Page 10

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

Being back feels like a complete blur, but maybe that’s because my nephews, Charlie and Matteo , are total handfuls—like, prime candidates for experimental ADHD drug therapy. At least theyhave all the same tastes in snacks that I do.

Nora’s husband, Esteban, has been in Houston for the entire week for work, which means that from the time the boys get home from school-then-soccer-practice to the time they go to bed, there are about two hours too many wherein Nora is solely in charge of their wellbeing .

That’s where I come in: the Cruise Ship Director/Taxi Driver/Director of Operations/Medic.

Maybe it’s my elementary education degree, or my high tolerance for noise, but for some reason I’m able to handle them in a way she cannot.

Besides, I find some of their rambunctious antics—like sneaking a Kit-Kat bar to bed while their mom is zoned in on The Real Housewives of Potomac —quite relatable.

“Good morning,” I say to Nora as I make my way to the free-for-all coffeemaker in the main house.

“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” she informs me, not quite taking her eyes away from Rachel Ray marinating a brisket on screen. Nora doesn’t realize I got the kids up and out the door by 7:30am today. I’ve lived a thousand lives already and have lost all concept of space and time.

I say nothing as I take a hard swallow of gross pod coffee and send a shrug her way wondering if my sister has always looked this much like Jenna Bush Hager.

“Is that another black sweat suit, or the same one you’ve had on for the last three days?” she goes on to ask.

Unsure if that’s an insult toward my wardrobe choices or my bathing cadence, I fire back with a classic: “Are you getting enough air to your brain in that turtleneck? Itlooks like it’s swallowing your head.”

“This is a cashmere Tory Burch that I got from the Anniversary Sale at Nordy’s ,” she annotates as if that means anything to me. “Listen Moonie , while we’re hurling insults here, you need to sleep at Olivia’s tonight.”

“That is an insult. How come?”

“Esteban is having someone come by to do a maintenance stain on the floors in the coach house at three. There will be fumes.”

“I’m fine with fumes,” I say, retrieving my mug from a ten-second blast in the microwave.

“Your brain cells won’t be. And I really can’t have anyone who is mentally impaired around my kids.”

That must be why you spend such little time with them .

“Can’t I just sleep in here? This couch is big enough for a kickball team.”

“This couch is barely for sitting on, let alone sleeping.By the way, you can have the rest of the day off. Esteban is on the way home from the airport. He’ll grab the kids from school and take them to soccer. I guess he’s ‘excited’ to see them???”

She makes bunny ears with her fingers to emphasize the word excited , as if that’s cause for concern.

“Does Liv know I’m coming over?” I ask.

“Yeah, I cleared it with her this morning. You know how to get there right?”

“In your Land Rover?” I shoot my shot.

“Take the Brown Line to the Red Line and get off at the Argyle stop. It’s a five-minute walk from there. There’s mace on a keychain in the foyer for you.”

I let out a sigh thinking about traveling to and from Rogers Park.

Up until now, the most physical distance my body has covered has been two blocks north to Scooter’s Custard Shop, usually towing a red wagon with two small boys who have each other in headlocks behind me.

I can feel the agoraphobia brewing. In the meantime, I plop down on Nora’s fancy oversized, beige Restoration Hardware couch to rest up for the journey.

The sun hits her ring finger creating a reflection that nearly blinds me when I do.

“Good god, Nora. Your ring is huge. What did Esteban do to wind up in the dog house this time?”

“He didn’t do anything. This is what ten years of marriage and two kids gets you. It’s called an upgrade. You like?”

She thrusts her hand my way and dangles her fingers like she’s doing jazz hands. I can tell she wants me to marvel. Since I’m staying at her place rent-free, I oblige, grabbing hold of her palm when I do.

Before I can process what that potentially means for an untimely, unplanned flare up of my “gift,” I see nothing and I feel nothing. And to be quite honest, I’m relieved.

“It’s nice,” I say, keeping it short and sweet before letting go and taking a sip of my coffee.

“What are you doing? You’re not allowed to drink coffee on this couch,” she says.

“Have you talked to your doctor about the long-term effects of your Type-A personality? I’m worried for your blood pressure.”

“If you think I’m bad, just wait until you get to Olivia’s house,” Nora warns.

“Why? What do you mean?”

Olivia has always been proper, but she’s never been quite as controlling or bossy as Nora.

“I’m probably not supposed to be mentioning anything. But…she and Ted are trying.”

“Trying to…mass-market Liv’s cheesecake brownies into Whole Foods across the nation?”

My middle sister, Olivia, is a fantastic baker.

For years, she’s worked from home for a food distribution company, specifically in the baked goods department.

Perhaps she was rerouting a portion of her flour and sugar orders to be delivered straight to her Rogers Park condo, but whatever she’s been doing over the last ten years to hone her baking skills has paid off.

Everything she touches—pies, cookies, tortes, and tarts—turns to sugary gold.

While my baking skills cap at Pillsbury pull-apart refrigerated cookie dough, Olivia makes whipping up chocolate ganache look as easy as pressing “brew” on a Keurig machine.

I wish, so badly, she could open her own place.

But for now, she just posts recipes on social media in her spare time and I’m pretty sure her audience caps at my sister, my mom, and whoever she conned into following her online from her park district pottery classes.

Before I can daydream about Liv’s cheesecake brownies, Nora bugs her eyes out at me in a ‘don’t make me explain this’ kind of way.

“Oh. Trying for a baby. Got it.”

Nora gives me a thumbs up.

“Not going so well I take it?”

She turns to a thumbs down.

“Let’s put it this way: am I fighting her for your nanny services yet?”

The thought of having both my sisters vying for me to take care of their kids gives me pause—or should I say, sends shivers down my spine.

When did I sign up to be Mrs. Doubtfire?

I do love kids, especially the ones who share a blood relation to me, but being tossed back and forth between the Sisters Miller doesn’t exactly scream: “Congrats! You’ve found your new life purpose! ” to me.

“What’s the rush?” I ask.

“Once she turned thirty, it just became this massive, big deal for her to get pregnant. It’s been going on two years now of nothing and she’s losing her mind. Like, literally, losing it.”

The way Nora describes Liv’s mental state is so far from anything I have seen over the last couple years living in Ocean Beach.

The sense of urgency, about anything, is virtually nonexistent.

While at times that was frustrating (seriously, how long does it take to self-checkout a single bottle ofkombucha?), I look back on it with an envy right now. No bad days , those were the days...

“Well, gee. Thank you for arranging my accommodations tonight. Sounds like the refreshing Chicago staycation I’ve been longing for.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t book a $500 suite for you at The Brockmeier. Can you not be so dramatic, Moonie? It’s one night with your other dear sister. If the baby thing comes up, tell her what I keep telling her: she and Ted need to split a bottle of wine, hook up, and it’ll just happen.”

Says the woman who cranked out two kids in her twenties with zero issues.

“I think I’m going to head out early,” I announce. “I haven’t seen fall colors in two years. I’m going to take the long way to Liv’s.”

“The long way?”

“A bus to Lincoln Park. A ride up Lakeshore Drive. An El transfer to the west. I don’t know. Something like that.”

“That’s ambitious,” Nora says with her signature hint of condescension, although she’s not wrong. “Keep your location on and don’t forget hand sanitizer.”

Back in the coach house, I set my coffee mug down on the coaster atop the nightstand.

Next to that are my two crystals from Yasmin.

I put them there so I wouldn’t lose them as I unpacked.

I take a seat on the bed and pick up the two quartzes and think of the world I left behind, 2,500 miles away.

Specifically, I think about the pace of life there—no one “maintenance stains” their floors there, or comments about what time you wake up.

No one wears designer cashmere turtlenecks that engulf your face—in fact, no one wears cashmere anything.

People’s couches aren’t the size of their entire apartments.

And no one catches trains to Rogers Park, they ride skateboards to the beach.

I miss watching Brody surf. I miss Yasmin arriving ridiculously early to class and surprising me with a café con (oat) leche.

I think about how hard it is to find a decent fish taco or a place that’ll serve a Cali burrito (seriously, people—it’s just adding a handful of French fries, that’s it!) around here.

And for whatever reason, right now, I mostly miss Gerda.

Cell phone-less Gerda. How I’d love to shoot her a text and ask her if pickleball at Oceanhurst is everything she hoped it would be.

I look back on all that, and I can’t help but feel a heavy sense of sadness. It was okay to be a lost soul there. Here, not so much. Which reminds me of the reason I left home in the first place.

Just then, a cawing crow on a powerline that’s eye level with my bedroom snaps me out of my funk and captures my attention. Is this the Chicago version of Walter? The bird flies over to a branch on a nearby tree that’s just started to change from green to orange in a few spots.

As much as I miss the ocean and endless supply of vitamin D, there’s no autumn in Southern California, which just so happens to be my favorite season.

I love the first time you step outside when it’s not cold yet but you can feel that fall is nipping at the heels of summer.

Then, a few weeks later, the ground gets covered with a layer of colorful leaves and a smell of crisp air fills your nostrils.

It becomes “light jacket” weather and time to peruse the candy aisle for bags of miniatures versions of your childhood favorites.

It’s spooky décor and sweatshirt season.

And it’s all over before you know it if you don’t take a moment to go out of your way to step on that slightly crunchy-looking leaf.

Being present was something many yoga instructors at Joe n’ Flow preached and it’s something I want to practice now, no matter how out of place I feel.

So, in true “sure, why not?” fashion I grab the rose quartz—this was the healing one, right?

—and I put it in my palm. I close my eyes and I think about the things I want:

I want to find a greater sense of purpose.

I want to feel recharged; excited for the day.

I want to discover who I am.

Just then, a text from Nora lights up my phone.

Before you leave, can you pop back over really quick? There’s a Lego in the toilet.

Okay, new plan, I tell myself as I set my phone down with a queasy stomach. I’m going to revise my asks of the crystals; those were a little lofty for a first timer. So instead, I decide to get simple and specific with just one “intention”—I think that’s the word Yas used, right?

I’ve never been a money-motivated person, but financial wherewithal is the key to getting out of this never-ending loop of watching kids who enjoy dunking their toys in toilet water.

It’s the key to getting back to Ocean Beach.

After all, this is only temporary. It may not feel like it, but as long as I keep reminding myself that, keep throwing it out in the universe, it’ll happen for me. It’s got to.

I close my eyes, squeeze the crystal as tight as I can, and try again with the lowest hanging fruit of them all:

I want some cash-flow.

At that, I stuff the crystal into my sports bra like Yasmin instructed and cross my fingers that Nora has a pair of thick rubber gloves waiting for me on her side of the property.