HUNTER ROLLED OVER. HIS PHONE RANG WITH A TREBLE bell tone that was supposed to be reminiscent of a classic phone but sounded too digital to be convincing. He grunted. The screen said it was his sister.
“Hey,” Hunter answered. Brennan sighed as if she’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “Everything okay?”
“You’re still sleeping? It’s like 9:00 a.m.”
“It’s a Sunday. But no, I was up. Kinda.”
The line was silent, but Hunter felt Brennan shaking her head in annoyance.
“You seen Mom since you got back? She told me to call you so we could have brunch with her.”
“There’s what? Six inches of snow on the ground?”
“Eight.”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
“Can you be ready in twenty minutes? We can split a cab over.” She told him where to meet.
“Fine.”
Brennan hung up on him. Curious, Hunter checked his call log. It was the first time Brennan had called him since he got the phone over a year ago.
Over his shoulder, the girl—whatever her name was—shimmied into her tight jeans. Light from the window fell on her just right.
“You sleep okay?” he asked, smiling.
“Yeah. You?”
“Sure.” He hadn’t slept. Instead, he spent the night lying next to her, fading between degrees of consciousness, trying to remember her name, watching snow fall through the window, and wondering how he could politely get her to leave in the morning.
“I’ve never done the walk of shame in the snow before.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed about.”
“It’s nice that you think so. I mean, I literally just met you last night.” She balanced on one leg to pull on a sock, still topless. “I don’t do this very often. You’re just really hot.”
“I’m sure you don’t, and”—he shot her a roguish smile—“so are you.”
She finished pulling her sock onto her foot, climbed back onto the bed, and crawled toward him. She kissed him, heedless of their morning breath. Even though he would have preferred to fuck again, Hunter pulled away.
“Sorry,” he said. “My sister and I are supposed to take our mom to brunch.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, somehow already off the bed and picking her bra up from the floor. Hunter stood, ran his hands across his face, and surveyed the room for something clean to wear. By the time he had underwear and jeans on, she was dressed, standing in the bedroom doorway, watching him.
“Let me walk you out before I wash up.”
They didn’t fill the silence of the ten seconds that it took for her to grab her coat and purse. Maybe she expected him to ask for her number, but Hunter had abandoned the practice of asking for numbers he knew he’d never dial.
“You know, this is embarrassing,” she said, turning at his door, “but I can’t remember your name.”
“Happy to tell you, in exchange for yours.”
She looked down, playing coy, then pressed into him, kissing him. She broke the kiss, opened the door, and left.
Ten minutes later, Hunter stood on the corner of Amsterdam and Ninety-Sixth Street, next to an old bank building that had been converted into a pharmacy. Snow piled near the curb like a berm, and rock salt crunched between his boot soles and the pavement. A bright, clear sky shone overhead. Hunter figured that most of the snow would be gone by nightfall. He hadn’t made up his mind yet whether he had made a mistake in not getting the girl’s name and number.
Brennan arrived looking as she did two years ago or whenever he’d last seen her. Still slender. Her hair was shorter, shoulder-length now. Same skin tone and facial features that led to confusion their whole lives. What are you? You Asian? Hispanic? Latino? Hawaiian?
Hunter handed her the coffee he had procured for her. “Cream, no sugar, right?”
“Close enough,” Brennan said. “Thanks.”
“What did you bring?”
“Bagels and lox.”
“What about eggs?”
“She’ll have eggs if you want them.”
They crossed the street and hailed an eastbound cab with threadbare tires. Without thinking, they sat on the same sides as when they were children—Hunter behind the driver, Brennan on the passenger side.
“Eightieth and York,” Brennan said.
The driver didn’t respond except to pull away. The siblings peered out of opposite windows as they rode.
“How long have you been back?” Brennan asked as they stopped at a light on Central Park West. Covered with snow in the morning light, the park was too bright to look at.
“A week.”
“How was it?”
“You read the news?”
“Of course. Even some of the stuff you wrote.”
“Then you know maybe a quarter of how bad it is over there. It’s a fucking disaster. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine.” Brennan glanced at him. “So why haven’t you seen Mom yet?”
“I’ve been working up to it. You know, jet lag. Also, God knows if I picked up some sort of bug from traveling. Don’t want to expose her to it.”
Brennan shook her head but didn’t say anything else. When they reached Fifth Avenue, a family crossed in front of the cab, wearing expensive parkas, snow pants, and boots like they were embarking on an Antarctic expedition instead of strolling through a park no more than ten minutes from an espresso in any direction.
“I’m sorry I missed the wedding,” Hunter said.
She dismissed his apology with a wave. “It was four years ago.”
“Yeah. But I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“You were covering our endless wars.” The tone of Brennan’s voice was clear—there was nothing to forgive, not because she was past it, but because she’d never cared in the first place if he showed.
“How’s Paul?” Hunter’s heart rate spiked for a moment as he worried that he had forgotten his brother-in-law’s name. Hunter had spoken to Paul twice. The first time was during a phone call from Afghanistan after the wedding to congratulate them. The second time was two years later, a Christmas dinner at their mother’s. Hunter’s flight had been delayed and Brennan had some court brief due, so they’d only overlapped for fifteen minutes—a handshake while Hunter microwaved the cold ham and mashed potatoes and passed his hastily wrapped presents over.
“I don’t know. We split up about six months ago.”
Hunter finally looked over to her. “You’re divorced?”
“Separated. But heading that way.” Brennan continued to watch the city out of her side of the cab.
“I…what? Mom didn’t say anything.”
“She’s pretending it didn’t happen.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t working out. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Hunter looked back out of the window as they crossed the Upper East Side.
“How long you in town for?” Brennan asked as they passed Third Avenue.
“Indefinitely. I told the paper I had to be here for Mom. They were understanding about it. At least for now. To be honest…” He stopped speaking with a shake of his head.
“What?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid.”
Their mother’s building was halfway between York and East End Avenue. She’d downsized to a two-bedroom apartment there after the siblings moved away for college. The cab pulled to a stop on the corner. They walked the rest of the way without speaking. They stood in front of the building for a moment. Wind blew off the East River a few hundred yards away, and their eyes watered.
“When’s the last time that you saw her?” Brennan asked.
“In person? Last year. You?”
“Yesterday. You should know, she looks different. You ready for this?” Hunter nodded. They headed into the building and up to the tenth floor. They rang the bell at Apartment D and waited patiently. Eventually, the door chain rattled, the deadbolt turned over, and then their mother opened the door, backlit by sunlight streaming through the large windows in the living room.
“Oh,” she said, as if she were surprised, “it’s you two clowns.”
Brennan hugged her first, perfunctory with familiarity. She stepped aside as Hunter embraced her. Even though he planned for a simple squeeze, Hunter found himself holding her, spinning for a moment in memories.
“Alright, alright,” Jane said, breaking out of his arms. She brushed past them like a curtain, shuffled back to the living room, and sank into the couch. Hunter and Brennan immediately began removing their coats and boots—the apartment sweltered. Despite the heat, their mother wore a thick cable-knit sweater and jeans—all bones and clothes.
Brennan carried the food to the small dining room tucked adjacent to the living room and kitchen. Hunter quickly inspected the living room. Two blankets lay crumpled on the couch next to his mother, a stack of books rested on the coffee table, and three empty cups cluttered the side table. A credenza stood covered with old pictures of him and Brennan, including a black-and-white photo of the three of them Hunter had taken before Brennan left for college.
As always, the only picture of his father in the apartment drew his eye. The two children, three and five in the photo, sat on John’s lap on a bench in Central Park, everyone smiling. Hunter remembered nothing about the day or what they had to be so happy about.
“Mom,” Brennan said from the other room, “can I make you some tea or coffee?”
“No,” she said. “Water is fine.”
Hunter sat down in a wingback chair across from the couch. His mother inspected him like she did every time he returned home from one of his absences. She looked like she had aged twenty years since he last saw her. Her thick blond hair had thinned into a dry mousegray frazzle. Liver spots peppered her skin, slack over wasted muscle. He barely recognized the woman who raised him. The sound of Brennan grinding coffee in the kitchen carried into the room.
“Why is she making coffee?” Jane asked. “You showed up with cups in your hand.”
“They’re almost empty,” Hunter said. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Everything hurts. What do you want me to tell you?”
“Whatever you like.”
“The damn doctors, they’re worse than lawyers.” She directed the last part to Brennan as she entered the room. “They never give you a straight answer.”
“What’s going on?” Brennan asked.
“You mean, aside from the cancer?”
“I mean, anything specific that’s bothering you about the doctors today as opposed to generally?”
“No. I just hate the hedging. The hemming and hawing. The consideration. The consultations.”
“You know that there aren’t any solid answers.”
“Don’t tell me what I know. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She turned to Hunter. “See? That’s what you get for asking me how I’m feeling. Next time leave it for my doctors or my shrink. You tell me about you. What’s your story?”
“No story. I just got back to town.”
“A week ago. You couldn’t make your way over here to see your mother?”
“Sorry. You know, jet lag, and catching up on stuff I couldn’t get done overseas. I wanted to clear stuff off my plate before I saw you. So I could focus on being here.”
His mother looked at him like his bullshit had not improved with age, which it hadn’t. Hunter shrugged, sank back in his chair, and wished he had slept better the night before.
“What about you?” She turned on Brennan. “Did you tell your brother you won that case?”
“No.” Brennan joined her mother on the couch. “We didn’t talk about that.”
“You used to brag about your wins.”
Brennan shrugged. “I didn’t brag about them.”
“What case?” Hunter asked.
“Nothing,” Brennan said. “We won a trial last week.”
“What about?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Their mom cut in like she did when they all lived together and the kids drove her crazy with their bickering. “Brennan, what’s the news with Paul?”
Brennan rolled her eyes and sank back in her chair. “Stop, Mom. It’s over. Can we move on to something else?”
Their mother turned back to Hunter. “When do you go back to Syria or whatever country you’re covering next?”
“No plans right now.”
“I hope that’s not on account of me.”
“It was time for me to come back anyway. I’ll just stay a little longer, make sure you’re okay,” Hunter said.
“Don’t put your life on hold for me. I don’t want to be a burden.”
In the kitchen, the teapot whistled. Hunter and Brennan stood at the same time.
“Wait here, Mom,” Brennan said. “We’ll get everything set.”
The siblings went to the kitchen. Hunter turned off the burner, and the kettle’s whistle stopped.
“There’s fresh ground coffee in that cabinet,” Brennan said. “I keep a supply here. For the late nights.”
As Hunter scooped coffee and poured the hot water into a French press, Brennan opened the oven and loaded warmed bagels onto a tray.
“She’s feisty today,” Brennan said. “It’s the pain.”
“She was always like this.”
“Is the sugar on the table?”
“Yeah, I see it out there.”
Hunter arranged the food while Brennan set the table. They sat as they had growing up: Jane at the head of the table, Brennan to her right, Hunter to her left. Their mother took a bagel, sawing at it slowly with an unsteady hand.
“Mom, can I help you with that?” Brennan asked.
“I can do it,” Jane said.
Hunter and Brennan exchanged glances and assembled bagels with lox and cream cheese. Jane spread butter over hers.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like this. Pushed around, pulled thin. Pulled and pushed. Scraped year after year, thinner and thinner. Melting. Until you’re not there anymore. You’re just a film of grease on someone else’s life.”
Hunter reached for her hand. It disappeared in his like a child’s hand would. Brennan moved behind her, kissed the top of her head, then leaned forward to nestle against her cheek. Jane embraced Brennan with her free hand, then nudged her back to her seat and pulled away from Hunter.
“It’s okay, kids. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize about, Mom,” Hunter said.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lie down now. You guys can stay if you like, but let me say goodbye now, in case you leave before I wake.”
She came to them, one at a time like bedtime when they were kids—Brennan first, then Hunter—hugs and kisses, then shuffled off to her bedroom. Her bagel sat uneaten on her plate.