“I waitedplentyof rings. How’s my girl? Are you eating?”
“I’m eating right now.” Technically. “Pizza, there’s tomato on it. That’s produce.”
“Tomato on a pizza is not produce.”
“It started as produce. It had dreams.”
She laughs, and I can hear the kitchen behind her, the specific clink of her doing three things while she talks to me because she’s never once in her life sat still for a phone call. “Did you finish your article?”
“It’s coming along.”
“That means no.”
“It meansalong.It’s a journey.”
“Mm.” She lets it go, which is its own kind of love, the not-pushing. “You sound tired, baby. Are you sleeping? Are you getting out at all? Margaret’s son is back in the city, you know, he’s anengineernow —”
“I’m not dating Margaret’s son.”
“I didn’t say date him. I said he’s an engineer. I’m allowed to share community news.”
“You’re allowed. I’m allowed to hang up.”
“You wouldn’t.” She’s right. I wouldn’t. “I just worry about you in that apartment all alone with that plant.”
“Gerald’s excellent company.”
“Gerald is a houseplant, Elara.”
“And he’s never once asked if I’m dating Margaret’s son.”
That gets the real laugh, the one that goes up at the end, and for a second I can see her exactly — flour somewhere on her, phone pinned to her shoulder, the dish towel over the oven handle that has been there since before I could reach it.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “I’ll stop. I just miss your face.”
“I miss yours too, Mom.”
“Send me a picture. A real one, not the ones where you’re making the face.”
“All my faces are real faces.”
“Send me one where you look like you slept.”
“That narrows it down to never.”
“Elara.”
“I love you. Go finish whatever you’re stirring.”
“It’s not stirring, it’s a roux, it requires my attention.” She sighs. “Write your article. Eat a vegetable. Call me Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
“Love you, baby.”
“Love you.”
And then the line goes quiet, and so does the apartment.
