And only the heartaches have given me sight.
-Joshua Radin, They Bring Me to You
CHAPTER ONE
Charley
I don't remember much from that day. Just snippets. Short clips, fuzzy around the edges like a collage you'd make as a child. All taken out of context. The stale smell of furniture polish and old wood. The upside-down reflections of people in the waxy sheen of fake ivy. A gold fringe snagged on a caster. A spot of tarnish on a silver fork. Someone blowing their nose in my ear. Whispers. All around me whispers. Sad... It's so sad... She must be heartbroken… devastated… embarrassed.
Mom breezed around the house as the hostess -which, at the time I though was nice considering I couldn't really focus on anything. Though you would’ve said that was just her being her: the appearance of stability while everything behind the curtain is a mess. The pictures of us were still up. Everywhere. I couldn’t stand to look at them long enough to take them down. I couldn't turn around without seeing something that reminded me of our life together. Cousin Perly was talking with Opal next to the fireplace and I saw our wedding picture on the mantle. The hasty iPhone photo taken by a circuit court employee being the only photo of us from that day. I remembered when I first saw the house. I fell in love with it immediately. You said, and I quote, "who needs a goddamned fireplace in Florida?" But I had to have it and you gave it to me; surprised me with it actually. I was so defeated about the whole thing and then a week later you gave me that little velvet box with the key in it. You were always doing that. Giving me a hard time about something before spoiling me. No one will ever spoil me like that again. I thought we were going to grow old in this house, raise a family, have dinner parties with our friends here. I never imagined a wake.
I was standing, staring at the fireplace, pushing food around on my Dixie plate. Funerals seem to bring out the best in people’s cooking. Comfort foods loaded with lard and sugar, and on any other occasion would've made me giddy to stuff myself, but the sight of it turned my stomach and had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from retching. The last time I felt that sick was New Years. I’d just turned twenty-one. Do you remember how many shots I drank? I don't either, but you were so sweet. You held my hair back and fed me ice chips all night until I was finished puking. You took care of me. You always took such good care of me. No one will ever take care of me like that again.
I guess Cousin Perly saw my almost reversal and flagged down mom. I kept having these weird errant thoughts throughout the day -I guess because it was all so surreal for me. Like Opal. I thought: poor thing, looks just like her mother; like a broad shouldered schoolmarm. Even down to the bad taste in shoes, but she had a wicked crush on you. Most of the women we would encounter did, but you never gave me a reason to feel jealous. You were equally distant with everyone, me included, except you’d call me sweetheart and every now and then squeeze my hand when you thought no one was watching. I liked that you wanted to reassure me that there was no one to be jealous of. No one will ever touch me like that again. Mom made a show of rushing over and scooping me into a tight embrace. Then, and I swear this happened, she began to rock me and smooth my hair like I was a baby and not a twenty-five year old woman.
"Shh...honey, it's alright."
"I'm fine mom," though she couldn't hear me, the sound of my voice muffled by her ample bosom and layers of expensive fabrics. You could’ve at least worn this year’s Chanel to my husband’s funeral, I thought, but I was too focused on the odor. Ginger or cinnamon, I don't know but it reeked. My eyes were burning and my stomach was doing flips again. Mom pulled my face with both hands and noticed my glassy eyes.
"Oh honey, it's okay. Let it out." There was no way I was going to cry, especially in front of her. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I had no more tears left. I cried them all out when I got the news a week earlier. Still, no matter how fresh and raw everything was, I would not allow her or anyone to see me cry. All the therapy in the world couldn’t get me to let go of that coping mechanism, and now, with everyone staring, it was coming in handy.
"You look pale, dear." You’re one to talk, I thought, I’m the one whose half black, not you.
"I'm fine mom." Please get away from me! You smell like a gingerbread man crawled up your ass and died! I'm going to blow chunks all over you which would be just swell because at least I'll feel something other than utter numbnesss. Maybe if I throw up enough I can finally lie down in my bed and stop being the gracious host to everyone and thier grief and get on with my own!
"Honey, you need to eat. You're skin and bones..." This would, naturally, be the one and only time in the history of our relationship that my mother would comment on my extreme thinness, but I was too numb to take notice of it.
"I'm not hungry, mom." Go away!
"Honey, you cannot stop living your life. You have to move on, He’d want that for you. Look at you, you're young, you're beautiful you'll have plenty more chances at love." I don't know what this woman was smoking to think, even remotely, that that was even close to consoling. Plenty more chances?! It's been six goddamned days and she's talking to me about plenty more chances! I liked what I had! I wanted to punch her in her face. I was happy! I had everything I wanted and then a fucking semi-truck jack knifed a hole in my life and destroyed it all! I almost said it, babe, but when I tried, I inhaled a huge mouthful of her acrid ginger smelling perfume and I gagged. Audibly. Then it was like I was drowning. I couldn't seem to breathe because she had engulfed me in a bear hug and her crushed silk blouse was rubbing against my cheek. I was swimming in ginger perfume and all I could think was: I never will be held by you again. You'll never hold me again. I'll never have that ever again.
The last thing I remember is a hazy image. A splatter of orange bile all over my mother’s Manolo Blahniks.
*****
It's been six weeks and according the insurance companies my bereavement period should be over. I should be "over it". I should be fine enough to go back to work -to get back to "normal" which is code for "live like this never happened".
I can't even get out of bed yet -maybe ever. I can't even bring myself to come out of the guest room. This house, every corner reminds me of us. Of our life together. I miss our life. I miss the safety or our routine. Work. Laundry. Dishes. Date night. Movie night. Game night. I remember why there's a stain on the carpet in our bedroom. I remember, unfortunately, when that tile by the sink cracked and you promised you'd replace the whole goddamn kitchen just to forget, but you never got around to it. It's all here. Your smell still lingers on the pillowcases even though I washed them five times. That's why I've been sleeping in the guest room; our room smells too much like us. I swear I hear your laughter trapped in the walls. I know it's in my head, I'm not crazy. I don't believe in ghosts, though memories, that's all you are now, are kind of like ghosts.
"Charley! Charley, this is your mother. I know you're there! You haven't left for six weeks according to Dr. Musgraves. You need to get up Charley. Let me in!"
She will not get in here. This is a fortress. I don't need her turning this around. For once, this is about me. My grief. My tomb of pain. To quote another famous Jewess, she will not rain on my parade. I turn over and look at the red digital display on the clock. 4:55 pm. The late afternoon sun is streaming through the blinds and is hurting my eyes. I put the quilt up over my head to block out it, and mother's screams, so all I can hear is my own breath. A sound I've grown to despise. I've started holding my breath, like a toddler having a tantrum. I hold and hold until I hear a ringing in my ears. I always chicken out and inhale right before I pass out. It's just nice not to hear my breath for a while. I don't feel as far away from you. Maybe this time I'll pass out. Things are ge
tting fuzzier...
"Charley, get up."
"Is that you?"
"Charley"
"Are you here? Did I finally die?"
"Charley get up!" and mother has yanked the blanket off of me and thrown it on the floor.
"Mother? How did you get in here?"
"You never lock the back door, Charley. You’ve got to start locking the back door.” God! She lived with us for four weeks and that’s what she remembers? Annoying. And I know what she’s really trying to say. She’s trying to say that since you, the big hulking man isn’t around anymore, I’ve got to start locking the back door because I could get abducted or raped by some psycho in the suburbs. Ha! I want to tell her that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, but I’m not going to.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit mother?" I love that she can't distinguish or identify tone, even when she lived with us she never knew when we were being sarcastic. She has no idea, nor does she care I suppose, how much I do not want her company. She really gives Jewish mothers a bad name. She plays right into the stereotype: meddling, complaining, guilting, matchmaking, wheeling and dealing. Idolizing her sons and pissing all over me. Been this way forever. But after everything that’s happened, she's latched onto me like a barnacle. It was okay when you were still around. It was, actually, kind of nice getting her attention in a positive way. But now, here, letting herself into my house and pulling the sheets off my bed is too much. You know what she's like. God, I wish you were here. You knew just how to handle her. Isn't that ironic? Needing you here to help me deal with you not being here? I try to sit up and look like the action hasn't thrown me into complete dizziness even though it has. I know that'll be a giveaway that I haven't been up yet today.
"I came to see how you are." And she sits on the edge of the bed just like I always wanted her to do when I was a teenager but she never did. Too late now, lady. I just want her to get up, I hate that she’s trying to coddle me.
"And how am I?" At the moment, dizzy as hell, I want to say, but don’t.
"You look good, definitely like you’ve put on a couple of pounds since I saw you last." Most young women would think this is a dig at their body, but ever since college, she’s been worried about me keeping my weight up.Typical Iris, though, she misses what’s right in front of her face. I've subsisted on saltines and rehydrated chicken bouillon for the last three weeks because I’m barely leaving this room to go to the bathroom let alone get out to the store. I know I’ve probably lost weight since she saw me last but she focuses on the saggy squidge on my side which is certainly not an indicator of healthy body weight in any universe. Guess what, mother? Even coked out models have a a squidge on their side! Everyone has a goddamn squidge on their side so get over it!. But it doesn’t matter. We both know dear old mom is going to see what she wants to see. Lying prone in front of her having lost more muscle weight, I feel fatter than ever. I feel heavy. Bloated. Ugly. Only she makes me feel like this. She’s got to go.
"Thank you, mother," I say coldly.
"Did you go to work today?" She's talking to me in that patronizing tone that I despise. I know there's another reason she's here and I know it isn't good. The pleasantries are just a way for her to stall. I really just want her to get to the point so I can go back to being alone.
"Tomorrow is supposed to be my first day back." Supposed to be. But I'm not going. I'm never ever leaving this bed in this room.
"Well," she says sighing heavily. I guess I spoiled whatever segue she had planned for this unpleasant news. "I have been on the phone non-stop all day." This is bait. She's waiting, expectantly, for me to ask. I'm not taking it because if she has something important to tell me then she should just come out with it. Though, I know almost for a certainty that it is in no way important. It is most likely some gossip about what some other lady of leisure she associates with has done (or not done) to her and I will have to commiserate and “there , there” and “isn’t she a bitch” and “how dare she” with her until she’s over it. I guess mother, like the insurance companies, believes that six weeks is enough time and I should be back to my "usual" duties. Which include but are not limited to being a sounding board for Tampa Bay Yacht club drama. I’d rather not.
"Good for you." I say knowing she's going to press until I ask.
"Aren’t you going to ask with whom?" See, told you.
"Hadn't planned on it." Now she's pouting. Damn this Jewish guilt! "Fine, who were you on the phone with, Mommy Dearest?" She’s staring at me in mock embarrassment to veil her glee. Just spit it out woman! Not everything you say deserves a damn drumroll! But she's sitting there, hands clasped in her lap looking sheepish. Like a little girl. I could imagine her with pigtails now. Spit it out!
"Who mother?" I snap. She wrings her hands and pauses, her eyes resting for a beat on the floor before locking with mine.
"Don't be mad." Oh, this can't be good. "I called Teddy."
*****
I can feel all the gears in my mind grind to a halt. I'm going to punch her. I need you to stop me from punching her. Meddling wench. She's really making up for all those years now. Damn her! Okay, what would you do? Breathe. You would breathe and let her do the talking until you knew all the circumstances and then carefully articulate your response.
"Why on EARTH would you do that? Have you lost your ever loving mind, mother?! What gives you the right?" Okay, so I thought I'd go with a different approach.
"I thought I would extend my condolences, that's all," as she shrugs her tiny shoulders. I know that's not all. I know by that look in her hazel-gray eye she's working something out. She's lying, but I cannot call her on it. I’m too livid to form words.
"I thought you extended your condolences at the funeral, mother" I ask through gritted teeth so I don't start shouting again.
"Well, yes but I did want to see how he is doing. Have you spoken with him?" Oh God NO!
"No. And I kind of can’t believe that you still do."
"Oh well you know,” she says dismissively. “How come you haven’t?" And now the real reason she's here. It’s amazing how so much can change yet so little. She's been doing this since I was eight. Mostly to absolve herself of guilt, though she thought she was doing her motherly duties. "Maybe if you had a friend in this world it wouldn't be so..." she never once finished that sentence because she didn't have to. Instead she played matchmaker. Charley this is Dani, you both have names like boys and neither of you like pink. Go play. Age twelve: Charley this is Jada, she has bad skin and daddy issues too! Go talk. Age fourteen: Charley, this is Tanya. She's depressed and has a weight problem too! Go eat something. Not like she ever actually said that, but it's clear that's what she meant by introducing me to those girls. She's trying it again. With Teddy. Teddy of all people! Now I know she’s getting senile or something.
"Mother, I am the last person he wants to talk to. Believe me."
"That's not the impression I got from him."
"I’m sure it wasn't", because you're clueless, "but I'm not calling him. I'm not going over there. I'm not texting, emailing. I'm not writing a goddamned letter. Not today. Not for a while. Probably never. And that's okay for both of us. If he gets desperate to speak with me, which is unlikely, that's a different story entirely. He knows the number. He knows where I live. If he doesn't, he can find out. But mother, you cannot push us together because we have some shared history. If I'm ever going to move on I need not to dwell on the past. Teddy and I haven't spoken because we're trying to move on. Can you respect that?" Damn! That's good! Aren't you proud? It's good. So good, I've rendered her semi-speechless. I mean, technically she hasn't said anything else, but I know she wants to.
Any win counts. That's what you always said.
*****
I'm out of food. I mean, you'd be disgusted with what's been missing from my diet. I finished the last of the bouillon cubes. All there is in the fridge is some soy sauce. The pantry is completely bare- except for your ce
real. I kept it all for you. Multi-colored boxes of varying shape and size, each with their unique fibrous, crunchiness. I miss the sound of your munching. The way the spoon would clatter against the bowl. I'm sorry I gave you such grief about it at the time. Who knew when you were gone I'd actually miss it? But that's how everything works, eh? We're never satisfied and never appreciate what we have until it's gone. That's kind of how it was with Teddy. I know I told you that you were my first -which is undeniably true, but I did get close.
*****
I was eighteen. Just graduated from the torture-chamber-hell-hole-rage-inducing institution known as high school. Mother had forced me in with some girls in the neighborhood my age that I didn’t know because they went to a private school. She thought they were, "wholesome, sweet girls that stayed out of trouble." I don't know why, after everything that happened with her, I thought she'd be a decent judge of character. Those "wholesome" girls were nothing but sluts who stole whiskey from their dad while he was at work, kept clothes they "bought", which really meant stole, themselves in the trunk of their rusty old Beetle, and snuck off to the beach to go to third base with older boys every single day. Obviously, these were not the type of girls who wanted to take me under their wing, but they were being forced by their parents and I was looking for a way to get out of the house. Besides, I knew what they were up to. If they didn't want me to tell we'd all have to play nice-nice. The only good thing was that, at the beach, I didn't have to be around them.
I'd hide the book I was reading in my bag, Wuthering Heights, Anna Karenina, things like that. I still hadn't come to terms with my closet romanticism. I was pretty much in denial about the fact I’d been dreaming of finding my own Mr. Rochester or, God that I’m admitting this: Mr. Darcy. I mean, all girls want that guy, but, at that time especially, I kind of felt like I’d be alone forever. Not because I was insecure, though I’m sure that had something to do with it, but because being alone was so much easier. Every personal relationship I’d ever had had been exploited and twisted, so I just as soon blocked everyone else out than go through the hurt. It was an unhealthy, yet necessary survival tact. If I were a candy they could describe me as a hard, bitter shell with a sweet, mushy center. I hid my emotions especially from the people who were closest to me in a misguided act of self-preservation, but that summer, ninteenth century trash was my guilty pleasure and, on the beach, I could indulge with abandon while listening to the prosaic soundtrack of ocean waves and seagulls and feel sorry for the fact that nobody knew me. Not because they didn’t want to, but because I wouldn’t let them. It was all very melancholy, introspective, emo-tasticness.
What Brings Me to You Page 1
