Free The Other Life by Ellen Meister Page A

Her mother’s disdain for television was practically legendary, and it comforted her to know she hadn’t changed. She picked up a tissue and blew her nose. “Guilty pleasure.”
    “You’re better off with chocolate. Or sex. But listen, Dad and I are going to be in the city on Monday to attend a gallery show, and I was wondering if you and Eugene were free for dinner. We can make it an early birthday celebration, since you’ll be turning thirty-six in Fiji.”
    That’s right, Quinn thought. The Fiji trip was a birthday present from Eugene. It was as clear as every birthday present he had bought her the past ten years in this life, each one more elaborate than the last. He did everything he could think of to keep her from leaving him. Everything except propose, that is. Eugene was freaked out by the thought of marriage.
    “Dinner,” Quinn said, “sure.”
    “Great. We’ll meet at your apartment and then head over to that place on the corner. I’ll call Hayden and see if he’s free, too.”
    Quinn imagined standing in the living room of this apartment and seeing her mother in the flesh. She had to sit down on the bed to catch her breath.
    “Quinn?”
    “Yes. Okay, next Monday. I’ll see you next Monday.”
    “Perfect. Bye, cookie.”
    “Wait!”
    “What is it?”
    Quinn pressed the heavy receiver into her face. She didn’t want to let go. “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
    “You sure you’re okay?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Okay,” her mother said. “Love you.”
    Quinn swallowed. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Love you, too.”
    She hung up the phone and sat there, too stunned to go back into the bathroom and search for the portal. Or maybe the part of her that wanted to stay in this life and look into her mother’s eyes again was short-circuiting the part that needed to get back to her husband and son.
    Quinn found herself supine on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to recall her last good conversation with Nan in her “Lewis life,” which was how she now thought about it. All she could remember was the final talk she’d had with her mother in her studio, and the stupid fight they’d had a few weeks before, on Thanksgiving.
    Quinn and Lewis were newly married and excited to make the feast at their place. They lived in a renovated prewar apartment in Queens, and though it was spacious compared to the tiny Manhattan box Quinn had lived in after she moved out of Eugene’s place, it had just enough room to fit the two families around the table. Quinn was tense about the get-together because she knew her mother wasn’t too fond of Arlene, Lewis’s mom, and made no effort to hide her feelings.
    But all was going well, and when Arlene’s husband asked Quinn what was new at the bookstore, she didn’t think her response would be incendiary. She said that the latest event—a reading by an acclaimed novelist—had drawn an embarrassingly small crowd.
    “Unfortunately, people just aren’t reading much fiction these days,” Quinn explained.
    “Makes sense to me,” Arlene said as she reached for the stuffing. She put half a spoonful on her plate.
    “How so?” Nan asked, and Quinn tensed. This was just the kind of remark her mother could sink her teeth into.
    Arlene took a deep breath. “I never did understand the whole appeal of novels.” She straightened her earrings and then her bracelets. “Just open the newspaper any day. There are so many interesting things going on in real life to read about.”
    Just let it go, Mom, Quinn thought. But one glance in Nan’s direction told her there wasn’t a chance. Her mother was glaring at Arlene like a bull ready to charge.
    “Arlene,” she said, and paused, waiting for eye contact from Lewis’s mother. “It’s called art.”
    “You think I don’t know what art is?” Arlene said. “Lewis, tell her how often I took you to the Metropolitan Museum when you were growing up.”
    “I’m sure you spent