Breaking the Bank by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

that, irritated as it would make her, she would call her brother and extend the invitation. Though if this plan did actually materialize, she didn’t know how she would pay for the plane tickets or, worse, tell her mother that she wasn’t able to. Betty was not an ungenerous soul, but she was certainly not rolling in dough the way Stuart was. And her mother did not believe that any money she did give to Mia would be used well.
You’re extravagant,
Betty had said, more than once.
You’re worrying about rent and you take her to Barneys?
    S TILL HOLDING THE phone, Mia rummaged around for her clock, which had, as it turned out, gotten kicked under the bed. It was a bit dusty, and she tried to muffle the resulting sneeze. Eden stirred, but slept on. It was past ten. Mia debated waking her; if she didn’t, she would never be able to get her to go to sleep that night and tomorrow morning would be a fresh hell.
    She was just about to do it when the phone bleated again. It was probably her mother, calling with something she’d forgotten to say during their initial conversation. Calls from Betty usually took place in several installments; when Mia clicked back on, she didn’t even bother to read the number on the screen. But it was not her mother on the line. It was Lloyd.
    â€œHey,” he said in that rich, resonant baritone of his that always got to her, even now, after everything he had done. “How’s it going?”
    â€œHow’s it going?” she echoed. “What do you mean,
How’s it going?
Where have you been all this time? What about Eden? Did you just forget about her?” Mia tried to keep her voice down. But Eden musthave had a Daddy radar that worked even when she was asleep, because she briefly lifted her head from the pillow and gave Mia a baleful look.
    â€œI know I should have called sooner, but you have no idea how crazy things have been. But I’m calling now, aren’t I? Let me talk to Eden.”
    â€œWell, isn’t that just dandy! How about all that time when she didn’t hear a word from you, not a single word—”
    â€œWho’s that?” Eden sat up.
    â€œIs she right there? I know she’s there. Let me talk to her.”
    â€œIs that Daddy?” asked Eden at practically the same moment. When Mia didn’t answer, Eden reached for the phone. “It
is
Daddy, I know it is. I want to talk to him!”
    Mia handed the phone to Eden and then, so she was not tempted to eavesdrop, got out of bed. The apartment was cold, and she found a sweater to pull on over her T-shirt and sweats. But she couldn’t locate her flip-flops or even a pair of socks, so she padded into the kitchen barefoot. It was still a mess from the night before—bowl sloshing in the sink, dots of batter blobbed all over. The brownies were on the counter, and Mia broke off a piece to munch on while she made coffee. She could hear Eden, still in bed, giggling. Snatches of conversation drifted in her direction.
    â€œAnd then that stupid teacher—”
    â€œMom and I went to—”
    â€œSo the boy who sits behind me—”
    â€œI miss you; when are you coming?”
    Was it an accident that Mia overheard that last sentence in its entirety, or had Eden’s voice gotten louder, for emphasis? She stood, still barefoot, still chilly, in the kitchen, looking out the window as she sipped her coffee. It was not much of a view—a glimpse of the tiny backyards on Garfield Place—but it was better than the constant stream of cars and trucks that barreled down Fourth Avenue. And there was something so uselessly, heartbreakingly hopeful about theway people made use of even the smallest of outdoor spaces, cramming them with grills, picnic tables, aboveground pools, sandboxes, flower pots, metal chairs, a collapsed beach ball, a rusted red tricycle.
    â€œMom.” Eden appeared behind her, breaking into her reverie. “Daddy