My Perfect Life

by Dyan Sheldon

  “I want as many different countries represented as possible,” summarized Carla. “After all, we are a global village now, aren’t we, Mrs Gerard? I mean, we don’t just live in Dellwood, New Jersey, any more. We live in Calcutta, Beijing and Mexico City as well. Our culture stretches across the globe.”

  “She means McDonald’s stretches across the globe,” muttered Lola.

  “Shhh…!”

  “… right,” said my mother. “You’re absolutely right. The world doesn’t begin and end with Dellwood, New Jersey, does it?” She sounded as though this was one of the most important pieces of information she’d ever heard.

  “Of course it doesn’t. We’re one world now,” intoned Carla. “That’s what my campaign is all about. That’s why everybody who comes to my rally has to dress up like someone from a different country, and I want the food to be from everywhere. You know, like a smörgåsbord of international cuisine. Including from the States.”

  Lola and I exchanged another look. What rally?

  My mother was still murmuring to herself. “You’re right… Millions – billions – of people live in places that aren’t Dellwood. This isn’t all there is.”

  “Is your mother going through a mid-life crisis or something?” whispered Lola.

  It was more up-market wine than mid-life crisis if you asked me.

  “Shhh…!”

  Carla gamely carried on. “You know, from different regions. Fried chicken from the South … that kind of thing…”

  My mother said, “Fried chicken?”

  “Maybe we should just concentrate on the rest of the world,” said Carla.

  “Well…” My mother sighed. “It would certainly be a challenge.”

  “Say yes,” begged Carla. “I love a good challenge. Don’t you?”

  Unexpected

  complications

  Carla’s rally replaced the election itself as the main topic of conversation at school the next week. Carla was calling it a rally, but it had as much to do with an ordinary rally as an infant school hop has to do with a high school prom. In fact, from what we heard, it seemed likely that Carla’s one-world rally was going to put the prom in the shade. Not only was it being catered for by Marilyn Gerard, but there was to be a live band, fireworks and a prize for the best costume as well. Sam called it The Million-dollar Bash.

  Because of the excitement over Carla’s rally, we had a grand total of three visitors to our headquarters all week, and two of them were looking for Morty. Our third visitor was Morty himself. Carla was throwing The Million-dollar Bash for her friends and supporters, and Morty was having the Poor Boys’ Potluck Picnic on Saturday night in his backyard for everybody else. He came by to invite us along.

  Even though it meant the debate was that much closer, I was grateful when Friday came, since at least it would soon be over.

  “Maybe we could poison the food,” suggested Sam as we passed yet another gaggle of girls asking each other what they were wearing Saturday night. “That should cut some of her votes.”

  “It’s tempting,” said Lola. “Strychnine in the samosas … cyanide in the corn fritters… But then Marilyn would get blamed.” She sighed. “She would never recover. Suburban murders always get a lot of press attention.”

  “Thanks for thinking of my mother’s feelings.”

  “Well, it’s not as if she thinks of yours,” said Lola.

  “Maybe you could convince your mother to bale out of the catering at the last minute,” Sam suggested. “Tell her you regard it as an act of betrayal.”

  Even if I felt that I could have told my mother not to I wouldn’t have. My parents had had a big fight the weekend before, but the rally had cheered her up. She couldn’t have been more excited if it were a party of her own. As far as I was concerned, she could have it at our house if it would make her happy.

  “Forget it, Lola. My mother wouldn’t let Carla down for anything.”

  “It’s too bad she doesn’t feel that strongly about you,” said Lola.

  Lola and I had a weekend of serious hard work planned. The big debate was the following Thursday, the day before the election. Maybe Carla Santini wanted to fritter the time away, dancing and eating authentic Thai spring rolls, but I was going to work on my arguments and hone my rhetorical techniques, so that on Thursday I could dazzle the school with my debating skills – and wipe the auditorium with Carla Santini. As Sam said, after Carla’s party it would be the only chance I had.

  I stayed over at Lola’s on Friday night as usual, and on Saturday she came home with me.

  My mother’s car was in the driveway when we got to my house, but my father’s car wasn’t. All systems normal.

  “Mom?” I called as we stepped through the front door. “Mom? I’m home.”

  “She must be in the kitchen,” said Lola. “Hijacking the cuisines of the world for Carla’s party.”

  “Mom, I’m back!” I pushed the swinging door and Lola and I stepped into the kitchen.

  “Good God!” breathed Lola. “What is this? A parallel world?”

  I could only hope so.

  I had never in my life seen our kitchen (or any other room in our house) in a state that was less than perfect. As Lola often said, God has ten commandments, but my mother has over a hundred – and a good thirty of them concern the kitchen. Do not leave dirty dishes in the sink. Put anything you’re not using away. Clean up after yourself.

  I looked from the dirty dishes in the sink to the food and used utensils that seemed to have been hurled around the room. The apron my father gave my mother as a joke Christmas present (Too Many Kisses Spoil the Cook was written across the front) was lying in a corner, looking stepped on.

  A few more of my mother’s commandments occurred to me. Never ever smash eggs on the cupboard doors. Do not splatter the refrigerator with salsa. Do not attack the microwave with a plate of spicy vegetable fritters. Never leave peanut sauce burning on the stove.

  “Maybe she’s been abducted by aliens,” suggested Lola. She put on a reading-the-tabloids voice. “Suburban mother taken aboard alien spacecraft while preparing South East Asian food.”

  “I doubt it.”

  There was an empty wine bottle on the table. Alien abduction seemed unlikely.

  Lola took her eyes from the scene of furious destruction to see what I saw on the table. Than she turned her eyes on me. “Is there something you forgot to tell me, Ella?”

  I shrugged. “It’s no big deal … but sometimes she does mistake the Chardonnay for water.”

  Lola frowned as though trying to concentrate. “Are you saying your mother, Marilyn Gerard, is an alcoholic? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “She isn’t an alcoholic,” I said firmly. “She just drinks too much. Sometimes.” I glanced at the eggs streaming down the cabinets like melting eyes. “When she’s unhappy.”

  And she was definitely unhappy now.

  Lola whistled under her breath. “That’s why you were so good when Stu Wolff was so drunk, isn’t it? Because you’re used to dealing with Marilyn.”

  “I suppose so.” That was why we’d been picked up by the police: because Stu Wolff was so drunk. I smiled feebly. “I have had practice.”

  “My God…” Lola was shaking her head in an awed kind of way. “Maybe you’re the one who should be the actress, Ella. How long has this been going on?”

  I gave another shrug. “I don’t know. A while. It sort of snuck up on me.”

  “The way things do,” said Lola. Her eyes wandered around the room again. “Do you think you better look for her? Make sure she’s all right?”

  “She’s probably asleep.”

  I went over to turn off the scorched sauce. That’s when I noticed the letter. It was lying on the table by the bottle, a torn envelope, soaked with wine, beside it. Lola noticed it, too.

  “What’s that?” asked Lola. She came and looked over my shoulder. “Dear Marilyn,” she read. “Is that your dad’s handwriting?”

  I
put my hand over the letter. “You can’t read other people’s mail, Lola. It’s against the law.”

  Lola nudged me out of the way. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, El. That’s in normal circumstances. In normal circumstances, everyone has a right to privacy. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Your father isn’t exactly a letter man, is he? He’s more an email and fax man.” She snatched up the piece of paper. “This could explain what happened. You want to read it, or shall I?”

  I didn’t try to snatch it back. It was unusual for my father to write a letter – as unusual as coming home to find that Hurricane Marilyn had swept through the kitchen – and for once I actually agreed with Lola. Something really awful must have happened. Since I was obviously the one who was going to have to clean up the mess, I figured I had a right to know what that something was.

  “We’ll read it together.”

  She gave me a look. “You’re sure? I don’t want to butt in. I mean, it is your family thing.”

  I was touched by the lie. Lola is the premier butter-inner of all time. If she’d been around when God was creating the world, she’d have given Him advice. But it wasn’t sentiment that made up my mind; it was my mother. Among my mother’s million rules is the one about not talking about the family to outsiders – which is everyone else. I’d been obeying that rule all my life. Always worrying what people thought, or said, or might do. In fact, my family worked so hard at appearing perfect that we didn’t even talk to each other. I hadn’t even said a word to my father about my mother’s drinking habits – and he’d never said a word to me. Of course, before I met Lola, there wouldn’t have been anyone else to tell anyway. My parents’ friends weren’t the kind you talked to when you were in trouble, and neither were mine. But now I did have Lola, and that made a difference.

  “I’m sure.”

  We read the first line standing up: Dear Marilyn, I don’t think this will come as any surprise…

  We glanced at each other. It was a surprise to me and Lola. And from the state of the kitchen, it was probably a surprise to my mother, too.

  “We better sit down,” said Lola. “This is definitely heavy.”

  We sat down.

  My father wasn’t going to be home this weekend. Or the next weekend, either. My father had taken “the job in London after all”. So they could “have a breather”. So they had “space in which to think”.

  “My God, trouble in paradise…” whispered Lola. “The Darlings need space… I didn’t think they ever even argued.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Did you know any of this?”

  It was all news to me. What job in London? Breather from what?

  I shrugged. “You know my parents, they always act like everything’s fine.” They were like Carla Santini: image was all.

  I’ll leave it to you to explain things to Ella, wrote my father. I’ll call in a couple of days.

  “Well, that was nice of him,” said Lola. “He could have talked to you himself.”

  “How could he talk to me?” My voice was a little shrill. “He’s never home.”

  “They have phones in New York as well as London,” said Lola.

  I picked up the envelope. My father had mailed the letter from his office on Thursday. By the time my mother got it, he was already unpacked and over his jet lag.

  Lola and I just sat there for a while, looking from the letter to each other, and back again. I was definitely in shock. And I was starting to change my mind about the Greeks. “‘Count no man happy until he’s dead…’” Truer words were never spoken. And count no teenage girl happy, either.

  I’m not a doer, like Lola; I’m a waiter. I could have sat there for hours, waiting to see what would happen next, but there was a crash in the hallway, and someone muttered something that sounded a lot like “Damn it!” What was happening next had already started to happen.

  Lola looked at me. “I guess she isn’t asleep.”

  “Quick.” I pulled Lola out of her chair. My mother wasn’t going to exactly jump for joy if she found out what we’d done. “Act like we haven’t seen the letter.”

  “Should I act like I haven’t seen the kitchen either?”

  “Just follow my lead for once, OK?”

  By the time my mother stumbled into the kitchen, we had our heads in the refrigerator, looking for a snack.

  “Ella, honey!” My mother laughed in surprise. “I didn’t know you were home. I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was on the thick, slurred side.

  “We just got in,” I said quickly. I looked around. There was some sauce on her blouse, but she looked a lot better than the kitchen. At least she seemed to be standing all right.

  My mother gave me a bleary smile. “I have to find my passport, honey. Do you know where my passport is?” She had an opened bottle of wine in one hand and an empty glass in the other.

  “Hi, Mrs Gerard,” said Lola. “How’s the cooking going?” You would never know from her smile or her voice that she knew she was standing on eggshells.

  I couldn’t tell whether my mother even saw Lola or not, but she definitely didn’t hear her.

  “I have to go to London,” said my mother. She poured herself another drink, and thumped the bottle down on the dresser cabinet. “Do you know where my passport is?”

  “Mom?” I walked towards her, trying not to step on anything and seem nonchalant at the same time. “What about the party, Mom? Do you need some help?”

  My mother had yanked open the drawer of the dresser and was dumping things on the floor. “I have to find my passport,” said my mother. “I have to go to London.”

  I laughed. Brightly and lightly. “You can’t go today, Mom. It’s Carla’s party tonight, remember?”

  My mother told us what her present opinion of Carla’s party was.

  Lola gasped. “I didn’t think Marilyn even knew that word,” she whispered.

  “Mom.” She’d finished emptying out the drawer and was pouring herself more wine. “Why don’t you sit down and rest for a few minutes?” I tugged her towards a chair. “I’ll look for the passport after I’ve made some coffee.”

  She still had the glass and the bottle in her hands, but she obediently sat down, staring at the wall like Zombie Mom.

  Lola rolled her eyes. “Just point me towards the coffee,” said Lola. “I’ll do it.”

  I sat down beside my mother. “Mom? Are you all right?”

  With effort, my mother focused on me. There was another second of blankness, and then she remembered who I was.

  “Ella, honey!” She blinked. “Ella, have you seen my passport?”

  I put my hand on hers. “I’ll find the passport,” I promised. “But right now you have to think about Carla’s party. It’s tonight, remember? Lola and I will help.”

  My mother repeated that she was looking for her passport. Her voice was close to crying. “I have to go to London,” she informed me. “I have to talk to your father.”

  I kept my own voice soft and gentle, as though I were talking to a small child, or possibly a cat. “You can’t go now, Mom. It’s Saturday, remember? Carla’s party is tonight. She’s counting on you.”

  My mother emptied her glass again. “I have to find my passport. I’m going to London. I have to talk to your father.”

  I patted her hand. “But he’s going to call. Remember? Remember he said he’d call? Why don’t you wait till Dad calls?”

  I thought she might realize that I didn’t officially know that he’d promised to call, but she didn’t. She pushed off my hand. “London.” She filled her glass again. Considering the rate at which she was drinking, she might as well have drunk from the bottle. “I’m going to London. You’ll be all right.”

  “But Dad wants to talk to you.” I coaxed. “And Carla’s par—”

  “And I want to talk to him.” She nodded as though agreeing with herself. “That’s what I have to do. I have to talk to your father.”

  “That’s why you should stay here. So you can talk
to him when he calls.”

  Another glass of wine joined the others. She grabbed hold of the table and pushed herself to her feet. None too steadily. “I am going to talk to him,” said my mother. “I’m going to London. He can’t do this to me.”

  There was no point in saying that he had done this to her. And there was no point in saying, “What about me?” When my mother was like this, the entire population of the planet shrunk to one. But patience usually worked. I stood up, too, and tried again.

  “But he’s calling soon. He really wants to talk to you. Don’t you want to be here when he calls?”

  “Your father,” said my mother. “Did you know your father has gone to London?”

  “Yes, I know he’s in London.” I smiled encouragingly. “But he’s going to call. He wants to talk to you.”

  My mother swayed. “I have to find my passport. I have to go to London.” She pitched herself towards the door.

  It was Lola who caught her before she hit the floor. She wasn’t unconscious, but she wasn’t exactly conscious either.

  “She’s heavier than she looks,” grunted Lola.

  I got on the other side of my mother and put her arm over my shoulder. “She’ll sleep now,” I whispered. “If we can get her upstairs. We can take the back way.”

  At least then the worst would be over.

  We started more or less dragging my mother across the kitchen to the back staircase.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” advised Lola. “They’ll go away.”

  The doorbell rang again. Impatiently. Whoever it was wasn’t going away.

  “Get the phone, Ella,” mumbled my mother.

  “Mrs Gerard?” It was Carla Santini, of course, shouting through the letterbox. Her projection’s even better than Lola’s. “Mrs Gerard? It’s Carla.”

  I’d been wrong again.

  The worst wasn’t almost over. The worst was about to begin.

  In the time-honoured

  Greek tradition

  things go from bad

  to much worse

  Carla Santini was standing on the front porch with a box in her hands and a “Vote Carla” badge pinned to her blouse. It was flashing.