The Optimist

by Sophie Kipner

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Gerry.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Her,’ I said, referring to all people who didn’t look party staff in the eye. ‘I’m a nanny. I’m used to being bossed around and walked all over. I also used to wait tables for a while and I’ve never wanted to right-hand someone so badly as I did when I got a condescending thank you from people like that. It’s almost worse than no thank you at all, because you know they think they’re being nice but it’s patronizing as hell.’

  We watched the crowd as I learned about growing up in El Salvador. I told him about my former, now outgrown, proclivity for Mexicans and he laughed, at first startled, but then he relaxed when he realized it was a compliment. He told me his uncle was an outlaw and his mother shipped him to the States before she could come, to protect him first. Start a new life with better odds. I spotted my mother, guzzling down wine in the middle of the dance floor, dancing all by herself. Swaying back and forth to the jazzy beat of the swing band, whose name, apparently, was Afternoon in Paris.

  ‘She looks like the only one having fun,’ he said, looking at my mother. Seeing me, she hovered across the room towards us, dancing with each step to the rhythm of the acoustic guitars.

  ‘Oh, I remember those girls. They were awful to you in school!’ she said, dipping around, swaying. ‘I remember when Milk found you in the bathroom wrapped in toilet paper. You couldn’t move.’

  ‘Why didn’t he do anything?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t remember? He did. Took the poor guy ages to untangle you and I think he threatened to do the same to the girls if they did it again. I’m pretty sure they stopped bothering you after that.’

  ‘When I think about it, high school was the worst,’ I said. ‘I used to think hindsight was 20/20 but it all seems pretty blurry to me. Maybe I blocked it all out.’

  ‘Well, darling, at least you didn’t have my mom for a mother. High school is a respite when home is the real nightmare.’ She scooted off before I had the chance to tell her that Grandma was just trying. She didn’t know better. It was her way of doing her best.

  ‘That’s my mom,’ I told Gerald. ‘She’s always like that.’

  ‘If I were here as a guest,’ he began. ‘I’d be the first one dancing with her. All these chumps are too stiff. She can move.’

  ‘It’s interesting because I look at her and I don’t get why she doesn’t have more attention.’

  ‘These kind of men want the safe choice. They’re boring, they want the trophy wives. They want to play the part and have someone to play the part with them. Doesn’t matter how fun or cool your mom is because she’ll always be a risk.’ He stops to take a breath, survey the room while I wonder if he’s talking about me just as much as he is my mother. ‘Some fuckers think they play better than the rest of them, and because of that, they do. It’s like soccer. Have you been watching the World Cup?’

  ‘God no,’ I said, confused.

  ‘Okay, just go with me on this. Some of the weaker players play the best because they’re the most confident. They perform above the standard.’

  ‘But are they the ones who actually are scoring the goals?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Gerry said. ‘But overall, they play better and smarter than the guys at their skill level, but who aren’t as arrogant.’

  ‘Huh,’ I said. ‘I get your point, but is that a real fact?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Actually, I have no idea if it’s true. A buddy told me that once and it made sense.’ I pondered this for a moment, kicking it around like the players do with their balls on the field, trying to deconstruct it. The idea that the confident ones finish first didn’t make sense to me though, because I’ve always been the one with confidence, I’ve always been the aggressor, and it was not working out so well. Perhaps it was because I was just not playing the game right, or I wasn’t arrogant enough. I was already pretty optimistic but maybe my doubts were being detected, like a bull sniffing fear from an enemy.

  I grabbed a muffin from the table and offered it to him.

  ‘Hungry?’ I asked, holding it up.

  ‘I can’t eat while I’m working.’

  ‘Tell them I made you eat it,’ I said as I took the tray from him and held it while he looked around the room to make sure his supervisor wasn’t around. He shoved it into his mouth in two bites like a shark eating a seal, gulping it down before it was really chewed properly. Or chewed at all.

  ‘Impressive!’ I said, eyes wide.

  ‘Ha,’ he laughed, wiping the crumbs from his face and tightening up his jacket. ‘Thank you. I was starving.’

  We just stood there side by side. Every time someone came up and took a glass without thanking him I said, ‘You’re welcome,’ on his behalf.

  I saw my mom start to lose it. She was very off balance at this point in the evening, and I felt I must go save her.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Now my duty calls.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said, stopping me. ‘Thanks for talking to me for a minute.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re the best conversationalist here.’

  I pushed past all the glitter and jackets towards my mother, parting botoxed faces and Rolexes like the sea.

  The closer I got, the more in focus my mother became. She was proudly grabbing her crotch with her free hand, the other one waving the wine glass in the air to the music. She was the only one who didn’t know she was dancing alone.

  She noticed me walking towards her through the crowd and saluted me, her wine horns around her mouth more pronounced and comforting than ever. As the glass was held high over her head, her other hand quickly reached for her heart. Clutching. I thought she was just so in love with the moment she was wanting to warm her chest, but then, as if in slow motion, her face contorted, wincing, wrinkles scurrying around her face. Her high smile dropped to a pained expression and all at once she fell to the ground, her hand still on her heart, wine glass breaking in every direction.

  ‘Help!’ I screamed out, running towards her. My body hot, tingling, panicked. ‘Mom!’

  Everyone in the middle of the room stopped and looked at my mother, frozen as they figured out what was happening. Gerry started yelling out for someone to call 911 and a few others rushed over to her side as I knelt down beside her.

  ‘Mom!’ I shouted, grabbing her head and placing it between my hands. Her stare was empty, disconnected. ‘Mom, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s having a heart attack!’ someone screamed, inciting the room into chaos.

  ‘Brenda! Where’s Brenda? My sister’s a nurse. Brenda!’ I pleaded as my hands shook, trying to figure out what had ­happened, what to do. I couldn’t think straight because my mind was racing hysterically. Brenda yelled out from the other side of the room; her volume moving from faint to full blast as she reached us.

  I moved to the side as Brenda checked her vitals. I looked back between my mother and the crowd, and realized no one had called the ambulance so I dialled 911.

  ‘What’s your emergency?’ the operator asked.

  ‘My mother, she was dancing and then, then she grabbed her heart, and collapsed—’

  ‘Is she breathing, ma’am?’ My mom’s eyes came back to us, darting around the room as she realized what was going on. She was breathing heavily, panting in short bursts.

  ‘Yes, yes she is.’ I watched as Brenda did what nurses do, checking her pulse, her chest, her breathing, her temperature with the back of her hand. She looked over to me and let out a giant sigh of relief.

  ‘She’s okay,’ Brenda said. ‘We still need to get her checked out but it’s not an emergency. She’s okay.’

  ‘Oh thank God,’ the party host said off to our left as he looked over at us, not helping. The crowd, once stiff and breath-halted, returned to a stir as they scattered off to their glasses and party snacks.

  ‘Are you there?’ the operator asked. ‘What is your location?’

  ‘I think,
’ I started, unsure of what to say, unsure if we needed to go to the hospital, but I trusted that if Brenda said she was fine, she was. ‘I think she’s okay now. I’m sorry.’

  I hung up and looked back to my sister, who was still holding Mom’s hand. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I think she was having a panic attack.’

  ‘Mom, are you okay?’ I asked. ‘You were holding on to your heart . . .’

  ‘I, I . . .’ she began, ‘I don’t know. I was dancing and then out of nowhere had this sharp pain in my chest.’

  ‘You were having a panic attack,’ Brenda explained. ‘Thankfully, it wasn’t a heart attack.’

  My mom tried to get up but Brenda told her to stay where she was until she collected herself, in case she banged her head too hard on the fall. ‘Just to be sure, stay lying down for another minute or so, okay, Mom? You’ll be okay. We’re here with you.’

  I looked at her spread out on the ground, helpless as I hadn’t seen her before, like a child. I wondered what could have spurred it on.

  ‘You were having such a good time,’ I said.

  ‘I was having a heart attack!’ Mom yelled out, wanting to make the most of it, annoyed it was only a panic attack, searching for a reason her heart would give out over her nerves. ‘My nerves betray me,’ was all she came up with.

  ‘You know she gets panic attacks, Tabby,’ Brenda said. ‘She needs to stop smoking and drinking so much, too. All that just makes it worse.’

  ‘I’d rather die than stop drinking!’ my mom said with renewed vigor.

  ‘Pump the brakes, Mom,’ Brenda said, fragile still and caring in a way only disaster can bring about.

  ‘We need to figure this out,’ I said. ‘I know she gets freaked out sometimes but it doesn’t make sense for it to happen here. She was having a ball.’

  Brenda looked at me with her heavy eyes, now flattened. ‘I think we need to go home. Mom needs to rest.’

  On the way back, Brenda insisted Mom begin to find a way to de-stress naturally. Try yoga and meditation, maybe, before rushing into anti-anxiety medication again. ‘Klonopin really fucked you up, remember?’ We all know what she was like on Klonopin. We didn’t need that again. It dis-connected her from a reality she already tried to distance herself from. If she started using again now, I’d never get through to her.

  Mom’s phone started to ring and it was Delina. I grabbed it from her before it went to voicemail.

  ‘Hi, Delina, it’s me,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, darling, hello! It was such a treat to see you the other day! Just checking on how the big party is going?’

  ‘Not so well. Mom had a panic attack,’ I said. ‘I thought she was dying, Delina. I thought we lost her. I thought she was having a heart attack.’

  ‘Dear, dear, don’t worry,’ she said, trying to comfort me from afar. ‘Oh, what a worry this all is. She really is so extreme, our Twilda, isn’t she? All or nothing. Her body can’t handle the highs too high or lows too low. I’ve told her this!’

  I was so shaken up, the only thing I knew how to do was let it all out.

  ‘Oh cut out the dramatics, Tabby,’ Mom said from the front seat. ‘I’m fine!’

  Hearing her say she was fine only made me worry about her more. Delina let me sniffle for a minute longer.

  ‘Can your mother hear me if I say something?’

  ‘No,’ I whimpered.

  ‘You know I love you, and love you exactly as you are, right?’ she began. ‘And I couldn’t love your mother any more than I do, but I am concerned about her unraveling. Julia and I both are. We know how you idolize her so, and,’ she stopped to sigh. ‘Well, we worry, darling, that she’s slipping away. She’s getting worse, it seems.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ I agreed.

  ‘We’re going to come over soon, okay?’

  ‘Please. We need you.’

  My mother was undoubtedly losing it and that naturally set me spinning because everything was slipping from me, too. I had two choices: Become my mother or rebel against her. But I loved how she was just as she was. I wanted her to be right because I also knew I was so much like her, which meant that if I was going to be okay, then I damned well hoped my mom had it right.

  All this time, I thought I was doing it for her, to prove to her that love exists. Finding my own love was just a pawn in a larger game. I didn’t think about its repercussions on my life, how I would become her if my luck didn’t change, and if she couldn’t handle reality, then how would I ever cope, and not just on my own but in a world without her? I wanted to want to be her, just as I’d want my children to want one day to be like me. I needed her to be right. If she had it wrong after all, then I was fucked.

  I was left, therefore, with the only option of trying harder, although to be honest, I was already trying so hard I wasn’t really sure what trying harder would look like. I’d still be me, like Delina and Julia said, but with no holds barred. Surely I was holding something back. I had to get in the ring and be the fighter because everyone else was in the bar drinking.

  The Ju-jitsu Master

  The good news is that there are still men out there who like to wrestle, and there is nothing like a grappler to reinvigorate one’s optimism and confidence. I was watching mixed martial arts on cable the other day (because I had to learn how this whole fighting thing worked) and, well, let me just say, I exploded with excitement. I saw these big, bicep-bulging, ferociously primal men grabbing at each other and just thought, why have I not signed up for ju-jitsu before?

  ‘Oh, yes, I do love blood sports,’ my mom said as she passed by, cigarette bouncing on her lips like big tits on a Punjabi bus ride. ‘Beautiful bodies, all that contact!’ She was looking for something, a lost bangle or earring. She always thinks she’s lost something, turning pillows over and searching under tables.

  ‘It’s just so manly!’ I gushed. ‘Not bar fighting, that would make me sick. Just the idea of someone being able to stand up for me if I needed him to. It’s quintessential romance.’

  ‘Most men cut and run, baby,’ she said as smoke danced its famous dance around the shape of her face. ‘You need to find someone who will fight for you or else you’ll be the only one swinging.’ She stopped at the mirror, grabbed her boobs and turned to the side while lifting them up and down. Up and down, shoulders back. Upright. Smoke and mirrors. ‘Someone who can take the challenge. Someone who isn’t afraid to put his hands up!’ She paused and held her reflection, keeping it in her lungs before letting out her breath. At least she was looking in mirrors again. That was a good sign.

  ‘I’m just not sure men who will fight for you exist anymore. So it’s just up to us now, it’s just you and me, baby,’ she yelled, thumping her chest like she did when heated. ‘You and I, we’re the ones who will have to fight. You can’t rely on anyone else to, that’s the quickest way you end up alone.’

  She was so dramatic; it was fun to listen to. Sometimes she talked with this slightly Southern twang, although it could have just been the wine slurring her speech. It was relaxing, though, the way she spoke, despite her histrionics. Half of the time, I didn’t have to listen to what she was saying because I got what I needed from her cadence.

  ‘Aha!’ she squealed, finding her lost bangle in her coat pocket. ‘I found it!’ She never actually loses anything. She just has this fear she always has and if something does actually get lost, it turns into a meltdown centered around the despair of all the other things she might have lost that she doesn’t know about.

  ‘But just because Dad never fought for us doesn’t mean there aren’t men out there who will, right?’

  She smiled, not in fond memory of him but more because doing things with emphasis made her feel powerful. She took a deep breath in as she fluffed pillows around the living room, moving from slow to fast at a woozy pace.

  ‘I’m losing my faith in it,’ she told me, pausing again for a moment. I was used to the speed at which her demeanor could switch without warning. How fast
she could move from frantic to calm, relaxed to panicked. ‘But life is a funny thing,’ she continued. ‘Nothing is black and white. It’s all in the grey, like our last name.’

  It was the first time in a while I’d heard my mom talk about being a Gray without wanting to throw a plate across the room. She hadn’t changed her name after Dad left because she didn’t want Brenda or me to have a different last name from her. It was her way of holding on.

  ‘It’s weird how Brenda doesn’t like blurred lines,’ I interjected, trying to find a way to connect us. ‘She wants everything sharp and defined.’

  ‘And where’s the fun in that?’ she said. ‘The funky shit in the middle is where the good stuff is. That’s where you become a real woman.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  Mom had a new boyfriend this week. His name was Donald. Terrible name. I wondered what they used to call him as a child. Donald isn’t a kid’s name. That’s probably why he was so boring now, because he’s been old forever. ‘He’s not a fighter, quite the opposite actually, but like I said, they don’t exist ­anymore. At least, well, at least he’s very established,’ she told me, but all it did was cement his senescence. She was settling. I could tell from how her face dilated that she was exaggerating to make him sound better. She kept dating men too rich, too useless, too sad. She would get up so close that her vision would obscure to the point she would no longer be able to see them in full frame. The cracks I could see were, to her, softened and blurred. I supposed it was because she wanted them to be. My mom used to be so wild, what with all those stories she’s told me, but I think my dad took her adventurous spirit with his coat and socks when he left.

  ‘But the guys you’re dating now,’ I started. ‘They’re not like the ones in your adventures.’

  ‘That’s because I was ignorant before. Stability can be really exciting. Donald is F.U.N.,’ she lied. ‘Okay, sometimes he’s a bit stiff – in the wrong way – but he’s an accurate lover.’ I knew she was miserable because she always reserved terms of measurement for when she was settling. I could tell just by the way she fluffed those pillows. She was so anxious to fill in the gap of space Dad once took that she pulled at everything around her until it became all but a mound of tangled string. I can see it clearly because, of course, I have perspective from my vantage point. I needed to prove to her that men who will fight for you still exist before all the fighting she did alone exhausted her, and it just so conveniently happened that there was a ju-jitsu school right around the corner from our house.