by Aimee Herman
“About a month before Shirley . . . I was in my bedroom and smelled something really strange. Flor wasn’t over; it was just Shirley and me. I went into her bedroom and noticed a lit cigarette between her fingers. She had fallen asleep and the ash burnt her hand. I can still smell that sizzling flesh like over-cooked hamburger. So awful. Surprisingly, the burning didn’t wake her up. I was finally able to nudge her awake. She claimed that she just hadn’t slept the night before and must have been in a deep sleep. I believed her in that moment.”
“Eleanor, have you shared this memory with your mother?” Peter asked.
“Not really. When I visited her in the hospital, my sister and I went to a . . . like a meeting . . . with her and her doctor. He asked us to share our fears with her. First, he had us write down a list and then he had us read what we felt comfortable sharing out loud. I remember telling her how scared I was that she’d fall asleep again while smoking. I begged her to quit. My sister did too. She stopped, sort of. I think she still sneaks in a few every so often because I can smell it on her, even though she insists it’s just ‘ghost smoke’. That’s what she calls it. She sleeps with her bedroom door open now.”
“Was that her decision, or . . .” Peter asked.
“I asked her. I haven’t been able to go in there. I think she understands why.”
“Eleanor, would you like to share anything else you remember from that time?” Peter looked at me with his earthworm mustache.
“When I was seven years old, my mother quit smoking for the fifth or sixth or thirtieth time in her life. Hard to keep track. Anyway, it was wonderful. Suddenly my own sense of smell became intensified. Secondhand smoke is a killer, you know. All the ashtrays were thrown away, and there were a lot of them. The air was clean without a thick interruption of smoke and coughing. I really thought it was a smooth break-up, but I soon learned that Shirley was having an affair on the side.
“I was supposed to be at Dara’s house—my friend, my ex-friend. I ran home to get a few of my dolls because we were playing our favorite game, Broadway Show, where we sat all of our dolls next to each other as our audience, and then we sang songs like famous Broadway stars. Shirley was alone—I’m not sure where Greta or my dad were—and I could smell her affair the moment I opened the front door. I quietly snuck upstairs to my room, and then stopped, inhaling the smoke. I think I only noticed it because I had become so used to the cleaner air. It’s like the walls lost weight, no longer suffocated by pounds of cigarette smoke.
“Slowly, I walked into Shirley’s bedroom, which has its own bathroom. The door was open and she was sitting on the toilet, smoking a cigarette and blotting her arm, which was bleeding. She didn’t see me. I never told anyone that I had seen her like that. I didn’t understand then what had happened. Later, I realized she had been cutting herself. Blood and smoke flushed down the toilet. Then, three weeks later, Shirley tried to kill herself. The first time or the fourth time or the twelfth time. I didn’t want to know then, and now it is too late to ask. Dad had Gret and I stay with Grandma, while Shirley was in the hospital. I actually didn’t know what was going on. They kept saying Shirley was sick, so I figured she was away because she was contagious. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t even ask questions.”
“Did your parents explain to you what was happening?” Maeve asked.
“Not that I remember. I started to piece it all together years later. I guess that’s why I’m so nervous now. She keeps trying to tell me that she is fine. But how can that be? She tried so many times and she’s still here. It’s only a matter of time—”
“But Eleanor, did you hear what you just said? She is still here.” This was your mom talking. James, I feel like your mother is a warm hug wrapped up inside a human being. It’s like everything she says is so comforting.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t make my fear go away,” I replied.
Sunday, November 14
Dear James,
I was all set to go to Dad’s this weekend, but he had to fly to . . . somewhere . . . for some kind of trade show for work. Of course he was apologetic, but I was disappointed. He promised he’d make it up. Shirley had some sort of plans with a new friend she made from her therapy group, so Flor asked if I might want to go into the city and have an adventure.
“We can eat out somewhere fun and go to a museum. You think you might like that?”
“Nah, I’ll just stay home and watch television or read a book or something.”
“Nope.”
“Nope?” I said.
“Eleanor, this has been a doozy of a month. Let’s go to New York and breathe in my favorite childhood smells. It’s been awhile since you and I hung out together and—”
“That’s because you’ve got a girlfriend now,” I teased.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough, although Theresa and I haven’t exactly used that terminology quite yet. Let’s have some fun in the city.”
Have I mentioned how much I love Flor? It’s impossible not to notice how wonderful she has been this year with Shirley getting sick and Gret leaving for college. Really, I felt this way about her even before all that. She’s pretty amazing. In Spanish, her name means flower. She once told me that her mother never had any names picked out and wanted to wait to give birth before she made the big decision. When Flor’s mom first locked eyes with her, she noticed all her folds and pinkness. “Tú eres mi flor salvaje,” her mother cooed. Flor’s father is/was Colombian. Is and was. He is still alive, so I assume he is still Colombian, but Flor always talks about him in the past tense. He grew up in Florencia, so in that moment I guess everything just seemed so perfect. Florencia Erlene Leandro Acacia.
James, I wonder where you went when you visited New York City. Did you go to a museum? What did you eat? Did you like how loud and tall everything is?
I chose the Metropolitan Museum of Art and suggested we head to this big bookstore on Union Square afterward, which Aggie told me about, called The Strand. She said it was as big as our school, just full of every book you could ever think of. New ones and old ones and signed copies by famous writers.
Flor parked her car by the bus station off route 9 and purchased two round trip tickets. On the ride there, I looked out the window, thinking of you, James. Lately, I wonder about what would have happened if we were friends and you told me what you told your notebook. I’d react without judgment. You’d be shocked and then I’d say something like, I am too. We’d laugh because we’d both acknowledge how scared we both were about coming out.
Actually, I’ve been thinking about that a lot too, James. I think I might be ready, whatever that means. I feel like I want to do what you weren’t able to. Then, maybe anyone else who might be feeling the same way would feel comfortable to come out as well. I can show people that it’s really not a big deal.
We had things in common, James. We could have been friends, I could have helped you. You’d still be here. But you felt like the only one. No one is the only one.
At the museum, there was a neat exhibit with a really cool painter named Kandinsky. I kept staring—which Flor encouraged—in order to find the meaning. I don’t really know much about art besides that I like when it makes me feel something, and I definitely felt things. It’s like he creates these animals . . . no, musical instruments out of lines and shapes. I thought about that time I was nine years old and I found a finger on the Jersey shore. At first, I thought it was a slice of driftwood, a crab corpse or an unnamed beast from the ocean’s floor. If Greta were with me, she would have screamed its remaining skin off. But I was alone, and a reaction was unnecessary, allowing me a chance to really look at it. I remember picking it up and carrying it in my palm as though it were a tiny fetus. Gross, right? At that time, when I was nine, I probably would have just described it as an uncooked french fry. It didn’t feel like much. I remember that. It was water-logged and soggy, but also stiff and discolored. The fingernail was gone; the water stole it away. I found a shell, big enough to act as its sofa and placed
the finger inside. The sand huddled around the shell and I hovered above it all.
I wondered what it would feel like to lose a part of me. What if I lost a finger? Or a whole hand? Or the ability to see? If I had stayed in that spot long enough, would more body parts begin to wash ashore? At that age, I had an unspoken fear of disability. If someone passed by in a wheelchair or with a disrupted face, I would fight the urge to stare and look away simultaneously. I worried it was contagious. Now, I think scars are beautiful and disabilities are almost like a super-power. There really is no normal.
I can’t recall how long I sat with that finger. It could have been hours, but probably just minutes. I compared it to mine: its pale sausage thickness to my pale bony tightness. I wondered if it came from a man or woman and did it matter? My fingers curled in and out of my palm, blinking—an attempt to prove they worked and were okay. There was a moment during this when I began to cry. I wouldn’t even have noticed had I not caught the exact moment of when my salty tear fell right onto this finger. It’s like we were united. A part of me had entered it.
Looking at the painting, I felt this sense of being part of it somehow. I guess this happens anytime you experience something—even if it’s something not exactly meant for you. Like when I listen to music and feel like the lyrics were meant for me. Or with that finger, like I was supposed to find it. Someone else’s loss can lead us toward our own discoveries. Like the story we read in English class! Oh my gosh, you’d think I was such a dork, James.
Anyway, I felt like I could see a laundry machine of tumbled people and emotions in the painting. I wrote down a bunch of stuff in my notebook, but when it came time to actually talk out loud about how I was feeling, all I could do was smile. Funny, but I felt like maybe Flor knew exactly what I felt because she was smiling too.
After the museum, Flor and I were exhausted. Looking at art is far more tiring than riding my bike. It’s kind of strange that way. Flor joked that the air is drugged so that paintings, which might normally seem ordinary, will appear fascinating. The Met is also really big. I don’t even think we saw a fraction of it.
“I’m not sure I’m up for the bookshop,” I said, sleepily. “Or maybe we can go someplace to eat first?”
“You read my mind!”
Flor grew up in Queens, lived a few years in the Bronx, then Brooklyn, and then moved to New Jersey. In New York, she never has to ask for directions. Even when I felt like we were lost, she always found a way to where we needed to be.
“I know a great spot downtown. Well, actually it’s been awhile since I’ve been there. The truth is, the last time I was there I was on a date.” Flor blushed a little. “Yeah, I can’t imagine this place closing. Best pizza I ever had.”
At the pizza place, all the tables were covered in red-and-white plastic tablecloths with a few cigarette stains creating occasional polka dots. It was nowhere near fancy, which I liked. All I could think about was Flor there with some woman, nervously sitting across from one another, asking questions back and forth to test compatibility. I imagine a date to be kind of like an interview without the possibility of a paycheck at the end. You dress up. You’re on your best behavior. You hope for the best. I’ve never been on a date yet, not one that really mattered to me. Maybe my first date can be here.
The waiter arrived at our table wearing the same colors that decorated the whole place: red, white, and green. He was really tall, so Flor and I both tilted our heads way back. “We’ll have a large pizza with olives . . .” Flor looked at me and I nodded. “And peppers and onions. Also a root beer for her and a diet coke for me.”
“It smells good in here,” I said.
“Wait until you try the pizza.”
“Thanks for all this, Flor.”
“I keep thinking about what you said to me in the car the other day. I worry I was dismissive, but the thing is, your mom is actually doing a heck of a lot better.”
“I guess.”
“She’s going to individual therapy, she’s got her group therapy. She’s meeting people, she seems to be adjusting quite well to her meds . . .”
“I wish I could turn it off, you know?”
“Turn what off, honey?” Flor asked.
“Just this worry. This fear. That I’m going to come home and find her. Like Gret did.”
“Eleanor, it would be unfair for me to tell you not to feel that way. You might have that fear for a long time. But I would advise you to talk with your mom more. You don’t need to pretend these worries away.”
“But I don’t want to worry her.”
“Sweetie, she’s gotten a lot stronger. Give her the chance to show you that. You’re lucky,” Flor paused. I watched her take a deep breath, one so big her entire body got involved. “I wasn’t very close to my parents. I loved them, of course. And I know my mother loves me very much, but times were different then. I know your dad loves you very much too.”
“You never really talk about your dad. How did he—”
“It’s difficult to talk about someone who had such limited access to the happy parts of my life.” I watched as Flor fumbled with the tablecloth, smoothing it out.
“Eleanor, things are going to get better. I’m watching you grow into this beautiful and smart human being. All brave and such an individual. I couldn’t be that way with my father. And barely with my mother.”
“Did they know?”
“I came out to my mother when I was in my mid-twenties. She was still living in Queens then. She made some kind of . . . mixed pot of the old and the new.” Flor smiled big, biting her bottom lip. “That’s what most of her dishes were called because she’d mix leftovers with new-overs. Her language. I don’t even think my mother ever owned any cookbooks. She just kind of threw things into this giant green pot she’s owned for decades—probably belonged to her mother—and it always came out brimming with intense flavors. Anyway, she ladled out a bowlful for each of us and then I just kind of blurted it out before I think either of us had the chance to take a bite. I didn’t have to say anything. You know, I could have just . . . gone about my life and still she wouldn’t know, but my mother and I . . . we weathered many storms.”
Just then, the waiter approached with our pizza and it smelled better than I could have ever imagined.
Flor served us each a slice. Then, we curled our pizza a little so that the hot cheese wouldn’t fall off, and took a bite.
“Mmmmm,” was all I could say.
“Told you so.”
“Keep going. With your story, I mean.”
“My father . . . I don’t ever . . . I don’t talk about him because he wasn’t a good man. And maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I will because you’re my family, Eleanor. I love you and I don’t ever want to pretend with you. My mother did that . . . just pretended my identity away and I almost never forgave her. I still d—” Flor looked down at her pizza and I watched her chest rise and fall.
“For many years, my father abused me. When I finally came forth to tell my mother, she just could not believe any of it. ‘Not your father,’ she would say. ‘He’s a good man. A good man.’ She’d just say that over and over. And I almost believed her. He finally left before she could kick him out. I haven’t seen nor talked to him since. I think he’s got another family now. Probably several. I’ve never really had a good man in my life. No friends or mentors. And I see how you are with your father and how he is with you. You’re lucky, Eleanor. Really lucky.”
All I could do was nod. I got up from the table and walked toward Flor. Her eyes were extra wet. I wrapped my arms around her and we hugged for a really long time.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I’m lucky to have my parents, but I’m also really lucky to have you.”
I let go and felt Flor still holding on. When she broke away, I walked back to my seat and took another piece of pizza, even though I hadn’t even finished my first.
“So, after I told my mother I was gay, she just kept eating. Didn’t look at
me. Focused on the food on her spoon and just shoveled it into her mouth in the daintiest way. I waited. I waited and waited for her to say something, but she never did.” Flor laughed a little. “And she still never has. She’s met girlfriends and always calls them my friends. It’s generational. It’s cultural. It’s a lot of things. She’s never pushed me out of her life and she certainly could have. In fact, part of me was ready for that. My mom has invited my girlfriends over to family things, but deep down, I know it upsets her. She doesn’t understand, probably never will. It’s changed the way I make friendships or even keep them. Funny, I joined that book club in hopes of making some friends and when I met your mother, I knew she’d be in my life forever. There is just something really special about her. She accepts me. She never got strange when I told her I was a lesbian. You’d be surprised how many grown-up straight women subtly stop talking to me. Think I’m gonna hit on them or something.”
“Flor, I . . .”
Flor put her pizza down and wiped her hands on her napkin. She stared into my face as though something in me or on me had changed. Did I have pizza sauce all over me? Something about this moment, this restaurant, this day was leading me right to the words that have been balancing on the tip of my tongue for months. No, much longer than that.
James, I was ready. This was the moment.
“The thing is . . . well . . .” I took a deep breath, tasting the olives stomped between my teeth. It was the strangest feeling, James, like my emotions were pushing me up against a wall, threatening, “say it, or else,” and then the words just kind of fell out.
“I am too,” I uttered.
How to describe the slow motion of a moment? In movies, I love this. The record scratch moment, the Tony/Maria moment in West Side Story. I used to listen to that record over and over from Shirley’s massive collection. And when I finally saw the movie, I just loved that scene when they first noticed each other at the dance. Nothing and no one else mattered. And suddenly in this pizza restaurant, it was happening to me. Was I Tony? Maria? Neither, I guess. I mean, it wasn’t quite like that. But I swear I heard a record scratch, or maybe that was just my stomach churning and gurgling from eating too fast. I could feel the aftershock of those three words in my body. My knees felt strange: twitching and shaky. My shoulders felt like they were collapsing, and I wasn’t even depending on them. Was I even breathing? I felt like maybe I had stopped.
