Ask Again Later Read Free

you ask?” Paul says.
    â€œI think I miss him,” I say. I can’t handle separations that aren’t accompanied by lots of advance notice.
    â€œI see,” Paul says.
    â€œYou cured him, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you,” I say.
    Silence.
    â€œBecause you miss him? Or because I ‘cured’ him and not you?” Paul asks.
    I look him over for thirty seconds or so.
    â€œYou’re good! And feisty, too,” I say. “But either way you’re in the wrong, and I’m not forgiving you.”
    He laughs. His eyes go from happy to sad on a dime. A hair trigger. He’s mastered empathy.
    â€œI liked that ratty backpack he carried. Even though he was too old to carry a backpack—in my opinion. And then, just before he stopped seeing you, he switched to a leather briefcase. No scuffs. Brand new. I should have taken that as a sign,” I say.
    â€œSign of what?” Paul asks.
    â€œThat he was ready to move on. That he’d grown up or something,” I say.
    â€œIt’s about being a grown-up?” Paul asks.
    â€œAsk again later,” I say. It’s my favorite non-answer.
    Then I shrug. I wait. I have no idea what “it’s” about. But I return week after week in hopes of finding out. One day I’ll walk in, and my number will be called, and he’ll hand me my fortune, which will tell me everything. I need only to keep showing up. You can’t win if you don’t play.
    I access some of my conversation filler, something along the lines of: Isn’t it time to stop screwing around and grow up?
    â€œThere’s no such thing as ‘grown-up,’” Paul says.
    â€œThat’s encouraging,” I say.
    â€œIf you really think about it—it is encouraging,” Paul says.
    Silence. I stare at the trees in the park. There is ice on the branches. I can see the skeletons of old bird nests. Every so often the branches catch the wind, like a kite. A visual lullaby. Some ice falls. Then I imagine the cost of pruning those trees. That always breaks the spell. Must be absolutely astronomical.

Peace on Earth and The New Yorker
    I LEAVE HIS OFFICE and sit in his waiting room. I’m not quite ready to go home—to mine or my mother’s. There is a white noise machine. Four mismatched chairs, one couch, one coffee table. A dysfunctional family of furniture.
    On the wall is a small hand-made sign that says: “Please, turn off cell phones in waiting room.” I cross out the comma after “Please.” It’s my way of giving back. This is just one example of my quiet helpfulness.
    And suddenly I’m struck with an understanding of why people go to church. It’s a lot like this waiting room.I don’t associate it with anything other than dog-eared copies of The New Yorker —and quiet waiting. It’s a good kind of waiting, because there is no line and the appointment always starts on time. The outside world doesn’t knock on the door here. It’s genuinely peaceful. Peace on Earth.
    My mind travels back to the morning that changed things.

Tin-Foil Swan
    I AM IN MY NEW kitchen thinking about myself. I am envying my own life up to this point. I am that person. The one who buys the gigantic, shiny coffee-espressolatte-cappuccino machine in hopes that it will replace or enhance my internal life.
    It’s not your father’s Mr. Coffee…no sir! It’s the kind of sleek stainless steel “system” that takes up several cubic feet of the pricey Manhattan real estate that is my kitchen counter. Could be worse, I could be a fan of mug caddies. Those spindly little racks that display mugs for people who can’t manage the extra effort it takes to put the mugs inside a cabinet. You never want to be too far from your mugs…don’t want to be separated by prefab cabinetry. Or even a hardwood, such as maple.
    When the coffee fad is over—though