by Leah McLaren
The soap looked as if it might have been used once and refolded into its waxed paper packaging, and the roll of paper beside the toilet was not new, nor was its end folded into a little point—all things that would have bothered her enormously before, but the new Meredith was like...whatever. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about these little things anymore, just that she suddenly felt unwilling to let them overcome her and prevent her from caring about the things that really did matter. Things like...like...oh God.
Meredith surged up suddenly in the bath. Water sloshed out of the tub onto the floor. She wasn’t beginning to...was she? She got out of the bath and stood dripping on the cement. Reaching for a towel, she knocked her toiletry kit from its perch beside the sink. Tiny bottles of perfume, lotion and hair conditioner scattered everywhere. Something large landed between her feet with a thud. The ovulation-measuring device that Mish had given her back in London. Meredith bent down and picked it up. The screen was blank. She turned it on to see if the batteries still worked. It beeped twice and a little pink light flashed. She began to raise the thing to her ear to take her temperature, but then she had a stronger impulse. She held out her arm and dropped the device in the bath. It beeped again—a pathetic digital cry for help—and sank to its death. Water splashed over the side of the tub, soaking the mat and slinking off in rivulets. She felt giggles bubbling up inside her. Uh-oh, she thought, throwing a threadbare towel over her wet head. This was not the plan.
“You’re smitten. It’s pathetic. I can totally tell from the dopey look on your face.”
“Excuse me. You should talk. I’m not the one who spent the night with a horny twenty-year-old.”
“Actually if you must know, he happens to be a very mature nineteen.” Mish took a bite of her pastry and regurgitated it into a napkin. “Bleh! Gross. Why do the Italians do that? It’s like a perfectly normal-looking croissant from the outside and then the inside is filled with, like, the most disgusting spooge.”
“I think it’s actually called marzipan.”
“Whatever. It’s fucking sick.” Mish picked up the pastry with two fingers. “Wannit?”
“No, thanks.” Meredith sipped her cappuccino. She couldn’t eat. Not with the organ grinder in her stomach.
Mish tossed her head back and honked. “Oh my God, it’s so obvious—you’re in love. I’m sorry, honey, but it is.”
Old friends were overrated. Meredith made a back-off face, but before she could control it her features had morphed from hostility to a goofy smile. Fuck.
“So c’mon, tell me. Is he the One?”
“How should I know?”
“Can’t you just tell? I mean, Mere, he seems perfect—tall, good skin, lots of hair. He’s a doctor so he can’t be dumb.”
Meredith began to object but Mish held up her hand.
“Wait. Did you check out his family history? Any alcoholism? Abuse? Mental illness? Because you know those things are genetic. A kid might look totally normal until the age of twenty and then—pow!—they turn into a hallucinating alcoholic. Think about it.”
Meredith was shaking her head. “No. I’m off that.”
“Off what? The Quest?” Mish was incredulous. “But I thought you were looking for the Donor, not a husband.”
“I’m not looking for a husband,” Meredith snapped. “I’m just sick of being a sperm bandit.”
“But I liked you as a sperm bandit!”
“Really? I thought the whole thing actually bothered you. Because of what happened,” Meredith said, referring to the miscarriage.
Mish paused, suddenly serious. “It did at first, a little. It just seemed like everywhere I looked, women were trying to get pregnant. But then I remembered that’s actually just the way of the world. People are born, they make some other people, then they die.”
“It’s not the only thing,” said Meredith.
“No, it’s not. And it’s not for everyone.” Mish cupped her chin. “Much as I wanted it, it wasn’t for me.”
Meredith reached for her hand but Mish waved her away.
“The point is, I’m not going to be one of those childless women who spends the rest of her life feeling like a tragic failure because she never got to clean banana barf off the sofa. There’s more to life than having babies.” She stuck a finger in her pastry so the goo spurted out. “Having said that, I’m sorry you’ve abandoned your plot—quest—whatever.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly working out.”
Mish licked her finger, dipped it in the icing sugar on the plate and tasted it thoughtfully.
“No, I guess it wasn’t. But you still want to have a baby, right? I have to be Auntie Mish to somebody.”
“Yes! I mean, no. I mean, yes, but just for different reasons.”
“Did you tell Joe?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you’re no longer out to commandeer his jizz?”
“Oh God.” Meredith wrinkled her nose.
“Well, have you?”
“It didn’t exactly come up.”
“Do you think it will?”
Meredith tried to answer but she felt too confused, so she changed the subject to Elle. Her affair with a single father she had met in her neighborhood play group was now an open secret.
“They’re in love.” Mish shrugged. “She hasn’t spent more than a few hours at a stretch with Andrew since law school. The guy’s a total workaholic. Who can blame her?”
“They just seemed so perfect,” Meredith said.
“Seemed being the operative word.”
Then she made Mish tell her all about how things were going with Barnaby and Shane—well as it turned out.
Barnaby’s brother, under a certain amount of financial duress, had consented to open up the grounds of Hawkpen Manor to the public, and Barnaby was going to start a falconry breeding and demonstration center as a tourist draw. He’d asked Shane to come and stay for a while and help him set up shop, and Shane was brimming with dozens of half-cocked ideas about setting up his own little gift shop on the grounds or becoming a milliner. Mish was planning to stay on and work with him too.
“He has this idea that he could use feathers from the birds. He wouldn’t kill them, just collect the ones they dropped on the ground. Or if one died then he could stuff it and put it on a hat. Unless it was too big, and then he could just stuff it and sell it as a decoration. Actually he’s thinking of becoming a taxidermist. I told him I doubt they even have courses in taxidermy anymore, but you know how he is when he gets an idea in his head. I had a phone session with my shrink and she thinks it would be a great opportunity for me to get over my bird phobia.”
As Mish prattled, Meredith felt something expand inside her chest. It may just have been the espresso, but she felt more hopeful than she had in months.
“I said maybe I could help him teach the falcons tricks—they’re super smart you know, and I took that dog training diploma. Then he could have like a travelling circus. We could hire gypsies to run it. Real gypsies. They have them over here. I’ve always wanted to hang with the gypsies. Or maybe Barnaby could learn magic and pull owls out of hats instead of doves, or maybe...”
Meredith considered for the first time the possibility that it was better not to decide the outcome of your own story in advance. That maybe there was something to be said for serendipity. Much as it frightened her, perhaps letting the narrative play out on its own, without imposing outside controls and strictures, was the wisest course of action.
She tried the theory out on Mish.
“Didn’t you know?” Mish said. She tapped Meredith lightly on the head. “That’s what happens in the end anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Life has its way with you—not the other way around.”
18
Meredith set down her bag and stood on the landing, fiddling with the key to the flat on Coleville Terrace. Cracking open the door, she gave the place a preemptive sniff: book dust and caked lipst
ick. Not home exactly, but a whiff of something close.
She abandoned her suitcase in the little guest bedroom and mounted the steep, narrow stairs to the sitting room. As she climbed, her thighs complained. There was a dull throb between her legs. Rough rashy dry patches covered her skin at the knees and elbows, and her hair was still tangled in a damp mat at the nape of her neck that she hadn’t been able to get out with the hair pick that lived in the side pocket of her bag. The last time she’d glanced in a mirror (at the Savoy in Florence earlier that day) she’d noticed her face looked sunburned—a pinkish flush spreading from the tip of her nose over her cheeks, mouth and chin. She never exposed herself to the sun.
“Kissy rash!” Mish had shrieked at the sight of her when they’d met at the station to catch the train to Pisa, the first leg of the journey back to London. Despite the adolescent horror of being caught, Meredith could do nothing but grin like a simpleton. She felt as though all of the blood had been drained from her body in the night and replaced with slow-pouring cognac. The lobotomizing power of sex.
She hadn’t expected her mother to be in, but here she was at the top of the stairs, a dishcloth in one hand and a teacup in the other. Her small head was wrapped in a large silk turban and pinned with an amber brooch. Meredith felt a stab of affection.
“What on earth have you been up to?” Irma said.
“Mum. I didn’t think you’d be home.”
“Why not? I live here.”
“Well, I thought...I don’t know. I figured you’d be out.”
Irma moved behind the kitchenette counter and began scrubbing the oven. Her hands were hidden in rubber gloves.
Glancing around, Meredith couldn’t help but notice a marked improvement in the place. You wouldn’t call it tidy, but it was as if a few years’ worth of dirt and clutter had been scrubbed off the surface.
“You didn’t have to clean.”
“Well, I thought I would. The place needed a little sprucing.” Irma scratched the side of her nose against her shoulder to avoid contact with the glove and attempted to pry the top of a stove element off with the blunt end of the toilet brush.
“How did you know I was even coming?” Meredith asked.
“I didn’t.” Irma laughed, and as she did a flicker of realization passed over her face. “Oh, darling, you thought I was cleaning for you. No, no. Never make a fuss for family. I’m having a guest over tomorrow evening. Nothing fancy, just a cocktail before the party. Of course you’ll join us. I assume that’s why you came back.”
“What party?” Meredith felt very tired.
“The wrap party, Moo. For the movie. Your movie. What’s it called? Death Matters? Anyway, it’s tomorrow night, just around the corner at a new club on Portobello Road. You’re coming of course.”
“First of all, it’s not my movie. I was fired. So no, that’s not the reason I came back, and I’m not going to any wrap party either. Frankly I’m not sure why you would, Mother, given the nature of your involvement with the project.”
Her mother crossed the room and gave Meredith a dry peck on the cheek.
“If you must know, I was invited. Actually it’s a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes, and why not?” She picked up a straw broom and handed it to Meredith. “If you’re going to just pop in like this unannounced, the least you could do is pitch in and help me get ready. The party is in twenty-four hours and there’s ever so much to do.”
Meredith sighed. She’d been hoping to come home and flop. Take a nap. Order in a som tam salad from that place on Askew Road. Maybe watch a movie.
Instead Meredith began to sweep. They worked for the better part of the hour, listening to pop songs on the radio. No talking. She watched her mother with a new curiosity. This jittery little woman, with her strange appetites and off-kilter vanity, represented more than she ever had before. For the first time in her life Meredith grasped the fact that her mother had lived a full existence before she herself was even around. But where and what had Meredith been? Just a couple of random cell clusters in separate bodies waiting to smack into one another and glom on, like strangers at a bar. Here before her, plunging a vase into a murky sink, was half of the equation that added up to herself. The other half was woven into every fiber of Meredith’s being, and yet she could never know for certain who he was unless she asked.
The conversation had to be had. Meredith decided to start it subtly, in a manner conducive to opening lines of communication with her mother. She asked Irma about herself.
“So who is this guy? He worked on the movie?” Meredith said.
“In a way,” Irma said with a coquettish roll of her shoulders. “He was involved.”
While she could often be astonishingly indiscreet, at other times her mother couldn’t resist the impulse to withhold basic information—particularly if her audience was curious. Meredith continued sweeping. They cleaned in industrious silence for a few more minutes until Irma interrupted their labor with a sneezing fit.
“Woo!” she said when she was finished. “That was better than sex!”
Meredith threw her a disgusted look, but in her current state of mind not even her mother talking about sex could get to her. She felt protected by her own haze of remembered pleasure. She couldn’t wait to go to bed and relive the past seventy-two hours in her mind’s eye.
“How was Ozzie’s, then?” Irma said.
“Fine.” Meredith looked up, but her mother’s face was hidden behind a cupboard door.
“He’s quite a character,” Meredith said.
“Ozzie? Oh, yes. Extremely strange. But not in a bad way, I hope.”
“No, not in a bad way.”
Silence. Meredith carried on sweeping but kept her eyes on the cupboard door that hid her mother’s upper half. Slowly, apprehensively, the silk hump of her mother’s turban appeared, then the brooch, followed by a tuft of hair, a furrowed forehead and, finally, a pair of startled eyes. For a moment Meredith and her mother stared at each other like this, each waiting for the other to speak.
Meredith broke the silence. “You lied.”
“No, I didn’t.” Irma stepped off the stool she’d been balancing on and faced her daughter. She looked at Meredith but did not move toward her.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Ozzie?” Meredith’s voice skipped up an octave and then managed to steady itself again.
“You didn’t ask.”
“How could I have known to ask?”
“What exactly was I supposed to tell you?” Irma refastened the tie on her Madame Butterfly dressing gown.
“Uh, for starters, maybe the fact that he’s my father.”
“But he’s not.”
“Oh, Mother...”
“No, really, he’s not. He’s a friend of your father’s. And he took care of you—I only mean financially took care of you—when you were little. He helped us out all along. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without him.”
“So Ozzie’s not my father?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Who is, then?”
“I told you the story, darling. He was a director. I met him in Los Angeles. We had a romp in the pool house and he drowned in his pool the next day.”
“Did he have a moustache?”
“He did. How did you know?”
Meredith shrugged. She remembered the picture. The man with the grin so big it looked like he was going to take a bite of the camera lens. “Lucky guess.”
Irma resumed wiping down the stove, but Meredith wasn’t finished with her. “Why didn’t you tell me about the money, then? And why would Ozzie take care of me like that?”
“Let me tell you, young lady, when you were a baby I was in no position to look gift horses in the mouth. And besides, the money was none of your business.”
Meredith considered the outlandish possibility that for once, her mother was right. When she was a child it had been none of her business where her school tuition or living
allowance came from. She’d never thought to ask and consequently her mother had never mentioned it. She’d been a kid after all, and what was her mother supposed to say? Your father was married to someone else and unfortunately he drowned in his own swimming pool a few hours after your conception, but don’t worry, sweetie, because his ex-business partner is determined to take care of you out of his own mysterious sense of guilt and responsibility?
Meredith took a step toward her mother and held out her hand. Irma seemed afraid to move. She hugged herself and pushed her hands under her armpits to try to stop them shaking.
“Mum, don’t worry.” Meredith put her arms around her mother. She was shocked at how breakable the old woman felt. “I’m not mad,” she said. For once, she felt it was true.
“You’re not?”
“No.”
With this, Irma relaxed slightly. Her breath slowed. She seemed to gain weight in Meredith’s arms.
“I want you to tell me the whole story.”
“Right. The story. The story.”
Irma produced two small glasses in the shape of tulip blossoms and handed one of them to Meredith. She poured a bit of sticky yellow fluid into each.
“Where do you want me to start, then?”
“At the beginning.”
Florence came back to Meredith in flashes. Not recollections so much as relived moments—complete with smells, sounds and the aching texture of immediate physical experience. There was the smell of his breath and the taste of his mouth—savory as gin-soaked olives. His second toe, a hammertoe, half-broken and doubled over on itself. She’d lain end to end with him and taken that toe in her hand and tried to smooth it out with her fingers but it wouldn’t stay flat. No matter how she rubbed it, the toe snapped back to its crooked self. He said it was good luck—the toe. She couldn’t believe it. Her luck, that is.
For three days Meredith and Joe stayed in his suite at the Savoy. Outside, the city felt as if it were baking in a brick oven. Inside, their room was cool and clean. Every few hours they sent down for room service, ordering anything on the menu, no matter how ridiculous or oddly matched—cherry cheesecake with the Japanese businessman’s breakfast, pink champagne and lasagna, oysters with mint sauce and apple cider, Tuscan bread soup followed by a whole lobster, cracked and dressed. Nothing seemed too silly or decadent. What they didn’t eat they left on trays in the hall. What they didn’t drink they spilled on each other.
