The young woman nodded and waved a graceful hand toward the upper layer, which was supported on copper posts and contained windows of transparent material, apparently to allow the crystals below to beam up onto the body. The surface was covered with a mattress designed, Nan was told, by NASA scientists.
"The mattress contains hundreds of magnets to enhance the pull of the earth's gravitational field."
Nan settled onto the table. As a tennis pro, she'd regularly used massage. Her only complaints had been the use of incense and music or the constant drone of the therapist's voice. To her delight, this one worked in silence, and the only smell was of vanilla.
Simply lying on the table for half an hour filled her with sunlight and good memories of family vacations on warm beaches. The bodywork itself provided a loosening of tensions that felt deep and primal, a soothing of ancient pain. Whether Baryshnikov's energy had anything to do with it or not, she was happy to pay the fee.
A few days later, Nan resumed therapy with Tonya, individually and in the support group where, for the first time, she talked about her relationship with her mother. She said only a few, tentative things: "I've never doubted that she loves me. Now that's almost scary," and "She's always been the most important person in the world to me," and "She's old now, and I have to take care of her, and sometimes I can't stand to touch her." Around the circle, heads, including Tonya's, nodded. She felt that combination of relief and guilt, which had of late become a familiar state of being.
Matt invited her to dinner, to a movie, out for drinks. She refused every option as politely as she could. He invited them to his house for Christmas. Her mother whined until she accepted and Nan went shopping for a gift.
Nothing she looked at seemed right. Everything was either too personal or not personal enough. She finally settled on an old paperweight that was a magnifying glass, a simple black square with a bubble of glass in the center. Written in faded gold script on the square was a name and "Philadelphia, Pa." Whether the piece had a history she didn't know. The owner of the antique shop told her that it did, though he couldn't be very specific, and the fact that it was from Philadelphia amused her, given her activities there the week before.
She also picked up a first edition of Carlos Castaneda's "A Separate Reality." She and Matt were both baby boomers, both part of the generation that had grown up awed by the teachings, probably fictional, of Carlos and don Juan, which had excused their intake of a variety of substances during their late college years.
The next decision to be made was what to do about a Christmas tree. She didn't care for artificial trees and Catherine's asthma couldn't handle pine, so there would be no big tree this year. She bought a healthy fichus, put it in a clay pot, which she centered in the fireplace–also rendered unusable by her mother's asthma–and pulled the wooden sled her father had made for her seventh birthday out of the attic. She thought about touching up the red paint on the runners and, as she did every year, decided she liked it just the way it was and piled a few wrapped gifts on top of it.
Starting to wrap the Castaneda, she decided to reread it first. It had been almost thirty years. The writing was awful, but she already knew that. Worse, she found the constant repetition of don Juan's laughter, chuckling, giggling, to be a huge distraction. How long did it take to get across the message that he was a jolly fellow who found life and Carlos to be sources of amusement?
By the time she had finished the book, she had reaffirmed two of her own philosophies: there existed no single reality and some people could see more realities than others, and making decisions was difficult and tedious but once made there's no looking back, only looking forward. Could've and would've weren't worth a rat's ass. The past was our teacher–when we were willing and able to learn–about how to deal with the present and the future. The tough part was not turning away from those lessons.
For a moment she felt sure of herself, but that quickly passed, knowing that she could be completely wrong –not for the first time in her life–and that it didn't matter.
Banishing the image of a laughing nagual from her mental screen, she slid a copy of "White Christmas" into the VCR for her mother. Whether she liked it or not, The Chipmunks and Bing Crosby would resound through the house for the next few weeks, with the occasional bonus of Mel Tormé and chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
"Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha'penny then God Bless you."
Catherine sang out the old English Yuletide song and Nan smiled. She was thinking about making eggnog when the telephone rang.
"Nan Jenssen?"
"Yes."
The caller introduced herself. "Please forgive the intrusion. I'm an attorney. I was given your name by the FMS Foundation, in Philadelphia. I'm putting together a class action suit against Tonya Bishop. Would you be willing to talk to me?"
Nan took a long, deep breath. "I don't know. I'd need some time to think first. And to check you out."
"Call the Bar Association if you wish. And the Foundation."
"I'll do that. Give me a number where you can be reached." She sat down heavily on the stool next to the phone table, wrote down the name and number, and said goodbye. The receiver sat there like any other inanimate object, as if it hadn't just carried her into the next step of the nightmare.
"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas," her mother warbled.
She felt hot. Feverish. Her head pounded. Tomorrow, she told herself. She would think about all of it tomorrow. Worked for Scarlett, sort of.
But when the phone rang again, she automatically answered it, guessing before he spoke that it would be Matt. "How are you, Nan? How's Catherine?"
"She's singing."
"That's lovely." There was a lilt to his voice. She almost invited him for eggnog until she remembered. "Look," he said. "I called to ask you to come to the performance of Richard's play on Sunday. My student. Your student's boyfriend. Maybe you remember him?"
Indeed I do, Nan thought. "Are you inviting Mom, too?"
Catherine stopped singing and sidled up to Nan. "Is that my Matty?" she purred, breathing on Nan's neck.
"Sure. Bring your mother. Bring anyone who might want to come. He needs the audience."
She was drawing circles around the attorney's name, lightly at first, then with increasing pressure.
"Nan? Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"So, will you come?"
"I don't think so, Matt." Nan moved away from her mother. "I'm sorry. Mom shouldn't be going anywhere."
"Does that mean–"
"Yes. I'm afraid so. We won't be going anywhere for Christmas."
She knew he was waiting for her to suggest that he come to her place, but all she said was goodbye. Her mother was crying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bells. That's what she was hearing. Catherine liked bells. Why were there bells? She didn't really care why. She liked bells. There weren't enough bells in the world.
What was that sound from outside? Bells. She liked bells.
She thought it was Christmas Eve. She thought somebody had told her that. But where was the Christmas tree? Singing Christmas carols to herself, she looked everywhere. There wasn't any Christmas tree. But there were bells.
It didn't feel like Christmas. That made her sad. There was only one other thing to try. She could get dressed for dinner. In her closet she found a dress that might fit her, lacy and red. Somewhere else in the room she came upon lipstick. She teased her hair. In the mirror she looked nice. Not beautiful, but nice. She moved away and moved back, in and out of the mirror, and satisfied herself that this really was her reflection. She looked nice. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!" she sang. There were other words, but she couldn't find them just now and these were the important ones. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! It's beginnin
g to look a lot like Christmas!"
Christmas always tired her. All those children to think about, all those details. She sat down and closed her eyes and rested a while.
"You better watch out! You better not cry!" she danced into the living room, skirt swishing lusciously around her ankles. "You better not pout! I'm tellin' you why!"
Becca was half-asleep on the couch, watching a Christmas show on TV. It must be Christmas. No, it was Nan. Some girl singer Catherine didn't recognize launched into an upbeat rendition of "White Christmas." Timing it just right, Catherine pirouetted between Nan and the screen and stumbled. She would have fallen if Nan hadn't caught her. "And may all your Christmases be white!" She laughed.
"I haven't had anywhere to wear this in I don't know how many years!" The gown was strapless, floor-length, taffeta–very elegant.
"You've always looked good in red."
"Oh, thank you, Nanny!" Bending to kiss her, Catherine nearly tipped into Nan's lap. "And I smell good, too." Why did Nan pull away from her when she nuzzled her neck? It was the same fragrance she'd always used.
"What's the occasion?"
"Why, whatever do you mean?"
"Where are you going to wear the dress?" Nan sounded impatient and distracted. She sniffed the air, like a dog on the trail of something. Most unladylike, Catherine thought. "That smell reminds me of something."
"Foolish girl. It reminds you of me."
Nan shut her eyes and breathed deeply, in and out and in and out.
"I'm wearing this to Matt's, of course," Catherine said into the silence. She swayed and dipped, happily if a bit dangerously, across the room and back. "For dinner. Isn't this just the perfect Christmas dress?"
"Mom." Nan stood up and caught her by the shoulders. Catherine didn't like that one bit. "We are not going to Matt's for Christmas dinner. We're staying right here. I have a turkey."
Catherine was shocked. "Of course we're going. I'm going, anyway. You may stay here by yourself if you like, but I'm going. He invited me."
"He did?"
"You know he did. The invitation was for both of us."
"It doesn't matter because I canceled. You were right there when it happened." What was the matter with this girl? "I'm not going to Matt's for Christmas dinner, and neither are you. That's final." She started out of the room.
"You are not to speak to your mother in that tone." When Nan neither stopped nor responded, Catherine demanded, "Why not?"
"Because I said so!"
Catherine shrieked, "How dare you?" and followed her. She picked up ammunition–an ashtray and a candy bar–and tossed them at the door that slammed behind Nan as she hid in her bedroom. Catherine sent a series of objects flying at the door: a pan, pillows, and shoes. A cup–plastic, with some liquid still in it, enough to cause a small splash along with the thump and roll. She was perfectly aware that she was throwing a temper tantrum, the likes of which Nan had never seen, but it wasn't much fun because the kid wouldn't come out of her room, remained barricaded, while Catherine raged and threw things. Somebody was singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and then there was a most unseemly commercial for something called Viagra.
Before long Catherine ran out of steam and collapsed onto the floor outside Nan's door. She could hear crying inside and told herself she should go to her daughter, but she didn't move, even when the whimpering stopped and there was only silence except for the cheery television noise from the living room and the rustling of her taffeta gown.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I cannot believe my life has come to this. I cannot believe how she has ruined my life.
Desperately Nan thought about calling Tonya, then remembered that she was out of town for the holidays. How dare she? Doesn't she know that this is when I need her most? Doesn't she care?
Doesn't she love me?
Horrified, Nan covered her face with her hands. She's my therapist, not my mother. What's happening to me?
Guilt washed over Nan like ice water. She rushed to open the bedroom door, fell to her knees beside Catherine, and burst into tears. "I'm sorry, Mom! I'm so sorry! We'll go! Of course we'll go!"
They cried together for a while. Catherine began to comfort Nan, stroking her hair, crooning, "It's okay, sweetheart, Nanny, it'll be okay, Mommy's here." The red dress still glimmered, though the top of it was sagging now in both front and back. Nan thought the smell and the feel of her mother's skin might make her throw up, though she found herself clinging.
Eventually she got herself and her mother to bed. When she remembered the few Christmas lights she had woven around the fichus and the candles on the mantel, she'd just found a comfortable position under the covers. She groaned. It was too much. Maybe she'd just leave it up to fate whether the house caught fire. But she did manage to get up, unplug the lights, blow out the candles, check on her mother, and stumble back to bed.
Surprisingly she slept well and, as far as she knew, dreamlessly, which was a bit of a disappointment. Catherine was positively chipper as the two of them opened presents. Clapping her hands at the silk robe and fuzzy slippers, though she didn't quite seem to know what to do with them until Nan showed her. Catherine's gift to her was a stuffed dog with floppy ears. Something stirred inside Nan when she stroked it; did this mean something? "It's adorable," she murmured. "Thank you."
"His name is Matthew," Catherine declared coyly.
"I don't think so."
"Yes, yes, his name is Matthew. Matt helped me pick him out for you, and I promised."
"Matt helped you?" There was something both touching and sinister about the thought of the two of them searching the aisles of Wal-Mart together for just the right toy for her. It's just a stuffed animal, she told herself sternly. And it was cute. She rubbed her cheek against its plush, and Catherine almost swooned with delight.
They were in the car and Nan was buckling Catherine in when her mother's eyes suddenly widened. "My pie!"
"Pardon?"
"My pumpkin pie! Can't forget my pie!"
"What are you talking about?"
"I made a pumpkin pie for Christmas dinner. I almost forgot. It's on top of my dresser, Nanny, go get it like a good girl."
"You made a pumpkin pie? By yourself?"
"Of course, by myself. I've been making pumpkin pies since before you were a glimmer in your daddy's eye."
After a moment Nan conceded defeat. Probably it wasn't safe to leave her mother alone in the car, but she couldn't face the prolonged physical intimacy of unbuckling her seatbelt and buckling it again. She hurried into the house and into Catherine's room. The pie was on the dresser, as Catherine had said, under a white lace chemise. Sometimes her mother seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Who knew, though, what was in it? She prayed that Liz had at least been in the kitchen while the thing was being made.
Catherine sang Christmas carols all the way to Matt's house. She got tangled up in "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and was singing "Five golden rings" over and over when Matt opened his door to them. He put his arms around her and they intoned it together, drawing out the four syllables until they were both out of breath. Nan thought she might jump out of her skin.
Dinner had been delivered from the natural foods market downtown and was quite good. She made it through the meal without having to say much. Matt gave her a small bottle of her favorite perfume–personal and impersonal at the same time. She gave him the book, and the magnifying glass from her mother. At Catherine's plate, Matt had placed a single chocolate rose. She raised it to her lips and gazed at him. He blew her a kiss.
Nan excused herself and hid in the bathroom as long as she dared. When she came out, Matt was cleaning up in the kitchen and Catherine was nowhere to be seen. She stayed in the doorway to ask, "Where's Mom?"
Matt didn't turn. "She was tired, so I made a place for her on the couch in my study." Which left the two of them alone. Great. Unwillingly, she asked what she could do to help. "Not a thing," he told her. "It's easier to do it mysel
f. I won't be long."
How dare he be so light-hearted when she was so miserable? Though she'd been at his place many times, she felt suddenly awkward here, even unsafe. Not knowing where she should be, she went into his study on the pretext of checking on her mother and closed the door behind her. Catherine was asleep, breathing peacefully, the red dress shining where it spilled out from under the afghan. Nan looked down at her for a moment. Then, without having planned it and without knowing what she was looking for, she found herself going through Matt's things.
The items in the desk were what she'd have expected: lecture notes, a month-at-a-glance planner, poetry manuscripts. She didn't read the poems. She didn't want to know what was in his heart or on his mind.
She swiveled in the chair to gaze around the room. Catherine hummed in her sleep. Matt was banging on a pan to "Little Drummer Boy." Across the room was a sideboard with many drawers and doors. Nan went and crouched before it. Inside the creaky door on the left were two manuscript boxes which turned out to hold letters, from Eliot to Matt in one and from Matt to Eliot in the other, all of them at least six years old, some from more than a decade ago. Now and again glancing furtively at her mother and listening for Matt, Nan scanned a few.
Eliot's were furious and detailed accusations of what he insisted his father had done to him. Nan could hardly bear to read them and was hungry for more. Matt's were firm denials, heartbroken apologies for anything he'd done that might have been misconstrued, outraged self-defenses, terse explanations, pleas.
Nan put the letters back in the boxes, hoping there hadn't been a particular order to them, and pulled out a black folder. Its pockets were full of Matt's poems. He hadn't shown her any of these, nor had she heard him read any of them except one, that first night:
But I did not do what you remember I did.
I did not.
Resisting the urge to tear up the pages or scatter them across the floor, she replaced them in the pockets of the folder and the folder back into the sideboard. She shut the door and stood. It was time to rouse her mother and go home.
What You Remember I Did Page 13
