by Dyan Sheldon
“I don’t know if I’m up to this,” says Sylvia. “It’s been so long… Maybe if it was where you work – that nice man—”
“Mr Goldblatt knows them,” Ruben lies reassuringly. “He likes them a lot. He says they’re really good people.”
“I’m sure they are…” She wouldn’t care if they were saints. “Maybe if I write back that I have the flu…”
“It’s kind of short notice,” says Ruben. “The event’s only a few days away. They’ve done all this promotion. Posters. Fliers. Twitter. Facebook. And, like she says in the email, people are really excited. You don’t want to disappoint your fans, do you? They’ll be really looking forward to meeting you.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll be with you. You’ll be fine.”
The cloud of worry lifts a little. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so.”
And, for some reason, she believes him.
But come the day and Sylvia isn’t fine.
She arrives at breakfast looking as worried as Kandinsky must have when the Nazis started confiscating his paintings, and is too anxious to eat. “I think I really may be getting sick,” she tells him. “Maybe I should email them after all. What if I’m contagious? I wouldn’t want to infect everybody.”
“It’s just nerves,” says Ruben. “Like you said, it’s been a long time. But if you want to call them and cancel… you can’t do it by email. Not when they’re expecting you in a few hours. That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Oh.” Sylvia stares into her cup. She wasn’t counting on actually having to talk to someone. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just nerves. I think I’ll have another tea.”
She spends the rest of the morning getting ready – changing her mind about what she’s wearing, not being able to decide on a pair of shoes, misplacing her good-luck necklace – a silver dragon with moonstone eyes – without which she can’t possibly leave the house. When at last she’s dressed and shod and the dragon is safely around her neck, she’s so on edge that it takes twenty minutes to get her into the car because she has to keep going back to make sure the doors are locked, the lights off, the windows shut. He has all he can do to convince her not to have him unplug the fridge since she is suddenly sure that it will explode if there’s no one in the house with it.
Ruben slides into the driver’s seat and looks over at his mother, paler even than a woman who hasn’t been out in daylight for months should be. Why is he making her do this? He should let her go back inside, lock herself in her room, wrap her head in foil. But he doesn’t. Is he being selfish? Is it because he likes having meals with her again? Likes being able to leave her when he wants without being doubled over with guilt? Likes seeing her leave her room? Enjoys her company? Doesn’t want her to spend the rest of her life upstairs? He makes sure her seat belt’s buckled, and drives her to the mall, talking the whole time – babbling really – while she looks out of the window as though she comes from a distant galaxy and this is her first visit to his planet and is taking everything in – and not listening at all. There are a few minutes after he parks when he thinks he may have to drag her from the car, but eventually she gets out, hood up and sunglasses on, holding on to him as if she’s afraid of blowing away.
When they reach the shop, there’s a queue that stretches from the entrance to the entrance of the next store.
“So many people,” whispers Sylvia, cutting off the circulation in his arm. “I didn’t think there’d be so many people.”
“They’re your readers,” says Ruben. “They’re excited to meet you.” And he gently pulls her through the door.
Once inside, she lets the blood flow again. He told them she likes to create an atmosphere in keeping with her books and asked them to keep the lighting low, but they’ve gone one better and put artificial flickering candles all around the room. “Oh,” says Sylvia. “Isn’t this pretty? What a nice touch.” The staff greets her with enthusiasm and genuine warmth. “I guess Mr Goldblatt was right,” says Sylvia.
Ruben learns two important lessons on this momentous afternoon. The first is that his mother is actually very sane. He forgot how intelligent she is – personable and funny, smart and diplomatic, able to handle an onslaught of strangers with good humour and grace (and without once suggesting that someone cover the windows) – because he was so obsessed by her fears. He should have got her help; he should have talked to someone; perhaps he should have talked to her.
The second thing he learns is that a lot of very attractive young women read his mother’s books – and that he might like to date some of them – interesting girls, clever girls, pretty girls – but because he was so obsessed with Sorrel he never noticed anyone else.
It’s dark by the time they leave the mall. Sylvia walks beside him, no longer gripping his arm as if he’s a life preserver, chatting away. “That wasn’t so bad,” she says as they get in the car. “Everyone was so nice.”
And Ruben agrees, “No, it wasn’t so bad. And you were brilliant.”
They’re passing the old country road, once an Indian trail that acted as the highway up here before the real highway was built, when his mother suddenly says, “Ruben, let’s go down there. We haven’t been on that road in ages. And it’s such a nice night.”
He doesn’t ask why; he knows why. When his dad was alive it was the route he always took when they went for one of their Sunday drives.
She tells him to pull over when they reach the lake his father said was once the site of an Algonquin village. “We used to have picnics here, remember?” says Sylvia. And gets out of the car without being asked.
It is a nice night, cold and clear, the sky aglitter with stars. Ruben puts his arm around his mother and they stand together, looking up at the spangled, timeless heavens – as the trees whisper and the planet turns and the world dreams.
When they get back to the car Sorrel is sitting in the back seat, smiling.
Ruben smiles back.
“It’s now or never,” says Sorrel. She is standing on the foot of Celeste’s bed, staring down at her, fully dressed and arms akimbo. “Either you tell her today or you forget about it. You can’t keep waiting for the perfect moment. Trust me, it’s never going to come.”
Celeste opens one eye. It’s still dark outside. “I know. I know,” she mumbles. “But it’s Saturday. I just want to stay in bed a little longer.” And promptly rolls over so that her face is in her pillow.
It was generally agreed that the Christmas concert was an unqualified success. The orchestra’s half of the programme and the individual performances of the second segment all came in for praise, but so, too, did the set design and presentation. Even Mrs Snowbird, the principal, a woman who doles out approval as if it’s a dwindling resource, said it met professional standards. Indeed, only one person who attended the concert failed to show any enthusiasm for the event, and that one person is Lilah Redwing. How could she be expected to enjoy an evening that brought her nothing but embarrassment and humiliation? That’s what she’d like to know. How? There she sat, surrounded by people she’s known most of her life – by friends, colleagues, and people to and for whom she has sold houses (some of them very important people) – while the father of her children swanned to the front of the auditorium with “that man”, flaunting their relationship in front of the entire town. She’s convinced that even people who had never known Tylor when he was a respected professional and family man, knew who he was. Who else could it be? After all she’s done for Celeste, this was the thanks she got. She’s grateful they don’t live under a fascist regime or Celeste would probably turn her into the secret police. And then, to add a whole lot of insult to a truckload of injury, and ignoring all of the distress and unhappiness she’d caused, Celeste abandoned Lilah and Astra to go off with her father and his whatever-you-want-to-call-him. To eat pizza! That’s what betraying her mother and sister is worth to her, two slices of pepperoni with extra cheese and a diet Coke.
Since that fateful night, the
relationship between Celeste and her mother has made the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union look like a Utopian dream. There are no walls and no spies or double agents, no shoe banging or aerial reconnaissance, no stockpiling of nuclear weapons or unveiled threats, but there has been a certain amount of sabotage (on Lilah’s part) and a definite coolness and difficulty with negotiations. Celeste’s mother doesn’t yell and scream as Sorrel’s mother did, and she doesn’t go in for long sub-Arctic silences like Officer Gwinnet or (also like Officer Gwinnet) sudden outbursts of violence. Lilah Redwing is a tactician who would make Machiavelli proud. She acts as if nothing is wrong. She is sweet and pleasant, she smiles and smiles as if she is lit from within, she answers questions, she gives instructions, she asks Celeste about her day – but she does it all from very far away, as if she is no more than an image on a computer screen. The virtual mother; you can see her and hear her, but you can’t get close.
Which is why Celeste hasn’t managed to tell Lilah what she’s decided about college. Celeste has been waiting for a good time, but because Lilah is avoiding her while pretending not to, there hasn’t been even a not-so-bad time, let alone a good one. Lilah is always distracted. Always busy. Always in a hurry. Always on her way somewhere, or not yet returned.
“Don’t go back to sleep!” orders Sorrel. “Get up. You have to be waiting for her or she’ll be out of the house before you get your mouth open.”
Celeste groans, but rolls onto her back. “Maybe I should wait till tonight. You know, when she’s relaxed.”
“Maybe you should wait till you’re ninety and she’s dead,” says Sorrel.
Celeste sits alone in the kitchen for over an hour, silently rehearsing what she’s going to say. She appreciates all her mother’s done for her. She knows her mother only wants what’s best for her. The last thing Celeste wants is to hurt her mother or cause her any pain. And she has applied to all the colleges her mother suggested – the ones near home, the ones with sound teaching programmes – but she’s also applied to one college in the city. Her first choice; her only choice, really. The plan, made during the Christmas visit – suggested by Tylor before Celeste could bring it up, and seconded by Jake – is that she will live with them and try to get somewhere with her music while she studies, though not for a teaching degree. Maybe music history; something that actually interests her.
Celeste is on her tenth run-through of this speech when Lilah bustles in, her handbag and briefcase in one hand, her shoes in the other and her coat over her arm, muttering to herself about being late and so much to do and not enough hours in the day.
Celeste looks up with a smile. “Morning, Mom,” she says as Lilah bustles past her. “There’s coffee and toast. And I made you a lunch.”
“Thank you, darling.” Her mother doesn’t look at her, but drops her shoes on the floor, her bags on the table and her coat over the back of a chair, then goes over to the counter to pour herself a coffee.
“I could make you eggs, if you want,” says Celeste. If she were a servant she’d be bowing and scraping. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“No time, darling.” Her mother sits down, taking her tablet from her handbag, and flips it open. “Busy day. Appointments until the afternoon.”
“When will you be home? You want me to fix supper?”
“Not for me, darling.” Lilah lifts her mug with one hand and swipes the screen with the other. “I have a date.”
“A date?” Celeste fails at not sounding surprised; Lilah hasn’t had a date since the Autumn. “You mean with a man?”
Her mother looks in her general direction. Slyly. “Well, it wouldn’t be with a woman, would it?”
“I didn’t mean… I only meant—”
“I won’t be back till late,” says Lilah, her eyes on the screen once more.
“Oh, right.” Celeste lifts her own mug, then puts it down again. “It was just that I thought maybe you’d have some time to talk. You know, you’re always so busy. And I have been trying—”
“Oh, I know you’re trying, Celeste,” Lilah says to her tablet, “but I don’t suppose you can help it.”
As if someone called her, Sorrel appears in the chair across from Celeste. “She’s pushing your buttons,” says Sorrel. “Don’t let her do that. Make her talk to you now.”
Celeste clears her throat. “Mom, I really need to talk to you. I know you’re still mad at me about the concert and everything—”
“I’m not mad, darling.” She shuts the Notepad and puts it back in her bag. “Why should I be mad? After all, no matter how badly he treated and hurt you, he is your father. There’s nothing that can change that.” More’s the pity. “I understand that.” She finishes her drink and gets to her feet. “And you are almost eighteen. You can make your own decisions. You don’t have to worry about my feelings or what I think.”
“And she doesn’t have to worry about yours. Only, like always, she’s not going to listen to your decisions.” Sorrel leans towards Celeste. “Don’t let her get away.”
“Mom.” Celeste stands up, too. “Just ten minutes. I really—”
“Not now.” Lilah puts on her coat. “I absolutely have to go. My life is important, too, you know. Not everything’s about you.” She picks up her briefcase and handbag. “You have a nice day.”
Celeste stands there, watching her mother walk out of the room, without once having looked at Celeste.
“Maybe it’s a good thing I got hit by that stupid car.” Sorrel is speaking very loudly. “Because if you can’t even tell your mother you want to live with your dad and go to college somewhere she doesn’t approve of how on earth would you ever have told her about us?”
“I would have.” Celeste is whispering. “I would have.”
“No you wouldn’t. And you’re never going to make anything of your music, either. You’re going to go to college forty miles away and come home every weekend and become a teacher and marry some guy your mother thinks is a good provider and have two kids whose lives you can make as miserable as yours – and a whole lot of regrets.”
Her mother’s car is just clearing the garage when Celeste comes tearing out of the house, yelling at her to stop. Surprised, Lilah does stop.
Sorrel stands on the porch. Looking pleased.
These days, Orlando is always in a hurry. He races from school to dance class, or from school to basketball practice, or from dance class to basketball practice, or from basketball practice to drama club, or from drama club to basketball practice on what is an enormous virtual hamster wheel. He is so busy and so tense that if he saw a large, neon sign that said RELAX it would take him several minutes to work out what it means. And even when he’d worked it out, he would be as likely to relate it to himself as he would an ad for horseshoes. Horseshoes? What does that have to do with me? I don’t have a horse.
Besides always being in a hurry, Orlando is, of course, almost always late for one thing or another. Tonight he’s going to be so late getting home that he’ll miss the curfew his father has imposed during basketball season. There’ll be no burning the candle at both ends for Orlando, not after what happened when his brother tried it. And especially not when one of the ends is a career in professional basketball.
Coach Mena held Orlando after practice this afternoon for a little coach-to-player talk. “I know where your body is,” said Coach Mena, “but I’m not so sure about your mind. I thought you’d pulled yourself together. You were playing like you used to for a while. But since Christmas you play like you’re blindfolded and wearing boxing gloves. If you keep on like this…”
Since Christmas Orlando keeps thinking about people living the wrong life. Sorrel should have been able to love whomever she wanted. Her mother should have done what she wanted. His mother should have married a man who wouldn’t treat her like his housekeeper. His father should have followed his dreams himself or found different ones.
Coach Mena shook his head. Less with sadness than disappointme
nt and disgust. “You seem distracted. Not focused. Like you don’t even care. Like tonight? Tonight balls were flying by you like birds.”
Which was a massive exaggeration; it was one ball, one bird. Orlando mumbled something about school pressures. “It’s senior year, you know? There’s a lot going on.”
Sounding disturbingly like Officer Gwinnet, the coach said that basketball is just as important as school, making it clear that he meant more important. Orlando promised to try harder. Again.
“Where have I heard that before?” asked the unsmiling Mena.
“Much, much harder,” said Orlando.
As if that wasn’t enough, Stella Brood held him after the run-through this evening for a little director-to-cast-member talk, too. “I know you can’t give us all the time you’d like,” said Stella Brood, “but I want you to know that you’re doing a fantastic job. We’re all really impressed.” Besides being in the chorus line he’s been given a small speaking part as well. “Now, I don’t want to put you under any extra pressure, but I was hoping you’d agree to be Malik’s understudy.” As a reward for being so fantastic. “I’ve been dithering about it because I don’t think anyone else is really up to it.” Orlando pointed out that Malik, the lead, doesn’t really dance. “That’s why I’m not making him your understudy,” said Stella Brood. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I do hope you’ll take it. This would be good practice for you. Sort of cutting your teeth. It’d be a shame to waste your obvious talent.” Talent. He has obvious talent. When did that happen? Orlando knew he should say no. It was crazy; he was already stretched so far it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped, but, of course, he didn’t want to say no. He doesn’t want to waste his talent either, not now that he knows he has it. And he’s enjoying being in the play; a lot more than he’s ever enjoyed basketball. He said he’d do his best. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” said Stella Brood. Orlando can only hope that Malik doesn’t drop out before opening night.
