by Irene Zutell
“Mom?” I said hesitantly. “Mom!” My heart throbbed. I couldn’t breathe. When was the last time I’d been there? Five months ago? Could so much have changed since then?
I entered the kitchen. The counters were crammed with dirty dishes. I screamed when a roach scuttled from behind a utensil drawer. Another one followed.
“Mom?”
“Mommy! Mommy!” Gabby screamed from the living room. Her voice sounded high pitched and frightened.
I ran to her. She was staring at something, her mouth open wide. At first I thought my mother must be dead, but there she was, sitting naked on my dad’s leather Barcalounger. She stared at Big Bird on the television screen.
“Mom?”
She didn’t answer me. She watched Big Bird, Elmo, and Oscar sing about the ABCs as if it were a breaking news story.
“Mom! Mom!”
She ignored me. I walked to the TV and turned it off.
I bent down in front of my mother.
“Mommy. Mommy.” I spoke in a whisper as tears flew out my eyes.
“What are you doing in my house,” she screamed. “Get out or I’ll call the police.”
I decided the best thing to do was move my mother here, to sunny Los Angeles. I sold her house, moved the things I could move, and gave or threw the rest away. The years and years of acquisitions that Mom had meticulously and painstakingly gleaned from endless trips to antique stores and estate sales were distributed among relatives or sold to probably the same antique stores they were purchased at, or tossed in a big bin in front of her house. The beautiful dresses she never wore because she was saving them for a special occasion were donated to Goodwill.
For a while I believed Mom would get better. The sun and the fresh air would somehow cure her. Being around her daughter and granddaughter would waken her somnambulant brain. One day we could take yoga together.
As I brush the knots out of my mother’s hair, it occurs to me how I accepted Alex’s infrequent visits to Hilda’s. He’d say, “What’s the point, she doesn’t even know I’m there. She doesn’t even know she’s there.” He told me the place depressed him. Instead of saying, “Yeah, it depresses me, too, but that’s no excuse not to be there for me,” I said, “Okay, I understand.” He’d come with us on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, but he’d act like he was doing me this big favor. He’d give Mom a kiss on the cheek, sit next to her for a few minutes, and then get antsy. He’d find a newspaper and read it or go outside and return phone calls or watch whatever was blasting on the TV. He’d barely look at Mom. I wonder if he believed that this was his future, too. After all, Alzheimer’s runs in families. Maybe he thought he’d be changing my diapers one day.
Maybe with Rose he thinks he’s found eternal youth.
When Alex met my mom she was still beautiful, with piercing blue eyes and her shiny gray hair pulled back in a bun. Mom and Dad invited us for dinner and Alex showed up with an enormous bouquet of flowers. He complimented my mother’s cooking and talked law with my father, who had a private practice in New Rochelle. After he left, I assumed my parents would heap effusive praise on my boyfriend. Instead, they were quiet.
“So? So?” I asked.
They looked at each other.
“He seems very ambitious,” my father finally said.
“Ambitious? That’s the best you can say?”
“Well, we just met him. We don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
My parents were always cautious, so I didn’t think much of it, but maybe I should have. Maybe they saw something that in my hormonally charged state I couldn’t see. I wish I could ask them now. I wish I had asked them then. Why are children so stupid? We never ask our parents the right questions when we have the chance. When we figure out how much we really need them, they’re dead or brain dead.
I can tell Gabby will be the same way. I see the signs. The way she sometimes rolls her eyes at me. The way she walks out of the room when I’m telling her something. The way her eyes cloud over when she pretends to listen to me.
It breaks my heart, but I suppose it’s unavoidable. You want your children to learn from your mistakes, but instead they dive right into them.
I read an article recently about how Alzheimer’s often skips a generation and I felt a momentary sense of relief. So maybe I won’t be wearing Depends and staring glassy-eyed at Wheel of Fortune. Then I glanced at Gabby. And I cried. Not only could my daughter get Alzheimer’s, but I won’t be there to take care of her. That’s the hardest part about being a parent, knowing that your child will one day be out in the world without you. I want to wrap her in my arms and protect her forever, but every day she recedes a little farther away from me. I just hope I don’t cause her sadness one day. But I suppose that’s also unavoidable.
Alex should have visited my mom more. And I guess that’s the best I can wish for Gabby. That she finds someone who will be there for her even if she laughs for no reason or has a Waxie dangling out of her pants. Someone who will come with her to visit me, even if I don’t know who I am.
“Mommy!” Gabby screams at the top of her lungs when I pick her up from kindergarten. She hurls herself into my arms and I swoop her up and kiss her cheeks.
“Gabby’s a wonderful girl,” her teacher says, smiling. “So loving.” Her eyes narrow a bit. “Myrna would like a word with you.”
Myrna Shafley is the principal.
“Okay.” I smile. “Come on, Gabby.”
“I think she wants to see you alone,” Mrs. Waring says. “I’ll keep an eye on Gabby for you.”
Even though I am thirty-eight years old, my heart stampedes against my ribs. What could my daughter have done? Talked back? Had a temper tantrum? Hit someone? Bitten someone? In the ten-second walk to Myrna’s office, my mind races through dozens of possibilities.
I stick my head into Myrna’s office.
“Come in. Take a seat, Mrs. Hirsh.”
Myrna is exactly what you would expect an administrator who takes her job very seriously to look like. She’s about fifty-five with short, scooped-up, butterscotch-colored hair brushed to the side, octagonal eyeglasses with clear frames, sensible shoes, and pleated skirts that fall below her knee. Every sweater she owns seems geared to some holiday. It’s only the beginning of October, but already she’s decked out in a black sweater with a big orange pumpkin on it. When she speaks, it sounds like her throat is stuck in her nose.
“Mrs. Hirsh, you have a remarkable little girl.”
I smile. So this is what it’s about, my remarkable little girl.
“She’s so advanced we think she should be moved into first grade. What a precocious little girl she is. Mrs. Hirsh, you should be very proud of the way you raised her. Perhaps at my next seminar, you could be the guest speaker? I’m sure many of the parents would love to know your secrets.”
I nod my head at Myrna. She pinches her cheeks.
“I understand this is a rough time for your family.”
“Well, I suppose . . .”
“Mrs. Hirsh, have you noticed any changes in your daughter, since your . . . your . . . her father moved out?”
“Well, of course, it’s not easy, but she’s a very resilient little girl. I think she’s doing okay. Better than okay.”
“Well, I’ll be blunt with you, Mrs. Hirsh. We’ve gotten a few complaints from the parents.”
My heart pounds. “Complaints? About Gabby?”
Myrna shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens her eyes, they bore into mine.
“Yes. It seems your daughter has been using inappropriate language in the schoolyard.”
“Gabby? I . . . I . . . She must have picked it up from another student. We don’t speak that way at home.”
Myrna gave a quick, all-knowing laugh that emanated from her nose.
“Mrs. Hirsh, I’ve been an educator for more than thirty years now. And every time I approach a parent whose child is exhibiting inappropriate behavior, they blame it on another student or th
ey say the child must have heard it on television. I’m not telling you this is your fault, Mrs. Hirsh, but when a child’s behavior affects other students, I must step in.”
I bristle. I see red. I hate this woman.
“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me. I’m telling you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Myrna takes another deep breath. “She called some classmates . . .” She shakes her head and leans towards me, whispering. “Well, mother and then the F-bomb. I was on the phone this morning with two very irate parents. Now maybe you don’t talk this way in front of her, but, well . . .”
I take a deep breath. “It’s my mother,” I say, not even realizing how ridiculous that sounds.
Myrna swats her hand through the air. “Your mother?”
“My mother has Alzheimer’s. She can’t speak anymore. For some reason that’s one of the only words she says. I have no idea why. I didn’t know Gabby had heard her say these things. But I’ll talk to her about it.”
Myrna nods her head and squeezes out a quick smile. I can’t tell if she doesn’t believe me or if she’s disappointed that I don’t have a more nefarious explanation.
“Okay, Mrs. Hirsh, I’ll try to calm these parents down, but please remedy this inappropriate behavior. I’ve had to mark this on her record, but if there are no more instances of this, we can put it behind us.”
I want to tell her that transition is not a verb.
My five-year-old already has a record.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I hope you and your husband work everything out.”
Myrna gives me another quick smile. Then she buries her face in some papers on her desk. Meeting adjourned. I get up slowly and head down the hall to pick up my little delinquent.
“Gabby, do you understand that Grandma doesn’t know what she’s saying anymore?”
“Sure.”
“Some of the things Grandma says don’t make sense. So you shouldn’t say them, okay?”
“Why?”
“They’re naughty, naughty words.”
“What do they mean?”
“It’s not important what they mean. Just don’t say them anymore.”
“But why does Grandma say them?”
“Because she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“But she must have heard them somewhere to know them.”
“Yes. I guess she did.”
“Where do you think she heard them?”
“I don’t know.”
“From you?”
“No. I don’t use those kinds of words.”
“But I heard you say jackass. That’s a naughty word.”
“Mommy shouldn’t have said that. I was just angry at the driver who cut us off on the freeway.”
“So maybe you were angry around Grandma and used those words.”
“No. I didn’t. I don’t say those words and I don’t want you to anymore. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just don’t use them again.”
“I just called Cara a motherfudder. She laughed. She thought it was funny. It’s a funny word. Motherfudder peanut butter.”
“Just don’t use it anymore.”
“But why? It makes us laugh. And if it makes us laugh, how bad can it be?”
That’s how it goes with Gabby, around and around. I have no idea if she’ll use the word again. I’ll probably spend the next month looking for a new kindergarten for Gabby and a board and care for Mom. Someone could make a small fortune figuring out how to combine them. Hilda’s Board, Care, and Kindergarten. After all, there’s not much difference between a five-year-old and a seventy-five-year-old.
When we get home, the woman up the street is moaning again. She’s had more sex in the last few days than I’ve had all year. Gabby looks at me. She wants to tell me that we need to rescue this damsel, but she doesn’t. Instead, Alex’s Lexus turns into the driveway and she runs to it.
“Daddy!” she screams. “Daddydaddydaddy!”
I forgot he was coming to take her to a Bob the Builder–themed party. He gets out of the car and hoists Gabby into the air. She squeals.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Gabby asks him.
Lately she’s been asking random people this. “Who are you supposed to be?” I think she’s being unintentionally profound. After all, isn’t everyone acting? Trying to be something they’re really not? It seems especially fitting today. Who the hell is Alex—Xander—Hirsh supposed to be? He barely resembles the man I met in Manhattan a few years ago. His hair is too perfect, his goatee too manicured. His muscles ripple like never before. He wears a plain long-sleeved white T-shirt underneath a red short-sleeved T-shirt. And he’s got on baggy faded jeans that look like they’re really expensive. I check the back of them for a label and see big pockets with swirls on them that look like horseshoes. Alex? In True Religions? I want to say something, but bite my tongue instead. This is not Alex. Where is the messy hair? The flab? The wrinkled Polo shirts? The Levis? Had he been like this for a while and I’m just noticing it? Is this the result of Rose’s grooming? Or is this what newfound love does to you? Makes you better than you really are? Or at least more fashionable?
Right then it hits me. Alex is not mine anymore. He’s gone. He’s Xander. Even if Rose is having a torrid affair with Colin Farrell, he’ll move on. But he’ll never be back. It’s a wallop to my gut. All the air is sucked out of me. I have been living an illusion, thinking somehow this will work out, but it’s over.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“I’m supposed to be Daddy. I’m supposed to take you to a party, remember? Are you ready?”
“No! I have to change into a beautiful party dress.”
“I’ll help you,” I say, my voice choking in my throat.
“No! I want to surprise you and Daddy.”
“Just don’t wear that Cinderella gown. It’s filthy.”
She rolls her eyes at me and runs into the house. I stare at Alex. He looks at me. The Moaner moans. Alex smiles and looks in the direction of the moan. He stares off for a long time.
“Are things going okay here,” he finally asks.
“Sure.”
“I’ll get the mortgage check in the mail,” he says. “You need anything else?”
“Answers. How are things with you and Rose, Xander?”
Alex shuffles his feet. The Moaner moans again and he looks off in her direction.
“You know better than anyone that you can’t believe the tabloids. I really have just been keeping to myself. I just need some time, Ally. I know it sounds clichéd, but I guess I just need to find myself. Please, give me this, just for a little while.”
“When will that be?” I say. I hate myself for sounding so desperate.
His eyes seem to squirm in their sockets.
“I don’t believe you,” I scoff. “And don’t make me read about it somewhere. You owe it to me. Most of all, you owe it to Gabby.”
Alex/Xander opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Instead we stare at each other for a long time.
“Ohhhhohhhhh.” The Moaner punctuates the tension for us.
I flash on our first date. A small Italian restaurant on Mulberry Street. We sat and talked for hours as if we’d known each other forever. Halfway through the meal, Alex kissed my hand. “I think we’re going to spend the rest of our life together,” he whispered. A chill sped through my whole body because I’d been thinking the same thing.
Up the street, The Moaner finally climaxes.
“Tada,” Gabby says. She’s dressed in a floor-length red velvet Christmas dress that Aunt Maddy sent her last year. She looks at me, expecting me to tell her to change. After all, it’s eighty degrees. But I just want them to go to the party so I can be by myself.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
Gabby beams, jumps into my arms, and hugs me. “I love you more than anything.”
“Me, too,” I say, smiling as wide as I can, knowing that in a few minutes I can collapse on my bed in tears.
7
Potty Mouth
Istare at the coffee shop photo, the one of the newborn baby in its mother’s arms. When the waitress stops by, I ask her if it’s for sale. I’ve never bought art from a coffee shop before, but I want this photograph. I look at it and can’t help but feel calm.
“I think so. I’ll check with the owner.”
She heads to another table and takes orders. I look over and recognize the three women sitting at the table. Their children are Gabby’s classmates. One of them was the one wearing the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt the first day. She smiles and waves at me. I can’t remember her name. The others look over and wave.
“Come join us, Alice,” says Winnie the Pooh mom.
I have been a publicist for fifteen years. My job is to remember names, to pepper sentences with names as often as possible. Maybe that’s why in real life I fight it so hard. I remember nothing. Susan? Karen? Carol? She could definitely be one of those, but she isn’t. I grab my coffee and head to their table while rummaging through my brain for possible names.
I smile at the women. “Hi,” I say, mustering as much friendliness as possible. “I’m Alice Hirsh. My daughter’s Gabby.”
“Take a seat. We’re all horrible procrastinators trying to forget about all our fucking responsibilities,” Winnie the Pooh says.
I didn’t expect Winnie the Pooh to curse.
The other women introduce themselves to me. There’s Renee, who was once a model and occasionally auditions for commercials. She’s wearing a Juicy Couture sweatsuit that looks like it’s never seen the inside of a gym, although she does have a perfect body. Her breasts seem more like cartoon images of breasts.
There’s Amy, who works part-time as an accountant. She’s perfectly coiffed in a white silk shirt, black skirt, and sling-back pumps.
And then I remember. Nancy. Nancy is the owner of the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt.
They tell me their children’s names. When Renee mentions her children—Sam and Cara—I cringe.
