I TURN TO RUN OUT THE DOOR
And nearly mow down—
Michael!
“Whoa, there…” he says,
catching me in his arms.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?
Did someone let the cat out of the bag?”
I pull away from him
and croak, “What did you just say…?”
But Michael doesn’t answer me.
He just flashes me a huge, dopey grin.
I don’t get it.
He’s so busted.
And he seems to know it.
How can he be smiling at a time like this?
Then, he reaches into his jacket pocket
and pulls out a small paper bag.
Out pops the tiny sleepy face of the most
adorable fuzzy white kitten imaginable.
“Holly, I’d like you to meet Secret,” he says.
“Secret, this is Holly.”
He lifts her out of the bag
and places her into my hands.
Secret gazes up at me
with big, wise, solemn blue eyes,
and says, “Mew?”
AT WHICH POINT
I begin weeping.
I mean seriously bawling my eyes out.
Michael’s face falls.
“Don’t you like her?’ he asks.
“Are you kidding?” I sob. “I’m crazy about her.
Where did you get her?”
“From Brandy’s shelter,” he says.
“She’s been helping me find you
the perfect cat for months now.”
This,
of course,
only makes me weep harder.
Though Michael
will never
know why.
LATER
When
I call Alice
to share
the amazing news with her,
she doesn’t say,
“I told you so.”
But I can hear her
thinking it.
THAT EVENING
Michael’s sitting next to me on the couch,
working on a sketch of Samantha—
who’s sitting at her laptop
working on another get well card.
I’m stroking Secret
with my right hand
while biting the nails
on my left hand,
trying not to stress
about the fact
that I still haven’t heard
the results of my mother’s biopsies.
Suddenly—
the telephone rings.
I stop stroking Secret,
stop biting my nails,
and start
scratching my hives.
What if it’s Dr. Hack?
What if the news is bad?
The phone’s sitting right next to me
on the coffee table.
It rings. And rings.
And won’t stop ringing.
I’m just about to grab it
and hurl it out the window,
when Michael reaches over
and firmly places it into my hand.
IT IS DR. HACK!
My heart
pulses in my throat.
He tells me the good news is
that my mother doesn’t have cancer.
“Thank God!” I say.
Then I thank the doctor, too,
and hang up
fast—
before he can tell me
the bad news.
THE THREE OF US DO THE “HAPPY BENIGN MASS” DANCE
Then we call my mother
on speakerphone
and sing her a rousing rendition
of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”
She applauds our off-key effort,
then thanks Samantha
for sending
the funny get well cards.
“And those brownies…” she says.
“My God! I told all the handsome
young interns that I baked them,
and got half a dozen marriage proposals!”
We all crack up at this.
I swipe at a tear—
my mother’s cancer-free!
And she sounds like her old self again…
But then she says,
“Of course, I told the interns
I was unavailable.”
“Unavailable…?” I say.
“I had to be
honest with them,” she says,
suddenly dead serious.
“I’m a married woman!”
MY MOTHER IS NOT A MARRIED WOMAN
My dad died
when I was a kid.
And she never remarried.
But I can’t bring myself to tell her this.
So I change the subject:
“Is Dr. Hack treating you well, Mom?”
“Oh, yes!” she cries.
“That man is exquisite.
He comes to see me every day.
And he always brings me fish feet.”
“He brings you…fish feet?” Samantha asks.
“Bushels of them!” my mother boasts.
“He has quite a crush on me, you know.”
“No wonder,” Michael says.
“You’re a knockout!”
My mother giggles at this.
But then she stops abruptly—and gasps.
“What is it, Mom? Is something the matter?”
“My head…” she moans.
“It hurts like a radio upstairs.”
“Like…a radio?” I ask.
“Can’t you hear all those
stations switching?” she says.
“Uh…Not really, Mom.”
“Can’t any of you hear all that awful static?”
A shroud of silence descends on us,
like the sullen eye of a storm.
The only sound that can be heard is Pinkie,
the neighbor’s dog,
yapping in the distance.
Then—
Samantha clears her throat and says,
“Hey…Wait a minute, Grandma…
I think I hear it…Yes! I do!
It’s so…so awful…and so…so staticky!”
My mother heaves
an audible sigh
and says, “You are such a dear.
What would I do
without you, Samantha?”
What will I do without you, Samantha?
IS IT A BAD SIGN?
Is it
a bad sign
if when you hear
the next-door neighbor’s daughter
singing “Now I Know My ABCs”
it reduces you
to tears?
TRYING TO RESERVE THE FLIGHT THAT WILL TAKE SAMANTHA TO COLLEGE
Automated Voice:
Thanks for calling
the American Airlines Advantage desk.
Para Español, diga “Español.”
Me:
Automated Voice:
What’s your Advantage number?
Me:
XDD5376.
Automated Voice:
That’s FBB5376. Right?
Me:
Wrong.
Automated Voice:
I’m sorry.
Please say your Advantage number again.
Me:
X. D. D. 5. 3. 7. 6.
Automated Voice:
That’s FVV4367. Right?
Me:
No. You are not right.
You are not even slightly right.
Automated Voice:
My apologies. I didn’t get that.
Please say your Advantage number again.
Me:
XDD5376!
Automated Voice:
That’s STD5376. Right?
Me:
You have got to be kidding me…
Automated Voice:
I’m sorry. I seem to be having
some trouble understanding you.
Please say your Advantage number again.
Me:
Just let me speak to an agent!
Automated Voice:
Do you want to talk to an agent
about travel within the United States,
Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?
Me:
Agent!
Automated Voice:
I understand you’d like to speak to someone.
Let’s find out what you need first
and then I’ll get you to the right place.
Me:
Agent! Agent!
Automated Voice:
Okay. Do you want to speak to an agent
about travel within the United States,
Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands?
Me:
Agent! Agent! AGENT!
Automated Voice:
I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.
Me:
Of course you didn’t get that.
You’re a machine, for chrissake.
You can’t “get” things.
You have no ears.
And in case you haven’t noticed—
you have no heart.
So quit telling me how sorry you feel.
You can’t feel sorry.
You can’t feel anything.
Because you are nothing but
A GODDAMN STINKING
SHITTY HEAP OF HIDEOUSLY
INFURIATING DIGITAL SOUND!
Automated Voice:
I’m sorry. I didn’t get that.
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE SAMANTHA LEAVES FOR COLLEGE
She is being
a major pain in the butt.
Bristling like iron filings
whenever I walk into the room.
Glowering at me
when I speak to her.
Slamming around the house
like a racket ball.
She pretty much
can’t tolerate
a single thing
I do.
I tell myself not to take it personally,
calmly remind myself that she has to think
I’m an incredibly irritating parent
so she’ll be able to bear leaving in September.
But then it occurs to me: maybe I actually
am an incredibly irritating parent.
And a shudder sweeps through
the sudden canyon in my chest.
A second later,
she growls past me and out the front door,
crashing it shut behind her
like a prison gate.
What a bitch,
I find myself thinking.
I can hardly wait
till she leaves for college.
But then a new revelation dawns:
maybe I have to think
that she’s incredibly irritating
so that I’ll be able to stand separating from her.
And maybe she knows this.
Of course she does! She’s only
acting this way to make it easier for me
to say good-bye to her come September.
What a dear sweet wonderful
darling daughter! I think to myself.
How am I going to bear it
when she leaves for college?
TRASHED
Heaving the cutting board
into the bin,
suddenly thinking
how like it I am—
useless and warped,
shredded and old,
scarred from too many
dull thwops of the blade,
scuffed and stained,
coming unglued—
thinking of all
the mistakes I’ve made.
IN JUST A FEW MORE DAYS
My daughter
will no longer
be living under
my roof.
The thin neck of life’s hourglass
used to seem so mercifully clogged.
But now the sand races through it
like a rabbit late for a date.
No time left to impart motherly wisdom.
No time left to tell her all those deep things,
those profound things that I should have been
telling her all these years.
The weight of my failure
nearly flattens all four of my tires
as I drive around town doing errands
while listening to Little Women on CD.
Now those girls had a mother.
had to snatch at the random bits
I tossed her way:
“If you pick your zits they’ll leave scars.”
“Never wash reds with whites.”
“Don’t pat strange dogs
till you let them sniff your fingers.”
What was I thinking,
frittering away all those years?
Now—
there’s no time left.
BUT HOW CAN THAT BE POSSIBLE?
How can Samantha
be getting ready to leave home already,
when she’s only just arrived?
How can seventeen years have passed
since Michael and I carried our nestling
across the threshold?
The memory of that day,
the trembling splendor of it,
seems never to fade…
We tucked Samantha into the basket
we’d feathered with fleece, then hovered
like a pair of wonder-struck doves,
spellbound by each smile, each grimace,
each frown that flickered like candlelight
across her luminous face.
Bewitched by every blink of her eyes,
beguiled by every yawn,
charmed by each luxurious stretch,
we laced our fingers together,
marveling at our little bird’s
tiny chest—
the way it kept
rising and falling,
rising and falling,
each
breath
a masterpiece.
SAMANTHA WAS AN INCREDIBLE BABY
Fabulous
from the moment
she was conceived!
And such a thoughtful little embryo…
While all the other mothers-to-be leaned over
the rolling ship’s rails of their pregnancies
retching up their saltines,
Sam took me sailing on a glassy sea.
She polished me
from the inside out
till people said I glowed
like a crystal ball;
cast some kind of
spell over my scalp
so, for the first time in my life,
I actually had a mane.
She inhabited my body
like a perfect roommate—
happy to have
whatever I served up for dinner,
content to let me
hold the remote
when we sat together
surfing the channels.
I felt her surging within me,
felt her head nudging
the taut bowstrings of my rotunda,
and felt so grateful that she’d chosen
me.
AND MICHAEL WAS GRATEFUL, TOO
In fact,
you might even say
he was a little
obsessed…
After my first trimester,
he bought a video camera
so that he could record the weekly progress
of my mushrooming midsection.
I’d stand sideways,
pulling my nightgown
tight across my stomach,
while he filmed my burgeoning bump.
When I was further along,
I’d lay back on t
he bed
with my belly exposed
so that he could videotape the baby kicking.
He marveled
at each undulation
as it quivered across the surface
of the Jell-O mold that I had become.
He interviewed me on camera,
asking how I felt about
my imminent motherhood.
“Thrilled…excited…terrified,” I told him.
And when
I turned the camera on Michael
and asked how he felt
about becoming a father,
he reached forward
to pat the bun in my off-screen oven,
and said, “I just hope the baby’s healthy.
And that she appreciates fine art.”
ONE DAY