If you’re ever in hell, go somewhere that looks like heaven. Sad today, but a little less sad than I was yesterday. Lonely, but this is what I need right now.
—Kenzie
An initial gasp of delight was swept away with a frown as Oona reread the message.
The cryptic note contained no address besides hers and no clues beyond the Thai postmark. What did it mean? Why was Kenzie sad and lonely, and why did he need to be thousands of miles away? Hopefully, they’d cross paths again soon.
In the meantime, she still had Madeleine, who called when she returned from her cruise in mid-January.
“I want to repaint some of the rooms in my apartment. Will you come help me?”
No warm greeting, no niceties. Oona had expected a more conciliatory tone. Unable to keep the sulk out of her voice, she said, “That’s the first thing you ask? Not—oh, I don’t know—how is married-to-a-stranger life treating you?”
“I imagined we’d cover that while we paint.”
Goody. We can also cover why you’re never around when I need you most. “Why don’t you just hire a professional?”
“Because doing the work yourself can be more satisfying. When I look around at my newly painted walls, the result of my labor—or our labor, depending—I’ll enjoy my home that much more. If I hire painters, I might take these walls for granted.”
“Will your boyfriend be there?”
“Nathan and I broke up.”
“In the middle of your vacation?”
“I’d rather not discuss that. Now if you can’t help me—”
“No, I will. Just tell me when and where. Are you still in Bensonhurst?”
“Bay Ridge. I’ll text you the address. Wear clothes you don’t care about.”
“You got it. Hey, I got a postcard from Kenzie. Do you remember him?”
A pause. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Really? You never met him? I never mentioned him?”
“Oona, I have no idea who you’re talking about, and I’m sorry, but I really need to get started here.”
Was the recent breakup causing her mother to sound so tightly wound? Or was there something more? She’d have to find out in person.
An hour later, Oona arrived at her mother’s penthouse apartment. It had a sunken living room, a wide balcony with a view of the Verrazano Bridge, and seemingly endless white walls.
There was something stiff in the way Madeleine hugged her. Reluctant. Her face held no clues: Botox treatments had left it smooth and inscrutable.
“I thought we could start in the bedroom.” Her mother led the way, the word Juicy bedazzled across the rear end of her pink tracksuit. “When we were in St. Kitts, I discovered this charming antique store decorated in the most divine colors. It brought the whole space to life and inspired me to add more vibrant color to this place.”
In the bedroom, the furniture had been pushed to the center of the room and draped in drop cloths. Madeleine held up two paint swatches. “First, we’ll do a base coat in teal. Once that’s dry, we’ll add a sponge effect with the magenta.”
Taking a lap of the huge room, Oona said, “Mom, your ceilings are, like, twelve feet high. This could take days.”
“Maybe you have something more important you need to do?” A sharpness to her breezy lilt.
“I wouldn’t be here if there was.” Why isn’t she being nicer? They were two people crossing an iced-over lake; every treacherous step brought forth another crack, another fissure, until inevitably someone would fall through to the frigid waters below.
Madeleine opened a paint can, stirred its contents with a wooden spoon, and tilted a sea of teal into a roller pan.
“You weren’t kidding when you said vibrant,” Oona said. “That’s … a lot brighter than it looks on the color sample. You sure it’s not too much?”
It was a ludicrous question. Madeleine favored the bold, bright, exotic. Her apartment was decorated with a menagerie of trinkets and artifacts from India, Tibet, Africa, Japan. Her wardrobe was equally colorful: full of blinding saris, woven belts, kimonos (for a time, she’d even tried to pull off turbans). When she was a child, Oona didn’t mind Madeleine picking her up from school wearing outlandish ensembles, until the kids snickered and nicknamed her mother United Nations. No amount of tearful pleading would get her to swap the global getups for simpler dresses.
“Too much?” Madeleine echoed, handing her daughter a roller.
The ice was getting thinner. The mature thing would’ve been for Oona to be direct, to tell her mother she felt neglected, but it was easier to add spikes to the tender emotions and find an alternate release for them. “I know you like bright colors, but … this combo is hideous. You’ll be looking at these walls every day and it’s gonna be—”
“Let me guess: too much.” The words dripped with sarcasm. “I happen to know my taste quite well and chose these colors thoughtfully. I think they’re beautiful. But since you find them so hideous, don’t feel obliged to help me.”
A grunt of incredulity. Her knuckles went white gripping the roller. “Mom, what the fuck? You keep making it sound like I don’t want to be here, but you’re the one acting like you don’t want me here. Is this about your breakup? Because you’ve never let men get to you before.”
“That’s right, I’m the composed one. You’re the one who falls apart whenever things don’t work out with a man in your life.”
Crack. The ice gave way and they both fell through.
Oona dropped her roller. “How would you even know? You’re always trying to weasel into my personal life and be my best friend, but when I actually need you, you’re on fucking vacation. And now, instead of being remotely sympathetic about my situation—having a brand-new husband I don’t know and barely see—you’re giving me shitty attitude.”
Fists on hips, Madeleine huffed, “I didn’t realize I needed to be at my grown-up daughter’s beck and call. I thought she’d be able to act like a capable adult without my input. But it turns out I’m a neglectful mother with a shitty attitude who’s not allowed to have her own life. Thank you so much for reminding me.”
“Why are you being such a bitch?” The words hurt to say. She’d never called her mother names before.
As if expecting the insult, Madeleine’s eyes lit up. “I’m the bitch? You have no idea. The things you said to me. You’re the bitch.”
Oona recoiled at the nasty boomerang. “What did I even say to you? Just now? I was only…” The lines in her forehead smoothed with realization. “Or do you mean before?”
No answer, but the sharp set of her jaw was affirmation enough.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
Madeleine loaded her roller with paint and moved toward the nearest wall, but stopped shy of it. Her shoulders sagged. “We had a fight. It was awful. We’ve never fought like that before, not about anything. I booked the extended cruise to make sure we’d be away through Christmas and New Year’s, figuring you might not remember it when I got back. Did you leave yourself a letter?”
“I did, but it only said the year would start off shaky for us. No mention of any argument. I just got back from 1991.” How casually put, as if announcing she’d returned from the grocery store. “I’m twenty-one. I haven’t lived in this decade at all. What did we fight about?”