When I push open the door,
he hangs up fast,
whips his cell out of sight,
and shoves it into his back pocket.
“What’s up?” he asks,
his face suddenly as blank
as a slate wiped clean—
a study in nonchalance.
What’s up?
I’d sure like to know!
But if I ask my husband
who he was talking to—
I’m afraid he might tell me.
SO I ASK HIM FOR MY SCISSORS, INSTEAD
He mumbles an apology
for forgetting to return them
and starts rummaging through the chaos.
A moment later,
he cries, “Eureka!”
and pops my scissors into my hand.
I thank him gruffly, avoiding eye contact,
then get the heck out of there—
telling myself, as I dash down the stairs,
that, surely, there’s a logical explanation
for the way he rushed off the phone
when I came in…
I wrap the nightgown for my mother,
in a sort of numbed zombie state,
then race off to the post office,
my thoughts boiling
like a sauce in a pot
with the heat turned up too high.
Maybe
Michael wasn’t talking
to who I think he was talking to.
I mean,
it could have been anyone.
Right?
Or maybe I’m just kidding myself.
Maybe I’m just as blind
as all those wives you hear about—
the ones who think their husbands
are the straightest arrows ever,
right up until the day they run off
with the sexy mother
of one of their daughter’s
BFFs.
OUR PEPPER TREE IS FAILING FAST
She looks as if
she’s undergoing
chemotherapy.
The bees
have stopped humming
in her branches.
The squirrels
no longer seek
her company.
Even
the doves
have deserted her.
ON MOTHER’S DAY
Samantha writes a parody
of an E! True Hollywood Story—
about me!
Each insulting private joke
makes me laugh harder
than the one before it.
But when I call my own mother
to tell her I love her, she says, “Who is this?”
And she isn’t kidding.
I suck in a breath.
My heart feels like
an anchor has pierced it through.
Who is this?
Come on, Mom.
It’s me—Holly—
the one you used to whistle for
when it was time to come home
for dinner,
the one who always kept her ear cocked
listening for that whistle,
its minor key soaring over olly olly oxen free…
that whistle
that I hated
and that I yearned for,
that whistle
that could always find me,
that seemed to sing my name,
making me feel safe,
feel loved,
feel remembered.
I ASK DR. HACK ABOUT MY MOTHER’S MEMORY LOSS
He says
it really is unfortunate
that my mother has such a low tolerance
for pain.
Because if she’d been able
to handle the pain,
he wouldn’t have had to prescribe
such huge doses of steroids.
And if she hadn’t had to take
then she wouldn’t have become
psychotic.
And if she hadn’t become psychotic,
then she probably would have been able
to remember who I was
when I called her on the phone just now.
“Can’t you start cutting back on the steroids?” I say.
“Oh, it’s way too soon for that,” he says.
“Besides, it’s complicated.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Well, the bad news is that Myra’s memory loss
might have nothing to do with the steroids.
It could be the onset of dementia.
Or maybe even Alzheimer’s.”
“And the good news?” I say.
“I wish there was some,” he says.
“But getting old is no picnic.
It’s not even a buffet!”
And when he cracks up at his own horrid little joke,
and lets loose with one of those
migraine-triggering chuckles of his,
I grit my teeth, say good-bye, head to the kitchen,
and pop myself a massive bowl of popcorn.
IN PRAISE OF POPCORN
My mother used to read me
a Little Lulu comic about how
Lulu’s corn popper got so out of control
that it filled her entire house with popcorn.
I wanted to live in that house.
I’ve always loved popcorn—
loved the snow-flakey way
no two pieces of it are exactly alike,
loved the I-just-can’t-get-enough-ness of it,
the oh-boy-we’re-at-the-movies-now-ness of it.
I love it Jiffy Popped.
I love it air popped.
I love it microwaved.
If someone made popcorn perfume,
I’d dab it on the nape of my neck…
My mother and I
used to pop corn together.
She’d pour in the Wesson oil and the kernels,
then let me rock the lidded Farberware pan
back and forth, back and forth…
I loved the rainstick sound
those rolling kernels made while I stood
next to my mother in our toasty kitchen
waiting for that first muffled ping!
and the cacophonous chorus that followed…
Maybe that’s why
I still get such cravings for it—it’s not just
the warm salty sparkle of it on my tongue,
or that perfect nutty squeaky buttery crunch.
It’s the way it carries me back
to my mother.
I WISH MY MOTHER WERE DOING BETTER
I wish I could talk to her
about what’s going on
between Michael and Brandy.
I wish I could talk to Michael
about what’s going on
between Michael and Brandy.
I wish I could talk to him about
the tiny scrap of balled-up torn paper
I came across this morning
when I was emptying
the wastebasket
up in his studio—
that teensy little scrap
that was hidden underneath
all the other trash
with only the last half
of the very last line of a note
scrawled on it in curly lavender letters:
…so that Holly doesn’t find out!
xoxo,
I wish
I could tell him
it’s a little late for that.
But that particular conversation
will have to wait till Samantha
goes to college.
Because I flat out refuse
to let my louse of a husband ruin
my last precious months with my daughter.
There’ll be plenty of time
for me to fling that shit at the fan
after Samantha leaves.
And until then,
I’m just going to have to try real hard
not to think about it.
THE LAST TIME
I’m in Sam’s room,
helping her study for her French final,
quizzing her on vocabulary words,
relishing,
as I always do,
the quiet intimacy of this act.
Monkey looks on from the toy box,
his goofy grin belying
the melancholy gleam in his eyes.
“Avec plaisir,” I say.
“With pleasure,” she translates.
“Bravo!” I say.
“Le premier fois,” I say.
“The first time,” she translates.
“Excellente!” I say.
“Le dernier fois.”
“The last time.”
“Trés bon, mademoiselle!”
And when she glances over at me and smiles,
a rogue wave of nostalgia
crashes down over my head.
“Wow…” I murmur. “This is
le dernier fois I will ever have le plaisir
of helping you study for a French test.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER
Samantha takes a bathroom break.
“Merde!” she screams, from behind the door.
“The toilet’s gonna overflow!”
“Mon dieu!” I cry,
as she scrambles to switch off the tank,
and I dash down the hall to grab the plunger.
But when I hand it to her,
she pushes out her lower lip
and hands it right back to me.
“Mais Maman,” she says,
making puppy dog eyes
at me,
“this is le dernier fois
you will ever have le plaisir
of plunging my toilet for me!”
I laugh,
and shove the plunger right back
into my darling daughter’s hands.
BEFORE PROM
Alice and I have been buzzing
around Samantha since sunup—
a pair
of bustling fairy godmothers.
Now
our darling is ready:
lashes lush,
hair all curled and prommy,
corsage fluttering on her wrist
like a bouquet of butterflies…
Sam whispers and giggles in our front yard
with Wendy, Tess, and Laura—
four pretty little girls
playing dress up,
teetering on their glittery heels,
hiking up their strapless gowns,
casting quick glances, hungry and shy,
at their uneasy penguined dates.
In the yard next door,
Madison, perched on Jane’s hip,
observes the proceedings
with starry eyes.
Michael and the other dads
shoot videos
while all of us prom moms,
and Alice,
snap hundreds of photos—
a mob of misty-eyed paparazzi.
HOLD ON–BACK UP A COUPLE OF STANZAS!
“All the prom moms…?!”
you’re probably thinking.
“Isn’t Brandy one of them?”
Yes.
Brandy is
one of them.
And yes.
It’s totally awkward
having her here.
And yes.
She looks just as irritatingly stunning
as ever.
But no.
I am not shooting daggers at her with my eyes.
I am behaving like a mature adult.
A mature adult who, at the moment,
is calculating the best angle from which
to accidentally trip Brandy—
so that when she falls,
she’ll land facedown in that mud puddle
she happens to be standing right next to.
JUST KIDDING
Sort of.
But it’s a moot point, anyhow.
Because before I have a chance
to set my evil plan into motion,
all the kids
start piling into the limo
and Samantha takes me aside,
somehow managing
to extract a promise from me:
that I will not call her on her cell phone.
I tuck some cash
and the phone number
for a taxi into her new silver clutch.
“In case you get tired
before the others,” I tell her,
“and want to come home before dawn.”
She rolls her eyes,
pecks me on the cheek,
and hops into the limo.
Then she yanks the door shut behind her,
and glides away
from me
into her night.
A SENTIMENTAL SILENCE DRIFTS DOWN OVER US
Then Michael invites everyone inside
for frozen margaritas,
and shows us a video he whipped up
to commemorate the occasion—
vintage clips from the lifelong friendship
of the fabulous foursome,
from their kindergarten sleepovers
to their sweet sixteens.
But my eyes keep straying from the screen
over to Brandy, who’s sitting on the couch
right between her husband Colin
and my husband.
When an especially cute shot of Tess
chasing a kitten flashes onto the screen,
Brandy leans her head on Colin’s shoulder,
who squeezes her knee and kisses her.
From across the room,
Alice catches me watching them
and shoots me an I-told-you-
those-rumors-weren’t-true look.
But a second later, when Colin
turns to say something to Wendy’s mom,
Brandy seizes the opportunity
to whisper stealthily into Michael’s ear!
He keeps his eyes
glued to the screen,
but gives Brandy an almost
imperceptible nudge with his elbow.
She keep her eyes on the screen, too,
but a secret smile flits across her face.
It comes and goes so fast
I think maybe I imagined it.
But then I see that same smile
dart across Michael’s face.
I toss back the last of my margarita
and glance over at Alice.
She rolls her eyes at me
and mouths, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Though I can’t help noticing
that she looks a little pale.
OH, WELL
Even if Michael
leaves me for Brandy,
I’ll always have Clive Owen…
I imagine his eyes,
the color of night
when the moon is full,
imagine them penetrating mine,
requesting permission
to ravish…
CliveOwenCliveOwenCliveOwen,
taking no breaths between
the whispered words of my mantra,
shivering as my two front teeth
brush against my lower lip
to form that “v”
and my mouth blooms out,
like petals wanting a kiss,
to form the “O”…
CliveOwenCliveOwen
Clive oh…oh…oh
when?
I once slept with a man
just because his name
was Tulio.
A FEW DAYS AFTER PROM
Alice invites me over for lunch.
But when I bring up the subject of
Michael and Brandy, she refuses to discuss it.
She says
she wants to talk about
her problems for a change.
And then she begins regaling me
with tales of her latest
Match.com dates from hell.
Which are,
in equal parts,
enthralling and appalling.
But behind Alice’s hilarious stories
I sense a deep sadness lurking,
a panicky desperation growing.
So I pull my camera out of my purse and say,
“I think it’s time for a new profile photo—
one that captures your essential Alice-ness.”
“Brilliant idea!” she cries.
“Something that says,
‘I-am-not-a-jerk magnet.’”
And the smile that I capture,
when I click the shutter,