Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (31 page)

What I want to say to my child is this: My mother loved me very much, and she loved you very much, before you were even born. She wasn’t average, or even normal. She was extraordinary. And she thought I was, too. Even though she’s not here anymore, she’ll always be with us. A presence like Gray Goodman doesn’t just go away.

My relationship with my grandmother has changed, but hopefully with time we can get back to where we were before. And now that Adan is part of her life, he’s a part of my life, too. I didn’t grow up with a grandfather, but maybe now we can make up for what I missed all these years.

I don’t have Jaime anymore. But I have Nate. And Hunter, and even Skylar.

My life is moving in a completely different direction, and I’m not scared anymore. I couldn’t be happier about what’s to come. Maybe going back to the city will be a fresh start for me. Maybe it will be the start of lots of good things.

Priya and I hang up and I go upstairs to have lunch with my mom. She hasn’t left her bed for the past couple of days. Nurses have been monitoring her every move, and she seems to be getting worse. She’s supposed to be resting, but she has a steady stream of people coming to her room for meals and tea.

As I reach the door, Hunter and Skylar walk out of her room, holding empty mugs.

“Think she’s ready for lunch?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” Skylar says.

“We brought croissants from the Golden Pear,” Hunter says. “Were we not supposed to do that?”

“It was so sweet of you to visit. It’s great that you did that. Thank you,” I say. “We can have lunch later.”

I walk into the room and see my mom in her bed. She’s hardly recognizable—Gray Goodman never relaxes. She’s always working or thinking about working. It’s strange to see her at rest like this. It’s strange to see someone so headstrong have no choice in the matter.

“Hey,” I say.

“You just missed Hunter and Skylar,” she says. The look on her face shows me that it pains her to even speak. I make a mental note to ask the nurses later whether all of these visitors are making my mother feel better or worse.

“I saw them in the hallway,” I say, and sit down on a chair next to her bed.

She props herself up on one elbow and asks me: “Do you think they’re sleeping together yet?”

“Oh god,” I say. “I really don’t want to think about that.”

“Maybe they’re not,” my mother says, nodding toward my belly. “Maybe your condition has scared them straight.”

“That’s not funny,” I say, and my mother lies back down in her bed with a big smile on her face.

“Who’s ready for lunch?” my grandmother says, opening the door. Her chef follows her in and begins unloading a huge tray of food onto the desk.

“Hunter and Skylar just stuffed me full of pastries,” my mother says. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Well,” my grandmother says, “you have to eat. It’s important to keep up your strength.” She looks at the nurse for a show of support, but the nurse suddenly seems very interested in her fingernails. “Well, I don’t want to hear any excuses from you, mademoiselle,” my grandmother says, her attention now focused on me. “You’re eating for two.”

I get up from my chair and take a peek at what the chef has sent up. I grab a roll and take a nibble and then pour myself an iced tea.

“There is something that I want from you,” my mother says to my grandmother.

“What’s that, honey?” my grandmother asks, and folds herself into the chair next to my mother’s bed. She takes my mother’s hand, and I can see in her eyes that there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for my mother. I know that my mother never really let my grandmother mother her very much. She never lets any of us really take care of her, even now, and I can see my grandmother’s maternal instincts at play. “Whatever you want.”

“It’s my dying wish that you marry Adan.”

“I beg your pardon?” my grandmother says.

“You know you love to throw a party,” my mother says.

“I’m not exactly in the mood to throw a party,” my grandmother says, nervously laughing. “And I don’t like this talk of dying wishes. Don’t speak like that.”

“You have to make me legitimate,” my mother says. She smiles and I can’t help but chuckle. I turn to look at my grandmother and she’s pursing her lips.

Fifty-three

My mother can’t make it out to the pool today. She can barely get out of bed. So instead of following through with our plan to eat lunch outside, I’ve brought sandwiches on a large tray up to her room.

“Today we have fresh turkey breast with baked brie and honey mustard on croissants,” I say, playing the role of chef. “The turkey breast is fresh off the bone and the honey mustard and croissants are both homemade.”

My mother doesn’t laugh, in fact she doesn’t respond at all. She just lays still in her bed, looking out the window.

“Mom?”

“Oh, yes, Hannah,” she says, turning her head toward me. It seems like the very act of turning her head is painful. “Hi.”

Her skin is paler than it’s been and her eyes are bloodshot. Her hands are so thin they look like paper—you can see her veins popping out. I avert my eyes and concentrate very hard on the pitcher of iced tea. I offer my mother a glass but she either doesn’t hear me or ignores me, I’m not sure which, so I pour two glasses and set hers down on the tray next to her bed.

“It’s a lovely day out today,” I say. She doesn’t respond, so I repeat it a bit louder. She still doesn’t respond, so I ask her if I should open her window.

“Isn’t that breeze great?” I ask.

“It’s too cold,” my mother says, and I pop up to close the window.

I sit back down and take a bite of my sandwich. I chew slowly, since there’s nothing left to talk about. Nothing left to say.

I used to run away from talks with my mother, never wanted to hear anything she had to say, but now I would give anything to have a real conversation with her. Now I would love it if she could just muster up the energy to speak. If the marijuana didn’t knock her out so much that all she can do is stare out a window all day.

Is this what will be left? When she’s gone, will I be left treasuring the old times we had together? Will all the bad memories turn into joyful ones? Do we turn the old unhappy memories into blissful ones we can treasure for the rest of our lives? Or will I end up longing for one last argument with Gray?

I finish eating my sandwich and offer my mother some of hers. She declines with a slight flick of the wrist. Not knowing what else to do, I pack up the tray and leave.

*   *   *

“This is it, isn’t it?” I ask my grandmother. “The end?” She’s standing by the edge of the pool, looking out into the ocean.

“It would appear that way,” she says, taking a sip of her cocktail. My grandmother never drinks during the day; it’s one of her life rules. Today, however, she sits outside in broad daylight drinking vodka. My grandmother’s not drinking to enjoy today. She’s not drinking to be social. She’s drinking to get drunk.

“Think a sip of that would hurt the baby?” I say.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says back without looking at me.

I’m about to explain that it was just a joke, but then she continues.

“You’re going to see, the love you have for this baby will be unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.”

“I’ve been in love before,” I say. “I think I know what love is. I love you.”

“Still?” she asks, looking at me. “After everything?”

“After everything.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. But you’ll love your baby in a different way than you love me, or your mother, or Nate. It’s something you’ve never experienced before. It will take your breath away.”

“Is that how you feel about my mother?”

“Yes,” she says. “And the way I feel about you.”

“That’s how I feel about you, too,” I say.

“No, it’s not,” she says with a gentle smile. “But you can’t see that yet. You will, though. You’ll see.”

“This must be so difficult for you,” I say.

“It is,” she says. “You’d think that someone who’s experienced as much death as I have would know how to deal with it by now, but each time I lose a loved one, it hurts just as much as when I lost your grandfather. It never gets easier to lose someone you love. And now, your mother…”

She trails off for a second as her eyes tear up, dabbing at her eyes with the linen napkin that was wrapped around the highball glass.

“Your mother and you are the most important things in my world. Men be damned, all I ever really cared about was you two. And now, to be losing your mother. It’s almost too much to bear. I know she hates me—”

“She doesn’t hate you,” I say.

“I’ve not made her last days any easier, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“I forgive you,” I say. “She forgives you.”

My grandmother turns to me and opens her arms wide. I go to her and get inside the space her arms have created and let her hug me. I just stand there, breathing in her gentle scent while she squeezes me tight. She kisses my head and I put my arms around her.

“I don’t know about that,” she says, and I tell her that everything is okay.

“It’s not okay,” she says. “My baby is dying.”

I hear her cry. Softly, barely making a sound, but I can feel her chest heaving. And then I start to cry, too. Only I don’t do the soft gentle cry. I’m sobbing uncontrollably, and my grandmother breaks from our embrace to hand me the half-used linen napkin from around her drink.

“We’ll get through this,” she says. “Together. I just wish she wasn’t in so much pain. It’s hard to watch her suffer like this.”

“Didn’t you once tell me that this is the best possible way to die, as far as dying is concerned? You find out you’re dying, but have time to get your affairs in order, say good-bye to the people you love?”

“I guess I did say that once,” she says as she puts her hand to my face. “I’m glad I got to see her, and I would like to think that you’ll treasure this time with her as well. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, then, I suppose that’s something.”

Fifty-four

My mother would have hated her funeral. A packed house—it is everything she ever said she didn’t want. Seven major newspapers are here to cover the event, and so many people came that we need four guest books just to record everyone’s names.

I suggested that perhaps a small graveside ceremony with only family might be more in line with what my mother might have wanted, but my grandmother wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted that her daughter get the love and respect she deserved, and the pageantry that such an occasion merited. My grandmother feels it’s important to mark off milestones—happy or sad—in a grand way. “If you haven’t celebrated someone’s life with a funeral, it’s as if they never existed.”

I wonder for a moment what she would want for her funeral, but then realize that if the Nazis couldn’t get her, my grandmother won’t be dying any time soon. And anyway, she’s probably already planned the whole thing out with her party planner.

Jewish funerals take place quickly—it’s imperative that you get the person into the ground as soon as possible after their death—so my mother’s funeral is held just two days after she dies. And because we had no time to go out and buy clothes that weren’t white, my grandmother has her personal shopper come over the day before the funeral. I can’t believe life is actually going on the day after my mother has just died, so I don’t come downstairs to see the personal shopper. Instead, I just let my grandmother pick something out for me. I know I’ll never be able to wear the outfit ever again, so what does it matter what I wear?

The black shift dress she chooses for me is uncomfortable. When I first tried it on, it fit well enough; it is only after wearing it for more than ten minutes that I realize that the back seam is digging into my skin. But I don’t really mind. Somehow it seems right to be physically uncomfortable for the occasion.

The funeral director informs us that, before the service begins, the immediate family will gather in a back room to have time alone with the body. Then, we’ll step out into the funeral home to greet guests and accept condolences. But my grandmother already knows all of this.

After she has her time alone with my mother, it’s my turn. I promise my grandmother that I’ll follow her out, but I never leave the back room.

I sit down and just stare at the casket. Before she left, my grandmother put photographs of us into the casket. She said that she didn’t know what happens after you die, but just in case you go to see a higher power, she wanted that higher power to know that Gray Goodman was loved.

I don’t really know what to do with myself. I can’t bring myself to peek inside the casket, as the funeral director suggested, and I don’t have anything to put inside of it anyway. But I can’t go outside either. I just can’t face anyone. I can’t even face my friends who have driven two and a half hours from the city to be here for me. Somehow it seems right to just sit here, with my dead mother, by myself.

The door opens, and I search my mind for something to tell the funeral director when he asks me why I’m still in here with my mother. Maybe I can tell him that I’m praying?

But it’s not the funeral director. It’s Hunter.

He opens the door and when I see his adorable face, it makes me well up with tears. I tell myself it’s just the pregnancy hormones, that I’m really not this emotional, but I know that I’m lying to myself.

“I brought you a handkerchief,” Hunter says. He extends his hand and I take the handkerchief. It’s embroidered with his initials.

“This is your handkerchief,” I say.

“But you’ll need one today,” he says. “You don’t have to give it back to me.”

I stand up from my chair and walk over to Hunter. Without saying a word, I hug him. I begin to cry, but I can’t stop hugging him. Hunter doesn’t try to pull away. We just stand there, two motherless kids, hugging, until the funeral director comes in and tells me it’s time to take my mother.

“Do you need more time?” he asks me.

“No,” I say, using Hunter’s hankie to sop up the tears. “I think I’m ready now.”

Hunter and I walk out of the room, holding hands, and Nate is waiting for us on the other side of the door. He grabs my free hand and asks if I want to walk out with him. Technically, I’m supposed to be walking out with just my family, but I’m so happy that Nate is there that I don’t want him to leave.