What You Remember I Did (18 page)

Simply lying on the table for half an hour filled her with sunlight and good memories of family vacations on warm beaches. The bodywork itself provided a loosening of tensions that felt deep and primal, a soothing of ancient pain. Whether Baryshnikov's energy had anything to do with it or not, she was happy to pay the fee.

A few days later, Nan resumed therapy with Tonya, individually and in the support group where, for the first time, she talked about her relationship with her mother. She said only a few, tentative things: "I've never doubted that she loves me. Now that's almost scary," and "She's always been the most important person in the world to me," and "She's old now, and I have to take care of her, and sometimes I can't stand to touch her." Around the circle, heads, including Tonya's, nodded. She felt that combination of relief and guilt, which had of late become a familiar state of being.

Matt invited her to dinner, to a movie, out for drinks. She refused every option as politely as she could. He invited them to his house for Christmas. Her mother whined until she accepted and Nan went shopping for a gift.

Nothing she looked at seemed right. Everything was either too personal or not personal enough. She finally settled on an old paperweight that was a magnifying glass, a simple black square with a bubble of glass in the center. Written in faded gold script on the square was a name and "Philadelphia, Pa." Whether the piece had a history she didn't know. The owner of the antique shop told her that it did, though he couldn't be very specific, and the fact that it was from Philadelphia amused her, given her activities there the week before.

She also picked up a first edition of Carlos Castaneda's "A Separate Reality." She and Matt were both baby boomers, both part of the generation that had grown up awed by the teachings, probably fictional, of Carlos and don Juan, which had excused their intake of a variety of substances during their late college years.

The next decision to be made was what to do about a Christmas tree. She didn't care for artificial trees and Catherine's asthma couldn't handle pine, so there would be no big tree this year. She bought a healthy fichus, put it in a clay pot, which she centered in the fireplace–also rendered unusable by her mother's asthma–and pulled the wooden sled her father had made for her seventh birthday out of the attic. She thought about touching up the red paint on the runners and, as she did every year, decided she liked it just the way it was and piled a few wrapped gifts on top of it.

Starting to wrap the Castaneda, she decided to reread it first. It had been almost thirty years. The writing was awful, but she already knew that. Worse, she found the constant repetition of don Juan's laughter, chuckling, giggling, to be a huge distraction. How long did it take to get across the message that he was a jolly fellow who found life and Carlos to be sources of amusement?

By the time she had finished the book, she had reaffirmed two of her own philosophies: there existed no single reality and some people could see more realities than others, and making decisions was difficult and tedious but once made there's no looking back, only looking forward. Could've and would've weren't worth a rat's ass. The past was our teacher–when we were willing and able to learn–about how to deal with the present and the future. The tough part was not turning away from those lessons.

For a moment she felt sure of herself, but that quickly passed, knowing that she could be completely wrong –not for the first time in her life–and that it didn't matter.

Banishing the image of a laughing
nagual
from her mental screen, she slid a copy of "White Christmas" into the VCR for her mother. Whether she liked it or not, The Chipmunks and Bing Crosby would resound through the house for the next few weeks, with the occasional bonus of Mel
Tormé
and chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

"Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.

 
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.

 
If you haven't got a penny, a
ha'penny
will do,

 
If you haven't got a
ha'penny
then God Bless you."

Catherine sang out the old English Yuletide song and Nan smiled. She was thinking about making eggnog when the telephone rang.

"Nan
Jenssen
?"

"Yes."

The caller introduced herself. "Please forgive the intrusion. I'm an attorney. I was given your name by the FMS Foundation, in Philadelphia. I'm putting together a class action suit against Tonya Bishop. Would you be willing to talk to me?"

Nan took a long, deep breath. "I don't know. I'd need some time to think first. And to check you out."

"Call the Bar Association if you wish. And the Foundation."

"I'll do that. Give me a number where you can be reached." She sat down heavily on the stool next to the phone table, wrote down the name and number, and said goodbye. The receiver sat there like any other inanimate object, as if it hadn't just carried her into the next step of the nightmare.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas," her mother warbled.

She felt hot. Feverish. Her head pounded. Tomorrow, she told herself. She would think about all of it tomorrow. Worked for Scarlett, sort of.

But when the phone rang again, she automatically answered it, guessing before he spoke that it would be Matt. "How are you, Nan? How's Catherine?"

"She's singing."

"That's lovely." There was a lilt to his voice. She almost invited him for eggnog until she remembered. "Look," he said. "I called to ask you to come to the performance of Richard's play on Sunday. My student. Your student's boyfriend. Maybe you remember him?"

Indeed I do, Nan thought. "Are you inviting Mom, too?"

Catherine stopped singing and sidled up to Nan. "Is that my
Matty
?" she purred, breathing on Nan's neck.

"Sure. Bring your mother. Bring anyone who might want to come. He needs the audience."

She was drawing circles around the attorney's name, lightly at first, then with increasing pressure.

"Nan? Are you there?"

"I'm here."

"So, will you come?"

"I don't think so, Matt." Nan moved away from her mother. "I'm sorry. Mom shouldn't be going anywhere."

"Does that mean–"

"Yes. I'm afraid so. We won't be going anywhere for Christmas."

She knew he was waiting for her to suggest that he come to her place, but all she said was goodbye. Her mother was crying.

Bells. That's what she was hearing. Catherine liked bells. Why were there bells? She didn't really care why. She liked bells. There weren't enough bells in the world.

What was that sound from outside? Bells. She liked bells.

She thought it was Christmas Eve. She thought somebody had told her that. But where was the Christmas tree? Singing Christmas carols to herself, she looked everywhere. There wasn't any Christmas tree. But there were bells.

It didn't feel like Christmas. That made her sad. There was only one other thing to try. She could get dressed for dinner. In her closet she found a dress that might fit her, lacy and red. Somewhere else in the room she came upon lipstick. She teased her hair. In the mirror she looked nice. Not beautiful, but nice. She moved away and moved back, in and out of the mirror, and satisfied herself that this really was her reflection. She looked nice. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!" she sang. There were other words, but she couldn't find them just now and these were the important ones. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!"

Christmas always tired her. All those children to think about, all those details. She sat down and closed her eyes and rested a while.

"You better watch out! You better not cry!" she danced into the living room, skirt swishing lusciously around her ankles. "You better not pout! I'm
tellin
' you why!"

Becca
was half-asleep on the couch, watching a Christmas show on TV. It must be Christmas. No, it was Nan. Some girl singer Catherine didn't recognize launched into an upbeat rendition of "White Christmas." Timing it just right, Catherine pirouetted between Nan and the screen and stumbled. She would have fallen if Nan hadn't caught her. "And may all your Christmases be white!" She laughed.

"I haven't had anywhere to wear this in I don't know how many years!" The gown was strapless, floor-length, taffeta–very elegant.

"You've always looked good in red."

"Oh, thank you, Nanny!" Bending to kiss her, Catherine nearly tipped into Nan's lap. "And I smell good, too." Why did Nan pull away from her when she nuzzled her neck? It was the same fragrance she'd always used.

"What's the occasion?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?"

"Where are you going to wear the dress?" Nan sounded impatient and distracted. She sniffed the air, like a dog on the trail of something. Most unladylike, Catherine thought. "That smell reminds me of something."

"Foolish girl. It reminds you of me."

Nan shut her eyes and breathed deeply, in and out and in and out.

"I'm wearing this to Matt's, of course," Catherine said into the silence. She swayed and dipped, happily if a bit dangerously, across the room and back. "For dinner. Isn't this just the perfect Christmas dress?"

"Mom." Nan stood up and caught her by the shoulders. Catherine didn't like that one bit. "We are not going to Matt's for Christmas dinner. We're staying right here. I have a turkey."

Catherine was shocked. "Of course we're going. I'm going, anyway. You may stay here by yourself if you like, but I'm going. He invited me."

"He did?"

"You know he did. The invitation was for both of us."

"It doesn't matter because I canceled. You were right there when it happened." What was the matter with this girl? "I'm not going to Matt's for Christmas dinner, and neither are you. That's final." She started out of the room.

"You are not to speak to your mother in that tone." When Nan neither stopped nor responded, Catherine demanded, "Why not?"

"Because I said so!"

Catherine shrieked, "How dare you?" and followed her. She picked up ammunition–an ashtray and a candy bar–and tossed them at the door that slammed behind Nan as she hid in her bedroom. Catherine sent a series of objects flying at the door: a pan, pillows, and shoes. A cup–plastic, with some liquid still in it, enough to cause a small splash along with the thump and roll. She was perfectly aware that she was throwing a temper tantrum, the likes of which Nan had never seen, but it wasn't much fun because the kid wouldn't come out of her room, remained barricaded, while Catherine raged and threw things. Somebody was singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and then there was a most unseemly commercial for something called Viagra.

Before long Catherine ran out of steam and collapsed onto the floor outside Nan's door. She could hear crying inside and told herself she should go to her daughter, but she didn't move, even when the whimpering stopped and there was only silence except for the cheery television noise from the living room and the rustling of her taffeta gown.

I cannot believe my life has come to this. I cannot believe how she has ruined my life.

Desperately Nan thought about calling Tonya, then remembered that she was out of town for the holidays.
How dare she? Doesn't she know that this is when I need her most? Doesn't she care?

Doesn't she love me?

Horrified, Nan covered her face with her hands.
She's my therapist, not my mother. What's happening to me?

Guilt washed over Nan like ice water. She rushed to open the bedroom door, fell to her knees beside Catherine, and burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Mom! I'm so sorry! We'll go! Of course we'll go!"

They cried together for a while. Catherine began to comfort Nan, stroking her hair, crooning, "It's okay, sweetheart, Nanny, it'll be okay, Mommy's here." The red dress still glimmered, though the top of it was sagging now in both front and back. Nan thought the smell and the feel of her mother's skin might make her throw up, though she found herself clinging.

Eventually she got herself and her mother to bed. When she remembered the few Christmas lights she had woven around the fichus and the candles on the mantel, she'd just found a comfortable position under the covers. She groaned. It was too much. Maybe she'd just leave it up to fate whether the house caught fire. But she did manage to get up, unplug the lights, blow out the candles, check on her mother, and stumble back to bed.

Surprisingly she slept well and, as far as she knew, dreamlessly, which was a bit of a disappointment. Catherine was positively chipper as the two of them opened presents. Clapping her hands at the silk robe and fuzzy slippers, though she didn't quite seem to know what to do with them until Nan showed her. Catherine's gift to her was a stuffed dog with floppy ears. Something stirred inside Nan when she stroked it; did this mean something? "It's adorable," she murmured. "Thank you."

"His name is Matthew," Catherine declared coyly.