ISA
“Good rehearsal today, Miss Isabelle?” Gerry holds the lobby door open for me. The thick rings on his fingers shimmer in the light from our awning. I’ve always been fascinated by those rings. On my sixth birthday, Gerry let me try the one with the amber stone. It fit over two of my fingers together. Even then I had to make a fist so it wouldn’t fall off.
“Always,” I reply.
“Toes no bothering you?” Gerry is convinced my pointe shoes are going to give me bunions.
“Not yet!” I sing it to him.
His laugh is a deep rumble. “Is good you’re home. Your mother, she could use your smile.”
I feel my grin deflate. My hand closes around Alex’s poem, tucked safely in my pocket. Even if Mom is in one of her moods, I have this.
Gerry walks me to the elevator, reaches inside and hits the button for my floor. “Good night, princesa.” He tips his hat. The elevator closes with a quiet thump.
Voices reach me as soon as I open the door. Strange. Mom and Dad are usually at the other end of the apartment, in the eat-in kitchen or the library. Even Dad’s office is all the way in the back.
I kick off my shoes and hang my coat. I’m halfway down the hall when I realize the vase of two dozen long-stemmed red roses that Dad always gives Mom on Valentine’s Day isn’t on the entryway table.
A crash of glass makes me jump. I run for the kitchen. Mom’s shrill voice mirrors the smashing of crystal.
“What are we going to do? What are we going to tell people?”
“We’ll figure it out. Let’s just take it one step at a time.” Dad’s words are calm but strained.
I lean against the wall, my heart pounding. My parents never argue openly. Sure, Mom yells. But her outbursts have nothing to do with Dad.
Mom swears in Spanish. Another bad sign. Merrit’s face smiles down at me from our family portrait from five years ago, his mouth full of braces. He’d seen a new psychiatrist right before the photo shoot. Later that night, I overheard Mom crying in the master bedroom. Dad was saying over and over it wasn’t her fault. By then at least, I knew Mom was different. I’d never heard the words bipolar disorder, though. In the portrait, our smiles look carefree and happy. I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking up at my brilliant, bigger-than-life big brother. I hope this doesn’t have to do with Merrit. I hope he’s OK.
I backtrack down the hall to the door. I open it, slam it shut, then cry out, “Hello! I’m home!” I hum as I make my way to the kitchen. “I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”
Dad is leaning against the stove. His glasses are on the counter next to a huge package of unwrapped flowers. Mom’s watching him from where she stands on the other side of the island, clutching a glass. It’s not her usual sparkling water. Her dad had an alcohol problem, something she brings up every year to make sure Merrit and I never forget it. But next to her is an open bottle of wine. Remnants of a broken goblet sparkle in the sink.
“Sorry, we haven’t gotten around to thinking about dinner.” Dad rubs his eyes.
“Want me to call for sushi?” I keep my tone light. Pretending everything is OK is the modus operandi in our household. “Oh, that’s right.” I slap my hand to my forehead. “The dead fish won’t hear me. I’ll just run out and pick some up.” Dad jokes are a good technique too, though Dad’s much better at them than I am.
Mom turns to the window. She takes a long sip as she gazes at the Empire State Building. It’s lit up blue and green tonight.
“That’s a good idea, honey. Here.” Dad hands me his credit card.
Mom whips around. She slams the glass down. Drops of wine splatter like blood across the granite. “What are you doing?!”
I drop Dad’s card.
“We need to have dinner,” Dad says quietly. Why isn’t he joking with her, making her laugh like he usually does?
“Sushi is expensive. We’ll make do with whatever is in the refrigerator.” She slides by me, picking up the platinum card and chucking it back at Dad. She drags out cheese and grapes and hard salami. Leftovers from her book club.
I take small breaths. Mom gets like this when she’s stressed, all crazy frugal even though we don’t need to be. It’s like a flashback from her childhood. Dad always stops her. He wraps her in his arms, puts on the Buena Vista Social Club, and makes her dance with him. He starts out dancing badly, to make her laugh. Sometimes she cries. But he always promises he’ll take care of her and that she’ll never have to live like that again.
Tonight Dad just takes out some plates. He reaches for a tumbler and gets down a bottle of scotch. I’ve only ever seen that bottle when their friends the Rosens come over after a show.
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. “Is it Merrit?”
Last I talked to Merrit, he mentioned a new app he was developing. The campus sports teams were loving it. It was spreading “faster than an STI.” He’d been talking so fast, I couldn’t help but be nervous—I know all the signs of a manic episode now. But Merrit promised he’d been sleeping and taking his meds. So I assumed he was just excited. What if I was wrong?
Dad puts down the scotch. “Merrit’s fine.” His hand comes out for emphasis.
I relax my fist, loosening the nails digging into my palm. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad, then.
I get out three placemats and arrange them on the banquet. Mom shakes her head.
“I’m not eating. It’s just you and your father.”
“Elisa,” Dad starts.
“You think I can eat at a time like this?” Her accent thickens, hardening her words.
Dad looks down at the polished stone floor. I’m thoroughly confused. Mom turns back to me. “How’s your school going? Any homework tonight?”
“It’s all fine, Mom. I have a paper due tomorrow on Franny and Zooey, but I already have a draft.”
“Bring me your laptop. I’ll read your paper while you eat.”
“Why?” She doesn’t usually go over my work.
“This has nothing to do with Isabelle,” Dad interrupts.
The look Mom gives him is so vicious it makes me step back. “It has everything to do with Isabelle. It’s even more important now that she gets good grades.”
I’m used to Mom being overly dramatic. But she’s starting to freak me out. “Dad? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sweetie, everything’s going to be fine.”
“How can you say that to her? God, and with that smile on your face?” Mom marches over for her glass of wine. She grabs it but doesn’t take a drink. “Your father lost his job. He was fired.” Lost his job? But he’s not a trader. Dad’s the chief risk officer. His job is secure.
“I just don’t understand why you signed off on a deal you knew wasn’t sound.” Mom glares at him.
“Elisa.” Dad sighs. “The MD made it clear he only wanted my approval.”
She waves an arm. “Do you have proof? An email? Something to demonstrate you’re not accountable?” Dad doesn’t answer. “You don’t, do you? They would never be so foolish as to put something like that in writing.”
Dad comes over to the table and rests a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. I can get another job.”
Mom makes a mild shrieking sound. “Why would you tell her that? It was a multibillion-dollar screw-up, Isabelle. And now the SEC is investigating.” She starts muttering in Spanish. “You don’t know what will happen. You don’t.” She’s gripping the glass so hard the tips of her fingers are white.
Dad reaches for Mom. She doesn’t step away. He rubs her arm, his voice dropping to a soothing drone. “There are plenty of other banks in the city. I’ll find work at one of them.”
Mom takes a long drink of wine. “You just told me you might be blacklisted.”
Dad glances at me. He ducks down to find Mom’s eyes. “That would be a worst-case scenario,” he whispers. “We’ll have to make adjustments. You’re right. We don’t need to eat sushi every week. At least not from Takai.” He tries for a smile, and Mom leans into him. His nickname for Mom’s favorite sushi place is the word expensive in Japanese.
“We can sell the Hamptons house. We hardly ever go out east anymore anyway.”
Mom’s mouth opens.
“And there are other ways we can cut back,” Dad murmurs. “Isabelle’s been begging to attend the Manhattan Ballet Academy full time since she was twelve. It’s a specialized city school. Free tuition.”
Mom’s finger slices the air. “No. We are not sacrificing her education. Deerwood has one of the best college acceptance lists in the city. Merrit graduated from there. And their STEM curriculum is excellent, not to mention the special mentorship program they have for women who want to go into medicine.”
Dad sees me chewing my lip. He knows I don’t want to be a doctor, that I hate the sight of blood. He sighs. “What do you think, Isabelle? If the Academy will honor your acceptance from last summer, would you like to go there?”
I give the faintest of nods. Dad knows I would kill to be able to dance full time. But I don’t want to get my hopes up. They might not accept me. I’m older than most candidates for transfer. Mom is looking at me like I’m holding a knife and I’m about to stab her.
“Mom, there’s this one dancer, Mia, who got into Columbia early decision from the Academy. She wants to be an OB doctor.”
Mom’s lips pinch. She doesn’t believe me.
“David Jeffries is on the board there,” Dad says. “I can ask him who the right person to call would be. This is a good idea, Elisa. The savings would be significant.”
Mom doesn’t say no. She doesn’t shout and stomp her foot. That means there’s a chance.
“Come on, we can talk more about this later. For now, let’s sit and eat together. I’ve been craving”—Dad squints at the plastic container—“almond cilantro hummus all day.” He wheels Mom into the seat of honor, directly north of the Manhattan skyline. Dad sits next to her, tapping the cushion of the bench on his other side. I slide in.
“It will work out. It always does,” Dad says. It’s our mantra, his and mine. I say it to myself as we eat, as I clean up, as I head back to my room.
When I’m on my bed, I take out Alex’s poem. I read it over and over until it blocks out Dad’s promise, until it’s all I see, all I think about. Before I turn out the lights, I open Instagram. Alex’s account is right up top. He’s posted a photo of our two hands. It’s blurry—the train must have been moving—but still, I make out the curve of his fingers under mine.