Minus Me

by Mameve Medwed

  He squeezes her elbow. “I know you can.”

  She turns to him. “What would I do without you?”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Well, he’s certainly nailed her biggest worry, which she can’t worry about right now. She checks her watch. “By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll be free. Less than twenty hours.”

  “Piece of cake,” Sam says.

  “For a normal family,” Annie qualifies.

  They follow the Passamaquoddy hordes in their Sunday best up the stairs to the council chamber. Flanking the entrance are a school committee member and a city councilor, neither of whom they voted for. “Hi, Annie; hi, Sam,” they chorus.

  Annie scans the crowd. The seats are already filled except for a few singles toward the rear. The school committee member, Patti Patterson, a crusader against sex education and the mother of six kids all under the age of eight, steps forward. “You’re in the reserved section, first row. VIPs rate the benches with upholstery, not those folding chairs that kill your back.”

  “I know what you mean,” Sam says. “Those chairs can give you sciatica.”

  The city councilor hands them programs. A photograph of Ursula taken twenty-five years ago shimmers from the cover. “She’s quite the looker,” he says.

  Annie and Sam slide onto the bench alongside Dr. Buckley, the mayor, the mayor’s wife, the city solicitor, the city clerk, the head of parks and recreation, the public works chairman, the treasurer, the police chief, the fire chief, the health inspector, and the man who introduces himself as the director of risk management.

  If only she had someone to manage her risk.

  She opens the program to a list of the former recipients, all five of them. She scans the schedule of events: a welcome by the mayor; an introduction by Ambrose Buckley, MD; the presentation of the award; a reception to follow in the multipurpose room. A short biography of Ursula reads like an application for Person of the Year. Annie stops at the last sentence. She is the proud mother of Arabella (Annie) Stevens-Strauss. Annie and her husband, Sam, are the purveyors of Passamaquoddy’s famous Paul Bunyan and are graciously catering the reception following the festivities.

  Annie fixates on the word proud. Is that Ursula’s doing? Dr. Buckley’s? The award committee’s? No matter who is responsible, she’s touched. And delighted by the shout-out, which counts not only as free advertising but also as a boost for any future expansion plans.

  Annie turns the page to Longfellow Clark’s poem, “Pine Trees.” She reads the first line. Oh stalagmites of pine, oh conifers of Maine, your fallen needles, your humble cones, your battered bark … She starts to laugh.

  Sam pokes her. “What’s so funny?”

  She points.

  “Old Henry Wadsworth must be turning in his grave.”

  “Shhhh,” someone hisses from the row behind them.

  The mayor gets up and fiddles with the microphone, which alternates between ear-deafening blasts of static and dead silence. After several people jump to his aid, he makes his speech, which is—surprising for a politician—blessedly short. He lists the former winners, talks about the fine citizens of Passamaquoddy who have put him in office all these years, then turns the stage over to “our beloved Dr. Buckley, who is a special friend of our honoree today.”

  Dr. Buckley climbs onto the stage. From one pocket he pulls out a few notes, from the other pocket he removes his reading glasses, and then he starts to recount the many wonders that are Ursula. Dr. Buckley lists her beauty, charm, the highlights of her long career. He pays equal attention to Ursula’s role as Queen Victoria and her stint at the ironing board in Look Back in Anger. The audience seems spellbound: no restless rustling, no unwrapping of cellophaned mints, no texting, no coughing fits. When he gets to her upcoming Law & Order appearance, people pull out their iPhones and punch the date into their calendars.

  Dr. Buckley talks about his time as Ursula’s family doctor, how he looked forward to her visits, how they would chat about art and theater and life until the other patients in the waiting room would start to mutiny.

  Annie touches her second-tier pin; she fingers her swollen node. She’s sure he doesn’t look forward to her appointments the way he once anticipated Ursula’s. She can hardly compete with Ursula’s joie de vivre—which Dr. Buckley now extolls—though in her own defense, Annie argues, without the vivre, there can be no joie.

  At last he seems to be winding down; he’s on the final page of notes, the others stuffed back into his pocket one by one. “Let me close with these words,” he says, “about Ursula’s love of Maine in general and Passamaquoddy in particular.”

  Suddenly the hellhole, the backwater, the provinces, boonies, the sticks, the place that time forgot, which were Ursula’s constant declarations of repugnance, are now decoded by Dr. Buckley into terms of endearment: community, idyll, pine-scented paradise, seventh heaven, cloud nine, civic excellence, neighborhood fellowship.

  “I don’t believe this,” Annie whispers to Sam.

  “She’s an actress.”

  “Just like the rest of us,” Dr. Buckley wraps up, “our esteemed award winner holds Maine in her heart and in her soul. Though she has roamed far and wide, done more than many of us would have dreamed of in our lifetimes, hobnobbed with people we’ve only read about, graced stages throughout the world’s major cities, she always returns to Passamaquoddy, to the landscape and the people she loves.” Dr. Buckley tucks away the last page of his notes, removes his glasses, and blots his eyes. “Please let me close with Dorothy’s words in The Wizard of Oz.” He leans forward, hands tented in prayer formation. “ ‘There’s no place like home.’ ”

  On cue, from behind a velvet curtain strung between one pole bearing the stars and stripes and another the state flag (Dirigo, “I lead”) appears Ursula, a vision of shimmering silver and sparkling gems, Dr. Buckley’s orchid corsage pinned to her wrist.

  The mayor rushes onto the stage, carrying the plaque. The audience leaps to its feet, clapping and whistling. Ursula ducks her chin, bats her eyelashes, and raises a beringed and braceleted hand signaling for them to stop.

  They roar louder. “Ursula! Ursula!” they cheer.

  Would any top-of-the-charts rock star earn a more fervent response? Annie wonders. Not that such a big shot ever performed in Passamaquoddy’s city hall. Though her father once told her he saw Roy Rogers on this very stage when he was a kid.

  As soon as the audience quiets down, the mayor holds up the award. From her VIP perch, Annie has a clear view. The plaque is oak, with a pine tree embossed on the front; Passamaquoddy Good Citizen Award is carved on the top with Ursula’s name etched on the bottom. There are smaller Latin words Annie can just make out—the city’s motto, she assumes: VERITAS CURAT. Even with her rudimentary high school Latin, she manages to translate: Truth cures!

  The mayor hands the plaque to Ursula.

  Ursula clutches it to her décolleté.

  “A few words?” the mayor asks.

  “If you insist.” Ursula adjusts the microphone so it doesn’t block an inch of her perfect face. She speaks without notes. “First, let me thank our wonderful mayor and our beloved Dr. Buckley, one of my first and dearest Maine friends and also a close friend of my late and sorely missed spouse. Special thanks also to my daughter and her husband for their embracing hospitality and for teaching me the true meaning of family.” She points to Annie and Sam scrunching down in their front-row VIP seats.

  “But my most profound thanks belong to my fellow Passamaquoddians.” She waves the plaque. “This is the greatest honor of my career. Why? you might ask. Because it comes from my beloved home, my beloved friends and neighbors, my cherished community. I’m afraid these utterly inadequate words of gratitude will be brief, because, in all honesty, I, who am never at a loss for words—just ask my fellow thespians—am, at this glorious moment, choked with emotion. I feel highly unworthy of this award but so very blessed, indeed, to join the august company of, among others, the
inventor of the Quoddy ratchet, who has such a long page on Wikipedia (isn’t the Internet marvelous?) and the brilliant composer of our city’s anthem. I have, in fact, been humming that tune all day.”

  “Sing it!” someone calls out.

  Ursula laughs. “Better to leave any musical performances to my more melodious colleagues. Alas, I can barely carry a tune. To which you may testify if you ever stand outside my shower door.”

  She peers down at the audience. “Frankly, no matter the often-elaborate trappings of my profession, deep down I crave simplicity, not fancy bouquets or fancy people or ornate surroundings, but you, the salt of the earth, who know true values, and the town that nurtures those values. These roots, your roots, are my roots. As Longfellow Clark—is there a more perfect name for our local bard?—wrote …” Ursula places her hand over her heart. “ ‘Oh stalagmites of pine, oh conifers of Maine, your fallen needles, your humble cones, your battered bark …’ ”

  She waits a dramatic beat, then concludes, “Even before I knew the motto of our hometown, the motto that is written on this very plaque, I seem to have internalized it as my own guiding light, my own North Star. Veritas curat. Truth cures. I will cherish these words and try to live by them no matter where life’s journey leads me. This I can promise you. Thank you very much.”

  Ursula bows low, exposing a great deal of breast, then bows to the left, the right, and toward the balcony. She blows kisses in every direction. Russian-style, she applauds the audience. To thunderous cheers, she slips behind the flagpoled drapery.

  * * *

  By the time Annie and Sam make their way to the reception, the salt of the earth are surrounding Ursula and waving their programs for autographs. Annie and Sam stand in front of the table laden with the mini Paul Bunyans. They are happy to see that more people throng these than Mrs. Gerard’s whoopie pies or Michaud’s poutine, despite the inadequate toothpicks, as demonstrated by pickle and salami bits littering the floor. She spots Ralphie and Dee Dee over by the bar talking to a couple of the hairdressers from Cutting Edge. They wave to her. It’s a sign they’ve moved on, especially Ralphie. Megan will find more appropriate fish in her sea. Dee Dee is taking her own plunge. All is forgotten or at least forgiven.

  “What a wonderful mother you have, Annie. You must be so proud,” says the police chief, balancing two plates of mini Bunyans. “For the wife,” he says in defense.

  Soon enough it seems as if every citizen is coming up to congratulate her on her mother. Annie feels her smile start to freeze into a rictus, her hand sore from being continually pumped, her neck stiff from nodding. So many lipsticked kisses have been planted on her cheeks that she must look riddled with measles. Sam fans out his fingers against her back. “I can tell that you’ve had it,” he whispers.

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Only to me, who knows you so well.”

  “You think I can make my exit?”

  “You go ahead. Since I’ve got to stay and clean up, Dr. Buckley kindly volunteered to drive you and Ursula home.”

  “It’ll be hard to pull my mother away.”

  “Maybe not. She’s no spring chicken, after all, and it’s been a long day.”

  He’s right. Even Ursula has had her fill of kudos and the salt of the earth—not to mention a menu that does not include caviar. She’s ready to go. “I always try to leave my audience wanting more,” she explains. They walk away amid bravas and best speech ever and most deserving winner and one-person chamber of commerce and not changed a whit since you lived here—compliments Ursula deflects with veritas curat modesty.

  * * *

  “Do come in, dear Ambrose, for a hot toddy or a little nightcap,” invites Ursula as soon as Dr. Buckley pulls up in front of Annie and Sam’s house.

  “If I weren’t taking you to the airport tomorrow, I would certainly want to prolong the evening. But now I think I’ll leave you two girls the pleasure of a few mother-daughter moments alone.” He looks pointedly at Annie. “I am sure you have much to discuss.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Ambrose. Though Arabella would love you to join us.”

  “Alas, I have early rounds.” Dr. Buckley turns to Annie. “Remind me, what was our city motto?”

  “I have no idea,” Annie hedges.

  “But I do,” Ursula says. She unwraps the plaque from its protective tissue paper. “Here it is. Veritas curat. Truth cures!” She leans over and awards Dr. Buckley a lingering kiss on the lips. “À demain, dearest Ambrose.”

  Inside, Annie takes out the Scotch they both need despite the reception’s continuous flow of jug wine and beer. She pours two fingers into matching glasses and carries them into the living room. Her step is light. Ursula’s visit is nearing its end. Soon Sam will be back from cleaning up after the reception. Soon they will all be tucked into their beds. And soon, after breakfast, Dr. Buckley will take Ursula away. Surprisingly, the whole visit has gone without a hitch. Annie has survived.

  Or rather—and no small matter either—Annie has at least survived Ursula.

  Now Ursula excuses herself to slip into something more comfortable upstairs. “I’ll only be a second,” she promises.

  Annie eyes the Scotch and decides she’ll wait for Ursula. She rearranges the books on the coffee table. She plumps up the pillows. She straightens the landscapes on the wall. She peels wax off a candlestick. Soon a half hour has passed. So much for Ursula’s only-a-second, but then her mother was always ready to keep an audience—and a daughter—waiting.

  Annie changes her mind and sips the Scotch. She yawns. She shuts her eyes. She opens them. She finishes her drink. “Ursula?” she calls.

  No answer.

  She starts to worry. Ursula, as Sam pointed out, is no spring chicken, despite the spring in her step and her claims of robust health. Maybe the travel and all the excitement were too much for her mother. Maybe Ursula fell asleep. Or worse … A Merck Manual’s index of Sam-style possibilities parades through her head.

  Annie bounds up the stairs. The door to her bedroom is open. Strange, all the gorgeous, expensive underwear Ursula bought her, the underwear laid out and left on her bed like a crime scene outline, is no longer there. Did she put everything away and forget? Has her swollen node metastasized to her brain? Or perhaps Ursula changed her mind about Annie’s potential for seduction and took the present back.

  “Ursula?” she calls.

  Still no answer.

  “Ursula,” she shouts again. Louder.

  She stops in the hallway. From the guest room, she hears muffled sobs. She opens the door.

  Ursula is sitting in the dark. She clutches something on her lap.

  “Ursula!”

  Ursula weeps. “I found this,” she accuses, “while I was putting away the lingerie you left strewn so carelessly all over your bed.”

  Her mother looks up. Mascara rivulets her cheeks. Her face is crumpled, aged. “I know, Arabella. I know,” Ursula sobs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s amazing how much tension a lone woman in a rocking chair can project. Of course, as Sam pointed out, her mother is an actress. And Ursula is in full histrionic mode. Clearly she is mining her past performances of Gertrude, Medea, Mother Courage, and Amanda Wingfield to create this larger-than-life paean to maternal angst and power.

  Annie doesn’t have a chance. The only role left to her is the disappointing daughter, Laura in the Glass Menagerie, crippled, fragile, shy, crushed, as shattered as her glass unicorn.

  “How could you have neglected to impart to me such a monumental piece of information?” With the fury of Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, Ursula hurls the manual across the room, where it lands in the spot once occupied by the baby’s empty crib.

  Annie scurries to rescue it. One by one, she picks up the pages, which have come loose from their clip. She clutches them tight against her chest, feeling like a Madonna cradling, if not a baby, still something she alone gave birth to. “It’s private. You did not have
my permission to look at this.”

  “I’m your mother.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “And you are my child. My one, sole, single child.”

  Any potential others having been peremptorily and conveniently eliminated, Annie does not point out.

  Though maybe Ursula reads her mind, because her mother’s face flushes. “It was a different time, different circumstances.” She shakes her head. “You understand nothing.”

  Annie holds the manual so close it seems to meld into her skin, her bones, her compromised organs. “You gave up your rights long ago. When you left my father and me.”

  “You are so quick to judge,” Ursula accuses. “You have no idea …” She halts her furious rocking, its speed a mounting orchestration of her anger. She lowers her voice. “Now is not the time for recriminations. Let us focus on what I’ve just read …”

  “Which you had no right to read.”

  “In your opinion. Yet I did read it. And I am devastated. Utterly devastated.” Ursula rubs her hands together; her tear-streaked face and shocked expression appear to spring from genuine emotion not melodramatic artifice. “To think you’ve carried this terrible, terrible burden alone for all this time.” Ursula starts to cry again, big hacking sobs deep from her diaphragm.

  Annie considers going to her, stroking her hand, putting her arms around her shoulders. Something she would do without hesitation for a perfect stranger in that kind of distress. How odd that reaching out to Ursula seems both harder and unnatural. Annie might as well be a foundling, imprinted to attach to a piece of cloth or a few feathers instead of her own maternal flesh and blood. She takes a tentative step forward.

  Ursula weeps. Annie remains silent and watches her. When Ursula’s crescendo of cries quiets to intermittent snuffling, Annie goes to the bathroom and brings back a glass of water. She hands it to her. “Thank you, darling. I do apologize for carrying on so. I am quite aware that I can become just the tiniest, teeniest bit overemotional.” She sips the water. “May I ask you one question?” she ventures, calmer now.