by Irene Zutell
She ignores me. “I’ll be right back.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I wonder if I should stop her. Maybe she’s being a nuisance back there. But I have no energy, so I lap up the rest of my sundae. When I’m done, I sneak a spoonful of Gabby’s.
“Tsk, tsk,” a male voice says as I scramble to wipe the ice cream off my face. “What will you give me to keep this infraction from your daughter?”
I turn my head towards the voice. Deep-set blue eyes with crinkles in the corners. Light brown hair.
It’s him again. Johnny, the paparazzo. The man who pretended not to sell the pictures of me to all the tabloids. What does he want this time?
I open my mouth.
“Before you yell at me, remember, I have ammunition. I saw you steal food from your own daughter. She doesn’t look like someone you wanna mess with.”
He smiles. He’s one of those good-looking guys who believes he can charm you no matter what he’s done. I’ve never fallen for those types. Actually, I can’t stand those types.
“So how much did my photos go for,” I ask as my chest tightens.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Millions. I’m living in a mansion in Malibu now, thanks to you.”
“Well, I’m glad my tragedy could bring you so much happiness.”
He stares hard at me. I smile back, glad to have put him in his place. He shakes his head.
“First of all, I didn’t sell any of those photos to any tabloids. I told you I wouldn’t and I kept my word. And second of all, that was hardly a tragedy. It was an unfortunate event. It was a sad event. But a tragedy?” He stares at me and smirks. “As long as everyone’s still alive and kicking, it ain’t a tragedy.”
I roll my eyes. “A photographer and a philosopher.”
He flashes me another fluorescent, white-toothed grin. “I’m sorry you didn’t make it to my opening.”
I squint in confusion. “Opening?”
“My gallery opening.”
I study him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. He leans in closer. I can smell the breath mint he’s sucking on.
“I’m glad you liked my photograph, though. It was one of my favorites.” He slaps a manila envelop on the table. “I thought you might like this one, too. It’s my way of saying, thanks.”
It hits me. Johnny is J.D. Johnny is the creator of “Baby, Five Minutes Old” and all those other photos that I love.
My face must have changed expressions from hostile to friendly because the next moment, Johnny is sliding into the booth on the other side of the table. He takes a napkin and wipes up some of Gabby’s mess.
I am too shocked to open the envelope. I just stare at him trying to figure out who he is. Good or evil? Sleazy or decent? What I am thinking? I know already—evil and sleazy!
“Open it up,” he says.
Slowly I pull the photograph out of the envelope. I stare at my daughter in black and white. She is dressed in her Cinderella gown. A red feathery boa is wrapped around her neck. A magic wand is in her right hand. Her mouth is wide open in song. It’s from that day. The worst day of my life. But this evil, sleazy paparazzo has somehow managed to capture beauty.
I can’t speak. I can’t even catch my breath. Johnny stares at me with his soul-piercing blue eyes. He’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what to say. I’m completely flustered.
“What do you want,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
He squints his eyes as if he doesn’t understand.
“The story’s so old now. No one cares about it anymore,” I say.
Johnny smiles and flexes his thick eyebrows, like he’s trying to tell me something. Could he be interested in me that way? He’s got to be kidding me, right? He’s seen me at my worst, what could he possibly want from me?
“I’m almost forty. I’m divorced. I have a child. Alzheimer’s runs in my family. Aren’t I a great catch?” I realize I’m saying this aloud. I hadn’t meant to. I am completely embarrassed. I have assumed he’s interested in me. That’s the way it worked in the old days. If a guy paid attention to me, it was because he wanted to do me. But maybe that’s not the case anymore. After all, I’m old. I’m divorced. I have a child. Alzheimer’s runs in my family. My face burns and I can tell it’s turning crimson. This makes me even more embarrassed because I know he knows I’m embarrassed.
“Aren’t you full of yourself?” Johnny grins wide. “I just wanted to thank you.”
“For what? That house in Malibu?”
“Something like that—for helping me reinvent myself.”
Reinvent? Alex to Xander. Johnny to J.D.
“Everyone is reinventing themselves these days, it seems,” I say.
“I hated what I did for a long, long time. But that day I shot pictures of you, and you confronted me, I knew I had enough of it all. I knew if I stayed in the game for another minute . . . Well, it was never for me.”
“Glad I could help you,” I say.
He winces at the sarcasm in my voice. I didn’t mean it, but I guess it’s just a natural defense mechanism. I flash on Faye telling me that I judge people too quickly. But come on, Faye, this is different.
“My sundae’s all gone. Who ate my sundae?” Gabby suddenly is back, arms akimbo. She barks at me.
“It’s not gone. It’s just melted,” I say cheerfully, thankful for the interruption. “That’s what happens when you leave ice cream alone for a long time. But how about you ask Debbie for another scoop?”
Gabby looks at me like she’s not quite sure if I’m joking or not.
“Who are you supposed to be,” she asks. “Where’s my mother?”
I laugh. Johnny laughs.
“I’m still your mother.”
“No. My mother would never let me have more ice cream. My mother’s mean about stuff like that.” She eyes Johnny. “Maybe the prince is making you nicer. See, Mommy. Maybe you were under an evil spell.”
My face reddens again. I giggle. I can’t remember the last time I’ve giggled. Does that mean I like Johnny? Or J.D.? No, I’m not going to fall for someone who’s reinventing himself.
He gets out of the booth holding Gabby’s ice cream sundae.
“I’ll get you that scoop before your mom changes her mind,” he whispers conspiratorially to Gabby. He winks and turns towards the kitchen.
I laugh at the chocolate syrup stain on his butt.
Why am I even looking at his butt?
6
Little Angels
Trinity tells me that Mom won’t eat.
The last few weeks have been a battle for Trinity and me to get food into my mother. Her brain has forgotten how to swallow. This is the final stage of that long good-bye, I know. But still, I struggle with the spoon. I jam food into my mother’s mouth until she practically gags. Sweat drips down my face and I shake with frustration. My heart beats wildly.
Please don’t die yet, Mommy, I silently beg. Even though she hasn’t really been here in years, I’m not ready to let her go. I want Mom to be there for me. I want to hear her voice, whispering in my ear, calling me her little angel one last time.
“There, there, my little angel, everything will be all right.”
“Come on, Trinity, you can do it. I know you can. You’re magic when it comes to feeding Mom.”
She shakes her head sadly. “I’ve seen this many, many times before, missus. He is trying to go. Maybe you should tell him it is okay.”
I nod my head, but I’m thinking, No, it’s not okay to go.
I called Mom’s doctor to tell him that my mother has stopped eating. He listed the options. There weren’t many. I could either hospitalize her so he could insert a feeding tube into her stomach, or I could leave her here and do nothing.
I thought and thought and thought. Neither option sounds humane to me. So I create a third choice. I keep her home and try to force-feed her. I can’t imagine subjecting her to the pain of a feeding tube. But I can’t just let her go without doing
anything. Part of me believes if I try hard enough, I can get her to eat. If I try hard enough, I can cure her of Alzheimer’s.
I saw Faye again today. Why? I’m not sure. She’s become more of a therapist than a psychic. Still, I hold out hope that one day she’ll predict something wonderful that I won’t really believe anyway.
I didn’t ask her about my mother. Instead, I focused on the more frivolous aspects of my life.
“Is it the paparazzi guy?” I asked her, realizing that was why I was there. Johnny had become my distraction from Alzheimer’s, even though I’ve had nothing to do with him since the night at the coffee shop. I wanted to find out from Faye if he was the one she was telling me about, the one I had mistaken for George. The one I shouldn’t shut out of my life, despite the antagonism.
“What are you talking about?” Faye cocked her head and grinned. I wondered if she knew more than she ever let on. But I imagine that is what she wants you to believe.
“Oh, never mind.”
Faye laughed. “Oh, I forgot. You think I’ll take what you say and throw it back at you as if it’s some sort of revelation.”
“Yeah, how did you . . . ?”
Faye laughed again and threw her arms in the air. “I’m psychic, remember? But you don’t really believe anyway, although you keep coming back for some bizarre reason.” She crinkled her eyes at me. “Why is it that you keep coming back, Ally?”
“You’ve given me really good advice. You were right when you said I judged people too fast and don’t give them a chance. Anyway, I’ve become friends with people I wouldn’t have in the past.”
“The woman who wears Winnie the Pooh shirts. How evolved of you,” Faye said, oozing sarcasm.
“For your information, I’ve also become good friends with a former porn star. How’s that? When I met her, I heard your voice in my head, telling me to give her a chance. And now that I know her, I really respect her,” I said. Then I struggled to casually add, “And then there’s this photographer guy. I hated him, but I’m wondering if I should give him a chance, too. Not that he’s asking for a chance. I’m not sure if he’s asking for anything. Maybe he’s just a guy who felt sorry for me. He’s completely baffled me. I mean, why the hell hasn’t he called?”
I realized that I was thinking out loud.
“I’ve never heard you so talkative, Ally.”
“Maybe because I’ve stopped judging you. I don’t think of you as a psychic anymore.”
“You never thought I was a psychic,” Faye said.
“Well, anyway, I think of you as a friend,” I said. I felt myself blush.
Faye smiled. “Don’t do that. I won’t be able to charge you anymore.”
I told her about my idea for Nancy’s bar. I’m organizing a weekly moms’ night out to drum up new business for the place. I’ve written up press releases and gotten some mentions about it in the local papers. There will be a $10 cover charge. For an additional fee, women can get private consultations with Ruth for love or sex advice. There also will be a manicurist and a chick flick in the back room—although any movies starring Rose Maris are banned. I asked Faye if she’d like to work as a psychic there.
“Of course, you’d take a cut of the profits,” I added.
“I have a better idea,” she said, smiling. “How about I do my stand-up routine?”
“Deal.” I wondered if she was funny on stage.
“Now, what is all this sadness I see around your porn star friend?”
I smirked and swatted my hand in the air, thinking Faye must have assumed I was an idiot. Aren’t porn stars always surrounded by sadness?
“Oh, Alice. I’m not talking about the old daddy-was-abusive sadness, but something relatively new is bothering her and it’s bothering you, too.”
Okay, I think. Not bad, Faye. Not bad.
“Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe the choices she’s made. It seems they’ll haunt her for the rest of her life. I just wish I could help her as much as she’s helped me.”
Faye clapped her hands together and sighed. “Yes. I felt that. I could see you reaching out to her. I could feel you thinking that you failed in some way.”
I told Faye how Ruth has a young son and how she doesn’t want Connor or his friends to stumble on her movies when he gets older. I explained how Ruth has been trying to buy back every video and DVD she stars in, but how it’s impossible because the porn man up the street keeps cranking out more.
“And what is this porn man’s name,” she asked. “Do I see a B and an S? B.S.?”
“Oh my God,” I said excitedly, suddenly believing for the first time that Faye was psychic. “Yes! Bob! Bob Stone.”
She nodded and smiled as if she’d had a vision.
“Tell me more. Tell me more. What do you see?” I practically was panting.
Faye chuckled. “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”
“Well, maybe I do . . . So what do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I felt deflated. “Nothing? Why do you look like you have the answer?”
She smiled cryptically. “Maybe I do. Bob Stone comes here once a week.”
“He does?”
“Yes. He only shoots his movies on the days I deem auspicious. He only hires actors that I approve. And he makes me do readings with everyone he works with.” Her eyes bore into me. “He, unlike you, believes in my powers. So maybe I could help you, Ally.”
I nodded my head, unsure of what she could possibly do.
I take the spoon from Trinity so Trinity can run some errands. Then I load the spoon up with mashed potatoes and try to feed Mom. I take a deep breath. Even in her Alzheimer’s fog, Mom seems to sense my frustration. But she doesn’t help me. She clamps her mouth shut. I struggle to pry it open the way Trinity has taught me, but it won’t work. She wants to die. Who wants to live like this? But I can’t accept it. I am selfishly angry with her for refusing to accommodate me, for wanting to leave. I grip the spoon so tight my hand cramps.
“Mom, come on, open up. Don’t do this,” I say, my voice quivering.
She violently shakes her head and moans like a sick animal. She’s telling me to go away. It dawns on me that she’s stopped speaking all together. When did that happen? Even the motherfuckers and cocksuckers have disappeared. I’m relieved about that. If she could speak, I feel she’d be calling me one or the other right now.
She narrows her eyes at me and growls. She’s furious with me. “Leave me alone,” she seems to be saying.
Trinity and I couldn’t get anything into her tonight or this morning. Not even vanilla ice cream. She only drank a few sips of water and she spit most of it up. Maybe all of it. At this rate, she will die any day. I can’t do this. I can’t watch my mother die. Do I call an ambulance and rush her to the hospital? I’ll tell them no feeding tube, but at least they can put an IV in her arm for a few days.
But she would hate being in a hospital. When Dad was sick, she turned to me and said, “Never let me die in a hospital.” I laughed and shrugged it off. Mom would never leave me. She seemed so invincible then. She’d always be around to say, “There, there, angel, everything will be all right.”
I throw the spoon on the table and sob. Every time I get a grip on my sorrow, another reason to cry emerges. I cry for my mother. I cry because I imagine she must be so scared. I cry because she will be gone soon. I cry for my motherless self. I cry because I married Alex and believed that he’d be here for me at times like this—my head on his shoulder, his hand on my back. I cry because I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I cry because I have no one to console me. Not my mother. Not my father. Not my husband. It’s just me. Alone.
I rest my head on the table and collapse into these heavy, desperate sobs I didn’t even know I was capable of. I haven’t cried this hard in my life. I’m crying so hard because I can’t believe how many reasons I have to be crying.
And then I feel it. A strong hand on my back. I don’t op
en my eyes. Mom, I think. There is still part of her that understands.
“Shh,” the voice says. “Shh.”
I keep my eyes closed while the hand massages my back. I can feel my mother’s love, just like when I was a little girl. She is soothing me, just like she always did. This is why it is so hard to let go, even now. I can’t imagine life without my mother being there for me, to soothe me. I begin to cry all over again.
“Shh,” the voice says again. “Shhh, Mommy.”
Mommy?
I slowly open my eyes and look into Gabby’s sweet face.
She speaks to me using the words I’ve used so often to console her; the words my mother once used to console me.
“There, there, my little angel, everything will be all right.”
7
Moms’ Night Out
The Giggling Gull is packed with what appears to be every mom in the Valley. They are an eclectic group: career women still in their work clothes; overexcited stay-at-home moms a little too dressed up for a dive bar; moms in sweats and ponytails who look like they bolted the minute they were sprung from kiddie jail. There are moms who look like they haven’t left the house in years. Moms who look like they haven’t talked to adults in decades. Moms who look desperate to make friends. Moms who look overwhelmed. And moms who look like they just got off a photo shoot, or a porn shoot, for that matter. There is plenty of silicon. Plenty of Restylane. Plenty of Botox. And plenty of booze.
Renee and Amy pass out appetizers of chicken sate, tomato, basil and mozzarella, and stuffed mushrooms. Renee whispers in my ear. “Amy’s been complaining about another headache. I think she’ll be splitting on us any minute.”
Many of the women are eagerly awaiting Ruth’s arrival. There’s a long list of people who’ve signed up for consultations with her. We decided to bill her as a relationship expert. I realized that everyone in the world is having sex except me. But Ruth is nowhere to be found, which has me slightly worried. Ruth is always punctual.
Celia, my babysitter, is a bartender. She works alongside Nancy, who told me she has a knack for whipping up cocktails with flair. She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.
