cool when you maybe had stigmata. This is way better.”
8
Much of our waking experience
is but a dream in the daylight.
GEORGE ELIOT
B y midnight, Mom has fallen back in her Sleeping Beauty state. Annie stays over. Only she actually sleeps, despite three Red Bulls. I toss and turn, and sleep comes in snatches—and I don’t dream, which is almost a relief.
The next day dawns with flurries. Annie and I take the bus into Manhattan, all decked out like a glittering Christmas present, windows wrapped in green and red and tinsel and expensive displays of visions of Christmases past, present, and future, and extravagances Annie and I can only wish for. On street corners Salvation Army Santas ring their bells. Annie and I huddle close to each other as we face into the wind. Then we descend into the warmth beneath the ground and get on the subway. We makeour way all the way out to Queens on the N line, which should take us to the address for Aphrodite Cypris. When we climb the subway steps back up into the cold, I laugh.
“What?”
“Is there any doubt which building is hers?”
I point. A Greek restaurant named Mount Olympus stands in the middle of the block. As we draw closer, I see statues of the Greek gods and colonnades. When we cross the street, I hear Greek music blasting out.
According to the voice-mail message when I tried calling this morning, Aphrodite is on the second floor. The smells from the restaurant are heavenly and make my stomach growl. I now have a craving for a gyro or baklava. Annie and I try the door, but it’s locked. I press the button next to mailbox slots. A voice calls out from the intercom.
“Who is it?” It is a woman’s voice, singsongy and high-pitched.
And suddenly, it’s as if my mouth doesn’t work. On the train out to Queens, I had practiced in my head what I was going to say. But now the words are stuck. Exactly who is it ringing the bell? Me, Iris . . . half human, half . . . and I can’t even finish the idea. In fact, the idea, in the light of day, makes me kind of nauseous. She cannot really be the Aphrodite anymore than I can be the daughter of Morpheus.
“Who is it?” the voice on the intercom asks more insistently.
Annie leans close to the speaker. “It’s Morpheus’s daughter. Her name is Iris.”
I elbow Annie and stare at her. On the train, as I had rehearsed things, I certainly wasn’t going to blurt that out first thing. It seems like the kind of thing you have to warm up to saying out loud.
The intercom is silent for several long moments. We press the button to her apartment again, while the loud Greek music continues to play. My heart sort of sinks in my chest. If Aphrodite won’t see us, then I have no idea where to turn. Except maybe the hypnotherapist. But Aphrodite’s the one I really need. Then we hear a loud buzzing sound, and a click. We try the door, and it opens. Annie and I step inside. I take off my gloves and shove them into my purse. I rub my hands together and blow on them.
“Man,” Annie whispers. “This is so tacky.” She unbuttons her coat.
Painted all the way up the hallway is an immense mural. Gods and goddesses frolic on fluffy white clouds.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, and start climbing the stairs, Annie right behind me. When we get to the second-story landing, there’s only one apartment onthe floor. I press the buzzer next to the door. After a moment, the door swings open, and I am face to face with Aphrodite, the goddess of love.
Only she isn’t what I expect at all. Aphrodite is supposed to be beautiful—this incredible womanly goddess no man can resist. And she is beautiful. But she’s also . . . well, a big woman. My grandpa would say voluptuous (just his type!). She’s definitely very plus size. Her hair is long and brown and lusciously curly. Her face is stunning, with perfect makeup. And she’s blinged out to the max—rhinestone rings and stacks of clinking bracelets and big swingy earrings
8
Much of our waking experience
is but a dream in the daylight.
GEORGE ELIOT
B y midnight, Mom has fallen back in her Sleeping Beauty state. Annie stays over. Only she actually sleeps, despite three Red Bulls. I toss and turn, and sleep comes in snatches—and I don’t dream, which is almost a relief.
The next day dawns with flurries. Annie and I take the bus into Manhattan, all decked out like a glittering Christmas present, windows wrapped in green and red and tinsel and expensive displays of visions of Christmases past, present, and future, and extravagances Annie and I can only wish for. On street corners Salvation Army Santas ring their bells. Annie and I huddle close to each other as we face into the wind. Then we descend into the warmth beneath the ground and get on the subway. We makeour way all the way out to Queens on the N line, which should take us to the address for Aphrodite Cypris. When we climb the subway steps back up into the cold, I laugh.
“What?”
“Is there any doubt which building is hers?”
I point. A Greek restaurant named Mount Olympus stands in the middle of the block. As we draw closer, I see statues of the Greek gods and colonnades. When we cross the street, I hear Greek music blasting out.
According to the voice-mail message when I tried calling this morning, Aphrodite is on the second floor. The smells from the restaurant are heavenly and make my stomach growl. I now have a craving for a gyro or baklava. Annie and I try the door, but it’s locked. I press the button next to mailbox slots. A voice calls out from the intercom.
“Who is it?” It is a woman’s voice, singsongy and high-pitched.
And suddenly, it’s as if my mouth doesn’t work. On the train out to Queens, I had practiced in my head what I was going to say. But now the words are stuck. Exactly who is it ringing the bell? Me, Iris . . . half human, half . . . and I can’t even finish the idea. In fact, the idea, in the light of day, makes me kind of nauseous. She cannot really be the Aphrodite anymore than I can be the daughter of Morpheus.
“Who is it?” the voice on the intercom asks more insistently.
Annie leans close to the speaker. “It’s Morpheus’s daughter. Her name is Iris.”
I elbow Annie and stare at her. On the train, as I had rehearsed things, I certainly wasn’t going to blurt that out first thing. It seems like the kind of thing you have to warm up to saying out loud.
The intercom is silent for several long moments. We press the button to her apartment again, while the loud Greek music continues to play. My heart sort of sinks in my chest. If Aphrodite won’t see us, then I have no idea where to turn. Except maybe the hypnotherapist. But Aphrodite’s the one I really need. Then we hear a loud buzzing sound, and a click. We try the door, and it opens. Annie and I step inside. I take off my gloves and shove them into my purse. I rub my hands together and blow on them.
“Man,” Annie whispers. “This is so tacky.” She unbuttons her coat.
Painted all the way up the hallway is an immense mural. Gods and goddesses frolic on fluffy white clouds.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, and start climbing the stairs, Annie right behind me. When we get to the second-story landing, there’s only one apartment onthe floor. I press the buzzer next to the door. After a moment, the door swings open, and I am face to face with Aphrodite, the goddess of love.
Only she isn’t what I expect at all. Aphrodite is supposed to be beautiful—this incredible womanly goddess no man can resist. And she is beautiful. But she’s also . . . well, a big woman. My grandpa would say voluptuous (just his type!). She’s definitely very plus size. Her hair is long and brown and lusciously curly. Her face is stunning, with perfect makeup. And she’s blinged out to the max—rhinestone rings and stacks of clinking bracelets and big swingy earrings
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