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“Thinking you don’t have unhealthy patterns is an unhealthy pattern in itself. And everyone has something unhealthy from their childhood. If you don’t deal with it, it can ruin your life.”
I open the cantilevered doors to reveal the small kitchen and place the grocery bag onto the few inches of counter space next to the tiny sink. “What’s yours?” I ask.
“My mother.”
I find a bent skillet in the oven, pour in some oil, and light one of the two burners with a match. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“My father’s a shrink. And my mother is a perfectionist. She used to spend an hour every morning styling my hair before I went to school. Which is why I cut it and dyed it as soon as I could get away from her. My father says she suffers from guilt. But I say she’s a classic narcissist. Everything is about her. Including me.”
“But she’s your mother,” I say, placing the chicken thighs in the hot oil.
“And I hate her. Which is okay, because she hates me, too. I don’t fit into her narrow idea of what a daughter should be. What about your mother?”
I pause, but she doesn’t seem all that interested in the answer. She’s examining the collection of photographs Samantha keeps on the side table, with the zeal of an anthropologist who has suddenly discovered an old piece of pottery. “Is this the woman who lives here? Christ, is she an egomaniac or what? She’s in every photograph.”
“It is her apartment.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird when someone has photographs of themselves all over the place? It’s like they’re trying to prove they exist.”
“I don’t know her that well.”
“What is she?” Miranda sneers. “An actress? A model? Who has five photographs of themselves in a bikini?”
“She’s in advertising.”
“Another business designed to make women feel insecure.”
She gets up and comes into the kitchen. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
“I sort of had to.”
“My mother tried to teach me, but I refused. I rejected anything that could turn me into a housewife.” She leans over the skillet. “That smells pretty good though.”
“It will be,” I say, adding two inches of water to the pan. When it boils, I pour in the rice, add the tomato, then turn down the heat and cover the skillet. “And it’s cheap. We get a whole meal for four dollars.”
“Which reminds me.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two one-dollar bills. “My share. I hate owing anyone anything. Don’t you?”
We go back into the living room and curl up on either end of the couch. We light cigarett
es, and I inhale contemplatively. “What if I can’t become a writer and I have to get married, instead. What if I have to ask my husband for money? I couldn’t do it. I’d hate myself.”
“Marriage turns women into whores,” Miranda declares. “The whole thing is a sham.”
“That’s what I think too!” I can hardly believe I’ve found someone who shares my secret suspicions. “But if you let people know, they want to kill you. They hate the truth.”
“That’s what happens to women when they go against the system.” Miranda fumbles awkwardly with her cigarette. I can tell she’s not really a smoker, but maybe, because everyone else in New York smokes, she’s trying it out. “And I, for one, plan to do something about it,” she continues, coughing.
“What?”
“Haven’t decided yet. But I will.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re going to be a writer. You can change people’s perceptions. You should write about marriage and what a lie it is. Or even sex.”
“Sex?” I grind my cigarette out in the ashtray.
“Sex. It’s the biggest sham of all. I mean, your whole life, all you ever hear is how you’re supposed to save yourself for marriage. And how it’s so special. And then you finally do it. And you’re like, that’s it? This is what everyone’s been raving about?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Come on,” she says. “You’ve done it.”
