Family and Other Catastrophes
Page 13
“You look so cute,” Gabrielle said, pointing to the mirror. Emily looked up from the magazine for the first time and saw her reflection. Eva had finished cutting and was blow-drying, pressing the hairdryer to the round brush she was using to style her hair. Emily could not believe what she saw in the mirror. Her hair had been cut from her midback to her shoulders.
“What?” she shrieked, dropping the Cosmo on the floor, now covered in blond hair. “You cut it so short!”
Eva shrugged. “You say cut off the dead parts. I cut off dead hair. It go up to shoulder.”
“There is no way my hair needed to be cut this short!” Emily shouted, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “I look like Barbra Streisand! I look like a mom!” She worried at first that she might offend the pregnant Gabrielle, who was not only a mom-to-be but also a Barbra Streisand fan. Instead, Gabrielle put her arms around her from behind and smiled.
“You look beautiful,” she said, “and your hair is so thick and healthy now!”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Emily asked.
“Stop who?” Jennifer asked, briefly looking up from her phone.
“When you said you didn’t want it short, I thought you meant boy short,” Gabrielle said. Her hair was relaxed and polished, curled slightly under her chin. Easy for Gabrielle to say short hair looked good—she had poreless brown skin, full cheeks and a delicate heart-shaped jaw line. Gabrielle didn’t know the struggle of doing whatever she could to avoid looking like an elderly male horse.
“My wedding is in four days!” Emily cried, wiping tears from her eyes. “I look so old now. Like a soccer mom.”
“This not mom hairstyle,” Eva protested. “This normal hair. Mom style is to ear.”
“It makes my nose look huge!”
“So what? You have big nose. So does lady from Sex in the City.”
“Sarah Jessica Parker?” Emily sniffled. “Are you telling me I look like fucking Sarah Jessica Parker? She’s over fifty!”
“I meant young Sex in the City lady. Young version.”
Gabrielle tapped Eva on the shoulder and said, “You’re not helping. She’s having a moment.”
“I’m not having a moment, I just got ugly! I was at least sort of pretty when I got here. Now I’m a solid four. I look middle-aged. I look like Sarah Jessica Parker!”
“Sarah Jessica Parker is gorgeous,” Gabrielle said.
Emily rolled her eyes. “No, she isn’t. She’s one of those older female celebrities who women claim is gorgeous just because she’s successful. Like Meryl Streep, Helen Mirren or Anjelica Huston being ‘gorgeous.’ None of them are.”
“That’s totally not fair,” Gabrielle said. “And Helen Mirren is extremely sexy.”
“Really? You really think Helen Mirren is sexy?”
“Of course. And Anjelica Huston is smoking hot.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. None of these women are hot in their current iterations. There are no men jerking off to Angelica Huston.” She could tell Eva was snickering in the corner but she didn’t care. At least Jennifer was too involved in her phone to be judging her.
“You shouldn’t measure beauty that way,” Gabrielle said. “It’s about grace and strength. That’s what makes those women so sexy.”
“Only a woman would say that. On a purely physical level, men don’t find any of the women I listed attractive. Including Sarah Jessica Parker.”
“Emily, I don’t think you look like her. I’m just saying that’s not an insult, since she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”
“She really isn’t. Next you’re going to say Cloris Leachman is gorgeous.”
“She is, though! In her own way. She’s very distinguished.” Emily knew she was trying to be nice, but was furious at how Gabrielle insisted on these platitudes. She remembered how Gabrielle reacted earlier that year when Emily gained five pounds and casually mentioned wanting to lose it. She was afraid Gabrielle would be offended since she was the heavier of the two, but instead she just insisted “weight didn’t matter” because “just look at Oprah and Rosie O’Donnell—they’ve done well for themselves.” Emily tried to explain that this was more insulting than just agreeing that Emily needed to lose the weight, but Gabrielle didn’t seem to see why.
“I think your haircut looks cute,” Jennifer said, looking up from her phone. “But worst-case scenario, we can get some extensions if you absolutely need them.”
Emily wiped her nose. “Good extensions are expensive and I can’t afford them. And the last thing I want to do is ask my parents for money. Also, David doesn’t like fake hair. He says it reminds him of rodents.”
“Oh, I think I know what this is about,” Gabrielle said, rubbing Emily’s back. “This is your version of grief. This is about your great aunt Ellen.”
Emily nearly laughed, despite the tears building up in her eyes. “Oh, I completely forgot about Aunt Ellen!” Emily said, wiping her nose. “But fuck, thanks for reminding me. I need to make sure my mom isn’t running off to Boston.”
“Who’s Aunt Ellen?” Jennifer asked.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” Emily said. She briefly felt guilty for being more upset about her hair than about someone dying, but people died every day. There were probably more deaths per day, especially among eighty-five-year-olds like Aunt Ellen, than there were bad haircuts just days before a wedding. Emily allowed herself to have this moment.
* * *
The caterers, Fiddle & Jam, occupied a small storefront in a twee Scarsdale shopping center, sandwiched between a high-end pet salon called Frou and a luxury children’s clothing store called Winklepea, which Emily once ventured into, just to see how expensive it was (it turned out to be selling a $160 cashmere cardigan made for three-month-olds).
Fiddle & Jam was trying very hard to look like a colonial-style house, with red-shuttered windows and white wooden siding. Inside, it was pure white: white tiles, white walls, white wooden Federal-style chairs around little white tables. A few enlarged photos of gourmet food adorned the walls. As Emily arrived with Lauren, she looked at the display case full of ready-made dishes. Everything seemed to be loaded with saffron.
“Ah, there you are,” said Marla. She was standing by the counter, talking with the caterer, Kelly, a pink-cheeked, chubby woman in her thirties with a tight bun and a permanent smile.
Marla looked at Emily. “Your hair is...different. It suits you. Much more mature.”
“Yeah, I didn’t want it this short. I’m pissed off about it, so let’s just talk about something else. I’ve already cried over it.”
“You cried over your hair?” Lauren asked, slightly amused.
“Seriously, Lauren, not helping. Some of us actually want to be attractive.”
“I am attractive. I’m really fucking attractive because I’m attractive to myself. My ideals of beauty aren’t ruled by what men think.” She angrily motioned through the window to a frail-looking old man feeding squirrels out in the courtyard.
“Look, let’s not do this. I just wanted my hair to look feminine for my wedding.”
“Hair length has nothing to do with femininity. Are you telling me Natalie Portman wasn’t feminine with a buzz cut?”
“Yeah, because Natalie Portman is gorgeous already. Most men aren’t huge fans of buzz cuts on women, shockingly.”
“Seriously, why are you so obsessed with what men think?” Lauren threw her head back.
“Because I want to be attractive to men, specifically the man I’m marrying. And guess what? That’s most women. We want to be hot. We want to be pretty. So yeah, ideals of beauty are directly related to what men think. Just like men wanting to look good for women. Do you berate men for working out?”
“I pity you. You spend so much time trying to be more attractive. With the amount of daily sexual harassment I receive, if anything, I’d want to
be less attractive.”
“Sweetheart,” said Marla, mildly amused, “I doubt that so many men are harassing you. This is classic paranoia.”
“Uh, yes, they are. I get hit on daily. Usually by guys in high school. And by pretty much every male coworker I’ve ever had.”
“Where do you go that you meet high school boys daily?” Emily asked.
“None of your business.”
“If I may,” Kelly said in a high-pitched, wobbly voice. “I think now would be a good time to review the menu.”
“Of course,” Marla said. “Apologies, we’re all a bit stressed out. My mother died last night.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Kelly said. “That must be hard.”
“She’s your mother now?” Lauren asked. “Come on, Mom, at least be honest.”
“The closest thing I had to a mother anyway,” Marla said. She zoomed in on Kelly’s name tag. “Kelly, you must understand where I’m coming from. I was raised by clinical narcissists and the only person in my life who showed me any kindness was my aunt Ellen, and that’s who died. Granted, her kindness was probably due to a very meek, passive personality, exacerbated by the fact that she was drunk 24/7, and as a result I didn’t have much respect for her, but that’s why it’s so complicated for me. It’s really bringing up a lot of emotions in regards to my own success and all the times I’ve felt the need to make myself smaller to make way for men in my industry. I’m a psychologist, by the way.”
“Wow, Mom,” Lauren said, putting her hands on her hips. “Are you done now?”
Marla gave a belabored sigh. “Yes, I suppose I am. I thought you of all people would be tolerant about this.”
“I am, but don’t talk to me about sexism in your workplace when you’re a privileged, educated white woman and you work alone anyway. You should be sitting down and listening while trans women of color talk about their experiences instead of hogging the space and making it all about you.”
Despite her sadness, real or imagined, Marla began to laugh hysterically, laying her hand down on the catering counter as her laughter grew so intense it made no more noise. Finally, she composed herself. “Very good point, Lauren, I’ll just sit here waiting around until a trans woman of color walks in to Fiddle & Jam to tell her story instead.” She turned back to Kelly. “You seem like the only reasonable millennial here.”
“Oh, I’m not a millennial,” Kelly said. “I’m actually thirty-seven but everyone thinks I’m twenty. It’s so annoying!”
Marla and Lauren instinctively turned to Emily, who was gritting her teeth.
“So let’s chat about food!” Kelly said in a chipper tone. “For the hors d’oeuvres, we’re having the steak and cheese puff pastries, the ham croquettes and the watermelon slices with olive oil and mint.”
“Can we add something else?” Marla asked.
“Of course. What did you have in mind?” Kelly took out a small notebook and pen by the register.
“Mom, why do we need something else?” Emily asked.
Marla finger-combed her black hair back and closed her eyes in frustration. “I’m kicking myself right now for this, but it just occurred to me that we never made any effort to include enough kosher options. I mean, we’ve got the watermelon thing, but that’s clearly just the vegan option, it doesn’t look like it was a specifically kosher choice. And what is everyone going to think when they arrive at a Jewish wedding and ham is being served? I know it’s too late to cancel the ham now, but at least let’s add kichel or something.”
“Mom, this isn’t a Jewish wedding,” Emily said.
“This is news to me! I knew your officiant was some secular person you found off Yelp, but I didn’t realize you were going full shiksa.”
“In Emily’s defense,” Lauren said, “you haven’t been to temple since the seventies.”
“It’s about paying respect to your culture,” Marla said. “Emily, please tell me David is at least willing to wear a yarmulke, or I swear on Aunt Ellen’s grave, this wedding will be a disaster.”
“David is Catholic. He isn’t going to wear a yarmulke.”
“Oh, right. I’m sure his parents would have quite an issue with that. They probably think he’ll grow horns.” She raised her pointer fingers to the side of her head to illustrate her point and Kelly put her notebook away.
“Mom, come on.”
“I may not be the best Jew in the world, but there are a few things I know. First of all, weddings are the time to honor your ancestors and your culture. How do you think I’m going to be perceived if my friends show up and David is wearing some giant cross?”
Emily shifted her weight from one aching foot to the other. “First of all, there won’t be any crosses, and second of all, I’m pretty sure your friends are expecting a secular wedding, if they even care at all.”
“That isn’t true. Judy Stein actually asked me why the wedding wasn’t being held in a temple, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.”
“The truth is that it’s a secular wedding and it’s being held at the Ritz Carlton. Also, who’s Judy Stein?”
“Oh, she’s the saleswoman at Neiman’s who helps me find good deals. She found me a great pair of Stuart Weitzman boots the other week, because they were—”
“I love Stuart Weitzman!” Kelly piped up cheerfully.
Emily ignored Kelly. “Wait, Mom, are you seriously just inviting random people now? I don’t even know this woman.”
“I have no family, Emily. That’s the truth. I’m all alone in this world. Unlike you, my parents are dead, and your aunt Lisa, well, enough said. Aunt Ellen was all I had, and now she’s dead too. Judy Stein is my family now. It’s horribly unfair to say that David’s father can invite his family and I can’t invite anyone because my family of origin is toxic. You’re punishing me for being born into a family of narcissists.”
“Can you just let me know who else you’re inviting?”
“Nobody you don’t know, other than Judy. And trust me, you’re going to love her.”
Kelly spoke up. “Getting back to the topic at hand, we can always add another appetizer. We have plenty of kosher options. What about spinach pies?”
Marla winced. “It’s a bit Greek, but okay.”
“Okay, thank goodness,” Emily said. “Guess the wedding won’t be a disaster after all.”
“Well, since we’re talking about wedding stuff,” Lauren said, “there’s something I need to tell you.” She clasped her hands together.
“After my hair and this kosher festival, I don’t know what news could piss me off further. Just go for it.” Emily took a seat in one of the wrought iron chairs near the window.
“Ariel won’t be able to perform as the ring bearer. And frankly, I feel the need to push back against that gender-normative decision on your part.”
“What?” She almost didn’t believe what Lauren was saying. It was as if Lauren were doing an impression of herself. “He’s the only little boy I know. Of course he’s the ring bearer. We don’t have anyone else to do it.”
“What about Mia?”
“She’s the flower girl. Look, we just don’t know enough kids for them to have their pick of the roles, okay?”
“Well, Ariel wants to be the flower person.”
“What?”
“He wants to wear the dress and walk down the aisle with the flowers.”
“It’s Mia’s dress. Christina ordered it six months ago, and it’s too small for him, so they can’t just switch.”
“Ariel can wear his tutu. And he doesn’t need to wear a shirt—that’ll be so cute! People will really love how different it is.” Kelly had stopped listening and appeared to be playing a game on her phone instead.
“Fuck. I am not having that at my wedding. I’m anxious enough about everything already and this is not helping.”
“Because she’s delusional!” Emily said, her voice rising. “You obviously used some different parenting book when you raised her and Jason, and because I came along so much later, you changed the rules for me. I’ve never once heard Jason or Lauren doubt themselves. I doubt myself every day. And as much as I want to write that off as me being crazy, I think they’re crazy to think so highly of themselves when everyone else knows they’re losers!”
“Oy vey,” Marla muttered.
“I’m a loser?” Lauren said. “I’m an activist. When was the last time you changed anything for women?”
Emily wanted to cry. And then she felt angry for wanting to cry. Why did she want to cry? Everyone else got to say what they wanted. Everyone else got to criticize her. So why was it so horrible when she spoke the truth? Surely someone would say it wasn’t the truth at all. There was always some alternative explanation, some diagnosis, some reason why everything she felt was fake.
“You look upset,” Marla finally said.
“Well, yeah, of course I do. It’s my wedding week and Lauren won’t quit criticizing me. And now, my hair...”
“Well, I think we’re all done here,” Kelly said.
“What I’m sensing,” Marla said, ignoring Kelly, “is that you lash out at the ones you love when your own sense of self-worth has been downgraded—this time by a haircut. Your own looks mean so much to you that they cause you to antagonize those who love you.”
“You guys don’t love me,” Emily said. “And if you do, you do a great job of hiding it.”
Suddenly, overcome by an unexpected wave of nausea, she threw up on the bleached wooden floor, the hot, sharp chunks rushing through her esophagus and splashing onto the floor.
“Emily!” Marla gasped. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, I just threw up everywhere. Kelly, I’m so sorry!”
“Did you have too much to drink last night?” Marla asked.