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  To Lila and Marian

  once in a while,

  you can creep out of your own life

  and become someone else—

  —Mary Oliver, “Acid”

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  Also by Lisa Gornick

  Copyright

  ONE

  1

  Myra cradles the phone to her ear as she gives the yes that she knows even now, this April Saturday morning, should be a no. Her yes is not even a yes, since Adam, her fragile second child—acrophobic, claustrophobic, equinophobic screenwriter of grade-B Westerns—is too avoidant to make a request, though the request is so clearly implied, it might as well be granted words.

  “Rachida’s head was still in Morocco when she chose dermatology,” Adam says in the mumbly voice that has followed him from childhood, muffled now by the scraggly beard he grew at thirty with the hope of no longer being mistaken for a teen. “There, so many diseases present with the skin, dermatology is frontline medicine. Here, in Detroit, with her office in a shopping mall, she feels like a glorified aesthetician. She rolls her eyes when her patients complain about pimples. She scowls when they ask for Botox.”

  Pools of gold light spill onto the dining terrace, where Myra has spent the past hour planting terra-cotta pots that by summer will be filled with blooming thyme, Kirby cucumbers, and grape tomatoes sweet as cherries. The loamy scent of potting soil wafts through the open sliding doors into the kitchen of the Manhattan brownstone where she lives alone and keeps her psychotherapy office as she pieces together that her chronically angry Moroccan-Jewish dermatologist daughter-in-law has accepted a one-year respecialization fellowship in primary care at a hospital less than a mile away.

  “They offered us housing in the medical student high rises. A junior four on the nineteenth floor…” Adam’s voice trails off as banks of gleaming elevators he would never enter fill Myra’s mind—and then the image of her six-year-old grandson, Omar, trudging on his sturdy little legs behind his panting father up flight after flight of stairs.

  2

  Caro studies Myra’s long smooth forearms. Is there a cosmic lesson to be learned in this second year of the new millennium from her mother’s effortless beauty? Does Beauty, outraged by her mother’s indifference, seek her out?

  It is Sunday, their weekly dinner at the Amsterdam Avenue macrobiotic place, neither of them vegetarian but neither with a taste for trendier restaurants. Caro spears a wedge of organic yam as her mother places her chopsticks on her plate and folds her hands.

  “Adam called yesterday. Rachida is going to do her fellowship here. They’ll be coming at the end of June, as soon as Omar finishes school.”

  There is a twinge of discomfort as Caro recognizes that neither Adam nor Rachida has phoned to tell her, a reminder of the excessive reserve she has felt with them since their marriage. A problem, Caro thinks, rooted in confusion over Rachida, not really about loyalties, though it is hard to trace where those lie, but rather about who knows whom best—Caro having met Rachida first, at Rachida’s parents’ home in Essaouira, which Adam, afraid to fly, has never seen.

  “Great,” Caro murmurs, the word hollow even to her own ears. But why would she not mean it? Even if they have drifted apart, she loves her brother, her little brother, as she still thinks of him, despite there being only two years between them. Her greater ease at making a way in the world—her Harvard degree and semester abroad, with Adam unable to leave the city for college; her big job, with Adam still scraping by—has so long been the warp and woof of their lives, it has left no room for poisonous rivalry. And how could there be after all those years of Adam’s fears and phobias: elevators, which complicated considerably their childhood in New York City, and airplanes, which required their mother to escort them by train each March to visit their cardiologist father installed in his fantasy casita outside of Tucson, and horses, of which their father and his second wife had kept six. The annual battle between their father and Adam over Adam’s refusal to ride until the wrangler hired to teach Adam sat their father down and said, Doc, you know how to listen to a heart, but me, I know horses and how people and horses get along, and one thing you can’t do is force a human to ride a horse, which is what you’re trying to do with that boy of yours.

  Her mother passes her fingers through her gunmetal hair, cut in a blunt downtown way that makes the color look more chosen than fated. “They’re going to live with me for the year.”

  Caro holds herself very still in an effort not to react, not to blurt out anything, but it is useless. Her brows knit together, a habit since childhood. Then, her mother would smooth the flat of her hand over Caro’s broad forehead, inheritance from a line of Jewish peasant women with faces round as cabbages that somehow skipped over her and Adam’s sculpted visages. “Poor Caro,” her mother once whispered, “fated to be the most sensible of us all,” as though in Caro’s features her personality is sealed.

  “The housing they offered Rachida is on the nineteenth floor. Obviously impossible for Adam. With only Rachida’s fellowship salary and the pittance he got for the option on his last screenplay, they’d have to live in Yonkers or Queens. Where would Omar go to school?”

  “Where’s he going to go if he lives with you? Even if they could afford private school, it’s too late to apply.”

  Her mother takes a long drink from her glass of triple-filtered water. She fixes her cornflower-blue eyes on Caro’s chocolate-brown ones. “I was thinking that with your school connections you could find them something.”

  Caro sighs.

  “I’ll handle the tuition.”

  Had anyone asked her, she would not have agreed that she is the most sensible of them all. The least squeaky wheel, yes, but not the most sensible. Built like the field hockey player she once was—short, stocky, and a little bowlegged, she has been slender only once in her life: the semester she spent in Paris that rolled into the summer she met Rachida and her family in Essaouira. Now she lives alone, with not so much as a goldfish, the 120 children at the East Harlem preschool where she is the director quite enough company for her, thank you.

  “Where will you put them?”

  Her mother produces a pale green sheet of paper torn from one of the steno pads in which she keeps her patient notes, a pad for each patient, each tucked like children’s jackets in their assigned slots inside the rolltop desk she locks every night. Under each slot is a label marked with the patient’s appointment time: 8:45, 9:30, 10:15, 11:00. Then, in the afternoon, 2:30, 3:15, 4:00, and 4:45. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Not until Caro graduated from college and returned to New York did she understand that not all therapists keep the same schedule every day and don’t see patients on Wednesdays—not to mention, write every morning from five to eight, walk every noon hour around the reservoir, or take up, as her mother had at the age of fifty, the piano.

  On the paper, her mother has sketched her four-story house in cross section. In the front fourth-floor room, down the hall from her mother’s own room in the back, in what had been Adam’s room, there is an O for what Caro assumes will be Omar’s room. On the third floor, in Caro’s old room with the branches from the neighbors’ bac
kyard tree nearly touching the window, there is A&R, in what apparently will be Adam and Rachida’s room.

  “In here,” her mother points to the front third-floor room they had called the TV room and that now houses her grand piano, “Adam can set up a desk. I’m never there during the day.”

  The parlor level—with the roll-armed couch that once belonged to her mother’s parents and the cream Corbusier swivel chairs and black Barcelona chairs her parents bought when her father got his first job after his residency, in the front by the bay windows filled with the southern light—appears unchanged. Separating the seating and kitchen areas is the weathered farm table her mother found in an antique store in the Bronx before catalogue furniture companies began selling knock-off versions. At the back is the kitchen with the soapstone counters and the dining deck that looks out over the garden her mother created from a patch of torn-up concrete.

  The entrance to the garden is through her mother’s ground-floor office, the French doors sketched ajar, as she keeps them when the weather is warm. Summers, on the side table next to the patient chair, a vase of heritage roses sits by the tissue box. Next to the waiting room is a tiny bedroom and miniature bath, which the architect who designed the space called the au pair’s suite, the necessity of which he had insisted, and which her mother has sporadically rented to a graduate student.

  Caro studies the sketch. She can find no holes in her mother’s plan. All she knows is that her mouth has gone dry and her mind has drifted to the pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream she will buy on her way home.

  3

  Myra learns about Eva three days later from Ursula, her cousin from the Peruvian branch of her family, who learned about Eva an hour before from her sister Alicia, who learned about Eva that morning from her cheeky maid Marina, who met Eva the night before when Eva showed up unexpectedly at Marina’s boyfriend’s two-room apartment. Eva and her sister and father had lived on the street in Iquitos where Marina’s boyfriend grew up. They are paisanos. Marina’s boyfriend had no choice but to let her stay. His mother would set a maligno, an evil spirit, on him if he did anything less.

  Marina had expected to eat rice and beans with her boyfriend, watch TV together, and then have sex on the couch before her boyfriend’s roommate arrived home from his nightshift job. Instead, she found herself sitting at her boyfriend’s greasy table listening to Eva’s story about a great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side who was Jewish, a secret Eva’s mother had kept from Eva’s father but had given Eva an amulet shaped like a hand to prove; Eva’s account of the hardships of studying Hebrew in Iquitos, where there is no rabbi and the makeshift synagogue is in the back of a flooring store; and Eva’s fervent wish to emigrate to Israel.

  None of what Eva said was comprehensible to Marina—everyone knows that Indians aren’t Jews, rich people in Miraflores and San Isidro are Jews—but she, nonetheless, repeated it in the morning to her employer, Mrs. Alicia, whom Marina hoped to enlist in the service of Eva’s removal from her boyfriend’s living-room floor.

  Alicia immediately recognized Eva as one of the mestizo self-proclaimed Jews from Iquitos over which her Lima synagogue has been divided for years—most of the Ashkenazi congregation wanting nothing to do with these third- and fourth-generation offspring of Sephardic turn-of-the-century rubber traders and their Indian common-law wives, whom they view as having no legitimate claim to Jewish identity, while a vocal few, including two of the synagogue elders, proclaim it monstrous for the congregation not to respond to pleas for Jewish education, no matter the bloodlines of the seekers.

  Retreating to her bedroom, the only place in the house safely out of the maid’s earshot, Alicia reached for the phone, hitting the automatic dial button for the cell phone of her sister, Ursula.

  Ursula was in her backyard, examining the sloppy work of her gardener. “This,” Ursula said, after hearing her sister’s story about Eva, “could be a disaster. Remember the four Indians last year from Iquitos who wanted Rabbi Menendez to circumcise them? When Menendez said no since they’d all been baptized and couldn’t understand why they couldn’t also worship Jesus Christ, Clara Bejan contacted that kooky rabbi from St. Louis, who flew down to meet them. I heard Clara’s children were dropped from everyone’s bar-mitzvah-party list.”

  Ursula looked over the top of the wall that separates Alicia’s property from her own, behind which she can see the roof of her sister’s pool house. It annoyed her that Alicia had called when she was so close.

  “I have to do something,” Alicia said. “You know Marina, my maid. She’s very cocky. She’ll gossip and turn me into a brute.”

  “Marina probably just wants the girl away from her boyfriend. Is she pretty?”

  “She has a nice little figure. But when you look at her up close, she seems unhealthy. Her hair is too thin, like a woman our age, and her nose is spotted with blackheads.”

  “Men don’t notice those things. Marina just doesn’t want this Eva camping out with her boyfriend.”

  “She’s very bright. Her English is excellent, as good as ours, and she says she’s been teaching herself Hebrew too. There’s just something a little strange about her. Marina said her boyfriend told her the family had problems.”

  With a woman our age, Ursula thought of her cousin Myra, a mousy, bookish wallflower when they’d first met—Ursula a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence, Myra a freshman at nearby Barnard—but now the handsomest woman she knew of their generation.

  “I’ll call Myra. Maybe she knows someone who could use the girl in New York. They never have proper help there.”

  4

  Myra picks up after the third ring. It being a Wednesday, a day she doesn’t see patients, she has spent the morning writing at the farm table: a meditation on the teleology of love on which she has been working now for nearly a year. Strangely, she had been thinking about Ursula and Ursula’s obsession with her own breasts, which this morning struck Myra as rooted in the maternal starvation of children raised by maids. Too sharp in the nose and broad in the beam to be called beautiful when they first met, Ursula had been, nonetheless, stunningly sensual. Men and women alike longed for the dark nipples hinted at beneath the pointy-tipped brassieres she wore under her red cashmere sweaters in winter, her boat-necked dresses in summer. There was nothing, she would tell Myra, that she loved more than to unsnap her brassiere, cup her large, soft breasts in her hands, and feel a warm mouth (man’s or woman’s made no difference to her) clamped on those nipples and then moving down her flawless olive skin.

  Myra listens to her cousin’s latest soap opera. Her father and Ursula’s father had been brothers, the yin and yang male bookends of the family: Myra’s father, a string-beany fourteen when he left Ukraine in the fall of 1910, never again to see his roly-poly baby brother or any other member of his immediate family aside from his older sister, Misha, whom he’d been conscripted to chaperone on her voyage to New York to join her fiancé—a fiancé who failed to meet the boat, having left days before it docked for a prospecting scheme in Utah, from which, if he ever returned, he never notified Misha.

  She sips her now cold coffee while Ursula tells her about Eva and Marina and the Sturm und Drang in her synagogue—the synagogue founded by Ursula’s father, who, three years after Myra’s father landed in New York, emigrated with the rest of the family to Lima, where, as an adult, he transformed the import-export business his father had started into an impressive enterprise diversified in real estate and shopping malls, and then built a fantastic villa in Miraflores with a swimming pool and trampoline and five maids, who did the mopping and cooking and tending of his vain wife and two daughters.

  Having no experience herself with South American maids and the normativeness of their duplicities or the extent of the responsibility entailed, Myra tells her cousin that of course she will keep her ears open for a position for Eva.

  “Anything, sweetheart, ironing, cooking, babysitting. I’d find her something myself, but … It’s a crime the way they snub the
se people in Lima.”

  5

  The idea that she might herself hire Eva arrives in the evening while Myra is watering her garden, her thoughts cycling between her ambivalence about giving up her solitude and her happiness about having her son and his family, especially Omar, with her for the year. What she is not looking forward to is a year of laundry and cooking and dishes. Perhaps she could hire this Eva, bright and hardworking, Ursula said, to help with the housework and Omar.

  Myra waits until she assumes Omar will be in bed before telephoning Adam and Rachida to hear their thoughts.

  “Hi, Grandma,” Omar says.

  “You’re up late. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

  “Rachida’s still at her office. She said she’d give me my bath when she got home. I’m watching a DVD about the human body. Did you know that children have more bones than grownups? I have almost one hundred bones more than you!”

  During the first few years of Omar’s life, Myra struggled, not with her behavior, which she has always kept in check, but with her inclination to make private judgments about the way Adam and Rachida handle Omar: their looseness regarding bedtime, their permissiveness with letting him eat whatever he wants (for years, almost exclusively grilled cheese), Rachida’s allowing him to call her by her first name. It has all seemed rife with the overindulgence of first-time parents, with the difficulty she has seen in so many of her patients with feeling that they are, in fact, the adults. Her son and his wife have never asked her advice on anything, and she has known better than to offer it. Now, though, with Omar six and a half, she has to admit that whatever they are doing, different as it might be from what seems sensible to her, Omar is a sweet and thoughtful child.

  “Can I talk to your dad?”

  Not until Adam squeals, “Iquitos? She’s from Iquitos?” does Myra make the connection of Iquitos with Fitzcarraldo, the movie that launched Adam at twelve on the course of becoming a screenwriter. By the time he was fifteen, he’d seen the movie, set and filmed in Iquitos, a dozen times and watched the documentary about the making of the movie nearly as many times—the parallel between the grandiose project of the film’s protagonist, Fitzcarraldo, who attempts to drag a ship over a mountain so as to reach otherwise inaccessible rubber trees with which he hopes to finance the building of an opera house in Iquitos, and that of the filmmaker, Werner Herzog, with his insistence that he film a real boat being dragged over a real mountain in a real jungle, having struck Adam as nothing short of mystical.