Bono

She emitted a dry cough. Only a mother would notice the way her hands were forming the shape of fists at her side. She didn’t need to be defensive. I was hardly going to suggest we roll out a picnic rug and google bridal gowns. That said I liked Ramon immensely. Half Sri Lankan and raised Catholic, he had a whimsical sense of humor that was an ideal foil to her serious nature.

“Fine,” she said, watching a skateboarder trundle toward the gates in the distance.

We were both bruised from our harrowing battles around the time of my breast cancer. I’d been hurt and furious when she’d taken off to Sri Lanka to become a Buddhist nun instead of staying home to provide emotional support through the mastectomy. In turn, she’d been perplexed and affronted by my lack of understanding of her need for spiritual growth.

Though our relationship had improved since she’d returned to Australia to complete her psychology studies, we still tended to circle each other like cats in a basement.

We found a bench under a tree and settled in the leafy shade.

“I’m going to New York.” The statement sounded clumsy, and oddly shocking.

A golden retriever galloped in front of us, its tongue waving like a dishcloth. A bird trilled the opening notes of a jazz number. Lydia remained silent.

“I know, you think I’m crazy wanting to go there, you must think it’s a dump, but . . .” I searched for the right words. “I really want to see The Book of Mormon. You know, the musical about the Mormon boys sent to convert people in Uganda. It’s hilarious.”

What was I saying? Lydia hated musicals. Besides, through her years of hard-core Buddhism she’d been forbidden to step inside a theater, which had been no hardship in her case.

“Are you serious?” she asked in a tone that implied I might need professional help.

“It’s won a raft of Tonys,” I said. “It’ll be years before they bring it to Australia. I got the CD off Amazon. Have you heard ‘Spooky Mormon Hell Dream’?”

“No, are you really going to New York?” she asked, fixing me with the psychologist expression that sears into my soul and makes it impossible to lie.

“Well, yes. My publishers think it’s a good idea, with the new book coming out.”

One of the curses of being a writer’s daughter is you’re destined to end up in print. I still wasn’t sure how Lydia felt about me portraying our dramas in Cats & Daughters. Months earlier, watching her solemn expression as she’d read through the manuscript, I’d half expected her to hurl it on the floor and forbid me to send it to the publisher. Instead, she’d been incredibly forgiving and generous.

“How long for?” she asked, her face turned away, her tawny hair gleaming in the dappled light.

Why did everyone keep asking that?

“I haven’t decided.”

I knew what she was thinking. New York, of all places. Center of global capitalism, crass materialism, and everything nonspiritual. A fox terrier galloped through the gates and snapped at the heels of the old Alsatian.

“Why don’t you come along?” I asked to fill the silence.

Lydia turned her face toward me. Her cheeks were pinker than usual. “I’d love to!” she said.

“Really?!”

My eyes filled with moisture. After everything we’d been through Lydia was volunteering to spend time with me in an environment hostile to her entire belief system.

“I couldn’t stay for long . . .” she said.

Yeah, right, I thought. She’s having second thoughts and wriggling out of it.

“But I could be there for maybe ten days at the beginning of your trip,” she added.

She could have knocked me over with an incense stick.

Chapter Three

FOSTERING A KITTEN—NOT

A cat never likes to be cornered.

The only thing better than the idea of spending open-ended time in New York was the thought of having Lydia all to myself there for ten days. Voluntarily at that. If I didn’t invade her space or say too many tactless things, there was a chance we’d come to forgive each other’s differences and like each other again. With her by my side, the city wouldn’t be so overwhelming. Settling into a new life of freedom would be much easier with her there ready to catch me if my knee gave out.

To my delight, she offered to scour the net for an Airbnb apartment.

Michaela told us to avoid Morningside Heights, the Columbia University district and anything above 96th Street. She suggested we find a safe, convenient apartment near hers in Chelsea. We were disappointed when Lydia’s search of that area proved fruitless. Noho and Soho were also no goes, along with the Highline and the Flatiron districts. However, she managed to unearth two possibilities in the West Village. I sent the addresses off to Michaela and waited for her advice.

Next morning, I leapt out of bed and raced Jonah to the computer.

Jonah tap-danced across the keyboard while I tried to decipher the email.