Chapter 21
The drive to Micah’s parents’ reminded me of something out of the The Sopranos until we got into Woodbridge where all the houses we passed had a similar weary look. His driver parked behind two other cars, and before we got out Micah stopped me for a second. He took my hand and winced. “This is going to be weird.”
Instead of going up to the front door, he walked around the side through a gate and into the backyard. As soon as we closed the gate, a woman screeched, “Micah’s here!” A tall blonde rushed over and grabbed Micah’s face in her hands, fussing over his weight and his lack of communication for a full minute before she seemed to even notice I stood beside him.
Clearly Micah’s mom. It was uncanny how much Micah took after her. After seeing him next to Eden, I didn’t know what to expect. Mrs. Sinclair looked like she’d stepped out of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine from the fifties. Hollywood sunglasses and an oversize sun hat shrouded her face. Maybe my reputation for shooting candid photos had preceded me, but I didn’t have my work camera with me. And if I had, Andy wouldn’t want any photos of Micah’s mom anyway.
I was glad I’d put on a sundress, ignoring Micah’s pleas for me to wear the piece of cloth he’d bought me at the flea market. I’d worn that for about five minutes the night before—five minutes before he’d peeled it right back off me.
“And who’s your friend?”
“Mom, this is Josie. Josie, Mom.”
I put on my sweetest meet-the-parents smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair.”
She waved her hand, “Oh, you can call me Peg.”
Eden had already arrived and sat on the patio next to an older man I assumed must be their dad. He was reading an actual newspaper.
Peg hollered over. “Look, Howard. Micah’s brought a girl with him.”
Micah’s dad folded back his newspaper. “I have eyes, Peg.”
Peg wasn’t having it. “Howard.”
Howard grunted and put the paper down. Then I saw the dark hair that Eden had inherited. From what I could tell, she’d also gotten a fair portion of her dad’s more withdrawn personality. Micah claimed all the bubbling vivaciousness from their mother.
When Howard came around to shake my hand, he did a solid job of pretending he wasn’t put out. “It’s very nice to meet you, Josie.” And then he retreated to his chair and disappeared behind his paper.
Secretly, I loved this display of long-suffering matrimony. Ridiculous as it might seem, this was my dream. I had no use for empty professions of love. I wanted a committed relationship through good times and bad, in sickness and in health. Not for as long as we both had swooping feelings. Couples like Peg and Howard might seem bored with each other on the surface, but I’d observed enough older couples to recognize an invisible yoke tied them together and made them as dependent on one another as if they were a pair of conjoined twins.
Peg looked from Micah to me and back. “So where did you meet?”
Micah’s eyes twinkled. “She was walking the street.”
Undaunted, Peg followed up. “Which street?”
Micah led me over to the patio table and held out a chair for me. Eden greeted me with a wicked grin. “Hey. I noticed our trick didn’t pan out.”
Micah said, “She’s got you turning tricks, too?”
“Goodness! Look how pretty Josie’s hair is,” Peg said. “Eden, look at how she manages to keep her curls so untangled. What do you use, Josie?”
Eden’s rueful expression nearly made me do a spit take. I got the feeling this wasn’t the first time she’d been on the receiving end of an inadvertent insult. Her mouth twisted into a half smile. “Come inside, Josie. There’s plenty of food.”
Peg’s hands flew up. “Oh, yes. Come on inside.”
All of us except Howard went in through the sliding doors into a family room that had time-traveled from the 1970s. I followed along to a more recently renovated kitchen. On the island sat an assortment of choices: a Crock-Pot filled with melted cheese and specks of red pepper, a casserole dish of miniature hot dogs in some kind of brownish-red molasses, fried white bread filled with either mayonnaise or cream cheese, and bags upon bags of chips.
“Help yourself,” said Peg. “And we have strawberry soda, or if you’d like, I can make you a nonalcoholic margarita.”
“What’s in that?”
“Mostly sour mix and 7UP.”
I stared at all the poison, trying to figure out the nicest way to insult this woman. But then Micah casually announced, “She can’t eat any of that, Mom. She’s diabetic.”
Eden frowned. “Lucky.”
Peg declared, “My cousin’s diabetic. She has to get shots every day. Do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Micah laughed. “She’s part robot.” He went to the fridge and started pulling things out. “How about some milk and . . .”
It was cute watching him try to figure out what I could eat based on the limited time he’d spent with me. He pulled out celery and peanut butter and a deviled egg.
“Mom, do you have any wheat bread or crackers?”
Eden said, “Can you fix me something, too?”
Peg touched Eden’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay, Eden? You look a little pale.”
“I always look pale, Mom.”
“You’re not sick, are you?”
Eden made eye contact with me for a second. “I’m fine, Mom.”
Once Micah handed us each a plate and a cup of milk, Eden said, “Come with me, Jo. I want to show you those pictures I told you about.”
She walked toward the front of the house into a sitting room where a digital frame flipped through random pictures of Micah and Eden. Some were from when they were children. Micah held a guitar in most of them. But when he didn’t, he made funny faces or stood in front of accidentally inappropriate road signs or intentionally inappropriate props.
“Aw. That was taken the summer before Micah left home.” A younger version of Eden and Micah sat on the driveway in front of this very house. Eden’s hair was shorter, curlier. Her arms and legs were sticks. The girl next to me now had filled out, or she was putting on weight.
“How are you feeling?”
Her hand passed over her belly reflexively. “Good. I mean, I’m sick half the time, but the doctor says everything’s fine.” She dropped her voice. “I heard the heartbeat on Friday. I wish Adam could’ve been there. But he’ll be home this week.”
“So . . . you really are pregnant?” It weirded me out that of all the people in this house—her entire family—the only person who knew her secret was me—the tabloid media, her enemy.
Her laugh came out like she’d been given the Heimlich maneuver, fast and hard. “Did you think I was lying?”
I shrugged. “When we first met, all you knew was that I worked for Andy. Knowing your history, it crossed my mind you might have set me up to hand him a story that could be easily proven false.”
She touched my wrist. “I want you to know that I’ve grown to trust you, but you’re right that at first, I worried.” She sighed. “Nothing personal, but it wasn’t ideal having you of all people discover us. We were idiots to talk about it while you were wandering around. I appreciate that you kept it quiet.”
“Of course.”
“I would’ve loved to tell my family about it today, but next week is soon enough. Adam will want to be here. He’ll get all the credit and move one more rung up the ladder of my mom’s esteem.”
“It’s great news.”
“Speaking of my mom’s esteem . . . I finally had something over Micah, and then he turns up with you.”
“What do you mean?”
She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “You have no idea.” She sat in one of the wingback chairs and tucked her bare feet under her knees. “She used to nag at me relentlessly to find a guy. Any guy. Seriously, she couldn’t let it go. But Micah could do nothing wrong.” She chuckled. “Thank God for Adam.”
“Hasn’t Micah ever brought home a girl?”
She stood and walked to the edge of the room to peer up the hall. “Listen. About that email I sent you last week . . .” She blew out her lips. “I’m glad I didn’t make you go running for the hills. But I was right, wasn’t I? I mean, he looks like he’s on a sugar high whenever he sees you.”
“He’s the most transparent person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“I still don’t know what he sees in me. It’s hard to keep up.”
She bit her lip and appraised me a moment. “I really like you, Jo. But I hope you’ll be careful with him.”
I still didn’t know if she was worried about me or Micah. “I’m trying.”
Micah hollered up the hall. “Did you guys leave?” He entered the living room. “Come outside with everyone. Mom wants to take a picture of us.”
I glanced at the picture frame as we walked out, wondering if one day my face would rotate through, marking today, frozen forever this way. Or would I rotate right back out of Micah’s life?
Peg stood in the yard, fussing with a string of Christmas lights that inexplicably decorated her rose bushes. She waved us over and proceeded to pose us in various configurations: Micah with Eden, Micah with me and Eden, Micah with me.
Between shots, she stared at the camera, perplexed. “Howard, I don’t think this is working. I click it, but I don’t see a flash”
Howard didn’t look up from his paper. “Peg, it’s broad daylight. You don’t need a flash.”
I should have offered to take the pictures for her, but I got the feeling she enjoyed the whole ceremony of it. She pushed me next to Eden, saying, “I wish Adam could have been here. Where’d he go this time?”
Eden shrugged off Peg’s attempts to lay her hand on my arm. “He’s in Japan, Mom.”
Peg took three steps back and peered into the viewfinder. I cringed when she put her finger over the lens. “I don’t understand why he’d want to spend so much money to fly to Japan just to play music.” She snapped the picture and then held the camera a foot from her face. “Howard, the pictures are all pink, now.”
“Mom, they pay Adam to play music in Japan, too.”
Peg handed the camera to Howard to mess with. Howard laid down his paper and weighed in on the conversation. “Micah makes a good living, and he’s never gone for long. Why can’t Adam play closer to home?”
Eden’s lips were so firmly pinched, I thought she might pull a muscle in her face.
Micah stepped in, “Adam’s band is world famous, Mom. I’d love to headline a show in Japan.”
Peg poured herself a glass of some bright green concoction with floating chunks of squares I hoped were fruit—pineapples? “Micah, how could you court such a lovely young lady if you’re running all over the world?” I blushed to the roots of my hair and stared at my shoes. She added, “It’s a wonder Eden ever managed to set a date for her wedding.”
My head jerked up, and I looked from Eden to Peg. Howard had handed the camera back to Peg, and she messed with the settings again, completely oblivious of the bomb ticking down around her. If I asked her the date, I’m sure she would have told me. What could Eden do? And why shouldn’t I ask it? Eden held my gaze.
Howard broke the silence. “Peg, I don’t think the kids are announcing their wedding date.”
Peg pursed her lips. “Oh, well. We’re with family. There’s no reason to hide anything here.” She raised the camera, again. “Now, everyone smile.”
After a nice afternoon with the Sinclair family, the driver picked us up to take us to Park Slope. On the way, Micah’s phone rang, and he winced when he glanced at the call screen. “This can’t be good.” He hit Answer, “Hi, Sandy. What’s on fire?” The voice on the other end sounded like a mosquito, shrill and busy. “Right. I know, but—” He dropped his head in defeat. “Okay. It won’t.” And he hung up.
I took his hand. “Trouble?”
“My agent. She’s pissed about how I handled Jim yesterday. She said she knew about the disgruntled fan blog but wasn’t worried because nobody takes that site too seriously. And it would have blown over if I hadn’t given him anything to go back to his blog with.”
I shrugged. “FanBlogger? You probably wouldn’t even be able to find that through a Google search. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Yeah. I’m not.” His face said otherwise.
“You’re always amazing with fans. It’s not like they’ll all turn on you overnight because some people are telling stories on some remote blog.” When that didn’t seem to reach him, I added, “I can promise you it’s nothing Andy would ever want to pursue. Small potatoes.” But in all honesty, if Micah’s agent had found the story, Andy would have, too. And during a slow news week, he could very well milk a story that made Micah appear like an ungrateful brat. And he’d probably expect me to back it up.
Micah wrapped his arms around me. “Seriously. It’s no big deal.” But the air sparked with nervous energy, and we rode in silence for a while.
When his phone rang again, he sat up and spoke in monosyllabic answers.
“Yes.”
“Six.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
This time, he hung up smiling.
“What was that?”
“You have to wait and see.” The mischievous tone returned to his voice. He asked the driver to turn on the radio and started singing along with a Steve Miller Band song, ignoring my interrogating eyes. I leaned my head against him and felt his shoulders relax.
When we got to his place, he practically giggled as he unlocked the front door. Heavenly smells floated from inside his apartment, and he dragged me to his kitchen.
I followed confused. “What’s going on?”
A stranger stood in the kitchen wearing a white chef coat and chopping an onion. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said to me. “Sir.”
Micah’s glee exploded all over his face. “Josie, this is Pratosh. He’s going to cook for us.”
“Pratosh?” I tested out the rusted hinges on a gate that had closed years before and asked, “Nia Malayi kunnu?” Are you Malayali?
Without glancing up from the counter, he asked, “Nia Malaya sansarikkumea?”
I tried to come up with the response, but it had been too long. “No, I can’t anymore.” Time had eaten away at another connection to half my identity and stolen another piece of my dad away from me.
Micah’s eyebrows pressed together as he tried to make sense of the conversation, so I filled him in. “He asked if I speak Malayalam. You hired a Malayali chef?”
“I thought I’d surprise you with something completely different.”
I shook off the unwanted emotional intrusion. “I haven’t spoken Malayalam since—” My traitorous voice made me sound upset when I wasn’t.
Micah looked horrified. “Oh. I’m sorry. I figured—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a lovely reminder. I haven’t had Kerala cuisine since I was a kid.”
I scanned the foods lining the counter, surprised that it all looked like something I could eat. After the afternoon at Micah’s mom’s, I’d worried I was always going to be rummaging through cabinets for leftovers and accidentally edible extras. “Pratosh, this all looks wonderful. Thank you.”
Pratosh placed a bowl in front of Micah. “I’m mixing together ginger, green chilies, turmeric, and coconut milk.” He stirred the mixture and handed the bowl to Micah.
I tilted my head as Micah began to whisk the ingredients. His ebullient grin returned. “Pratosh is going to teach me to cook.”
It wasn’t lost on me that what Pratosh was teaching Micah to cook was healthy food. Pratosh emptied a plastic bag of shrimp into another bowl. “Ma’am, do you eat shrimp?”
“Yes, Pratosh. I love shrimp.”
He rinsed the shrimp and passed them to Micah. “Drop these into the sauce to coat.”
They worked together cooking the shrimp, tossing the salad, plating the meal, and serving it onto the table.
Micah set out glasses. “What do we have to drink, Pratosh?”
“Strawberry-lemon-infused water, sir.”
Pratosh set a pitcher of pink water on the table, and Micah poured me a glass.
I took a sip. “Wow. This is amazing, Pratosh. Do you know how much sugar is in this?”
“Three grams per glass, ma’am.”
“Unbelievable.” It tasted sweet and so cold and delicious.
Micah couldn’t contain his happiness. “You like it?”
I leaned over the corner of the table and met him for a kiss. “I can’t believe you did this. It’s incredible.”
“Pratosh, what’s for breakfast?”
“It’s a surprise, sir.”
Breakfast? “Pratosh, are you staying here?”
“No, ma’am.”
Micah explained. “Pratosh specializes in tailored menus. I hired him to come cook us dinner, but also teach me to fish, so to speak. I don’t want you to have to dig up peanut butter and crackers ever again.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I’m blown away.”
“Oh, and Pratosh, did you do the other thing?”
“Yes, sir.” Pratosh opened the fridge and displayed a stack of plastic restaurant-like boxes. He pulled one out. Inside, he’d packed an assortment of small foods. It looked like an elaborate snack box. The one he showed me had a small sandwich of some variety made with wheat bread, a couple of carrot sticks, a small box of milk, and almonds.
Micah said, “So you don’t go hypo.”
“Go hypo?” I cracked up. “Have you been researching?”
“I wanted to understand what you’re dealing with. I don’t know how you do it, Josie. I’d lose my mind. But you just deal with it. You’re incredible.”
“You are. I am overwhelmed.”
“Well, let’s eat. The shrimp is getting cold.” He looked over at our chef. “Pratosh, how do you say shrimp in Mala—” He made a face at me.
I helped him out. “Malayalam.”
Pratosh said, “Cem’mn.”
Pratosh and I exchanged an amused glance when Micah tried to repeat it. Undaunted, he asked, “How do you say, ‘You have beautiful eyes.’”
“Nia maneaharamaya kaukau.”
Micah’s face dropped. “What about just ‘beautiful.’”
“Maneaharamaya.”
Micah repeated it, kind of. Close enough anyway.
I said, “Nandi. It means ‘thank you.’”
“Why do you get the easy one?”
I ran my finger across his cheek. “Micah, you are maneahara-maya. And not bad looking either.”
As we ate, I told him more about my trip to Kerala as a child. “I was only there for a week, but those memories are more vivid to me than most of my memories of high school.”
“We should go there.”
“I’d love to go there with you.” I pictured myself introducing Micah to my dad and wondered if we’d end up in the same shouting match Dad had had with his father. It’s funny who we let influence our lives.
I thanked Pratosh for the wonderful meal and said to Micah, “It was sweet of you to do all this. Thank you for going to all the trouble.”
“You asked.” He poured himself another glass of the strawberry-lemon drink.
“What?”
“The first night you stayed here. Or that morning. You asked me to have more food.”
“I did?”
“You scared the hell out of me that morning. This is something I can do, Josie. This doesn’t have to be so hard. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I want to make you happy. And healthy. And just . . . here.”
After we burned off the calories from supper and spent ourselves so thoroughly Micah fell asleep even before me, I snuggled against him and processed everything I’d experienced during the day. Micah’s family proved that he’d been raised with an example of a long-term stable relationship, and yet so far in his life, he’d chosen to pursue short-lived shallow affairs that meant nothing. Why had he singled me out for his first attempt at something real?
Meanwhile, I was the offspring of a broken home, always on high alert to stay away from anyone who might turn out to be like my dad. So why had I gone straight for the one guy who’d burned through probably dozens of women, proving time and time again that he couldn’t be counted on to make a failing romance work?
More importantly, why was I letting him lure me in?
It troubled me that I wasn’t troubled. Despite all the historical evidence against him, I wanted to trust Micah. But I couldn’t figure out for sure whether my desire to trust him was blinding me to any warning signs. Was it all wishful thinking?
If I told him I’d had fun, but now I wanted to move on, would he let me go like he had with so many others? Or would he fight for me?
He made a snuffling sound and threw his arm up over his head—something I’d noticed he only did when he was here in his own bed, safe and content.
Tomorrow after work, I’d talk to him about how I was feeling. I closed my eyes and lay awake for another hour, already rehearsing every word.