On The Verge. Ariella Papa

      “Don’t get testy, Eve.” Imagine her saying this to me. “People kill for apartments here. Literally. Maybe you should check the obits. How depressing.”

      “Maybe I should break down and find a real estate agent.”

      “Okay, so you’re gonna get an apartment you can’t afford, plus a fifteen percent fee.” She holds up a tiny black lace bra. “They make this shit for supermodels. Will you go try to find my size?”

      Tabitha is really pissing me off with her attitude. She wants me to fail in my search for an apartment and here I am trying to get her a slut bra. Aren’t I always her sympathy blanket? It’s a thankless job. I start searching for Tabitha’s size. I even open up those little drawers beneath the hanging bras. The saleswoman hurries to help me.

      After an eternity she comes back with the bra in red. Tabitha wanted black, but I take it back toward the dressing rooms. Tabitha is already on line and the cashier is wrapping a pretty large pile of lace. I notice the total is one hundred and twenty dollars.

      “Hey—” I hold the red bra out to her “—they just had red, what did you get?”

      “Red is too trashy, although it might have the matador and bull affect. No, I’m tired of catering to him.” She tosses the bra on the potpourri rack and takes her bag of unidentified goodies.

      “So what’s that?”

      “Just some undies.”

      “Seems like a lot of undies.”

      “You know I hate to do laundry. We better get back. Do you want to go to some advertising party Luis is working tonight? I know it sounds mundane, but I want someone to hang out with.” We walk along, ignoring the stares and whistles of the construction workers who have taken over Times Square. Tabitha stops to flip one off when he comments about her showing him what’s in the bag.

      “I’ve got to cool it on the drinking during school nights and besides, tonight is Operation Leaving the Nest.”

      “I hope Victor doesn’t have a stroke.”

      “Tabitha, my father’s health is nothing to joke about. Besides, it’s Janet who has a tendency to overdramatize.” Tabitha thinks she’s got my parents pegged, but she rejects all invites to see for herself how the other half lives.

      “Have you devised your tactics yet?”

      “I’m just going to appeal to their sense of reason.”

      “They’re not going to be able to handle it.”

      “I know, but I’ve got to try. Have fun at the party.”

      “Too bad we can’t switch places.”

      “Yeah, like Freaky Friday, or all those weird eighties movies.” Tabitha nods disinterestedly and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

      “Yeah, Eve, exactly like that.”

      We reach the office, and part to our respective elevator banks.

      I have waited to tell my parents about Roseanne’s arrival until days before she actually arrives. I know you probably think that’s not a fair thing to do, but believe me, my parents work best under pressure. Theirs was a shotgun wedding.

      I wait until after dinner. The only notable thing about dinner is the way my mom keeps fussing over me and mentioning how nice it is to have me home, because I’m never home and all that mother guilt babble that mothers love to dish out. They were just getting over my sister Monica being a perpetual student and now, this. I’m debating whether or not to give in to the tears caused by my mom’s ambitious attempt at Cajun cooking. Maybe it will work in my favor and they won’t be so heartbroken when I break the news. Janet is not the best cook and she’s certainly not shy with the spices.

      I decide straightforward is the best approach for delivering my news. I’ve never been a very good actress. I can barely fake an orgasm. (Not that I condone that in any way.)

      Mom is just stacking the dishes. She does this with a sense of urgency the moment she senses we’re done. She hasn’t made a single comment about Dad not finishing his whole piece of blackened chicken. This is a good sign. Dad takes out his first cigarette. His health problems are the real thing. He has only just quit smoking during meals; that is, while he eats. My mother is waiting for me to bring the dishes into the kitchen, so I seize my moment.

      “Mom, Dad.” That’s how they always started stuff like this on The Brady Bunch. “Roseanne is going to be coming down for a while. Is it okay if she stays with us?”

      “Of course, honey. We love Roseanne. How’s her job?” My mom likes Roseanne. She’s my mother’s example of how much happier someone is when they listen to their mother and finish school in four years—and she majored in business.

      “Well, Mom—” I’m choosing my words carefully “—she’s actually not very happy with it. She’d like to be doing more.”

      “She’s a smart kid,” says my father, puffing away.

      “Is she coming down for the weekend?” My mom already suspects something.

      “Well, she’s coming down this weekend. But I thought she might crash here for a while, because she is going to relocate to New York.” My parents look at each other. They have some kind of telepathic conversation. When my mom turns to look at me she is speaking for both of them. It’s amazing how they do that.

      “Honey, we are very happy for you that your friend wants to move down. We know you miss college a lot and you’re a little lonely.” Are they talking about me? Do they have any idea what they’re saying? “But, you know, we are not a hostel. We had our share of that with Monica.”

      When my sister got her first masters—in philosophy—she decided that she and seven of her closest friends were going to practice communal living out of my parents’ basement. It lasted two weeks, until one of her friends declared, after my mom made them French toast with store-bought syrup, that she couldn’t live “like a pauper” anymore. She ran hysterical from the house and had her family’s chauffeur pick her up at a 7-Eleven. He drove down from Connecticut. All those ideals shot away by the lack of Vermont maple syrup. It gave Monica something to think about.

      “Mom.” I feel myself starting to get excited and I am not going to succumb, especially since I haven’t gotten anywhere near dropping the real bomb, yet. “Okay, Mom, you know Roseanne isn’t like any of Monica’s pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-hippie friends. She’s only going to be staying here until we find an apartment.” Shit. I shouldn’t have said “we.”

      They don’t even bother to have their telepathic conversation this time. My mother mouths the word “we” and shakes her head. She is a lot easier to read than my dad. Her mouth turns into a nasty line and she gets a frown in the middle of her brows. My father is his stoic self, although his face tightens a bit.

      “Why do you want to live in that dirty city? With those people, those dirty people?” I can’t imagine who these dirty people might be.

      “Mom,” I say, as if she were my two-year-old, “I understand all of your concerns, but really, the only person I’m going to be living with is Roseanne. No dirty people.” Of course they don’t need to know about the ambiguous “dirty” encounters I might have.

      “Why would you want to leave here? I can’t understand you or your sister. Your father and I give you everything. Everything. We would never charge you rent. We don’t beat you. I cook all your meals. Maybe I should have breast-fed.” I can see my mother slipping into hysteria so I turn to my father who is on his third cigarette.

      “Everything, you get everything. It’s like a vacation for you two. It’s like…” He’s struggling here to think of a place. “It’s like the Rivieria.” Ick. I think I understand now why my father lets my mother do all the talking. She may be emotional, but she puts a much better spin on things.

      “Dad!”