Believers might pin what happened on “the universe.” Cynics say irony is dead. Since I’m neither believer nor cynic, I posit the possibility that the universe is ironic.
We were on our way out of Mom’s apartment. Mom asked Marsden to help her with her suitcase: “You’re a strapping young man, help your old Gram out.”
Then she scolded him for lifting it the wrong way.
“How can he be lifting it wrong? It’s got a handle. He’s carrying it by the handle, which was put there for this very purpose.”
“It’s a very old suitcase. He needs to pick it up and carry it.”
Marsden picked up her suitcase and cradled it in his arms.
“Not like that,” she said.
“Let me show you.”
“Mom, it’s fine.”
“Elise, mind your own business,” she snapped.
I turned away from them. Pivoted toward the bookshelf and that’s when I saw it. There was a fissure on one of the lower shelves, a crack in the continuity, and there it was. Mom’s missing copy of Madame Bovary.
When we got to the car, I asked Marsden if he wanted to drive.
“You want me to drive? For real?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Why? Are you sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“Then why do you want me to drive?”
“You have your permit. You need your practice hours.”
“But we’re in New York.”
“That’s a good observation.”
“For real, Mom, you want me to drive in the city?”
“You only have to drive a few blocks before we get on the highway. It’ll be good practice.”
“I would drive but I can’t find my license,” Mom said.
“Marsden needs the practice,” I said. “He should drive.”
Mom settled into the passenger side of the front seat with her portable oxygen tank, Marsden got behind the wheel and pushed the seat back to accommodate the sprawl of legs on his six-foot-two frame, and I squeezed in behind him in the back seat. I’m not entirely sure why I thought he should drive, but I think it had something to do with encouraging him to take control of his future while I was losing control of mine. Maybe life doesn’t really work in literary metaphors—but writers are always seeking metaphors and this one seems apt.
I needed to think about how I would tell Sammy Ronstein that that I wasn’t able to finish. That I would never finish. He’s been emailing and calling. I am scared of his fury. I need to fortify myself. After Marsden successfully steered us onto the Merritt, after I could see Mom’s eyes close, after the hum of the portable oxygen tank was the only sound in the car, I pulled Mom’s copy of Madame Bovary out of my coat pocket and started to read.