The Middlesteins Part 8

"And after all that, he made his way to Germany, took one look at all the mishegas there, and got on a boat and spent four more weeks crowded together with a bunch of other Jews trying to get the h.e.l.l out of there, and the whole time he was still peeling that one potato."

"Was it a big potato to start?" said Emily, stifling laughter.

"It was a pretty big potato, I have to admit," said her grandmother. "But still! To only eat potato for such a long time, that's not that much fun, right?"

Emily nodded somberly.

"So by the time he got to America, he was just skin and bones. He barely made it alive." Her grandmother's voice started to quiver. "And he lost a lot of his friends and family along the way. You should have heard him talk about it. I'm sorry you didn't get to know him like I did. He was a really nice man. He wrote beautiful letters."

Emily took her grandmother's arm with her one good arm. They had one more lap to walk.

"But here is the point, Emily. Are you ready for the point?"

"Yes," said Emily.

"Even after traveling all that way, and even on a diet composed almost exclusively of potato skin, all that for months and months, your great-grandfather still showed up in America with a full head of hair," she said triumphantly. "So I don't know what the h.e.l.l is wrong with your father."

"Me neither," said Emily.

"I'm hungry. Are you hungry?" said her grandmother.

"Starving," said Emily.

"You must be famished after all that exercise," said her grandmother.

"Let's eat," said Emily.

"How do you feel about Chinese food?" said her grandmother.

How Emily felt about Chinese food was that it was mostly greasy but that she liked shrimp dumplings and that anything was better than what was being served in her house as of late, which was mainly (really, only) vegetables, sometimes raw, sometimes steamed, sometimes, if they were really lucky, stir-fried with just a hint of oil, and all this gross tofu that felt like cottage cheese in her mouth (cottage cheese for breakfast: also gross), all these meals designed to keep them trim and fit and elevate their levels of health, and to keep the diabetes bug away as if it were something you could catch rather than earn by eating gallons and gallons of junk food for years and years, which was clearly what her grandmother had done. But the way she felt that day was that one egg roll wouldn't hurt, and there was part of her that was embarra.s.sed to be at the high-school track, like she was some poser pretending she was already a student there.

So she and her grandmother sped home-suddenly they could both move extremely quickly-and hopped into the car and drove for a while, back past the high school, the giant digital marquee alluringly blinking in front of it about prom, baseball playoffs, the math club's bake sale, the future, Emily's future, taller, older, wiser, bigger, smarter, brighter, you are almost here, down roads she had never been down without her mother and father, except for school trips downtown, past the Chuck E. Cheese where she and her brother had a birthday party one year, past stores where she shopped with her mother sometimes (the Jewel grocery store where her mother shopped in a pinch when she didn't have time to make the trek to Whole Foods, a greeting-card shop because It's always important to send thank-you notes, a beauty-supply store where her mother bought expensive shampoos and face creams for cheap, the sporting-goods store where they stocked up on soccer shoes and shorts every spring, that mega-Target for school supplies but never clothes, her mother wouldn't let her be caught dead in Target clothes), past roads that went to nowhere in particular as far as Emily was concerned, though she supposed people lived this way and that, even if she didn't know who exactly, until her grandmother pulled in to a dirty little strip mall and up to a Chinese restaurant.

Through the window Emily could see that her Aunt Robin was already there, a pinched expression on her face, several manila folders in front of her on the table, and a gla.s.s of wine (Aunt Robin did like her wine, that was known in the family) in front of those. Her aunt was her favorite person in the world, behind her father (the most reasonable man on the planet) and her brother (wimpy or not, he was one half of the whole) and occasionally a friend at school who had proved herself to not be a total waste of time. Her aunt would probably be number one on the list if Emily saw her more often, but Robin made herself scarce most of the time, off in the city, which lent her a certain appeal as well, an air of mystery and cool, even if deep down Emily knew there were much technically cooler people in the universe. But still, Robin spoke to her as if she were an equal or at least not a child, and always had for as long as Emily could remember, and Emily had appreciated it (now more than ever) even though she had never said it out loud to her aunt.

Inside the restaurant Robin gave her a genuine smile, which then turned to a sour glance at Emily's grandmother.

"Got yourself your very own human shield, huh, old lady?" said Robin. Then she stood up from the table and hugged her niece, and they kissed on each cheek like ladies did in the movies, French ladies, or fashionable older ladies who lived in New York City.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Emily's grandmother, who lowered herself into a seat, Robin gently a.s.sisting her. "What's wrong with me spending time with my two favorite girls?"

"There's nothing wrong with it," said Robin. "I just thought we were going to discuss a few things here." She ran her hands over the manila folders sitting in front of her.

"You can talk about whatever you want to talk about," said Emily boldly. "I probably already know what you're going to talk about." She actually had little idea of what was going on, but she could only imagine that it was about her grandmother being sick, because everything was always about her grandmother being sick; it had been for months. Longer? Longer.

Robin exchanged a dark look with Edie, and then said, "You want to be the one explaining this to her mother?"

"Why don't you go wash your hands before dinner?" said Edie.

Emily made a b.i.t.c.hy little noise, a noise she had only recently started practicing and one that would get much, much better with age, but she got up resignedly and wandered through the empty restaurant, which she finally noticed was sort of cute, with its weathered wooden tables and sweet little gla.s.s bowls of pink flowers, and back toward the bathroom, pa.s.sing the kitchen doors, from which wild notes of jazz emanated, and she wondered where she was exactly, because it did not feel quite like anywhere she had been before.

In the bathroom, red, dimly lit, lavender-drenched, she used her one good arm to wash herself, her palms and her fingers, with hot water, and then her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, her neck, behind her ears, little drops dripping down onto her shirt. More soap and water, this time lifting her shirt up and splashing and scrubbing under her arms. Sometimes she felt like she could never get clean enough, but she didn't know why.

As it turned out, she felt that way because her mother had taught her to feel that way, and she'll figure that out eventually, in college, in New York, when her freshman-year roommate, a Spanish girl from Barcelona named Agnes, studying film just like she is, asks her why she is always washing up and Emily says, without even thinking, "Men like a clean girl," and then says quickly, "Oh, G.o.d, I sound just like my mother, how terrible," and the Spanish girl says, "And your mother maybe isn't even so right about this." Later Agnes will take her to a party in a loft building in Brooklyn, on the waterfront, and they will stand on the roof together holding hands amid other young, excited people like themselves, sweating, smoking, drinking, smiling, feeling extremely s.e.xy, and they'll look at the city in the distance, lit up magnificently, the length of it blowing their minds. They will try to figure out which bridge is which, and they will confuse the Manhattan Bridge with the Brooklyn Bridge. There will be a young bearded man playing cover songs on an accordion, and all the girls will want to sleep with him, except for the girls who want to sleep with the other girls. And then Emily will remember a story her aunt had told her about living in Brooklyn a long time ago, and hating it there, the noise, the dirt, the anger, and fleeing the city for home, Chicago, and never looking back, and all Emily can think is: She must have gone to the wrong Brooklyn. Because I never want to go home again.

But at age twelve the most important thing was whatever was right in front of her face, in this case herself, her eyes, the same eyes as her grandmother's and her aunt's, the sweet genetic strain tugging her back out the bathroom door and toward her family. Her grandmother and aunt were probably discussing great and important truths that would be relevant to Emily's being successful in her existence as an older (though not old) and wiser person. She arrived at the table just as Robin was tucking one envelope back into her bag.

"What was that?" Emily said breathlessly.

"Paperwork," said her grandmother, who, if she had been shaken at all, had quickly recovered.

"Are you guys having, like, a family secret?" said Emily. "Ooh, scary." There were still two folders left.

"Smart-a.s.s," said Robin.

"Where does she get it from, I wonder," said her grandmother, amused. "Do you want anything special?" She handed Emily a menu.

"I only like shrimp dumplings," said Emily.

"This place is pretty good," said her grandmother. "You should try more than that just to try it."

"Why should I eat if I don't want to?" said Emily.

"For the experience," said her grandmother firmly.

How's that experience working for you? Emily thought, and then blushed at her own cruelty, even if it was only internal.

Her aunt must have intercepted her thoughts in some sort of familial shortwave exchange, because she snapped, "She doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to." Robin drank the rest of her wine in one gulp, and she ran her hands across the tops of the folders. More quietly, she said, "Just get her the dumplings."

"It's not a big deal either way," said Emily. "I'll eat whatever."

"Get what you want," said Robin.

Emily looked at her gratefully. She appreciated the protection, which she had never felt like she needed until that moment, at least not from her grandmother. In a few years, her aunt would again protect her when the s.h.i.t really started to go down between Emily and her mother; there was screaming and yelling and one hair-pulling incident, and so it was decided that on certain weekends Emily would spend some time with her schoolteacher aunt and her boyfriend in their apartment downtown, because clearly Emily, who was so bright and so creative (and yet so good at math, a fact everyone always ignored), needed a wider cultural perspective, visits to galleries and museums and vintage stores and bookstores and independent movie theaters and so forth, and those visits once a month helped clear everyone's head, her mother's, her father's, Emily's, and those visits would have continued had her aunt not had the breakdown that one night, too much to drink, too sad, a lost baby in her belly that no one had known about except for her boyfriend, and it had been too much for her aunt to handle, mourning this thing she had known for only a few weeks, not even a baby, just an idea of a baby, and it had devastated her so much, too much, and it had scared Emily, to see someone who couldn't stop crying for so long into the night and through the next morning until her father could come pick her up, just one urgent phone call away. "You're welcome back whenever you like, as soon as she gets better," said Robin's boyfriend, Daniel, red-faced and sad himself, but by the time she was ready, after the brief hospital stay and the many therapy sessions, and the stopping and starting and stopping again of drinking, Emily was long gone to college.

"The dumplings are delicious," said her grandmother, embarra.s.sed, staring deeply at the menu. "You can't go wrong with the dumplings." Her grandmother ordered a few dishes from a cool-looking waitress who was maybe her aunt's age but looked younger with her purple-striped hair and high-legged lace-up leather boots and punky miniskirt. "And whatever else you think is good," she said. "But I wanted my granddaughter to try those dishes."

"Your granddaughter!" the waitress squealed, and then rushed to Emily's side, extending her hand, and Emily wondered why the waitress was so happy to see her. "Of course, look at all of you, three peas in a pod. The same eyes," she said. It was true: They all had the same dark eyes; Emily's were not damaged yet, though, no wounds burned deep within her, not like with the two women.

"Emily, this is Anna," said her grandmother.

Emily was still looking at the waitress's hand, specifically her nails, which were painted a sparkly purple color.

"She's a friend of mine," said her grandmother. "Go on, don't be rude. Shake her hand."

Emily reached out and shook the waitress's hand.

"I like your nail polish," she said, and she felt completely lame, but she had never been introduced to a waitress in her life. She knew her family and her friends at school and the people at the synagogue and some of her neighbors and her parents' friends and some random distant relatives, but people who worked out in the world, the people who served you at various stores and restaurants, were not people you befriended, not because you were better than they were (or they were worse than you), but because . . . she didn't know why because. Because they didn't quite exist for her yet. Maybe, just then, they started to exist.

"I've got the bottle in back," said Anna. "I can grab it for you, it's no trouble."

"Aren't you just so lovely," said her grandmother. "After we eat, of course."

Seven plates of food arrived soon after, plus three bowls of rice, but Emily ignored most of it, keeping her eye on the folders, and her aunt, who was watching her grandmother eat, while her grandmother ignored her and piled food on her own plate and ate and ate and ate, she didn't stop for nothing, head down, chopsticks in one hand, a spoon in the other, like it was a contest, like she was in a race, but it never seemed like she was going to finish, like her grandmother could eat forever and never get full. This is how you got that way, thought Emily, who ate only three dumplings, even though they were delicious, dewy and plump and slightly sweet, because she was beginning to feel sick watching her grandmother. She looked again at her aunt's face, and realized she was sick, too. Only the waitress, Anna, wasn't sick. She was cheerful, clearing the plates as her grandmother emptied them with efficiency. She was the only one who didn't know. Emily wondered if anyone was planning on telling her. She bet Anna would want to know.

With the post-dinner green tea (and just one more gla.s.s of wine for her aunt, she probably wouldn't even finish it) came the bottle of purple polish, and Emily quietly busied herself with her nails, dabbing and blowing delicately, working awkwardly with the cast, while her aunt opened the first folder.

"We're going to talk about your grandmother's health for a little bit," said Robin.

"Maybe we shouldn't do that in front of her," said her grandmother.

"Is it going to b.u.m you out?" said Robin.

"The whole thing is already a b.u.mmer," said Emily. Her grandmother started to cry. "Don't cry," said Emily, and then she started to cry, and so did Robin. Anna walked up with three dishes of ice cream, made a small, horrified expression with her mouth, and then walked away, silver dishes still in hand.

"Everyone cut it out," Robin said finally, dabbing her eyes with her napkin.

"It's going to be fine, honey," said her grandmother, who did not stop the tears dripping from her face. "Come here, bubbeleh." She extended her arms toward Emily, who slung her one good arm around her grandmother's torso and clung tightly.

"Breathe," said Robin. They did. They all breathed separately. They all breathed collectively. "Now, let's get down to business."

She opened the top folder. It was full of brochures. Spas, retreats, resorts.

"Fat farms," murmured her grandmother.

"You have to start somewhere," said Robin.

"I'm not going anywhere," said the older woman. "I don't want to leave my family right now."

"I've also got some information on nutritionists," said Robin. She pulled out a single slick sheet of paper that had a picture of a buff, smiling man with enormous teeth that somehow seemed whiter than the paper they were printed on. "This guy is supposed to be one of the best trainers in Chicago, and he specializes in cases like yours. He's in the suburbs on Tuesdays and Fridays."

"I already walk around the track almost every day," said her grandmother.

"You're going to need more than the track," said Robin.

"I'm doing the best I can," said her grandmother.

"This is the best you can?" said Robin angrily, motioning to the now-empty table.

"I like it here," whispered her grandmother. "These are my friends. You can't make me give up my friends."

Emily suddenly felt nervous; the humanity, the rawness of emotions of those she loved and revered, it was a lot to handle. She didn't want to know this yet. She said suddenly, "What's in the other folder?"

The two women looked at her. Robin smoothed her hand nervously over the table. "Maybe this is too much," she said. Emily reached out her good hand and quickly pulled the folder toward her, then flipped it open. Weight-loss surgery. Staples and tubes. "That's probably not for right now," said her aunt. "It could be for later this year." Robin paled, and rubbed her hands along the sides of her face. "It's not ideal. It's not entirely guaranteed, and any time you go in for surgery, you're putting yourself at risk." Robin could no longer look at her mother or her niece. "It's a way to go. It's not the way I would go. But it is a way to go. It's something to think about." She lurched forward and clutched at her mother. "Can't you just stop, please, stop, Mom, please?"

"Yes, please," said Emily.

Her grandmother squeezed her daughter's hands and released them. She closed both folders and laid them on the seat next to her, nodding to herself. "I promise you I will read all this tonight," she said.

"I'm going to call you tomorrow," said Robin. "First thing."

"Good," said her mother. "It is always a pleasure to hear from you." She finally wiped at her eyes with her napkin, then turned to Emily and said, "Have you ever seen a real restaurant kitchen before? Come on, come meet the chef."

The two of them walked back to the double kitchen doors, her grandmother knocking on one and then poking her head inside. "Yoo-hoo," she said. "Can we come in?" Emily stuck her head in, too, and Anna huddled in the corner of the gleaming white kitchen with an older Chinese man, wrinkled, tall, stooped, and worried-looking.

"Of course you can," said the man. "Of course, of course." He waved them in. "You are okay?" he asked her grandmother.

"Yes, we're just a bunch of emotional gals," she said. "It runs in the family."

"Three peas in a pod," Anna said.

"Three weepy peas," said her grandmother. "Emily, meet Anna's dad, Kenneth. This is his place. He's the chef."

The man, this stranger, though maybe not a strange man, but definitely not her grandfather, came toward her grandmother, took her hand, squeezed her hand, brushed it against his cheek, kissed it lightly, lowered it, leaned toward her, kissed her on her cheek, kissed her again on her cheek, then kissed her on the corner of her mouth, stopping just short of a full-mouth kiss, but it was not necessary, he had already done enough to show his intentions toward her grandmother, and when Emily looked at her grandmother's face, peachy and flushed and so clearly delighted, then watched as her grandmother leaned forward toward this man and fully, blatantly, kissed him on his lips, like she didn't even care that Emily was standing right there (with so many questions), Emily knew that there was no way her grandmother was ever going to go away to any fat farm or ever stop eating all that Chinese food, and Emily could not blame her, because if she had a man who looked at her like Kenneth looked at her grandmother and wanted to cook for her and kiss her all over her hands and cheeks and lips, she would stay with him forever and ever, until the day she died.

Middlestein in Love.

OH, BEVERLY, thought Richard Middlestein, daydreaming again of his first crush since sometime in the late 1960s, right before he met his wife (his estranged wife, to be precise) and gave up his life completely (or incompletely, as he had been thinking lately) to a woman he no longer loved. But here, now, he felt, as genuinely as he was capable of feeling, that he had a second chance at love with Beverly, formerly of the UK until a Chicagoan stole her away twenty years earlier, red-haired (still natural, even in her late fifties; this bowled him over), plump-cheeked, bold but not bra.s.sy, practical, smart, witty, clever even, half Jewish but on the right side, with big, batty, beautiful green eyes, lovely Beverly who made perfect sense all the time and had a certain order to her life that he would like to apply to his own.

Beverly! Who gave him the time of day only once a week, if he was lucky, leaving his e-mails unreplied to, his phone calls unanswered, until he finally got the hint, she was not a woman who could be crowded or pushed, she did everything on her own time in her own way, she carried herself through this life with dignity, and he wanted a little of that for himself. Whatever she knew, he wanted to know.

Beverly! The lovely widow of a fantastic man, a kind ophthalmologist, who'd left her set for life. (She had a lot more than Middlestein in the bank, that much he knew.) Beverly, childless (no baggage, none whatsoever!), but who still loved children. Beverly, who liked to do things, lots of things, go to the movies, go to the theater, watch footy on weekend mornings, go for drives along the lake, go for bike rides, eat nice meals, have elegant dinner parties, all these things that did not involve walking too much, many of them mainly related to sitting, which was perfect for Richard and his not-so-great knees.

Beverly! So precious with her British accent, in her soccer jerseys, hanging out in that ancient, smoke-stained pub with the awful breakfasts (shriveled, ruddy sausages; Middlestein had been unable to force himself to even take a bite) with her expat girlfriends, cheering for Tottenham, even though (or because) they were a bunch of losers. Once she had let him come and sit with her for a match early on a Sat.u.r.day morning, and they had all cheered and roared (this year, at last, Tottenham had been winning), and sipped Guinness (for her and her friends) and b.l.o.o.d.y Marys (for him), and afterward she had listened to his problems and, miracle of all miracles, solved them, or some of them anyway, the early-morning alcohol perhaps infusing her with a shocking clarity, and in retrospect he became convinced she could even see into his soul. And now he waited to be invited every week-he knew he couldn't just crash her party, that would be the surest way to make her lose interest in him-but she hadn't asked him since, settling instead for quiet little dinners, which were satisfying in their own way, but there was something about the moment they had both experienced during that early-morning drunk, how her hand had fluttered to his hands and once to his cheek, the directness of her gaze, which seemed to melt with his in the dusty streaks of sunlight vibrating in their booth; he hadn't felt that same connection with her since, and he knew if he could just have one more morning with her, if she would grace him again with that same energy, they would be able to move beyond the gentle pecks on the cheek she gave him when she bid him good-bye in the parking lot of whatever restaurant they had dined in-too briefly!-that night.

It was Beverly who suggested he write a letter to his daughter-in-law, Rach.e.l.le, asking for permission to once again be a partic.i.p.ant in the lives of his grandchildren. "Your son can't help you," she said. "He can't speak on your behalf. This decision came from her. You have to go directly to the source." Dust sparkling all around her head. "And a phone call won't do, nor will an e-mail. Don't be a lazy man. Write her a proper letter." She ran "lazy man" together as if it were one word, as if it were an actual thing, a term she had created herself, because Beverly had the power to create new words. "Pour your heart out on that paper, tell her how much you love and miss those children, put it in an envelope, stick a stamp on it, and then mail it."

To spend time with Josh and Emily is my heart's desire, he wrote. He was starting to sound like Beverly, which was not such a bad thing.

"Then what?"

"Give her a week."

Sure enough, a week later, there was Rach.e.l.le standing in front of him at the pharmacy, a prescription in her hand, herself with a slight case of the stink eye.

"I'm not completely sure about any of this," she said. She handed him the prescription; it was for Lopressor, a heart medication, and it was for his someday-ex-wife. If that action was meant to stab him slightly in the chest, it worked.

"About what?" he said.

Say your piece just the once and then let her do all the talking, Beverly had said. He had known that already; he had some understanding of what it meant to contend with an angry woman.

"I don't want them thinking your behavior, your actions, are excused. Because they are not."