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“Well, dreamsdocome true when you want them badly enough.”
Oh, Nicky, is that what you really believe?I wish I could ask her. “What’s up?” I say instead.
“Just checking in. You must be getting excited, right? Matt and I can’t wait for the opening.”
“Yeah, and I’m so glad you’re both coming.”
“Are you going to be speaking to the crowd? I mean, about your artwork?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Josh, the gallery owner, will make a few remarks and I basically only have to say thank you after that.”
“Oh.”
I can almost picture her mouth in a little moue of disappointment. Nicky has no idea how much being in a gathering of five or more people petrifies me, let alonespeakingin that kind of situation. I used to wonder if opening up to her about how bad my anxiety has become might actually help ease it, like lancing a fetid wound, but eventually decided that wouldn’t do any good and might even add to my angst. Despite how empathetic and caring Nicky is, she doesn’t always let your truth win over hers. If I confessed right now that nothing would make me want to say more than a few words at the opening, that if I was forced to do it my heart might explode in my chest, she’d try to convince me that I’d be brilliant on my feet if I only gave it a chance.
“What’s up with you these days?” I ask, switching subjects. “You and Matt going to do anything for Halloween this year?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a party to go to. How ’bout you? Are you going to be dressing up?”
“No, Tuna nixed the costume idea. She just wants to do a quiet night at home.” I realize suddenly that Nicky must have barely gotten in the door from work, so it seems a little odd that she’s calling me now. “Was there anything specific you wanted to talk about?”
“Nope, just saying hello. Oh, there is one thing, though. Mom said you’d suggested that we all go to dinner after the reception. That would be so nice, but I think she and Dad are worried that by the time the event is over, it will be close to eight o’clock and if we eat after that, we won’t get home until super late.”
Ahh, therealreason for the call. Nicky had better never cheat on Matt or spy for the United States of America, because she’s the world’s worst liar.
“Would they want to do it before the show?” I ask. I’d been planning to arrive at the gallery even before six, but I could probably pull off an early dinner.
She pauses. “I don’t think that’s going to work, either. Dad is nervous about driving into the city during rush hour, and he wants to make this particular trip a quick one.”
Thisparticular trip, huh? It’s not as if there have been any others. David and my mother never come into the city, either to see me or do anything else.
“Right. Maybe it would be better if you all took the train?”
“I know they considered that, but you know how long it takes, and Penn Station is so far from the gallery.”
She seems to have an answer for everything. Picking up my pace a little, I can tell that my cheeks have started to flush with shame. It’s clear that my mother has no interest in celebrating my accomplishment on Tuesday night, and Nicky has been recruited to be the messenger, as usual. And as usual, she’s trying her hardest to cushion the blow.
“Got it,” I say. “I should let you get on with the evening.”
“Thanks, Sky. And see you Tuesday, okay?”
“Yup, see you then.”
I end the call and drop the phone in my purse, still feeling the heat in my cheeks. Am I just being defensive, too quick to see anything my mother does as a sign that she hasn’t forgiven me, or even worse, has ceasedlovingme? I try to view the situation from her perspective. Driving into New York at rush hour is certainly not something I’d enjoy doing, and Nicky was right about the train. Station to station, the trip can take over three hours, and the cab or Uber downtown would add a minimum of thirty minutes, and that’s just one way.
Let it go, I tell myself. At least my mother is coming. And I’m still hoping she’ll be impressed by what she sees.
After a quick stop at the deli, I finally reach my building. The street is bustling with the usual mix of hipsters, students, tourists, and weirdos, but I still check behind me at the base of the steps, and then again as I unlock the front door. Of course, I don’t even know who or what I’m looking for.
There’s no one in the stairwell or corridors, and the building feels deserted, though on the second-floor landing I pick up muted bickering from behind a closed door. Reaching my floor, I pull back with a start to see something taped to my door: a handwritten note. After glancing around, I move close enough to read it.
To my relief I see Mikoto’s name at the bottom and the message, “Can you drop by?” above it.
Without stopping at home, I make my way to her apartment and knock a few times. Seconds later she eases the door open an inch, and then, seeing it’s me, removes the chain and swings the door all the way open, greeting me with a smile. She’s wearing a white sweatshirt and yoga pants..
“I have some names for you from my uncle,” she announces. “Want to come in?”
“Sure,” I say, stepping inside.
