is so full of humor and heart and hope
it could win her a date with Johnny Depp.
GRADUATION DAY SNAPSHOT
Even as I click the shutter
to capture this moment forever—
Samantha’s swirling blue curtain
of robes,
her classic square hat
tipped at a rakish angle,
her hair cascading down from beneath it
like a shining brunette waterfall,
the glimmer in her eyes
so full of future…
Even as I click
the shutter
I can almost hear
her daughter saying,
“Wow! Look how cute mom
was when she was my age…”
And I can almost hear
her daughter saying,
“Omigod! Look at Grandma’s
weird old-fashioned hairstyle…”
And I can almost hear
her daughter saying,
“Whoa…What an amazing old photo!
I wonder who that girl is…”
ANOTHER CALL FROM MY MOTHER
Her voice is two octaves higher than usual.
She says she’s been looking all over for her cat,
Max, but she can’t find him anywhere.
Then,
in a tone colder than dry ice,
she hisses, “Why did you steal him from me?”
“Mom,” I say. “You’re confused.
Max wasn’t your cat.
He was my cat…Remember?
He used to sit on my lap while I wrote.
But then, last summer, that car hit him…
Remember…?”
My heart
heaves itself into my throat
at the memory of this…
But my mother’s not having any of it.
“You had that poor creature put to sleep
and now you’re trying to have me put to sleep!”
So I hang up and call Dr. Hack
to ask him when he can start weaning her
off the steroids.
He says
cutting back before mid-July
would be unwise
because the good news is
that the drugs are working—
my mother’s stronger and in much less pain.
He says the bad news is
that they’ve affected her mind:
she’s hostile, delusional, and paranoid.
Plus, he says my mother’s got this spiky fever.
He says the polymyositis could be causing it,
but that cancer could also be causing it.
He says she has a mass in her breast
that they should test.
“She has a what?” I say.
“A maaaasssss,” he repeats, slowly and clearly,
as though explaining something to a small child.
“And she’ll need to have her colon tested, too.”
Suddenly, I feel like
I’ve been shot through with Novocain.
“Of course…” I say. “Her colon…”
I hang up the phone
without even saying good-bye
and hear Pinkie yapping
like there’s no tomorrow.
I PULL MYSELF TOGETHER
Then I call my mother right back
and tell her I’m going to book a flight
and spend the July 4th weekend with her.
She doesn’t sound angry anymore,
but she says she doesn’t feel up to
having any visitors.
I hang up and try to book a flight anyway.
But I guess the universe
is on my mother’s side—
because, for the first time in recorded history,
there are no weekend flights available
to Cleveland.
I don’t let that stop me, though.
I keep right on
scouring Travelocity.
Maybe I can get there
on Sunday or Monday or…
Then Michael intercedes.
“Myra may be nuts right now, Holly.
But she’s made it pretty clear
she doesn’t want any visitors.”
“Besides,” he adds,
“you’re so anxious you’d probably
just make her more anxious.”
And,
damn it all—
he’s got a point.
BUT I CALL ALICE, JUST TO MAKE SURE
She says
Michael’s absolutely right.
She says if I showed up in Cleveland
I’d drive my mother
even crazier
than she already is.
“Besides,” she says, “Don’t you realize
what a fantastic sign this is?”
“What are you talking about?” I say
“If Michael were having an affair,
he’d be encouraging you to leave town.
Not trying to convince you to stay home!”
Relief washes over me.
I really, really want to believe her…
But then another thought strikes—
“What if Michael’s just using
reverse psychology on me,
to try to trick me into going?”
I can almost hear
Alice’s eyes rolling
in the silence that follows.
“What…?” I say.
“Nothing…” she says.
“You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?” I say.
“No,” she says,
“I think you are overwrought.
And I think you should stay home.”
So I do.
WEEKEND UPDATE
Dr. Hack says the good news
is that my mother’s fever
has finally broken.
He says the bad news
is that the lab is backed up
because of the long holiday weekend,
so the biopsy results
won’t be in
for at least a week.
“But no news is good news,” he quips.
“No it isn’t,” I snap.
“No news is no news.”
And I guess
he thinks my snarky remark
is a joke,
because he starts chuckling—
that hideous, nerve-jangling,
nails-on-the-blackboard chuckle of his…
I swear to God,
if he keeps this up
he’s going to need a doctor.
IS IT A BAD SIGN?
Is it a bad sign
if whenever the telephone rings
you break out
in such an awful case of hives
that your skin feels bumpier
than a book written in Braille?
LIMBO DAZE
Still no word
from Dr. Hack.
Time creeps by
like a snail on quaaludes…
Samantha spends her days at the beach
with Wendy, Tess, and Laura.
Michael holes up in his studio and paints.
I wander through a fog that never lifts—
ignoring Roxie’s emails and calls;
trying my best to tune out Jane’s trumpet,
Duncan’s drums, Madison’s tantrums,
and Pinkie’s constant yapping.
I call my mother every day to check on her,
but she’s so crazed from the steroids
that she’s oblivious to the fact
that her body might be riddled with cancer.
I, on the other hand,
can think of nothing else.
I’ve given up trying to write.
I’ve given up trying to do anything.
The only upside
of being so worried
about the results
of my mother’s biopsies
is that it’s keeping me
from worrying about
You Know Who
and You Know Who
doing who knows what.
I’VE BEEN OUT ALL MORNING BUYING PRESENTS FOR MY MOTHER
Flowery stationery.
Scented candles.
Polka-dot socks.
Gardening books.
She doesn’t really need any of these things,
but I couldn’t bear another minute
of just sitting around the house
waiting to hear from Dr. Hack.
Besides, it’ll make me feel better
to stick them into the box
with the butterscotch brownies
Sam whipped up for her last night.
Though when I spread out all the gifts
and sit down to wrap them,
I discover that my scissors are missing.
Big shock, right?
But there’s no point
in calling Michael to ask him
to bring them down to my office—
because he’s out buying art supplies.
At least that’s what
the note he left
claimed
he was doing.
SO I STOMP OUT OF MY OFFICE
And storm past our ailing pepper tree,
taking the stairs to Michael’s studio
two at a time.
But as soon as I shove open the door,
my eyes land on his computer screen,
which happens to show his email in-box.
And I have no desire to even glance at it
Really.
I don’t.
But there’s like
this irresistible gravitational pull
or something
because, before I know it,
I’m reading subject headings
like:
“can you sneak away?”
and “something ‘secret’ to show you…”
and “will I see you later on?”
And all of them
are from someone named
“Redmama”!
OMIGOD!
What if
Michael’s with Redmama
this very instant?
What if
“later on”
is right now?
What if
life as I’ve known it
is over?
I can feel my face turning
whiter than the untouched canvas
propped on Michael’s easel.
My fingers itch
to open those emails.
Should I…?
Or shouldn’t I…?
MY HAND CREEPS OUT
And hovers
over the mouse.
I am
one click away
from finally knowing
for sure
whether or not
Michael’s having an affair with Brandy…
But do I really
want to know?
SUDDENLY
The kitchen’s screen door
slams open—
Oh, no! It’s Michael!
I yank my hand away from his computer,
my blood churning now
like river water during a flood.
But then I hear Sam’s voice.
“Mom…? Where are you?
I’m back from the beach…”
I hadn’t known
I’d been holding my breath,
but now I exhale and shout, “Here I am!”
while relief and…
the opposite of relief
ricochet through my body like pinballs.
SAMANTHA SAYS SHE’S CRAVING AN OMELET
So I stagger down the stairs
and head into the kitchen with her.
“Any word on Grandma?” she asks.
“Not yet…” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.
I haven’t even been thinking about my mother.
I am the worst daughter ever.
“Where’s Dad?” Sam asks.
“Out,” I say, cracking two eggs into a bowl.
“Out where?” she asks.
That’s what I’d like to know,
I think to myself.
Or what I wouldn’t like to know…
But I don’t say any of this out loud.
I just tell Samantha
her father’s buying art supplies.
“Well,” Sam says, taking out a frying pan,
“I called him half an hour ago
and he didn’t pick up his cell.”
An icy tremor races up my spine.
I begin beating the eggs
to a bloody pulp.
“Oh, you know how Dad is…” I say,
out of those eggs.
“He’s always turning off his phone
and then forgetting
to turn it back on.”
SAM HANDS ME A STICK OF BUTTER
And when I reach
into the drawer for a knife,
I somehow manage to nick my finger.
“Shit!” I say,
as tears start rolling
down my cheeks.
Sam doesn’t know
the real reason
I’m crying.
But she sees the drop of blood
seeping from my finger
and runs for a Band-Aid.
A minute later,
while she’s helping me put it on,
she says,
“You’re really letting
this biopsy thing get to you, Mom.
What you need is some retail therapy.”
I don’t tell her
I just spent all morning
shopping for my mother.
I leap at the chance to get out of the house—
away from those emails
and my roiling thoughts.
TWO MINDLESS HOURS, THREE NEW BRAS, FOUR NEW T-SHIRTS, AND FIVE NEW SWEATERS LATER
Samantha and I
head home from
the Macy’s One-Day Sale.
But as we round the corner
onto our block,
and our house comes into view,
my heart shatters
like a windshield
in a head-on collision—
Michael’s car
is not
in the driveway.
He’s been out
“buying art supplies”
for over three hours.
SAMANTHA NOTICES, TOO
“Geez,” she says. “What did Dad do?
Fly to Paris to buy pastels?”
She pulls out her phone
and punches in his number.
“He’s still not picking up…” she says,
starting to look worried.
“I’m sure he’ll be home
any minute,” I tell her.
But I am not
at all sure.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH
I’ve got to open those emails.
Because if Michael’s not with Brandy
maybe he’s been in an accident…
Maybe
he’s in the hospital…
Maybe he’s—!!!
I pound up the stairs to his studio,
the blood rushing in my ears
almost loud enough
to drown out the sound
of Madison having
another one of her tantrums.
I yank open the studio door,
fling myself onto the chair
in front of Michael’s computer,
square my shoulders,
swallow hard,
and click on the email with the heading:
“will I see you later on?”
HERE IS WHAT THE EMAIL SAYS:
i hope you can
sneak away today
like we planned…
can’t WAIT!
xoxo,
Brandy
MICHAEL’S NOT BUYING ART SUPPLIES!
He’s with that…
that skank!
Everything I’ve feared all along—
all of it’s true!
A tornado rips
through my chest
leaving my heart in shreds,
my ribs scattered like fallen trees.
Omigod…
Omigod!
Am I going to lose my mother
and my daughter and my husband—
all in one
hideous fell swoop?