The Worst Kind of Want Quotes

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

“Silver confetti falls from the ceiling. The music launches again, and the sleek young mob dances feverishly, arms in the air. My head throbs along with the bass. Why had I agreed to this? I plug my ears with my fingers. I feel ridiculous beside these twenty-somethings. Marie and her friend apparently do not. They’re drinking the champagne and bopping their heads to the music. I watch a group of girls pucker for a photographer. They’re practically falling out of their tops. I hear Emily’s voice. Prude. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell Marie, and slide out of the booth. And I’m thinking of those catacombs, seemingly endless. I can see Emily, the version of her in that coffin. Embalming, the displacement of blood and interstitial fluids by embalming chemicals. I had looked the process up, after Mom insisted on a viewing. She was so beautiful, she cried. I want to see her one more time. The body is washed in disinfectant, limbs are massaged and manipulated, eyes glued closed, mouth and jaw secured with wires. The embalming solution contains dye to simulate a lifelike skin tone. A warm peach tone, the funeral director told us. I could barely stand it. I make my way to the second floor, where the music isn’t techno, only sultry R&B.”
― 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

“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

“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

“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

“Emily and I are lying out on towels. She is so thin, I can make out every rib, the sternum, the knobby bulges of her shoulders. Her hair is golden and thick, though, which is how I know I’m dreaming. It was so brittle toward the end. I want to lie here even though I’m not sure if beside me Emily is alive or dead. When a coyote is hit on Pacific Coast Highway, the carcass will decay for weeks until all that’s left is bones and fur. I can wait, I’m willing to wait. The sun is warm, and maybe if we lie here long enough the tide will rise and the current will drag us out, maybe the sea will accept us back into it. My phone vibrates and drops onto the floor, waking me. I’ve fallen asleep in my clothes. It’s not yet eleven. I have a voice mail from Guy. It’s startling to hear his voice, casual and familiar, telling me that Mom is doing well, the production too. He doesn’t ask me to call, but I don’t want to be alone, thinking of that hideous death. How could I have known it would be quick? Paul had only called a few weeks earlier to say Emily was coming home from the hospital, that hospice had been arranged. I brought a tuna casserole, without peas, which was how Emily liked it when she was little. But she was already in a drug-induced sleep by then. Paul and the caregivers administering liquid morphine every two hours. So thin, I remember saying to Paul, who looked at me bewildered. She’s been thin for months, he said. They asked if I wanted to rub lotion into her hands, put a warm washcloth on her face. She knows you’re here, someone said. I did not want to see her die. I did not want to touch her body. Downstairs I microwaved the casserole and sat and ate it with Hannah while we watched cartoons. Guy doesn’t answer the first time, so I call again. A third time. “Pricilla, what time is it there?” I can hear car horns; a radio being turned down. I imagine he’s on a freeway stuck in traffic and I feel a twinge of homesickness. “Not that late.” I open the bedroom window.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I know, sweetheart,” I say. “It’ll be okay.” She sniffs. “Will you run your hands through my hair? Mom used to do it whenever I was upset.” Her hair is finer than Emily’s, which had been coarse from flat-ironing and blow-drying. Shhh, it’ll be all right. Our mom doing something like this when we were small. It only happened a handful of times. After a shower, or bath. We’d sit obediently in front of her, and even though there would be knots, we never squirmed, never complained. At that age we still wanted so badly to be near her that anything, no matter how painful, was worth it.”
― 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 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

“Want is insatiable. Even the gods were never satisfied.”
― 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

“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

“We hang up and I slide a cigarette out, bringing it to my nose. It smells just like him. I fix the filter between my lips, tonguing it a little, just so I know what it tastes like. Starchy, slightly floral. The match makes a satisfying sound, a loud scratch. I inhale deeply. It tastes delicious. I get light-headed, but I don’t put it out. I let it burn, like incense.”
― 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

“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

“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 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

“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

“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

“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

“She must have reapplied the bright blue eye shadow, because it’s just as startling as it was this morning. She’s added liquid black eyeliner that goes go up at the corners of each eye like tiny wings. I remember when Emily did her makeup like that—could Hannah have seen photos? How thin my sister was; barely an adult and going to parties in the Hollywood Hills, living with a boyfriend I didn’t like. I can hear her saying it, Stop mothering me, just stop! If I were to trace back, chart the moments that shifted our relationship, those words would be somewhere at the beginning.”
― 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

“Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Where to?” he finally asks in English.”
― 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

“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

“Not long after Hannah was born, she started to make her own herbal teas and salves. Soon she forbade anything processed; everything had to be homemade. It was maddening how self-righteous she was about it. If someone complained of an ailment, there was some elixir made from elderberry or turmeric that would help. Once she brought over carrot soup to help with Dad’s macular degeneration.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“What was I saying?” I pause to sip my ice water. I’ve lost the thread of my story. I had been telling Marie and Tonio about Emily and Paul’s wedding. “Well, it was gorgeous.” I smile at Marie. “The prettiest wedding I’ve been to. It was at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Marilyn Monroe once lived in one of the bungalows.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“At dinner Paul orders the fried artichokes and a tahini plate to start, with a bottle of Verdicchio, later a bottle of red with the pasta and meat dishes—ravioli with meat sauce, baked lamb and potatoes, Amatriciana alla giudia. “You’re in for a treat,” he tells me. “Best in Rome, they use salted beef instead of guanciale.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want

“I think I hear Donato’s voice, and then the front door to the apartment opens and shuts. I can make out every one of his footsteps on the stairs. I wait at the bedroom window, which is actually quite large. I could climb right out of it if I wanted. Perch out there on the roof tiles, taking in that lush golden sky. A figure wrapped in a robe moves from room to room in a neighboring building. Below in the courtyard a black cat dozes beneath the lemon tree.”
― Liska Jacobs, The Worst Kind of Want