I am pushing the Yoyo down Fourteenth Street in a wintry mix when Penelope calls on FaceTime. I pull in at Union Square Park, past a group of Falun Gong protestors, to answer. I sit on a bench near a man with an overgrown beard who is hitting everyone up for an egg salad sandwich and rambling that George Soros planted a microchip in him. Penelope appears to be lying under a weighted blanket. I’ve been avoiding her calls.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks.
I fiddle with the Velcro on the side of the stroller. Yes, you treated me like the help and I have no idea why we are still friends. “Why would I be mad at you?”
“You just left so fast and haven’t returned my calls.”
“Sorry.”Whyyyyyy, Emily Joan? Why are you apologizing?
“Honestly, don’t even worry about it. Postpartum depression is real.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“You didn’t miss much. Char spitting out the soup was a real highlight, so thanks for that. Piper, oh my God, going on and on about some room mom at Trinity who she hates and the guys just talked about the markets and playing Bethpage. When did we all get so boring?”
“Yeah. I figured there’d at least be a throuple in the mix.”
“You’d think. But that crowd doesn’t even do orgies. Too many thank-you notes.” I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
Freezing rain starts to fall. I pull my hood up and cover Holden in the Babylo Universal Raincover. Penelope hasn’t noticed. “We’re gone for ski week, then the holidays, but let’s do something when I get back, just us—”
I walk toward the train. “I gotta go.”
“—something fun. Nobody’s fun anymore.”
“Yeah, cool. I’m down.” Would I be taking Beau’s drink orders at said fun event?
I am soaked and shivering and getting knocked around and picking Sophie the giraffe up out of a thick puddle. I am staring down at the gaping jowls of the subway stairs with a wet, screaming eight-month-old. Penelope always reminds me of my place in the world. I am a person who can’t do it. I can’t tell Penelope off. I can’t get to the uptown subway platform. I can’t even give a man an egg salad sandwich.
I notice Daisy leaning against the railing. I try to keep my face as still as possible. I don’t want Daisy to see how much I’ve missed her. How much I need her. How I don’t know what to do without her.
“You look like you could use a ride.”
I wipe my wet hair from my face. Sophie is covered in grime. Holden is screaming his head off, thrusting at the plastic, reaching for Sophie. “What makes you say that?”
Daisy smiles, reaching her open arms our way. I give her a hug, inhaling her scent, her presence, when I realize that she was reaching to take the Yoyo off my hands. I try to play it off. To not look too desperate. Five minutes later, I am strapping Holden into the Mercedes and Daisy and I climb into the back seat.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess the Audrey thing freaked me out.”
“Don’t even worry about it,” Daisy says, smiling.
I don’t want to kill the moment, but I have to ask, “Where did Brit go?”
“Who? Wait. Is she the one who’s always plié-ing around the place?”
“What did you do to her?” I ask. I hadn’t meant to sound so pointed, but it’s too late. Daisy cracks up.
“I didn’tdoanything to her. Who do you think I am, Em? Your girl wouldn’t stop asking questions. You aren’t believing that shit, right? I do let them leave.” Daisy flicks her cigarette out the window. “She probably moved back to Alabama or Arkansas or whatever. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Daisy shoots me a tricky smile. “I guess ‘y’all’ weren’t as close as you thought.”
I don’t tell Daisy about the disconnected number, the stack of mail on theHowdydoormat. I don’t tell her about overhearing Brit and Audrey fighting in the bathroom. Or that I thought I saw her in the kitchen fiddling with one of those slim voice recorders she uses for auditions. Daisy doesn’t own me. She has secrets. I have secrets, too. Anyway, how much can you ever know about a friend? About anyone?Neither of us speaks for a while. I feel the question that I’ve been asking myself for weeks bubble up and explode before I can stop it. “What do you do up there anyway? In the penthouse?”
“See? You can’t leave anything to mystery, Em. It makes life very dull.”
“Can we just not talk?” I look out the window, pouting.
