Being Esther by Miriam Karmel Page A

swirl.
    After class, Esther and Lorraine head to Wing Yee’s and settle into their favorite booth, the one that flanks the window but still affords a clear view of the fish tank at the far end of the room. After the waitress sets down two cups and a pot of tea, Lorraine glances around the room then back at Esther and says, “Why are we here?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Esther’s voice wavers between irritation and concern. “We come here every week.”
    â€œI know, I know. But maybe we should have brought our lunch, like the others.” She asks if Esther noticed that the woman in the pink sweatshirt brought an apple, a sandwich, three Fig Newtons, and a bottle of water. “Even the anorexic next to me brought something,” Lorraine says.
    Esther, who had taken stock of all the lunches, shakes her head and asks Lorraine which she’d prefer, “Carrot sticks and a carton of yogurt, or chicken chow mein with fried rice?”
    â€œBut people will think we’re standoffish,” Lorraine says.
    â€œLet them.” Esther shoots her friend a baleful look. “We’re both eighty-five years old. We can do as we please.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” Lorraine sighs, as she slips her chopsticks out of their paper wrapper. “Still.”
    â€œStill, nothing. Now tell me what you wrote.”
    â€œNot much,” Lorraine confesses. “I could see my mother peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink. She was wearing a full apron over a housedress. There was a yellow clock above the stove thathad stopped telling time at 7:25. My mother never fixed it. I don’t know why. It never even occurred to me that she could fix it. Or get a new one. Funny, what comes back. Seven twenty-five. After all these years.”
    The waitress brings their order and Lorraine fills their cups with jasmine tea. “How about you?”
    Esther describes the smell of detergent, the sight of her father peeling an apple. “That all came back. But honestly, Lorraine.” She pauses, not sure how to express an uneasy feeling that’s taken hold of her. “Honestly, I think it’s easier to predict the future than to remember the past.”
    Lorraine arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow, waiting for Esther to explain. This would be how she looked taking dictation, steno pad propped in her lap, pencil poised, waiting on Mr. Stein’s every word. Like now, her lipstick would have been perfect; every silver-blond hair would have known its place.
    â€œThe problem,” Esther continues, “is that my future is too predictable.” She asks if Lorraine remembers the ads that promised no surprises at Holiday Inn. “Somehow, knowing exactly what to expect, before you arrived, was supposed to be comforting. What I’m trying to say is that I’d delight in a bit of surprise. Today, for example, I knew before we sat down that you would order the chicken chow mein with fried rice, and I would order the vegetable egg foo young, and that we would exclaim, when our plates arrived, that next time we’ll branch out and try something new.” She runs a fork through her food, as if it might present itself as something different. Then she sets her fork down and sinks back into the booth. “Even before we arrived, I could see us sitting here by the window, with you facing the fish tank because it was your turn for that, and we’d be bickering all the way to the arrival of the fortune cookies.”
    Lorraine grips a piece of chicken between the pincers of her chopsticks (which she can manage, unlike Esther, whose hands are too hobbled by arthritis). Slowly, she brings it to her mouth and chews. At last, she looks over at Esther and says, “When was the last time you stayed at a Holiday Inn?”
    Esther laughs, then, realizing that Lorraine isn’t joking, glares at her friend and asks, “How’s the chow