But not even Mary Poppins could inject a note of optimism into the state of our relationship, not with all the things that have happened in the last few weeks. And in my vast—and these days seemingly unrelenting—experience with marital problems, the best a couple can hope for after a long, exhausting fight-filled day is a temporary cease-fire induced by the overwhelming desire to just get some rest.
Silently Peter bends to untie his shoes. He strips down to his briefs and unfastens the buttons on his shirt. “I’m leaving in the morning,” he says as his head hits the cushion. Then he falls into a deep, undisturbable sleep.
AFTER A FITFUL night feeling dwarfed and very alone in our queen-sized bed, I get up at dawn to make us both a pot of coffee, but Peter’s already gone. I shuffle around the room straightening books that don’t need straightening, plumping up pillows, bending over to pick up the glistening silver locket Paige has been searching for for weeks, which is in plain view, peeking out from underneath a wingback chair. In the kitchen, I stand frozen at the coffeepot, unable to decide between decaf and double-strength espresso.
I’m leaving in the morning. Peter’s last words run unrelentingly through my head. But Peter didn’t mean leaving, leaving. He meant leaving as in taking a train or an airplane. To go to Hawaii with Tiffany. For ten whole days.
“She’s my boss, don’t read something into it that it’s not,” I repeat Peter’s words, trying to convince myself that they’re true. And I really believe that whatever else is or isn’t going on between us these days, whatever missteps or mistakes either of us has committed, Peter’s not the kind of man to have an affair.
“He even said so once on TV,” I think, unable to choose a coffee I scoop four heaping tablespoons of cocoa into a cup and sit down at the table, remembering the on-air interviews Sienna did a few years ago with three middle-aged men about monogamy. One had cheated and the second allowed that he might. But Peter was steadfast. “I love my wife, I love being married, it’s just not worth the risk,” Peter said, making him the poster boy for fidelity. And me, the envy of my M&M coffee klatch.
Distractedly I stir the cocoa, to which I’ve forgotten to add any liquid. Knowing that Peter would never cheat is a blessing. But there’s a harder truth that goes along with that. Somewhere in the deepest recess of my heart I’ve always harbored the fear that if Peter did have a midlife crisis—if he grew tired of me, or if he was inexorably pulled toward another woman—he wouldn’t fool around, and he would never have a fling. Peter, my upstanding, fidelity-thumping husband, Peter, would have to leave.
Naomi pads into the room just as I’m spitting out a mouthful of dry cocoa powder.
“Ugh!” I say, wiping the back of my hand across my lips and then running my cakey hand across my jeans.
“Tru,” Naomi says reproachfully. Then, seeing my face and thinking the better of attacking my lapse in hygiene, my mother makes her way to the stove to heat a saucepan of milk. She comes back to the table with a cup of cocoa for herself, and she splashes the rest of the warm milk into my cup.
“My mother—your grandmother—used to say that cocoa was the assimilated woman’s chicken soup, good for whatever ails you. Of course sometimes I would have liked a cup of chicken soup, but my mother wasn’t much of a cook.”
“I guess it runs in the family. But we’re damned good at takeout,” I say, taking a sip of the soothing liquid. “I’m sorry Nana died when I was so young. I would have liked to have gotten to know her better.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. She was a tough cookie,” Naomi says matter-of-factly.
“Mom … she was your mother, I mean, there must have been some good things you liked about Nana?”
Naomi folds her hands around her mug. “She made me strong. For a little while there, when I was Miss Subways, I think she was even proud of me. But then I married your father and had you and she never let me forget that nothing about my life was anything but ordinary.”
The sins of the fathers have nothing on the mothers, I think as I look at Naomi, who’s so wrapped up in her own unhappy memories of her childhood that she doesn’t realize that she could be describing how she treated me. You have to be pretty clueless to be telling your only daughter that even her grandmother thought she was nothing special. But unlike Naomi, I’m past getting caught up in this family drama and meshuggeners. And rather than feeling sorry for myself, I feel sorry for Naomi.
“It’s too bad Nana didn’t appreciate how special you are,” I say, reaching across the table and taking Naomi’s hand.
Embarrassed, Naomi wriggles free. She concentrates on stirring her cocoa, brings the cup to her lips, and then sets it back down. “And it’s too bad your grandma didn’t realize how special you are, too.” Then she pauses. “I know it isn’t easy to have me here, Tru. I appreciate your taking me in. I know I’m not the easiest person in the world to get along with.”
“Mom, you, not easy?” I laugh, the first good honest laugh that Naomi and I have had together in … well, maybe ever.
“All right now, Truman, let’s not sit here wading up to our eyeballs in what might have been; there’s too much of that around here lately. I’ve decided to get on with my life. And from the looks of you sitting here sulking, it’s something you might want to think about, too.”
“Everything’s fine, I …”
“Oh please, we’ve just had one of those icky mother-daughter moments that Oprah’s so big on and now you’re going to clam up all CIA-not-talking-everything’s-okay?”
“It takes a brave woman to string the CIA and Oprah into the same sentence,” I say with a chuckle.
Naomi gives me one of her famous steely-eyed stares, the stare that kept me on the straight and narrow all the way through high school.
“Tru, don’t try to tell me nothing’s wrong. You and Peter have either been sniping at each other or walking on eggshells for weeks. And that Tiffany Glass woman.” Naomi clucks.
“What about Tiffany?” I say, pouncing on Naomi for any tidbits of information.
“She’s beautiful, she’s with Peter twelve hours a day, what more is there for me to say?”
“Nothing.” I slump down in my chair.
Naomi leans over and combs her fingers through the wispy top layers of my hair. “If you got a proper haircut, I think you could conceal some of the thinning,” she says.
“Thank goodness. For a minute there I was wondering if my real mother had been captured by aliens.”
“I can’t help it. If I criticize it’s only because I want the best for you. But maybe I could learn to criticize.…” Naomi stops, at a loss for words.
“Less critically?”
“Yes, I could criticize less critically. It will be a challenge, and right now, I’m into taking on challenges.”
I look carefully at my mother. It’s barely dawn, yet to make the trip from the guest bedroom to the kitchen she’s combed and styled her hair, meticulously applied lipstick and eyeliner, and although the unforgiving morning light is streaming through the window, there’s barely a crease on her well-cared-for, lasered-perfect skin. Despite Naomi’s bitterness, or maybe because of it, I’ve grown into a reasonably happy woman—a woman who’s smart enough, or always has been up until now, to treasure my children and husband. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do about it yet, but I realize that no way am I going to sit back while Peter goes off angry for ten whole days, especially with Tiffany Glass. If I’ve learned anything from Naomi, it’s about survival.
I lift my mug and reach across the table to clink it against my mother’s. “I hope Paige and Molly have your resilience. And my sense of family. And Peter’s decency,” I toast. Even when I want to strangle Peter because he’s bent out of shape about being the Man of the Family and how he’s supposed to be the one to support us, I know that it comes from a good, if misguided, place.
“What, are you writing their commencement speech?” Naomi asks with a laugh.
“No, just feeling a little em
otional.” Though at the moment, planning for my children’s futures—or anything more taxing than putting my head on the pillow—seems about as likely as a Beatles reunion.
I take a sip of cocoa and feel my head bobbing toward the cup. “It’s been a long night,” I say sleepily.
“Mom,” says Paige, bouncing into the room, as she simultaneously pulls the straps of her backpack over her shoulder and nabs a bottle of cranapple juice from the fridge. “It’s not the night, it’s the morning! Time to start a new day!”
Fifteen
Mouth-to-Mouth
MY “NEW DAY” doesn’t start until late in the afternoon—after I’ve napped, showered, and headed downtown to meet Sienna. Between my efforts to economize and how busy I’ve been lately it’s been ages since I’ve had any kind of special beauty treatment, but Sienna says that she’s heard this new one is a must. And, she adds, it’s tax-deductible.
“It’s called the ‘Geisha Facial,’ ” Sienna chirps, assuring me that given our line of work, the IRS will consider this a business expense.
I start to protest. “A geisha’s not a courtesan. They entertain men, they don’t actually sleep with them.” And more important, no one’s supposed to know what our line of work is. But as I sink into the comfortable white leather treatment chair I’m willing to suspend any discussions about our need for anonymity or our disagreement over her Madame XXX blog for a truce-filled hour of pampering.
The lights are low, Japanese flute music is humming in the background, and two pretty young technicians, Suki and Yuna, come over to introduce themselves.
“You relax,” says Suki, as they position our chairs so that Sienna and I are lying with our heads comfortably tilted back. I close my eyes and Suki gently strokes my face with a warm washcloth. Then she taps my forehead and my cheekbones with her own fingertips so soothingly that I nearly fall asleep.
“Hmm,” I sigh luxuriously. “This was a good idea.”
“Now comes the best part,” says Yuna as I open my eyes long enough to see her pouring a stream of white powder into a bowl. She adds a few drops of water and vigorously mixes the concoction with a porcelain pestle. When she’s satisfied that the potion is perfect, she applies a thick mask of paste all over Sienna’s face and neck, and Suki does the same to me.
“It tingles,” says Sienna. “In a good way. What is this stuff anyway?”
“Very special.” Suki giggles. “Is called Ugui su no fun.”
“No fun? I’m having lots of fun,” I say, as Sienna, ever the reporter, presses the duo for details.
“You don’t know before you come?” Yuna says. “It is the special facial of the geisha, to exfol, exfoli …”
“Exfoliate?” Sienna says helpfully.
“Yes, thank you. It ex-fol-i-ates, takes away the dead layers. The geishas, they wore so much heavy thick makeup, they needed something extra-special to clean the skin. It is made from the nightingale.”
“From a nightingale?” Sienna, an active PETA member, asks, alarmed that an animal might have been hurt in the name of beauty.
“No, no, not to worry. It is external part of the nightingale. It is made from the nightingale’s poop.”
“Nightingale’s poop?” I repeat, sitting bolt upright in my chair. “I’ve spent half of my life in New York trying to avoid bird droppings, and now I’m paying someone two hundred dollars to smear them on my face? Holy shit!”
“Yes, yes, shit,” says Yuna agreeably. “Some of my customers when I tell them too they say, ‘Oh crap!’ ”
I don’t care about Suki’s assurances that the poop’s been sterilized and mixed with rice bran. I sit back in my chair, trying not to move a muscle until I can get her to wash off the fecal facial. I adored my babies more than I can say, but all those mothers on urbanbaby.com who think their kids’ shit smells like roses should get themselves to the Mayo Clinic to check out their olfactory senses. Not to mention their sanity. Sienna looks over and cracks up over my twitchy discomfort.
“My mistake. The facial’s on me,” she says cheerily. Then Sienna pretends to lick her lips and smacks them for good measure. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, tastes just like chicken!”
“Thanks,” I say as we walk out to the street and I declare that under no circumstances will I ever eat chicken, turkey, or wood hen ever again—even though that last one’s a mushroom and has nothing at all to do with poultry except for its inexplicable name. “I think this is the push I needed to go vegan,” I say as the maître d’ of a cozy sandwich-and-salad place on Madison Avenue walks us through the narrow restaurant toward a booth where Naomi is already waiting. She doesn’t notice us at first because her head is buried in her computer.
“Not you, too! First the girls, then Sienna, now I can’t even pry my own mother away from the Internet.” I sigh, as Sienna glides in first and I slip down opposite Naomi.
“It’s very interesting all the things you can find here. Molly showed me how to go on My Face.”
“Facebook,” I correct her.
“My Face, Facebook. They could call it Spacebook, for all I care. The point is, I’m getting myself ready to go to the Miss Subways reunion. I’m getting the lowdown on all of the girls.”
Naomi has been talking and worrying and downright obsessing over the Miss Subways reunion for months. It even contributed to her heart attack—she never would have been pumping iron if she hadn’t been so overzealous about getting into shape.
“Mom, it’s just a party,” I protest.
“It’s not ‘just a party,’ ” Naomi sneers. “Is the shuttle launch just another road trip? This reunion is like a marathon, it requires preparation and endurance. I’m going in there armed to the teeth with all the information I can get, and a new haircut.” Naomi puts on her glasses and moves to within an inch of Sienna’s nose. “Your skin, it’s very clear. Maybe that facial you two had today is something I should do, too?”
“Well, it does give you excremental changes.…” Sienna says, giving me a wink.
“You always look wonderful after those facials at Elizabeth Arden, Mom. You don’t want to be trying anything radical with your skin just a week before a big event.”
“You’re right. How did my only daughter get so smart?” For a moment, Naomi seems to look at me with new admiration, and then she adds, “Well, why wouldn’t you be smart? You’re a chip off the old block.”
After last night’s heart-to-heart I’m almost relieved to know that some things will never change—Naomi can’t even issue me a compliment without congratulating herself. A week ago it might have gotten a rise out of me, but today it only makes me laugh.
The waiter comes over with menus. Naomi orders a three-ounce burger without the mayo, I ask for a Waldorf salad without the mayo, and as a joke, Sienna requests “a jar of mayo with a spoon.”
“A jar of mayo … Oh, I get it, very funny.” The waiter snickers, then recognizes Sienna and asks for her autograph. After years of attention Sienna’s missed being in the public eye, and as she scribbles on the waiter’s order pad she smiles as broadly as if she were signing her name in cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theater next to Brad Pitt’s.
“Thanks, I’ll get you that jar of mayo,” the waiter says, as he stuffs the paper into his pocket and heads for the kitchen. “Now that you’re not on TV anymore I guess the ol’ diet can go to hell.”
Sienna’s nostrils flare and she throws back her head. “The ‘ol’ diet’ is not going to hell, and for your information, you haven’t heard the last of me, buddy, not by a long shot,” she sneers, taking the waiter’s feeble attempt at a joke a little too seriously.
Naomi, ignoring the dustup, goes back to clicking on her computer. After a few moments she triumphantly points the screen toward me—and now it’s my turn to feel bad. “If you want to know where Peter’s staying, this is the hotel,” she says.
I look down at my left hand and nervously twist my wedding band. I’d awakened from my nap blessed with the numbing temporary amnesia of a post-t
raumatic stress sufferer. I vaguely remembered that something was wrong, but I pushed it to the back of my mind and hurried off to meet Sienna. Now the crushing feeling that my marriage is in trouble comes rushing back to me. I massage my temples with my fingertips, pressing the facts back into focus.
“What do you mean you know where Peter is?”
“Whoa, ladies, back up a minute. What do you mean, Peter’s gone?” Sienna asks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot. And he’s not gone. He’s just traveling. For business. I’m sure he’ll be stuck in a boring conference room the whole time.”
“This doesn’t look boring to me!” Naomi trills, pointing toward her computer.
I stare at the tropical setting Naomi’s pulled up on the screen. Palm trees and pink stucco cottages dot a sandy white beach that stretches toward a glistening blue-green ocean. WELCOME TO PARADISE reads a pretty banner written in girly purple script across the idyllic picture. Meet Tiffany Glass and her team of BUBB cosmeticians for free consultations every day this week. Google, I hate you! Did I have to be reminded that Peter and Tiffany are spending ten days together on a sexy, exotic island while I’m all alone in New York?
“A few lessons on the computer and I’m a regular Columbo,” Naomi crows.
“And I’m nauseated,” I say, burying my head in my hands and cursing my geographical fate. “He really is in Hawaii? Couldn’t it have been Kalamazoo? I hear they’re in desperate need of eyeliner in the Arctic Wasteland.”
“It’s good that it’s Hawaii, bubbala,” Naomi says confidently. My mother only resorts to Yiddish when she wants to seem sage, and while it doesn’t have the haughty authority of Latin, I find the familiar cadences lulling. “Hawaii’s romantic, the weather is sultry. It’ll totally regurgitate your marriage.”
“Mom, I think you mean ‘resuscitate’ it.”
“Regurgitate, resuscitate, it will make things better.” Naomi’s painting a pretty picture and I’m with her, imagining myself on that endless white beach walking hand-in-hand with Peter into the sunset. Until, that is, my mother adds one more visual image to the mix. “Of course, you’ll have to get a new bikini. Maybe a one-piece bathing suit and a nice sarong. Or a caftan. That Tiffany woman …” Naomi’s voice trails off as having brought up the competition, she finds herself at a loss to explain exactly how it is that she thinks I can trump the beauteous, buxom Tiffany Glass.
The Best Laid Plans Page 17
