Aftertaste:

by Meredith Mileti

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Mira Rinaldi lives life at a rolling boil. Co-owner of Grappa, a chic New York City trattoria, she has an enviable apartment, a brand-new baby, and a frenzied schedule befitting her success. Everything changes the night she catches her husband, Jake, "wielding his whisk" with Grappa's new Mâitress d'. Mira's fiery response earns her a court-ordered stint in anger management and the beginning of legal and personal predicaments as she battles to save her restaurant and pick up the pieces of her life. Mira falls back on family and friends in Pittsburgh as she struggles to find a recipe for happiness. But the heat is really on when some surprising developments in New York present her with a high stakes opportunity to win back what she thought she had lost forever. For Mira, cooking isn't just about delicious flavors and textures, but about the pleasure found in filling others' needs. And the time has come to decide where her own fulfillment lies--even if the answers are unexpected. Keenly observed and deeply satisfying, Aftertaste is a novel about rebuilding and rediscovery, about food passionately prepared and unapologetically savored, and about the singular contentment that comes with living--and loving--with gusto. "A delicious debut." --Jamie Cat Callan, author of French Women Don't Sleep Alone Meredith Mileti lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and their three, mostly grown children. She is a graduate of Hamilton College and the University of Pittsburgh where she earned a Ph.D. in Developmental Psychology, and subsequently served on the faculty. Since taking her first home economics course in junior high, Meredith has loved to cook. An adventurous and eclectic diner, she appreciates any well-cooked meal, whether from a lobster shack in Bar Harbor, Maine, a friggitorie in Naples, a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris or a Deluxe Double Egg & Cheese at Primanti's in Pittsburgh. Aftertaste is her first novel.

Release date: September 1, 2011

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 384

Sample

The best thing about the location of the Manhattan County Courthouse is its proximity to Nelly’s. Nelly’s is a take-out stand that serves the best lamb burger this side of Auckland. Cooked rare, and topped with goat cheese and a fried egg so fresh its yolk oozes orange, it’s the last meal I will ask for if ever I find myself on death row.

Climbing the steps to the courthouse, I imagine I am one of New Zealand’s intrepid settlers, a nefarious wanderer let loose on the shores of a place new and dangerous, armed with the fortitude only a good meal can provide. I stuff the last delicious morsel into my mouth, savoring the finale, the unctuous tang of the cheese, the bracing bite of the lamb, wishing I’d ordered a beer to go with it. Maybe two.

The criminal division is on the second floor, and stepping off the elevator, I pass through security, where I’m checked for weapons before being let loose to wander freely among the drug addicts, street criminals, and those poor souls wrongly accused of being criminals (of whom, looking around, I suspect there are few). Everyone has a hunted look. They huddle in doorways and dimly lit hallways; some are handcuffed or shackled. The air is thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, of anger and despair. Police officers in various stages of disenchantment with humanity mill around officially, sipping burnt coffee provided free of charge by the grateful taxpayers of Manhattan.

The probation department is located in a slightly more hopeful annex, seven steps up and to the left of the criminal courtrooms. It is the third time I have found myself here, and I know it will not be my last. I have been court-ordered to attend a series of anger-management classes. We meet on Tuesday afternoons, a half a floor removed from the felons, but the smell of anger and despair is here as well. Although it is the third class of six, I think I’ve regressed. My anger is closer to the surface this time; I can feel it hot and palpable under the collar of my shirt, in the pulse in my neck, and in the palms of my clenched fists. Six of us sit in a circle on the green linoleum floor that looks and feels as if it hasn’t been washed in years. The instructor, Mary Ann, is a licensed clinical social worker. She walks slowly behind us, repeating what are supposed to be soothing phrases. “Breathe in the clean, white air. When you exhale, picture your breath as black and hot. It is your anger. Release it, and let it go.” It is how we began the last two classes, and it is, I assume, how we will begin them all. When she gets to me, she places a light hand on my shoulder and says softly, “Mira, you’re very tense. Try to unclench your fists. Exhale that black, hot anger.” She gives my shoulder an encouraging squeeze and moves on.

“Think of what makes you angry,” she continues, in a hushed, singsongy voice. “When you feel your body begin to tense, take a cleansing breath, let out that black smoke, and repeat, ‘I will not lose control.’ ”

So here I am, a person who’s never so much as gotten a speeding ticket, a person with nary a youthful transgression to speak of, now a regular in the probation department, where I have been ordered to be by Judge Celia Wilcox, who one would have thought would have been more sympathetic to me—a woman scorned. I repeat, “I will not lose control,” mantra-like, as if by some wild stretch of the imagination a mere verbal affirmation could make it so.

The truth is, I’m out of control and I know it. I’m out of control and justifiably so. I have just lost everything.

Mary Ann tells us to slowly open our eyes. Amazingly, the air around us is not cloudy with the black smoke of our exhaled anger, which can mean only one of two things: We have all kept it corked up inside to be released later when no longer under Mary Ann’s watchful eye or, two, Mary Ann is full of shit. I know what I think and, looking around the room at my fellow miscreants, I know what they think, too. We are doing our time, all of us, thankful to be here and not downstairs, shackled in those orange jumpsuits.

We get up and stretch a bit, then move to chairs that are placed in a circle behind us. We do this more or less silently. The other people in the class, four men and one woman, do not seem to be given to lighthearted banter. They probably do not have good social skills, which might help to explain why they are in this class.

I, on the other hand, am a person with excellent social skills, a gifted conversationalist, a person used to lighthearted banter. A person who occasionally used to smile before rage and disappointment took up permanent residence, lagging in the pit of my stomach like an indigestible meal. I’m angry, and who wouldn’t be? I’m forced to be here because the woman who screwed my husband is now trying to steal my restaurant. All I was trying to do was to protect hearth, home, and business, which in simpler times would have been a perfectly permissible and legally defensible option.

In fact, if I’d been a cave woman or even some medieval wench, I would have been considered the victor when I emerged, only slightly bloodied, and holding in my hands great clumps of Nicola’s black hair—hair I pulled out by its roots while she sat naked, helpless, and sobbing, hands pressed to her bald and bleeding scalp. I would have won Jake back by a show of sheer physical dominance, and I, not Nicola, would now be presiding over the dining room at Grappa. That I am here, and she is in my restaurant and in Jake’s bed is beyond anathema, and a testament to the decline of modern civilization.

A snort escapes me, and I look around, embarrassed. Mary Ann begins. “How did this week go for you all? Let’s talk about triggers and what we did to address them. Larry, how about beginning for us?” She gestures to a large man wearing a New York Rangers jersey over white carpenter’s pants who, we learned last week, beats his wife.

“I dunno. She got mad and left. So, since she wasn’t there, there was nothin’ to piss me off.”

“Do you know what made her angry?” Mary Ann asks.

I squirm in my chair. I want to say, How about being married to a guy who beats you? Isn’t that enough for you, Mary Ann?

“Who the hell knows,” says Larry. Mary Ann doesn’t say anything. After thirty seconds or so, the uncomfortable silence forces Larry to continue. “Might be because I didn’t come home one night.”

And I think, great, another adulterer, and because I have no impulse control where infidelity is concerned, I glare daggers at him, then wonder fleetingly if he is likely to turn his rage on me. He looks at me and then at Keisha, a large African American woman, an ex-professional boxer with a cauliflower ear and the only other female in the group besides me and Mary Ann (who, I guess, doesn’t really count). Keisha is also glaring at him.

As if sensing our mutual disgust, he proceeds. “I had too much to drink, and I get mean when I’m drunk, so I thought I’d better not go home, just in case.”

Mary Ann is all over that one. “Well, Larry, that is an important step. You recognized drinking is a trigger for you, and you were trying to keep yourself from doing some harm. I think you can see that as progress.” She smoothes her limp, gray pageboy hair behind both ears, adjusts her cardigan sweater, and gives him a milquetoast smile.

Keisha, who may have even less impulse control than I do, says to Larry, “Hell, she’s mad because she don’t know where you been sleeping. I’d be mad. Miss Priss and Miss Chef over there”—she gestures to Mary Ann and me—“we’d be mad if our man don’t come home, and we don’t know where he is or who he’s been sleepin’ with.”

Before I can jump in with a “Right on, sister!,” Shawn, a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, waves his hand in a dismissive manner and says in a clipped and condescending tone, “Oh, come on, that really isn’t the issue. It is not about what makes her mad. The point is, this guy, Larry here, is trying to get his act together. He knows there are probably a hundred little things his wife does that annoy the crap out of him, and when he’s drunk those hundred things become a thousand.

“He’s taking one step at a time, and if his wife doesn’t see that, to hell with her. This isn’t freaking marriage counseling. Larry’s got other things on his mind besides other women. Why is it you can’t understand it isn’t always about you?”

Shawn’s tone is full of disdain and thinly concealed misogyny. He hasn’t spoken before, and I wonder what he has done and why he is here. One thing I’m sure about, it somehow involves a woman.

Mary Ann, a traitor to her sex, replies, “Thanks for sharing that thought, Shawn. Would you like to say some more about that?”

Shawn puts his forearms on his knees, buries his head in his open palms, and says in a tight voice, “No, that will do it.”

Mary Ann turns her attention to Keisha and me and opens her mouth, poised to deliver a lecture, but before she can begin, before I even know it myself, I’m off and running. “Do you want to know what my trigger is, Mary Ann, Shawn, Larry?” I say, louder than I had intended. “Lying, cheating, scumbag husbands and their whores!”

I hear Mary Ann say “Mira,” and I know she’s about to tell me I’m smothering in the thick, black smoke of my anger. But I don’t care, and I don’t stop.

I blurt out my story, how I had hired Nicola to be the maîtress d’hôtel at our restaurant, Grappa, when I was seven months pregnant. How I suspected Jake and Nicola had begun having an affair when Chloe was just hours old; and how one night, when Chloe woke up and Jake still wasn’t home at two-thirty in the morning, I bundled her up and strapped her into the portable infant carrier, walked the three blocks to the restaurant, and snuck in the side door.

The door was locked, but the alarm wasn’t on, the first odd thing, because Jake always locks up and sets the alarm before leaving the restaurant. Chloe had fallen back to sleep in her infant seat on the way over, so I carefully nestled the carrier into one of the leather banquettes.

I crept through the dining room and into the darkened kitchen, where I could see the office at the far end was aglow with candlelight. As I moved closer I could hear music. “Nessun dorma,” from Turandot, Jake’s favorite. How fitting. On the marble pastry station I found an open bottle of wine and two empty glasses. It was, to add insult to what was about to be serious injury, a 1999 Tenuta dell’Ornellaia Masseto Toscano—the most expensive wine in our cellar. Three hundred and eighty dollar foreplay.

I picked up the bottle and followed the trail of clothes to the office. Jake’s checkered chef’s pants and tunic, Nicola’s slinky black dress, which I hated her for being able to wear, and a Victoria’s Secret, lacy, black bra. They were on the leather couch, Nicola on top, her wild, black hair spilling over Jake’s chest, humping away like wild dogs. Carried away by their passion, they were oblivious to my approach. I drained the last of the wine from the bottle and hurled it over their backsides where it smashed against the wall, announcing my arrival.

Before Jake could completely extricate himself, I jumped on Nicola’s back and grabbed hold of her hair and pulled with all the strength of my hot-blooded Mediterranean ancestors. Nicola screamed, and clawed the air, her flailing hands accidentally swiping Jake squarely on the chin. He squirmed out from under her and tried to tackle me, but I’m not a small woman. Armed with my humiliation and anger, I was a force in motion.

In desperation, Jake butted his head into the middle of my back, wrapped his hands around my waist, and pulled with all his might. He succeeded, pulling so hard that Nicola’s hair, which I had resolutely refused to yield, came away in great clumps in my hands. Nicola’s screams turned to pathetic whimpers as she reached to cover her burning scalp. She then curled herself into a fetal position, naked and bleeding, and began to keen.

My co-offenders are riveted as I tell them everything, right down to my fantasy of feigning a reconciliation with Nicola and then beating her senseless on the stage of The Jerry Springer Show.

When I stop to take a breath, I realize my hands are shaking, as my recollection of the events has triggered an adrenaline rush. I look around at the group. Shawn has removed his head from his hands and is looking right at me as if I have just confirmed all his worst suspicions about women. Keisha is smiling so broadly that I can see all of her white teeth. She shakes her head encouragingly and utters, “damn,” under her breath with unconcealed admiration.

Larry does not meet my eyes. He has the look of a trapped animal, a typical bully who, once cornered, melts under the gaze of his captor. I’m receiving validation from my fellow thugs, and I begin to think maybe this group therapy stuff isn’t so bad after all.

I do not realize the full extent of my blunder until my gaze finally reaches Mary Ann. Apparently the thought has occurred to her, long before it did to me, that an encore performance on national television would not provide favorable testament to Miss Priss’s anger-management counseling skills. It is just one more time my temper has gotten the better of me, and I know, with an element of fatalism, it will not be the last.

I will not be graduating from anger-management skills training as planned, Mary Ann tells me after class. She can see there’s much work to be done, and it doesn’t take a licensed clinical social worker to see that an outburst like mine speaks of deeper issues to be explored. She then presses into my hand a white slip of paper on which is written the name and telephone number of a person she knows to be an excellent therapist. She adds, after a few seconds, that although she has no authority to order me to individual therapy, she hopes I’ll seriously consider it. Then, with a depth of understanding I’d failed to credit to her, she deals me the coup de grace. “Mira,” she says, looking fully into my eyes for the very first time, “you owe this to yourself, but more than that, you owe it to Chloe.”

On the first floor I stop to buy a Diet Coke at the vending machine. It’s now late in the afternoon, and most of the people awaiting trials have gone for the day. I’m spent emotionally and physically by my display in class, and I guzzle the Coke greedily on the way to catch my bus. By the time I get to West Broadway, I’ve finished the Coke and, as I run for the bus heading to the Village, I toss the empty can into the garbage, only to see the little, white slip of paper that has stuck to the side of the moist can, the piece of paper on which Mary Ann has written my ticket to sanity, disappear into the trash.

You cannot know the type of person you really are, I mean truly, deep down, appreciate the measure of yourself as a person, until you’ve felt the cold steel of a pair of handcuffs against your wrists. What does it evoke? Pain? Terror? Remorse? After my attack on Nicola, they had restrained me, in order to protect me from myself, the officer told me, her hand atop my head as she gently, and I’d like to think sympathetically, assisted me into the back of the cruiser. She had been kind, allowing me to call Hope, our downstairs neighbor and Chloe’s sometime babysitter, and wait for her to trudge the three blocks in her bathrobe to pick up Chloe. She had even graciously removed the cuffs so I could hold her for an instant, allowing me to brush a trembling kiss across her forehead before transferring her into Hope’s waiting arms. But the act for which I remain most grateful was her unexpected humanity—she had waited for Hope and Chloe to disappear around the corner before re-cuffing me, apologizing as she snapped the locks into place with a dispiriting click. Perhaps because I’ve spent my life working with my hands, I find it terrifying to have them immobilized. But, sitting in the back of the cruiser, my neck craned uncomfortably to watch the diminishing specters of Jake and Nicola out the cruiser’s rear window—Jake’s arm wrapped protectively around Nicola, a white tablecloth draped over her heaving shoulders—all I can remember feeling was a strange detachment, as if I were watching a Lifetime Channel movie of the week, waiting patiently for the next commercial break. It wasn’t until Jake and Nicola had completely disappeared from view, and I struggled to turn around, the steel of the handcuffs uncomfortably chafing my wrists, that I found a piece of Nicola’s long, dark hair had wedged itself firmly in between my two front teeth and was tickling my bottom lip. All I can remember thinking is, “How the hell did that get there?” No remorse, God forbid. No guilt. Just pure incredulity.

Now what does that say about me?

The thing is, you really can’t know who you are, what you will do to get what you want, until you’ve been in trouble. Getting away with something makes it easy to hide behind the stories we tell ourselves, the lies we live with, often small and incremental, in order to secure our hearts’ desires. But find yourself fingerprinted and photographed, forced to call a friend—of whom you have depressingly few, apart, of course, from your husband, whose lover you have just attacked and who is probably not, at the moment, inclined to post your bail—and you’ll find you have some real explaining to do.

I’ve never been a person with big plans. Most of what I do, I do spontaneously, or as Mary Ann might say, impulsively. The only fruits of any serious planning in my life, in fact, are Chloe and Grappa. The trouble with planning things in advance, I’ve learned, is they seldom turn out the way you plan them. When Jake and I opened the restaurant five years ago, we thought we knew what we wanted. We were both tired of working under the direction of restaurant owners, bottom-liners, all too often loud of voice and lacking in vision or culinary understanding. We wanted to shake up the restaurant world, which we felt had grown complacent and mired in certain continental dining traditions. At one point, shortly after our return from Europe, we dreamed of owning a loft in the city. We imagined an expansive, multi-level space where we could live and work. Enough space to accommodate an open kitchen, where we would offer cooking classes and wine tastings during the day and where we could serve a few prix fixe dinners each week. However, when a cozy (real estate code for miniscule) basement space in the West Village became available, we took advantage of the opportunity, adjusted our expectations, and Grappa was born.

In its former incarnation it had been a small, dank pizzeria, or at least what passes for a pizzeria in the States, serving oil-drenched, over-sauced pizza Americans tend to love, which actually bears little relation to real Italian pizza. The kitchen was small by restaurant standards, and needed a total overhaul, stretching our budget and our borrowing capacity to their limits.

We picked up cheap stock tables and chairs at warehouse and fire sales, where we tried not to remind ourselves we were buying the remains of someone else’s failed enterprise. White cloths and kitschy wax-dripped Chianti bottles dressed the tables in the fall and winter. In the summertime I loaded fresh flowers, which I grew on the roof of our apartment building, into the recycled aluminum San Marzano tomato cans that arrived at our restaurant weekly by the case. Our collection of vintage Italian food and wine posters was on temporary loan from our apartment, and Jake and I agreed they looked great against the exposed brick. The metamorphosis from basement slum to chic urban trattoria had taken only nine months, a surprisingly small amount of time in which to spend not only every dollar we had, but also every penny we could cajole from the First Manhattan Savings and Loan.

Within months of our opening, Gourmet did a piece on “Up and Coming” restaurants in New York, and Grappa was featured. It was a lucky accident they chose us, the kind of break that can make or destroy you in this town. The rave review on our food, however, we earned. The day after the magazine hit the stands, we had a line coming out the door at lunchtime. By the weekend, we were booked solid, two weeks in advance. We made money hand over fist, enough that by the end of our first year in business we were able to buy the first floor space above, enhance the kitchen, and expand the restaurant by eleven tables.

During those early years we weathered the storms common to all fledgling restaurants, particularly those in Manhattan. At the same time we engineered and oversaw a second comprehensive renovation. Jake and I lived, ate, and breathed Grappa. We had fully intended to start a family once Grappa had opened successfully, but we had to put those plans on hold, a decision not without a certain element of risk, given the fact I was already thirty-five and Jake was forty. Instead, we made Grappa our baby, its staff our family.

On my thirty-seventh birthday I bullied Jake into agreeing it was time to try for a baby, citing as evidence a now infamous article, published in the Sunday Magazine section and responsible for I don’t even want to think about how many ambivalent conceptions, by scores of career women in their thirties, whose biological windows were much narrower than previously believed. Jake, rather reluctantly, agreed. In retrospect, he probably was secretly heartened by the news that perhaps my biological window was already closed.

Of course, I became pregnant almost instantly.

Chloe is sleeping when I get home from anger-management class. Hope, the sitter and our downstairs neighbor, tells me Chloe didn’t fall asleep until after three, so not to worry if she sleeps a while longer.

I take out Chloe’s dinner: veal mousse with shitake puree, creamed spinach, and, in order to balance the colors and textures, souffléed butternut squash. All homemade, frozen in the tiny compartments of blue plastic ice cube trays. Before Chloe was born, Jake and I agreed our child would have a sophisticated palate. No Happy Meals, no macaroni and cheese, and—God forbid—no chicken fingers. I make her food myself, at night sometimes when I can’t sleep, as if being able to offer Chloe the pureed version of the best I can cook will somehow make up for what I fear will be all my other shortcomings as a mother.

Already at seven months Chloe has shown herself to be an adventurous eater. There’s nothing she doesn’t like. Jake, of course, has no idea. In the three months since he moved out, he’s hardly seen her. He probably doesn’t even know she’s eating solid foods. And because he’s never asked, I’ve never told him.

The few conversations we’ve had in the last three months have been about work: practical aspects of the changing of the guard from lunch to dinner, decisions about the seasonal menu changes at the restaurant, how the last shipment of baby artichokes was uncharacteristically bitter, and which one of us should be responsible for calling the supplier.

Before Chloe was born we agreed Jake would supervise dinner at the restaurant, while I would take lunch a couple days a week, just to keep my hand in, until Chloe was a little older. Since the separation, however, and my forced compliance with the terms of the Order of Protection that prohibits me from coming within two hundred yards of Nicola, I’ve taken to cooking lunch five days per week, while Jake continues to handle dinner. He has the harder job, dinner being the more important and elaborate meal, and six days instead of five, but I’m busy with the work of raising our child. Jake tells me, mostly in writing through our lawyers, that he’ll gladly buy my share of the restaurant so I can stay at home and prepare Michelin-worthy baby meals all day instead of just at night, that it would be better for “the child.”

What he really means is it would be easier for him and Nicola if they didn’t have to worry about my intruding into their private lives, lives they’ve stolen for themselves right from underneath my nose.

And so we try, or rather Jake tries, not to overlap at the restaurant, but sometimes we do. We are civil, and occasionally even pleasant to each other, because there are usually other people around. If nothing else, we are professionals who have a business to run. I try, however, never to look directly at him because then the ache will come and, unable to draw breath into my constricted chest, I will begin to choke. Usually, it’s fairly easy to keep from looking at him because there are always several things that need to be done in the restaurant kitchen, always something to occupy one’s hands and eyes.

Since Jake wouldn’t agree to terminate Nicola’s employment (apparently he doesn’t see quite enough of her, even though they are now living together at her apartment), she still works the dinner shift as maîtress. If I’m honest with myself, the vision of Nicola presiding over the dining room at Grappa bothers me as much as her having taken my place in Jake’s bed. Maybe more.

Chloe sleeps longer than she should, and when I get her up, she fusses and strains in my arms. Once I maneuver her into the high chair, she stubbornly refuses to eat, pounding the tray with her tiny fists and swatting my hand away whenever I offer her a spoonful of food. After I make several unsuccessful attempts, the tray of her high chair (and her hands, face, and hair) is covered in broad brushstrokes of orange, green, and beige, which she smears around the tray, like a manic little Jackson Pollock. Finally, arms straining, she reaches for me and makes little kneading motions with her fists, and I finally understand she wants to nurse. It is the only thing that seems to quiet her, and she sucks greedily, faster than she is able to swallow, the milk pooling in the inside of her cheeks.

Chloe’s eyes roll back slightly in her head, and her previously clenched fists are now limp with exhaustion and relief. What hard and frustrating work it must be to be a baby. Being forced to communicate your needs without words to the people in charge of your care, people who mean well and are generally invested in your well-being, if occasionally dense and preoccupied.

I watch the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, the halting tremble of her lips as they purse and then begin to suck sleepily and lazily at the air. Her movements are at once languid and deliberate, and I’m dizzy with the promise of who she is, this tiny person I have made. And I wonder if she senses I’m her mother and I’m here watching her. Defining myself in gentler terms, as Chloe’s mother, seems necessary and, after seven months, almost completely natural. As if by doing so, I can erase all the mistakes I made in being Jake’s wife.

Mercifully, Chloe has always been an excellent sleeper, sleeping through the night when she was less than three weeks old. So it’s unusual when she wakes at midnight, crying. She’s hot to the touch and fretful. Cursing myself for not having sprung for the quick-read ear thermometer the pediatrician had recommended, I manage to take her temperature rectally. One hundred and four. I give her some Infants’ Tylenol drops and a bottle of cool water, which she gulps down impatiently, but within minutes she throws up all over the two of us, mostly water, tinged purple from the grape-flavored Tylenol. We pace the apartment, Chloe’s fretful cries becoming increasingly more piercing as I rock her, gently at first, then more urgently. With each lap around the apartment I become more and more nervous because I cannot stop her crying. Finally, when she shows no signs of exhausting herself and I can’t take it any more, I pick up the phone and punch the pediatrician’s emergency hotline number on the speed dial. I’m startled when, after several rings, I get the sound of Jake’s recorded voice mail message. I listen, confused and mesmerized by the sound of his voice, until I realize I must have hit number one (Jake’s cell phone) instead of number four (Dr. Troutman) on the speed dial. I hang up, but not before, blinded by worry and fury, I’ve managed to wail urgently and hysterically into the phone.

Chloe finally stops crying, but her body is listless and heavy, her eyes glassy. I take her temperature again, this time without disturbing her too much. Despite the Tylenol, her fever has climbed another degree. One hundred and five. I check the clock. 1:15 a.m. I hastily throw on sweatpants, socks, and running shoes, grab the quilt from Chloe’s crib, and quickly wrap her.

Downstairs, Earl, the night doorman, is sipping his coffee from a paper cup, looking fresh and alert, when Chloe and I come flying out of the elevator. Without my having to utter a word, Earl flags down a cabbie, packs us in, and, leaning into the front window of the cab, shouts something to the driver in Spanish. By the time we reach the hospital, Chloe is in the midst of a convulsion brought about, I’m later told, by the high fever.

When caught in time, fever convulsions are quite manageable, the very young-looking intern tells me, speaking with an authority he could not possibly have earned yet. They bring down her fever with an injection and give her an IV of fluid to help rehydrate her. The needle looks enormous punched into her little arm. By 4:00 a.m. her fever is down to one hundred and three; by 6:00, an acceptable hundred and one. By 7:30 Chloe and I are bac