Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

Emily is chopping carrots for the salad. Her mother is mashing potatoes. They’re wearing matching pumpkin-orange aprons, the word Thankful printed in white cursive on the chest. Maddy was put in charge of only the charcuterie, which essentially meant arranging cheese, deli meats, grapes, nuts, and dried fruit on a wooden board. She wasn’t given an apron. Or a knife. She’s still not entrusted with anything sharp. Fair enough. Finished with her singular task a while ago, she sits at the island counter, a bored onlooker, as Emily and her mother do all the dicing and slicing.

“Is Gramma coming?” Maddy asks.

“You know she spends Thanksgiving in Vermont with Uncle Bob and Aunt Sarah,” her mother says.

“Oh yeah. I forgot olives. Should I add some olives?” asks Maddy.

“Do whatever you want,” says her mother without looking up from her pot of potatoes.

Her mother’s been polite but undeniably cool to her, fully committed to her ultimatum, waiting Maddy out like they’re in a high-stakes game of chicken. Only Maddy’s not playing. Her mother assumes that once Maddy is faced with the impending reality of being an adult without a college degree, she’ll cave, renounce her evil comedic ways, and beg to stay enrolled in school.

But her mother’s gamble is backfiring spectacularly, as she’s unwittingly pushing Maddy full throttle in the direction of her comedy dreams. Without school, Maddy can devote all her time to writing, practicing, performing, posting clips, and hustling. It’s a Spider-Man leap to a neighboring rooftop that she might have otherwise been too afraid to make yet. She hopes her mother is a fan of irony.

She wonders if something similar went down with her father. Her mother finally drew a hard line. No more boats. Get a real job or get out . And they never saw him again. What would have happened if he’d agreed to her demands? Would his life have been better? Would theirs?

“What else can I do?” asks Maddy after snugging a small green ceramic bowl of black olives between the thin blankets of prosciutto and a block of Gouda.

“You can bring that into the living room,” her mother says.

Emily stops slicing cucumbers for a moment and exhales hard through her mouth as if blowing out candles on a cake. Her face is pasty white and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” asks Maddy.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling great.”

“You don’t look good.”

“I think I caught something from one of the kids at school. Everyone’s been out sick this month.”

“Go sit down with Tim,” says her mother. “I can do the rest.”

Maddy carries the large wooden board into the living room, expecting Emily to be right behind her, but when she sets the charcuterie down on the coffee table, Emily isn’t there. Phil, Tim, and Jack are sitting on the sectional, matching in dark sports coats and khaki pants like they’re members of an all-male a cappella group, drinking beer, engrossed in a football game on the TV.

“Charcuterie’s here,” says Maddy.

“Thanks,” says Phil, his eyes never leaving the TV screen.

Maddy returns to the kitchen, but Emily’s not there, either. Continuing down the hall, she notices that the bathroom door is ajar. She peeks in, but Emily’s not there. Maddy opens the front door and finds her sister outside sitting on the front step. Maddy joins her, wrapping her arms around herself in a hug. It’s chilly outside without a coat on.

“I just needed some fresh air. The smells were too much.”

Maddy’s not really sure what that means, so she doesn’t respond. The stone step is uncomfortably cold, refrigerating her bottom through her jeans.

“Can you keep a secret?” asks Emily.

“Yeah.”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my God, Em. Wow,” Maddy says, surprised and not surprised. “Congratulations.”

“I’m ten weeks, so it’s early. We want to wait until Christmas to announce it.”

“Is this why you don’t feel good?”

“Yeah. They should call it mourning sickness with a u because I feel like death all day.”

“That’s funny.”

“I opened the car door at a stoplight on the way here and puked on the road.”

“Oh, Em, I’m sorry. That’s not funny.”

“But it’s good. I’m happy,” she says, looking as miserable as Maddy as ever seen her.

“Okay.”

“There’s no turning back now,” she says, her voice lowered, as if steeling her resolve, convincing herself.

“Em—”

“I think I can go back in.”

Emily stands, and Maddy copies her. She places the palm of her hand on Emily’s back. Emily holds on to Maddy’s shoulder, takes a deep breath, and exhales. Then she nods, and they reenter the house together.

The dining room table is picture-perfect—a centerpiece of phallic gourds, chestnuts, pine cones, and golden maple leaves atop a crisp white table runner, a scattering of lit beeswax candles emitting a warm glow, a miniature white Baby Boo pumpkin adorning the middle of every plate. Martha Stewart would approve. Her mother and Phil sit at the heads of the table. Emily sits next to Tim on one side, Maddy and Jack on the other. Everyone passes plates of food and begins eating.

“So how’s the comedy thing going?” asks Jack between bites of turkey, his face oblivious to the controversial nature of his question, as if he were strolling onto a grassy field covered in sun-kissed daisies, completely unaware of the land mines beneath the soil.

“Good.”

It’s true. Her fall slump ended the first week of November. And she’s been killing it since.

“I love the clip you posted yesterday, the one about the emojis,” says Emily.

“Yeah, that was a good one,” says Jack, chuckling through a mouthful of turkey.

“Thanks. Actually, I have news. I auditioned at a club and got passed. My first paid gig is in two weeks.”

“How much?” asks Jack.

Of course Jack’s first question is about the money. Maddy hesitates.

“Fifty dollars.”

“Oof,” says Jack. “But hey, that’s how they all start, right? Dave Chappelle, John Mulaney, now they’re raking in millions.”

She’s a long shot and years away from John Mulaney and millions. She’s a long way from even being able to afford rent and food. But Jack’s right. This is exactly how they all started.

“Where and when?” asks Emily.

“I’m doing fifteen minutes at LOL Comedy at midnight on Wednesday the sixth.”

At that hour, the audience will likely be sparse and shit-faced. Even so, that slot is highly competitive, and she’s thrilled to get it.

Her mother pours herself another glass of wine.

“I know you probably can’t come, but you’re all invited,” Maddy says.

“I’ll try,” says Emily. “But it’s a school night, and I can barely keep my eyes open past eight.”

“If she rallies, I’m in,” says Tim.

“That’d be tough for me to get away midweek,” says Jack.

“No worries. If I get a weekend gig—”

“ When you get a weekend gig,” Jack says, “I’ll be there.”

Maddy brightens, appreciating his optimism and support.

Phil looks across the splendidly decorated table to her mother. She continues eating, her focus on her plate, as if it weren’t her turn to respond. Everyone notices.

“It’s definitely how everyone starts,” says Maddy. “I’m really hoping it leads to a regular thing, and if I get an earlier or weekend time slot, I’ll get paid more. And that will be helpful, especially come January.”

Mostly pushing her food around her plate and not eating anyway, Emily sets her fork down and turns toward her mother.

“I can’t believe you’re really kicking her out of school,” says Emily.

“Stay out of this, please,” says her mother.

“But if she’s getting good grades and staying on her meds and everything’s okay, then why can’t she stay in school and do comedy?”

“Em, it’s okay,” says Maddy. “She’s doing me a favor.”

Her mother raises her eyebrows. She rests her fork down on her plate. She wipes her mouth with her white cloth napkin and returns it to her lap.

“Oh really,” says her mother. “Where are you going to live?”

“I thought I’d stay at Emily and Tim’s again, if that’s okay.”

The room goes awkwardly silent as Tim and Emily exchange a conversation with their eyes.

“This is bad timing,” says Emily. “But we made an offer on a place in New Rochelle, and they accepted it.”

Tim puts his arm around Emily, his chest puffed out. Phil raises his wineglass, but the moment isn’t right for celebrating, and they all leave him hanging.

“We’re closing January third,” Emily says to Maddy. “You can totally still crash with us, and we’ll even have a bedroom for you now, so that’s better than a couch, but yeah, it’s not Murray Hill.”

“It’s just over an hour on the subway, but I don’t mind,” says Tim. “I’ll work, listen to podcasts.”

An hour is a lot, and she doesn’t love riding alone on the subway late at night. That’s not going to work, especially if midnight becomes her regular slot. And their extra bedroom is for a nursery, not a homeless sister. It’s a solid backup in the near term, but she should make an alternative plan.

“That’s okay. I can always couch surf here and there until I’ve saved up enough for an apartment.”

“At fifty dollars a week, you’ll be my age before you can afford anything,” says Phil.

“I’ll work at Starbucks again,” Maddy says.

“I doubt the manager will take you back after you left them high and dry,” says her mother, seemingly all too satisfied to poke a hole in her idea.

“There are, like, a million Starbucks in New York,” says Maddy.

“After I graduate and move to the city, you can live with me, Mads,” says Jack. “Rent-free.”

“Thanks.”

That’s really sweet of Jack, and who knows, she might take him up on it, but that’s six months from now. Maddy drinks from her glass of water as she absorbs this unexpected twist. Come January, she’ll actually be homeless. Ever since her diagnosis a year ago, part of her has been employed as a vigilant security guard, on watch twenty-four seven, afraid of finding herself in this exact position, perched atop the steep and icy slope that spills directly onto a bench in Washington Square Park.

This is how it all ends .

But another part of her is twenty-one years old, unburdened and available for adventure, not fazed in the slightest, not by any of it.

This is the beginning of it all! Lean in, girl!

“Amy, is this really a good idea?” asks Phil.

“It’s her choice,” says her mother.

“It doesn’t sound like a recipe for stability.”

“No, it does not.”

“How about we help pay for an apartment?”

“We’re not enabling this.”

“Another hospitalization will be far more expensive than rent.”

“If she insists on doing comedy, we’re looking at another hospitalization regardless of where she’s sleeping,” says her mother.

“Wow, that’s really offensive,” says Maddy.

“I’m sorry you can’t face the truth.”

Maddy’s mouth hangs open, waiting for words. She swallows a throatful of chaotic emotion.

“I can’t wait to talk to my therapist about this on Monday.”

“Go right ahead.”

“You act like you know what’s going to happen—”

“I do know, Maddy. Everyone at this table knows because we’ve been through it with you, twice now, and this is how this illness works. If you behave recklessly, you’re going to trigger another episode.”

“I hate that you blame everything on me,” says Maddy, her voice crackling with rage, her anger always a front man for hurt.

“I’m asking you to take responsibility and do what you can so you don’t keep repeating the same cycle.”

“Mom, she is being responsible,” says Emily, daring to take Maddy’s side.

“No, she’s not. She’s acting just like her father.”

Maddy goes still for an eternal moment, absorbing the impact of the comparison she’s feared most, and it feels like a dagger through her heart. All forks and knives are down like planes grounded on a runway due to turbulent skies. Everyone is motionless, looking at her, as if the whole world has stopped.

“So you’re just going to kick me out of this family like you did to him!” she yells, devastated, angry tears rolling fast down her face.

“That is not what happened. You—”

“Anyone who isn’t perfect like you has to go!”

“—have no idea the hell I went through.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot that my life was all about you.”

“Amy, stop, you’re upsetting her,” says Phil.

“We shouldn’t have to always tiptoe around her. This isn’t about me, Maddy. Your life needs stability. You should be getting a college degree so you can get a practical job with a regular schedule.”

“You don’t know everything!” Maddy yells.

Fury whipping through her like a hurricane, she’s unable to articulate anything more. She stands, shaking, tears spilling down her face, and throws her napkin on her plate. She storms out of the dining room. She can’t stay here. She’s going to pack and take the next train back to New York.

“Fifty dollars at midnight in a bar,” her mother says, her voice dripping with disgust and loud enough for Maddy to hear her. “I know enough.”