by Sarah Willis
I turn around, and his smile fades. “Oh, my God! You’re pregnant.”
Fresh pine wreaths wander up the banister. Dozens of green and red candles dapple the living room. A fire burns hotly in the fireplace. The house is neat as a pin. My protruding stomach and the future it holds is out of place in this well-planned home. I look down, almost expecting my stomach to have flattened out in embarrassment. “Yep,” I say. “I sure am.”
“Shit, Jen,” he says. “You haven’t changed at all.”
I look at him, robust and innocent. A guy with a house and gourmet wife. I want him to understand something that I’m trying hard to believe myself. “No, Peter, I have. I have changed.” I put my hand on my stomach.
He shakes his head. Tries a smile. “Well, you’re here. And on time. They’re waiting in the family room. Come on.”
I follow him down the hall. I tell myself that no matter what, I will remain calm and dignified.
“Hi, Jenny,” Emily says. She’s standing at the doorway to the family room, blocking my view, wearing a canvas apron with artist paint splotches. I say hi, and tell her the food smells so good. She steps back.
Betsy and her husband are standing by a glass table that’s covered with cookies, peanuts, and swirls of shrimp around a bowl of red dip. My stomach heaves and I take a deep breath. Betsy’s no longer fourteen. She’s a woman in a pale lavender pantsuit, holding a drink that doesn’t look like a soft drink. Her husband, a man who looks just like a college professor—thin hair, turtleneck, tweed coat, and loafers—puts an arm around Betsy’s shoulder as if protecting her. Immediately I don’t like him. My mother sits on a yellow couch, wearing a bright floral skirt and an orange blouse, her hair cut shorter than I’ve ever seen it, without a trace of gray. Her smile is so tight her lips have vanished. Next to her sits Dylan, with a book open in his lap.
“Well, hello, Jennifer,” my mother says. She stands up slowly and moves toward me as everyone else holds still. “So good to see you.” She gives me a hug, the kind where our bodies hardly touch, which is quite a feat, considering my stomach.
“Hi,” I say, and realize something Peter must have thought of already. Since Dylan’s here, and it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll all be kind and polite. There will be time enough for recriminations later on.
I am breathing hard. Everyone’s staring at my stomach.
“Hi, Betsy,” I say. I can’t meet her eyes.
“Hello.”
She’s a stranger with my sister’s voice.
“This is Jasper,” she says. He steps forward, offers his hand. We shake.
“Hi, there, Dylan,” I say brightly, as if we are old friends. He says hi. Now what?
“Are you hungry?” Emily asks. I like her. I have this feeling she feels a bit sorry for me. I wish I were hungry. I shake my head. “Not really. Thanks, though.”
“Well, let’s put your presents under the tree,” Peter says. “Jennifer brought three bags of presents!”
I want to die and crawl under the table, but the table is glass, and no good for hiding. I’m nervous and laugh. Everyone frowns. Oh, yeah; if Jenny laughs, she must be stoned. I want to say I’m not stoned, and I’m sorry, and please stop looking at me that way. And I want really badly to be stoned. What I want, and what I do, though, are now two different things. The night I made my promise, I threw out the Valium, the pot, and a quaalude I was saving for the right guy. Or the wrong guy. They’re better used with the wrong guy, so you don’t know it at the time. But I haven’t met anyone who looks interesting. Like food, men don’t look so good to me anymore.
“Okay.” I follow my brother back down the hall, where we pick up the paper bags and carry them into the living room.
“That went well,” I say. “Guess I’ll go now.”
“Jenny, give them some time.”
I grin. “I did. Just not enough, obviously.”
Under the tree is a profusion of gifts covering the floor like loud voices, bright colored paper and shining bows clamoring for attention. I bought a lot of presents—boxed apologies—and had the clever idea of wrapping them in the Sunday comics like we did when we were kids and didn’t have much money. The clever idea was to remind them of our childhood together. Now I know what these comics will say—that Jenny still doesn’t have money, but everyone else does. I push them to the back. Maybe they will be forgotten.
“Okay, so do I crawl back in now?”
Peter puts a hand on my shoulder. “Stick to small talk for now. Just let them get used to you.”
“Small talk?”
“Yeah. Ask them what they do. Tell them about your job.”
“This is nuts,” I say.
“This is your family,” he says. “And they’re just as nervous as you are. Take it slow.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “Lead the way.” We go back into the family room a second time, like a retake on an entrance. This time I sit down on a chair not too close, or too far, from anyone in particular. Once again, all talking has ceased. It’s my cue.
“Okay. I’m back. I know this is really weird. I’m sorry.” I look at my mother. Her eyes are steely, focused on my face. I look away, and catch my sister staring at me. I didn’t know it before, but she has my mother’s eyes. This is not good. “Can you fill me in a little? Tell me what you’re up to? Are you working, Betsy?”
The pause waiting for her to answer is overly long. Bet she can’t wait ten years. But she will be polite and answer me because she is in a lovely home where the turkey smells delicious, and the glass table holds shrimp, and almost everyone is wearing expensive shoes. These are not the kind of people who walk out of a life, even their own. I tell myself they are not my kind of people so that when they tell me I am not welcome it won’t hurt so bad.
“I’m in graduate school at Case Western Reserve University,” she says. “Getting my master’s in paleontology. My thesis is due next spring, and then we’re moving to Arizona, where Jasper’s parents live. We were married last year at Westwood Country Club.”
“It was a beautiful wedding,” my mother says.
“It sure was,” Peter says.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Emily says. “Could someone mash the potatoes? Then everyone should wash their hands and sit down.”
I will write her the best thank-you note I have ever written. The only thank-you note I have ever written.
Betsy offers to mash the potatoes. I fill the glasses with water and ice. My mother carries out the cranberry sauce. Dylan carries the rolls. I think he’s taking all this in—that I am like the bogeyman invited to dinner. As I sit down at the beautifully set table, I imagine us a year from now, a high chair next to me, the conversation lively, my coming home just old news. Everyone loves babies, right?
But all through dinner no one mentions my stomach. Maybe they think I’m just fat. A skinny woman with a round fat stomach.
We talk turkey. How golden it is. How ingenious to have stuffed herbs under the skin, to have filled the inside with vegetables. Carving it is a feat all its own, which we watch with intense focus, asking carving questions as my brother sharpens the knife with a long metal rod, and cuts the turkey as if he is a famous turkey surgeon. When my mother looks at me, her eyes don’t linger on my face for long; they lower to the area of my stomach. She sees through the white lace tablecloth and the hard walnut wood, holding bitterness in her heart that sours every bite she takes. She doesn’t have to say a word about me being pregnant. My pregnancy has been declared an abhorrence as we eat turkey and mashed potatoes, discussing Natalie Wood’s death and the Davis Cup.
I vow to do what I must on my own, never ask for help.
“And what are you doing, now?” Emily asks me. Mouths stop in mid-bite. Eyes turn my way.
“I have a job at University Hospitals. I’m a receptionist in pediatrics.” This seems to be a good way into the discussion about babies, but no one picks up on it.
“So you’re staying in town?” Betsy says. She wipes
her mouth with the linen napkin. Places it back in her lap.
“Yeah. I’m going to stay here. I worked at a free clinic in California for the last seven years. I guess I got burnt out. It happens to people who work in that field. It was time to move on.” There are several nods, as if they know what I am talking about, and as if they don’t believe a word I’m saying. All that in a nod.
“I got a place in Cleveland Heights, an apartment near Coventry. Nice neighborhood. I have a cat named Solar, because she’s orange. I’d love for you to come visit.” I say this last part to Dylan. He nods but looks at his dad. He wants to see where the bogeyman—lady—lives, but he’s not coming without his dad.
No one says anything. I blunder on. “I hear you moved, Mother. Do you like it?”
“Yes, I do,” she says.
“When did you move?”
“While you were gone.”
Touché. Peter’s eyes smile, although he’s trying to keep a straight face. He’s getting both his entertainment and a chance to see me get my comeuppance.
“Oh,” I say. “I see. Well, maybe you and I can talk about that some other time.”
“Oh, maybe.” She’s calm and collected, holding quite still, with her back straight, hands in her lap. I want to shout Boo! I want to knock the table over.
Lovely Emily breaks the now deadly silence to tell us a story about Dylan learning to swim at the YMCA, and how quickly he’s catching on. Peter tells a story about a mountain he’s going to go climb in May. Jasper actually joins in the fun and tells us that he’s going to a meeting in Wisconsin in a few weeks. I’m going to have a baby in April, I don’t say. I was often accused of trying to get the limelight. Not this time.
Pumpkin pie and ice cream are served. Then it’s time to clean up and open presents. We all clear the table and scrape dishes, handing them to Emily to put in the dishwasher. My mother walks all the way around the other side of the table with a plate to avoid me. Betsy won’t speak to me. Peter jabs me in the side with his elbow. “Having fun?” he whispers.
“Go climb a mountain,” I say. I wonder if I had stayed in Cleveland, if it would have all turned out this way, anyway. It feels so familiar.
I pull my brother aside. “Does she still drink?” I ask.
“Sometimes. Not like before,” he says.
“AA?” I ask.
“Well, for a while, but she quit before she had to do those steps. Said they were stupid.”
“What made her go? To AA?”
“Betsy,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchen.
I walked away and let them deal with her. Betsy was not quite fifteen when I left, and here I am, with a child inside me. She must hate me so much.
“God, I’m sorry,” I say.
“There were a lot of good times you missed, too. You just never saw the good times, even before you left.”
“The good times?” I ask. “Like what?”
“Euclid Beach. Going to the museums. The snow fort we built. Every kid in the neighborhood was jealous of that fort. Mother even let us put that rug inside and bring in pillows. No other mom would have done that.”
“Peter, she had no clue we took the rug and pillows into the fort. Daddy just died. We could have painted the house pink. And who the hell went to Euclid Beach?”
“We did, Jenny.”
“Not me. I never went to Euclid Beach.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe you didn’t. That’s just my point.”
“The dishes are done. Let’s open presents,” Emily says. She ushers us into the living room. Somehow I end up sitting on the couch with Jasper and my sister. Jasper sits between us. We open presents.
Emily comments on my wrapping paper, what a clever idea it is. She says the toolbox with real tools I got for Dylan—at Peter’s suggestion—is just the very best gift. Dylan does seem to like it; his eyes widen as he hefts the hammer. I have wrapped each tool separately, so it looks like I’ve gotten him dozens of gifts. “We’re going to make a go-cart,” Peter announces.
I get a Christmas candle and woven place mats from Betsy and Jasper. A soft green shawl from my mother, which I really like and tell her so. She nods. Peter, Emily, and Dylan give me a set of pots (my suggestion). I have gotten all the women wind chimes, and all the men carved wooden boxes. For an extra gift for my mother, I give her a handcrafted cedar picture frame. I was going to tell her it’s for a picture of her grandchild, my child, but now I don’t. She thanks me.
By the time we’re done opening gifts, it’s past ten and Dylan rubs his face and lays his head down in his mother’s lap. Betsy says they have to leave—they need to wake up early tomorrow on Christmas Day to fly back to Arizona and have Christmas dinner with his parents.
I say I have to go, too, but I don’t say why and no one asks. They all walk me to the front door, maybe to make sure I’m really leaving.
“Can I call you? Get together to talk?” I ask my mother, who stands with her arms folded across her chest.
“You know what,” she says, then pauses. Looks at my stomach. “I’m not so sure about that. Why don’t I call you.”
“Okay,” I say, my eyes hot. I pick up the bags filled with my gifts. It’s awkward, these pots and things, my belly. “Well, you can get my number from Peter. Goodbye.”
Peter steps forward, holding Dylan in his arms. “Go ahead,” he says to Dylan, nudging him.
“Goodbye, Aunt Jenny,” Dylan says.
I burst into tears. I try to kiss Dylan on the forehead, but he ducks his head into Peter’s chest. I catch the back of his curly hair with my lips. Tears are streaming down my cheeks like big fat traitors. I turn, but can’t open the door with all the packages in my arms. Emily opens it for me.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper to her, my voice catching. “Merry Christmas.”
Driving home in my old car, wearing my thrift-shop coat, I pretend I would have been like Emily, if my father hadn’t died, if my mother hadn’t drunk so much, if I had stuck around to face my fate—and family—ten years ago. But it’s all a lie. I am simply who I am, and I did okay. I had a great job at a wonderful free clinic, which grows more wonderful as I think about it. And I have a baby inside me. A wonderful baby, which I will raise all by myself. I won’t bother these people anymore. I will do it all on my own. I’ll show them. I’ll even send the shawl back.
My mother never calls. I keep the shawl. I don’t see her again until I am in the hospital, holding my daughter in my arms. And then things are said so that we don’t see each other again for a long time.
Chapter Fifteen
By the time I’m done telling this story, my mother’s asleep, her head drooped forward onto her chest. I don’t know how much she heard, or understood.
The idea of keeping my mother here, at my house, is to build her life back up, but it occurs to me now that she has her life; maybe what she is missing is mine. Maybe when I left, it created a hole in my mother that never got filled, that got bigger, as holes do. Maybe I am not only responsible for her being alone, but for the Alzheimer’s itself.
Later in the day, when my mother wakes, we play gin rummy and watch the soaps, which she loves. No matter where you are in time, the characters are always the same. For the rest of the afternoon she has the use of most of her words and is pleasant enough, so I’m sure this is a real rebound. I feed her dinner at four, before Jazz and Todd get home, and promise her a short walk later, to look at the changing leaves. She should rest first, I say, and she agrees. She only calls me Tiffany once.
I make Chicken Kiev while my mother sleeps, Jazz and Todd’s favorite meal. When Todd comes home, his eyes are red, his clothes covered in sawdust. He smells like fresh-cut pine. I tell him dinner will be ready after he showers. He looks at the table, set for three.
“How did the nursing home visit go?” he asks, standing there in his stocking feet. His boots have been left by the back door, as always. He has to take careful steps, like this. The floors are slick.
&
nbsp; “Go take a shower,” I say. Then, because he doesn’t move, “She’s still here.”
He doesn’t frown or shake his head, but I can tell he’s disappointed by the way he takes a deep breath through his nose, then turns and walks away.
Jazz comes home and she, too, stops and looks at the table, but when she sees the three place mats, she looks worried, a crease on her forehead I’ve never noticed before. “Is Nana still here?” she asks. I say yes, and the crease disappears.
“Are you glad she’s still here?” I ask, surprised.
She shrugs and drops her backpack on the floor. “I want to ask her some questions. Is she okay today?”
“What kind of questions? And yes, she’s much better, actually,” I say, dropping the rolled, breaded chicken into the hot oil, being careful not to get burned by splatters.
“We got an assignment to interview someone who remembers World War Two.”
“Jazz, You can’t count on her memory, you know that.”
“Mom, you can’t count on anyone’s memory. God, according to you, it took your dad two years to die. But Nana says it was real quick, and it was her husband that died. And you tell stories differently every time. Anyway, I don’t know anyone else who was around back then. I mean, you’re old, but not that old, right?”
So much goes through my head I can’t speak. First, that this is my daughter, with this complicated idea about false memories that she tosses off as if it’s something everyone knows. She’s so smart. Does she know that? I don’t think she does. And is she serious, does she think I’m that old, or does she just not understand when World War II was? And finally, how long did it take for my father to die? Whom can I ask? My brother is climbing a mountain. I hardly talk to my sister. What is the truth when there aren’t any photographs to prove it?
“Is she awake now?” Jazz says, going up the stairs, dismissing me and my stunned look.
“No, she’s resting while we eat, and then I’m going to take her for a walk.”
Jazz stops halfway up the stairs and leans over the banister. I have to look up at her. “I’ll take Nana for a walk. What’s for dinner?”
