Out to Lunch (26 page)

“Well, I think for the time being, we all have to settle for me being content. Happy, I don’t know what it will take to get to happy. And I don’t know that a man will be involved.”

“What about a woman?”

“MOM! I’m not gay.”

“Ha! Go, Eileen. Way to put it out there.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it if you were.”

“Of course there wouldn’t be, but I’m not.” Vey is mere.

“Your dad and I would be fine with it. We live in Berkeley for chrissakes.”

“I’m not sure what that means, and I know you’d be fine with it, but I like men.”

“Okay. Just putting it out there.”

“Is this about Aimee?”

“Oh HELL no.”

“Well, the two of you were extremely close, and you were very involved in her sickness, and you don’t seem to really be bouncing back from her death, so yes, it has occasionally occurred to us that perhaps there was more than just friendship there.”

“Now I know how Gayle and Oprah feel.”

“Mom. I loved Aimee with my whole heart, in a totally platonic way. She was my best friend and business partner. We were as close as friends could be for twenty-four years. So I’m not just going to get over it in ten minutes. And a boyfriend isn’t going to fix that.” I’m snippier than I mean to be, but these are the exact conversations I didn’t want to have with my parents.

“Okay, okay, I just wanted to give you an opportunity to talk about it.”

“No offense, Mom, but I have a shrink for that, and it isn’t you. Don’t try to be my therapist, just be my mom. I’m as fine as I can manage to be right now.”

“Well, then, I’m glad you have someone you feel you can talk to.” And the hurt is very apparent in her voice.

“How are my girls?” Dad wanders into the kitchen.

“Well, according to your daughter, we are as fine as we are going to get.” My mom, for all her qualities, has a tendency toward petulant when things don’t go quite how she wants them.

“Eileen . . .”

“Mike . . .” Uh-oh. Sounds like there is about to be a “discussion.”

“Okay, I’m going to go check my messages.” There is a knot in my throat, and I can feel that the tears are going to come for sure if I don’t get out of here. I leave the kitchen and head for my room. One of the problems with my family has always been that my folks were so set in their ways by the time I came along, and I’m an only child, so unless the three of us agree on something, it always feels like two picking on one. And yes, often it was me and Dad disagreeing with Mom, on top of traditional mother-daughter tension.

I check my voice mail, nothing. E-mail. Just junk. I log into Doggie Days, but the webcams are showing that it is playtime for the little dogs, no Chewie. I contemplate another Xanax, sitting on the foot of the horrible pullout bed. There is a knock on my door, and then my dad’s head pops in.

“You okay?” he asks. And I try to say yes, but the crying starts and then I’m lost. Dad comes in and sits beside me, putting his arm around me and shushing me while I sob into his chest.

“She just worries about you, she wasn’t trying to make you upset.”

“I know.” I sniffle. “She just pushes my buttons.”

“Well, she installed them!” he says, making me laugh.

“Good point.”

“And I helped, I know. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. And I don’t mean to shut you guys out, I just, I’ve been so sad for so long and so angry for so long and there is not a thing in the world I can do to change the source of my sadness and anger, and talking about it just makes it worse. And I’m sorry that goes against the grain of the sharing dynamic here, it isn’t that I don’t trust you or think you won’t understand, but it doesn’t help me.”

“We just want you to have a happy life.”

“Even if I’m a lesbian.”

Dad laughs. “That’s your mom. I always knew what you and Aimee had wasn’t romantic.”

I wipe my face. “Can’t you rein her in a bit?”

“I’m sorry, have you MET your mother?”

“Good point.”

“For what it’s worth, we are enormously proud of you. We are thrilled that you are so financially secure, truly. But we do think that perhaps you should be thinking about how to best fill your days to help you get through this tough time. Maybe find some volunteer work that feels meaningful to you. Or travel. Something to help you refocus your time a bit, and not give yourself so much latitude to stay stuck in your grief.”

“Duly noted.”

“Your mom went to take a little lie-down.”

“How is she? Really?”

“Well, you know, her blood pressure isn’t ideal. She doesn’t have the energy she used to. We’re old people, kiddo, our warranties are up. It’s all slowly downhill from here. But she’s fine, and we’re fine. Don’t worry.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him, and I lie down, the stupid pole in the middle of my back, the flat, sad pillows, and I close my eyes against the tears that threaten to come back, and sleep.

After a couple of hours I wake up, still somewhat off and groggy from the Xanax and the emotional discussion with my folks. I reach over and turn the light on next to the couch, as it has gotten dark in the room since I fell asleep. My arm is streaked with dark brown. I bolt upright, wondering if I am bleeding from somewhere. There is more brown on the side of the pillow, on the blanket beside me. Did I shit the bed? Is that possible? I’m checking my face for a nosebleed when a familiar scent stops me. Chocolate. Holy hell, I forgot my mom put chocolates on my pillow, and have apparently napped on them, getting chocolate all over the bed linens and me.

But at least it isn’t blood or poop. I’m laughing hysterically when the door flies open. My mom, clearly a little groggy herself takes in the sight.

“Are you bleeding?” she asks, rushing to my side, worry on her sweet wrinkled face.

“Nope. But I would recommend in future that pillow chocolates be well wrapped.”

She looks at the mess, slaps her forehead, and then begins to laugh herself. By the time Dad comes in to see what is going on, my mother and I are holding each other, laughing and crying at the same time, which is all you can ask of family. That and forgiveness.

* * *

W
hat does the wiseass child ask?” my dad says, leading the abbreviated and somewhat irreverent Seder we tend to prefer when it is just us.

“When are we gonna eat?” I say, accepting my cue.

“Soon!” my mom says.

Things are back to normal after yesterday’s tension. My chocolate bed debacle broke the tension, and we cleaned up, went out to Chez Panisse for dinner, came home and watched, you guessed it, taped episodes of
NCIS
while both Mom and Dad fell asleep in their recliners. Today we mostly relaxed, went to the amazing Monterey Market, where I bemoaned the climate of Chicago that makes such variety and abundance fairly impossible. We puttered around in the garden out back, ate casual lunch of cheese, sausage, bread, and fruit with a salad of market finds with herbs from the garden. We made the matzo kugel, reheated soup and matzo balls, threw the brisket back in the oven, and my mom made her famous dome of broccoli, just steamed broccoli florets that have been meticulously arranged in a deep glass bowl with all the heads facing out so that you can actually unmold it in a perfect dome. I’ve never been able to successfully replicate it.

Our Seder hits all the high points, we wash hands, open the door for Elijah, dip twice. We ask the four questions, name all the items on the Seder plate, and claim the ten plagues. We eat the Hillel sandwich. We ask the questions that the Wise, Wicked, Simple, and Too Young to Know How to Ask children would ask, and we answer. My “wiseass child” is our cue that we are wrapping things up, and are going to get to the best part, the meal.

Mom and I head to the kitchen to retrieve the plates of gefilte fish, each on its classic leaf of romaine with slice of cooked carrot on top. A little horseradish colored magenta with beet juice, and we tuck in. My dad dips his hard-boiled egg in the leftover salt water from the dipping ritual earlier. My mom slices hers and eats it with the fish. I skip the egg, not being a fan of hard-boiled in the best of circumstances, but definitely not when Mom is making them, bless her heart. The fish is good, was clearly handmade by the deli, fairly light and with clean fish flavor, enhanced by having been poached in a classic fumet broth. The horseradish punches it up perfectly and keeps it from getting boring.

“So glad you could be here, honey.” My mom reaches over to squeeze my hand. She’s been very solicitous since our discussion yesterday.

“Me too, Mom. And I was thinking maybe I’d try to come again before Rosh Hashanah, if you thought that was good.” I realize that even if we are beyond deepness, closeness is still important, and I need to make more of an effort to spend time with them.

“We were actually thinking that we are overdue for a Chicago visit, so maybe this summer we would come there instead, what do you think of that!” Dad says, striking deep fear into my heart. Managing them here in their natural habitat is one thing. Having them invade mine makes for deep mental and physical exhaustion. But of course I can’t say that. What I say is, “Of course, that would be fantastic! And I can have a party at the house, invite all your old cronies to come see you and visit.” If they are coming, a project like a party will keep us busy, productive, and away from dangerous subject matters.

“Wonderful. We’ll make plans soon,” Mom says, standing to clear the plates.

We walk out with the soup bowls, and tuck in again. The broth is rich and chickeny, the matzo balls are perfectly seasoned.

“Great balls, girls,” Dad says. “Are there more?” My dad can eat a matzo ball in half a second, and while Mom and I have barely dented our first, both of his are gone.

“Are your legs broken? They’re in the kitchen,” my mom says, and he gets up to replenish his bowl.

“I’m going to get the brisket!” I say, wanting to move this party along.

By the time we have eaten heartily, packed up leftovers and gotten everything cleaned and put back to normal, they are both wiped out. Dad falls asleep watching the news from his recliner, and Mom heads to bed early to read. My flight is at noon tomorrow, so we will go somewhere for breakfast before I have to go to the airport. Two and a half days, but it feels like I’ve been here for a week. I’m exhausted.

I head for my room, leaving Dad snoring in front of the TV. I check my e-mail.

Jenna-

Hope things in sunny California are good, that your parents are well, and that you are full of matzo. But not too full. I hear it is very binding.

Elliot

This makes me giggle.

E-

Now you know why we sing “Let My People Go” at Passover. Folks are fine, thanks for asking. Full of opinions and suggestions as parentals are wont to be. And planning to descend upon me for a Chicago-based visit sometime this summer, so I’m contemplating moving and leaving no forwarding address.

J

J-

Ohh. The dreaded parent visit. I’ve managed to avoid that for the last five years, since my dad hates leaving the couch, let alone the state. You can always hide at my house if you want. When are you back?

E

E-

I might just take you up on that!

I’m back tomorrow around six.

J

J-

I’ll send Teddy. Since you are getting in around dinnertime, how about coming back here and I’ll make us something?

E

E-

Andrea is making dinner at my house to welcome me home. Why don’t you join us?

J

J-

If it isn’t an imposition, I’d love to. Text me when you land, Teddy and I will be circling O’Hare. Safe travels.

E

And something about that just reminds me how excited I am to get home, and I head right for bed, hoping sleep will make the time go faster.

* * *

A
ndrea, that was really delicious,” Elliot says.

“Seriously, woman, that was just specfreakingtacular,” I agree. Andrea put out an amazing spread for my welcome home dinner. Lamb shanks that she braised in pomegranate juice with chickpeas and walnuts and fennel. Wide homemade pappardelle noodles with truffle butter and lemon and chives. Steamed thin French green beans. And now we are finishing slices of a dense pistachio cake with a fig glaze, topped with a bittersweet chocolate ganache.

“Well, this is every cook’s dream kitchen, I get very inspired,” Andrea says, her blush turning her caramel skin almost copper.

“She’s been stuffing me to the gills all weekend,” Law says. “I keep sneaking to the gym in the morning before she wakes up, to combat it.”

“Better get used to it, buddy boy, if I’m moving in.” She grins at him, and it is lovely to see the energy between them. Easy and affectionate and connected.

“Sounds like a good problem to have, if you don’t mind my saying,” Elliot says, using the back of his fork to pick off the last few moist cake crumbs from his plate.

“It’s definitely not a complaint,” Law says, leaning toward Andrea for a smooch.

“Sounded like it was a hard trip, at times,” Elliot says.

“I think they are at the age where little changes start to really add up, and since I only see them a couple of times a year, it makes it more noticeable. My mom is officially shorter than me, which didn’t used to be true. They’re showing their age, little bits of forgetfulness, and I know they are in their eighties and it’s to be expected, and I should be grateful they can still live alone and take care of each other, but it’s hard. I don’t want to be frustrated with them, but I can’t help it. And that makes me feel guilty, especially since I’m not there to help out. But they’re coming for a visit sometime early summer, so you will all get to see them.”

“CHEWIE, NO!!!” Wayne yells, scaring the bejesus out of me. He leaps from his chair to chase the dog, who has counter surfed to grab the half-eaten shank off of Wayne’s dinner plate, and is now tearing through the house with his prize. We all jump up from the table, Andrea and I getting handfuls of treats from the canister, and see if we can wrangle the pup while Volnay gets excited, and jumps straight up and down on her stumpy little legs, barking joyously at this new game.