front of it I remember that once upon a time I wasn’t alone, and it’s not a bad feeling
.
August 26, 1980
I just got back from checking out NYU. The minute I walked around the campus I knew I was meant to be there, even though I can tell neither of them want me to. I can see myself hanging out in Greenwich Village and painting the people and the buildings. I love how out of control and rude and messy things are, the kind of place where real life happens
.
The pizzeria was on the edge of town, plain and inexpensive. Heat radiated from the kitchen and bent the air in waves of haze. Industrial fans had little effect, did not even blow free the lines of dust clinging to the fan’s cage. Kate pushed sweaty bangs off her forehead, and looked at Chris across the Formica table.
“I can’t believe we got the house for seven whole weeks.”
“You mean you can’t believe I took seven weeks away from the office.” He drank the last of the water from his cup, and shook the ice at the bottom.
“How many times do you think you’ll have to go off-island?”
“I’m not sure. I probably won’t have to fly out more than once a week.”
Kate kept her eyes down on the table. She fiddled with the glass cheese shaker, tapping its edge on the gray laminate.
He gave a crooked smile.
Really?
She did not usually complain about his travel. “I’m not on vacation this whole time. You knew that.”
“I know. It’s fine.” Tiny planes, dipping from side to side. She held a neutral expression.
“It won’t be an overnight all the time. Most of the work is out of Boston this summer, but sometimes I might have to get a room.”
It was the kind of thing they’d said when they were younger about others oversexed in public.
Get a room
. She gave a wry grin.
“Kate.” He’d misread her. “If I have to do anything longer, maybe your sister could come out.”
Rachel still lived near their parents in Palo Alto, had married and settled there, and was now well known at Stanford and beyond for her research on the economics of minimum wage. She was always pressing for Kate to fly and meet her somewhere, “just the two of us,” without seeming to appreciate that it was not easily done with children. Rachel’s willingness to adjust her frenetic teaching and conference schedule to make time for her little sister, her only sibling in the world, seemed to trump any difficulty Kate might have leaving young children and a traveling husband.
Their trips, when they managed them, were conceived with the best of intentions. There was always a subtext of sisterly bonding and closing the age gap, those four years that made Rachel seem so distantly ahead in every way. What was harder to bridge were the things Rachel had said in their childhood, the patronizing praise for Kate’s grades that made it all too clear that different standards applied to Kate. And in rare cruel moments, things like
You just NEVER know what you’re going to get with adoption
, murmured with innocent wonder. Of course, suggesting a younger sibling was secretly adopted was just the kind of thoughtless thing kids did to one another. And when Kate had needed proof it wasn’t true, she’d known where to find her mother’s pregnancy pictures, but still. In a family that thrived on ephemeral debate and valued intellectual vigor, Kate had been different, and Rachel’s words stung.
Brilliance doesn’t always come with social dexterity and Rachel wasn’t the easiest party guest, not much for light conversation and not easily entertained. Sometimes Kate wondered whether her sister’s choice not to have children had been a result of her intellectualintensity, or if it was the other way around. Raising children meant having an appreciation for the absurd and the mundane, Kate thought—the bad puns and potty humor and endless knock-knock jokes—or at least a tolerance for them.
And yet there was a connection between them that was undeniable and enduring. Whether it
.
August 26, 1980
I just got back from checking out NYU. The minute I walked around the campus I knew I was meant to be there, even though I can tell neither of them want me to. I can see myself hanging out in Greenwich Village and painting the people and the buildings. I love how out of control and rude and messy things are, the kind of place where real life happens
.
The pizzeria was on the edge of town, plain and inexpensive. Heat radiated from the kitchen and bent the air in waves of haze. Industrial fans had little effect, did not even blow free the lines of dust clinging to the fan’s cage. Kate pushed sweaty bangs off her forehead, and looked at Chris across the Formica table.
“I can’t believe we got the house for seven whole weeks.”
“You mean you can’t believe I took seven weeks away from the office.” He drank the last of the water from his cup, and shook the ice at the bottom.
“How many times do you think you’ll have to go off-island?”
“I’m not sure. I probably won’t have to fly out more than once a week.”
Kate kept her eyes down on the table. She fiddled with the glass cheese shaker, tapping its edge on the gray laminate.
He gave a crooked smile.
Really?
She did not usually complain about his travel. “I’m not on vacation this whole time. You knew that.”
“I know. It’s fine.” Tiny planes, dipping from side to side. She held a neutral expression.
“It won’t be an overnight all the time. Most of the work is out of Boston this summer, but sometimes I might have to get a room.”
It was the kind of thing they’d said when they were younger about others oversexed in public.
Get a room
. She gave a wry grin.
“Kate.” He’d misread her. “If I have to do anything longer, maybe your sister could come out.”
Rachel still lived near their parents in Palo Alto, had married and settled there, and was now well known at Stanford and beyond for her research on the economics of minimum wage. She was always pressing for Kate to fly and meet her somewhere, “just the two of us,” without seeming to appreciate that it was not easily done with children. Rachel’s willingness to adjust her frenetic teaching and conference schedule to make time for her little sister, her only sibling in the world, seemed to trump any difficulty Kate might have leaving young children and a traveling husband.
Their trips, when they managed them, were conceived with the best of intentions. There was always a subtext of sisterly bonding and closing the age gap, those four years that made Rachel seem so distantly ahead in every way. What was harder to bridge were the things Rachel had said in their childhood, the patronizing praise for Kate’s grades that made it all too clear that different standards applied to Kate. And in rare cruel moments, things like
You just NEVER know what you’re going to get with adoption
, murmured with innocent wonder. Of course, suggesting a younger sibling was secretly adopted was just the kind of thoughtless thing kids did to one another. And when Kate had needed proof it wasn’t true, she’d known where to find her mother’s pregnancy pictures, but still. In a family that thrived on ephemeral debate and valued intellectual vigor, Kate had been different, and Rachel’s words stung.
Brilliance doesn’t always come with social dexterity and Rachel wasn’t the easiest party guest, not much for light conversation and not easily entertained. Sometimes Kate wondered whether her sister’s choice not to have children had been a result of her intellectualintensity, or if it was the other way around. Raising children meant having an appreciation for the absurd and the mundane, Kate thought—the bad puns and potty humor and endless knock-knock jokes—or at least a tolerance for them.
And yet there was a connection between them that was undeniable and enduring. Whether it
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