“Mostlikely.”
“Did you guys ever getalong?”
“Yeah. Sort of. Until I went through puberty and he decided I wasn’t his cute little brotheranymore.”
“You are definitely still his cute littlebrother.”
She’s scrambling around the room, tossing things into her weekender bag. She’s so sweet, I want to throw her back onto the bed, but we can’t leave a family wedding earlyandarrive late to a family brunch within a twenty-four hourperiod.
The Lyft cardrops us off outside my parents’ Park Avenue co-op building at 9:57.
Erin stares up at the yellow-white brick-façade high-rise. “It looks like the building fromGhostbusters.”
“Itis.”
“Shutup.”
“Just kidding. That building’s on Central Park West. This is the Upper EastSide.”
“You grew uphere?”
“Not this building exactly, but this neighborhood. They got a two-bedroom when I left forEmerson.”
“Down-sized, huh? My parents live in the same three-bedroom house that I grew up in. My mom refuses to redecorate my old room. I’m fairly sure it’s because they fully expect me to return to them and manage my Dad’s sports equipment store any daynow.”
“That’s because they’re nice parents. Mine got a two-bedroom—one of which is my Dad’s study—so I wouldn’t have a separate room to live in when my writing career inevitably crashes andburns.”
She makes a pouty face and pats me on theback.
At least my parents remembered to alert the doorman about my impending arrival, unlike the last time I visited. So far so good. Erin seems to hold her breath all the way up ten floors, until the elevator doors open onto the semi-private landing that leads to my parents’ door. They have not left it open. I hold my fist up to the door, waiting until I get the nod from Erin before actuallyknocking.
Ten seconds later, Carter opens the door. He’s holding a glass of Bloody Mary. My father refuses to drink Mimosas, which he deems “too fruity.” Carter says nothing and gestures for us toenter.
“Morning,” Isay.
“Howdy,” saysErin.
“Welcome,” he mutters. “You’relate.”
“No we aren’t. Mom saidten.”
“She told me nine-thirty.”
“That’s because you’re alwayslate.”
“Amnot.”
“Aretoo.”
Erin doesn’t seem to even notice that I’m six years old all of a sudden, or that my brother has disappeared to the living room, because she is staring at all of the art in the entrancegallery.
“Hellooooo! Come on in, be right with you!” Mom sings out from the kitchen, as though she was at a ranch making buttermilk pancakes. I happen to know they ordered delivery from a crepe place, because they always get delivery from the crepe place. She’s busy posting and tagging pictures from last night on Facebook. A bouncy Michael Buble tune is piped in from the in-ceiling speakers. I don’t think they listen to anything else. It’s like a dentist’s office, but unfortunately without theanesthesia.
“Is that a real Basquiat?” Erin asks in a hushedvoice.
“Itis.”
“Surprisingly eclectic artcollection.”
