Hope and Other Punch Lines Read online

  Noah walks toward me, still holding his phone like he’s going to take my picture, but with a strange, determined look on his face. For one inexplicable second, I worry he’s going to tackle me.

  “Too close,” I say, assuming he’s zooming in for artsy effect, and I cover my face with my hands. He stops when we are less than a foot apart.

  He drops the phone into his pocket and reaches up and pulls my hands down so that he is holding them in his.

  “There,” he says.

  He doesn’t touch his camera. He looks at me. I force myself to look up at him, force my eyes to meet his eyes. Because if I don’t, then this won’t happen. I might not know much, but I know that. If I don’t look at him, if I am not brave, we may well spend the rest of my very short life debating whether we like Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantánamo Bay better than the original, and that’s not really how I want to peace out.

  I look up and he keeps looking at me, and then he steps even closer. When I breathe out, my chest brushes against his.

  I’m not staring at his eyes, I’m looking at his mouth. He moves in closer, and then he kisses me, once, lightly, on the lips. Sweet and gentle and so perfect my knees buckle.

  “What do you think?” he asks, and for once, I’m speechless. I nod, which is the closest I can get to what I really want to say, which, is, in Oliver-like fashion, Please, sir, I want some more. Noah reaches his right hand into my hair, behind my ear, and brings me toward him, and he kisses me again, surer this time. I’m kissing him too, and my back is up against the pink wall, and when I hear a car honk as it drives past, I barely notice.

  Real kissing. My thoughts aren’t thoughts anymore. I’m all sensation. Chills and butterflies and warmth in an addictive swirl. A tiny moan escapes, and I’m not sure if it’s Noah or me or maybe both of us in tandem.

  I realize I do not want to die in a blaze of glory. I don’t care much about my legacy. I was wrong too to think I’d just chug along until I stopped. I want to kiss Noah for as long as I’m allowed. Honestly, if I have any say in the matter, this seems a spectacular way to spend the rest of my one wild and precious life.

  Abbi melts the moment she sees Jamal Eggers. I get it. He looks like an action-movie hero—white T-shirt, cut arms, shaved head. I showed Jack pictures of Jamal last night—not the Baby Hope one, but ones on his IMDB page—and after then going down a YouTube rabbit hole of watching him sing on Broadway and star in a Hallmark Christmas movie, Jack said, Oh my God, I want to have his babies.

  I’m not really worried about Abbi and Jamal. We just kissed. No, we made out is a better way to put it—kissing suggests timidity—and if she enjoyed it even half as much as I did, I’m safe.

  “Never thought I’d get to meet you properly. But here you are. You look happy. That’s great,” Jamal says, and takes Abbi’s hand and gently kisses the back of it. Like with Sheila and even Chuck, this could be awkward or creepy or both, but somehow it turns out to be none of the above. He comes off sweet and gentlemanly. I want to take lessons. “I don’t know if anyone else said this too, but I feel sort of protective of you. Like you belong to us survivors, you know?”

  “Thanks, I guess. The whole thing is still weird,” Abbi says, and her cheeks flush an adorable pink.

  “I didn’t mean it like you’re a mascot or anything. It does this old man’s heart good to know you’re okay, that’s all. You matter to me.” We are in Jamal’s loft apartment in Hoboken, and though I don’t usually notice things like furniture, this place looks like it could be in a magazine. A futuristic sculpture stands by the front door. Delicate blue vases of various heights sit on a metal table. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases are filled with hardback books organized by color.

  “Thanks. I’m good. I mean, there’s…Yeah, no, I’m good. Come on, you’re not really old,” Abbi says, and I think, Don’t be fooled by his muscles—yes, he is.

  “Turned forty a few months ago. Suddenly you discover you’re not going to live forever. You would have thought I’d have figured that out a long time ago, but nope.” Jamal sits back and lets his long arms drape along the back of his couch. Is he trying to show off his biceps? Because he is.

  “Are you okay? I mean, are you healthy?” Abbi asks.

  “You heard about Connie?” he asks.

  “I did,” she says.

  “Nothing like that. At least, not yet, if that’s what you’re asking. I have asthma, and I caught pneumonia last year, but nothing major. My husband thinks it was my midlife crisis manifesting itself. Between you and me, I’d rather have gotten a Porsche.”

  We laugh this time, and a word I’ve never before used in my life, a word my mother loves, pops into my head: charisma. I kind of want to have his babies.

  “It’s strange. Realizing you’re almost halfway there, halfway done with life. And to know how goddamn lucky I’ve been. Noah, you said you had questions. Ask me anything. I’m an open book.”

  “Can you tell us what you remember about that day, especially from the moment in the photo and onward?” I ask.

  “I ran for my life and didn’t stop running until I was over the Brooklyn Bridge. Luckily, at the time, I was training for the marathon. That came in handy,” he says.

  “Did you talk to any of the other people in the photo?” I ask.

  “That day? No way. We were all running for our lives. You only think of us as a unit because we were captured together in that one single moment. We didn’t know each other before. We were all strangers.”

  “What about afterward?” I ask.

  “At the first anniversary, I met a few of them and thought we should try to form a support group or something. Thought we’d understand each other. For a while afterward—for a long time, if I’m honest—I had nightmares. Still do sometimes. You were too little or I would have invited you to join,” he says, looking at Abbi.

  “You guys got together for meetings? Like all of you?” I ask, and for the first time, I feel like maybe this could pay off, like I didn’t sucker Abbi into this mess for no reason.

  “Only a couple of us. Most weren’t interested. I got this guy Chuck. And of course Connie. This was years ago. She was good people, Connie. The best. Chuck wasn’t my favorite,” he says. “Realized we didn’t have that much in common after all.”

  “How about the guy in the University of Michigan hat? Did you know him?”

  “Why are you so interested in Blue Hat Guy? What about Pencil Skirt Lady?” Abbi jokes.

  “I care about Pencil Skirt Lady too,” I say.

  “I know nothing about Pencil Skirt Lady. But yeah, I know a little about Blue Hat Guy,” Jamal says, and as he points to the Michigan M on the photocopied picture I’ve brought, I feel a shiver zing its way up my shoulder blades, like a cold finger writing letters on my back.

  “What do you mean?” I try to sound normal, but my voice comes out strangled and tight.

  “I didn’t know him or anything. But a friend of a friend knew him. I heard the story later.”

  “Do you know his name?” I ask.

  “Nope. But apparently he stopped to help someone. And then he turned around and went running back in. It didn’t occur to me to do anything but run away. Not once. I didn’t even stop to help Connie, and she was carrying a baby! I’ve spent years in therapy working that out. I’m so sorry, Hope,” Jamal says.

  “It’s Abbi, actually. And you have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “You tell yourself that if the shit hits the fan, you’ll be a hero. But I was no hero. I’ve had so much luck in my life. So much damn luck. I get to sing on Broadway! And all these amazing people didn’t make it out. So many amazing people, better people than me, that’s for sure. All those firefighters and police officers and that guy in the blue hat. They all ran straight into the belly of the beast. No fear. I was so scared, I pissed myself. Literally. That may be too muc
h information,” he says. So many words, one after the other, delivered in his clipped stage-actor diction, and yet they make little sense to me. I keep hearing one phrase over and over again: He turned around.

  “Just to be clear—you know for a fact that the guy in the University of Michigan hat ran back in? So did he…um, do you know what happened to him?” I don’t want to know, not yet. I’ve been waiting forever for an answer, and suddenly, it all feels too soon. It turns out I don’t want the truth. That isn’t what I was looking for at all. All I wanted was confirmation of my greatest, stupidest hope: that my father is alive.

  Not answers. A miracle.

  I wish I could time travel a few hours. Back to when my biggest problem was wondering how to kiss Abbi without making a fool of myself. Or to immediately afterward, when I mentally high-fived myself for that smooth hand-in-the-hair move. When I felt happy, like I could stand in front of that wall with her forever.

  I loved kissing Abbi.

  I do not love being here, discovering that I was both wrong and right.

  I do not love that I did this. On purpose. Separated my own life into a before and after. When I knew and when I didn’t.

  “He’s gone,” Jamal says. The room starts to spin, and I feel the sweat gather behind my neck and knees. I steady myself by staring at one of the blue vases. Tears start to form behind my eyes and so I bite down hard on my tongue.

  I want to throw those vases against the wall. One at a time.

  “He knew he was on a suicide mission. You don’t run back in, maybe more than once, thinking you’re going to make it out. He knew what he was doing. That guy haunts me. What went through his head when he went back? What made him turn around? What does that feel like—sacrificing your life for other people’s?” Jamal asks.

  “Maybe he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and leave a legacy, you know? He got to do both at once,” Abbi says.

  “That’s really stupid,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” she asks, and even through my haze, I can hear the hurt in her voice.

  “I’m not saying you’re stupid. But that anyone would do that. That’s really stupid.” I picture the vases shattering in an explosion of glass. I hear what it would sound like: a sudden eruption. I imagine getting impaled by the shards. Them embedding under my skin. Maybe not even noticing till later how deep the wounds are.

  I see blood. I taste it too.

  “He’s a hero,” Jamal says.

  “No, he’s not. He’s a fucking moron,” I say.

  We’ve been driving for fifteen weirdly silent minutes.

  “I need to get home,” Noah says.

  No candy has been passed. No jokes made. No words spoken. I guess he deeply regrets the kissing.

  “We’re almost there,” I say. My chest hurts, like my breath keeps getting caught on a jagged edge in my lung. I wish I could rewind us to the pink wall. I wish we had taken a picture to post to the Instagram feed in my mind, even if it now feels like a lie.

  What did I do wrong? I wonder.

  “Do you think my mom will be there?” It feels like Noah is speaking Spanish, a language I’ve studied in school but still don’t know, beyond basic sentences like My name is Abbi. I went to the beach. The beach is hot.

  I’ve never met Noah’s mother. I have no idea about her schedule.

  “You’re right. It’s almost five. She should be there,” he answers himself.

  He stares out the window. He’s in a galaxy far, far away.

  “Sorry, I’m…I don’t feel so good.” Noah doesn’t look sick. His knee is bopping up and down and he’s picking at his cuticles and he’s still all filled up with that energy I envy.

  What I think but don’t say: Didn’t back there feel like the best kind of beginning?

  For a second, I consider whether this awkwardness is about the interview. But it was the easiest by far. No tears. No widows. When Jamal hugged us goodbye, he even smelled famous, like fresh laundry and money.

  When we left, I was feeling stronger, like maybe we’d all be okay. Like we’d find some sort of Hollywood ending.

  Nope.

  I pull into Noah’s driveway, shift the car into park. Force myself to look right at him.

  “My mom’s here,” he says, and grabs his backpack and runs out of the car and into the house without saying goodbye.

  “Noah, is that you?” my mom asks without turning around when I walk into the kitchen. “Don’t tell Phil, but we’re going to count the french fries as a veggie tonight.”

  She stands in front of the giant stove, shaking pans and stirring stuff. Since Jamal, I’ve been on autopilot. Key in the door, bag at the foot of the stairs, shoes off. A coldness radiates out to my fingertips.

  I’m the fucking ice man.

  “Did you know?” I ask, my voice so flat it’s like it’s been run over. Too many emotions and thoughts. Only choice I have is to power down. “Did you?”

  My mom turns around, sees my face, and then crosses the room to take my hands. They are shaking. My whole body is shaking.

  I feel vacuumed out. I feel almost nothing.

  “Noah, honey? Hey, what happened?”

  “Did you know?” I demand again. I won’t say it out loud. I shouldn’t have to. If there was ever a time for her ridiculous mother ESP to work, it’s right now. I shouldn’t have to say out loud, Hey, Mom, have you been lying to me for my entire life? Did you know it was Dad in the Baby Hope picture all along? Did you know he went back in? Or worst of all: Did you know I thought he was alive all this time?

  Turns out I’m the butt of the longest joke ever told. I just had the punchline backward.

  She looks me straight in the eye. It strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I really looked at my mother. A bit of new padding hangs from her neck, and a white hair sprouts from one eyebrow. She’s dressed in what she calls “loungewear,” which is another word for fancy sweats. She’s still my mom, just an older, more tired version, and since she’s my comfort, always has been, I reflexively relax at her touch. And then I remember what is happening.

  I don’t know if I want to hug her or hurt her.

  “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I knew.”

  “He kissed me and I thought he was into me but then he ran away. What is that about?” I ask. I’m sitting on the newly rediscovered porch swing with my grandmother and her aide, Paula. My grandma seems to be having a good day. Paula has a thick Brooklyn accent and the sort of comforting brashness that makes you think she’d be good in a crisis or on a reality show.

  “Well, not for nothing, but how was your breath?” Paula asks, making it clear she’s not here to make friends. I cup my hands and sniff.

  “Not bad, I think? But this was hours ago.”

  “You guys are morons,” my grandmother declares, not unkindly, though not particularly kindly either.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say.

  “No, seriously. We always underestimate the narcissism of the young.”

  “Worrying about my breath makes me a narcissist?” I ask.

  “Garlic lingers, you know,” Paula warns. “When I make pesto, my husband says he can smell it on me for like a week.”

  “Maybe it was something I said?” I ask, ignoring my grandma and turning to Paula.

  “Gloria Steinem would roll over in her grave if she heard the way you’re talking. Why do you assume you did something wrong?” my grandma asks.

  “Gloria Steinem is still very much alive,” I say.

  “Whatever. Then it’s just feminism that’s dead.”

  “Touché,” Paula says, but she pronounces it like “tushy.” Already my grandma and Paula seem to have come to some sort of agreement about how things are going to be between them.

  “You assume whatever happened to Noah is all about you. I get that, but it’s the de
finition of narcissism,” my grandmother says, and smooths the frizz on the crown of my head with her palm, like she used to when I was five. “Focus on the self is an essential part of growing up. It’s not really your fault that you’re so stupid.”

  “To be honest, I bet it was your breath,” Paula says. “It happens.”

  “Maybe what’s-his-name really was sick. Maybe he remembered he left the stove on. Maybe he got an emergency text. There are a gazillion reasons why he could have run off that have nothing to do with you,” my grandma says, and then crosses her arms in her no-nonsense way. Paula subconsciously copies the gesture.

  My grandmother has always had that effect on people; since childhood, all I’ve wanted to do was sit at her feet and learn.

  “I have a talent for ruining good things,” I say. “That’s not narcissism. It’s a fact.”

  “Ha! Wow, so narcissistic and melodramatic. Add in moody and you hit the teenager trifecta!”

  “You’re just being mean,” I say, though I’m smiling. I feel soggy with love for my grandmother. I want to tackle-hug her, pin her down like a thumbtack on a wall map. I want to hold her old hands, make her fix me in place too. It may be narcissistic and also dramatic, but in my mind two words echo: Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. I can’t lose her.

  “Sorry not sorry,” Paula says, and whips out a file she must have been hiding in her pocket and starts to shape her fingernails. “But, girl, you need to buy some Listerine. Solves this problem, easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

  A few hours later, my mom knocks on my door and doesn’t wait for my Come in. Probably because she knew she wasn’t getting one. I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. She sits at my feet, doesn’t make eye contact.

  “Do you remember when you were little, how we used to cuddle in the mornings before I went to work?” she asks, and takes my bunched-up blanket and folds it into a perfect rectangle. “That was the only thing that got me through losing your dad. The way you’d curl your little body against mine. You used to not let me turn around because you liked looking at my face. I mean, you were always bursting with so much sweetness. You’d hold my hand when we were walking from room to room. I felt like the luckiest unlucky person in the world. I might have lost him, but I had you. Do you remember any of that, Noah?”