The Year My Mother Came Back (10 page)

But I didn't really hate her. I missed her. She probably didn't really hate me, either. She liked my good grades and my artwork. I won an art contest in
Seventeen
magazine, and she showed everyone the issue with my prize-winning collage published in it! She probably missed me. She probably missed herself. Why did she have to get breast cancer? I hated, hated, hated cancer.

She hated my boyfriend, Paul—more than was logically possible. I thought she also liked him, but she wouldn't admit it. How could she not have liked him? He was fantastic. I was totally in love with him. We met at All-County Choir. Paul was in a band, and he played guitar and sang exactly like James Taylor. He was a year older than me and he lived two towns over. We biked six miles to visit each other. He was super smart and super nice, tall and lanky, gorgeous, sexy, and oh my God, what an amazing kisser. We only made out, which was fine with me—lovely, actually. We were crazy about each other. I was so happy we were together. Paul had drawn a scarily low number in the draft lottery, but he got into Cornell, so he'd be safe for the next four years. His mother, Beverly, said if he was drafted they'd move to Canada. Beverly was cool. She liked me a lot, which was nice but kind of surreal, in light of my mother's low regard for her son. She was a teacher, really smart and interesting, very liberal. In fact, she reminded me a lot of
my
mother before she became angry all the time.

The more Mom hated Paul, the more I loved him. She unwittingly regulated our mother – daughter emotional thermostat. The more she dialed up the heat on her anger, the more my passion for Paul increased, till I was on fire. Dial it on up, Mom! She was probably jealous.

Mom and Dad barely ever touched. Did that mean they never had sex? (I didn't want to think about that.)

Then Paul went to Cornell. We continued our romance long-distance, until he started dating Caroline. The morning Mom figured it out (my bloodshot eyes gave me away), she launched into a ferocious monologue at the breakfast table, while brutally slicing a loaf of bread.

“Paul is despicable, unfaithful, false-hearted . . .”

I begged her to stop. I was still in love with Paul and I couldn't stand hearing her rail against him, but she was unstoppable. She continued to assault the bread, while spewing a thesaurus-worthy litany of invective.

“He's deceitful, duplicitous, perfidious, hateful . . .”

“Shut up!” I yelled, covering my ears, but Mom was just revving up.

Jennifer ate her frosted flakes, silent and attentive, her silver braces gleaming.

“. . . fickle, treacherous, cheating . . .”

Her anger was way out of proportion. I was the one who should be angry, not her. But now I couldn't be angry at Paul, because Mom had stolen my anger.

“. . . underhanded, lying . . .”

I had to defend Paul's honor, even though he'd just broken up with me. I wanted to kill Mom, Mommy, Mother, Louise, whatever the fuck she wanted me to call her today. I wanted to stab her with the bread knife. I actually wanted to do that. I pictured myself grabbing the knife and stabbing her in the chest.

This was such a horrifying thought that I ran to my room and threw myself on my bed, sobbing. I ignored Mom when she knocked on my door. I ignored her ten minutes later, when she offered to drive me to school. I put my
Sweet Baby James
album on at full volume to drown her out.

After she left with Jennifer, I walked to school, arriving very late. My red, puffy eyes sufficed as explanation and excuse—the universal alibi of female adolescent angst. The teacher didn't even mark me late.

That night there was a typed letter on my pillow.

Dear Alice—I regret that I was so bitter and caused you so much anguish this morning. It is not you—but Paul—who angers me. However, I truly do not understand and may therefore be misinterpreting and distorting the situation. But I would rather be of help—than a source of grief . . . Mother

I'm sure she meant it, but she failed. I didn't understand her. “I regret that I was so bitter and caused you so much anguish.” Yeah, I regretted that, too. What was wrong with her? I was the jilted one, but I got it. Paul went to college and his feelings changed. Out of sight, out of mind. I hated it, but I got it. Stuff like that happened; everybody knew that. She didn't make sense. I couldn't trust her. She
was
a source of grief, whether or not she intended to be. No, I didn't think she could help me. I didn't want her help.

“When my leg is lengthened, won't my shoe lift be too big?” Eliana asks on our way to the shoe store.

“Good point.”

“Won't we have to make the lift shorter and shorter while my leg is getting longer and longer?”

“I think you're right.”

Buying shoes for Eliana is a challenge. We can't buy her any old cheap shoes. They have to be high-quality, supportive shoes, made from a material that Herman the Shoe Lift Guy can work with. Herman will cut off a thin layer from the bottom of the sole and sandwich a customized three-inch lift between the shoe and the bottom of the sole. To further complicate matters, Eliana's right foot is two sizes smaller than her left. For every pair of shoes she wears, I have to buy two pairs, in two different sizes. Her right foot fits into little kid sizes, and her left foot fits into big-kid sizes. Few shoe styles are made for both little and big kids, so our choices are limited. And expensive. At $50 a pair x 2 pairs + $130 for the shoe lift, each pair of shoes Eliana wears costs $230.

She chooses blue Nikes, red Nikes, and black Mary Janes, for which I purchase six pairs of shoes. Of the twelve new shoes we carry out of the store, six will never be worn. I'll bring the three smaller-size right shoes to Herman after radiation tomorrow. His shop is a block from NYU Cancer Center, near
da corner of Toidy-toid and Toid
.

I still climbed the tree in our yard now and then (even though twelfth grade was considered too old to climb trees), to have some privacy, some peace and quiet; and to spy on the neighborhood. One day, I saw the Ramirez kids, Miguel and Rosalia, go in our side door and come out with an armload of food. I didn't say anything.

Another day, from the tree, I saw Dad and Mom arguing in the kitchen. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I could tell that Dad was trying to make light of the argument, as was his habit. He flashed a charming smile at Mom, but his charm wasn't working today. He tried to hug her, but she pulled away. He looked hurt. He opened his arms to her and made a sweet, imploring face. She wiped tears away. He tried again to hug her. She pushed him away. Her eyes shot daggers at him. She shouted something. She was an irate wife. He hung his head and put his hands in his pockets.

Why was she so angry? What were they saying? It was like watching a silent movie. I imagined the captions to the melodrama playing out in the kitchen.

“You don't love me anymore.”

“Of course I do!”

“No you don't. Not since my operation.”

“Louise—”

“Don't lie to me.”

Was there another woman? Dad with someone else? That would be weird. I was just guessing, playing detective. I didn't know and I didn't want to know. Maybe she was just angry at him for sailing every weekend and never being home. Whatever the cause, I surmised that she was angry with him and taking it out on me. Her crazy, intense anger at Paul leaving me for another girl was her misplaced anger at Dad. Maybe. I should have been glad that she was arguing with Dad, so she would cut me some slack. No, of course I wasn't glad that they were fighting. It made me sad. And mad. At Dad—I mean, if he was having an affair, and I didn't know if he was.

Herman flashes his irresistible smile at me, as he walks slowly from the back of the store, carefully shifting his weight to accommodate his prosthetic leg. He's in his forties, but his broad face is boyish and cherubic. He lost his leg at age six, when he was hit by a bus in his native Colombia. I think he's heroic for choosing a career that allows him to help other people to walk. He makes brilliant shoe lifts for Eliana. No one is better than Herman.

“How ya doin',” he says, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He grabs a stool and sits across from me to study Eliana's new shoes. He wears his customary white canvas work apron over a plaid button-down shirt, neat blue jeans, and running shoes.

“How's my baby? You bring pictures?”

I hand him a photo of Eliana at camp, walking Alex the Llama.

“She's getting so big! This one's goin' on my Wall of Fame.”

Herman's Wall of Fame has photos, letters, and artifacts from his favorite customers, including a seven-foot-tall teenager from Illinois, for whom Herman makes size 20 sneakers; a little boy with a degenerative skin disease, for whom Herman creates soft, nonchafing shoes; a Barnum & Bailey Circus clown with bunions, for whom Herman makes customized clown shoes; and Eliana.

“I want to see pictures, too,” I say, and Herman produces snapshots of the foster babies he and his wife are caring for. I love this guy, for helping my kid and all these other kids, for being incredibly kind.

“What are we doin' today?”

“Three shoe lifts. Next month, Eliana has that leg-lengthening surgery I told you about.”

“We'll have to make the lifts shorter while her leg is getting longer.”

“That's just what Eliana said.”

“Smart girl! That's my baby. I'll call you when these are ready.”

I SAW A
wild turkey in the Ramble today. It was strolling on a patch of sundrenched grass where a group of orthodox Jewish preschoolers was playing kickball. I've never seen a turkey in the park before. He looked conspicuously out of place, big, ungainly, and vulnerable. I didn't know there were wild turkeys in the park. I asked a park ranger, who said the turkey flew into the park a week ago, and all the rangers are worried about him because he's alone and will never find a mate unless he flies away.

JULIA HASN'T RESPONDED
to my assorted phone calls and e-mails. I finally snag her attention with a jokey e-mail subject,
“JULIA, CALL NOW TO COLLECT YOUR PRIZE MONEY!”
I happen to be at my computer when her e-mail comes in at one in the morning.

“Everything's fine, Mom. Sorry I haven't called. Prince
ton's great. I miss you too, and yes, I'm coming home for fall break. Can't wait to sleep in my own bed. But I won't be home the whole week, just
2
days. Have to be back Oct
30
for crew practice. I made VARSITY! Can you believe it? Hardly any freshman walk-ons made the cut. Who knew I'd ever be an athlete?”

I grab the phone and call her.

“Hey, Mom, what are you doing up so late?”

“Waiting for your e-mail. Just kidding. What are
you
doing up so late?”

She laughs. “This isn't late for me.”

“I knew that.”

“I have a paper due tomorrow.”

Lady Gaga's “Poker Face” plays in the background. I hear her roommate singing along. I picture Julia in her plaid flannel pajamas, sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in her cozy dorm room, typing her paper, answering e-mails, listening to music, singing with her roommate, talking to me. She's expert at multitasking.