Being Audrey Hepburn

Poor Sarge must have been cringing in his grave, because every one of those old ladies he worked so hard to impress with his macho push-up routine found out, in excruciating detail, about his girly Harlequin-romance-novel habit. Personally, I thought it was cute. When the aides cleaned out his place, they found tons of paperback romances everywhere, stashed under the bed, in his old army footlocker, and under the kitchen counter. Sort of like my mom with booze. Anyway, I guess he didn’t want anyone to know that there was a starry-eyed romantic hiding underneath that tough GI exterior.

Nan knew he was a softie. Sarge had a crush on my Nan; he’d tried to flirt with her in that gruff way of his. All of the old guys there did. They would ask Nan out to di

Betty the nurse was leaving as I walked up the crumbly path to Nan’s house. I tried not to laugh when I saw her. She had to be pushing seventy herself. She wore a push-up bra, a bucket of foundation and blush, and she dyed her hair u

“Nan, I’m here,” I yelled. I stepped into the living room and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of rose oil and Joy perfume, which I loved—Nan’s patented antidote to wallowing in your own worries.

“On my way, Lisbeth,” Nan said. She was precariously balancing a giant cheesecake on a silver platter from the kitchen. “Grab forks and plates, will you please, dear?”

My phone buzzed. It was Mom. I hit IGNORE and stuck the phone back in my pocket.

I dropped my backpack on the dilapidated gold velvet slipper chair by the front door. Nan’s place was the same as always—time-warped and tidy. Most of her furniture dated around the 1960s—an eclectically elegant mix of things from her life with Grandpa and the graceful Park Avenue furnishings she inherited when my great-grandmother and great-grandfather died, way before I was born. The rich burgundy embroidery was now yellowed and the silk draperies were probably older, maybe from the forties—and totally oversize for the tiny windows they now framed. But Nan made it all work.

“What is this?” I asked. Nan’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she set the giant cheesecake down in front of me on the coffee table.

“I was thinking, if you don’t mind, we should skip di

I nodded and contemplated the cheesecake, which was smothered in chocolate and caramel and pecans. “It does have nuts on it…” I said.

“Yes, and pecans are a good source of protein,” Nan added.

“Totally, and you can’t beat chocolate for antioxidants!” I said.

“Just what I was thinking!” Nan said, delighted. “It’s practically health food.”

I gave Nan a hug, and she squeezed me tightly.

You have to understand what it was like to be hugged by Nan. You didn’t just hug Nan, you melded with her. It felt like your heart and her heart found each other, all perfectly lined up, and they started to beat together. As she hugged you, you noticed her tiny heartbeats grow stronger and stronger with every beat. It was total bliss.

She was petite, as Nan would say, probably five foot five, maybe shorter. Nan did yoga and Aquacise and tap, plus she went ballroom dancing every Thursday. She was as fit as she could be. Once she actually did a headstand right in the middle of her living room. I could hardly believe it. It’s not every day you see an octogenarian upside down.

But lately every time I saw her, it seemed as though she was shrinking a bit. I think that really happens—old people just get smaller because they’re so wrinkly. You know like how your shirt looks when you take it out of the dryer after a couple of days?

“May I?” I said, cutting us each slices and delicately placing them on two small china plates, giving the biggest one to Nan. Nan always ate on china, even if it was just moo goo gai pan from Ping Chong’s Chinese. According to Nan, every day she had left on the planet was a special occasion. She certainly made it feel that way. She was leaving the china to me in her will, probably because I was her favorite and the only person in the family who wouldn’t pimp it on eBay.

“Dear, do you prefer milk or champagne with your cheesecake?” Nan asked as she headed toward the kitchen. I laughed.

“What are you having?” I asked, grabbing a couple of napkins from the veneer antique sideboard.

“Personally, I think a little rosé champagne couldn’t hurt,” she said. She brought in two flutes of pink bubbly. “Everybody says wine is medicinal, and drinking champagne is like sipping starlight.” Her mischievous grin widened, and she whispered, “I want you to have some of the good stuff.” We clinked glasses, and the bubbles went right up my nose. And that’s when my phone buzzed.

There was a text: “SOS @ the Met MMB☺”

It was Jess. She was working late at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that week. They were always giving her impossible projects to finish by dawn, like cataloging dirty and dusty dioramas or making hundreds of labels for every single jar, lid, bowl and floral collar that ever existed in the pharaoh’s funeral tomb. She impressed them every time, but sometimes she was desperate for help or she’d never get out of there. I don’t know how she did it—it was kind of like the worst middle school project ever times a thousand, so not my thing. Lately, Jess had resorted to bribery to get me to come.

I quickly texted her back that I was with Nan.

“Hug Nan for me !! But you need to see this !!”

“Is everything okay?” Nan asked.

“Jess says hi,” I told Nan, and she blew back a kiss. “Uh, Nan…,” I began.

“Go! Have fun with your friend in the city,” she said. She was smiling, waving me to leave and picking up the plates before I could say another word.

“Another hug?”

“Certainly, dear.” I didn’t know who was squeezing tighter, Nan or me.

Jess was texting me on the way out the door to hurry up.

“What’s up ?!” I typed as a pleasant champagne buzz kicked in.

“U won’t believe it !! ☺”

5

The forty-five-minute train ride was boring. I searched my phone for texts I hadn’t answered. I texted everyone and their dog, but no one texted back.

Mom called, but I didn’t pick up. I just couldn’t deal with her tonight. I tried to slyly read the story on the back pages of the People magazine the lady directly across from me held in front of her. Something about Kim Kardashian on a shopping spree in Beijing. But the lady kept shifting, so it was pretty hard to keep my place.

As she turned the page, she caught me leaning forward and gave me the stink-eye, like I was stealing her gossip news. Everyone around me silently turned and glared at me. I shrugged “sorry,” and they went back to what they were doing.

I stared mindlessly out the window at the southern view of highways and wires while the train sped its way to the city. I noticed another dirty scowl from the lady with the People magazine and zoned out. What was she so cranky about?

*   *   *

I opened my eyes, surprised I was at Pe