In the Bag (9 page)
I asked Coco over a late lunch what she thought people wanted. We were eating
moules frites
at a café near Solange’s apartment. I’d always had a weakness for the Parisian combination of steamed mussels served in a heavy enamel pot with a side of salty french fries and a beer.
“What do people
want
?” Coco repeated, prying a mussel from its black shell. “Well, you really can’t talk about
wants
until you talk about
needs
. And for that, you have to start with Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Remind me what that is again?”
I had meant what people might want to
eat
at the exhibit opening, but I was happy to take the conversational detour. At home, Coco and I could go weeks without really talking. It was refreshing to hear what was on her mind.
“Well, I had the class last year,” Coco said by way of disclaimer. “So I’m not sure if this is exactly right. But this guy, Abraham Maslow, had a theory about human needs.”
Coco was interested in psychology. Like all girls her age, she was drawn to the study of psychoses and neuroses. She enjoyed memorizing the warning signs of each disorder and determining whether any of them was attractive enough to suit her or unattractive enough to describe her mother.
“He said,” Coco continued, “that our needs are like a pyramid that builds upon itself. First, you have to satisfy basic needs, like food, water, air, sleep. Then you move up to the need for security. And then you have social needs, which are like family and love and stuff. And then esteem needs. And then the highest need is what he called the self-actualizing need, which is where people have the need to fulfill their potential. Or whatever.”
I stopped listening when she got to the need for family and love. I was remembering a professor I’d had in college. He was a Jesuit priest. I wished I could remember his name. He said Mass at ten o’clock on Sunday nights at a tiny stone chapel in the middle of that cold Wisconsin campus.
In his homilies, this old Jesuit always talked about desire, and how we were connected by our desires. He said the most basic human desire was the desire to be desired by one you desire. I remembered how the priest almost cried when he talked about it.
God, were we all so lonely?
I sipped a second beer. I didn’t even like beer, but it traditionally came with
moules frites,
and I had appropriated for myself the beer that arrived with Coco’s meal.
Coco was still talking. “So this Maslow guy said you could tell who was self-actualized—meaning, who was at the top of the needs pyramid—because they were the people who were spontaneous and unconventional and really into peak experiences.”
“What’s a peak experience again?”
“
Mo-oooom,
” Coco said, exasperated by my ignorance. “You know, like when you have just a supergreat time, and it makes you feel really happy and inspired and totally, like, transformed. Like this.” She leaned across the table so close that our faces were almost touching. “This is totally a peak experience.”
I felt like reaching over and covering her with kisses. She seemed so happy. And hopeful. This was
my
daughter. I loved that she had the capacity to feel such joy.
“And Madrid will be fun, too, right?” I added cautiously, knowing that I was pushing my luck. “Won’t it be fun to see Solange?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. Then she took a deep, theatrical breath. “But I actually have to tell you something.”
Never mind the “actually.” I was too focused on what might follow. Oh, God. Was this why she was so moody? She wasn’t even sexually active. (
Was she?
) She couldn’t possibly be pregnant. (
Could she?
)
“It’s really important,” she said.
I
knew
I didn’t like that Jack kid she was spending time with over winter break. Her gay guy friends were so much nicer, smarter, and more mature than her straight guy friends. Or did I think that only because I considered them safer?
“What is it, honey?” I asked, holding her hand. I did so more to steady myself than her. My breathing was becoming increasingly shallow as I searched my brain, trying to think who it could be.
I’ll kill him. Whoever it is, I will kill him with my bare hands.
Coco sighed deeply. “I can’t help you out on that serving thing in Madrid.”
I was equal parts relieved and infuriated. “Why not?”
“Because I look like a
dork
in black pants and a white blouse,” she stated unequivocally.
“Coco, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Mother, please! Don’t make me do it. You
can’t
make me do this. It’s totally bad for my self-esteem.”
Damn her and her self-esteem!
Of course it’d be easier for me to let her off the hook. But didn’t she owe me a few hours of light labor for bringing her to Paris? And what about Solange? After all the thoughtful gifts she’d sent Coco over the years—cashmere sweaters, signed museum prints, the Harry Potter books. First editions! Only to be rewarded now by this relentless self-absorbed brooding and vain preening? This boorish self-involvement?
“Coco, I’m sorry. But I really
do
need your help. And so does Solange.”
She slouched resentfully and stared at her plate. Her eyes were moist with tears. “You’re
trying
to ruin my life, aren’t you? You want everyone to be alone and unhappy. Just like you.”
Be nice to me,
I was tempted to say.
I am all you have.
Sure, she had grandparents—my parents—who spoiled her rotten. But they wouldn’t be around forever. And I was an only child, so there were no aunts or uncles. Or cousins.
Maybe I should’ve adopted a child so Coco would have someone to lean on or collapse against when life turned cruel. But I didn’t. So she was stuck with me. Me! Didn’t she get that?
I’m all you have.
Me and my wonderful friends like Solange. But mostly me.
And you treat me like this?
I attempted to remain civil. “What does my being single have to do with anything?”
“It’s
all
related, Mom,” she said, slamming her fork on the table. “The universe is
all
one. You know I’m
trying
to be a Buddhist!”
Oh, God.
I finished Coco’s beer in one gulp.
I
could tell Dad was thoroughly fed up with me.
“This is our second day in Madrid,” he said. “And this is the first you’ve been out of the hotel?”
We were at El Corte Inglés, which is Madrid’s equivalent of Macy’s. Dad was watching me dig through a pile of jeans on a table in the men’s department. I was trying to find something that didn’t have decorative stitching on the back pockets.
What was with these Spanish guys and their disco jeans?
“Look, Webb,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t want to come on this trip. Maybe you would’ve rather stayed home with your friends. But you’re here now, and I wish you’d make the most of it.”
“Okay,” I said, resigning myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to find a pair of plain Levi’s. Would it be better to meet Coco wearing the same jeans I’d been in since we left St. Louis or these stupid rhinestone cowboy jeans?
“I can’t do the job I was brought here to do
and
worry about you,” Dad continued. “All I ask for is just a little courtesy.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Maybe I could wash the jeans I was wearing in the hotel sink and dry them with a hair dryer. That’d be better than these blingy jeans. I turned my attention to shirts. At least they were normal. I grabbed two plain blue T-shirts that looked my size.
“If you weren’t going to come to the exhibit space this morning,” Dad was saying, “you could’ve called and let me know.”
“Sorry,” I repeated.
This would be so much easier if I could just tell him the reason I was at the hotel: that I was planning to meet a girl I really liked. But I couldn’t tell him. He’d make way too big a deal of it.
“I know you’re sorry,” Dad said. “But . . .” He was staring at the clothes I held in my hands. “You’re going to need something nicer than that for the opening.”
The museum exhibit opening. Damn. I forgot. How was I going to get out of that?
“Look, Webb,” he continued. “Tomorrow night’s going to be crazy. There are going to be a lot of people at the opening: artists, patrons, museum board members, and so forth. I have to talk to them and be available for questions or problems. I can’t be worrying about where you are and what you’re doing.”
“Right,” I said. Then it occurred to me. “Want me to just text you every couple hours? So you know I’m okay?”
His face looked like a big question mark. “I thought you forgot your cell phone at school.”
“I did. But I can send you an e-mail from anywhere. There are Internet connections all over the place. At the hotel, in cafés, probably even at the exhibit.”
“Of course,” Dad said, smiling for the first time in hours. “It’s a digital show. I’m sure there’ll be places for you to get online. Good thinking, Webb.”
I felt like high-fiving Dad for agreeing to this plan, which completely freed me up to blow off the thing at the museum.
He wandered over to a rack of suits. Minutes later he returned, holding a navy blue Polo blazer in my size.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Webb, you can’t wear a T-shirt to opening night,” he said. “Wear this jacket with a white dress shirt and jeans.”
“I don’t have a white shirt,” I said. “It was in my bag.”
“We’ll get you a new shirt,” Dad said. “What shoes do you have?”
“Just my Chucks,” I said, gesturing to my feet.
“I’d prefer leather,” Dad answered, pulling his chin like a professor. “But it is a postmodern show. I guess those will be okay.”
Fine. Whatever. I’ll get whatever he wants me to get. I can change in a bathroom if I need to.
Dad had to get back to work on the exhibit space.
“Let’s meet at the hotel at seven for dinner,” Dad said, putting me in a cab. “We’ll get some paella. You like that, remember?”
I did remember. But of course all I could think about was checking my e-mail. I was dying to know how Coco had responded to my suggestion. Why the hell
not
fall in love?
Of course it was easy to be bold online. But seriously, I was seventeen years old. I was in Europe, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t I be falling in love?
When I made it back to the hotel, I dumped the Corte Inglés bags on the floor in the business center and logged on to my e-mail account. One new message.
Fr: CocoChi@com
To: Webbn@com
Subject: What a tangled Webb . . .
Spidey, you’re adorable. And falling in love sounds like fun. Really! (And from the full disclosure department: I’ve never done it before. Have you?) But ugh and merde! I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. My mom is being a total Blackhawk. As in helicopter mama gone apeshit. I don’t think I’m going to be able to break away from her while we’re in Madrid. I am SO SORRY about this!!! It is no reflection on you, I promise. Please write back so I know you’re not mad. I’m totally upset about this. We should’ve been the stuff movies are made of, y’know?
Coco
I
don’t know if it was jet lag or the mussels we had for lunch or the stress of meeting—or not meeting—Webb. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t hungry for dinner that night. Neither was Mom. But I needed to check my e-mail.
“Actually, something sweet sounds good,” I told Mom. We were walking back to the apartment from the Metro stop. “Can I pick up some treats for us at the patisserie across the street from Solange’s place?”
“Good idea,” Mom said. “Get me something lemony. I’ve gotta call Solange.”
“Cool,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the apartment in a few minutes.”
After I saw her put her key in the front door to Solange’s building, I ducked into the Internet café to see if Webb had responded. He had.
Fr: Webbn@com
To: CocoChi@com