by Alli Frank
“That unitard makes your balls look lopsided,” is all I can think to say as I turn to walk out of the theatre, tears of rage burning my eyes. How can Jean Georges even begin to claim that I don’t support Etta’s interest? I came back to San Francisco to make sure she had a stable home with a loving, albeit small, family. I got a job as an admissions assistant so I could make sure she got to go to Fairchild and we would qualify for the faculty/staff tuition assistance. I borrowed money from Aunt Viv to make sure Etta could continue ballet through high school. And I will do what it takes to make sure she has a career where she never worries about money like Aunt Viv and I do. I have had thirteen years of making sure Etta has choices I never had because of lack of guidance (though I know Aunt Viv did her best). There was too much emphasis on my looks and not my brain—a bad combo for a young woman let loose in New York City with little understanding of the world. With all I’ve done, Etta will not end up back on my doorstep in five years.
And I really hate purple.
Alone in the lobby, gathering my composure, I have twenty minutes before Etta is done so I reach in my purse for my phone. Lola loves my Jean Georges impressions, particularly when I mimic him pissed off. I flip on the ringer to give her a call and see that I have had three voice mails and five texts in the twenty minutes I’ve been playing verbal badminton with ballet Barney. I go right to text.
SANDY
It’s Sandy in the main office your aunt Viv collapsed in the kitchen at school. We have called paramedics. Call the school.
5:12 P.M.
SANDY
Sandy again paramedics have arrived.
5:18 P.M.
SANDY
There is a woman named Lola also listed as an emergency contact for your aunt I’m calling her now since I can’t get you.
5:24 P.M.
LOLA
Jo get yourself to UCSF hospital ASAP! Meet you there. Aunt Viv is on her way in ambulance where the hell are you? Better not be drinking without me . . . Lo
5:36 P.M.
ELSA
Josie its Elsa, Nan’s Assistant. Sorry to bother you but Nan told me to text you since you didn’t answer her e-mail. Nan wants you to know she expects the list of the 20 wealthiest applicants for the coming school year in her in-box first thing tomorrow morning. Please include their individual names and net worth.
5:37 P.M.
This isn’t possible! The one time I have my ringer off, Aunt Viv, a woman who has never been sick a day in her life, decides to collapse? How, in one day, one hour, am I failing both Etta and Aunt Viv? And then there’s Nan and her need for me to facilitate playdates for her to rub elbows with San Francisco’s elite. My hashtag should be #sonotwinningatlife.
“Lola, where are you? Are you at the hospital yet? What happened to Aunt Viv?” I yell into the phone as I run to grab Etta out of class and head across town.
“I’m at the information desk right now trying to find out what room she’s in. I’ll be with her until you get here. Don’t worry, when the apocalypse comes that woman will still be standin’, trust.” I burst into tears knowing Lola is already at the ER, since it will take me a good forty minutes to get to UCSF hospital at rush hour. “You better turn off those waterworks before you see Aunt Viv, you know she has no patience for soft souls.”
“You’re right. I’ll lose it in the car but pull it together by the time I see Aunt Viv. Promise.” Jesus, I better be fine. I’m pretty sure I can’t do life without Aunt Viv, but I’m 100 percent sure I can’t do life with Aunt Viv if she thinks I fell to pieces at the first sign of a health issue in her sixty-nine years. I’ll never hear the end of it around the house. Josie, can I trouble you to get me two aspirin without you fallin’ all over my casket?
“Good. Here we go, just found out she’s been transferred from the ER to room 502, cardiac floor. By the way, where are you, why weren’t you picking up your phone?”
“I was battling with Jean Georges.”
“Oh snap, you had to do battle with him sober? Who won?” I can feel Lola sympathy cringe over the phone.
“He did.”
“Double snap. Crap day for you. See you soon; room 502.”
“See you there.”
EIGHT
We drive in silence the whole way to the hospital, Etta nervously pulling a loose string hanging from her black wool leg warmers. Teen stoicism is keeping Etta’s face calm, but I’m her mama. She grew inside me, developed a heart right underneath mine and sometimes I know what she’s feeling before she does.
“Don’t worry about Aunt Viv,” I say, as much to Etta as to myself, while parking the car in the underground garage. “She is absolutely sticking around to see you graduate from college. You’re going to make her proud in every way I failed her, and there’s no way she’s going to miss that victory, I promise you that. You’re the reason she gets up in the morning, I’m simply another mouth she has to feed.” I squeeze Etta’s hand tight. She squeezes back but can’t look at me. The Bordelon shed no tears policy is a tough one for her to follow, her heart not yet battle-scarred from life like mine. We continue to hold hands up to the fifth floor, our steps tentative as we get closer to room 502. I don’t do well with uncertainty and not knowing if the situation that lies behind the door may change our lives forever is creating a peach pit sized choke in my throat.
I crack open the hospital room door and hear Lola giggling like she’s at a sleepover, which seems completely inappropriate in the middle of a crisis. And Aunt Viv is doing the same? I let out the huge breath I’ve been holding since talking to Lola. I didn’t even know Aunt Viv knew how to giggle. Staying light and positive is the name of the game, I know, but I’m eager to hear what the doctor has to say about Aunt Viv’s health.
Etta steps in front of me, heartened by the laughter, and pushes the door wide open before I’m mentally ready. Aunt Viv is sitting up in bed, worrying a ball of tissue with her right hand, IV hanging.
“Etta baby.” Aunt Viv’s face lights up. “Come on over and meet the doctor who’s been taking good care of your aunt Viv. He even brought me a cup of those ice chips I like so much.” Aunt Viv weakly waves Etta over. Her skin looks ashen to me, but you don’t tell that to a proud black woman; ashy elbows and knees being the sign of poor grooming and all. “Josie, you come over here, too, even though the one time you don’t answer that damn phone is when my life is teetering on the edge. Remind me to change my emergency contact.” Aunt Viv’s collapse has not affected her wit. That has to be a good sign.
Lola gently taps the doctor who is lost in Aunt Viv’s chart, so he’ll turn to greet me. Again with the weird giggle. I’m embarrassed for Lola and this flirty, awkward Catholic schoolgirl thing she’s got goin’ on. You think you know your best friend . . .
“Josie, this is Dr. Golden, the incredible cardiologist on call who has been helping Aunt Viv since she was checked in. He was able to get her out of the ER and onto the cardiology floor quickly. Dr. Golden, Josie Bordelon is Aunt Viv’s niece. They live together and Josie is Viv’s primary caretaker. I’m just the loving and dedicated best friend available for all birthday parties, child-rearing advice, and family crises.”
“I don’t need a caretaker, you watch your language,” Aunt Viv scolds Lola.
Shocked to see that Golden Boy is Aunt Viv’s doctor, I say the first thing that pops into my brain, “The last time I saw you, you weren’t wearing any pants.” The room drops dead silent.
Golden Boy, as it turns out, is a golden cardiologist. If I had actually taken the career conversation carrot he had dangled in front of me at the vegan food truck I would have known that. Lola is standing right behind him subtly thrusting her hips and licking her lips. No joke. Here we are on the UCSF cardiology floor with Aunt Viv confined to a hospital bed and Lola is thinking about grindin’ up on the doctor.
“The ex–track star turne
d director of admissions. Do I have it right?” Dr. Golden inquires with a grin.
“Well, there are a few other details before, during, and after those two life events, but more or less, yes, that’s me.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Josie.” Dr. Golden bypasses my hand and goes in for a hug. Over his shoulder I see Lola’s eyebrows shoot sky high. Later, I mouth.
“Not sure it’s that nice to see you again under these circumstances,” I say, cutting to the chase, but instead, come off sounding like a complete biatch.
“Of course. Let’s talk about today.” Dr. Golden’s smile disappears and he returns to the information on Aunt Viv’s chart.
“Good Lawd, Josephine, that’s no way to talk to the man who saved my life. You will have to excuse my niece, Dr. Golden, she left her manners I don’t know where. Josie, do you need to go look for those manners I taught you that you’ve clearly misplaced somewhere between the parking garage and comin’ on up in my room?” Lola and Aunt Viv have forgotten that we have gathered in this aseptic hospital room to diagnose why Aunt Viv collapsed at school, not to marry me off. Nor do they yet know that their efforts are futile.
“Dr. Golden and I know each other because he and his HUSBAND are applying their daughter to Fairchild,” I explain, scanning the room to make sure eye contact and complete understanding of the situation has been achieved with every female in the room. Lola drops her head in defeat. I know she had high hopes for this one.
“Uhhh yes, that’s right, we’re trying to get Gracie into kindergarten at Fairchild.” Dr. Golden seems to be growing increasingly uneasy in the company of four women stuffed into this tiny hospital room. I don’t know if it’s estrogen overload or if he has some really bad news to give us.
“I know more about medicine than I do about kindergarten, so I think I should stick to my area of expertise. Since Daniel’s running the kindergarten admissions show, I’m going to focus on your aunt Viv.”
“Excellent idea,” I say as I brace myself, desperate to hear that Aunt Viv is going to be okay.
“Your aunt Viv had a mild heart attack. Nothing that a couple weeks of rest and some lifestyle adjustments won’t help. Limiting stress, a healthy diet, an aspirin a day, and regular exercise will do wonders to decrease the chance of another, potentially more serious, heart attack.”
“You mean so that it will never happen again, right, Dr. Golden?” Etta asks, cautiously speaking up. She is tucked in tightly next to Aunt Viv. I know she’s praying that if she hugs her long enough nothing bad can happen. Etta has been doing that with her stuffed elephant since she was little. I choke up again; my whole life is clutching on to each other in a twin-sized hospital bed. None of us is ready to break up the Bordelon girl band on this particular Tuesday afternoon.
“I can’t say never. When there has been one heart attack the chances are increased of having another. What I can promise are lower chances of it happening again if you follow my instructions and take good care of yourself, Vivian. No going to work for the rest of this week or the next two. And when I see you for a follow-up appointment I want to hear all about how you are going to incorporate exercise and more fruits and vegetables into your daily routine.” Golden Boy affectionately squeezes her left foot. Clearly the good doctor does not know that Southern women of an older generation are allergic to exercise.
“Well, that’s not gonna work for me. Tomorrow is tacos and corn torte at school, all the kids love it. I even have fresh kiwis for dessert.” In fifty years at Fairchild, Aunt Viv has made every single lunch, except for two, for the 820 children. And those were my fault, temperamental appendix when I was ten. “Oh and then next Friday I’m caterin’ the heads’ monthly lunch meeting in Grierson Hall. The prosciutto and Gruyère quiche is not gonna make itself, and our head of school insists on it.” What doesn’t Nan insist on when it comes to her need to be the lead show dog? Does she really think the other Heads of School care what quiche is served? Or does she think that by serving Gruyère instead of common man’s cheddar she will establish some perverse private school dominance that is profoundly important to her but inexplicable to anyone else? At least there’s comfort in knowing Aunt Viv must be feeling okay because her constant state of ornery is pushing back hard over kiwis and quiche.
“Nor are you going to be making it, Vivian,” Dr. Golden insists, his eyes trying to bore a hole through Aunt Viv’s thick skull. Medical tough love trumping the scrappiest lady in town. Swoon.
“Are you going to come make it for me then? Those hands of yours don’t look like they’ve seen much time in a kitchen cookin’ food and scrubbin’ dishes.” Aunt Viv is not going down on our couch for the next three weeks without a fight.
“I will if I have to, young lady. And I’m sure Josie would be willing to help me cook if that means we can get you to stay home and rest. Josie, how are you in the torte and quiche department?” Golden Boy comes and stands next to me, looking for us to join forces in this argument that he has mistakenly picked with Aunt Viv.
“Josie will make whatever you want,” Lola offers in an unnaturally deep voice. I roll my eyes, pained by Lola’s attempt to sound sultry. Good thing Dr. Golden is gay because right now Lola is proving herself a subpar wing-woman.
“Don’t let her near my kitchen, she’ll burn the whole place down!” Aunt Viv scolds Dr. Golden with a wink. When thirty of my almost forty years of living have been spent in the same house as Aunt Viv, one would think I’d have picked up a skill or two in the kitchen, but all I’ve picked up is a great appreciation for having someone else do the cooking. In the Bordelon household no one is allowed to go hungry. Call it a knee-jerk reaction to Aunt Viv’s childhood of too many mouths to feed and not enough food, but for whatever reason she overcooks and overstuffs us. I don’t complain, though my skirts don’t exactly fit, either.
Etta buries her head in Aunt Viv’s pillow thoroughly mortified by this display of two grown women falling all over themselves to win the favor of the good gay doctor.
“You women are the best thing to happen to me this week. The view is not usually this lovely in the hospital.” Golden Boy chuckles. “You let me know when it’s time to whip up some of those quiches. I’m actually pretty good with a knife. Prosciutto is a meat, right?” This guy clearly spends way too much time eating hospital grub and food truck fare if he lives in the foodiest city in America and he’s questioning if prosciutto is a meat.
Opening the door, Dr. Golden leans over and whispers in my ear, “And, Josie, you’re hands down my favorite director of admissions so far. Trust me, Daniel’s made me meet them all.” His lips are so close to my earlobe he could easily take a nibble. The idea of it makes me shudder and then stifle a snicker knowing Roan will get a real laugh when I tell him we’re both turned on by the same eye candy.
“We ARE the best things to happen to you!” Lola shouts after him, clumsily punching the air and kicking her foot to close the door behind him. Yet again, she’s momentarily lost control of her limbs and her self-respect.
“What was that?” I ask Lola, horrified by her display of uninhibited dorkiness. “And where did it come from?”
“God, I have no idea,” Lola groans, mortified, burying her head in her hands.
“You may be able to handle your liquor, Lola, but you sure can’t handle yourself in front of men,” Aunt Viv chimes in before laying her head back and closing her eyes to rest.
“Good thing I have a rich fantasy life, because I’ve completely lost my mojo in the real world. But maybe he has a straight doctor friend for you? Gay or straight, you know good-looking guys always hang together,” Lola whispers to me, hoping if we stay quiet enough Aunt Viv will sleep a little. She digs her elbow into my ribs, making sure she’s been heard.
“Welcome to my no mojo world, Lo,” I say, reaching for Lola’s hand. “Now you know why there are dust bunnies rolling through my lady parts.”
; “Awww, Mama, that’s disgusting!” Etta scrunches her face up as if the idea of her mother having sex is akin to taking a big whiff of foul milk. “Just get a man already so I don’t have to hear you and Lola talkin’ about your dried-up lady parts.”
“Etta baby, when your mama was your age she could stop traffic when she crossed the street, she was that beautiful. Problem is, she ain’t been out walkin’ much since Michael left,” Aunt Viv mutters, turning on her left side to get more comfortable. Lola nods her head in complete agreement. Though she has never once said it out loud, I know Aunt Viv still pines for the days of having Michael around the house. I don’t know if it’s Michael I pine for or if it’s for some sign from a man—an employed, attentive, intelligent man—that I’m still in the game, that I’m worthy of love. I know the early morning, twenty-year-old barista at my local café would Mrs. Robinson all over me, but I’m not looking for man-filler. I’m holding out for a winner. Only thing is, I don’t know if a winner will be able to find me behind the emotional fortress I’ve built around myself, brick by brick, over the past eighteen years.
“I think it’s time you hit the streets again, Josie. What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?” Aunt Viv’s words fade as she falls into much-needed sleep.
“I could get hit by a car.”
NINE
“Pick your poison. On the table I have a selection of vegan donut holes, Skittles, blueberries, dark chocolate–covered espresso beans, corn chips, and sparkling water.” I have worked hard to create a stress-eating buffet that expresses to Roan that I choose to stand in solidarity with him when it comes to his finicky vegan eating habits.
“I’m off gluten, corn, and sugar,” Roan smugly announces, reaching for the blueberries as if there’s an audience of health zealots in the conference room ready to give him a standing O. I peg him dead center in the forehead with a powdered donut hole. Take that, you clean-eating buzzkill. “You should try an elimination diet sometime, Josie—it would do wonders for your mood swings.”
