard a peep from the kids about the package you claimed they loved so much.”

  “That’s because it went straight in the trash. Mom sent face paint that’s totally toxic. Plus enough candy to fill a convenience store. The kids, not to mention their teeth, don’t need all that junk.”

  “You’re kind of nuts, you know,” Emma said.

  “I’m not the one considering going into business with Mom and Dad. You’re the crazy one.”

  “No, Mom and Dad are crazy,” Emma said.

  “You’re right. Mom and Dad are crazy.” After a moment Max said, “So would you really do that, have them invest in you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. It would be nice to be able to take on other kinds of clients, and charge them on a sliding scale. Nick’s starting this tutoring program at his school that he wants me to help run. Maybe this would allow me to do that, join forces somehow.”

  “I bet you’d be great at running your own business.”

  “Really? That means a lot.”

  “Well, it’s true.” It felt strange to be so polite with each other, but at least they were working their way back to solid ground. “I’ll help you with any legal stuff, as long as you agree to take on the kids as clients one day, with a family discount, of course.”

  “We better get on that. In my professional opinion, kids do best on the SATs when they start studying by age three—four at the latest.”

  “Darn, I guess Caleb’s already screwed. Maybe we just forget the whole thing and resign ourselves to third-tier state schools. That would save me a few hundred grand.”

  “Yeesh, the cost of college tuition.”

  “Yeah, it stinks. Every once in a while I think of cashing out the kids’ savings accounts and blowing it all on a Ferrari.”

  “Alysse would be thrilled.”

  “I’d get her something, too. A necklace, maybe.”

  “She deserves more than a necklace for spending all day, every day with those nutso kids of yours. One morning alone with them and I was kind of ready to kill them.”

  “Nice, Em. If Caleb and Aimee get murdered, now I’ll know who to blame.”

  “What’s muh-duh?” Aimee appeared at the desk and climbed onto her dad’s lap.

  “Ah, that explanation seems most fitting for a father to give,” said Emma. She mussed her niece’s hair and got up. Max flung a pen at her back as she walked away.

  Chapter 29

  By Saturday, Emma felt as if she and Nick had moved in with Max’s family. She’d been helping Alysse with a food drive, and Nick w
as making progress teaching Caleb his letters. But Emma knew they were stalling the inevitable return to Brooklyn, avoiding going home and facing reality. Nick’s school was set to reopen on Monday, as was 1, 2, 3 … Ivies! So on Sunday afternoon, they all piled into the minivan, along with a box of clothing and food that Alysse had packed for them, and set out for Red Hook.

  They were quiet for most of the ride—even the kids seemed to sense the foreboding. Eventually Max flipped on NPR. They were airing an interview with a Brooklyn Grange beekeeper about his destroyed hives. Max and Emma began laughing hysterically. Caleb and Aimee caught the mood and started giggling, too.

  “What’s so funny?” Alysse asked. “I think it’s pretty sad about the bees.”

  “Who knows?” said Nick. “Apparently a Feit inside joke.”

  Their laughter died down as they turned off the BQE and the smell of gasoline kicked in. “Mommy, it stinks,” Aimee whined. Alysse shushed her. Entering Red Hook, Max slowed the car and they all peered out the windows at the wreckage. The scene didn’t seem quite real, as if it were a series of dioramas in a museum instead of Emma and Nick’s own neighborhood. The sidewalks were littered with debris, waterlogged furniture, and the occasional overturned car. The sides of buildings featured watermarks sometimes higher than the heads of passersby. Emma wasn’t sure if she was imagining that everyone looked exhausted, beaten down. Certain street corners were mobbed with people—those handing out supplies and those taking them. It felt like a third-world country, and Emma remembered Max’s comments, how he’d ridiculed her for moving to such a shithole. Now he said nothing.

  When the car pulled up to their address, the noxious odor had become intense. “You guys can come back to Westchester if you want,” Max said. “You could commute into the city with me. There are early trains to get you to school on time, Nick.”

  “Thanks, but no, we’ll be all right,” Emma said. Aimee had started whimpering again, and Caleb was becoming agitated, asking over and over what they were doing there. “You better get going before the troops revolt.”