“Ooh,” Poppy said. “Very majestic.”
It was beautiful—but my stomach did an uncomfortable flip, and my ears felt as if a sudden change in air pressure had occurred.
“Zelda, you okay?” Berron asked.
“Fine,” I said, wanting to enjoy the rare sight but also wanting to turn down the next crossing and stop looking at it altogether. I didn’t make sense even to myself.
When we finally reached the end of 41st and had to turn north, past the United Nations building, I tried to breathe in relief. Instead, my breath caught like I had a stitch, and as we doubled back to head for the Lincoln Tunnel, I felt like the sun, in the rear-view mirror, was actually crawling up my scalp.
It was so distracting I hit the brakes too hard at a stoplight, throwing everyone forward. “Sorry!” I said. I took my hands off the wheel and shook them out. Get it together, Zelda. “Where do you want me to drop you?” I asked Berron.
“Anywhere after 10th Avenue. I’ll walk from there,” he said.
The rise in traffic noise felt too much. Too loud. The rising sun too bright. Was this what a migraine felt like? I’d never had one before.
The SUV glided through the city blocks. When we passed 10th Avenue, I pulled over.
Berron jumped out and turned back. “Have a safe flight. I hope we get to see you again soon.”
Traffic stopped behind us and cars began to honk enthusiastically.
Mom threw open her door and grabbed Berron in an impromptu hug. “It was wonderful to meet you.”
“Mom, we have to go—”
“All right, all right, Zelda, don’t get your underwear in a twist.” She got back in and waved cheerfully out the window.
Berron grinned and waved back.
We pulled away and quickly outdistanced Berron, even with his long stride.
I joined the arteries of traffic that fed into the Lincoln Tunnel. As we crept forward, walls of brick rose on both sides of the road. Although the tunnel was lit on the inside, from the outside it looked like a black hole. Police cars were stationed on either side of the final approach.
“Do tunnels bother you?” Poppy asked.
“Bother me?”
“You know—the small space, all that repetitive white tile. The feeling of the whole city pressing down on your head, and then all that water once you’re actually underneath the Hudson…”
“No, tunnelsdidn’tbother me. Not until you decided to help me out with a really unpleasant description.”
“Oops! Sorry,” Poppy said.
The car entered the tunnel. Natural morning light gave way to sickly, eye-searing fluorescence. White tile whipped by. The buildings overhead pressed down; we had only a short distance before the tunnel began the actual river crossing.
I’d be fine once we were out in the air again.
I glanced over at Mom.
Mom looked… green. The fluorescent lights?
“Mom, are you okay?” She had that look on her face, the one you never want to see on the face of an aging parent: trying to look stoic for the sake of your kid, even if your kid is a grown adult. “Mom? Talk to me.”
Her small form was slipping down in the plush passenger’s seat. “I don’t feel very well…” Her head rolled unsteadily from side to side, like she couldn’t hold it up.
“Poppy, I think something’s wrong with—”
But Poppy cried out and clutched her head.
