Make Room for Love

Chapter 12

12

When Mira opened the door to the apartment, she was greeted by the scent of scallions and garlic in a hot pan. Isabel was stir-frying something, her sleeves rolled up to expose her impressive forearms, her hair in her usual braid. She turned and gave Mira a small nod.

Mira hadn’t seen much of her since their walk to the park two weeks ago. Yesterday, Isabel had told her that she could move out a month early if she wanted to, and had gone to great pains to clarify that it was purely for Mira’s convenience and Isabel wasn’t kicking her out.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe Isabel was avoiding her after that messy, painful conversation they’d had. Mira didn’t exactly have high expectations for Isabel being open and friendly, but the possibility still stung.

Isabel could be a surprisingly good listener. In her silences, she made room for Mira, and she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean. It was tempting to think they could be an unlikely pair of friends, given more time.

But Mira was moving out soon, hopefully by the end of the month. She already had a few apartment showings on her calendar. Isabel probably wouldn’t want to keep in touch, to go for more walks in the park, to talk about herself unprompted for once. The truth was that there was no reason for Isabel to find Mira as compelling as Mira found her.

Mira dropped her bag on the dining table. “Do you mind if I heat up some leftovers in the microwave?”

“Go ahead.”

Mira opened the fridge. There were no leftovers. She’d finished her lentils yesterday.

She groaned. It had been a long day. She hadn’t had time to eat before the union meeting—which had ended late, as usual, because they hadn’t figured out how to finish a meeting on time at any point in the last four years. Given the state of her bank account, getting takeout would be unwise. She surveyed her side of the fridge, but there wasn’t much beyond two eggs, a mostly empty tub of yogurt, and a few sad-looking carrots.

“Something wrong?” Isabel said.

“No.Sorry. Just figuring out what I can have for dinner, since I don’t actually have any leftovers.” She could make a very small carrot omelette. The idea was not appealing. She closed the fridge.

Isabel was dumping the contents of the wok into a bowl: fried rice with vegetables and bits of red cured sausage. She didn’t reply. Mira was on her own.

Then Isabel said, “Let me make you something. I owe you one.”

“You do? I mean, thank you, but you don’t have to.”

“You cooked dinner for us a few weeks ago.”

Right. She’d done that to thank Isabel for helping her. But Isabel had been so grateful, and that had been its own reward, having her efforts in the kitchen be appreciated instead of taken for granted. And they’d had a nice meal together. Isabel didn’t owe her anything.

But Mira was too hungry to argue about the ledger of what favors they owed each other. “Okay, I’ll take you up on that. I really appreciate it. Um, I’m vegetarian, by the way.”

“I know.” Isabel had her back turned to Mira. She washed the wok she’d been cooking sausage in, which was rather thoughtful. “Excuse me,” she said, heading for the fridge, and Mira took the hint and got out of the way.

She sat at the dining table intending to do some reading. Instead, she watched Isabel cook, in graceful, economical motions, her braid swaying as she worked. When she chopped scallions with a cleaver, the cuts were so fast that Mira couldn’t tell them apart.

Isabel was as competent at cooking as she was at everything else—or at least everything that didn’t require her to make conversation. And the domesticity of it gave Mira a forbidden thrill. She was privy to something intimate that few people would ever see: Isabel making dinner in house slippers, an apron, and an old pair of jeans so worn they’d molded to every curve of her body. Just an ordinary Thursday night.

The sound and scent of sizzling scallions filled the air again. A few minutes later, Isabel brought out two bowls of fried rice. Mira’s had an extra fried egg on top, perfectly runny in the middle, scattered with finely slivered scallions.

They started eating. Mira couldn’t imagine a more perfect dinner. It was so simple, but Isabel knew what she was doing, and even the frozen peas, corn, and carrots from a bag took on new life. “Thank you so much,” she said, when she’d already finished more than half the bowl.

“It’s nothing,” Isabel said, rather gruffly. “How are you all doing on union cards this week?”

It was funny how her roommate took more of an interest in what she did at work than her ex-boyfriend of two years ever had. “We’re doing well, thanks for asking. We have fewer than a hundred left to go, and we’ll be over our goal by the end of the semester. It looks like we’re on track to have the election next spring.”

They talked about their days. Isabel was having a late dinner because she’d been translating for her aunt at the doctor’s office. She was an exemplary niece, too, on top of everything else. Mira mentioned the apartments she was seeing this weekend, in her attempt to move out at the end of the month, and Isabel displayed no obvious reaction.

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” Mira asked, after the lull that followed.

“I’ll see my family for Thanksgiving. They’re out in the suburbs on Long Island.” Isabel’s face had turned blank, and Mira realized, too late, that she’d brought up Isabel’s family. “My sister died on December 5th two years ago. It’s not an easy time.”

“Oh, Isabel, I’m so sorry.” Mira’s heart broke for Isabel all over again. “I can imagine the holidays must be painful.” She hesitated. Did Isabel even want condolences? “May her memory be a blessing.”

Isabel blinked. “Thanks. That’s nice of you.” She looked down at her fried rice. “We’ll visit Alexa’s grave close to the day. Then I might see them on Christmas. That’s not a big thing for us. At least not for me.”

“Does it help to see your family?” Mira was taking a risk in asking questions. Maybe Isabel wanted to be left alone. If their roles were reversed, Isabel wouldn’t say anything at all, and she’d simply let Mira talk as much or as little as she wanted. But, like Isabel had said, Mira had to find her own way of doing things.

Isabel sighed. “I think it helps my parents to see me. I just wish I could make things easier for them.”

She looked stiff and somehow small sitting at the table, her eyes downcast. She hadn’t actually answered the question, nor had she brought up the younger sister she’d once mentioned—presumably, the other bridesmaid in the photo Isabel had on her bookshelf. “It’s good of you to be there for them,” Mira said, treading carefully. “I’m sure they’re happy you’re there.”

Isabel nodded. They ate in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but Isabel’s mind was clearly elsewhere, leaving Mira to wonder about some things. Why did Isabel go to such great lengths to care for her relatives when she didn’t seem to want to be around them? Did Isabel want to be around anyone ? What did she do when she wasn’t working or taking care of her family?

When they were done eating, Mira grabbed Isabel’s bowl before she could object, headed to the sink, and started on the dishes. “Are you going to bed?” she asked. “It’s a late dinner for you.”

“Maybe in an hour. I might, uh… I might do some reading or something.” Isabel stood up behind Mira. “Let me help.”

“No, you cooked. What are you reading?” Isabel was always holed up in her bedroom when she was at home, and what she did in there was yet another mystery.

Isabel came over and started drying dishes next to her anyway. Her forearms were distractingly thick, flexing as she moved, tanned by the sun. There was barely any space between the sink and the countertop next to it, so they had to stand close together. It was one of the many quirks of their kitchen, which wasn’t quite big enough for two. “Nothing right now,” Isabel said. “I finished The Left Hand of Darkness again.” She paused, not looking at Mira. “It’s different, reading it after Alexa died.”

Mira had wept the first time she finished the novel years ago, and she’d never lost anyone close to her. A friendship between two very different people who came together as equals, sublime in its intimacy and love—maybe Isabel had had that with her sister. “It’s devastating, isn’t it?”

Isabel gave the smallest nod, one Mira might not have seen if she weren’t standing only a few inches away. That was answer enough.

They went on washing and drying the dishes, settling into a rhythm. Standing this close together, Mira sensed every one of Isabel’s movements as they worked. There was something about Isabel’s self-assured, solid presence that set Mira thrumming merely from being nearby, like a tuning fork resonating at exactly the right pitch. A little excited, a little buzzy, but calm, too, like she was where she was meant to be.

And she was. It felt good to wash Isabel’s homey, mismatched dishes together. It felt good to come back to the apartment after a long day, turn on the lamps in the living room, and let herself decompress before starting on her work again at the familiar table. This was how being at home was supposed to feel. Like she was warm and safe, like she could breathe.

But she was leaving soon. Maybe in just a few weeks.

Once they were done, Mira said, “I hope I’m not bothering you by working at the table all the time?—”

“You’re not.”

Mira smiled as she dried her hands. “What I was going to say is, you know I wouldn’t mind if you read or did other things in the living room. Not that you have to, of course. I just hate to think I’m crowding you out.”

“No, you’re not.” Isabel looked at the living room, as though seeing something that Mira didn’t. “I don’t have anything against it. I could use a change of pace.”