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for my over-wet belongings. Over the sink, I got the dry heaves.
    The next morning, I emptied an instant oatmeal packet into a bowl of hot water. It was a crisp weekend day. I grabbed a jacketand walked downtown toward Battery Park, waving sadly as the Circle Line passed by. Once, that was enough to keep me happy for a whole day. A half dozen people waved to me from the boat; Wyoming and London mothers perhaps, telling their daughters to wave, too.
See, honey, New Yorkers are friendly.
My own mother had taught me to wave to the ships passing through New York Harbor. “It is your duty as an ambassador of the city to do so,” she would say with a straight face. I would wave, proud as a new private breaking in a uniform. She’d nudge Frank, who’d roll his eyes, but ultimately move his arm up and down. He couldn’t help a small grin when the far-away tourists responded.
    I’m twenty-seven, I thought, which suddenly seemed not so far from fifty. The water under the docks shimmered in a way that made me feel biblical. I walked back to the Village via Broadway. I drew a hot bath, which I eagerly awaited. In the house in St. Kilda, the hot water always ran out. I eased in, onto the red antislip rubber mat with suckers on the bottom. I let my decayed rubber duck float past my belly. My dad had bought it for me when I was five. He enjoyed having it on the edge of the tub, a rare display of sentimentality. Dad is all for the new. “Science is the new religion,” he likes to say. I lowered my neck down the white enamel, letting water clog my ears.
    That night I must have been gnawing at my hair again; when I went to pee at around eight in the morning, I felt a wet and frayed clump against my cheek. My mother called.
    “How are you?”
    “Okay.” I opened the fridge, removing Kraft American slices and milk.
    “Where are you working today?”
    “Still at the fire extinguisher joint.”
    “Keep your chin up. We won the Gulf War. The economy picks up after a war.”
    “It was a week-long war, Mom.”
    “You watch. How’s Frieda? Wasn’t she having a party?”
    “Yes, and she’s fine—”
    “Were the other girls there?”
    “Janet, but Veemah was in India. She flew in on Monday.”
    Veemah had asked me about the party at brunch, as she ordered a Western omelet.
    “You’re back from a month in India and you’re worried about Frieda’s party?” I’d said.
    “What do you think I do in Agra? Ride a tiger in the yard?” Veemah had said. “My grandmother spent my entire visit telling me that if I don’t stop dating white boys and wearing jeans I’m going to be labeled a whore. I’ll be worse than an untouchable.”
    “Are the girls happy to have you back in New York?” Mom said.
    “Probably.”
    “Did Frank tell you that Noreen had the baby?”
    Noreen is my unbelievably dull cousin. “No?”
    “Yes. Lydia Sue. Seven pounds, two ounces. You should give Noreen a call.”
    “Okay.” I picked up the pack of processed cheese from the Formica kitchen table and started scanning the ingredients. When I had interned at an adult-contemporary radio station the summer after my sophomore year of college, a DJ I’d had a clandestinesomething with would play the “ingredient game” to pass time on his shift. He wasn’t sharp enough to spout acerbic commentary on the day’s events. He’d read the label of an everyday product with heaps of twentieth-century additives and have listeners call to guess what they thought the mystery product was for a prize of concert tickets. I thought the game was bullshit. I was supposed to take the ninety-seventh caller, but I’d wait a few minutes and pick up the phone. He kissed great though.
    “I see you’re as talkative as usual,” my mother said.
    “Mom—don’t start—”
    “Start what? You never finish a sentence with me. Have you heard more about the murder case?”
    “No, I got rid of the cable. I can’t afford it.” Would she offer to pay for it?
    Nope. “Well,