Ask Again Later (10 page)

“I've taken a job,” I say.

“Good. Wallowing is a waste of time,” Nana says.

“We haven't been wallowing…we've been watching TV,” I say. “And making smoothies. Do you think the antioxidant burst is negated by the vodka we dump in?”

“Whatever puts a smile on your face,” Nana says.

“Good point,” I say.

“I'm glad you're going back to work though. Your
mother can manage her own affairs. She always has,” Nana says.

“It annoys me that you talk about your daughter that way,” I say. “She's my mother, so I get to be as critical as I want to be. But I don't think you should be so critical of your daughter—especially now.”

“It's the only real advantage to getting older. You get to say what you mean and stop apologizing,” Nana says. “I'm not critical of your mother because I don't love her; I'm critical of your mother because when she makes a mistake, she can't own up to it. It's very immature, and it has stunted her growth.”

“So why not be the bigger person? Forgive her for whatever started this whole standoff. Do you even remember why you're so angry with her?” I say.

“I'm not senile,” Nana says.

“So what's the story?” I say.

“I honestly think that is something you and your mother should discuss,” Nana says.

She's never said anything like this to me before. It must really be good. Or have something to do with me…?

“Who's being immature now?” I say.

“You'll have to trust me on this,” Nana says. “Let's hear more about the new job. What kind of work will you be doing?”

“Receptionist,” I say.

“Interesting choice for a lawyer,” Nana says.

“At Jim Rhode's law firm,” I say.

She stops walking. She smiles. She starts walking again.

“You tell him I said hello,” Nana says.

“Okay,” I say.

Training Day

I'M TAKING A JOB
from a senior citizen. How's that for an injection of pride?

Esther is nearly a foot shorter than I am. She's deaf in her left ear when it's convenient. She's also legally blind when it works to her advantage. But there's not a Danielle Steel title she hasn't read.

“What did they say?” Esther asks, in a hushed voice. “I can take it.”

“Who?” I say.

“The powers that be!” Esther says.

We're both speaking English, and yet…

“What is your question?” I ask.

“Did they say they fired me? Because they didn't,” Esther says.

“Oh,” I say. “I think they said something about retiring. That you were retiring. Are you…retiring?”

“They're giving me a three-month paid leave. Then I have to find a new situation. Nobody has the stones to fire me,” Esther says.

“I haven't even started working, and your new job at home already sounds better than mine,” I say.

“You understand the basic idea of this position, I take it?” Esther says.

I've watched her closely for twenty minutes, and I think I'm getting it loud and clear.

“Yes, I think I do. Never make them think I'm more capable than I am,” I say. “Don't go the extra inch. Don't raise anyone's expectations.”

“Right. Because the next thing you know you're spending your Saturday picking up their dry cleaning; you're buying last-minute intimate garments for Valentine's Day, taking the subway to three different stores in search of a pink satin push-up bra in 34C,” Esther says.

My heart sinks on this one. “Esther, did someone really send you out to buy bras for a…lady friend? That's really not appropriate,” I say. “I think you should file a complaint.”

“No! Of course no one sends me out for bras! Because I never let things get out of hand. I stay professional. I read my books, I make my phone calls, do my nails. I keep to myself,” Esther says. “I'm just imagining what could happen to a people pleaser such as yourself.”

“Oh, I see,” I say. She hates me for taking her job.
I
hate me for taking her job.

“Okay, you're on your own,” Esther says. “Should someone ask, I'm in personnel, taking care of some paperwork.”

“What if someone from personnel asks?” I say.

“Always keep the lie simple,” Esther says.

“I thought you were going to train me all day,” I say.
Keep the lie simple? I could actually learn things from this woman.

“You're a natural; I can tell,” Esther says, fishing for a pack of cigarettes in her enormous leather bag. A gaggle of key chains dangle from her other hand, hypnotizing me. Must answer phones. Must answer phones.

Wrapping Paper

I SIT ON
the floor looking through some of the photo albums Mom has assembled during the past few days. I haven't seen a single photo of me yet. Mostly they are beauty shots of her near other beautiful things. The Great Pyramid. The Eiffel Tower. Various beaches. Red hibiscus in hair posing somewhere in Los Angeles. She traveled with “friends,” who I suspect she was kissing and keeping at arm's length. Close enough, but never too close. I was rarely introduced to them.

“Dad thought I should go to Italy,” I say. He seems like a safe topic to bring up, now, since she's the one who brought him back into the fold. Does the mention of him flood her with memories, both good and bad?

“
He
should go to Italy,” Mom says.

“He was probably hoping I'd suggest that,” I say. “Or offer him some miles. But—just guessing here—was that what it was like to be married to him?”

“In a way,” Mom says. “It wasn't all bad. But his head
was somewhere else, in the clouds. Things are different now. They treat people like him.”

“People like him?” I ask.

“Depression. They treat it now,” Mom says.

I didn't know he was depressed. The family details are given on a need-to-know basis. The everyday events of their lives are such close-held secrets that a stranger might think their dealings had the commonly recognized value of gold and must be guarded. Instead, each detail is held in reserve for when my mother is ready to share what she considers to be ancient history and insignificant.

“You never mentioned that before,” I say.

“You never asked,” Mom says.

“How can you say that with a straight face?” I ask, annoyed. “I was young when he left. There are hundreds of details I don't remember. I don't remember what it was like to have him around. I don't remember if we ate breakfast together every morning. I don't remember celebrating birthdays. I don't remember any of it. Shall I start firing off random questions and hope some land near the mark? ‘You never asked'? You're infuriating!”

“That's sad,” Mom says. “Really—it's sad. I'm sorry you don't remember him. But I was focused on raising my two children. There wasn't time for me to offer color commentary.”

I reject the urge to slap her. I'm stronger than I would have guessed.

“Stop making it sound like I'm being unreasonable. We had a father one day, and poof, the next day he was gone,” I say. “You didn't seem to miss him for a second. Marjorie and I were devastated. That's a bizarre disconnect for an
adult
to understand. We were only children!”

“I cried at night in my room,” Mom says, “so you girls wouldn't see.”

“Maybe that was a mistake,” I say. “All I thought was that if Dad disappeared, you could too.”

“I'd never disappear!” Mom says. “Besides,
Marjorie
seems fine, now.”

I know she believes that, I'm just shocked she actually said what she believes.

“I'm sorry, that didn't come out right,” Mom says. “You seem fine, too. You wait here. I'll be right back.”

My sister Marjorie does seem fine, if your definition of fine is someone who can't balance a checkbook and has a serious obsession with shopping for things she does not need. She also has no interest in having a relationship with her partial clone, our mother. My mother thinks that's
normal
because she has no interest in having a relationship with her mother.

Mom walks into one of the guest rooms and opens the closet doors. I hear digging. She returns with a box that is beautifully wrapped.

“I have a present for you,” Mom says.

The week my father left we shopped. That I remember.
We got new clothing. Marjorie and I got matching plaid spring jackets and new white sneakers. We got new toys: Shrinky Dinks; Sea-Monkeys; an art case filled with markers, paints, and pastels. We were full of things and preoccupations, and empty of emotion.

Mom thrusts the gift toward me and smiles. She's taken to giving me gifts on a regular basis now. She is working on the assumption that she could miss many Christmases and birthdays. Valentine's Days. Easters. Is it a feeling that will fade with time like Nana described?

I hate this gift idea for so many reasons. I hate her fear of being deprived of future holidays. And here's where my great selfishness simply cannot hide itself: I'm hoping one of the gifts she gives me might indicate that she really knows me, and knows what I might like to receive.

The wrapping paper is beautiful.

“I bought the paper at the Met,” Mom says. “Years ago. No point in saving it, right? You should use the nice things in life.”

She wears all of her jewelry now, too. She doesn't “save the good stuff” for special occasions. Sometimes she wears too much of it at once. Still, it seems like a giant step forward for her. Not waiting, just doing.

She's apparently stockpiled gift wrap from a host of museums up and down the eastern seaboard, because each time I open a gift, it's wrapped in “special” paper she's been saving. The paper is always more wonderful and elaborate
than the gifts, which range from unusual, to bizarre, to insulting.

I open the box and inside is a misshapen top. Large and bright blue.

“I know you love blue,” Mom says, a huge smile on her face.

Actually I don't love blue. Not royal blue, anyway. I like periwinkle, and I'm a small-medium, not a shapeless-large.

“Are these walruses?” I ask, even though they are clearly walruses.

“Cute, don't you think?” Mom says.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for the gift, Mom.”

“You are so very welcome!” Mom says. “The kids will love it!”

Long silent pause while I figure out what to do with this comment.

“Kids?” I ask.

“Your children,” Mom says, pretending to be bewildered.

I sit in silence. This time I can't quite take it.

“I don't understand why you say things like that. ‘The kids will love it!' I don't have children,” I say. “You know I don't have children, I'm not married; I don't have a boyfriend—”

“Oh, but you will!” Mom says. “I may not be around for it, but you will. They'll be lovely children.”

More silence.

I slip the walruses over my head. The shirt swims on me. But I need to put it on to punctuate the insanity of this “gift.” Her smile fades a bit. The walruses have iridescent glitter on their tusks. There are surprises around every corner. Someone designed this. But it didn't feel “finished” until the glitter was added to the tusks. And then, ah, perfection.

“Couldn't you just once buy me a gift for who I am
now
?” I say. “One time?”

She looks at me, and I know what she's thinking. How ungrateful. I have a mother who
survived,
and all I can do is complain about this shirt. This fun shirt she bought for me. Sure it needs to be tailored, but still, it's fun.

What she fails to take into account is that she herself would never wear walruses—regardless whether her child would have “loved” this shirt. She wouldn't risk being ridiculous for anyone.

Her feelings are hurt. She goes off to take a nap. She runs away.

Coping Skills

THERE IS A KNOCK
at our front door, and then it opens. Perry walks in. He's wearing jeans. Sunglasses and a linen shirt.

“Hey, my gay bowling league ran late. Sorry,” Perry says.

Perry and I went to high school together. After school,
we'd drink beer, and he'd try on my mother's jewelry and tummy-control undergarments.

I lived with my mother. He lived with his father. We brought unique perspectives into our relationship. It did occur to me that he was using me to get to my mother's girdles, but I liked him too much to care.

He drops a box of wine to the floor, hands my mother some daffodils, and gives her a big hug.

“Oh, Perry, thanks for the flowers. Careful, that's a linen shirt I'm wearing,” Mom says.

Perry was about to break the hug until my mom made the comment about the shirt. Then he decided to hug longer. Wrinkle her shirt more.

“Enough hugging,” Mom says, trying to pull away.

“Oh, come on,” Perry says. “I know you have a steamer in this place somewhere.”

Mom breaks away and carries the flowers into the kitchen.

“Cute shirt,” Perry says. “A Nana hand-me-down?”

“Should we take the wine into my bedroom?” I ask.

“Sure,” Perry says.

As a teenager, Perry was the only boy allowed in my bedroom.

I sit on the floor. Perry stretches out on the bed.

“I'm starting to think that what you need are some coping skills,” Perry says with authority. “You have no model to follow. No instructions on how to get through the shit end of things.”

The way he says it makes it sound so attainable. Like I can walk into a store, pick up a bag of coping skills, go home, and slip them on. One size fits all. Bing-bang. And we're on to the next problem.