Adult Assembly Required, page 7
Laura’s grandmother (her father’s mother) lived three blocks away from Laura’s childhood home. Every summer her parents went away to do fieldwork—Laura’s mother ran a longitudinal study on family groupings in London’s Trafalgar Square (pigeons, not tourists), and her father returned to the Andes each year to anxiously count endangered puff-leg hummingbirds—and Laura’s grandmother would move in to take care of the kids. Barbara Costello was not a scientist like her husband and son, but only because her slender generation of female scientists stopped working when they got married and became mothers; people assumed their brains fell out along with their placentas.
“Hey, baby,” said her grandmother, clearly glad to have a distraction. “Did you find a job yet?”
“Nope, I’ll get right on it after I finish breakfast.”
Her grandmother laughed. “Don’t tell prospective employers you burned down your apartment building.”
Laura made a face. “Mom told you, huh?”
Her grandmother laughed again. “Are you kidding? When she called, it took me a while to work out you weren’t in the hospital.”
“I wasn’t even there when the fire started, Grandma.”
“How convenient,” joked her grandma. Laura heard the sound of a kitchen chair being pulled back, and the satisfying sigh her grandmother gave as she sat down. A fork rattled on a plate, and Laura wondered if Grandma had cake or pie. There was always one or the other, under a big glass dome on her kitchen counter. Laura was suddenly overwhelmed with homesickness and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and, she hoped, silently.
“Don’t freak out,” said her grandmother, apparently having developed bat-like hearing. “She didn’t literally imply you’d become a fire starter.” The fork noise came again. “You know, I made a peach pie and you’re not here to help me with it.” She chewed and added, “Your mother is sending you a box of clothes, by the way.”
Laura frowned. “Why?” She shook her head. “Because of the fire, you mean?”
“Exactly. I pointed out these were clothes you’d chosen to leave behind, but presumably she thought something was better than nothing.”
“Does she think I’m walking around Los Angeles naked?”
Her grandmother coughed on a crumb, then said dryly, “Your mother has been married to my son for nearly forty years and I’m still not completely sure what she thinks about anything. She’s not exactly forthcoming.”
Laura changed the subject. “I spoke to Jake yesterday, he seemed good. How’s Marc?” she asked, referring to her other brother.
“Marc and your mother are feuding,” replied her grandmother breezily, “although as of this morning no one else has been dragged into it.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “I’m scared to ask . . .”
“Marc suggested crows were more skilled than pigeons at facial recognition.”
Laura’s jaw dropped open. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” her grandmother sighed. “Corvidae versus Columbidae, will the madness ever end?”
Laura shrugged. “Well, other families probably draw swords over sports teams.” Then she made a face at herself; this was a sore topic, as Laura and her grandmother were the only sports fans in the family.
“Well, you ran away to the circus and left me on my own,” said her grandmother. “If the Knicks don’t make the playoffs, I know who I’m going to blame.”
“They haven’t made it since 2013, so that’s really not fair. Maybe I’ll start supporting the Lakers, they’re far more successful.”
“Huh,” grunted her grandmother. “Do so, and it will be good you’re on the other side of the country.” She’d been born in 1946, the year the New York Knicks came into existence. Laura’s great-grandparents had taken that coincidence seriously and run a strict local-teams-only household. Knicks. Yankees. Jets. Rangers. End of story.
Laura laughed. “Honestly, I’d be totally down for a visit, even if it meant getting a slap across the back of the head.” She looked at the time, and added, “I should get on with my day, but I’ll call you again soon. I love you.”
There was a fractional hesitation. “You haven’t asked me about Nick.”
“No,” said Laura, “I haven’t.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“No.”
“I thought it was all friendly?”
Laura took a deep breath. “Grandma, Nick and I grew up together, went to college together . . . the romantic part is over, but we’re always going to be friends.” She waited, but her grandmother didn’t say anything. “Honestly, though, I’m trying to start a fresh chapter over here, and Nick is not part of it.”
“Does he know that?”
Laura shook her head, unseen. “Grandma, I gotta go. I love you.”
“I love you, too, baby.”
Laura was about to hang up when her grandmother added, “Wait, did you get a car yet?”
“No, not yet. The buses are fine, and there’s a subway. Kind of.”
Her grandmother’s voice softened. “Baby, you’ll have to drive sometime. You knew that when you moved there.”
“I know,” Laura said, a little crossly. “I went in a car only the other day. It was fine.” Mostly fine.
Her grandmother sighed, then said, “Go, Knicks!”
“Go, Knicks,” replied her granddaughter, and hung up.
NINE
After the call Laura took a bus to Larchmont to return Nina’s clothes. When she arrived at the bookstore, Nina was engaged with a customer, and Laura ducked behind a shelf to wait. She looked along the rows of spines, tipping her head like you do in a bookstore, and saw she’d accidentally selected the science section. Familiar favorites caught her eye, books she hadn’t read in years but knew by heart. The Panda’s Thumb, a classic (and hugely entertaining) collection of essays about natural history, leapt out at her, the same edition she’d had on her bedroom shelf at home. The sight of its cover comforted her, and while she leafed through it, she peered over the top of the shelf at Polly and Nina.
Nina was wearing a soft red sweater over yellow cigarette pants, an outfit she’d been pretty happy with until Liz said it reminded her of Winnie the Pooh (Disney, not Shepard) and then Nina couldn’t unsee it. Chagrin had taken the bloom off her morning and she had yet to regain it. She should have dressed in gray, because now she felt like Eeyore.
However, the customer in question was asking for recommendations for Golden Age mystery writers and had apparently hit a nerve. He’d read one left in an Airbnb and it had awoken a passion he’d never dreamed existed.
“Which book was it?” Nina’s eyes were beginning to sparkle. Golden Age mysteries were one of her many literary jams. Possibly the jammiest.
The guy beamed. “It was Gaudy Night, by Dorothy L. Sayers.”
Laura watched Nina’s face fall. “Damn,” she said loudly, then apologized when the guy looked worried. “Sorry, sorry, but that is the worst place to start Dorothy Sayers, the worst.” She sighed. “Let me be clear, it’s an amazing, incredible book, great plot, satisfying denouement, and I can totally see why it got you here, but it’s the final book in the all-important Whimsey-Vane romantic subplot. You’ll have to cleanse your reading palate with something equally good but different and go back and start over with Sayers later on, maybe in a few years.” She turned and led the customer away. “Let’s stay in the genre, but leap the ocean and a decade or two . . . Rex Stout to the rescue, I think. Not strictly speaking Golden Age, but . . .” Her voice faded away as they disappeared into a separate part of the store, through a doorless doorway.
Laura crept out from behind the bookshelf and approached the checkout desk, where Polly was going over an inventory list.
“I could totally see you,” said her new friend, not even looking up. Today Polly was wearing a black turtleneck (the AC in the store was very efficient) over vintage patchwork jeans, with her hair in the jaunty pigtails Sandra Bullock wears when she kicks Benjamin Bratt’s butt in Miss Congeniality. Laura noticed the pigtails, but wouldn’t have gotten the reference. Not a huge movie fan. Looking at Polly, though, made Laura painfully aware she was wearing leggings, running shoes, and a black Columbia University T-shirt that was faded almost to gray (it had escaped the fire by being on her at the time), and that she basically wore the same thing every day. Maybe she should get some fashion advice from Polly? Or Nina? Although there was something slightly familiar about Nina’s outfit today, and Laura couldn’t place it.
Nina reappeared with the customer, who was carrying a small armful of books and looking encouraged. “This is Polly,” Nina was saying. “She’ll take your information and I’ll be in touch.” Then she turned to Laura and said, “Hey, I knew you’d be in. I’m going to get my cast taken off this afternoon.”
“Great,” said Laura, because that seemed like an appropriate response. “It will feel weird for a while.” She hesitated. “Your skin might be dry. You can soak it in warm water, then gently brush your arm.” That sounded wrong. Who brushes their arm?
Nina looked interested. “Did you know the average person sheds several pounds of skin every year?”
Laura shook her head. “No, sorry, I didn’t.”
Nina raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s not a test,” and then both of them felt awkward.
“They’ll give you exercises to do,” said Laura. “It’s important to do them. Did you know your thumb is controlled by nine distinct muscles, which are themselves controlled by all three of the major hand nerves?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” said Nina, “but I do know a quarter of all the bones in my body are in my two hands.”
Laura stared at her. “Why do you know that?”
Nina shrugged. “I remember things, I can’t turn it off. You probably know a lot, too.” She froze, a faraway look coming into her eyes. Sadly, Laura didn’t know Nina well enough to spot a red flag when she saw one. “What was your undergraduate degree, out of interest?”
“Biology.” Laura wasn’t quite following the direction the conversation was taking, but she was determined to make her point. “The human hand is capable of an incredible number of motions and movements, and if you don’t look out, you’ll lose some of it.”
Nina looked unconvinced. “You mean I might not be able to flip someone off?”
Laura nodded. “Or turn the page in a book.”
“Good lord,” said Nina. “Wash out your mouth.”
Polly came back and looked at Laura. “What have you done now? You’ve got Bob all worked up and now you’re upsetting Nina.” She sighed. “You seemed so gentle and friendly.”
Laura pointed at Nina. “She’s not taking care of herself.”
Nina turned enthusiastically to her colleague. “Polly, I think we’ve found our new Carter.”
Laura looked at Polly, who snorted with laughter and headed back behind the counter. “Oh my god, did you reveal a deep inner well of knowledge?”
Laura frowned. “Uh, we were talking about how important it is to do physical therapy on her hand.” She turned back to Nina. “Your hand uses thirty-four muscles simply to move your fingers and thumb, and all of them have been stuck in those casts. You need to do simple stretches and specific exercises every day.” She made a stern face. “I’m not asking you to run a marathon. Spend half an hour.”
“Science, plants and animals, probably organic chemistry, sports . . .” Nina broke off and spoke to Laura again. “Are you athletic?” She shook her head and muttered at herself, “Of course she’s athletic, Nina, look at her, so, yes, sports, and the Olympics . . .”
Laura held up her hand. “I’m sorry, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Trivia,” said Nina, grabbing that hand and shaking it. “Welcome to Book ’Em, Danno, a currently-trailing-but-destined-for-greatness trivia team in the East Los Angeles Pub League.”
Laura stared at her. She’d understood all the individual words in the sentence, but had completely failed to grasp the larger meaning. “I’m sorry?”
Polly leaned across the checkout desk. “Nod. You’ll enjoy it.” She shrugged. “Plus you don’t have much choice, she’s relentless about this one, extremely nerdy, pursuit.” This was clearly an old topic.
“What is it, exactly?” Laura wasn’t ready to nod.
“It’s a highly exciting, intellectually oriented social bonding exercise for people who’d rather look at a piece of paper than each other.” Nina seemed pretty darn eager about whatever this was, and Laura recalled how easily she’d run off to loan a total stranger warm clothing. She owed this girl a debt of gratitude, and here was a chance to pay it off.
“I’m sorry,” said Laura, blushing at her own slowness, “I still don’t have any idea what we’re talking about. Is it a club?”
“It’s a bar trivia league, you drink, eat pistachios, and answer trivia questions on a variety of subjects.”
“For money?”
Nina looked horrified. “No! For honor!”
“And an occasional ugly T-shirt,” said Polly, “which is why I don’t do it. That and my inability to remember anything for longer than thirty seconds.”
Nina smiled at her. “However, you are an excellent cheering section, despite your gnat-like hippocampus.” She turned back to Laura. “How about this? Come over to my place Friday night, and I’ll explain the whole thing. You’ll really do it?”
“I’ll try,” said Laura, “if you promise to rehab your wrist.”
“Deal,” said Nina. “Wait till I tell the rest of the team!” She hugged herself and then added, “And you can also explain what Polly meant when she said you had Bob all worked up.” She looked at Laura and grinned wickedly. “Or did you think I’d missed that?”
TEN
An hour and a half later Laura was trudging along Third Street, carrying a bag full of books. She’d waited fifteen minutes for a bus, but none had shown up and she’d grown impatient. The weight was hardly a challenge but the sun was pitiless and Laura was starting to realize why LA had developed such a robust and air-conditioned car culture. A truck pulled over ahead of her, and when she drew level and peeped in, Bob was leaning on the steering wheel and smiling at her. Of course, because she was sweating through her T-shirt and was 87 percent certain her period had just started. Which would also explain the giant spot on her nose and the bursting into tears in the bookstore two days earlier.
All these thoughts raced through her head in the few seconds it took Bob to say, “Uh, I’m heading home, do you need a ride?”
Laura hesitated, because she really, really didn’t like being in cars since her accident, but then a trickle of sweat rolled down her back and she decided she could handle the incredibly brief drive home.
“That would be great, thanks so much.” Laura opened the door as Bob leaned over and swept everything from the front seat onto the floor. Then he made a strangled noise as he realized he’d massacred a small tray of seedlings that had been peacefully sitting on the seat, enjoying the breeze in their leaves. He looked up at Laura, who had paused in the act of getting in, and said, “Crap. Hang on two seconds, would you?”
She nodded and leaned over to help him salvage whatever they could. Bob righted the little tray and she replaced the spilled dirt with her cupped hands and he gently found and picked up the seedlings and she made little holes for them and he tucked them in and he could smell her hair and his fingers touched hers over and over in the earth and thirty seconds later it was all done. Laura picked up the tray, jumped in the truck, put her bag of books on the floorboard, did up her seat belt, and put the baby plants on her lap. She turned to Bob and smiled, and in that moment he realized he was deeply, deeply attracted to her.
Laura, of course, had no idea this was going on and merely kept smiling and hoping she wasn’t bleeding on his seat because, well, that would be a challenging early conversation, despite the fact this was the twenty-first century. She looked at the plants in her lap and not out of the window; that way it was easier to pretend she was somewhere else.
It’s entirely possible that Bob’s mind was on Laura’s face, so to speak, but it’s also possible what happened next wasn’t his fault at all. He looked briefly in his mirror and pulled out onto Third, and with a sound like a thousand giant lightbulbs exploding at once, another car sideswiped his truck and ripped off his side mirror.
When the body experiences a sudden shock, it actually freezes for one twenty-fifth of a second and then deploys intense psychological curiosity, mobilizing every neuron and nerve, every sense, every possible input to work out exactly what just happened. In a microsecond or two the brain gathers the intel, sorts it, analyzes it, cross-references it, and is ready to issue directions for what to do next. It’s a miracle, really, and while it might not definitively prove the existence of God, it certainly deserves an enthusiastic round of applause.
Bob’s brain, which was in pretty good shape generally speaking, came almost instantly to the conclusion that everything was fine and the world hadn’t come to a sudden and inexplicable end. The other driver had hit his brakes and pulled over with his hazard lights on, so Bob turned to Laura and leaned over to grab his insurance card from the glove box.
“Shit, that scared the crap out of me, you OK? Welcome to Los Angeles, home of the worst drivers in America.” His voice tailed off as he got a good look at Laura and realized she wasn’t OK. At all.
Her eyes were completely dark, her pupils dilated almost to iris width, and he could see she had twice as many freckles as he’d previously noticed, her skin was so pale.
“Laura,” he said, “are you hurt?”
She shook her head, then shook it again. “No. Am I?”
