Liska Jacobs > Quotes

“Better to be kingmaker than king.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“She stares at me blankly. “I’m sorry, do you understand?” I swallow. “I don’t speak Italian.” She looks at the paper, then smiles, chuckling. “Do not worry,” she says, waving her hand. “You have a ticket, you go in.” She’s still smiling that mysterious smile. This must happen all day, I realize. She hears the accent and thinks, ah, another American with their life mapped out to the minute. Not here. Not in Rome. Do not worry. As if timetables and tickets and planning in advance were trivial, silly things.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“The soap is oily, with a dense, earthy perfume. I watch Hannah spread it along her slim limbs, over her flat stomach and pert backside. Such confidence. Emily was the same way. Unfazed by being looked at, whereas I was more inhibited.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“In Hannah’s room she switches on the A/C unit. Watching her in her linen dress, I realize maybe I should have packed some dresses too. But there wasn’t time to shop for new clothes. The haircut was squeezed in, and was probably a mistake. I should have left it long. I stand in front of the A/C unit, pulling my hair off my neck to let the skin there cool. Does it feel thinner? It’s probably just from stress, the hairdresser tried to reassure me.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I’ve followed my tour book into a dead end, somewhere not on the map. It’s sweltering now, the cicadas at full pitch. I take a break on a slab of stone with vines growing on a nearby wall like shaggy mops of hair. A pair of white butterflies float down, almost resting on the vines, and then back up, they flit away. I try to let go and be present for this moment.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I carefully stack the postcards and put them on my bedside table, where my phone is blinking with another voice mail from my mom. Gone five days and you’ve forgotten all about me. You’ve turned me into Dad, calling you to say how much I hate this place. Well, I do hate it. Call your mother back, for Christ’s sake. A warm balmy breeze blows in from the bedroom window; I breathe in that beguiling earthy smell. Musty, like a greenhouse or a cemetery. I pull the comforter up and put the earbuds in to call. “She’s eating lunch,” the nurse says when I phone. “Let me see.” “Pricilla,” comes Mom’s raspy voice on the other end. “Pricilla, hello?” “Hi, Mom, are they taking good care of you? How’s lunch?” “Never mind this hellhole. You must be having a grand time, you haven’t called.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Anesthesiologist,” I tell him. “Sì.” He smiles at me. It’s a goofy, toothy grin. His nose is large and his ears stick out, but I like how his thick black hair gets in his eyes when he tilts his head to bite into the pear. He runs a hand through it to push it back, but it doesn’t help. There is a snap as he bites through the pear’s skin, into the flesh, peeling it with his teeth. I watch his throat work as he eats. A bit of juice disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. His mother huffs, pretending exasperation, and gets him a napkin. This is Paul and Hannah’s apartment—Donato and his parents live one building over—but I can tell by how he stretches across the living room couch, how his mother directs my brother-in-law in the kitchen, that they might as well live here too. “Marie’s teaching me how to make a proper cacio e pepe,” Paul calls to me from the stove. The pot of boiling water is making the room muggy. Marie goes to prop open the front door. “You have not seen Hannah since her mamma’s funeral?” Donato asks, watching me from the couch. He has very light brown eyes, fringed with thick lashes and full, almost feminine lips that are slick and shiny from the pear juice. I can feel him assessing me. Taking in the box-dye job, the blunt haircut I managed to fit in between visits to the nursing home and my red-eye flight. It’s shorter than I wanted and feels uneven. It looks exactly the same, Guy assured me before dropping me off at the airport. “Over a year now,” I say, trying not to fidget. He raises an eyebrow, still enjoying that pear. I refuse to feel guilty. Paul had left for Italy soon after the funeral, taking Hannah with him. And I had my mother to think of, her grief was insurmountable. It affected everything. She did not want to go outside, she did not want to eat.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“When I return to my mom’s room, it’s like seeing it for the first time: there on the bedside table are my notes, lists of medications, doctors’ phone numbers. Next to the trash can is a scattered pile of orange peels. A pale blue curtain used to divide the room is pushed back, revealing a wheelchair in the corner. I can hear the oxygen concentrator on the other side of her bed, pumping air into the tube beneath her nose. There is a huge vase of roses and hoary stock, sent from Guy, their colors bright against the drab, and on the muted TV, Fox News or CNN—it doesn’t matter. She just likes the company. “Mom.” My voice cracks. “You shouldn’t make a mess, the nurses have enough to do.” I collect the orange rinds without looking at her and put them in the trash. “I’m so uncomfortable,” she complains. “And I don’t like the nurse on duty tonight. She’s the one I told you about. Big Russian woman.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Across the courtyard, I hear a window slide open. I freeze, cigarette in midair. A light switches on, and there is Donato, in just a towel. It is shocking to see him, like a flashlight shined directly into my pupils. I can feel them dilate, I can feel my whole body swell and open. He sees me and tilts his head, running his hands through his hair. He smiles that knowing, teasing smile. I can see his biceps flexing, the muscles in his chest and stomach—the faint ones on his sides that come down to a point where his towel is tied. Something is happening, I don’t think I could stop it even if I wanted to. I’ve slipped my blouse off, unclasping the hooks of my bra. I watch Donato lean forward, he isn’t smiling anymore. He has that look, the one I haven’t seen on a man in a long time. I suck on the end of that cigarette and blow out toward him, imagining the smoke will travel the length between us. Then I shut the window and close the curtain. My whole body is shaking. I start to laugh but then remember everyone is sleeping. I have to cover my face with a pillow.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Donato, Donato,” Hannah calls, waving. He comes over to us, kisses his mother and her friend on their cheeks. They laugh and smile, slapping him playfully when he flatters them in Italian. I can tell Hannah is waiting for her turn. She blushes when he spins her. “Bellissima.” He whistles. When he looks at me it’s with the same calculated charm. Only he’s quick about it, he does not mention the silk crepe dress I’m wearing, the one from the shop on Via Condotti. He does offer me a cigarette. “Cilla doesn’t smoke,” Hannah reminds him. He smirks. “Ah, sì. I forget. Ready to go in?” He gives us wristbands that will get us free drinks, and then ushers us from the line, past the bouncers and into the club. It is an instant assault of grinding bodies, of a thick, not unpleasant heat. Flashing lights—blue, white, pink, purple. I can’t make anything out. And then Hannah and her girlfriends are gone. Donato too. I look around, but I’ve been left with Marie and her friend. “Donato reserved us a booth,” Marie shouts to me, and signals that I should follow her. I push my way through the crowd. Everywhere are women, most not older than thirty, all of them red-lipped and kohl-eyed, with delicate sloping noses, bare shoulders and legs. They are dancing almost on top of one another, their teeth bright white and perfect. A bartender comes by with shots for anyone who will kiss him. Marie’s friend leaves a fat lip print on either cheek. Bacio, bacio, she mouths to me. I shake my head. No, thank you. A waitress takes us past a velvet rope, to a big round booth where a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice. Marie and her friend are beaming. Marie leans over to me. “Is this like Los Angeles clubs?”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Donato says something in Italian to Hannah, which makes her dissolve into giggles again. “Relax,” he says to me. “Relax.” He smells like whatever brand of cigarettes he smokes, which is unlike American cigarettes—all violet and spice. Both of his hands are on my hips now, those long knobby fingers applying pressure. Relax. He breathes near my ear. Liquid heat pools at the center of me, and I worry Hannah will see it in the photograph. Something mysterious in the smile, a forbidden pulsing behind those dark irises. “One, two,” Hannah counts. On three, he kisses me on the lips. It’s quick and chaste, but I feel it everywhere.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“It’s not really such a bad place,” she says, looking around the room. She’s moved on to dessert. “They know how to make a decent rice pudding.” My hand shakes a little when I pour creamer into her coffee. If I got on a plane tonight I could be in Rome in time for dinner tomorrow. Homemade pasta, fresh tomatoes and basil. Real Parmesan cheese, not the kind that comes in packets. And wine—maybe something I haven’t tasted before, a grape varietal I don’t yet know. It would be nothing like here. A break from this place. From Mom. I want to get home and e-mail Paul. I will be there. I am coming. I feel her eyes on me as I pack up my things. “You should dye your hair before you leave,” she says finally. “See if the salon can fit you in this week.” “That’s a good idea.” I kiss her goodbye. “I bet Hannah is gorgeous, she’ll look just like Emily did at that age. Beautiful, but not the brightest bulb. It’s good you’re going. You’ll have to send me pictures.” She surveys my face. I try to keep it blank, unreadable. “Use my brightening mask when you get home. It’ll clear up whatever’s happening on your chin.” “I will.” I shift my purse full of papers and snacks and bottled water from one shoulder to the other. “I love you, see you tomorrow.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“It was flattering to see Hannah watch me, studying how I ordered the next round or sent something back if I wasn’t satisfied. Donato watched too. Was this when I ordered a bottle of prosecco? Yes, because he had finally stopped trying to charm and embarrass me as if I were a granny. And because I liked the way he slouched into his chair, one arm outstretched over the back of mine, another button undone on his shirt so I could peek at the skin beneath, the smattering of springy dark hair at its center. He is so sinewy and long. Like a wild animal, like a well-exercised show horse. His toothy grin said it, those flashing eyes said it too—I know what you’re thinking. It humored him, gave him pleasure. And I didn’t mind giving in, letting him know that I admired his profile. And Hannah seemed pleased to share his attention with me—the kind of satisfaction one gets from ordering correctly from the menu. After the bottle of prosecco she wanted to hear stories about when her mother and I were young—about those long-ago parties. Mom and Cilla were hanging out with famous writers and actors before they were old enough to walk, she bragged to Donato.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Before Emily got sick, the last time I’d been to their house was when she invited me to an award banquet in honor of Paul. Please. I don’t want to be around those university wives alone, she said when she called. They’re so aggressive. I was surprised, we hadn’t been close for years, not since Dad died. But I went anyway, and of course Emily was completely in her element, the professors’ wives all half envious and half in love with her. I had spent the better part of the night by her side, playing the role of big sister—champion and bodyguard—before I realized that she invited me not to give her support, but to bear witness to her greatness. To the spectacle of her in rare form. Queen even in a world that pooh-poohed Hollywood. If religion is the opium of the people, one of her tenured professor friends said within earshot of me, then film is our partial lobotomy.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Want is insatiable. Even the gods were never satisfied.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Trish had to tell her they were mine or her mother would probably have killed her.” Then she’s up again. “Do you know what I really wanted to show you? It’s here somewhere.” She’s pulling open drawers, humming to herself. Then she swings around. “Do you remember this?” A gold-and-lapis pendant, the size of a silver dollar. I’d forgotten how ’90s it looks, which I suppose is back in fashion. My niece has threaded it onto a gold chain, which she fastens around her neck. “I wish I had a picture of her wearing it.” Something to match the color of your eyes, our mom had said when she gave it to Emily for her sixteenth birthday. I found it just before Hannah left. Somehow it had made its way back into Mom’s jewelry box. They were always sharing things. Your mother wore it all the time when she was your age, I had told Hannah. And I remember there hadn’t been time to find a box, I had wrapped it in old tissue paper. “Isn’t this chain perfect?” my niece says, fingering it. “It’s eighteen karat.” The pendant glints in the light, and I’m reminded of all the times it flashed on my sister’s jean jacket or smock dresses. I feel a little light-headed. Something about seeing this young version of my sister—with her confidence, her mannerisms.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“That’s okay, a phone call is fine.” I point toward my mom’s room. “Also, could you make sure she gets a second rice pudding? She looks thin to me.” Outside, I take several deep breaths. It’s twilight and the wind has picked up, shaking the palm trees and bougainvillea. Someone in the apartment complex next door is sautéing onions. I hear a baby crying; children are playing in the park across the street. Before I leave the parking lot, before I even turn the car on, I’m searching nonstop flights to Rome.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I forget where I am, why I’m in a twin bed instead of my California king. Where is the musty smell of old wood beams? The sound of surf crashing? And that acrid scent that Dad emitted as he grew sicker and sicker? You can still sometimes smell it in parts of our house when it’s humid. Instead I’m in a cramped rectangular room, swimming in sweat, my legs slick, my armpits, face, and scalp—hair twisted and matted. The A/C unit is rattling, but no cool air is coming out. I shut it off and reset it. I feel around until my eyes adjust, until I realize there is a moon, big and yellow. It is not actually that dark. I can make out the daisies in their turquoise vase, the dresser, the writing desk with my laptop setup. It is bright enough to see the far wall, to make out the photograph Hannah has taken and Paul has framed. The Ponte Sisto at night, buzzing silver and gold.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I watch the hand nearest me disappear into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offers me one. “No, thank you.” He tosses his head, breathing in a long drag, then pushes a curl behind his ear. It doesn’t catch, though, and when he smiles it brushes the top of his lashes. “Where does your friend work?” I ask, petting Bruce, who has jumped onto the bench and rolled over so I can reach his belly. “Cristiano and his sister own Club Fluid.” He raises his arms in the air, gyrates with his hips. “It’s where we like to dance. Do you like martinis? Silvia makes a good martini.” He blows smoke out of his mouth when he says martinis. “Vodka or gin?” “Gin,” he says, frowning. “Vodka is disgusting.” I prefer vodka, but don’t say so. He points at the terrier. “Bruce likes you.” There’s that wry smile, as if he’s in on some private joke at my expense. It’s exasperating to be next to someone so young and confident.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I did, we just keep missing each other.” At first, she is bitter, withdrawn, but I know how to appease her. I ask about her doctor appointments, about physical therapy, until she launches into a story about a male orderly who she suspects is undocumented, and somehow this transitions into an episode with the Russian night nurse, who she’s convinced keeps turning down her oxygen. As if I don’t know how much oxygen to give myself. She needs someone to listen, so I do. But it’s hard now, hearing her voice is like being hit with a weight. I tune out just a little, just for self-preservation. I swipe through photos I took of Donato and Hannah at the Capitoline Hill. He is leaning against a banister, Hannah in front of him, his arms wrapped around her waist. They are posing on the stairs, monkeying around in the piazza.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I’m remembering now that Hannah had said something to Donato this afternoon, while we were trying on clothes at an expensive shop near the Piazza di Spagna, on the crowded Via Condotti. The saleswoman knew Donato well, taking his hands in hers. She picked out outfits for each of us to try on, and I remember being in one of the fitting rooms, deciding if a silk crepe dress could make me look sultry or not, when I heard Hannah tell Donato, My mom and Cilla did not get along. How much could a child know? She was so young during those first few incidents, and then there was a period where we just didn’t see each other. Cards and presents were mailed, always on time. There were a handful of get-togethers for Mom’s birthday, Emily and I were civil to each other by then. Strangers, sure. But perfectly civil. What had Emily said to Hannah about me, about Guy, about our dad’s final days?”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I take a drag on the joint and exhale just as Hannah comes out with the aperitifs. “Aunt Cilla!” she cries. “I can’t believe Donato got you to smoke pot!” Her amusement embarrasses me and I try to sit up taller, straighten my blouse and slacks. But twilight is finally waning, evening is almost here, and my eyes are having a hard time adjusting to the change in light. “I’m hungry,” comes Donato’s voice, and then Hannah has switched places with him, wiggling in close. “Sorry it took me so long, Papa called. I said we were seeing a movie.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Her voice has given me a headache. I can feel the heat of her body through our clothes. It’s reminded me of just after Hannah was born, of those late-night phone calls where my sister cried and told me that she wished she had terminated the pregnancy. I don’t know why I wanted this. I didn’t know what to say. It’ll be all right. Women have babies all the time. I ask Hannah to get me water but Donato volunteers. “Silvia,” he calls out. “Come downstairs with me.” I feel every cell bristle. Of course, they are together, and why should that matter to me anyway? Hannah puts her head on my shoulder. “Do you think Silvia is very pretty?” Tiny lights strung across the terrace turn on and I can see her watery eyes. Below I hear Donato’s laugh. “She’s a lot older than him,” I say. “Only by five years.” Her body starts to shake, tears fall on my shoulder. “Hush,” I tell her. “Hush.” Instinctively I look around to see if any of their friends are watching. “Come on.” I pull her up from the settee. “Call us a ride, and I’ll get your backpack. We can pick up a pizza on the way home.” I wipe the smeared mascara from under her eyes and point her toward the stairs. I say goodbye to her friends, making up an excuse that Paul wants us home. He’s made dinner. I can tell Donato doesn’t believe this, but he doesn’t say so. When he kisses my cheek, I cannot help it, I press him against me. He feels broader than I thought he would, and that liquid fire at the center of me rejoices. In the cab Hannah gives in. She is bawling. “I miss Mom,” she chokes out. “I miss her so much.” Letting her drink was probably a bad idea, but isn’t she old enough to know her limit? Or at least learn what it is?”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I look away when the Russian nurse comes in, holding a tray with Mom’s dinner on it. “Good evening, Mrs. Messing,” she says, her accent thick. Mom eyes her suspiciously. “I hope there’s plenty of sauce this time.” The nurse is polite and patient, even goes back to the kitchen to see if they have cracked pepper instead of the little packets. While Mom eats she talks about the parties she and Dad used to throw at the house. Those were the days, she says, sighing. Composers and producers; actresses like her and screenwriters like Dad, all of them vibrating with youth and beauty. The world was going to be ours. I readjust the napkin so that it covers a larger section of her blouse. How cute the two of you were in your matching outfits, she says about Emily and me. I refill her water cup, ask the nurse for more Parmesan cheese. Everyone said I was crazy to have daughters so close in age, but I thought one could watch out for the other. And you were always so mature, so it worked out. I dress her salad, tossing it with the flimsy plastic fork. Do you remember demanding white wine spritzers at your twelfth birthday party? Yes. I nod.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Silvia lets out a laugh at something Donato has said. She’s moved so she can stretch her tan legs across him. I’m watching him massage her feet. “Did Donato show you Santa Maria del Popolo?” she’s asking me. “It has my favorite Caravaggio.” Donato says something in Italian, which makes her laugh again. “It’s where Nero’s ghost lives,” one of the British sisters says to me. “Do you know Nero?” I remember Donato pointing out a domineering building in the piazza. But I don’t remember him telling us about any ghosts. Cristiano is rolling a joint on his lap. “Omicida.” He lights it. “He dipped Christians in oil,” another one of them is saying as they pass the joint around. “And set them on fire to light his garden at night.” “He killed his mother.” The smoke is very strong, the air suddenly stagnant. “How do you live with so many reminders of death everywhere?” I ask. The breeze returns and I shiver. “It reminds us to live well,” Donato says, puffing on the joint. “That this life is short. You have to take what you want.” I have not thought about my wants in so long that the flood of them makes me light-headed. A drip-irrigation system for the garden, my own Tiffany stud earrings so I don’t have to always be borrowing Mom’s, one of those mid-century modern houses in Benedict Canyon, a buzzy TV show—Guy.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Emily had been the only one home when we first had sex. I remember hearing her shouting from the deck. Cilla? Cilla? But I was down on the beach—Guy’s fingers pulling at my underwear, struggling with a condom. I barely had to do anything at all. Cilla, where are you? My sister’s voice, carried by the wind. “I haven’t been feeling very well,” I blurt out. “What’s wrong, flu? Those tourist sites are cesspools.” His concern is real, but his tenderness only makes me sadder because it isn’t the kind that’s between two lovers. Our relationship changed sometime after Dad got sick, or maybe right before. I was so busy with medications and doctor appointments and physical therapy and grocery shopping and cooking that I missed when it happened. A gradual shift, like the changing of a tide.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“It occurs to me suddenly, maybe learning to settle is part of adulthood. Maybe if you don't, it eats you up.”
― Liska Jacobs, Catalina

“Now, Zia, Donato had said. And I played along, mostly because we had shared a split of prosecco with lunch, but also because I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt in years. Like this, Donato directed, angling my chin downward and pulling out my hair clip. You look gorgeous like that! Hannah was in a fit of giggles. It’s no use, I said. Photos of me do not turn out. Donato sent Hannah to ask for another split of prosecco. It’s that cardigan, he said after she’d gone. It is for an old lady. Take it off. I hesitated; he had that teasing look about him again. But that heat at the center tempted me. We are playing a game, I told myself. Bellissimo. Bellissimo. He took the photo. I hurried to put the cardigan back on before my niece returned. Let me see, I said. He held his phone to his chest. For my eyes only. He would not even show Hannah.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“Time is different in Rome. Maybe it’s the light, which is languid and delicate. The blue afternoon bleeds into twilight like a watercolor, and I realize we’ve been up on Silvia’s terrace drinking aperitifs for nearly five hours. Donato’s friends in crisp suit jackets, hair slicked back, plumes of smoke climbing into the now golden sky. Hannah and her girlfriends, their boisterous chatter mixing with the city noises below: a car horn, a motorcycle, a police siren, sandals clack-clacking on the narrow cobblestone streets. My niece had been the one to open the door. She tried her best to be nonchalant. Auntie, she cried. But I knew that look. Emily had the same expression when I caught her smoking a joint with the neighbor. Guilty.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I take three Advils, and also zinc because the child next to me on the plane had a runny nose. My cheeks are flushed despite the A/C cooling the room. I wash my face and administer various toners and moisturizers and antiwrinkle creams. I do the facial yoga exercises I looked up after leaving the nursing facility that day. Do I really look like I could be Mom’s sister? I look exhausted. But who wouldn’t after a long flight?”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want