Maggie nods her head. “Who knew that poor Rhonda Anderson would break out in such a rash? What was that chemical she was allergic to?”
“One of the dyes in the blusher, I think.” Methylparaben, I’ll never forget that one. “See, dear, I’m not so old that I can’t remember what it’s like to ruin a child’s birthday party.” I offer this as an olive branch, but Maggie’s laughter trails off. The only sound in the room is my paper towel digging into the soiled wicker chair.
Fuck Eric. He should be here right now phoning the remaining guests and helping me clean this mess up, and then my mother wouldn’t be comforting me for ruining Kaya’s birthday party. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have researched the side effects of that damned sweetener. What kind of acupuncturist smokes, anyway? I wish my mother would just go upstairs and take a bath or something, but there’s a part of me that wants her to stay. Story of my life.
We use two rolls of paper towels to clean the chair. Much to my surprise, it actually feels good to wipe away the mess with her. When I was a little girl and I was worried about a test or remembering my lines for a school play, I would lie in bed and wait for my mother to come sit on the edge and stroke my forehead. Just like that, my worries would dissolve, like the graphite designs on Kaya’s Etch A Sketch when you shake it. Presto. Gone. The sheer act of the telling made them disappear. Okay, here goes nothing.
“Kaya makes her friends tell her secrets if they want to play with her. Sophie told Kaya that another girl’s mother — a pediatrician, no less — makes her eat off the floor. ‘Germs on her terms,’ her mother calls it, something about immunity boosting. Kaya told everyone during circle time, and the little girl was so embarrassed that she cried for the rest of the day.” I deliver my confession in one breath.
“Did Kaya invite the girl to the party?” My mother’s tone is soft.
“What do you think?” I almost laugh, but I can feel tears creeping up behind my eyeballs. “No wonder the other mothers quit the Mean Girls, Zero Tolerance Task Force as soon as I joined.”
“Mags, maybe it wasn’t because of you.” Her voice softens further.
For a second my shoulders relax, and then the tension returns with a snapping sensation. “Most of the mothers hate me.”
“Hannah and Amy don’t.”
“Mom, Amy isn’t a mom, and did you see the way Hannah was hawking over the girls?” I wish my voice wasn’t shaking.
“What do the other moms say, darling?”
“They say I can’t see how manipulative Kaya is, that I encourage it because I’m proud of her power.”
“Are you?”
“No,” I answer too quickly.
She lets my half-truth go. “How do you know this?” she asks.
“I overheard a couple of mothers talking at the school auction. Only a few of the ten girls we invited to Kaya’s party came, and two of them were neighbors.”
My mother puts down her sponge, and for the second time tonight she moves toward me, and I wonder again if she’s going to gather me up in her arms and hold me. She pauses and then sits down.
“They hated me too,” she says. Now she looks like a rumpled little girl, slumped in a corner of the sunroom, with a wad of dirty paper towels in her hand. Years of tanning have leathered her skin, a tiny pouch hangs over the waistband of her pink Lilly Pulitzer capris, and her arms look bony, loose skin puckering at the elbows. I want to tell her that it’s okay, that every call she made to the school, every diet she put me on, every backseat coaching session she gave me, she did because she loved me, in her way. I forgive her for making me practice my cheers in the driveway until my fingers turned numb from the Wisconsin autumn cold and relentlessly comparing my looks to the other girls’. I forgive the stony silences on the way home from running errands, after the butcher smiled at me while she batted her eyelashes. Did I choose to get fat and dye my hair because I wanted her to back off, or because I wanted the butchers and mailmen and electricians to flirt with her and not me? Or both?
I want one of those double-hanky moments portrayed on the family television dramas I used to watch as a child, where everyone hugs and cries and then trots off to the kitchen to scoop out big bowls of ice cream with hot fudge sauce. But my kitchen still smells like Say-Lo, an aroma I will forever link to vomit and humiliation. And my mother does not bring out my inner compassionate TV drama daughter; I am stuck as the petulant teenager who ran from her like hell. Instead of hugging her, I speak a truth, because right now that’s the best I have to offer.
“I bet those mothers loved it when I went through my little rebellion.”
Without a beat she returns my lob. “Why do you think I stopped shopping at Food Lane? You were the talk of the checkout line.” The depth of the shame I caused her exposes itself to me, and for the first time in my life, I can actually see her as someone other than the person who makes me crazy.
She points to the baseboard and sprays 409 on a fossilized boxelder bug, snow-boot scuff marks, and a crooked line of blue crayon. We kneel before this shrine of daily life and pick up our sponges. The detergent has cleansed the orange tint from our skin, returning it to its natural color, perhaps a little pinker and puffy from the heat. We share the same tapered fingers and small, unattractive nail beds that manicures only magnify. An age spot the shape of an egg sprouts between my mother’s first two knuckles. Otherwise, our hands are identical as we scrub old stains.
IN FLIGHT
Rosie Gold, April 2002
When Marcus picks Mom and me up from the airport — we’ve flown in from Rochester for our annual cherry blossom visit — he does that thing where he looks at you and past you at the same time. He doesn’t think I notice because I’m his crazy big sister, a little slow, a little off. I lost too much oxygen at birth. People always want to label me “tard” or PDD or high-functioning this or that, but I’m just Rosie. Rosie Gold.
“Can you give me some air back here?” When Robin drives me, she knows to point the vents toward the backseat, but she’s not here.
“She’s still going through the change,” Mom informs Marcus in a hushed voice. “Menopause.”
“Privacy, Mom!” Does she think I’m deaf?
“Speaking of privacy, they made me take my shoes off at the airport!”
“Security is tight since 9/11, Mom,” Marcus says.
“Lucky we wore clean socks, right Rosie?” Mom calls over her shoulder.
Mom can be funny sometimes. “Sure are, Mom.”
Mom focuses her attention back on Marcus. “So did the kids go gaga over their new cousin?”
A couple of days ago, Robin took their kids to Memphis to see her sister’s new baby, but they flew back this morning, and they must be home waiting for us. I can’t wait; they haven’t visited us in ninety-seven days, and I haven’t seen Sydney do her new moves on the trampoline, even though they bought it last July when Sydney started getting serious about gymnastics.
Marcus turns onto his street, the cherry blossom trees in full bloom.
“The Enchanted Bertrand Forest.” I remind everyone of Dad’s nickname for Marcus’s neighborhood.
“Gorgeous.” Mom agrees and then pats her middle. “I didn’t eat a thing this morning. Travel nerves, you know.” She sighs. Dad used to hold Mom’s hand when we flew, but he died two years ago. “We’ll have a nosh with Robin and the kids.”
“Mom,” Marcus blurts, “I didn’t know how to tell you this, but Robin called. Justin has an ear infection. He’s fine, but he can’t fly until some of the fluid dries up.”
“But they’ll come home tomorrow, right, Marcus?”
Mom gives me the look to lower my voice, which she thinks gets loud when I’m upset, which I am. Everyone’s seen Sydney’s braces but me, and I want to talk to Justin about his bar mitzvah. It’s not for a year, but I want to tell him that he should have an ice cream sundae bar. Marcus told me that Justin calls me his special Aunt Rosie. That made me feel good because he means special in a good way.
Marcus pulls into the driveway, takes the keys out of the ignition, and says over his shoulder, “You’ll see them tomorrow, Rosie. Promise.”
“God willing,” Mom adds.
God willing is right.
It’s warm outside, and all of the neighbors have pulled out their Adirondack chairs — blues and purples and greens — for the spring and summer. We stand in Marcus’s driveway and Mom closes her eyes and tilts her head toward the sun. She’s got liver spots on her cheeks. We have the same kind of skin, dark and dry around the nose, so I’ll probably get marks like those one day, too.
Mom smiles up at the bright blue sky. “You should never know from the winter we had.”
“Ordered the weather just for you two.” Marcus kisses her hair, so full of spray that it covers her head like a helmet.
We barely get a spring in Rochester. What’s that joke? We have two seasons, July and winter. I don’t get it, but it seems like it should be funny, so I always laugh when people tell it.
We walk around to the backyard, to Marcus’s trampoline. Mom stares at it with this funny look in her eyes. I figure she’s going to tell us the story about Joey Hellman, our neighbor who broke his back doing a double flip on his trampoline. She always tells us this story when she sees Marcus’s trampoline, but this time she doesn’t.
Inside, the house doesn’t smell of its usual sugar and butter. Robin’s always baking something, which I think is weird because Marcus owns a bakery. “It’s not that kind of bakery,” he tells me. “We’re wholesalers. We only distribute bread.” What kind of bakery doesn’t bake cookies?
I follow Marcus to the basement. He puts my suitcase in the guest room and stands there for an extra few seconds, almost as if he’s waiting for Justin or Sydney to do something cute for us to laugh at, or for Robin to holler downstairs to remind him to put the clothes in the dryer, or for his bakery to call him on his cell phone.
He turns on Nickelodeon. Greg, Peter, and Bobby Brady are kicking the girls out of their clubhouse. I haven’t watched this episode of The Brady Bunch since Justin was born, but I remember wishing that Marcus and I would fight, and then to make up with me, he’d build a clubhouse for us to share. I sit on the edge of the sleeper sofa real straight so I won’t muss up my travel dress. After another episode, I go upstairs where Marcus is setting the table.
“That Robin. Look.” Mom points to the counter and the frozen packages with “Cherry Blossom Visit” written on Post-it notes taped to the foil.
Mom heats the food in the microwave and then motions us to sit down. “I’ve been listening to the local news. They’re predicting a nor’easter,” Mom warns.
I don’t like this talk of snow.
Mom waves her hand and chuckles. “A few inches and you’ll close your schools for a good week, and the grocery stores will run out of toilet paper.”
“Does this mean that Justin won’t be able to show me his new skateboard?” The snow will ruin everything. “We’ll all be stuck in the house forever,” I add grumpily.
“We’ve had so many false alarms this year,” Marcus reassures us, trying not to seem nervous, but he is, and it’s making me nervous too, and I’m not sure what we’re so nervous about. “Spring is here to stay.” He nods to the kitchen window, and we all look out at the long rows of cherry blossoms against the blue and orange sky.
Mom raises her second glass of wine to her lips and points to the trampoline. “You know, that brings back a lot of memories.”
I’m still waiting for the Joey Hellman story, but she surprises me with a new one.
“When you were three and a half, Rosie, and you were just two months old, Marcus, your father and I were invited to the Bloomsteins’ house on Canandaigua Lake for a barbecue.”
I butt in. “Did you bring us?” I hate it when people leave me out.
“God, no. This was an adult party. Quite wet, if you know what I mean.”
“Wet?” Marcus asks.
“We enjoyed our cocktails. I wore a lavender shirtwaist with yellow daisies embroidered on the collar.” She fingers her faded black sweater. “I climbed up on their trampoline and jumped like a little bird.” Mom closes her eyes and flutters her hands. “I bounced higher and higher until I was schvitzing.” And then she opens her eyes suddenly, as if she’s pulling herself out of a dream. “Your father shouted, ‘Essie,’” — Mom’s voice gets deep and loud like Dad’s — “‘you have a little girl and an infant at home to take care of. What are you thinking?’” She slaps her thigh, but she doesn’t laugh. “I looked over at him, and he was plenty scared, your father. He could barely change a diaper, so I got off and gave Lenore Rabin a turn.”
“You never told me that story,” Marcus says softly.
Later that night, right before I drift off to sleep, I remember the morning before Joey Hellman broke his back. I was too scared to jump on his trampoline, so I just sat on the black cross in the middle, and Marcus bounced me high into the air until we were both laughing our heads off. He looked like a bird too.
The next morning I wake up to more snow than we even have in Rochester; the Weather Channel says nine inches and a threat of five more to follow. Robin’s yellow daffodils are covered in a fat white blanket, and I can’t even see the trampoline.
I slide on my slippers and poke my head into Marcus’s office. “I guess the weatherman was right this time, Markie.”
He pounds away at his computer, raising his forefinger in the hold-on-a-second gesture he uses with Justin when he’s being a pest. “Robin and the kids won’t be able to fly in today,” he tells me, like it’s my fault or something.
I shuffle out of his office while he talks to his bakery people in a much nicer tone than he was using with me. If the kids were here, I’d be watching television with them and wouldn’t care that Mr. Big was too busy for me.
Mom’s making coffee in the kitchen. “I’ll fix you some eggs,” she offers.
I join her in the breakfast room and sit in my usual chair, which faces the family photo taken at Marcus and Robin’s wedding. I always thought that I’d marry first because I’m older, so I was a crab apple at the reception until Robin’s brother Danny grabbed my hand to dance the hora.
“Remember what you told Dad at the wedding?”
“What, Rosie?” Mom says, slicing a piece of challah.
“You told him that Danny’s date’s bazooms were falling out of her top.”
She doesn’t look up from the challah. “Danny didn’t hear me.”
“Oh yes.” I wouldn’t make this up. “He did, Mom. Everybody heard you.”
“Rosie, please.” She purses her lips.
“I’m glad he married Hannah,” I say.
Mom nods absently.
“Her bazooms are much smaller than the girl Danny brought to the wedding. Right, Mom?”
“Oh, Rosie,” Mom says.
Now I’ve annoyed her, which is easy to do when we’re traveling.
We eat our soft boiled eggs and watch the news. When Marcus finally comes out of his office, I’m standing in front of the fridge sipping my OJ.
He taps my shoulder with his finger. “Rosie, you want to come to the store with me?”
Mom frowns. “She just got over a cold. Do you really think she should be traipsing around in the wet snow?”
“That was three weeks ago. Jeez!” She treats me like I’m seven. I run downstairs to change; I’m not mad at Marcus anymore.
The cul-de-sac is sparkly white, and there’s so much snow on the branches that you can barely see any pink blossoms. Two boys across the street are swatting at snowballs with baseball bats, laughing when the slush sprays them in the face. I wave at them, but they must not see me, because they keep playing with each other. That happens to me a lot.
Marcus and I split shoveling the driveway, just like we used to do in high school. He tosses a shovelful of snow at me, like those kids across the street, and I giggle when it lands on Robin’s parka, which pulls around my
middle because I’m plump now. This happens with middle age, Mom tells me.
After we finish, Marcus opens the van door for me. He searches for an oldies station on the radio, and we listen to the Monkees, just like we did when we used to drive to temple with Dad. I tell Marcus about Anthony, the janitor from my apartment building, who looks like a chubbier, balding version of David Cassidy. Once when he came to fix my thermostat, I offered him some ginger snaps and an ice-cold glass of milk. He accepted. Eventually, he’d ask me to the movies or for a hamburger, I figured. Now he’s getting married.
Marcus fumbles for something to say. “You’ll meet someone else, Rosie. Remember what Dad used to tell us? Every pot…”
“…has a lid.”
“That’s right.” He fiddles with his cap.
“Like Ginny Rae?” When I was in high school, all the kids had to watch Like Normal People, a movie about Ginny Rae and Roger, a retarded couple who get married. Katie Buck and her friends started calling me Ginny Rae, which made no sense because that actress Linda Purl had blue eyes and a button nose.
“Who’s Ginny Rae?” he asks. How could he not have known that’s what people called me? He sat tables away from me in the cafeteria, but Katie Buck was really loud. When she started calling me and my friend Fern Ginny Raetard, I told on her and Mr. Rand, our school principal, made her write me an apology note. When my dad said that he was proud of me for sticking up for myself, Marcus left the dinner table without eating his wax beans. He loves wax beans.
“So, has Mom been on your case?” He changes the subject.
“Huh? Oh, you mean about my cold?”
“In general.”
“She’s just being Mom.”
He turns down the radio so we can barely hear my favorite Chiffons song. “Do you think she’s a little down?”
“Do you think she is?”
He adjusts the defroster. “Maybe a little tired?”
Dad got tired a lot before he found out about his bad heart. “Do you think Mom’s sick?”
Bertrand Court Page 9
