“Get whatever you want. Get something good. It’s on me.” I don’t know why I needed to say that. I’m certain there’s something passive-aggressive going on here, but I can’t get in touch with my feelings right now, or maybe I’m having several feelings at once and it’s too noisy to hear the high notes.
“I should get a salad,” she murmurs. “Why?” I say. “I don’t know why,” she says. “Get a burger,” I say. “We’re going to have burgers,” I tell the waiter. “Cheeseburgers,” she says. “Two cheeseburgers,” I say. “And more wine in a minute.” Greta drains her glass. “I mean more wine now,” I say.
To the left of me, the rich man flips his paper, folds it in half, studies a chart closely on the page. To the right of me, the woman, her eye makeup smeary, pulls her hands away from the man. Her hands are smooth, pretty, empty of ornamentation, with a clear French-tip manicure. His hands, balled into fists, are thick. I look for a ring on his finger, I assume that’s the other shoe to fall, but his hands are clean too.
“So I came to meet with them to see if, one, they want this to go long term and, two, if I can get them to pay me less, or differently anyway, at least this year.” A long story follows about income caps for Medicaid and the challenges she and my brother have been having since her magazine shut down and she lost her healthcare, and how they live in fear all the time of, it sounds like, basically everything. Even though I talk to them every week on the phone, this has never been mentioned before, though I am aware of their struggle. I’m not an idiot. But usually we chitchat, we’re casual. I try to make them laugh. I tell them stories from the big city. This information today from Greta is both worrisome and boring. Then she mentions that it’s a good thing what little my brother earns is all under the table. That part makes us both laugh, her marrying a musician, her marrying for love.
More wine shows up. I text my boss and tell him I’m going to work at home for the rest of the day, and he texts me back, “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” And I nearly text him back, “So have you,” but then I change it to “So has everyone else.” Then I want to text him, “Come on, just do it, just fire me,” like I am dying for his response to be “You know what, don’t come in tomorrow,” but instead he says, “True that,” and disaster is averted, but I still have to go to work tomorrow so what did I really win?
More from Greta about Medicaid and the cost of medicine. Our food arrives and I think, This will be the moment when the subject changes. But it does not. I dig in, and I demolish everything. The burger is medium rare, and the cheddar and the patty and the bun are harmonious, a glee choir of a meal. Frites in mayonnaise. I cannot possibly have another glass of wine, though all I want is another glass of wine. But I have been working so hard lately at knowing when to say when. “We should have gotten a bottle,” says Greta. “That would have made sense,” I say.
I search for a lighter topic. I wanted her to have fun today. “How’s New Hampshire?” I say. “Don’t get me started on New Hampshire,” she says. “OK, I won’t,” I say. “Too late,” she says.
Gun racks, Trump lawn signs, and no bookstores. She has to get into a car and drive everywhere. She misses walking. This is why she’s put on weight. There’s no walking. She’s in that house all day. She has to drive forty-five minutes to a movie theater, not that they can afford to go to the movies. They haven’t made any friends. They’re totally isolated. It’s just her and the baby and her husband and her mother-in-law. In New York she had a million friends.
“It’s pretty there, though,” I say.
“Yes, you should see the sunsets,” she says drily. “Maybe someday you’ll actually come and visit and see a sunset.”
Now I miss the Medicaid conversation.
The couple to the right starts holding hands again. Actually, he’s gripping both of her hands with his. Gripping and stroking, and perhaps she’s trying to free herself from him?
My phone vibrates, a text from my mother, inserting herself into the situation. “Are you two having fun?” “Mom wants to know if we’re having fun,” I tell Greta. “We’re having a blast,” says Greta. “Should I tell her we’re drunk?” I say. “Sure,” says Greta. “We’re having fun and drinking wine,” I text my mother. “Make sure she makes her train home,” my mother texts back.
“How’s that going?” I ask Greta. “Having Mom there.” “I don’t know what we’d do without her,” she says with an elegant, heartbreaking poignancy. “We don’t know how long Sigrid has left,” Greta says. “I know,” I say. “You haven’t seen her in a while, I didn’t know if you’d remember,” she says, less heartbreaking, more aggressive this time. “How could I forget?” I say.
The waitress clears our plates. The man to my left places the newspaper, now finished, on the seat between us. He pulls a pen out of his interior pocket, and a small notebook. He opens the notebook but merely clicks the top of his pen thoughtfully, then repeatedly, then maddeningly. I had been on the fence about how I felt about him. There was a chance he was a class act, a genteel individual. But no pen clicker is a friend of mine.
“I’m still exhausted,” she says. “By my life. But you know what? At least I’m not a boss anymore. I hated being a boss. Did you know when you’re a boss you’re never allowed to be in a bad mood? And you have to care about everyone else’s problems? And I had a lot of amazing women working for me, but women have so many problems, Andrea. The last year I was working, after Sigrid was born, and your brother being his own kind of baby, and everyone on my staff worried about the magazine collapsing on their head, on top of all their other shit, I tell you it’s a fucking vacation right now to only have to worry about a terminally ill child and how to pay for her medicine.”
I’m technically listening to Greta, and I nod, I acknowledge her, but the couple to my right has turned into a real thrill ride. He’s holding a butter knife to his wrist (dumb, hilarious), and she’s stage-whispering, “Do it, do it.” Then he pounds his hand on the table, and it’s loud, and the glasses shake and splash. Finally she begins to weep, and it’s not over the top, not an outright sob, it’s just the sound of misery. The gentleman to my left watches this with amusement, a flicker of the eyes on the woman, up and down, is she worth all the trouble she’s causing, is any woman ever worth this much trouble?
I am on Team Drunk Lady, obviously.