In the bathroom, red, dimly lit, lavender-drenched, she used her one good arm to wash herself, her palms and her fingers, with hot water, and then her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, her neck, behind her ears, little drops dripping down onto her shirt. More soap and water, this time lifting her shirt up and splashing and scrubbing under her arms. Sometimes she felt like she could never get clean enough, but she didn’t know why.
As it turned out, she felt that way because her mother had taught her to feel that way, and she’ll figure that out eventually, in college, in New York, when her freshman-year roommate, a Spanish girl from Barcelona named Agnes, studying film just like she is, asks her why she is always washing up and Emily says, without even thinking, “Men like a clean girl,” and then says quickly, “Oh, God, I sound just like my mother, how terrible,” and the Spanish girl says, “And your mother maybe isn’t even so right about this.” Later Agnes will take her to a party in a loft building in Brooklyn, on the waterfront, and they will stand on the roof together holding hands amid other young, excited people like themselves, sweating, smoking, drinking, smiling, feeling extremely sexy, and they’ll look at the city in the distance, lit up magnificently, the length of it blowing their minds. They will try to figure out which bridge is which, and they will confuse the Manhattan Bridge with the Brooklyn Bridge. There will be a young bearded man playing cover songs on an accordion, and all the girls will want to sleep with him, except for the girls who want to sleep with the other girls. And then Emily will remember a story her aunt had told her about living in Brooklyn a long time ago, and hating it there, the noise, the dirt, the anger, and fleeing the city for home, Chicago, and never looking back, and all Emily can think is: She must have gone to the wrong Brooklyn. Because I never want to go home again.
But at age twelve the most important thing was whatever was right in front of her face, in this case herself, her eyes, the same eyes as her grandmother’s and her aunt’s, the sweet genetic strain tugging her back out the bathroom door and toward her family. Her grandmother and aunt were probably discussing great and important truths that would be relevant to Emily’s being successful in her existence as an older (though not old) and wiser person. She arrived at the table just as Robin was tucking one envelope back into her bag.
“What was that?” Emily said breathlessly.
“Paperwork,” said her grandmother, who, if she had been shaken at all, had quickly recovered.
“Are you guys having, like, a family secret?” said Emily. “Ooh, scary.” There were still two folders left.
“Smart-ass,” said Robin.
“Where does she get it from, I wonder,” said her grandmother, amused. “Do you want anything special?” She handed Emily a menu.
“I only like shrimp dumplings,” said Emily.
“This place is pretty good,” said her grandmother. “You should try more than that just to try it.”
“Why should I eat if I don’t want to?” said Emily.
“For the experience,” said her grandmother firmly.
How’s that experience working for you? Emily thought, and then blushed at her own cruelty, even if it was only internal.
Her aunt must have intercepted her thoughts in some sort of familial shortwave exchange, because she snapped, “She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.” Robin drank the rest of her wine in one gulp, and she ran her hands across the tops of the folders. More quietly, she said, “Just get her the dumplings.”
“It’s not a big deal either way,” said Emily. “I’ll eat whatever.”