Parker I knew my siblings had begun to fight when they started texting me s eparately. Kevin Bro do you think you’ll get here at all? Mom says hi Specifically its like “hi parker my favorite and best son I love SO much” “oh how I wish you were here” “or that any of my other terrible children spoke Tagalog with me” Elena RIP my Noche Buena dinner with the whole fam :( Not trying to put this on you park, just hoping you can still make it so you’re not stuck out there alone!!! Justin lost in new york for christmas huh? say hi to joe pesci lol btw listen. dad told me a pipe burst in his place right before he flew out. I went over and it’s pretty bad. r epairman says $700. no pressure if things are tight, I’ll figure something out. I knew Justin hated sending these texts. At thirty-six, he was still renting in L. A. with his wife. He’d moved there to make it as a cinematographer and instead wound up opening a small barbershop, which was always just on the right side of solvent. Parker No, no worries, I got it. Parker Navarro sent $700 with Apple Pay Justin ty
I spent Christmas Eve pacing my apartment, refreshing Google Flights, watching cars brutalize the whiteness of the snow. My neighbors salted the sidewalks and transferred heap after heap of gray sludge into the gutters, only for fresh layers to fall within the hour. I exercised with the blinds drawn, hoping the workout would stop the churning of my stomach, but instead I pulled a muscle in my elbow and had to sink the joint in a bowl of ice for half an hour. Hi, Mom, I texted one-handed. I’m so sorry. There aren’t any flights NYC to SF tomorrow. I could probably fly out in two days, but everybody would be on their way to Manila. And Manila was looking less likely by the hour. The tickets to the Philippines had cost $2,100, and changing the flight to a New York round trip would cost another thousand dollars. I still had no actual source of income. I needed High and Dry to sell copies; I needed to sell this next book to Lauren. I needed not to throw away that kind of money on airline fees. My phone skittered across the table. Mom Miss you so much Christmas Eve isn’t the same without you! Parker I miss you too, Mom. I’m so sorry about this. Can we all have a Christmas video chat tomorrow? Mom Yes if course we will video call Of course Going to see Kevy and Baby’s godparents in the morning But I’ll ask your brothers and sisters about video time! Lunch maybe
I folded my arms on the table and nestled my face into my forearms. Chaos and all, I loved Christmas, its cut-paper lanterns and its extravagant, hours-long meals, the endless playing of “Christmas in Our Hearts” over my mom’s speakers. The holiday had a way of showing me every side of my family at once, like cubism, Christi’s rigidity cut neatly into her pragmatism and reliability, Kevin’s immaturity unfolded alongside the games he’d conjure up to the kids’ delight. It was sinking in: I was going to miss Christmas with my family this year, for the third time in my life and the first that didn’t in volve a pandemic. My phone buzzed again. I grabbed it up, but the notification wasn’t a tracked Google Flight or a family argument. It was a Venmo alert. Selina Chan paid you $5.00. “Eggnog for one.” For the first time since I’d woken up, my travel plans jarred from my mind. I reread the message several times. Why was Selina Chan sending me a sarcastic Venmo, unprovoked, on Christmas Eve? I wondered where she was right now. In her apartment? She’d mentioned living in Bed-Stuy. What did her apartment actually look like? Sometime between seeing her reading alone at a bar for two hours straight and watching her pluck at her sleeve as she’d met Juliette for the first time, the image of the supervillain in her mansion had dissolved, but I wasn’t sure how to r eplace it. I tapped through to her Venmo profile to find that here, in this remote backwater of her online presence, she’d foregone the intimidating headshot. The profile showed some sunny photo of Selina with her hair down, standing on a pier, wearing a T-shirt. She was smiling, with teeth. I felt like I was seeing a turtle without its shell.
I hit Pay and sent her back five dollars: “MTA fare to ice skate alone.” Five seconds passed. A notification dropped down from the top of my screen. Selina Chan left a comment on your payment: “ha.” I lurked by the window, snow glaring brilliantly into the corner of my vision. What was she doing? Was that it? Then another notification peeked down at me. Site alert: New Message I tapped it, and my email opened. Your site, Parker Navarro: Author, has received one new message: Contact: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Subject: That article I mentioned at the diner. Message: [LINK: Revisiting the Work of the Underread Master, Anna Kavan] I dropped onto the sofa and drank the piece in one long go. My thoughts felt clean and hard, like I was studying for an exam. The instant I finished, I returned to my email, but I’d only typed a few words into my phone when I got frustrated—something about the smallness of the screen, the slowness of my thumbs—and grabbed my laptop from the coffee table. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:01 pm Subject: Kavan Retrospective Good piece. Makes you wonder if most writers could reinvent themselves this completely. Why are you messaging me, by the way? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:02 PM Re: Kavan
Retrospective Because nobody else I know has read Asylum Piece, and New York is covered in twenty inches of snow. Sometimes a person has to take drastic action to stay sane. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:03 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Great. Well, while I have your attention: Has anyone ever told you it’s comical that your email address is “Selina Chan Likes Books”? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:05 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective It’s accurate. I do like books. I’ve probably liked more books than you’ve read. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:06 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Unsurprising, since you spend your life doing antisocial things like reading in bars. Let me guess: you’re spending this terrible Christmas Eve reading. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:08 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I am. Jenny House has a new book out next May. I got an ARC at the Wiseman Festival. Her last book was an immense disappointment, but this one is exciting and kinetic. And you?
I felt a pinch of discomfort. I hadn’t told the Chan Pan Support Group that I’d seen Selina yesterday, although I wasn’t sure why I’d k ept quiet. They would have thought the dinner situation was hilarious. Jenny would have been relieved to know that she didn’t have to gear up for another pan. Still, I didn’t pick up my phone. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 24, 3:11 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I’m mostly reading articles about cancellation credit for Cathay Pacific. Great works of creative genius. A few minutes passed, but Selina didn’t r eply. I shut my laptop, realizing that, in the twenty minutes since she’d sent me that article, my systems had settled. The thoughts of my family still roiled, but less violently, and as I studied the miniature Christmas tree that Arthur and I had shoehorned into the corner beside the TV, I began to think of the week ahead with something other than misery. I’d never actually been in New York at Christmas before. The idea of a full Christmas Day unbound from my family’s requirements was a little overwhelming. I could watch a Christmas movie without knowing Justin would mimic every schmaltzy line and Elena would talk through it with her girlfriend and Kevin would take every criticism personally. I could cook something without Christi adjusting my heat settings. Another text came through, this time from Arthur: Bro. I just realized. Did you get stranded? Yeah, haha, I said. Oh shit. No, it’s okay! His ellipsis blinked for a long time. Then he said, If you need company I can fly back early. There’ll probably be flights in a day or two right? Just say the word
An embarrassed heat cr ept up my neck. It was true that I didn’t, historically, do well with aloneness—the breaks I’d spent alone at Yale hadn’t gone well for me—but I hated feeling like this, like something clinging to Arthur’s ankle while he tried to live his life of cheerful ind ependence, as though I were always one emotional trigger from dissolving into a puddle of need. Hey, definitely don’t change your vacation plans! I said. I’m actually looking forward to spending the holiday in New York this year. It’ll be relaxing. I felt a pang of guilt as I pressed Send. I stood, restless, needing to do something with my hands. I put on “Christmas in Our Hearts” over my speakers, unpacked my suitcase, and lined my family’s presents on my dresser to ship after the New Year. Soon milk was simmering on the stove for cocoa and the Christmas tree lights were reflecting against the windowpane. I made myself sit down. I told myself, enjoy this. I woke up early on Christmas morning, sunbeams trailing in through windowpanes swirled with frost. There was nowhere to be. Nobody to handle. Whole minutes elapsed. My pulse grew slow and even. I turned over and went back to sle
Ep Seven faces just about fit into the frame of the video call, although the camera was juddering in that characteristic way that meant somebody had put our mother in charge. “Mom,” said Christi’s voice, sharp and high like the chime of a crystal bell, “if you turn it like that, it’s going to—” The camera switched to profile view. “Oh no,” said my mom. “Make it go back. Make it— Baby, can you fix —?” “Yeah, here.” Elena sighed. “Mom, let go. Just—” “What if we use my i Pad? It’s newer,” said Kevin. “I’m Kevin, and I buy everything Apple
shoves into my face,” said Justin. “Shut up, greentext,” said Kevin. Elena must have wrested the i Pad out of our mother’s grip and set it on a stable surface, because the nauseating blur resolved into a spread of familiar faces. Kevin and Justin were elbowing each other in one corner of the screen, Justin half a foot taller, his shaved head gleaming under the electric chandelier; Kevin was sporting a patchy mustache that looked like someone had pressed an inky thumbprint above each corner of his mouth. Elena, in a blue sequined dress, was whispering something to Christi, who had her kids grouped before her, arms linked protectively around their shoulders. “What do we say?” Christi said in that insinuating parental way. “Merry Christmas, Tito,” Jenna and Manuel chorused, with the flat affect of a five- and seven-year-old who had much better places to be. And in the center of the image was my mother, silver currents running through her black hair, forehead sunspotted, her head lowered to look into the camera as though she were peering through a magnifying glass. “There you are! We miss you so much, Pijay.” I felt a rush of affection. “You too, Mom. How was mass last night? And gifts? Dinner?” “Beautiful. Baby made enough food to feed the block.” She pinched Elena’s arm. “And Katy, and Katy,” she added hastily when Elena opened her mouth. “Did your book thing go well, Pijay? Your reading?” I considered telling her it wasn’t a reading, but that seemed pedantic. “Yes, yeah, went really well.” “It wasn’t a reading, Mom,” said Christi, “it was a conversation with another author. One of Parker’s favorites.”
I grinned. “Thanks, C.” Christi gave a tight smile. “See, I listen.” “A favorite!” our mother said. “Very exciting.” “Anyone we’ve heard of?” Justin said. “St ephen King,” I said. “Wait, really?” “No.” Elena, Christi, and Kevin snorted. Justin made a dismissive gesture at the camera. “Did you have fun last night, Manoy? Nene?” I asked the kids. Their heads bobbed. Manuel’s enormous brown eyes strayed shyly away, but Jenna burst out, “Tito Kevin got me a dinosaur.” “Oh, for real? What kind?” “Stegosaurus,” she said, mangled by her lisp. “Awesome. Can I see it?” Jenna ducked down beneath the table and emerged with a stuffed mint- green stegosaurus the size of her body. When she squeezed its head, it emitted an electronic groan. “So cool. What’s his name, Nene?” “Roarasaurus.” I raised my eyebrows at Christi. “I guess he can wander around the cargo hold on the way back to South Carolina?” “He’ll have to. We don’t have an extra checked bag.” Christi glared murder at Kevin. Kevin, texting, didn’t hear her. When he realized we were all looking at him, he said, “What?” “Anyway,” said Mom, “when are you coming to visit, Pijay?” “I don’t know. Since the book comes out in February, the next couple of months are going to be pretty crazy. Maybe March?” “We’ll have to get it on the calendar!” “Definitely.” A moment’s silence. “I wish I were there,” I offered, beginning to feel the strain. Scanning my family’s body language, I could see the discontentment running along the channels between them, like I was a plane flying above an oil spill in a delta. Kevin and Elena weren’t speaking, that was obvious. And when they all got to Manila, Justin’s wife, Courtney—whom Christi called Princess Courtney in private—would
start making her little comments about the humidity and the traffic and the air conditioning in our Tita Eugenia’s place, and the trouble would really start. “Wish you were here too, Park,” Elena said, picking at a scab on her elbow. She’d turned twenty-six last month, but something about the way she looked plaintively into the camera just then made her look years younger, like the fresh-faced girl who’d walked the stage at her graduation. “I’ll meet Katy soon,” I said. “Promise. I can take the train up to Boston.” “Cool. That’d be fun.” Elena made herself smile. She was miserable. I could feel her unhappiness rushing off the screen like wind. “I see how it is,” said Kevin, half joking. “Some girlfriends are more important than other girlfriends.” “Bro, you haven’t even told me your new girlfriend’s name.” “Oh. Huh.” He scratched one half of his mustache. “Well, her name’s Maria.” “And she is lovely!” Mom gushed, which I guessed meant she was Filipina. “See?” said Kevin. “And she is lovely.” “Excited to meet her. Will you be around in March?” “More like will she be around in March,” muttered Elena. Hurt flashed across Kevin’s face. He opened his mouth. “Lena, it’s Christmas,” I cut in. Her purple-lipsticked mouth pursed. “Sorry,” she mumbled. Kevin grunted. “Well,” said Christi in that purposefully breezy way that broadcasted her irritation, “we should let you get going, Park. Love you so much! Kids, say bye.” “Bye, Tito Parker,” Jenna and Manuel chorused. “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,” my mom said, her hands pressed to her heart. “Maligayang Pasko, Pijay, love you.”
As everybody else joined in, the speakers blared indistinguishable noise. My eyes found the Christmas tree behind them, the geometric star at the top, and the parols hung around my mother’s living room, glowing constellations of paper. “Love you guys,” I said r epeatedly, unsure they could hear me, until the call ended. I closed my laptop. My apartment seemed to echo in the quiet. I pictured my family standing up from the sofa, breaking into twos and threes in the living room, chitchat and logistical conversations masking loaded silence. I came back into my body, into my empty room, with a shameful sensation of relief. The snow had stopped this morning. I wound a wool scarf around my neck and headed out into the clean cold air for my walk. Crossing the park, I passed a couple whose reddened hands were joined and swinging, and I remembered Christmases with Kate, the exhaustion I’d felt every night when I’d shut off the light, staring into the dark, waiting to sle
Ep I’d spent so much time in that relationship telling myself I was happy. It had been the same with Cecilia, my girlfriend for half of undergrad, and Vivian, whom I’d dated for a year right after school, and whom I’d dutifully accompanied to raves every other week, despite being a person who, left to my own devices, would probably seek out a chemical waste treatment plant before a rave. I hadn’t dated anybody seriously since my breakup with Kate. We’d split up several months before the book deal for These Extraordinary Times, at which point my life had changed so dramatically that I’d had no room in my mind for relationships. In the past few years, I’d intermittently tried the apps, which had led to a couple of one-night stands and a dozen first and second dates that had felt pleasant and
meaningless, like massages. It was easy to look at these couples in the park and fantasize about dating again, but maybe I wasn’t cut out for partnership. By the end of all my relationships, I’d felt unmoored from myself, as though the effort of forming myself into the right partner had made me forget what I was, if I was anything. At least, on my own, I knew that I was myself. On the way home, I checked my phone. My Bay Area group chat— which, for some reason I couldn’t remember, we’d named “The Obviously Evil Bird Archive”—was an avalanche of Santa emojis and photos of enormous meals from Christmas Eve. I was typing r eplies, crunching past a stand of snowy evergreens, when an email alert popped up. I paused at the open gate to the park. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:10 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I’m guessing you’ll like this book. Its author also doesn’t know how to streamline a paragraph. [LINK: Heron at Night by Charles Roxbury] I sighed. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:11 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I’ve actually read that book already. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:12 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective
From your lack of a comeback, I’m assuming you did, in fact, like the book. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:13 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I did like the book. You’re the worst. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:14 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Merry Christmas to me. I shook my head and jogged across the snowy street, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. As much as I hated to admit it, she could be kind of funny. Inside, I kicked off my boots, but I didn’t move to do anything, just stood beside the door and thought about my r eply. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:17 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Does this mean you didn’t like the book? Do you usually send unsolicited recommendation emails to people you don’t like, suggesting books you didn’t enjoy? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:18 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective No, I liked the book. Reading it was like watching a precocious child make a brightly colored presentation about his favorite bird. And of course I don’t usually do this.
I felt something compress in my chest. I took an aimless st ep forward. Some part of me recognized that I was hungry, and should eat. Instead I stared into my phone. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:20 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Good, because this is an exc eptionally weird way to spend your Christmas. I’d hate to think you do it for just anybody. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:21 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Do you usually spend Christmas emailing your least favorite critics back within a thirty-second window? To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:22 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I usually spend Christmas juggling four siblings, their partners, my niece and n ephew, and either my mother or father, d epending on who gets us for the day itself. I have a lot of time on my hands this year. Clearly I’m not the only one. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:24 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective No, you’re not the only one. By the way: Are you aware how different you sound over email? To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:24 PM Re: Kavan
Retrospective In comparison to what? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:25 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective In comparison to how you talk in real life, and how you post on social media, and how you write your novels. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:27 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Care to describe the differences? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:28 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective It’s this dramatic absence of laughter, filler language, and exclamation points. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:29 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I think that might just be how I email you, Selina. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:29 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I’m touched. Lingering by the dining table, I considered putting down my phone. There was no need to respond to a two-word email. Yet I had the sense of wanting to get one over on her, to win this interaction,
which was stupid, since in a private conversation there was no real metric by which I could gauge a win. But the instinct lingered. Her attention intrigued me, too, maybe because it made so little sense. I imagined this was how it would feel to walk through a zoo, catch the eye of a panther, and find it padding over to the enclosure’s glass to communicate with you by sign language. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:30 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective You sound different in writing, too. For instance, in your review of House Hearth Home you talked about Juliette’s new book in full sentences, something that didn’t happen at any point the other night. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:31 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Haha. Parker, I know. That’s why I write. Because what I say in real life is a shadow of what I can articulate in writing. I hardly ever know what I think until I write it down. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:32 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective If I say I agree, I assume you’ll mock me for not seeming to know what I think even after the writing process? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:34 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective No. It’s Christmas.
If you want mockery, you’ll have to email me on a different, less festive day. My mouth was threatening a smile again. I drifted toward the kitchen and began to paw mindlessly through the cabinets, thumb still poised over the screen. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:36 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Are you suggesting that you, Selina Chan, have festive traditions? What, do you wear a Krampus costume? Climb down from the mountain to sabotage the Whos of Whoville? See the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, who portend the dread life that’s to come if you ke ep panning people’s books? No, wait, it’s actually funnier if you do normal things like caroling. I would pay a lot of money to see you sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in a stov epipe hat. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:36 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Name your price. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:38 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Stop, don’t tempt me with the possibility, I’ll get too attached. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:40 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Ha.
Yes, I do have Christmas traditions. I ice skate at Rockefeller Center in the morning. Then I go home, watch a Christmas movie, and spend the afternoon cooking something special. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:41 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective What’s today’s menu? Child marrow, served rare? To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:42 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I wish. Child marrow is so expensive these days. This year: Duck confit over saffron risotto, roasted beets, Cabernet Sauvignon pairing. Crème brûlée with homemade blackberry ice cream. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:43 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective My God. The degree to which you are a parody of yourself. To: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com From: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:44 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective I only get one life. I want it to be full of what’s good. To: selinachanlikesbooks@gmail. com From: parkernavarroauthor@gmail. com Sent: Dec 25, 2:46 PM Re: Kavan Retrospective Oh, I know.
I didn’t know why, when I pressed Send, the back of my neck felt momentarily hot. I didn’t know why I stood aimlessly tapping through my phone, waiting, for five full minutes. I didn’t know why I looked up with the feeling of emerging from a different reality, but when I did, my apartment seemed fresher somehow than it had this morning; my bookshelves occurred to me, jumping out in my vision as though they’d just been installed, and the same happened with the cookbooks on the shelves, and the Blu-rays that Arthur had lined up under the TV. I thought of the jazz club a few blocks away I’d somehow never visited, of the hip-hop dance and leatherworking classes I’d pinned to the corkboard in my room and never attended. At dinner, Selina had said she always stayed in the city for the holidays. Of course she had rigorously developed personal traditions. Of course she would take the train to Rockefeller Center for a skating session on her own, without a care in the world. I doubted she’d have been bothered to be snowed in for an entire month. What was I going to do tonight? I supposed I’d take a leaf out of her book and do whatever I wanted.