What makes you think something’s wrong? he said, still not looking at me, as our express roared into the station.
There’s obviously something wrong, I said, following Ahmad onto the train. The cool inside should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Is it Mirabella? Something at work?
Not now, Shira, Ahmad said, sitting neatly in the one available seat, hands folded on his pressed-together knees. I clutched a steel pole as we started hurtling south.
What do you mean, not now? We need to talk about it, whatever it is!
Shira, he said, looking at me finally, you need to get off my back!
I won’t! I said.
He made as if he hadn’t heard, but the vein at his temple was pulsing.
Was that your final answer, by the way? he asked.
Was what my final answer?
You told Andi you weren’t going to Connecticut. I’m asking if that’s your final answer.
I told you already we weren’t going!
You were going to think about it, is what you said, for Andrea’s sake.
I’d never said that, but the car was screeching to a halt. Seventy-second Street. People pushed past me, squeezing right and left, some making a sudden rush for the exit when a local pulled in across the platform.
I waited till we’d pulled away. Ahmad was studying graffiti etched into the Plexiglas windows behind me.
Listen, I said, I know you’re in a tough spot …
Save the fake empathy, Shira. You want to be in New York so you can be with your boyfriend, even though being in Connecticut, being together, is better for our daughter.
My boyfriend? What boyfriend? What are you talking about?
You’d give up everything for him, wouldn’t you? You’d give up our family, you’d give up Andrea’s happiness. That’s the one thing we said we’d never do, or had you forgotten?
I don’t have a boyfriend! You’re out of your mind!
Ahmad shook his head — sadly, as if disappointed with me.
If you’re not willing to do what’s best for your daughter, Shira, then you don’t deserve her.
I wrapped both hands tight now around my pole, so Ahmad wouldn’t see them shake.
You don’t think I can raise Andi on my own? I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Keep your voice down, he said, though I hadn’t been shouting. What I said was, if you’re not willing to put your daughter first, then you don’t deserve her.
What are you saying? I said. Say what you mean!
Ahmad said something I couldn’t hear over the crackling loudspeaker — then we were at Times Square. More pushing, more squeezing and shoving. When the train pulled away, I could see a seat some distance away, but I didn’t move.
What did you say? I asked.
I said, I had to go to Andrea’s school today.
You what? I maneuvered a few inches closer to his seat. You had to go to Andi’s school?
Mrs. Chao asked to see us.
See us? About what?
Ahmad drank some water, put his bottle back in his bag.
She sent a note home with Andrea.
Andi came home with a note?
You were on your hot date. She gave it to me this morning.
My hot date? Was he talking about Jeanette? I’d been tired and tipsy after the third Eve, it was Ahmad’s turn with Andi this morning, so I’d stayed over. Too late for me to call, but I’d had my phone with me had anyone tried to reach me, which they hadn’t.
I didn’t have a hot date! What’s going on here? I said. I sensed betrayal, smelled it, like old blood.
Someone has to be there for our daughter, someone has to be responsible. It has to be me, doesn’t it? It always has to be me.
Tell me why you had to go to Andi’s school!
Ahmad’s face was an infuriating blank; my arms and knees were shaking.
What is going on with my daughter? I said, my voice rising again.
I’m waiting for you to stop shouting, he said.
Fuck you! I shouted. The people around us went quiet, looked to each other for reassurance. If Andi has a problem, I said, lowering my voice, you need to tell me what it is.
Ahmad crossed his arms against his chest.
Tell me! I shouted.
Know this, Shira. I will do whatever it takes to make sure no one ever hurts our daughter. Do you understand me? Our stop, he said then, standing and smoothing his pants. You coming?
People began flowing out the door — people with suitcases, large bags, a woman with a cat box, young people, their hands locked, a Chinese grandmother holding a grocery bag in one hand, a child’s hand in the other. I stared at Ahmad, watched him shrug and exit without me.
I clung to my pole and pinched my arm, savagely, to keep myself from crying. He thought I was seeing Benny, and for this he was becoming crazy? Calling me a bad mother? Saying I didn’t deserve my daughter? Of course, I’d seen it before: Ahmad attacking — when he thought he was losing something, when he had lost something. It clearly wasn’t me he was worried about losing; if it was Andi, he might try problem-solving with me instead of issuing ultimatums and manipulating our girl behind my back — or, radical idea, he might wait till he’d heard about Hassan! It was nine months till summer: What was his rush? But then we were at Fourteenth Street. I allowed the crowd to carry me onto the platform. Hundreds of bedraggled passengers swarmed past me to this exit or that, many already checking their cell phones. Ahmad had gone to the Balalaika, I was sure of it; did he think I’d double back and join him? I wouldn’t.
I pushed through the turnstile. Seventh Avenue and Twelfth Street. The Village — well outside my Comfort Zone. The Stations of my Loss, I called it; I never came down here. It was just there, on Fourteenth Street, that Jonah walked in front of a cab, crossing the street to meet us. Ahmad had said terrible things to me that night as well. He waved at Jonah from across the street, but it was me Jonah watched as he stepped into that road, the picture of the flying girl in his hand, me he was looking at when he was hit.
And it was here, at St. Vincent’s, that he died.
And over there, south of the Vanguard, my father’s place, where I broke up with T. Where my father and I moved after we returned from Rome without my mother. A new apartment for a new life, he’d said, face grim. Where he was rolled away: I’ve made mistakes, he said. Don’t hate me.
Ahmad thought I was a bad mother? A bad mother? My father and I waited at the Rome airport. At Kennedy, a light snow falling, we waited some more. I was Andi’s age when my mother left us. Despite the blankets on my New York bed, the sun shining through the window, I was always cold, I felt myself on an ice floe alone, floating farther and farther from the shore. My father saw none of this. Go back to bed, he’d say, slouched dull with grappa. Wrapping his bathrobe tight around his chest. Leave your daddy alone, he said, you need to leave your daddy alone.
Later, I threw things from my bunk, breakable things, dolls with china heads, souvenir ashtrays he brought back from his trips, then tiptoed through the shards, daring my skin to break. Until the neighbors complained about the noise.
It’s nothing, I said, hiding my scarred toes under a blanket. The neighbors are crazy.
Good, my father said, and left the room, fishing in his bathrobe for a pipe.
When I was older, I tested the elasticity of his not-being-there. I stayed away nights: I could always find a boy in Washington Square, a man even, to take me home. When I returned, I found him sleeping, his arm slung over his easy chair, glass in hand, grappa staining the carpet. If he’d tried to stay up, he hadn’t made it.