The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  Harvey’s Restaurant, located on the outskirts of Norfolk, is renowned for its dark interior. On more than one occasion, I have been unable to decipher the food on my plate. Mother insisted that we choose a discreet location. She’s worried about being seen with her ex-husband, fueling the town gossip mills. The reality would offend Mother deeply; the Norton family is so inconsequential that no one would waste their breath gossiping about us. Normally in a town as small as Norfolk, a sex scandal including a secretary would be hot news, but not when the people are my parents.

  It’s 6:30 on an average Wednesday night. I am dressed in what Mother refers to as my “New York funeral attire.” She objects to my new style on the grounds that wearing black on black for regular occasions lessens its significance when someone dies. It’s crying wolf in the clothing world, or so she says. I am far too nervous about the meal to worry about Mother’s disapproval of my outfit.

  Clearly, I am not the only one feeling apprehensive. Barney drives erratically while Mother wipes sweat from her brow. “Barney, you need to pull the car over,” Mother demands. She steps out of the car, leans into a nearby bush, and throws up. I am jealous that she is able to vomit. I would love to expunge the tension coursing through me. Maybe I should at least try. I stand next to Mother and attempt to translate dry heaves into actual sickness, but it’s fruitless.

  “Anna, I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “I just—”

  “I know.”

  We get back into the car, both slightly less anxious than before.

  “Mother, open the glove compartment. I’ve got air freshener and mouthwash.”

  “Barney, you have shown great foresight this evening. Thank you.”

  Dad is dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and brown polyester pants that highlight his yellow socks. His hair is grayer and thinner than I remember. It’s strange that for Bastard Won Ton, this will be Dad in his prime. He stands as the three of us approach the table. Barney goes in for a strange man hug that involves two pats on the back. I offer Dad a tight hug and a grunt-resembling hello. I’m far too tense to articulate properly.

  “Hi, Mary,” Dad says quietly.

  “Fred,” Mother responds.

  Maybe this evening isn’t going to be horrendous after all.

  Barney and I sit between our parents at the four-top. They stare each other down from their respective heads of table. Mother raises the plastic menu in front of her face, prompting us to follow suit. While the positioning makes it difficult to read the menu, it’s highly effective in blocking the view.

  “Fred, I am sorry to inform you, but there is no Peking Pussy on the menu, so you will have to wait until you get home for that. Although, they do have fettuccine Alfredo, which you like,” Mother says from behind her plastic menu wall.

  “Barney, why don’t you tell Dad about Jennifer,” I lamely interject from behind my own menu.

  “Dad, Jennifer is my girlfriend. We met at the concession stand at the multiplex.”

  “Tell Dad about Jennifer’s discount,” I continue.

  “I will have the fettuccine. Good suggestion, Mary,” Dad says sincerely.

  The menus slowly lower until we are once again visible to each other. Even though we have spent more time as a family unit than apart, we swim in discomfort. It is unfathomable that the four of us were ever a cohesive, if dysfunctional, entity.

  “I’m sure the kids told you, but I’m involved with someone,” Mother announces proudly.

  Barney stares at me with bewilderment. I mirror his thoughts.

  “Actually, we didn’t say anything. We thought Dad should hear it from you,” I say quietly.

  “I am involved in a serious and, occasionally, sexual relationship.”

  Mother is either lying in a futile attempt to make Dad jealous or has secretly entered the world of Internet dating.

  “Excuse me, are you Mary Norton?” a young waitress inquires.

  “Yes.”

  “You have a phone call at the bar.”

  “Please excuse me.”

  Mother stands and walks away. She returns a few minutes later to find the three of us sitting in complete silence. She is overwhelmingly pleased with herself for getting a phone call. Never mind that people don’t get calls at restaurants anymore. Never mind that she has a cell phone. Mother is desperate for attention.

  “Sorry about that. My boyfriend had a quick question about my birthday,” Mother says as if she were a schoolgirl.

  “Your birthday is not for seven months, Mary.”

  Mother stares Dad down until he finally looks away.

  “The reason I arranged this dinner is that I have some things to tell you.”

  “The kids arranged this dinner,” Dad says defensively.

  “The kids work for me, Fred.”

  “Mother?”

  “Fine, Barney is the only member of my team. Happy? Now Fred, how does Chairman Mao feel about you impregnating his unwed daughter?”

  “Dear God, it’s me, Barney.”

  “Barney, we can hear you,” Mother interrupts.

  “I don’t care if you can hear me. I want God to hear me, Mother!”

  “Barney, pray on your own time,” she commands.

  Barney stands angrily, prepared to make a dramatic exit, but is only able to do his usual thigh-brushing waddle as he leaves the table.

  Hello Fatty,

  Run! It’s not safe to be alone with your parents!

  —Anna

  “Fred, this dinner is over. I hope you are happy; you upset the children.”

  I follow Barney. Mother follows me. Dad remains seated alone at the table.

  The familial reconciliation was a colossal failure, and I am okay with that. I appreciate having something to focus on other than Ben.

  Memories of my former boyfriend wake me, twisting my stomach into knots. I recall all the mornings that I woke next to him. Did I know how special each one was? As I begin to cry over Ben, the inimitable smell of Mother’s special pancakes wafts into my room. It’s not the actual pancakes that are special but the syrup, a homemade blend of maple and cherry Robitussin. Mother concocted the syrup as a means to manage our energy level as children. Much of the family’s dysfunction can be traced back to Mother’s unique approach to parenting. I wander into the kitchen dressed in pink pajamas, aware that the time has come. I need to be honest with Mother. She is seated at the kitchen table, watching Barney shove pancakes into his mouth between sips of whole milk.

  “Mother, I did something bad,” I blurt out.

  “Back on the junk food?”

  “No, it’s worse. It has to do with Ben.”

  “Ah, good old brother Ben,” Barney helpfully chimes in.

  “Barney, this is an A and B conversation. Please C your way out,” Mother rudely informs him.

  “Anna doesn’t mind,” Barney insists.

  “Isn’t it time for your morning conversation with God?” Mother asks harshly.

  “I tried him earlier; went straight to voicemail,” Barney says snidely.

  “God has voicemail?” Mother asks.

  “I heard he even has TiVo!” Barney responds.

  “Please stop! I don’t care if Barney stays,” I announce with frustration. “I have done something very, very bad. The guy you saw in New York was not the Ben I fell in love with. When I first met Ben, he was so physically exquisite that women literally threw themselves at him. I was terrified of losing him and—”

  “And?” Mother says, anxious to hear what comes next.

  “I made him look like that. The clothes, the hair, the fat— it was all me. I didn’t mean for it to get out of control.”

  “You really are Mother’s daughter. That is twisted.”

  “Barney, get out. Your sister doesn’t need compliments now! She’s trying to confess her sins!”

  “I want to hear the rest,” he whines.

  “Barney, do you hear that?”

>   “What?”

  “God. He’s e-mailing you. Go check your computer.”

  “Mother, you can’t hear people e-mailing!”

  “If God can e-mail, I can hear it. Leave before I ground you!”

  Barney stomps out of the kitchen while Mother looks at me without judgment, offering only kindness. She appears to understand me in this moment, and I am grateful.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yes, Mother, it is. I did it. I even created a plan. I called it The Makedown.” I cry uncontrollably, ashamed of what I have done.

  “When you were a little girl, you were very, very, very unpopular, and it affected your confidence. As wonderful as you are today, the effects are still with you. It’s a classic case of post-traumatic nerd disorder.”

  “What?”

  “As a victim of post-traumatic divorce disorder, I know the signs when I see them.”

  “I assume you made up post-traumatic divorce dis- order.”

  “I prefer the term created.”

  “Okay. How did you create it?”

  “Mostly Tyra, Montel, and a 20/20 special on post-traumatic stress disorder. I’m thinking of writing a book.”

  Clearly, Mother was a limited resource, with her love of reality television, delusions of grandeur, and racist tendencies. However, I must say I am impressed with the post-traumatic divorce disorder Mother created for herself. She may not suffer from the typical substance abuse seen in PTSD, but she certainly has an addiction to QVC. Whereas Mother sees her PTDD as an excuse for her questionable behavior, I see it as an inspiration. Hiding behind excuses such as PTDD would only leave me paralyzed in an unhappy state in which I’d wait for someone else to guide me out. This is about confronting my life, approaching it from a new angle, one of self-sufficiency. I do not need a Fairy Godmother guiding me through the inferno and out the other side. I will be my own FG. However, as my own FG, I will borrow a few ideas from a staple of recovery— Alcoholics Anonymous.

  Having tried the twelve steps for my compulsive overeating in ninth grade, I am reasonably familiar with their tenets. When I review the steps online, I focus on step eight (Make a list of all persons we have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all) and step nine (Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others). My list is short, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Lessening Ben’s already-tarnished opinion of me is hard to swallow. However, I must do it. It is my only hope.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  New York is home. On some level, I have known that for a while, but today, as my train back from Ohio approached the city, I said it aloud for the first time. This is where I am meant to live, with or without Ben. I didn’t come to New York looking for a man, and I am not going to give up on the city because one man didn’t work out. I’ve been walking around with blinders on, thinking Ben was the only man New York had to offer. This place has endless possibilities. Today I notice hundreds of bankers, stockbrokers, doctors, and lesser-paid professionals as possible dating material. I am going to move on. I just need to handle one last detail, Ben. I pull out my cell phone, breathe deeply, and dial.

  “Hello, Ben. It’s Anna. Anna Norton . . . didn’t mean to sound all Bond-like. Um, I wanted to see if you had time for a quick coffee. Not to crowd you, but I would really like five minutes, which isn’t very much time, seeing as we have twenty four hours in a day. This is beginning to feel like that scene in Swingers. Can you call me? Thanks.”

  Sitting alone in my small apartment, I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. As I change my sheets, wash dishes, or sweep the floor, an odd sense of loss is with me. It’s not overwhelming or overt; it’s quiet and penetrating. Occasionally, it even wakes me up in the middle of the night. I roll over, instinctively expecting to find Ben. Instead, I discover emptiness. I look forward to going to work with a passion rarely seen in people in my tax bracket.

  “Well?” Janice asks the next morning as I glumly enter D&D.

  “Better . . . much better. Still no call, but yeah, I’m feeling . . . better.”

  “Sweetie, I think it’s best he doesn’t call. Let it die with the relationship.”

  “I . . . just . . . don’t feel right. My life feels so empty.”

  “Well, that’s probably because it is. You kind of neglected to make any friends after you met Ben. I think it’s time.”

  “You know, I’ve never really had any friends. I’m not sure if I can make them.”

  “Book club, tennis lessons, bridge— if you sign up for just one of these, you will meet people.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you’re ready, maybe it’s time to put up a profile on Match, or I’d love to introduce you to Gary’s brother—”

  “No! I am definitely not ready to date.”

  “That’s fine. You should take as much time as you need.”

  In the days and weeks that follow, I undergo a renaissance, dipping my proverbial toe into many different arenas. Even though I am double-jointed and wildly uncoordinated, I sign up for Saturday tennis, mostly because there are two women in my class whom I consider potential friend candidates. Bridge is a bust, as I am younger than most of the players’ grandchildren. However, the book club is the greatest thing since Accutane. I get to hang around with new people without worrying what to talk about. Between classes, reading, and work, a wonderful thing occurs. I accept that it’s truly over.

  And just like that, optimism sneaks into my life, prompting me to smile at strangers, buy my first expensive trench coat, and generally just go with it as it comes.

  “Well?” Janice asks with her usual trepidation one morning as I enter D&D.

  “Well what?” I ask, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  “How are you?”

  “Good,” I say, pulling my hair into a ponytail to get it out of my way before I start chopping vegetables. “You want to see a movie tonight?”

  Janice looks constipated with anxiety.

  “Anna,” she says seriously.

  “Honestly, are you still upset about Gary’s brother? I promise, when I’m ready to date again, he will be my first call.”

  “It’s not about Jonathan. It’s . . . it’s Ben.”

  “Ben?” I repeat back to Janice, confused.

  “He called here looking for you.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Yeah, he sounds good. I don’t know if that’s what you want to hear, but—”

  “No, he deserves to be happy.”

  “Oh, Anna.”

  “Honestly, Janice, it’s better he’s in good spirits.”

  “You know, you really don’t have to tell him what you did. You both are moving on. Why dredge up the past? Especially since it doesn’t paint you in the best light.”

  “It will help me move on. Hand me the phone; I need to get this over with.”

  The final flame of possibility is about to be blown out. I expect Ben to say he never wants to see me again. But at least I will know I did the right thing.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey.”

  He recognizes my voice immediately, reminding me how close we once were.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?” I ask politely.

  “Good. So what’s up?”

  “Um, well, I was wondering if we could get a coffee.”

  “Anna, it’s too soon.”

  “I know, I know. But I really need to tell you something.”

  “Can’t you tell me on the phone?”

  “No, I think it would be better—”

  “I really don’t want to see you. It truly is over between us.”

  “I know it’s over, but I need five minutes. Please, you are the only man I have ever been in love with. Just five minutes.” I fight off tears. I don’t want Ben to feel manipulated by emotion.

  There is a long silence on the other end of the phone.

  “How about
the Starbucks near the apartment?”

  He says “the apartment” as if we still live there together.

  “Yeah, that works.”

  “Can you make 5:30 this afternoon?”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  This afternoon’s actions will dictate the tone of the rest of my life. This is the first step toward being proud of myself as a person. This is a character-building exercise. However, as dedicated as I am to building character, I maintain a superficial need to look good in front of Ben. Today’s outfit must convey my sincere apologies while also highlighting my subtle sex appeal. I know that Ben cannot be lured back into my arms, but this afternoon will be emblazoned in his memory forever. He will never forget what I am going to tell him. He will tell his future wife and children about it, finding laughter in the story as the years pass. At first, I will be a mentally unstable psychotic freak, followed by a neurotic bitch, then a crazy young woman, and finally a sweet but misguided girl. Oddly enough, the less he cares about me, the kinder his description of me will be. Therefore, if I am to be engraved in his mind for eternity, I must look good. Today’s outfit will be wide-cuffed black slacks that create the optical illusion that I am both tall and skinny and a low-cut black sweater. It’s not too revealing, but it offers a tempting glimpse of cleavage.

  Sitting alone at the Starbucks on Spring Street, my stomach wrestles with anxiety and fear. I begin my traditional hand-wiping exercise. My palms are once again a watery mess and my sweat ’stache is rapidly forming.

  Ben enters.

  I wipe off the ’stache, rub my palms, and stand up. He walks toward me with a serious expression. Remember, what’s done is done. I cannot change or redo anything. Ben sports jeans and his Born in the USA T-shirt, the same shirt he wore the first time I saw him. Does he know that? Did he wear it on purpose? It is more likely that he has no idea of the shirt’s significance and just happened to put it on today. I prepare for what will most likely be our last hug. I am going to savor the moment as long as possible, without seeming strange. He stands in front of me, but to my great surprise, he doesn’t offer a hug, only a handshake.

  We shared a life, an apartment, and countless orgasms, and he offers me a handshake? I accept his hand as if he is a perfect stranger.