If We Lived Here (24 page)

“Sounds like a real tragedy.” Nick felt impatient. “So, to what do I owe this call?”

“Lara wants to finalize the budget. Is it true your moneybags friend is going to bankroll the tutoring deal? And is Emma still considering gracing us with her presence? Lara wants a résumé and all that; it’s just for show, of course—she likes to pretend well-qualified candidates are beating down her door dying to help our crappily educated kids get into good middle schools, all for a grand jackpot of twenty-five bucks an hour.”

“Nice attitude for a school leader.” Nick could hear Carl snapping his gum. “I’ll know everything by Monday.” He felt a twinge about following up with Eli on his offer.

“Thattaboy. See ya, dude.” He’d hung up before Nick could say bye. Nick turned back to the TV. Again it was the storm images, but when he realized it wasn’t a movie but the news—
boring
—he flipped it off and called Emma.

“Hey, so according to Carl, you have to officially apply for the tutoring position.”

“Ah, so you’re calling to say you’re volunteering to ghostwrite my cover letter?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you, then of course.”

“Although first I should probably have a serious sit-down with Carl. I’d like some answers, like, what’ll be the criteria to recruit kids? And which pedagogy will we use to teach essay writing and test prep? How about textbooks, and parental involvement? Is there a snack budget? And will there be student liaisons at the target middle schools?”

“Carl would adore this conversation. We’ll get it on his schedule—a two-hour window, minimum. So does that mean you’re really up for the gig?”

“Hm. Hey, have you heard about this storm they’re predicting for the weekend?”

“Are you purposely changing the subject to the weather?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Good-bye, Ems. I have very important Friday afternoon relaxing to attend to.”

Chapter
24

E
mma started to freak out in the bottled water aisle, where the shelves were so deserted it didn’t even look like a supermarket. “What if this storm is actually a big deal?” she said to Nick.

“Oh, come on.” He tossed a green pepper into their cart. Most of their items were perishable, meaning they’d quickly rot if the power went out. Emma thought of the court battle over the broken refrigerator, which now seemed like an omen. “Remember last year for Hurricane Irene? Everyone freaked out and bought flashlights and first aid kits and weeks’ worth of canned goods, and then it rained for, like, an hour.”

That was true, and Emma was happy to latch onto the comforting comparison. Plus, Nick was usually the cautious, overprepared one, so if he wasn’t worried, then she probably shouldn’t be, either. “Remember that little twig they kept showing on TV?” she said, more breezily than she felt. The local news, seemingly desperate for footage of Irene, had broadcast a loop of the so-called damage, and Emma and Nick had laughed their heads off at the repeated appearances of one twig rolling down a windy avenue.

“See? Exactly.” Although as Nick threw a pint of mint ice cream into their cart, Emma made a mental note to eat it within the next day.

“I’m going to get some supplies just in case.” She added cans of soup and beans and fruit to their haul, plus shelf-stable milk that Nick claimed he wouldn’t go near even in case of apocalypse. Emma wanted candles, too, but Fairway was sold out, along with batteries. The lines for the registers wrapped all the way around the store.

“Should we abandon ship and just eat out?” Nick said. They’d come in for dinner ingredients—Emma couldn’t put up with any more takeout—although seeing all the panicky people clutching at their disaster supplies, her appetite had been replaced with a case of nerves.

“Let’s split up our cart so we can both stand in ‘15 items or less.’”

“Fewer,” said Nick. “And I really think we should leave.”

“What? Oh, thanks, smarty-pants. What do you think’ll be more useful during a hurricane, proper grammar or a cabinet full of canned food?” She divided the groceries between them, thinking they still needed to find somewhere to buy bottled water, then ducked over to the express line and stuck out her tongue at Nick.

 

Emma slept poorly that night. She dreamed of running from a tidal wave, surrounded by her clients and their panicked parents, plus her niece and nephew. Emma ran and ran, until it suddenly occurred to her to wonder where Nick was. Had he tripped and fallen? Was he okay? Eventually she reached a ship, which she somehow knew was Noah’s ark. But when she tried to board, she was denied entry: Couples only, someone said, and it was a moment before she realized that that someone was Luis, apparently the ark’s bouncer. As others raced past her to embark, she was trampled.

Emma bolted awake—it was early morning. She’d sweated through her T-shirt. Nick’s breath was even against her cheek—there he was, safe beside her in bed, not caught up in some tsunami—but still Emma couldn’t calm down. She got up and flipped on the news. The mayor and the governor were giving a joint press conference, warning of the severity of the coming storm—the winds could hit ninety miles per hour, the mayor said, and the water surge might reach twenty feet, the governor added. Schools would be closed tomorrow, said the mayor, and subways would shut down this evening, added the governor. It was like a battle of who could make the most shocking statement. The city’s flood zone map appeared on-screen, and Emma searched for her new neighborhood among the color-coded sections. There it was, smack in the middle of the red, like it was bleeding: Zone One.

But when Nick awoke, he didn’t want to evacuate. He was convinced that once again the politicians were overreacting and the media was feeding the hype in an effort to boost ratings. “Anyway, it’ll be fun to be all cooped up inside in the rain,” he said. “There’ll be nothing to do, so we can finally unpack. Plus, where would we even go?”

“Gen’s place up in Harlem is outside the flood zones.”

Nick looked outraged. “You mean her five-hundred-square-foot pen that she shares with three roommates?”

“Good point. Or Annie and Eli’s. They’re in Zone Five, which is supposed to be much safer than our Zone One.”

“Zones? So you know all the lingo now? What is this,
The Hunger Games
?”

“That’s districts.” Emma’s voice was sober; it seemed easier to feel upset about botched
Hunger Games
terminology than about the possible coming mayhem.

“Em, I know you’re scared, but I really don’t want to go lean on Annie and Eli’s hospitality again. We did it for weeks and now we finally have a home of our own. Come on, we survived apartment hunting in New York City; we can survive anything.” As Nick pulled her into his arms, Emma considered whether she would evacuate without him.

She spent most of the day staring out the window—the air was heavy, so that the tree branches seemed to be straining against it, their leaves hissing with effort. The birds sounded louder than usual, like they were issuing warnings. Emma was on and off the phone with Annie, who was begging her to come stay with them. “Seriously, Ems, your apartment is, like, ground zero.”

“Please don’t say ‘ground zero.’”

“You know what I mean. It’s supposed to be a total shit show. Plus, Monday’s a full moon. The tides are going to be wacky.” When Annie started in on her horoscope, Emma tuned her out in favor of the mute TV; President Obama was standing at a podium as a banner of text flashed across the bottom of the screen:
Emergency declared in the state of New York.
Nick, meanwhile, was sprawled out on the couch devouring a can of corn, which he must’ve pulled from their disaster supply; Emma burned with fury. Annie was still talking: “Our apartment has extra-thick storm-proof windows, plus we’re on the twenty-sixth floor—as in, twenty-five floors higher than you guys. I bought pretty much all of Whole Foods, including rum and grenadine so we can make Hurricanes.”

The reminder that they were on the ground floor, plus the sight of Nick lying about eating his way through their storm food, was the breaking point for Emma. “All right, I’ll come,” she told Annie. She found her overnight bag and called out, “Nick, I’m going to Annie’s whether or not you come with—although I hope you will.” No response.

An hour before the subways were set to shut down, Nick was still planted on the couch watching the news. “Holy shit,” he said, turning up the volume, “IKEA’s closing until at least Wednesday.” At which point he got up and began packing, too. Emma would make fun of this comment for the rest of the week—the fact that it wasn’t the president’s declaration of emergency or the mayor’s call for mandatory evacuation, but IKEA’s closure that finally convinced Nick to haul out. But Emma suspected it was really the fact that she’d be leaving; Nick had put on a good front, but he, too, was scared.

So in what must’ve been one of the last rides before the mammoth MTA machine cranked all of its trains to a halt, Emma, Nick, and dozens of other Zone One residents boarded the F train headed to Manhattan. One guy had a boom box and was blasting Bob Dylan’s “Hurricane.” Unusually for the train, no one gave him dirty looks or shouted to shut the damn thing off. Several people actually sang along—Emma mouthed the lyrics without quite realizing she was doing so—and two kids got up and began that subway-specific dance genre of pole swinging and fancy footwork in the aisle. Despite the song’s ominous melody, and the fact that the train was filled with people in practical clothes toting backpacks and duffel bags, rather than the usual fashion show of the Manhattan-bound F, it was hard to remember this wasn’t just any New York moment, everyone nodding along to the same song. One of the dancers performed a one-armed pull-up using the bar directly over Emma’s seat, and she dropped a dollar in his hat.

 

“Hey, guys.” Eli greeted them at the door. “Be prepared: There’s nothing like an impending storm to whip Annie up into a party-planning frenzy.”

“What he means is, welcome to our Hurricane Sandy bash!” Annie spun around to model her dress, which featured Dorothy and the rest of the cast of
The Wizard of Oz
being lifted away in a tornado. “I know it’s the wrong natural disaster, but it’s all I had.”

“Shoot, I left my flood-themed ball gown at home,” Emma said.

“And my blizzard bow tie is still at the cleaners,” said Nick, kissing Annie hello.

“Damn it, guys, you’re always letting me down.” Annie ushered them inside. “Anyway, I got
The Ice Storm
plus
Twister,
both the movie and game. And I made a hurricane!” No wonder “Blowin’ in the Wind” was playing; Annie usually couldn’t stand Bob Dylan.

Also weird was the thought of playing Twister as a foursome, especially if they were going to see a movie about swingers and key parties. Emma glanced at Nick, who met her gaze with a your-friend-is-batshit look. “You mentioned drinks?” he said to Eli.

“Follow me, my man,” said Eli.

Although Nick probably wouldn’t have wanted her to, as soon as he and Eli were out of earshot, Emma couldn’t help dishing to Annie about their dramatic night in court. Which is why, when the guys returned from the kitchen, they found the girls hysterical over Emma’s terrible impression of Luis trying not to lose his temper before the judge.

“Let’s just hope the judge found him as laughable as we did,” Nick said, handing Emma a cherry-red drink.

“It’s so obvious you’ll win,” said Annie. “How about I throw you a victory party? I could serve appetizers on little scales, you know, like the scales of justice.”

“Yep,” said Nick. “And we could get a piñata that looked like Luis and wear blindfolds like Lady Justice and take turns hitting at it. We’d have to fill his head with some really shitty candy. Or better yet, just hot air.”

Annie pursed her lips, like maybe this didn’t sound like the best idea. After a moment she seemed to realize he was kidding. “
You’re
full of hot air.”

Emma kissed Nick’s cheek. “Thanks for putting up with my need for revenge.”

After the entirety of
Twister
, the movie, and two Hurricane cocktails apiece, the rain still hadn’t started, but the wind had grown powerful. Emma thought of Genevieve, who, despite being in a supposedly safe area of the city, might’ve been all by herself. She texted her:
Are you OK? Wanna come hunker down with us at Annie’s?

Gen texted back:
Thx I’m good. Watching My-so-called-life marathon, then hitting the sack. XO.
That sounded lovely to Emma, but still she hoped Gen’s roommates weren’t all off at their boyfriends’ places.

“This storm better not be a big letdown,” said Annie. “Ems, remember our adventure during Hurricane Bob?”

“You mean, sleeping on smelly cots and eating stale bologna sandwiches? Quite an adventure.” Two decades later, the debacle was still branded in Emma’s memory.

“Yeah, and my mom went up to the cook and asked if they had anything without pig products, remember? He thought she was totally nutso.”

“To be fair, we were sharing a shelter with all those patients from the local mental hospital. Your mom could’ve been one of them.” Emma explained to Nick: “The summer before fourth grade, or maybe fifth, Mrs. Blum took us on a trip to Plimoth Plantation.”

“For some reason,” Annie said, “it’s pretty much a requirement for kids who grow up in the Northeast to go witness pilgrims make artisanal pots and churn butter and stuff.”

“Very Brooklyn Flea Market,” said Eli. “The original hipsters, these ten-year-old girls.”

“Anyway,” said Annie, “then Hurricane Bob hit, and the B and B where we were staying had to be evacuated. It was too dangerous to drive home, so we were shipped over to this awful shelter. This one creepy old dude kept asking if we needed private tutoring since we were probably missing school. I mean, it was the middle of August.”

“God, I had nightmares about that guy for weeks afterward,” said Emma.

“What a blast we had. It was all-you-could-drink soda—someone had donated, like, a warehouse full of Coke—and we got to stay up until midnight.”

“Yeah, because the people all around us were crying and moaning in their sleep. It was not a blast.” Emma remembered how, when they were finally cleared to leave, Annie and her mom had spent the whole drive home recounting all of the colorful details of the weekend, while she’d sat in the backseat quietly trying not to throw up. Back home, when Emma had complained that they’d never gotten to see the pilgrim village, her mother had responded, “Yeah, but you got something even better—a real adventure. And now you’re a hurricane expert!” It was exciting to be called an expert in anything by her mom, but Emma had wanted some comfort after the trip’s trauma. And in the coming weeks, when she’d woken up at all hours from nightmares of howling wind through her windows, she’d felt too ashamed to seek out her mom. In the two decades since, Emma had had several opportunities to return to Cape Cod, but she’d always made excuses not to.

“We must’ve filled out three full books of Mad Libs in that shelter,” Annie said.

“You two haven’t really matured much since then, huh?” said Eli. “Emma, Annie told me you helped her write her wedding vows, Mad Libs–style.”

Emma was thankful for the change of subject. “Well, in the end Annie pulled through like a champ, no Mad Libs needed.”

“Pretty much anything great I’ve done is because of Ems,” said Annie. “I never thanked you for that poem, by the way.” Right, the poem she’d recited at her ceremony.

“Emma wrote that?” Eli asked.

“No, dummy. Edith Wharton, whom Ems worships. It’s, like, her favorite poem.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Eli said.

“Look, if it was wedding-appropriate to recite a commercial jingle, I would’ve been golden. But love poems? No way. So it’s a good thing I have a bestie with such sophisticated sensibilities to help me out in a time of need.” This was the reason Emma had put up with Annie for so many years; even when she pulled a stunt like stealing the poem Emma would’ve liked to recite one day at her own wedding, she always apologized with grace and panache, making Emma feel like the world’s best person.