Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  It’s a thoroughly great idea, she’d say, and in fact did say, especially since it will give her back her room. Until her mother weighs in, though, it won’t be real, which sucks. Someone should tell her about the discussion.

  She goes down the hall and knocks on the bedroom door. No response. She pushes it open and peeks inside. Her mother’s in bed, the blinds drawn. The rocking chair in the corner looks eerie, as if someone invisible were watching.

  “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  “Mom? Wake up. There’s news to share.”

  Nothing.

  She opens the blinds. Isn’t that the first thing they do at a crime scene? Daylight streams in, lighting up the adjacent wall like a movie screen. Her mother’s head the only part of her visible, half her face buried in the pillow. She tugs the duvet down to her mother’s shoulders and sees her dress. Her interview dress! Why didn’t her father deal with that? “Mom, what’s going on?”

  Her mother’s eyes remain closed. She’s sleeping like a dead person or—she’s dead. “This is ridiculous,” she says, then shakes her mother’s shoulder. Is her mother in a coma? The thought scares her. People do die in their sleep. She leans closer to see if she’s breathing and smells the whiskey. She’s drunk. After sleeping so many hours? She shakes her mother’s shoulder harder. “Mom, enough. Get up or I’m calling 911.”

  She waits. Once again she bends close to see if her mother’s breathing. It’s hard to tell in the dress. She’s watched enough TV to know what to do next and begins searching her mother’s neck for a pulse. Her mother groans. God, something did happen to her mother. A stroke, a heart attack? She was acting weird last night, going straight to bed.

  “Mom? Mom?” she whispers again, surprised by the depth of her concern and desperation. She wants her mother intact. Fearful, she reaches for her mother’s cell phone on the night table to call her father, but can’t find his work number and dials Dory instead. It goes to voice mail. “Dory, something’s wrong with mom. I don’t know what to do. Call me or come home right away. Please.”

  Her mother groans again.

  “Mom, it’s me, Rosie. I’m here. Please say something, anything. What’s wrong, Mom? What’s wrong?”

  “Okay,” her mother croaks. “I’m okay.”

  Unexpectedly relief floods through her. “Mom why are you wearing your interview dress? Sit up. I’ll help you.” She grabs her mother’s shoulder from behind and pushes her toward a sitting position.

  Lena shakes her off. “Rosie, let go. I’m awake.”

  Her mother looks awful, her face puffy and pale. “Shit, Mom, you scared me! You don’t do that to your kid.”

  “Why are you trying to wake me?”

  “Well, it’s late. And I wanted to tell you about our dinner conversation last night. Very exciting news.” She perches on the side of the bed.

  “What?” her mother asks woozily.

  “Our old house is still empty. Dad thinks we should move back in. Why not? He’s certain it’s off the bank’s radar. Stu’s going to give us his generator for lighting. We could bring back our furniture. Dad says it’ll be a long time before they kick us out, if ever, and by then you’ll have a job, too, and we’ll have money again. He’s right, I’m sure. It’s a great idea. Don’t you agree?” She’s speaking fast and wonders if her mother’s taking any of it in because her face has a strange expression on it. It’s as if she’s hearing something entirely different from what Rosie’s saying. “Mom, What’s the matter with you?”

  “Who knows what’s possible,” her mother mumbles.

  “Casey and I can each have our rooms back. How about that?”

  “Nice,” her mother says vaguely.

  “Mom, stop acting this way,” Rosie says sternly, alarmed yet again. “Are you sick? Does something hurt? Are you still drunk? You can tell me.” Her mother’s eyes are red-rimmed. Was she crying?

  “I need more sleep.”

  “Okay.” She’s glad to obey. She tiptoes out, praying Dory gets there fast.

  As soon as the door closes, she falls back on the pillow. She needs sleep or a ton of black coffee or both. Rosie’s concern reached through her stupor and she didn’t want to ruin the moment by arguing with her, but what’s Zack thinking? The house belongs to the bank. Getting the children riled up? Has he forgotten what happened to his last idea? Has he forgotten the humiliation of the scramble to get out? Her phone rings.

  “Dory?”

  “Rosie called. She sounded scared, said something was wrong with you. What’s the matter?”

  “I had way too much scotch, didn’t fall asleep till dawn. I’m still in bed, half-dead.”

  “You should be relieved not to get the Wonderland job.”

  “Relieved? I can’t go through even one more interview, one more rejection. My cheeks hurt from smiling at faces that couldn’t give a crap about me.”

  “Are you awake now?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Lena, I wasn’t going to share this with you because I don’t know if it’s going to come to pass, but I have an idea. Well, I’ve asked to meet with my board of managers, the people who run the nursing home. I plan to tell them about my illness, and that sooner rather than later I’ll have to leave the job. At that meeting I’m going to propose that I train someone to take my place as a caretaker. Someone who will follow me day in and day out to learn everything, someone they won’t have to pay much until she’s ready to do the job on her own. That someone will be you.”

  “You need to leave the job? Oh my god, when?”

  “The deficits are kicking in. Soon I won’t be able do much of what I do without holding on to something. Imagine taking an old frail woman to the bathroom and losing my balance, down will come two. By then, of course, my hearing might be gone so I won’t hear her scream. Well, aren’t you thrilled with my idea? Why aren’t you grabbing at it like the brass ring on a merry-go-round?”

  “Dory, I can’t be excited that you have to leave.”

  “I’m not asking you to be happy about that piece of it, but what about the job piece?”

  “They may not agree to this.”

  “That’s true, but this place hates change. I’ve seen it over the years. If I can make my leaving into a smooth transition, they might sigh with relief. But you’re right, we have to wait. You haven’t said you would take the position.”

  “I would, I would, I would. I’m just afraid to get my hopes up.”

  “Okay. Don’t get them up. See you later.”

  For a moment she stares at the dead phone, amazed that such a tiny machine could deliver such a huge message. She doesn’t want to be excited. It’s Dory who can’t do the work much longer … Yet she can’t suppress the hope now flowing through her.

  48.

  On his break, Zack sits on a milk crate outside the meatpacking place, a can of Coke in hand. Across from him, the metal doors of a vacant plant, next to an old building that now houses galleries. His brain is filled with thoughts of moving back into the house.

  He visited twice more, cased the area a few times to watch which cars were passing by. Nothing. Didn’t even see a cop car, but he can’t count on that remaining true. The two nearby houses have been vacant god knows how long, right? The families could’ve moved back in a year ago. Who would’ve cared? Who would’ve even known? This foreclosure shit couldn’t be more disorganized. No one understands the mortgage companies. No one even knows who’s in charge, who to go to for help. Didn’t he read something in the papers about families taking over vacant houses, people refusing to submit to this crap anymore? It’s definitely a good time to move back in. He can feel it. His children were all for it. Rosie wants her privacy. He gets it. And Casey, the most enthusiastic of all, wants to return to his old school, his one good friend, his usual bike paths.

  He knows he’s a ridiculous optimist, but damn, someone has to dream. How many times has Stu said he envies him for expecting the best? Stu, being Stu, walks around and aroun
d the bush and by the time he finally picks the flower, it’s wilted.

  There’ll be rough patches. He expects that. Still, together, he and Lena can smooth the way. It’ll be a struggle to convince her, he can count on that. Well, he’ll struggle, he will. The move back is doable, a chance to be at ease as one only can be in one’s home. Dory and Stu are angel-sent, and he’ll remember their generosity forever. Still, and it’s really a teeny unfair quibble he’d never give voice to, he has to watch the TV programs that they like, which is only right.

  He checks the time, a few more minutes. The guys here don’t bother much with each other, mainly truckers in and out. Fine with him. Meat that doesn’t make it onto the freezer trucks gets distributed among the few workers. Fine with him, too. He flashes on the scene in that old Charlie Chaplin movie where the conveyer belt gets faster and faster. It’s not that bad here, and as long as the meat keeps dropping onto his marble slab he’s working.

  Zack unlocks the front door, goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls a bottle of Beck’s from the carton, pops open the cap, lets the bitter cold liquid run down his dry throat. It’s so quiet. “Hello,” he shouts, “anyone home?”

  Lena comes out of their room in those loose silky black slacks he loves. “I’ll have one of those.”

  Good start, he thinks, and takes out another beer, opens it, hands it to her.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Got me. I slept late. Rosie was gone when I looked for her. I’ve been busy rewriting my resume.”

  “Oh yeah, how come?”

  “There are things I thought would make me more desirable.”

  “Hey, you are quite desirable.”

  “Gave you that one, didn’t I?”

  She seems relaxed. The moment is with him.

  “So, Rosie told me about the discussion last night,” she says. “You must’ve been kidding, right?”

  “Wrong. Dead serious.”

  “How?”

  “Lena, shut it for a moment and listen.” He takes her hand, tugs her into the living room, where they sit facing each other.

  “I know what you said. Rosie filled me in. Just because you want to do this doesn’t make it feasible. The bank will call the police. What, then, Zack? The kids all revved up with expectation? I just need a salary to add to yours and we’ll find a cheap apartment somewhere. So it won’t be the best neighborhood. So we’ll survive it, but it’ll be ours. No one will take it away as long as we pay the rent.”

  She looks directly at him for what, he wonders, approval, agreement? Not possible. “I hear you and I understand you but you do not see my point.”

  “Zack, I’m not an idiot. We all loved the house. We all felt comfortable there, but it’s gone. Let it rest in peace. Please!”

  He watches her down the beer, not sure how to proceed. “You’re being stubborn, Lena. Truly. People are doing this. It’s not just us or me. I read the other day that somewhere … I think Arizona … five families moved back into empty houses and …”

  “Those are squatters. I don’t want to be a squatter. I want to be a tenant or an owner. Can’t you get that?”

  “I’ve scoured the area. No real estate cars or patrol cars, nothing. No one watching. Think about those empty houses on the road. How fucking long have they been vacant? Those people could’ve moved in a few weeks after being dispossessed, and who would’ve done what? The banks are totally disorganized around these foreclosures.”

  “Zack, all kinds of real estate signs are on the lawns.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They were up before we left.”

  “I don’t believe it, I don’t,” he says more to himself. “So what? There are no signs on our lawn. I’m telling you, the house is off their radar.”

  “I get that you think this can work. Maybe it could for a week or two. But mark my words, we’ll be thrown out soon after. It’s on their radar, in their computers, and someplace, someone is watching.”

  “Just allow yourself to consider the possibility …. Please? Consider, that’s all I ask.” Except that’s not true. He’s going to make this happen. He knows he’s right, but he needs to give her some time and space because he knows her, too.

  “Okay, I can do that. Let’s start dinner. Where’s Casey?”

  49.

  “Zack and I will clean up after dinner,” Lena says, taking a seat. “Are you guys enjoying the meat surprise Zack brought home?”

  “Pork chops, center cut,” Zack informs them.

  “Dad, we’ve been eating too much meat. It isn’t healthy,” Rosie chides.

  “Where’s your brother?” Lena asks.

  “He took his bike and left around breakfast time.”

  “It’s nearly seven and getting dark out.” Lena says.

  “Well, you took away his phone after he painted the house. Not a smart punishment,” Rosie says.

  “I took it away because we’re cutting back on anything extra. I would’ve taken yours, too, if you were here.”

  “He’s just riding around. My brother’s weird. He enjoys looking at scenery and stuff. You know that.”

  She doesn’t know that. What she’s sure of is that no matter where he wanders, the boy comes home for dinner. The one time he didn’t he was in jail.

  “I wonder if we should drive around …”

  “Let’s have dinner first,” Dory says. “If he doesn’t get here by dessert, we’ll drive through the area.”

  She pokes at the food on her plate, tries cutting the meat into slivers, and catches Rosie watching her.

  Zack, putting down his fork says, “So, guys, I spoke to Lena about moving back into the old house.”

  “Zack, please. I just want to finish up here and find Casey.” If she had her own car, she could take off and damn the food.

  “I filled Mom in,” Rosie says, eyeing her.

  “It’s getting late. I’m going to walk around the neighborhood …. Maybe he’s stuck somewhere.” She tries to keep the anxiety from her voice.

  “Mom, I’ll go with you.”

  “Great. Come on.”

  “Should I come, too?” Zack offers.

  “No, help with the washing up.”

  “If he calls while you’re out, I’ll text you, and if you can’t find him, I’ll drive you around,” Dory says.

  “No, I will. You rest,” Stu says.

  She flashes back to the foreclosure night, Stu driving her in that downpour to find Casey. Only now does she recognize the unspoken electricity between them. No way will she ride alone with him again. Before she can figure out how to turn down his offer, Rosie’s at the open door, waiting.

  The early evening sky is filled with clouds as transparent as smoke. They should’ve taken sweaters. Her daughter’s in cutoff jeans, a green sleeveless blouse, her blue-painted toenails splayed in flip-flops. “Aren’t you chilly?”

  “No.”

  They pass houses alight with evening chores. No one is out on lawns.

  “Mom, this is futile. We have no idea where to go.”

  “Let’s walk to the bike path, it’s not far. We’ll follow it for a while.”

  “Nothing happened to him. If he were in jail or a hospital, someone would’ve called us.”

  Her daughter’s words make sense. Still, given a mother’s fear for her children’s safety, sense doesn’t matter.

  In a newly paved area, the bike path runs alongside and above the highway. Rush hour’s about over. There’s not much traffic, except for the rumble of trucks.

  A blue evening haze descends and the first stars begin appearing. She can’t remember the last time she and Rosie were out alone together. Once, when she was much younger than her daughter, her mother was well enough to walk her to school. It may have been the only time. Her mother, wearing lipstick and a dress, held her hand the entire way and several times mumbled, “Grab it where you can.” It puzzled her at the time, but her mother said so many strange things. In the end she just i
gnored it. Now, she wonders if her mother was trying to say something about the value of certain moments over others. She strokes the back of Rosie’s head, the wavy hair soft. And thinks to share that memory, except it wouldn’t mean a thing to her daughter. How strange it all is … someday, her daughter will recall memories of her. What will they be?

  “Rosie, you think I don’t trust you, but I do.”

  “It sure hasn’t felt that way.”

  “At your age so many mistakes can happen …”

  “That’s how I’ll learn, by experience.”

  “Where I grew up, adolescent girls regularly got pregnant, went on the hard stuff … you get the picture.”

  “The picture is your picture. I didn’t grow up that way. It’s not going to happen to me.”

  She finds her daughter’s words strangely uplifting. “You’re right. Are we friends, now?” she asks softly.

  “Absolutely not. You’re my mother, not Mirabelle.”

  She laughs. “Thank god for that. Are you looking forward to school?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “No?”

  “Someone I care about graduated last year.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “No one you know. By the way, I plan to get a tattoo.”

  This is a test. She’s not going to fail. “Well … where?”

  “Really? You always said it was a form of mutilation. What changed?”

  Of course it’s mutilation, she doesn’t say. “Where?”

  “Um … back of my shoulder.”

  “What of?”

  “Not sure yet. Mirabelle has a swan below her belly button. But that’s not my thing.”

  “Think I’m too old to get one, too?” she asks playfully.

  “What?”

  “I’d get a rose, for Rosie, maybe on my thigh.”

  “Ugh, no mom, you are too old for that, and the thigh is very sensitive.”

  “You’re probably right.”