Page 17 of Underground Prince

“Lovely,” my mother said. Her blonde hair was extra starched today, her fine strands held together in a French twist and shining almost as brightly as the menu in front of her.

“You thinking of getting back into school?” my dad asked me.

“No, not yet,” I said, finding new interest in the specials. “Moving back here is step one. I don’t think I’m ready for step two—but I did find a waitressing job.”

“Excellent!” My dad was working so hard to be jolly he was nearly bringing me to tears. “Where at? I would’ve loved to eat there, see how my daughter’s doing.”

“Corner of Prince and Sullivan,” I said. No need to explain I’d only been hired part-time with two shifts a week. “Great tips. How was the drive?”

“Traveling from upstate is beautiful this year. Your mom and I love the autumn turning of the leaves. In fact,” he said, shifting to include my mother, “I was thinking about staying at a quaint bed and breakfast on the way back to Croton-Harmon. Eh, Suze? What’dya say?”

My mother’s only response was to chew on her fingernail.

“Sounds great, Dad,” I said for her.

He said to me, “You should really do the drive sometime. I think you’d like it. It’s soothing. You sure you don’t want—”

“No,” I said, the menu slipping from my hands and plopping onto the table. “I don’t need a car here.”

“Are you certain? Because I’m looking around, and while the city is fun and exciting and whatnot, I don’t know if the subway is safe—”

“Really, Dad, I can walk from my apartment to work.”

“I’d feel better if you were in a car at night, sweetheart.”

“I don’t need—”

“She said she doesn’t want the car, Jerry.”

My mother’s uncharacteristic sharpness startled both of us into staring at her, Dad a little more bug-eyed than me.

“Susan,” he said.

“End of discussion. She doesn’t want to drive, and we’re not going to make her.”

Her eyes had a perilous sheen to them. I should be thankful for her cutting in, but instead I just had a sick, slimy lurch inside me, a nausea that never truly went away.

“Mom, you’re bleeding,” I said, holding her left hand so I could wrap a napkin around the torn, bloodied cuticle. My mother, once a maven for weekly manicures, could now barely grow her nails past a jagged stub.

Her fingers slumped into mine, their familiar softness doing nothing to comfort.

“What can I get you guys?”

The waiter saved us all. We ordered and sat in weighted silence for the duration of the meal, but it was better than the stilted conversation that followed every time Dad or I tried to wrangle my mother into joining.

Soon, the bill was paid, thankful sighs were exchanged, and we all drifted out of the booth and through the door. Dad hugged me so hard I lost my breath when he said good-bye, patting me on the shoulder and saying, “I’m glad you’re doing so well.”

I smiled in my usual flat-line way before laying a kiss on his cheek. The tentacled, twisty creature in my stomach awakened from its nap, reaching up its claws and scratching down my throat. The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of him.

“I love you, Dad.”

“You too, honey. So much.” After one more rub of my arm, he turned, leading my mother off the curb and into their car.

“Love you, Mom,” I said, kissing her cheek as my dad held onto her. Her perfume sailed into my nostrils, a burst of gardenia, before fading away.

She nodded, but didn’t turn around. I told myself that the passing ambulance drowned out her reply.

Turning on one heel, I dashed to the underground subway, as if the very spot my parents and I were standing in was a fragile thermocline. Warmer waters were above, and that is where my parents must float. They couldn’t swim in the cold depths of mine.

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